by Alex Morgan
“Nope.”
She bit her lip. “Just my imagination.”
Her hands shook as she cracked eggs into a bowl. “It’s nothing some sleep won’t fix.” But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true.
Paula was serving the omelette when he reappeared.
“That’s the lot in.”
She put their plates on the table. “Sit down. I’ll get the toast. I hope you don’t take sugar, because there isn’t any.”
“I gave it up before I quit smoking.”
Andy poured the tea and chinked his mug against hers. “Here’s to your new home. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“That very much depends on whoever’s up there.” Paula raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Here’s hoping they’re agoraphobic.”
“What brings you to Craskferry anyway?”
She hesitated. “I came across it in a Sunday supplement feature on Scottish seaside villages and thought it looked …” She had been going to say familiar but realised that would only invite more questions. Instead she concluded limply, “like a nice place to spend some time.”
It was obvious from his expression that he knew he was being fobbed off.
“Sorry, I …” she tried again.
He silenced her with a wave of his fork. “It’s okay. None of my business. And what I said earlier about running away, I’m sorry. I was tired and being flippant, and I shouldn’t have. I should stick to driving and humping boxes.” He took a mouthful of omelette. “This is excellent by the way.”
“Thank you. Things are a bit complicated right now. I mean I’ve got a lot going on and I … I’ve got to get settled here, find a solicitor …” Paula lifted her mug with both hands and swallowed some tea. “The past few weeks …”
She shook her head and looked down at the red gingham tablecloth, unable to continue.
“It really is okay. Remember what I said about the healing power of the sea? It can fix things if you let it.”
A tear slithered down her cheek. She went to wipe it away, but he took her hand in both of his. Her instinct was to pull away, but the warmth of his touch dissolved the tension in her hand and arm and she felt herself relax.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said with absolute conviction.
“Am I?” Paula whispered. “How could you know that?”
Tiredness was making her head swim. Feeling weightless, she leant across the table towards him. The urge to wrap her arms around him, to let go of everything and take refuge in his quiet strength was as powerful as it had been the night before. Their lips were almost touching. He was going to kiss her.
A soft voice observed from the doorway, “You must be Miss Tyndall.”
Andy let go of her hand and jumped to his feet. Paula started to get up as well.
“No, no, stay where you are.” The stout, grey-haired woman had a wicker shopping basket over one arm. “I was on my way out and wanted to make sure everything was all right.”
“Are you Mrs er …?” Paula struggled to recall the name on her upstairs neighbour’s door. Her memory was constantly letting her down these days.
“McIntyre. Well, if you have everything you need, I’ll leave you and your …” She looked at Andy. “Your friend to finish breakfast.”
To Paula’s horror, Andy said, “I was just leaving actually. I have a dentist’s appointment to get to.” He patted the right side of his bottom jaw. “Oil of cloves can only do so much for toothache.”
“Aye, there’s nothing worse than a toothache. I’ll bid you good day then.” Mrs McIntyre headed back down the hall.
Paula willed Andy to sit down again but he didn’t.
“It was great to meet you,” he said. “I think you’ll find what you need here.”
“You can’t leave yet.” The feeling of panic was overwhelming. He was going and she would be left alone. She reached out for his hand but he slid it into his pocket and followed Mrs McIntyre.
It took Paula a moment to react and by the time she caught up with him he had reached the front doorstep. She grabbed his arm. “Please, don’t you want to stay and … I thought maybe … that you wanted to …”
He gently removed her hand from his arm. “I can’t stay, not when you’re like this. It would be wrong and we’d both regret it.”
She made one final attempt. “But you can’t drive all that way without any sleep.”
He stepped out onto the path. “I’m only going as far as Edinburgh. I’ve got an old friend there who’s a dentist. I’ll get some sleep at his place.”
Before she could humiliate herself any further by getting down on her knees to beg, or ripping off her clothes, some deeper part of her took charge. “Have a safe journey then, and thank you,” she heard herself say. “I’ll recommend you to anyone who needs their stuff moved.”
Running on sand
When she opened her eyes, an unfamiliar white paper lampshade dangled above her from an intricate ceiling rose. She gazed at it, enjoying a sensation of utter weightless absence, of not knowing – or caring – where she was or why she was there. It lasted barely a few seconds. As her mind emerged from the numbness of sleep, the pieces of the puzzle clicked back into place. The sudden realisation pressed so heavily on her chest that it forced the oxygen from her lungs and left her gasping for breath: he was gone and she was alone in her new home.
