The Girl on the Beach

by Morton S. Gray

  One Year Later …

  He watched from a distance.

  Having pulled all the strings and favours he could to discover their location, he didn’t just want to go blundering into their lives, not after this long. He had to be sure he’d be welcome. If necessary, he could just disappear again and they would be none the wiser that he’d been here. He didn’t have to take up the job he’d secured at the high school. He could always return to England and start again, however unappealing that option might be.

  He’d spent a year trying to recover, to move on, trying to forget, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about them on the other side of the world.

  His son looked relaxed here, tanned, his hair longer and bleached by the sun, even more the spitting image of himself when he was younger. Judging by the steady flow of young adults to the door of the gallery with the house above, Tom, or rather Lucas, as he was now known, was popular and had plenty of friends.

  Lucas left early each morning on his bike, a book bag slung across his shoulders. He always yelled bye to his mum and whistled on his way to school. He had never seemed this happy in Borteen. He’d had his fifteenth birthday in Australia. Fifteen already. He was almost a grown man.

  Ellie, or rather Freya Wheal, as she was now called, was tanned too, her wayward hair long and uncontrolled. The sight of it still made his heart lurch, as it had that first day at Borteen High.

  He had to be sure she hadn’t set up home with a new man or had a steady boyfriend, before he revealed himself, but so far things were looking good. He felt hopeful.

  The Wheal Gallery was full of the distinctive paintings and pottery he had come to associate with her. Freya, he tested the name on his tongue. It suited her. Her trademark “man running on the beach” pictures featured regularly in the window display of the gallery. I’ve been immortalised.

  Rushton Jacob had been sent back to prison with a reasonably long sentence for abduction, grievous bodily harm and various drug-related offences.

  It worried him that he had found Freya and Lucas on the other side of the world relatively easily. If he could, couldn’t someone else? Someone paid by Rushton. But then, if all went to plan, he intended to be close by to protect them.

  How would Ell … Freya react if he did make himself known? He’d rehearsed so many versions of the expression on her face and the words she would say, that he was driving himself mad. How would he convince her that he’d come to Australia for both of them, not just to be close to his son?

  Freya counted her blessings every day, but especially today, the first anniversary of their arrival in Australia. When they’d found themselves on a plane to Sydney with new identities, she couldn’t have imagined anything better than the lives they were now living.

  She and Lucas had discussed their name changes before boarding the flight, in whispers while they were sitting at the boarding gate. They had decided that the only way they would ever be convincing was if they ceased to use the names Ellie and Tom straight away and used their new names all of the time, even when they were alone together. So, Ellie and Tom Golden had become Freya and Lucas Wheal.

  The organisation that had rescued Harry, which she never did discover the name of, had supplied the flight tickets, arranged a short stay rental in a suburb of Sydney and sorted out any red tape so that she could start teaching at a school part time and begin a gallery business in Australia.

  They’d explored the city, enjoying a couple of weeks acting like tourists; visiting the beaches, the Opera House, Taronga Zoo, walking over the famous Sydney harbour bridge and taking ferry rides around the harbour. The heat was difficult to get used to and they had to sip water all of the time to remain hydrated. The scenery and views were amazing. She felt as if her eyes were standing out on stalks every day with the sensory overload and inspiration for her artwork.

  To begin with, she hadn’t been able to stop herself scanning the crowds for Rushton or his cronies. Even though she’d tried not to unsettle her son, she still didn’t feel completely safe and, at first, her new identity felt odd, as if she was wearing an outfit that didn’t fit.

  There was, however, a freedom associated with her new name. It had been truly like being born again. She’d had the opportunity to choose a new character and way of living. I am Freya Wheal, she kept repeating to herself, dreading the time someone called her name, in case she didn’t recognise it and didn’t respond, or she called her son Tom by mistake. Her fears had been unfounded and that had never happened, or rather she’d managed to stop herself up to now. A year on, she didn’t have to even think. They were totally Freya and Lucas even in her dreams.

  She wanted to scan British newspaper websites for any news of a trial or conviction for Rushton Jacob, but had convinced herself that focusing on his name could bring him back into their lives, so she resisted. Somehow, although she never advocated violence, making his nose bleed had put to bed a lot of the demons that had tormented her for years. She felt free from the shadow that had dogged her, free to make a new start and live life to the full.

  It was, on one hand, very exciting to go to a new country and start a new life; on the other, there was still the ache and flatness associated with what they had left behind and the knowledge that she would never see her friend Mandy or, more importantly, Harry again. She would never know if they could have made a go of a relationship born of their fledgling friendship.

  Would she ever dare tell Lucas about his connection to Harry? She believed that it would be too cruel to do so, when he would never see his father again. Better to let him continue to believe that his father died in a surfing accident on a Cornish beach on the other side of the world. Even if she told her son the truth, he would be unlikely to be able to trace Harry, as undoubtedly, he too would be living in a new place with a new name, identity and maybe, a sick feeling rose to her throat, romancing a new woman. She shook her head to dislodge that thought.

