by Freya North
‘I’m talking about Richard!’ Sally laughed. ‘He’s the man.’
‘But he’s the architect,’ reasoned Celia, ‘sensitive, mature – upright. The one who calls you Sal?’
Sally nodded vigorously, missing the point utterly. ‘I thought it would be fun to be a bit of a vamp. And it was certainly the most liberating thing I’ve done. Only it all went horribly wrong.’
‘How?’
‘Love.’
Sally uttered the word in much the same tone she used for ‘chicken pox’. It quite shocked Celia.
‘And that was wrong?’ she gasped, aghast.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I suppose it made it all seem too dangerous.’
‘I don’t understand, Sally. How can love be dangerous? I’d have thought playing the tart would be much more so.’
‘I wasn’t a tart,’ faltered Sally. Celia raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly but enough to hit Sally in the chest. ‘I just wanted to have fun,’ she chirped, somewhat unconvincingly.
‘And was it fun for Richard?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sally answered rather too swiftly, and paused for a moment, trying not to fidget. ‘At first,’ she clarified, ‘then he fell in love with me so the fun stopped.’
‘Why?’ probed Aunt Celia sternly. ‘Surely, with more substance to it, the fun would have increased, the pleasure deepened?’
‘Theoretically,’ stumbled Sally.
‘I’m lost again, Sal,’ Celia said, her voice quiet, almost flat.
‘Aunt Cee, it’s all such a headache. I’m sure it’s part of the reason I’ve been run down. You see, it was wonderful when it started. I felt so strong, so high, when it was carefree and just pure passion.
‘When love came into the equation, it complicated the purity.’ Celia raised her eyebrows high. ‘I know purity is a funny word to use,’ Sally conceded, ‘but when Richard told me he was in love with me, I felt absolutely swamped and smothered. Let down.’
‘But, Sal, how could that be? He fell in love with you because he finds you lovable, surely nothing could make one feel stronger?’ As hard as she was trying, Celia could see little merit in Sally’s theory. ‘Is he not lovable?’
‘Oh!’ Sally assured her. ‘On the contrary.’
‘Do you love him?’ Celia suggested, watching pain scurry across Sally’s brow.
‘Yes,’ she sighed, shaking her head forlornly, ‘I do.’
Sally could see that Celia looked even more confused than she herself was feeling.
‘Aunt Cee, I needed time,’ she explained as gently as she could, ‘time to recuperate – and not just from the chicken pox. Time to think, to consider. To make up my mind, if truth be told.’
Celia’s frown slowly lifted. ‘So you came to Mull? What better place! I think I see now, Sal my duck. What started as a bit of fun became serious and you wanted some space to take it all on board? Might this be it, then – the Big One? Might Richard be your Angus?’
Sally cast her eyes downward and smiled coyly but remained silent.
‘Well, I think that’s very sensible of you both and I’m sure Richard is behind you one hundred per cent, am I right?’
Suddenly the enormity of what Sally had done hit her with such force that, though she wanted to push Celia aside and run, she sat stock still and silent; winded.
‘Sal?’
Slowly Sally raised her head, darting her eyes to and from Celia’s face. Still she could not find her voice but a small whisper filled the room.
‘He doesn’t know.’
‘What?’ Celia’s gasp was edged with horror and suffused with disbelief.
‘I didn’t tell him. Or anyone. Just Mother.’
Celia was flabbergasted. ‘Whyever, ever, not?’
‘I thought it would be a test?’ ventured Sally feebly, flinching away from Celia’s expression. ‘You know, just to see?’
‘See what?’ Celia barked, standing up. She looked down on Sally, a remoteness tinged with disgust etched on her face. ‘No, Sally Lomax, I do not know. What on earth do you mean “a test”? Don’t you think you’ve played with the poor man’s emotions enough? Using him as some unsuspecting pawn in your stupid little game?’
‘But––’ Sally pleaded.
‘Hush it!’ chided Celia sternly. ‘I cannot believe that you, your father’s daughter, just left without having the courtesy, let alone the conscience, to inform him. You’ll be a lucky girl if he still wants you after all this. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he passes you off. I think it’s preposterous, really I do.’
