by J. A. Baker
I shower, doing my best to stay upright as the water sizzles over my skin. My head swims and I feel bile rise up into my throat with every movement I make. What was I thinking drinking so much last night? I’m not built for this. Back in London, I had friends who could down three or four glasses of wine on an afternoon whereas I could hardly manage one without wanting to fall asleep on the spot. Drinking such large amounts doesn’t suit me and yet I have consumed alcohol like there’s no tomorrow since arriving here. It was sheer loneliness that did it; sitting here day after day feeling sorry for myself, going over everything again and again in my head, wondering where it all went wrong. Wondering why I am too terrified to make the visit. That visit. The one I should have made by now. The very reason I came here.
I almost made it a few times but I was too cowardly to go through with it, so instead I just stood there, over the road, gazing at the house, imagining what was going on inside instead of just summoning up the courage, marching over there and knocking on the door. Each and every time I sloped off and consoled myself with alcohol and fast food, and sat around feeling sorry for myself, telling myself nobody has it as bad as me.
My jeans feel as if they are made of sandpaper as I dry myself off and pull them over my sensitive, aching skin. They brush against my legs, chafing and grating my thighs as I drag them up and wiggle my way into the coarse fabric. Everywhere hurts. I close my eyes for a second before pulling on a sweater and heading into the living room. The mess in the bedroom can wait. That’s the one benefit of living alone; I can live like a slob and nobody will moan at me for being too untidy. I can do exactly as I please.
The toast feels like slices of cardboard as I swallow it down, grimacing as it grazes my throat on its descent. I sip my tea, mulling over the idea of going job hunting. Despite feeling like a herd of cattle has stampeded over my head, I need to get out there and find a job. I can’t continue living off my savings. I need them for a deposit on another property once I’m properly settled and gainfully employed. I have decent qualifications and plenty of experience, so it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. The main problem is the location. Whitby is hardly the epicentre of the financial world. My knowledge lies in accountancy and number crunching, and this is a seaside town with amusement arcades and ice creams parlours aplenty but not so much in the way of fiscal institutions.
I stare out of the window and watch as a young couple struggle against the howling wind coming in from the sea, their bodies half turned away from the biting cold. Behind them, a group of schoolchildren troops along in a long, snaking line, excitement creasing their small faces. I envy them. I miss that innocence, the sheer exhilaration that comes with each and every new day. It’s the growing up, the realisation that all is not as it appears, that is so damaging. That’s what it is that stains our souls and dents our confidence in the world around us – the knowledge that those you love, cherish and yearn for, don’t necessarily love you back.
I continue to watch the goings on outside. Once the sun makes an appearance, I will go out there and walk off this hangover. I’ll be one of the tourists and disappear amongst the crowds. It will give me time to think, to clear my head of all the clutter. This flat is closing in on me. There is nothing wrong with it, and as seaside apartments go, it’s a fairly superior property but I’ve spent the last few days sitting in, pondering over what to do next and I’m tired of it. I am sick of sitting here wallowing in my own misery. I came here to begin a new life, to unearth my past and put to rest a few demons, and all I have done is stagnate and fill my body full of toxins. Enough is enough.
The room tilts as I stand. I need this walk. I need to start living and do what it is I came here to do, not sit day after day doing nothing, going nowhere. I have to tackle the past to plan for the future. And I have to do it right now.
6
Eva
The signs are everywhere to not feed the gulls, that you run the risk of being attacked if you brandish food in front of them, and yet there isn’t one single street or alleyway or thoroughfare that doesn’t contain fish stalls, candy shops or large groups of tourists gorging themselves on trays of battered fish or huge, swirling bundles of fluorescent pink candyfloss or ice creams or any number of sugary goods purchased from the many stalls and shops nearby. Above us, the seagulls hover and sway before bombing into the crowds, their beady eyes greedily scanning above everyone’s heads for any morsel or scrap of food they can swiftly pick up and fly away with. The sound of their cawing echoes through the clear, spring air; their fat, white bodies filling the skies as they circle and swoop with alarming dexterity; their beaks a sharp reminder of how closely everybody should guard their snacks and cover their bare skin.