  Freya had been stunned about how much money had been in the envelope Harry had given to her. Where had it come from? Why had he given her so much? Then again, it gave her freedoms she might otherwise not have enjoyed.

  She discovered the shop with living accommodation above it, close to a beach, in the newspaper and everything had gone so smoothly with the move that she was convinced they were meant to be there. The shop had nearly the same layout as the one in Borteen and was perfect for her gallery and studio. There was even an outhouse in the yard to house a pottery kiln.

  When they returned for a second viewing, Freya had turned to Lucas with shining eyes, believing this to be the right place for their new start, but she needed him to be convinced too.

  ‘What do you think?’ She’d asked.

  ‘I think it’s perfect.’ Lucas became serious for a moment and hugged her tightly. ‘We’re going to be all right here in Australia, aren’t we, Mum?’

  ‘I do believe we are.’

  ‘Can I get a bike? I can keep it in the yard.’

  ‘I might even buy one for myself.’

  Lucas pulled a face. He’d never seen her ride a bike.

  The area was criss-crossed by safe cycling paths. There were parks, shops and cafés nearby. The estate agent had described it as an up-and-coming area, with new families and businesses moving there because it was affordable.

  Their house was comfortable and it was lovely having the gallery underneath, rather than a journey away. The rooms had been sparse to begin with as they had arrived with hardly any belongings from England. She was gradually adding to their possessions, but she didn’t want to overcrowd the space.

  The balcony upstairs had intricate wrought iron work, like many of the buildings in the area. Freya enjoyed tending her balcony pots and experimenting with new Australian plants and seeds.

  The only possessions she truly missed from her old life were her rocking chair and the gorgeous piece of driftwood Harry had scavenged from the beach and helped her son to sand and varnish for her birthday. She hadn’t found th
e right replacement rocking chair yet, but she would. She had a photo of the wooden birthday sculpture on her phone and had to be content with that, but it wasn’t the same as running her hand along the smooth wood and feeling connected to Harry.

  One thing she firmly believed in was the adaptability of the human race. On that first day in Australia, she had made promises to herself that a year on she had largely fulfilled. She’d vowed that they would adapt to their new names, that they would live in their new country wholeheartedly and learn its customs and ways, that they would make new friends, try new activities, laugh, sing and that she would have an art gallery again to sell her paintings and pottery.

  It had made things easier that her son had settled here in a way he never did in Borteen. His new school was on a modern campus a short cycle ride away from the house and after only the second day, a blond-haired lad in shorts came to call, asking if he wanted to play volleyball on the beach.

  Lucas had asked if he could grow his hair longer and was tanned and tall in his Aussie school uniform. He laughed more than she remembered in England and his laughter gladdened her heart. He’d stopped talking about Louise, his first love, but Ellie knew he would never forget her. They’d both avoided social media, beyond what was necessary to promote the business.

  He’d also taken to playing electric guitar and they would spend many happy hours with Lucas strumming and Freya singing along to his tunes. They hardly watched any television.

  Lucas was thriving and Freya knew in her heart that he would grow up, finish his education, get a job and have his own family in Australia.

  The shop had done well from day one. She had to paint as often as she could to keep up with demand. The most popular paintings were, of course, her paintings of a man running on the beach. The only problem with painting these images was that Harry was never far from her mind.

  She ran specialist art classes at two schools in the area and had several mentees already, who she was coaching for art college entrance exams.

  The beach near to the house was amazing. She felt as if she had been transported to paradise. If she was honest, there was one thing missing and that was a special man in her life. Several tanned Aussies of their acquaintance had shown an interest in her and one flirted outrageously, but Freya couldn’t yet let go and relax into a romance. She would be ready one day, but not just yet.

  Eventually, she might find a man to share her new world. However, she was certain that part of her heart would always belong to the man who had once been Ben Rivers and also Harry Dixon. She’d been besotted by Ben, but truly believed she could have loved Harry. Freya Wheal had much to be thankful for and hope for the future, but deep in her heart, she would never forget her past.

  Too much pondering and reminiscing had lowered her mood. She had a sudden urge to be out in the elements, away from other people, away from the gallery. She locked the door of the shop and walked the short way to the beach. As always, she looked for inspiration everywhere and stopped to take a few photographs on her phone of things that caught her eye – a pattern on the concrete paving, an aboriginal styled graffiti painting on a wall.

  Reaching the beach, she took deep gulps of sea air and stood watching the seabirds circling the sand. The beach was deserted apart from an elderly man with a dog far away by the rocks. The tide was a long way out. The wind whipped her hair in her face, but she didn’t care.

  She had a sudden desire to shout to the sky, but twirled around instead, spreading her arms wide.

  Happy one year in Australia birthday, Freya Wheal. I love Australia. I love my new life.

  Giggling to herself, she wiggled her toes in the sand and watched a man running along by the distant shoreline. He wore blue shorts and an orange T-shirt. The similarities to another man on that far away beach in Borteen tore at her heart. He raised his hand in greeting and she waved back.

  Harry was never far from her mind. Before she’d realised she’d done it, she’d written his name in the sand with her toe.