‘Aunt Cee!’ protested Sally.
‘No!’ Celia scolded back. ‘Here is a man who loves you. Do you know how difficult that is to come by? It takes courage and maturity to recognize and proclaim it. He loves you and you string him along – I can’t believe it’s you, Sal. Not you!’
Sally fiddled with her napkin, twisting it this way, then that. There was so much she wanted to say, to explain, to apologize for, yet she was struck dumb with shame and could give no voice to her tumbling thoughts.
It isn’t me. It wasn’t me, was it? It was the idea of who I could be.
Ultimately, someone not preferable to who I really am.
But how was I to know, without this hindsight.
You are right, Aunt Celia, I’ve been a callous bitch and I must make amends, if it’s not too late. But do I have the courage and maturity you speak of?
Regarding her downcast expression, Celia shook her head sadly.
‘Sal, my lass, God only knows what got into you. I suggest a long, solitary walk tomorrow, a good ten-miler. Do some thorough soul-searching. And then you make a phone call. I’m going to bed now, thank you for supper.’
Sally sat alone in the kitchen for a while longer. She then washed up as quietly as she could.
I will walk tomorrow. I will walk and walk and look to the sea, to the sky, to the heather for my answers. I’ll strip myself bare and I’ll find the answers. I’ll call Richard. I’ll restore Aunt Celia’s faith in me. Courage and maturity: I’ll find them. They are there – somewhere.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sally went to bed. Her sleep was troubled, deep in parts but broken. She was impatient for the next day to arrive so that she could find the answers she sought. She kept the curtains open and scoured the sky for the first hint of morning and dressed before dawn had broken. She breakfasted in careful silence, not wanting to wake Celia. In fact, she did not want to see her at all – not until she had found the answers. To help in her quest, she prepared sandwiches and took a compass, a thermos flask and the book of walks she had bought. She wrapped up warm and put plasters on her heels as a precaution. Before she left, she propped a small note against the kettle for her aunt:
‘Gone walking. Love, Sal, x’.
As she closed the door silently on the cottage and stepped out into the early morning, the mystical low silvery light that suffused the island quite took her breath away. It was beautiful and sombre and matched her mood, for it seemed to veil and distort all she’d previously thought she had known. Watched approvingly by two impossibly shaggy Highland cattle, she eased her car into life and headed for the coast.
Her destination was the Treshnish headland. She remembered her father and Angus setting off for day-long walks there but, at nine years old, she had not been allowed to join them.
‘But I want to see the Magic Beach,’ she had protested.
‘It’ll still be here when you’re big enough to find it,’ her father had soothed. Now Sally was going to find the beach and felt sure it would proffer answers for her.
She parked at a small quarry and although it was a beautiful morning, leaving the car was oddly difficult. She stood contemplating it awhile with her hand on the bonnet, wondering whether to go for a long drive instead. As she locked it and then double-checked all the doors, she felt tearful and nervous, but of what she was unsure. Adrenalin was coursing through her veins and a hos
t of other emotions ranging from fear to sadness flowed through her body and wrapped themselves around her mind.
Come on, Sally, it’s only a walk and you half-know the answers you are walking to find. The waves and the heather and the sky and the cliffs do not really hold them and you know that. However, being alone with the land might help you unlock them from your private core. So on your way.
’Bye-bye little Mini, I won’t be long. My, the island seems so big today. Look at all that sky. Come, come, read the guide. See, it’s a logical circular route and I needn’t do the whole lot if I don’t feel like it. It will be lovely, just what I need. There’s the old Whisky Cave to find – remember all those daft stories of Uncle Angus’s? Oh, and I’ll see the Treshnish Isles. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to see the grey seals too. Best of all, I’ll find the magic beach at long last. I’ll be all on my own and it will be good for me. And, most importantly, for the others too.