I make my way through the tourists that line each and every street. I dodge and weave through the mass of bodies packed together as they stare in shop windows or stop to take photographs, causing a major jam behind them. They saunter ahead after a couple of minutes, unaware of the upheaval their actions have caused. I weave my way through them all, a person with a purpose, not a tourist, not someone who has come here to drink in the history of the place, and not a Goth desperate to be immersed in the darker side of Whitby’s culture. Just me; an anonymous individual trying to dig up her own history. An unwanted nobody who is desperate to be wanted.
I consider stopping at the bandstand, allowing the mass of people to get past me, but somehow get bustled along, buffeted from all angles, pushed further and further into the centre of the town until before I know it, I am standing in front of a collection of huts and cabins. One small pale blue hut that is nestled between a fish stall and a large, brightly painted board offering boat rides around the harbour, catches my eye. I stare at it, transfixed by the pale hue of the wooden slats and the garish sign above. There is an uncanny serenity surrounding the place which is in sharp contrast to the noise and hubbub taking place on the harbour close by. Beneath and above us, the sounds of nature are all encompassing, yet this tiny hut exudes such an air of calm, I feel perversely drawn to it.
The door is open and inside sits a small lady of advancing years. Her hair is a severe shade of black, contrasting sharply against her pasty slightly freckled skin. A grey cat sits by her side, its back arched as she feeds it a small treat from the palm of her hand. The sight is so predictable and surreal I almost laugh out loud. Above the doorway, the amateur hand painted sign proclaims her as Sylvia Rosa, a genuine Romany gypsy who can foretell the future of anybody who enters. I want to roll my eyes and tell her how ridiculous this all is, but find myself intrigued by her, my curiosity piqued by her stereotypical appearance and tiny cabin. A place of solace and tranquillity amidst the din and crowds.
‘All right there, are you, lovey?’
Her voice takes me by surprise as I stand for a few seconds, letting her sudden interest in me sink in. I feel as I’m being pulled towards her by an invisible thread that I am powerless to break. I’m intrigued by this woman. No, not intrigued. More than that. I am curiously drawn to her and yet all the while my sensible inner voice is screaming at me to leave. There is something about her that arouses an emotion in me; something I can’t quite put into words.
‘You can come right in if you like, my darlin’,’ she says again and before I can stop myself, I find I am walking into her tiny cabin and sitting down next to her. The noise of the tourists outside seems so very far away as she stands up and closes the door with a quiet click, then sits back down in her overstuffed armchair. It’s a crimson wingback puffed up with multi-coloured cushions and a large patchwork blanket that is casually slung over the back of it. A small heater sits in the corner and the tiny window is covered with an intricately pattered net curtain. The table next to her contains a variety of crystal balls which for some strange, unfathomable reason fascinate me. Surely, they’re just for show? I cannot quite believe that people actually fall for all this nonsense. And yet as I look around I find myself wishing I could be such a person, let somebody tell me exactly what
my future holds. How easy and convenient would that be. To allow yourself to be sucked into a world where a stranger claims they know what your life trajectory will be, how your destiny will pan out. How simple it would be to be led by another person’s words, by their predictions and guesses that they come out with simply by looking at your face, or even more bizarrely, by studying the lines on the palms of your hands. I wish it were that easy. If only.
Without thinking, I sit on my hands, my defences now up. I won’t allow myself to be led by this person. I’m better than that. I am a grown woman who always dismisses such nonsense. So why am I here? How in God’s name did I end up in a fortune teller’s cabin surrounded by a plethora of stupidly obvious artefacts designed to make her look like some sort of white witch? Why am I sitting next to a woman in a moth-eaten chair that she probably claims enhances her special powers? I make to stand up but she places her hand over mine and speaks in a voice so honeyed and soft, I feel compelled to stay.
