The Last Wave

by Gillian Best

  The yellow dot of her head came in and out of view and she bobbed and swam back in against the outgoing current. With each pull of her arms she made subtle progress but it was hard work going against the wishes of the water. I was jealous. I didn’t even understand what – precisely – it was that the sea had over me because when I looked at it all I saw was a cold, foreboding and vast thing with its own language, rhythm and form.

  She had tried to ingratiate me by teaching me to swim but despite her best efforts I had remained an incompetent. My only connection to the underwater world, besides her, was that I was well versed in the superstitions of fishing boats and ferries where women were unwelcome unless they were about to give birth and no one learned to swim. At first the idea of a sailor being unable to swim sounds like madness, but when you realise that swimming will only prolong death and bring false hope to dire circumstances, it begins to make more sense.

  It was half six and she showed no signs of coming in, so our reservation would certainly be missed. My little yellow dot was oblivious to the concerns and constraints of life that continued on land. Her focus was the water.

  I sweated on the pebbles waiting for her to emerge, wondering if she was taking her time on purpose or if she was just avoiding me completely, instead of having to go through the agony of blowing me out in person. I felt particularly out of place in my suit and it was obvious to me that I would always be her guest in some ways. I had grown up here, the same as her, but until we had started dating I had never come to the seashore. I hadn’t wanted to because there had been nothing here for me. Was she avoiding me? Was this a sign? Was she trying to offer me a way out of the embarrassment I would face if I asked and she said no?

  All around me were pebbles, stones and rocks. Martha’s beach was not sandy and it was ill-suited for laying about relaxing. Her beach required one to make an effort to enjoy it. I was uncomfortable sitting there, so I folded her towel in half and then in half again and it offered enough cushioning for the moment. I looked at the sea, then at my watch, and back out to sea. The yellow dot had moved sideways and no closer to shore.

  What if she didn’t say yes? Then what? What could I do?

  I picked up one stone and placed it atop another, both rust coloured and bright white, washed clean over hundreds of years by the sea’s force, the gentle and constant repetition of the waves erasing what was once there. Washed smooth with the salt like Martha’s skin. I put those stones on another larger one with lines ground into it, like the calcification of a fossil, the sea proving to me that it would do what it wanted with what it had, whenever it so pleased. The water constantly intent on reminding me that I would never be in charge.

  I first set eyes on her in winter. She was riding her bicycle in the pouring rain, looking up to the sky, face radiant in rain water, short brown fringe plastered to her forehead, pedalling standing up wearing an old white fisherman’s jumper. I had been under the awning of the butcher’s shop holding a bag of mince. What caught my attention was her smile, beaming as she soaked up all the moisture from the sky.

  Another pebble, another flash of how it started between us. In the beginning when she tried to teach me to swim and I felt her hands on my bare back as she held me up in the sea. I looked up and saw the clouds and water splashed over me and when I opened my eyes again there she was, looking down at me her face in place of the sun.

  At a dance I tried to lead her around the floor as she tripped over her feet, apologising for every misstep. She walked unevenly, as though anticipating the ground to shift at any moment.

  In a beer garden on a warm afternoon staring at her bare knees covered in bruises and marks creating a catalogue of all the tables and chairs she had walked into that week.

  Seven pebbles now and seven reasons why I needed her to say yes. The way she made me feel calm the moment I saw her, another reason. How she made me want to show her what I was really like, how I struggled to find my place in the world and to understand the way things worked. I wanted to tell her everything and babbled, yammered and chuntered on through afternoons and evenings spent together walking and dancing. The way she had of turning whatever anger or frustration I had developed during the day into nothing with only a smile. Being near her was all I needed to lift the fog from my moods.

  More pebbles: one white, one brown and mottled like an egg.

  I imagined our future: a white house with a smart little garden out back; dining together each evening and breakfasting in the conservatory on stormy mornings; at Christmas, a tree with presents and a roast duck on the table; birthdays and anniversaries the moments that would all blend together to build a blur of happiness. We could easily make this future ours if only she would come out of the water. I imagined going to sleep with my arms around her and waking up similarly entangled. Dangerous thoughts to have on a warm afternoon.

  I thought of cups of tea between the folds of the Saturday papers, and the voices of our children laughing in the fading autumn light. A family would be mine and it would be a reflection of my worth as a man. I would go home to the people who loved me and the people I loved the most. It was all I wanted and everything that mattered.

  I looked up to check on the progress my yellow dot was making and I was surprised to see it swimming back to me. I straightened my tie.

  When she emerged from the water I watched her walk through the surf, and the sea ran off her skin. It was touching her shoulders, arms, waist and thighs, as if daring me to try and win her away.

  She saw me immediately when I stood and her face lit up. Her gaze made me feel as if I were shimmering.

