EMERGENCE

by R. H. Dixon

  He slipped the dogs’ leads and they all walked on. To the north of them the banks of Easington jutted out, and to the south lay Blackhall, and Boulby much further in the distance. The beach was a stretch of rugged wilderness in both directions, Horden’s section having had a good twenty-eight years, after the pit had closed, in which to recover and transform from coal-mine dumping ground to natural terrain. These days it was a hardened landscape, a likely setting for some edgy dystopian film. Stones like giant pieces of cinder toffee were strewn along the top section and John remembered thinking, when he was a kid, that they were the blast-out from some prehistoric volcanic eruption. The orangey-yellowness of their mineral content gave them a certain singed quality and there was always a faint smell of sulphur in the air.

  John led Seren and the dogs further down the beach, leaving the orange rocks behind, till they got to the water’s edge, where the air became tangy with seaweed and salt. He marvelled at a six-foot shelf they found themselves standing on. It seemed the sea had dramatically changed the topography of the shoreline in his absence, washing away parts of the beach and managing, over time, to create a vertical embankment of grit and shale. Spotting a sloping section where they could easily get down to the pebbled grey sand, still wet from the receding tide, John clambered down.

  ‘So is this where you used to play when you were little?’ Seren asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ He turned and reached up to take her hand. ‘Do you like it?’

  Dismissing his offer of help, she scuttled down the shale ramp and stood next to him. ‘Sand’s a bit shit for making sandcastles, but yeah it’s pretty cool.’

  John raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t notice.

  He picked up a pebble from the foamy tideline and skimmed it across the shallows. It bounced across the water’s gunmetal surface three times before disappearing beneath. ‘Are you glad we came to stay at Gran’s house for the summer?’

  ‘Uh-huh. It’s nice having you about.’ Seren bent and took hold of a small stone. Imitating John, she then threw it towards the sea. It made one resounding splash.

  ‘What’re you on about, silly? I’m always about.’

  She took her eyes off the spot where her stone had sunk and looked at him squarely. ‘Back home you never want to do stuff like this. You’re always working.’

  There, she’d said it. Concreted his recent mounting fear that for the past three years he’d been a lousy dad. The confirmation winded him like a punch to the stomach. So he’d made a botched job of parenthood because he’d failed to be there for his daughter when it mattered most. And the worst thing was, he’d been totally oblivious. Sure, he’d always made sure she was properly clothed and fed, but aside from the basics he’d been so wrapped up in himself, so self-absorbed, that he’d neglected the emotional and developmental needs of his little girl. His eyes stung blurry against the directness of the wind, and, moreover, the truth. He looked away, to the horizon, and blinked rapidly.

  ‘If that’s the way you feel, I’ll have to see about changing things won’t I?’ he said at last, his voice tight as he stooped to grab another flat stone. He showed it to her. ‘Here, like this.’ Twisting his torso to the left and arcing his arm behind him, he kept the stone’s length horizontal in his hand. When he pivoted his body back round, he uncurled his arm and released the stone towards the sea with a fluent sweep. This time he counted five skims before it sank.

  Seren watched in awe. ‘How’d you do that?’

  John smiled. He could fix this. He could change. He could. He’d become a better dad. He searched the ground for another stone and showed her again, only this time slower. When she tried, she managed no better than another dull plonk!

  They stayed there in that spot for a while, till Seren had managed three skims of her own, then headed south towards Blackhall Rocks. They passed a pond that apparently, at one time, had been a popular dumping place for dead dogs. Its surface was concealed by a mass of long, spear-headed reeds and John doubted there were any bloated, furry bodies floating in there now, but when Seren expressed an interest to go and take a closer look he insisted they didn’t, distracting her, instead, by pointing out a piece of driftwood that looked like a crocodile: its gnarled body long and a knot in the woodgrain its eye. Next to it was a matted nest of dried brown seaweed, entwined with lengths of fishing wire, bejewelled with colourful flies and metal sinkers. The heap of beach treasure reminded John of the tangled mess he’d seen at the bottom of his mother’s costume jewellery box back in the eighties.

  Crows watched their progress from the banks sides, their sorrowful caws offset by the frequent bock-bocking of an unseen pheasant. It took John, Seren and the dogs ten minutes to get to the rock pools of Blackhall Rocks, where scores of parp sea anemones, the colour of raw liver, glistened underwater, their domed bodies like canker sores growing from the rock itself. Seren delighted in how bizarre and squidgy they looked and it wasn’t long before John had to tell her off for poking one with a stick. They found an abundance of barnacles and dismembered crabs’ pincers too, and a starfish that looked calcified. Otis found a semi-decomposed gull on the beach and started rolling on it before John could stop him, which Seren thought was hilarious till John told her she’d be the one to bath him when they got home.

  By two o’clock the sky was the same wishy-washy shade of off-white-grey that it had been when they’d set out earlier, and the breeze just as fresh. All the walking had warmed them up, though, so when their stomachs declared lunchtime they found an unsheltered rock to sit on and John unzipped his fleece. He took off his backpack and rummaged inside, pulling out a Tupperware lunchbox.

  ‘Ham without butter.’ He handed Seren a cellophane package.