  As always when she left the beach, she offered up a silent prayer for the well-being of her friends in Borteen, especially Mandy.

  Returning to the studio, she set to work on a new series of paintings inspired by the beach and her impressions of Australia so far. These pictures had an Aboriginal influence, using animal shapes and coloured dots. She still signed her name with the stylised signature she had always used, but then no one had ever been able to tell what it said in any case, so they wouldn’t guess it stood for Ellie.

  The day sped by and before she knew it, Lucas was back from school. Freya made him stand back to back with her by the mirror in the studio to confirm he had indeed grown again and was taller than her by at least five centimetres.

  He told her about his day, excitement in his voice, what he had learned in lessons and what he was expected to do for homework. She carried on painting as they talked. He looked relaxed and tanned and the sight warmed her heart.

  They had a ritual of sharing the worst and best things that had happened to them each day.

  ‘Worst thing?’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘Perry told Veronica Lewis that I fancied her.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Mum please, she’s not my type at all.’

  ‘Best thing?’

  ‘I’ve been chosen for the football A-team.’

  ‘Well done, love.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Presumably that’s Aussie football?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You realise we’ve been in Sydney exactly one year today?’

  ‘I knew it was about that, but couldn’t remember the exact date.’

  She noted the way his sentences finished with a high note now in true Aussie style, but then she often caught herself doing the same.

  ‘I’ve planned a special tea to celebrate.’

  She loved these times of closeness, as Lucas wanted to be independent more often than not these days.

  ‘Right, I’d better get my homework finished and our special tea eaten, some of the lads want me to go fishing tonight.’

  ‘It won’t be too late will it? You’ve school tomorrow.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not eleven, I’m fifteen.’

  ‘I forget, but you’ll always be my baby.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Mum!’

  Fifteen, how had that happened?

  She looked proudly at her tall, long-haired son. He was handsome; there was no doubt about that. The cleft in his chin becoming more pronounced as he got older. He was heart-breakingly like his father. How could she ever forget Harry when she had his spitting image with her every day to remind her of what she had lost? She resumed painting to cover up the emotion passing over her heart. She felt particularly sentimental today after her reflections on the beach.

  Lucas turned back, ‘By the way, Mum, some funny news. There’s a new sports teacher starting at the school next week. His name made us laugh so much. I don’t know how we’re going to keep a straight face when we meet him or during lessons.’

  ‘What’s his name then?’

  ‘Mr Pretty. Have you ever heard such a bizarre name?’

  Freya dropped her brush, a great splodge of orange spattered on the wooden boards of the floor. Her heart had taken up a lurching beat of premonition. Harry’s birth name had been Percy Pretty. She would never ever forget that. Was the new teacher’s name too much of a coincidence? It couldn’t be, could it?

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you okay, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. It just gave me a shock, as I knew someone with that name in the past, but it couldn’t possibly be him.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Alex knew his appointment at the high school had been announced to the students. Alex, Alex, Alex. He had to keep repeating the name to get it into his head. Would news have got back to Freya about the new sports teacher, Alex Pretty? Would she have put two and two together?

  He didn’t normally think twice about what to wear, but today, he hesitated in front of his w
ardrobe. He settled on a crisp short-sleeved shirt and his newest shorts.

  The worst thing was not knowing how she was going to react to his reappearance.

  Casting an eye around the small rented flat, he knew exactly where he would hang the picture he was about to buy. He could visualise exactly what it would look like hanging there. A piece of Elli … no, Freya on his wall.

  Deep breath, Alex. Let’s go. You know what you have to do.

  Walking the short distance to the Wheal Gallery, he tried to imagine how he would handle this, but his mind was blank. He’d have to make it up as he went along.

  He thought his heart might stop as he pushed open the gallery door and the bell above it rang to announce his entrance.

  Lucas sat at a desk reading a magazine. His head snapped up as the bell sounded and his eyes opened wide, very wide, then his mouth dropped open.

  ‘Har …’ he began.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Alex strode over to the desk and extended his hand. ‘Alex Pretty.’

  Lucas looked at his hand with his eyes still abnormally wide and confusion on his face. He appeared to be struck dumb.

  Alex looked around the gallery to confirm they were alone and smiled broadly.

  ‘We’re not in danger again, are we?’ gabbled the teenager.

  ‘No, no, not at all. I’ve just moved to the area and came to buy a picture for the bare walls of my rented flat.’ He grinned again.

  Lucas grinned back.

  ‘You’re my new sports teacher, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  Lucas punched the air and laughed. ‘Wicked!’

  At least his son was pleased to see him. One down, tick, but he had yet to see Ell … Freya.

  Freya paused on the stairs, listening to the conversation in the gallery. Had she heard right? It was like being transported back in time. Harry had said similar words before in her shop in Borteen. Her heart began to thump and her mouth went dry. She paused to hear enough to be sure, to hear his voice. She’d been painting and scrubbed ineffectually at a paint blob on her shirt. She realised she had paint on her hair too. Oh well, no time to change.