  She took off her yellow bonnet as she weaved through the families, barbeques and children. I could tell by the way she walked that she liked that I was watching. I had no choice, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Everyone else on the beach faded away into the periphery and all I could see was Martha in a dripping wet navy bathing costume with wide straps across her shoulders and legs that rode up in the back.

  ‘John,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  My chest contracted. She wasn’t expecting me.

  ‘Dinner,’ I said. ‘I booked us a table.’

  ‘But that’s not for ages yet.’

  I held out my arm and she held my wrist so she could see the time.

  She clamped her hands over her mouth in shock. ‘I lose track,’ she said.

  I wrapped the towel around her shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  I took advantage of the situation and held her tightly through the towel as her hair dripped on my face.

  ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘No,’ I lied.

  I would wait as long as it took.

  Later, when we were walking slowly along the headland and I hadn’t asked, I thought of postponing it and inviting her out the next evening. It would be the only way to salvage this mess. We had missed our reservation, the corsage had wilted and I was losing my nerve. The night I proposed had to be worthy. The beginning had to be right.

  ‘Let’s go down there,’ she said, pointing to the water at the bottom of the cliffs.

  ‘It’s dark.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you ever want to go anywhere but the sea?’

  She didn’t hear me, or if she did then she didn’t answer because she was already scrambling down the stairs cut into the rock.

  ‘Do you remember? One of our first dates?’ I called to her as I stepped cautiously forward, grateful for the nearly full moon.

  ‘It was our third,’ she replied. ‘Careful, nearer the bottom the steps are covered with algae.’

  The sound of the sea in the dark is one of the most frightening sounds I have ever heard. In front of me was the water but all I saw was a yawning black hole. At my feet I heard the waves singing over the pebbles, and further out that song turned into a roar more terrifying than a lion’s. It was impossible for me to tell how big the surf was – all I knew was that away from the harbou
r we were not protected by the sea wall. Randomly, the moonlight would illuminate the crests of certain waves as they peaked and folded in on top of themselves, flattening out and racing towards Martha and I.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shouted.

  Martha was knee-deep in water with the foam rushing back and forwards making her sway as though a branch in a breeze. She turned towards me and said, ‘I’ve always wanted to swim at night.’

  I said, ‘You can’t go in now.’

  And she took her jumper off over her head. I reached my hand out for her bare stomach and she pulled me to her.

  ‘The waves won’t be big here,’ she said. ‘It’s a long, shallow seabed. You’ve got to go at least a hundred yards out to get anything close to little breakers.’

  She put her hand over mine. ‘Don’t worry.’

  The sea sounded like a jet engine and I imagined it coming closer and closer until a rogue wave simply reared up and crushed us both. The water was unpredictable and things could change quickly that could not be changed back.

  I drew my other hand round her waist, up her back, around her shoulder and down her arm before taking her hand in mine.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  She squeezed my hand and pulled me closer, further into the water. To one side I felt the force of the sea, to the other side was the unbreakable face of the white cliffs, above was the black night sky and below the deep, dark sea, but it was what was in front of me that I was interested in as she moved closer and kissed my neck, cheek and mouth.

  We kept walking as the water curled around our legs but the rocks shifted under my feet and I lost my balance, ruining the mood and my suit as I fell onto my hands and knees.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Martha asked, her face next to mine in seconds.

  It was the right moment.

  ‘Martha,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  In an instant I forgot everything I had planned to say and I fumbled with my words. What if she says no was the thought that screamed through my mind, what if she says no, then what? We would stop seeing each other. I would never see her again. I would go back to my work, Friday night in the pub with the boys, and weekends spent avoiding my landlady and her prying questions. Humiliated and forced to pretend otherwise, compelled to project an outward appearance of happiness.

  ‘Martha,’ I said. I leaned back on my knees, the water swirling around my waist and I looked at her face as the moonlight cast a glow across one cheek.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  I put my hand on my breast pocket to check for the ring and then I noticed she was looking at the water. But she wasn’t wrong; everything in front of me was beautiful.

  ‘Martha,’ I said as I took the ring from my pocket. The sea moved in to protect her, the currents tugging her toward the open water while they pushed me back toward dry land. The water was like a puppy nudging his master’s leg for attention, it wasn’t overtly forceful, but it was easy to tell the water planned to overpower me slowly, in the same way that it would eventually turn rocks into fine grains of sand.

  I was down on one knee as I held the ring up to her. ‘Will you marry me?’ The sea snaked around my waist.

  ‘John,’ she said.

  I watched her face in the moonlight as she absorbed the question.

  The water grew stronger and more determined, a small wave hit me at the wrong angle and I was knocked off balance. My hands flew out to my sides to provide anchor.

  She grabbed hold of my shoulders, steadying me. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  But the sea disagreed and the surf rushed in around me with tidal force, taking control of my movements. I flapped around like a stray piece of seaweed.

  Martha took hold of my hands and pulled me up. She cupped my chin and gently wiped the water off my face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, before she kissed me.