  ‘Did we bring some for Otis and Mindy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dogs don’t eat sandwiches.’

  ‘I bet they do.’

  ‘I bet they don’t.’

  ‘I’ll save them my crusts.’

  ‘Nice try, kidda. Get them eaten.’

  Seren huffed and the pair of them ate in silence for a while, watching as an angler approached from Blackhall. The man was wearing an army camouflage coat and blue jeans tucked into green wellies. In one hand he carried a fishing rod and in the other a tackle box. When he passed by he tipped his head at John and said, ‘Alright, mate?’

  John tipped his own head in acknowledgement. ‘Alright.’

  When the man was out of earshot, Seren turned to John and said, ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why’d he call you mate?’

  ‘He was being friendly. That’s what people say.’

  ‘But why did he ask if you’re alright if you don’t know him?’

  John laughed. ‘He wasn’t initiating a rundown of how I’m feeling, you daft bugger. It’s just another way of saying hello.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘You overthink things, kidda.’ He blew steam from the tea in the lid of his Thermos flask and took a sip.

  Seren sucked on the straw of her cartoned orange juice and looked back the way they’d come, towards the tall reeds of Dead Dog Pond. She was quiet and contemplative for a while, her light blonde hair wispy around her face where the wind had freed it from her ponytail. Digging the toes of her white trainers into the dirty sand, eventually she turned to John, her blue eyes serious, and said, ‘Petey Moon’s gone.’

  This revelation was a pleasant surprise to John, but he tried to keep his hopefulness hidden under a display of nonchalant chin rubbing. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I dunno. He was there last night when I went to bed, but I’ve not seen him today.’ She pulled on her bottom lip, worriedly.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone home.’

  She considered this for a moment then, despite looking unconvinced, said, ‘Maybe. He didn’t like it at Gran’s house.’

  ‘Oh?’ This surprised John in a not-so-good way; his eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Du
nno.’

  ‘Do you like it at Gran’s house?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But what about Petey Moon?’

  ‘I’m sure that wherever he is he’ll be fine.’ John smiled in quiet celebration. Now that he was behaving like a proper dad it stood to reason that his daughter would no longer need an imaginary friend. For this to have happened so quickly, though, was a huge leap forward, for both of them.

  ‘Dad?’ Seren was looking at him again, all serious.

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Have you seen the woman in Gran’s house?’

  This question caught him off guard. He regarded her curiously. ‘What woman?’

  ‘The woman with black hair.’

  ‘Inside Gran’s house?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I have.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sucked the remaining dregs from her orange drink, which created a loud gurgling noise, then fell silent.

  ‘So what woman are you talking about?’ John persisted.

  Poking her finger through the cellophane parcel of crusts in her hand and keeping her eyes downcast, Seren was quiet for a few moments then said, ‘I dunno. Last night there was a strange woman in my room.’

  _

  12

  _

  The wind swiped in from the North Sea, thrashing Natasha's loose hair into knots and stinging her eyes so they watered. She dabbed at her lower lids with the backs of her fingers, leaving smudgy tracks of mascara on her knuckles. Pulling the blue cardigan she wore tight around her body, as though the thin cotton might shield her from the wind’s probing, nipping fingers, she stepped onto the grass, beneath which might or might not be the boundaries of someone’s grave. Her toes curled at the thought and she trod softly, just in case.

  A few other people were strolling through the churchyard, mostly sticking to the stone path, their chatter diminished by the wind’s incessant voice. Natasha imagined most of them were probably tourists on their way to or from the ruins of the abbey at the top of the cliff. A group of young goths mooched melodramatically around the entrance to the church, and a man with white-blonde hair and a sense of high fashion made eye contact with Natasha on his way past. He was holding hands with a woman and he listened while she talked. There was a slight swing to their hand-holding arms that proclaimed them happy and carefree. He smiled. Natasha returned the pleasantry, but her smile was forced. It wasn’t too long ago that she and Lee had enjoyed a happy relationship. Now everything she’d thought they were as a couple was under question.

  She had come to the cliffside after work, not wanting to go straight home. Her apartment, she knew, would be filled with quiet hostility; the remnants of last night’s proposal and subsequent argument lingering and causing an aloneness that not even Maverick could vanquish. All because her adamancy on a matter close to heart had been offset by Lee’s refusal to accept what she wanted. They’d said things they probably hadn’t meant to say, but things they considered true nonetheless. Natasha’s heated emotion had been pitted against his angry words and their newfound differences had placed them at odds with all they’d ever been and all they’d ever agreed upon, thus making a mockery of all they’d hoped to be. The rift between them this time was huge, quite possibly unfixable. But neither of them could be wrong for wanting what they wanted. Even though she was confounded and confused by Lee’s change of heart, she accepted that everyone has a right to change their mind.

  He wanted kids now.

  She still didn’t.

  Her chest ached with a growing emptiness for the relationship she’d thought they had.

  How had it all gone so terribly wrong? Got so misconstrued?

