She had watched him later, striding up the beach until he was a tiny speck in the distance. Then with a sick knot of misery tightening in her stomach she saw him turn up into the dunes and he was lost to sight.
She stayed on at the cottage on her own. At first she was sure he would come back and she waited for him, never going out of sight of the pretty white-washed building which had turned so swiftly for him from dream to prison, trailing disconsolately near the cold sea’s edge, gathering driftwood for the fire, sketching the sunsets, the fingers which held her pencils numb with cold, uncertain what to do. She could not go home. Without him it would not be home – and her only certainty was that he would not have gone back there either.
They had chosen the Victorian cottage of their dreams the day he had asked her to marry him, walking down the street arm in arm, pointing at the terrace of little houses, deciding without argument that they would choose the one with the white front door. When days later they had seen the agent’s board go up it had seemed like a special omen and Oliver had bought the cottage, selling without hesitation the flat he had owned for fifteen years. Half his furniture had had to be sold too and some of his books, to fit into so small a house, but they were happy and in love and he did not seem to care.
And when she told him of the sea where she had gone so often as a child he had agreed to come, loving her shy eagerness and he had said he liked the empty shore, liked it enough to come again when the November gales were lashing the coast and they had huddled together before a fire of wood which he had chopped all afternoon and they had laughed and planned. And one of their plans had been to come again. And now it had all gone wrong as if he had awakened from his dream and, looking round, had hated what he found.
And yet he had come back.
After a few minutes watching she began to run again, afraid he might stop and turn or, like a mirage on the sand, shimmer and dissolve as though he had never been.
There were only the two of them on the whole beach. It was too far from the village to encourage trippers, even in the summer and the fishermen kept away except for the occasional boy digging for worms. She ran a few steps more and then she stopped uncertainly trying to get her breath, her hands defenceless at her sides, her shoulders stooped with disappointment. It was not Oliver at all.
He came on at the same steady pace; tall – taller than Oliver and much younger, nearer her own age perhaps; his blond hair longish and windblown, his jeans bleached white by the sea, rolled to the knees.
‘Hi,’ he said when they were close enough to speak.
‘I’m sorry.’ In her confusion she was staring at him angrily. ‘I thought you were my husband.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ He bowed gravely, giving a strange old-world courtesy to the otherwise obvious reply.
‘You didn’t pass him, I suppose?’ she was floundering now, trying to conceal her embarrassment. ‘I was expecting him back any moment.’ Why was she so uneasy in the face of his politely distant manner?
‘I’m afraid the beach was deserted.’ He resumed his walk slowly and she found herself turning to walk beside him. In the distance the tide was licking gently round her bag, nudging the pieces of driftwood, teasing them free of the canvas.
She gave an exclamation of annoyance as she noticed and he saw too, following her gaze. ‘I’ll get it,’ he called and before she could protest he had broken into a loping run, splashing carelessly into the ice cold water and scooping up the precious fuel.
He was laughing when she came up to him. ‘Making a camp fire?’
She felt herself blush. ‘No. It’s for the cottage. There’s a load of logs in the shed but I can’t chop them so I’m stuck with driftwood.’
He looked at her gravely, the wet bag in his outstretched hand. ‘Does your husband not chop wood?’
She bit her lip. ‘He … he forgot to do it before he went. He had to go away for a couple of days, but he’s due back anytime …’ her voice trailed away.
He nodded, glancing at the white-washed cottage set back against the grassy dune. ‘I’ll come up and chop some for you if you like.’
‘Oh but I couldn’t let you.’
‘For the price of a meal?’ Again the easy grin.
And suddenly she found she didn’t want to refuse. She was sick of her own company, sick of collecting firewood, sick of the smoky damp flame it gave in the lonely little room while she went over all the things that had gone wrong, the mistakes she must have made, the disappointments he must have known during the short time of their marriage; as she wondered what had happened to the wonderful closeness she and Oliver had shared in the first few carefree weeks. How could it so suddenly have turned to such bitterness? Whatever it was that had happened she did not want to think about it any more. Not for a while. For a while she would let herself forget if she could.
She found she was grinning back at the young man. ‘OK. It’s a deal.’ And she turned up the beach and led the way.
Throwing down the bag on the doorstep he went straight to the wood shed heaving out the heavy logs and reaching for the axe. She stood for a moment in the doorway watching as he lifted it high above his head and brought it down with a crash onto the first up-ended log, splitting it cleanly and evenly with one blow and then she went into the cottage.
She threw open the kitchen window and reached into the cupboard to see what she could find. She had not bothered to walk up to the village store for food; she had not been hungry. But she found eggs and suddenly she found she was looking forward to cooking again. She reached for the heavy iron skillet which hung on the wall above the cooker and began her preparations to the steady sound of chopping outside. By the time the food was ready he had laid her fire and filled the log basket and there was a neat stack of wood piled in the woodshed.
She could hear him whistling merrily as he washed in the little lean-to bathroom and then he was at the table, his tall frame dwarfing the room. The omelette was succulent and rich, full of herbs and she saw his look of appreciation as he took his first mouthful.