‘Don’t dash off, lovey,’ she whispers in a voice as gentle as silk. ‘I don’t bite.’
Her hand is cool on mine, her flesh thin and crisp like parchment. I feel as if I should pull my hand away, yet I don’t. I remain seated, my back rigid, my skin suddenly hot and prickly. My heart jumps about my chest as she scrutinises my face, searching me for answers that I refuse to give. I keep my mind blank, realising that by doing such a thing, I am entertaining the idea that she can actually read my mind.
‘I can do you a cheap reading if it’s money that’s stopping you,’ she whispers and meets my gaze, our eyes locked together in the dim light of her tiny cabin.
‘I have money,’ I find myself saying and immediately regret my decision. A slight twinkle takes hold in her azure eyes as she leans even closer to me and pats my hand. I have just entered into an agreement without even realising it. This is how they operate, these people. They are adroit at understanding how others work; how the human psyche responds in certain situations. I have been cornered, trapped like a wild animal and now she is watching me to see how I’ll react. Will I fight or take flight and just up and leave? I do neither. Instead I reach into my purse and take out a crisp £20 note which I place into her hand. She snatches it away and shoves it to one side, her face full of disdain as if I have just given her a handful of insects or a severed limb.
A noise behind me causes me to shift in my seat and turn around.
‘Oh, pay no attention to her,’ she says as a young girl of no more than eight or nine clambers out from under a pile of brightly coloured silk sheets stacked up in the corner of the cabin. The child sits there, eyes wide, her black hair and grubby clothes askew, watching our every move. I feel nervous. Sweat coats my back and I have no idea why. I feel as if I have been caught out doing something wrong, as if this child can see through all this nonsense and is wondering why I am here, wasting my money on such claptrap.
‘You make sure you sit there quietly, young ‘un,’ the woman says in a clipped tone, ‘none of your silly stuff now, little missy.’
The girl nods submissively and catches my gaze. I give her a small smile and she widens her eyes at me and slinks back onto the sheets like a frightened rabbit. Embarrassed by it all, I turn away and wait for the woman to do her thing. This is all very silly and I am tempted to get up and leave but she obviously senses my mood and takes my hand once again, dragging her cold fingers over my hot sticky palm, soothing me with her cool skin, calming me with her soft warm words.
‘You’ve had a difficult journey,’ she mutters quietly and suddenly the spell is broken. I almost want to laugh out loud. Such a glib, sweeping statement; words that could be applied to quite possibly anybody, anywhere. We all consider ourselves hard done by at one point or another. I know I do.
Seeing the look on my face, she continues, ‘And it isn’t over yet. But you have a kind, supportive family behind you to help you along. I can also smell roses. Did your grandma have a rose garden, lovey? Or was there an older lady in your family who was a keen gardener? She’s with you right now, keeping an eye on you. Said she’s very proud of you, she is.’
I remain mute, still steadfast in my belief that I will give nothing away. A nod, a slight smile or tilt of the head and she will take this as an indication that I believe her. Which I don’t. Nothing she has said resonates with me or my life in the slightest. She cannot know my life or work out what I’m thinking. I barely understand that myself.
‘And you have a good man in your life. Your relationship is strong and you’ll never be parted. Am I right?’
Again I do nothing. Silence is my friend.
‘Lastly, always remember to be true to yourself. You have a chest problem. Asthma perhaps? Is that right, lovey, you have asthma?’
I nod and grin to convey my agreement. It’s easier to let her believe she has won with this one. To contradict her or disagree would be embarrassing. I’ve never had any type of cough or chest infection in my life. She couldn’t be more wrong about me. This purported fortune teller is out by a country mile.