She set off with a purposeful stride, interrupted every now and then by a few haphazard steps when certain thoughts or emotions swept over her. The walk from the quarry to the cliffs was longer than she’d expected but it helped her pace herself into a comfortable stride. To assist, she conjured up a good walking chant. Her father had impressed upon her their importance: ‘They focus your mind away from your feet. You can walk for hours and miles with a good ’un in your head.’
A childhood favourite had been: ‘Left! Left! I had-a-goodjob-and-I-left, left’. Sally tried it for a while and lulled herself into believing her father was right there by her side. They were striding along in harmony uttering ‘Left! Left!’ when a squabble between two crows overhead brought her back with a jolt to the day in hand; she was twenty-five and her father was ten years dead. Though perplexed and tearful, on she went.
Walking in silence, however, seemed too noisy so she decided to create her own chant in honour of her father. It came to her quite quickly, and she winked at the sky as ‘Courage! Maturity! The-answers-I-will-find! Courage! Maturity! The-answers-I-will-find!’ gave purpose once again to her step. She passed through a farm to pick up the ancient track to the cliffs. The objective of the walk was already working, for her rhyme had changed. Under her breath and in her mind ‘Strength! Truth! The-questions-Imust-ask! Strength! Truth! The-questions-I-must-ask’ now rang out with her footfalls.
Sally reached the cliffs. The still-distant sea stretched before her, marvellously flat and metallic; it looked like a surface one could walk on, even run on. Occasionally, patches shimmered grey, even black, before the wind restored the silver. She was smiling out loud.
I’m here!
The cliff path, though narrow, was not precarious and she felt some resentment that she had been deemed unable to tackle it at nine years of age. Down she walked, liking the way the earth was crumbly underfoot, making her steps into a dance of sorts, The-questions-I-must-ask! The-questions-I-must-ask!
She wound her way downwards, allowing her eye to stray out to sea once her feet had found their ground. At the base of the cliff, there was no sand, no sea, just a broad, smooth flat swathe of land. And then nothing.
The Magic Beach! I’m here!
Sally contemplated the geography, or was it the geology? She was not sure.
Having just walked down the cliff, she was standing on the hundred-foot ancient raised beach, covered not by sand but by a downy, very fine grass. The edge of this beach formed the top of further cliffs, dropping this time to the true beach below which finally met the sea. She looked behind her and in front of her.
It’s like a giant pair of steps!
Delighted with the find, she stood still with arms outstretched and welcomed the sea breeze which came in whispers and gusts but with no clue as to which would be next. The crisp air forced out oily tears which dried almost immediately on her cheeks. Her face felt tight but rosy, and despite the chill in the air, she felt warm and supple.
Sally spent a happy hour on the raised beach, going right to the edge to gaze way down, and then back to the base of the first cliffs to ogle upwards.
It was as if she were caught between the two.
The sky was in layers; above the first cliff a buzzard circled and climbed, beneath the second cliff gulls swooped and skittered. Sally stood buffeted amidst it all. She imagined the air falling from the first cliffs, rising from the second and fusing just where she stood.
Feeling that she was invested with the very power of the wind itself, she spontaneously sprang a loop of cartwheels, four, five, six. Could she pirouette in her walking boots? Yes, she could. She wanted to travel through the air again so, after springing three pliant jetés, she returned to cartwheeling. Four, five, six to the left; three, four, five to the right; three, four, five towards the sea; four, five, six, back to the base of the first cliffs. She then ran as fast as she could across the entire length of the beach, stumbling slightly as she went; a smile plastering itself, along with her hair, to her face. She cartwheeled back to her rucksack (eight, nine, ten, eleven) and sank to the soft earth, breathless and elated.
Curling up embryonically, she discovered that it was warm and windless lying so close to the earth. She could hear the wind but could not feel it and decided to tune into her heartbeat instead. It was easy to believe the land itself had a heart. The earth had a warmth of its own and, coupled with that of the hazy sun, Sally was extremely snug. Feeling suddenly sleepy, she struggled to keep her eyes alert and contemplated the merits of her thermos, hidden away as it was in her rucksack. But she had no need for tea and soon dozed off and dreamt of nothing at all.