  The graveyard offered a neutral environment in which to reflect, its sloping banks of grave-marked grass a pinnacle upon which Natasha could retreat into herself and feel distanced enough from the hustle and bustle of the harbour village down below. Up here she felt temporarily detached from real-life, standing in the presence of the dead. A thought which greatly comforted her. Up here she felt calm.

  Weathered names and brief biographies on elaborate gravestones provided her with some measure of thought-provoking solitude, as well as familiarity. These had all been real people at one time, with their own sets of problems. She’d often visualise their lives, imagining how each serif-fonted person might have looked based on the strength and sound of their capitalised names, and what tragedies might have surrounded their deaths. The epitaphs even helped to put her own life into context; many of the departed had been extremely young men and women. Some of them children. Some babies.

  Picking her way through grassy aisles, with no particular destination in mind, Natasha wondered what her own graveside inscription might someday be, imagining something along the lines of: Natasha Graham; lonely spinster known locally as ‘Cat Lady’.

  She sighed.

  She hadn’t heard from Lee all day. She needed time to think and expected he did too. Had things turned out differently, had she not miscarried the blastocyst before it had had time to make itself properly at home in her womb, she would have explored the idea of becoming Mrs Riddell. For the past couple of years she’d often visualised herself in a cream wedding gown: slim-fitting with a fishtail back and sweetheart neckline, nothing too fancy. Her hair set in gentle waves with understated jewels clipped here and there. No bouquet. No bridesmaids or page boys either. Minimal fuss. Just a simple registry office affair with a cluster of immediate family from Lee’s side and some very close friends in attendance to witness the happy day. Lee had always been opposed to the idea, declaring it a waste of time and money, but last night he’d shocked her with his new set of ideals: marriage and kids.

  How could a person flip his objectives on their head overnight? Just like that.

  This was why she couldn’t marry him. Not now. She couldn’t live with that kind of changeable mentality. Above all else, Natasha needed stability.

  For Lee, at the moment, there was a happy family life just ahead of them, a gauzy romanticism that she could fully appreciate because she’d dreamt that same alluring dream a long time ago. But how long till he got bored? How long till he outgrew the fad and had another overnight change of heart? Would he stick around? She’d rather not find out the hard way. Perhaps if he knew her entire backstory he’d understand her reluctance to start a family.

  Was it too late to tell him now?

  Yes, she thought so.

  He might be annoyed that she’d not been completely open from the start. Well, no, that wasn’t fair. It wasn't that she’d not been open, she just hadn’t told him every minute detail about her life. She’d never needed to. That aspect of their lives, not having children, had been something they’d always agreed upon. Until last night. Besides, he didn’t need to know. It wouldn’t change the way she felt even if he did.

  Eventually she dawdled home, deflated and sombre. Gravely saddened by how much things had changed within the space of a few weeks. Excited talk of a winter trip to Chicago had been replaced by an unexpected pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage. She wished she could go back to cosy nights on the couch planning shopping expeditions on North Michigan Avenue and strolls along Navy Pier. Instead she sat on the couch alone, half watching television while Maverick, bizarrely, kept his own company in another room of the house, until she fell asleep.

  _

  …

  _

  She arranged baby-pink carnations in a crystal-cut vase and when she turned around her mother was watching, eyes vacant.

  ‘Mam?’

  Diane Graham didn’t respond. She was propped in bed by four white pillows. Her once long hair was now cropped short and laden with grey. Natasha could see it hadn’t yet been brushed. Sickly brown crescents lay on their backs beneath her sunken eyes, denoting the gradual ebbing of her health. Diane Graham’s mind was caught up in a receding tide, withdrawing to some faraway place forever because in her world the moon only waned, no matter
how much medication she was given.

  Natasha went to the bedside and sat down in a draylon armchair which smelt of charity shops. Leaning forward she smoothed the covers at the side of her mother’s veined hand, not because they needed smoothing but because it gave her something to do. At the same time her mother’s fingers began to move rhythmically, tip-tapping across the turned-down white cotton as though she was playing on a piano.

  ‘Mam?’

  Diane tilted her head to the sound of Natasha’s voice but didn’t reply, seemingly lost to whatever finger symphony was going on inside her head. A fly began to bang repeatedly against the window. Bzzz bzzzp bzzz. The noise, a validation of its frenzied thoughts on being imprisoned, filled the quiet monotony of the room with all the ruckus of a chainsaw. Natasha frowned. She took hold of her mother’s hand, stilling the silent piano-playing, and squeezed gently.

  ‘I’ve come to see how you’re doing,’ she said, her words more pronounced, more forceful. ‘I brought you some flowers.’ She pointed to the carnations over by the window.

  Diane looked to the pink-filled vase. Her watery blue eyes showed pleasant surprise. ‘Oh that’s lovely, pet. My favourites.’

  Natasha swept her mother’s unkempt fringe to one side, away from her eyes. ‘I know, that’s why I brought them.’

  ‘Smashing.’

  ‘Dad sends his love.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Natasha edged further forward. ‘Listen, I’ve got some news for you, Mam.’

  ‘My dad sends his love, you say?’ Diane’s empty eyes suddenly sparked with fine fettle. ‘That’s nice. I’ll bet he’s lost without me? And Gina? I hope she’s not been getting into all kinds of mischief.’