A Handful of Pebbles

by Sara Alexi

  ‘What do you like to do?’ He is drilling a hole in the dust with his crook, rolling it between his palms.

  She is just about to answer, ‘have a good time,’ when she wonders what exactly she means by that. The last time she thought such a question, she must have been about seventeen. Torin asked her, ‘what do you like doing most?’ They had been walking and stopped at Nairbyl on the west coast. It was a misty day, and not once had they been able to see across to Ireland.

  She struggled to answer the question then, and she struggles now. ‘Nature’ comes as the unspoken answer, but what to do with nature? It is a pretty broad category. Something to do with nature and nothing to do with money.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she answers, feeling a little deflated.

  ‘Here’s something that came to me the other day—we can choose.’ He stops drilling and cups his hands over the top of his stick, letting his chin rest on top. ‘Then we make the effort towards whatever it is we choose, then it becomes important, then it is what we like best.’

  Sarah’s stomach growls again.

  ‘Right,’ he says, his tone breezy. ‘I am off for my lunch and a sleep. Nice to see you again.’ And with a wave of his stick, he sets off up the hill the way he came, the sheep one by one lifting their heads and gambolling after him.

  It is quiet once the animals have gone; no bleating, no chewing, no rustling.

  ‘We can choose, make an effort, and then it becomes best.’ Sarah repeats his words in a whisper, but it all feels just a little out of her reach.

  A track leads down the hill and looks like it will join the road she took on the way to Helena’s.

  The shepherd could be right—look at Finn. He was floundering around, trying to find a foothold in London. Then Helena came along, he chose her, he made the effort, and now she is what he likes best. The rest of his life seemed to fall into place as a side product.

  ‘But he is also wrong,’ she says out loud. She chose Laurence, made an effort in their marriage, but she certainly doesn’t feel her life is full of the things she likes best. Although it would be true to say that for a few years, he was what she had liked best, sort of. But then, how much effort had she really made back then? More to the point: where do they stand now?

  She begins the walk home, kicking at a stone by the side of the path. The gorse thickens lower down the hill and the path snakes its way between the bushes. Bees hum on either side of her. The smell of the heat rising from the undergrowth is indescribably delicious.

  ‘This, right here, right now,’ she says out loud, and her senses fill even more with the bright colours, the lazy hum of the insects, and the smell of everything warmed by the sun. The high gorse on either side of the path hides her from the world and she stretches her arms into the air. Opening her fists, she closes her eyes and feels the sun on her face. Relaxing, she picks up a pebble from the track. She looks at its size and shape. She will keep it as a reminder of this moment, this feeling, this sense of everything being perfect in this instant.

  Once down on the road, it all feels too civilised again until she rounds a bend and is met by another herd, this time of sheep. They are scared to pass her by. The herder whirs and clicks at them and a dog runs back and forth along the back of the pack until they break into a gallop past her, bleating, whinnying, and smelling of the sour droppings that are matted to their tails and underbellies.

  ‘Yia.’ The shepherd addresses her. He draws the beginning of the word out, letting it trail off to the end. Sarah feels a little thrill that she now knows what this word means.

  ‘Yia.’ She tries to mimic his pronunciation. He nods and walks by; his dog ignores her. He may even have thought she was Greek.

  The village is quiet. No one is about. Sarah is not surprised—it seems hotter than yesterday. There is no dog, no neighbour in her blue hat watering her garden. Everything is still.

  An electronic beep in her pocket demands attention. She wants to silence the intrusion and fishes hastily for her phone and sees there is a text from Joss.

  ‘Helena way over reacted. Is Finn cross?’ He would do better to talk to Finn directly, or even talk to her. This texting keeps everything so short, so at arm’s length. She ponders how to answer and then decides not to respond at all, and then wonders if it is the first time she has ever wilfully cut him adrift.

  Chapter 11

  The gate to their holiday cottage is closed and there is nothing but a dusty patch where the rental car usually stands, so Laurence has not yet returned. Sarah exhales.