Sally slept only a short while but was revived sufficiently to continue cartwheeling. This way she went, then that; nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Soon her hands were tingling and itchy and striated with the pattern of grass. Time to stop and walk on.
Strength! Truth! The-questions-I-must-ask. Strength! Truth! The-questions-I-must-ask!
Go on then! Ask away!
In a minute.
She really could not bear to leave the raised beach and would have been quite happy to cartwheel the hours away in between a nap or two. But the decision to walk on was made for her; to her horror there were other people approaching the Magic Beach.
What are they doing here? At this time!
It is 10.30.
So? What are they doing here? Gracious Good Lord, they’re wearing skirts! This is my beach. Damn. Better find somewhere else unpolluted, as it were.
Sally continued on the trail and covered the land as swiftly as she could, catching her breath now and then as she went over her ankle or felt her knee giving way. The views were so compelling that her eyes were often seduced away from the path she was tracing until a stumble restored her concentration. Descending to the true beach, she gazed in wonder at the rock stacks and natural arches carved by the sea into the strangest of shapes. She was constantly aware of the changing formation of the Treshnish Isles, six small islands of intriguing silhouette. Now they formed a perfect line astern and she thought of them as flotilla, sailing and sailing, yet never sailing away. She scrambled about for the Whisky Cave and found it, cleverly hidden behind a large grassy mound.
Grass on the real beach – and a grass beach that’s not the real beach? Wonderful!
Although she poked her head into the cave, she ventured no further – caves were not her thing and she had no desire to vanquish such fears now. Instead, she dawdled along the water’s edge and picked a selection of pebbles that begged her to do so. All the while she kept her eyes and ears peeled for wildlife. Apart from the gulls and cormorants, she was alone.
Sally decided that she would make a detour back up the cliff to a deserted village described in the book. Angus’s tales of the Highland clearances had long struck a chord in her conscience and she wanted to pay homage to such a village, to Angus. After all, it would also afford her another visit to the Magic Beach.
Fate accompanied Sally on her upward grapple and dealt her a harsh blow.
The fall happened so
quickly and yet in slow motion too. Her rucksack snagged, her foothold crumbled, her pockets full of pebbles unbalanced her, her ballet-weakened right knee gave way and she tumbled. She had not been on a very steep part of the cliff and she did not fall far, but she fell awkwardly and as she landed she heard a snap that she knew was not her thermos cracking. She needed no doctor to tell her she had broken her leg.
She sat very still while she tried to make sense of the situation. Her heart was racing too fast for her to grab any of the thoughts that were scurrying through her mind. She felt sick but she felt high and she did not feel any pain. She heard voices and wondered if they were in her head. No, they were too Scottish.
‘Och, ’tis a very beautiful day, hey?’
Of course! The beskirted walkers who dared interrupt her solitude on the Magic Beach.
‘Aye, I’ll say. Just look there at the islands! See the Dutchman’s Cap? The High One? The Flat One?’
‘And that’s the Little Lump!’
There’s a little lump down here who needs your help.
Shout, Sally.
I can’t.
Try.
She can’t.
Feeling sicker and not so high, Sally was resigned to the walkers passing her by. She had no voice with which to alert them and a hang of rock obscured her from their view. Snippets of their conversation were carried to her on the wind. One was called Mary. They were talking about shags but Sally could not even manage a smile at her Freudian reinterpretation. The voices were becoming softer and she caught only drifts. They were walking away.
Please let them come back. Even if it’s not for a few hours.
But, Sally, is it not a circular walk?
Fate will extend a gentle hand but Sally does not know that yet. Straining her ears and closing her eyes to assist, now only the faintest of voices reach her.
‘I say we walk just over the next brow, Isla, and then have a nice cuppa.’
Sally thought perhaps she should have a cuppa too. Trying to locate her rucksack, she caught sight of her leg. It was all wrong; twisted anticlockwise with her foot pointing to her body. Whether it was the sight of her leg, or the effort of turning her head to find her rucksack Sally was unsure; whichever it was, she felt very unwell and was slowly and painfully sick.