He raised his glass. ‘To the cook. My compliments.’
She acknowledged the gesture with a grave nod. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Your husband is mad to go away, even for two days with food like this at home.’
He meant it gallantly, making conversation, but her mood was too fragile to cope with the pretence any longer. She stared hard at her plate.
‘I don’t think he’s coming back,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s left me.’ It was the first time she had really admitted it even to herself.
He stared. ‘Why?’ he asked quietly.
She shrugged. ‘So many reasons. So few. I don’t understand. We were happy I thought …’
Glancing up he saw that she had laid down her fork and was biting her lip.
He frowned, staring at the top of her head, at the curtain of honey blonde hair and the golden slightly freckled complexion. Her knuckles were white beneath the taut skin of her hands clenched on the edge of the table top.
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Only a few months.’ Her voice was a whisper. She glanced up. Her lips were smiling but her lashes were salty wet. ‘Sorry. Ignore me. Women get so emotional.’
‘So do men,’ he said, very quietly. He put his hand lightly over hers. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘He’s older than me, you see. A lot older. He’s tall and fair, a bit like you, but his eyes are grey and he’s older …’ She was looking past him out of the window of the small low-ceilinged room. It was very quiet suddenly. He had not moved his hand. ‘He had never married before. A lot of women wanted him, but he was so independent, so free … He didn’t want to be tied down.’
‘Until you came along.’
She looked directly at him for the first time. ‘Until I came along. But why? Why me?’
‘You’re very beautiful.’
She seemed to be considering for a moment. The colour rose imperceptibly
in her cheeks and she gave a faint smile. Almost reluctantly she slid her fingers out from beneath his.
‘That would not matter to Oliver. I think he believed I was deeper than I was – someone else, some dream he had conceived of the ideal woman. Perhaps he thought he could mould me to be her. But he found he couldn’t do it. And it’s my fault.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry. Your omelette is getting cold.’
‘It’s fine.’ Picking up his fork he grinned, his blue eyes sympathetic and gentle. ‘Can you make coffee as well as you cook?’
She grimaced ruefully gathering up her own plate, the food untouched. ‘Oliver always made the coffee.’
‘Then let me. I’m good at coffee. It’s man’s work.’
She watched him as he ate and stood aside unprotesting when he waved her away from the sink to rinse the plates and fill the kettle. He made the coffee in a jug and they carried their cups outside into the frosty sunshine and stood looking at the water as it lapped gently up the beach.
‘I’m sure you’re not right to blame yourself alone, you know,’ he said tentatively after a long silence. ‘If he really did want to change you he must have been mad, but I doubt if that was it. Not really. How long did he know you before you were married?’
‘Two years.’ She did not resent his interest. It was a relief to talk.
‘Then he must have known you as you really are. I wonder …’ he paused for a moment. ‘I wonder if it was himself he was running from? People do you know. Sometimes. I did myself once.’ He stared thoughtfully out towards the rocks.
‘But why? Why should he want to run at all? I don’t understand.’ A little of her anguish escaped the tight grip of her self control. It deepened and matured her voice.
He turned and looked at her. She was totally self absorbed. She had not noticed the wistful longing in his voice as he remembered for an instant his own pain; the problems he had faced when he had lost the one person in the world whom he had loved. She was overwhelmed with her own desolation. He felt a quick rush of pity. Suddenly he wanted to touch her, to comfort her and reassure her and show her she was not to blame, but resolutely he kept his fingers linked around his cup. The steam from the coffee was white in the crisp air.
‘You can only ever be yourself,’ he said gently. ‘Anything else would be a betrayal of him as well as yourself. Always remember that.’
‘I know.’ It was a whisper. ‘He asked me to go with him and I refused. I couldn’t do it. Not like that.’
‘Then you did right.’ He bent and picked up a fluted sandy shell, hurling it towards the rippling tide. They both stared at the place where it had disappeared. A streak of red weed hung and breathed back and forth below the curve of the beach. It could have been blood on the surface of the sea. She gave an involuntary little shiver.
‘When did he go?’ He was watching the tiny gold hairs on the back of her wrists stir and rise and he thought it was the icy wind which combed the grasses behind them in the dunes which made her shiver.
‘Three days ago.’
‘What would you do if he didn’t come back?’ he said gently.
He thought she hadn’t heard and glanced sideways at her face. It was bleak.
‘I’ll wait for him.’
‘You can’t wait for ever. Won’t you go home?’
She shrugged. ‘For ever is a long time, I suppose. Perhaps when the storms come, then I’ll go. I don’t know.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘Perhaps he won’t be that long.’
He found himself staring at her. The smile had transformed her face. Instead of a cold shuttered prettiness she had for a second betrayed a shadow of vibrant beauty. Then the sadness returned.
He had to bite his lip to force himself to keep from reaching out to take her in his arms to comfort her, to stop him from begging her to forget this treatment and lose herself instead in him. He swallowed hard, staring into the depths of the empty cup in his hand. After all, he was a stranger; she had not even told him her name. He had come here to forget his own unhappiness not become involved in that of another.