She leans back in her chair to indicate that the reading is over. So many words that say or mean nothing. I stand up and smile at her. If nothing else, this time spent here has proven to me what I already knew – that the whole thing is a complete farce. I actually feel vindicated in spending £20 of my hard-earned money to prove to myself that nobody knows me as well as I know myself, and that nobody can predict how my life is going to turn out. I am the only one who has control over that particular minefield.
‘He’ll never forgive you, you know. He hates you now, after what you did.’
The small voice freezes my blood. My stomach tightens into a small knot of apprehension as the girl speaks again.
‘You shouldn’t be here. They don’t want to be found. They don’t want you, never did. You’re nobody to them. You should leave this place and go back home.’
‘Oi! Told you earlier to keep this shut, didn’t I?’ Sylvia Rosa, or whatever her name actually is, points at the young girl with her long, skeletal-like fingers, her eyes ablaze with anger, her other hand pointing to her mouth which she pretends to zip up. Her lips purse into a firm, solid line, her face puckering in disapproval.
The child shrugs apathetically and I watch, frozen as she glares at me and slinks back under the pile of sheets out of sight.
I breathe deep and hard, trying to still the arrhythmic beating of my pounding heart. My feet feel as if they’re made of concrete as I shuffle out of the cabin without another word. I just need to gulp in the fresh air and clear my head. My eyes water and my head pounds as I step into the sharp chill of the sea breeze.
Staggering over to the nearby railings, I grip the cold metal, glad of its cooling effect on my hot skin. Just words. That’s all they were. Silly words from a child who probably says the same things to all the unfortunate needy souls who go in there. I quell my inner voice, the one that is screaming at me to go back and ask her how she knew about those things. She can’t know. It’s just a crazy coincidence. She could have said anything, and I would have made her words fit. That’s what we do – us vulnerable people. We clutch at things, force them to meet our needs. That’s all it was. Just words that resonated with me. They could probably hit a nerve with hundreds of other people around me today. We only hear what we want to hear, don’t we? We all crave answers to our problems and will look in any place to find them, no matter how desperate that may seem. So how come the old lady’s words meant nothing to me? She talked trite nonsense that didn’t fit with anything in my life. How do I explain that?
I suck in a lungful of cold air and shake my head. I have to stop this. It’s ridiculous to try to read anything into all this palm-reading nonsense. Therein lies the road to ruin. Any person with an ounce of common sense knows it’s all complete rubbish. Utter poppycock. That’s all it is. A perfect stranger cannot predict how our lives will turn out. It’s our actions that define us, not the words of somebody who doesn’t know us. We are all in control
of our own destiny.
A flock of gulls circle above me, their loud screeching an echo in the wide cloudless sky. I look up at the huge white birds and dip my head to one side as one of them swoops down at me, its long beak only inches from my face. I watch, shocked and mildly scared, as it diverts to my left and heads for a group of nearby elderly people who are eating sandwiches and drinking coffee, unaware that they are about to be relieved of their lunch by a flock of scavengers. I stamp my feet and wave my arms about, shooing it away before it causes any damage or hurts anybody. An old lady nods her thanks at me and gives me a wide smile, immediately restoring my faith in human nature. Sometimes it’s the small things that help us along and keep us sane, isn’t it? A smile, an acknowledgement of a thoughtful gesture, kind words spoken, that’s all we need to keep us on track.
Feeling steadier on my feet, I decide to continue my walk around town. I refuse to let the words of a small child ruin my day. I like to think I have the strength to rise above such twaddle.
Very slowly, I make my way down the pier, a yawning stretch of concrete I haven’t yet been down since moving here over a month ago. The wind is powerful and does its utmost to stop me making the walk, but like everyone else, I persevere. We push back against the strong breeze, our bodies bent over as we fight against the tremendous forces of nature. The wind whips the sea up into a white line of froth. It bashes against the harbour walls, ferocious and unrelenting, sloshing up over the sides before dispersing into tiny beads of foam that splatter over the seating area. Despite its brutality, the view of the sea really is quite beautiful. I can’t help but be moved by its strength and the way it shapes everything around it.