  Her hands ran along my shoulders, back and waist and I pulled her as close as possible, her body pressing into mine, and then when she paused to take a breath, I reached for her left hand.

  ‘The ring?’ I said, feeling nothing new on her finger.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Where is it?’

  We looked at her hand and then at the water. I wanted to know if she sided with the sea but I couldn’t risk knowing the answer.

  We searched through the water that gushed further inland, taking back the ground that had been relinquished during low tide, but we didn’t find the ring and I wondered if that meant her yes wasn’t the final word. There was a public weight to the ring that was vital.

  ‘John,’ she said. ‘The tide’s coming in. We need to go.’

  ‘We need to find it.’

  ‘We won’t be able to.’

  ‘We have to look harder.’

  ‘There’s no point. If we’re meant to have it, it will come back to us.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘I don’t share your trust.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What does?’

  She held her hand out and when I took it she led me towards the back of the narrow beach where the cliffs met the ground. The sea was chasing us, licking at our heels as we made a break for dry land. It was so dark that I had to rely on Martha to guide me safely back to the stairs. She felt her way along the cliff face and I followed, my hands running over the rough chalky stones and when she paused at the foot of the staircase, I did not look up.

  She squeezed my hand tightly. ‘You asked.’

  ‘You said yes.’

  La Manche

  I pushed the open door further so I could pop my head into the foyer.

  ‘Martha?’ I called. My feet remained planted outside on the doorway. Technically, I wasn’t yet walking uninvited into their home.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  Webb gallumped over to me and pushed his head into my thigh. I petted his head and nudged him out of the way.

  ‘Where is everyone, old boy?’ I asked the dog. By way of reply he hobbled into the kitchen where he stood at her side.

  ‘Sorry. The door was open.’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘Martha? The door was open.’

  She said, ‘Oh, yes.’

  The kitchen was in a terrible state by her standards. Two days’ worth of breakfast dishes cluttered the table, the drying rack was full and poorly organised, the cupboard above the stove was open and worst of all the Marigold gloves were crumpled on the side of the counter, heaped on top of a dirty pot.

  ‘Is everything alright?’

  She nodded but didn’t look up from the picture she was holding. I couldn’t make out who was in the photo but the frame was a style I remembered as having been popular, decades earlier, when the fashion was for things to be ornate. It was oak with gold trim and it made the picture feel historical, like a snapshot that had captured the moment of a lifetime.

  ‘Where’s John?’

  ‘Newcastle. Golfing weekend.’

  ‘I didn’t see you out this morning.’ I sat down next to her at the table.

  ‘Were you waiting, Henry?’

  ‘No.’

  She ran her fingers over the matte black frame. ‘Henry.’

  ‘I happened to be doing some gardening this morning and I didn’t see you.’

  ‘You felt driven to see to that disaster you call a garden first thing this morning?’

  ‘I take inspiration when it comes.’

  Martha gave me a sideways glance. ‘You were waiting.’

  ‘You didn’t come.’

  ‘I was busy.’

  ‘With what?’ I put my hand on her arm, but she shrugged it off.

  ‘The care and maintenance of my life.’

  ‘Sounds thrilling.’

  ‘Blew my hair straight back.’

  ‘So why was the door open?’

&nbs
p; ‘Don’t you have something you ought to be doing? Something that can only be properly seen to at your house?’

  ‘It’s my day off.’

  ‘I wish it was mine.’

  Webb put his chin on my leg and whimpered. ‘Has he been out?’

  The photo clattered loudly as she set it on the table. ‘Yes, Henry, he’s been out.’

  ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘Please go.’ She turned the photo over, so it lay face down.

  ‘The door was open.’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘I just want to be sure.’

  ‘Why does it matter? An open door. Who cares?’

  I sighed. ‘Because once upon a time I didn’t ask and nothing turned out fine.’

  She turned her head towards me and she looked tired, with black bags under her eyes and a weariness about her whole body.

  ‘Martha.’

  ‘Knowing won’t change a thing.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘It’s a door.’

  ‘It was open.’

  ‘I left it open so Webb could go out.’ She pulled her cardigan tightly around her waist and went to the sink.

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘I’m in no mood.’

  ‘You’re only prolonging this,’ I said, going to stand beside her.

  She moved a few paces away and began organising the washing-up: stacking the plates underneath a bowl, and turning the cutlery all in one direction. ‘Prolonging this? Henry. This is my house and I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘This is a neighbourhood watch area. I’m your neighbour. I’m watching.’

  ‘Do it from the comfort of your own home.’

  ‘I’m worried about you.’

  ‘For God’s sake! It’s just a bloody door, Henry! Not everything in this life has to end in tragedy!’ She turned on the tap and poured Fairy Liquid into the sink. ‘Maybe I’m coming down with what John has.’

  ‘Alzheimer’s isn’t catching.’

  ‘We don’t say that word in this house.’ She pulled on the pair of Marigold gloves that were tucked into the cupboard below the sink.