  With yesterday’s feta and a hunk of fresh bread on a tray, Sarah settles herself on the sun-bed in the shade of the fig tree with her book. She contemplates getting up again for a glass of wine but the will to move has left her. She is far too comfortable.

  The feta is creamy and she can taste the olive oil in the bread. Some tiny creature rustles behind her in the dark recesses around the foot of the fig tree, and a dragonfly hovers over the pool. The neat lawn is trimmed to perfection but Sarah prefers the slightly rougher look to Juliet’s garden, with its fruit trees and slightly wild look. There is also an overgrown pond and a wooden curved bench under a knotted olive tree. A rusting wire fence separates Juliet’s garden from the orange orchards beyond where an automatic watering system hisses, keeping the roots moist.

  More bread and feta would be welcome but that, too, would require movement. She wonders if Finn and Helena have recovered, if they have even noticed she has gone yet. Perhaps she should have let someone know she was leaving. Maybe she could text them. She takes out her phone but decides that if Finn wants her, he will get in touch. She will read instead. But her book remains spine upwards, on the ground next to her as her eyes close. ‘Just for a minute,’ she tells herself.

  The shadow blocking the sun wakes her.

  ‘Oh hi. I didn’t mean to wake you, but I guessed you were in the shade when you fell asleep. I was worried you would burn now.’ There is a golden mist around the person’s head as the sun behind them lights up their hair, the face barely visible in the bright sun.

  Sarah cannot orient herself and it takes her a few moments to recall where she is and that it is Juliet from next door who is speaking.

  ‘Oh, how are you finding this? I tried but I never got past the first chapter.’ Juliet picks up the book. Sarah pushes herself up to sitting.

  ‘Oh, it’s alright. I’m not really gripped by it.’ She yawns.

  ‘I have lots of books. If you want another, just come and knock.’ Juliet turns as if to leave.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘Sure.’ Juliet’s movements are languid, as if time does not apply to her.

  ‘You, being here, are you living on your own? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s just that I was wondering what brought you out here? I’m just curious how you ended up living in such a beautiful place.’ Sarah wonders if she is phrasing the question intelligibly. Sleep seems to be still misting her thoughts.

  ‘I don’t mind you asking at all.’ Juliet leans against the back of the second sun-bed but when it shifts with her weight, she sits tentatively on its edge, as if to show she is not staying, not intruding. She sits with her knees together, elbows on top, wrists hanging crossed. ‘I first came years ago when my boys were small.’

  ‘Oh, you have children?’

  ‘Well, not really children now. Two boys. They are nearly twenty-six now.’

  ‘Mine are twenty-seven and twenty-eight,’ Sarah says.

  ‘Gosh, you must have been young when you had them.’ Juliet scans Sarah’s face and Sarah wonders if her mascara smudged under her eyes whilst she was asleep.

  ‘I was twenty when Joss was born.’

  ‘Young enough.’

  ‘Yes, too young, I think now. So you first came here with them?’ Sarah encourages.

  ‘Oh no, it was a sort of mini-break. My mother-in-law stayed with them and I came here on holiday with Michelle.’ Juliet nods in the direction of the
cottage to indicate she means the same Michelle who owns the holiday home. ‘Well, the long and the short of it is I fell in love with the country.’ Juliet’s voice becomes light, energised. ‘So when I went home, I found a night class, studied the language and, years later, when the boys were grown and gone, I just upped and left.’ She gives an easy laugh as if telling a tale from long ago that no longer has any impact on her, a different life.

  ‘That sounds brave.’

  ‘Hot-headed, more like. I had divorced back over there and it seemed everyone was eager to hand out advice about how I should live my life so it was a sort of reaction.’

  ‘Do you get lonely?’

  ‘Not at all. I talk to my boys on Skype. The people in the village are so friendly, and Michelle is here all winter. But more than that, settling here has shown me that the English way of living is only one way to be. There are so many other perspectives to try.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Sarah says, her voice faint.

  ‘Just learning the language showed me how whole other cultures can think in a different way. It comes through in the words they use, the way they form their sentences.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I only speak English.’ Sarah’s voice is still soft from sleep. Juliet seems so content with herself, so sure in a graceful sort of way.