‘It won’t be long,’ he said with resolution. ‘Take my word. He’ll be back.’
‘Do you think so?’ Her eyes were full of hope. She set her cup in the sand and stood up again, staring along the beach as though she expected to see Oliver that moment, striding towards her.
‘I think so. After all, you are here for him to come back to.’ He looked away from her sadly. When he had gone back his love had gone. She had not waited as this girl was waiting. She had left him without compunction, or so it seemed to him.
He followed Sally slowly to the sea’s edge where the cold white dribbles of water nudged at the heaps of stranded weed; her narrow shoulders were taut beneath her heavy guernsey and there was pathos in the angle of her neck.
Without knowing he did it he slowly shook his head. He had to leave her now. If he did not go now, then he would never go.
He held out his hand to her and unquestioning she took it. For a moment more they stood in silence. Then he let her fingers drop.
‘Time’s getting on.’ He said it very gently.
She seemed to understand. ‘Of course. Thank you for chopping the wood.’
‘Thank you for cooking me the omelette.’
He turned away towards the village and took a few paces along the tide line. Then he stopped and looked back. She had not moved.
‘You’ll be all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘Nothing. Thank you.’
‘You’re sure?’
There were tears on her cheeks as the cold wind blew her hair across her eyes. She did not look at him.
He stood for a moment undecided and then he was beside her again and his hands were on her shoulders. Gently he turned her to face him and he pulled her close. Her skin tasted of salt. He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her hair and then last of all her lips. They parted a little without protest and they were soft. But they were cold. For a moment he did not move, feeling the comfort of her presence within the circle of his protecting arms, knowing that somehow he was comforting her, then sadly he pushed her away. He began to walk without a word. And this time he did not look back.
She stood at the edge of the tide watching as slowly the leading ripples hesitated and lost their purpose and drew back, leaving the sand wet and clean and smooth. Only then did she turn and look into the distance. He had gone long since, just as Oliver had gone, along the beach towards the village out of sight. It was as though he had never been but there was deep inside her a small new warmth.
Slowly she wandered back to the cottage and hardly knowing that she did it she went round to the little lean-to woodshed and glanced in. The neatly stacked pile of split logs was real enough, as was the axe, newly-honed and in its place. Weakly she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes and thought about the stranger.
Much later as the moon was rising silver over the frosted dunes she lit the fire and watched the cheerful clear crackle of the logs in the hearth. She made some coffee as he had in a jug and then leaving it on the table she pushed open the door. The tide had gone out so far it was only a sliver of light on the shining moonlit sand and she ran down towards it feeling the cold bite of the wind in her face.
Strangely she was happy, her doubts and miseries resolved into a quiet confidence and resignation and the knowledge that Oliver would return and that when he did, however long it took, she would be there waiting for him.
She stood for a long time at the water’s edge watching the trail of moonshine in the tide and then she glanced along the beach towards the village. For a moment she held her breath. She thought she could see a figure striding out of the dunes. She stared and then she started to run; then she stopped. It was too far away to see – perhaps it was just the shadow of a cloud thrown on the rippled sand. Her heart was beating fast as she waited, her shoes sinking into the softness of the wet
silver at her feet. And then she saw the brightness of his hair and the tall, easy stride, and she began to smile. This time it was, it had to be, Oliver.
‘You waited for me to come back?’ he said as he came up to her and put his hands on her shoulder. His face was pale and strained in the moonlight.
‘I waited.’ She smiled up at him.
‘I’m sorry I went away. I didn’t mean to hurt you but I had to think. I had to be alone.’
‘Is everything all right now?’
‘Everything.’ He kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘It wasn’t your fault, you know.’
‘I know,’ she said quietly.
Hand in hand they walked back to the cottage and he sat down beside the fire and she brought him the coffee and watched him while he sipped it. She never mentioned the stranger who had chopped the wood and taken her so briefly in his arms. It did not seem important.
Just An Old-Fashioned Girl
It had happened the night before. She had worked late and was tired after the long walk back through the cold rain-washed streets. Neal had been home before her, letting himself in with his key, lighting the gas fire, straightening the room with, she was sure, a look of mild reproach.
Guiltily she had dropped her two heavy sodden shopping bags on the carpet and fumbled for the wet knot of her belt.
‘I didn’t expect you back so early tonight. I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.’
He grinned. ‘I’ve done most of it for you.’ The room certainly looked very nice. There was a pot of nearly-hatched hyacinths on the table which hadn’t been there that morning. Obscurely she felt irritated.
‘Well, I’ve still got to get the meal and do something with my hair!’
But he shook his head. ‘No need. I’ve booked us a table at the Captain’s Bistro and your hair –’ he took a step towards her and taking a lank wet strand of it in his hand gave it a gentle tug, ‘will look fabulous once you’ve had a drink.’
And that was how it so often was. She, agitated, late, scatty; he always calm, organized – and punctual, soothing her ruffled feathers and her ruffled ego. And she had, she decided, always found it irritating. It made her want to stamp her foot like a spoilt child, instead of receiving his influence with the gracious calm a woman of her age should accord it.
Encounters Page 43