  A distant ringing takes Juliet’s attention. ‘Is that my phone?’ She stands. ‘Oh, yes it is. Excuse me.’ And she trips across the lawn, crunches over the gravel of her drive, and is gone.

  There is a confidence about Juliet that Sarah admires. Not the sort of confidence of someone born to easy circumstances, done well at school, been popular, and got a good job. It is more to do with her being clearly defined, almost as if she had a vision of who she wanted to be and then chose the actions necessary to become that person.

  Sarah’s thoughts make her quietly snort. People don’t really do that sort of thing, do they? Choose who they want to be? Surely it just happens through events that come into your life? You can’t just decide to be anyone. There are limitations. Her own limitations, for example, allow her to accept that she is not bright enough to be prime minister. Not that she would want to be anyway. Margaret Thatcher has cut a groove so deep, surely there is no woman who would wish to follow. But then, she considers, sticking to the concept, perhaps weighing up one’s limitations makes it easier to see the possibilities.

  No, she is thinking nonsense.

  Juliet appears again with two glasses. ‘You fancy one?’ she asks.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Pimms.’

  ‘Do you know of all the drinks out there, I don’t think I’ve ever had a Pimms. Thank you.’ The glass is cold; the ice cubes rattle.

  ‘So what do you do to make living? Teach English?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t stand that! No, I translate papers for the British Council and I have some private clients.’ This time, she sits more comfortably on the other sun lounger, looking back across the gardens. ‘I don’t often see the houses from this angle. It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ She sips on her drink.

  ‘Beautiful. Did you ever imagine you would live somewhere like this, or ...’ Sarah hesitates. She has no idea where Juliet has come from or the life she is used to living.

  ‘Never!’ Juliet exclaims in such a sudden heartfelt way that they laugh in unison. ‘No, really. I grew up in Bradford. I had never been abroad till my first trip here. Then, like I said, it was years till I came back. But you know what? The advice I got after I divorced Mick was all about where to live and what job I should do. Move there and do this job, move here and do that job. They all involved working in an office and living in a flat because that was all I had enough skills for and all I could afford.’

  ‘Well, yes, but what else can anyone do?’ Sarah says.

  ‘That’s what I thought, but then I realised the only limitations were those I believed in. I could only afford a flat if I lived in that area, but if you are willing to move elsewhere, there are no limitations as to what you can afford. A square meter in London could be a strema of land out here. Same with the work. If I wanted a guaranteed wage, then an office was my only choice, but if I was willing to accept a slightly less pre-determined lifestyle, then so much more opened up to me.’

  ‘Very brave,’ Sarah states.

  ‘Or stupid.’ Juliet raises her drink to Sarah and the glasses chink. ‘Yia mas.’

  ‘Yia mas. Is that like cheers?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘It means "to our health."‘ Juliet smiles, her eyes lighting up. ‘What do you do back in Blighty?’ she asks with a bit of a giggle.

  Sarah swallows, quickly. She hates this question. Over the years, she has come up with a slick response that does not leave her feeling too belittled. ‘Well, I see Laurence and me as a two-man team. He goes out and flies planes and I am ground control. I keep everything on the ground under control. It’s a fairly big house and the garden’s rather extensive, so there is a fair amount to co-ordinate. And then there are the business dinners.’

  ‘Do you entertain much?’ Juliet asks.

  ‘Every month or so.’ Sarah’s voice fades as she realizes how undemanding her life is. Juliet makes no comment.

  A swallow dives over the swimming pool.

  ‘I love watching them do that,’ Juliet remarks.

  ‘Are they catching flies?’

  ‘No, skimming for a drink. A man came to stay earlier this year, and he had a camera that could slow down the action. It was quite amazing.’

  A vision of gulls comes to Sarah, back in Ireland, lying on the top of the cliffs of Moher. The updraft from the sea allowing the gulls to spread their wings and just hover, moving neither up nor down, backwards nor forwards, just remaining at eye level as she and Torin lay there. She felt she could reach out and touch them, they were so close. To see a bird in flight at such close range, alongside them, was surreal.

  Another swallow swoops.

  ‘That one missed. It will circle round and come back,’ Juliet says.

  They watch its flight, its dive, and this time it drinks, trailing a wake across the pool.

  ‘I wonder how they learn. Have any ever fallen in?’ Sarah giggles. Her Pimms is gone.

  ‘Never seen them miss. No, I imagine they err on the side of caution. But flying for them must be like walking for us. It won’t be tricky.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  There is the sound of a car coming up the lane and a green Saab pulls into the parking area in front of the cottage. It is not their hire car, so it can’t be Laurence.

  ‘You’ve got visitors,’ Juliet says and stands, picking up Sarah’s glass.

  ‘Nice to talk to you,’ Sarah replies, and she notices Juliet is barefoot again.

  Neville’s car isn’t green. Perhaps someone is lost. She circumnavigates the pool, crosses the lawn, and steps onto the patio as the car door opens.

  ‘Finn, what a lovely surprise,’ she calls, her arms outstretched.

  ‘Mum.’ Finn looks terrible.

  ‘Oh my goodness, what’s wrong?’ The face she knows so well is trying not to crumple. ‘Come here, darling.’ She tries to engulf his size in her arms; her little baby now so big. He sobs into her shoulder and she lets him cry without a word, just loving him, holding him close. When he gains some composure, she says, ‘Let’s go inside.’ It feels more private in the sitting room. The air conditioning sighs into action.

  ‘Bloody Pru,’ he starts.

  Sarah holds her tongue. She has been caught with this before; she knows from experience that the boys’ enemies of today can be the best friends of tomorrow. Anything negative she says about them in the moment could be held against her later.

  ‘You heard her, right?’ he asks.

  ‘I didn’t hear the details of the argument, no,’ Sarah sidesteps.

  ‘Well best not really, oh but Mum.’ He collapses on her shoulder again and shrinks, trying to become a child. Sarah rocks him, making hushing noises.

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t believe any argument with Pru has made you feel like this,’ she says as softly as she can.

  ‘No, it’s Helena.’ He is sniffing. Sarah gets up and nips to the kitchen for the paper towel roll.

  ‘Here you go.’ She sits next to him.

  ‘She’s called the wedding off.’

  ‘No!’ It comes out much louder than she intended. Her eyes prick with tears; she grits her teeth to keep composed. There’s a sudden flash of the image of Torin’s lifeless eyes, the damage irreparable, the loss of her soulmate.

  ‘Helena has some weird logic saying I sided with Pru, which I didn’t. I didn’t even understand what they were arguing about. After we took some time out to be with each other, we began to disagree and her Dad came in and he saw Helena shouting at me, and he said I’d better go!’

  The image is shaken from her head and Sarah restores her focus. No one has died here.

  ‘He probably didn’t mean from the house, Finn. Just from the room, maybe?’ Sarah entreats.

  ‘Yes, but Helena called after me, "Don’t bother coming back. The wedding’s off." Oh Mum.’ His tears start afresh.

  ‘Now, now, it all sounds like a big misunderstanding,’ She holds him close. She hasn’t held Joss like this since he was about eight, always the tough guy, but Finn, so sensitive. ‘Let her calm down. Her family are around her, she is safe. Stay here tonight, and tomorrow we can go up together or I can call. Whatever you think is best.’

  ‘No, it’s over, Mum. It’s all over.’ Finn blows his nose but his eyes are still streaming.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not. It sounds like you both have a case of cold feet to me.’

  She never had cold feet with Laurence, so she is guessing. With Laurence, she never really saw the situation as permanent, or even real for that matter. She was young—young enough to feel it didn’t matter, the whole thing was a distraction, the agreement with Liz was a laugh and it did solve a lot of immediate problems. Besides, with Torin dead, nothing mattered. Marrying Laurence was a passing thing to be done whilst she decided what she would really do with her life. She felt a little guilty about making such a choice, but Laurence was so keen. The actual wedding just felt like a continuation of the surreal life she had been living.