She threw off the duvet and sat up. Was it morning or night? The light edging around the curtains implied morning, but she couldn’t be sure. She turned to the alarm clock on the bedside table, seeking confirmation. The display read 20:45. She had been out for more than ten hours. She hadn’t slept so long, or so soundly, since before it happened. Since then, even a few hours felt like a miracle. Most nights she simply dozed and woke, dozed and woke. And each time she woke, she faced the same terrible reality. Everything had changed – forever. It was like running at full tilt into a brick wall whose existence had temporarily escaped her. The result was always the same: winded and dazed, she was left wondering how she could have possibly forgotten.
As she struggled to get her breathing under control, it hit her that there was something else. Even in the midst of this, when nothing else should matter, something did. Then it came back too. Andy: she had thrown herself at Andy, a man she had met only the night before. He could have been married or a psychopath. Pathetic and needy, she had virtually begged him to come to bed with her. And he had said no.
Paula extracted her spongebag from the chaos of half-unpacked clothes and possessions and went through to the shower room. The paint tins and grout tub were gone. She faced herself in the mirror above the sink. Tendrils of her new blonde hair clung to her forehead and cheeks. She swept them back with both hands.
“Fuck.” She shook her head. “How am I going to get through this? Can you please tell me that? How do I hold it together?”
No one answered.
She brushed her teeth, turned on the cold tap and splashed her face until it was numb. Back in the bedroom, she pulled on cycling shorts, a sports bra and a fresh vest top from a suitcase, socks and running shoes from her sports bag. Clipping her iPod to the waistband of her shorts, she set it to shuffle. It didn’t matter what was playing as long as it was loud enough to drown out the insistent, subliminal message woven into the white noise in her head: he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. She used to run for the love of the movement, the soaring feeling of lightness and being in tune with her body. Now she did it to try to leave that hateful reminder behind, but no matter how far or fast she went, she couldn’t outrun it. It was always there: he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.
Paula let herself out of the back gate. Five weathered wooden steps led down to the sand. Pausing at the top, she enjoyed a brief moment of triumph. It was just as she remembered: the beach, the steps up to all the other gates, the cliffs far along to the right beyond the houses and the high dunes, the paddling pool a little way to the left and next to it, the red sandstone of the harbour and the
granary.
She saw herself running barefoot towards the pool, shrimp net and bucket in hand. The sun was shining and she had on pale green shorts and a faded pink and white striped T-shirt. Heat oozed through the stretched fabric onto her tummy as, on sandy soles, she hopped over the smooth warmth of the rocks and scooted nimbly between clumps of crispy black seaweed to reach her goal.
Paula shook her head. It might have been fifty-one years ago not twenty-one. She walked slowly down to the wet sand, did some stretches and turned to face the cliffs. The display on her iPod said 21:02, but it was as light as mid-afternoon. She knew daylight lasted longer in the north but it just didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel right. Her mind said run, but her body was weighed down with the dull, bruised ache of jet lag. After weeks without proper rest, the overnight journey and a day in bed, her internal clock could no longer tell day from night. Her head was thick and heavy, legs weak. For a moment, she considered returning to the flat and crawling back into her strange new bed. If she did, sleep might provide release for another hour or so, but after that there was only the prospect of another endless, wakeful night.
She shook out her arms and legs and began a slow jog. It was like trying to run in the dead weight of an old-fashioned diving suit. Using willpower in place of energy, she forced herself to move faster, dragging each leaden leg in turn from the sand’s sticky grasp and throwing it forward to take the next unsteady step until, finally, the muscles began to co-operate and her movements took on a momentum of their own. Sprinting now, she passed dog walkers and couples out for an evening stroll, her feet, more than a match for the damp suck and pull beneath them, easing into a familiar rhythm. Before long, she had the beach to herself, and suddenly there it was – the lightness, the wash of elation she had so longed for, that she had so badly needed.
Head back, she drew in a long breath of relief. It smelt, tasted, salty and fresh. Andy was right about the healing power of the sea. Everything was going to be all right. She pulled her shoulders up to her ears and let them fall, feeling the remaining tension slip away. She was gliding across the sand, barely skimming its perfect surface. There was no fear, no pain, no nothing. It was glorious.
And then it was over. For a tiny joyous moment, she was empty and free. Then, as inevitable as the tide, the knowledge came pouring back in, reclaiming the void with a roar that filled her ears and threw her off balance: he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. She stopped and bent over, gasping for air. Moisture oozed down her cheeks.
Straightening up, she demanded out loud, “Why can’t I get through this?”
She could make her body do anything she wanted – run ten kilometres, cycle a hundred and fifty, swim, hike, anything – but she couldn’t control her emotions.
“Why? Why can’t I?” she asked furiously as she began to run again.
By the time Paula reached the cliffs, she had to squint through the tears to make out the figures on her iPod. It had taken just twenty-five minutes to complete what in that long-ago summer would have seemed a hugely ambitious journey, capable of filling half a day as every rock pool was checked for life and every pretty shell and colourful pebble examined to see if it was worthy of joining her collection.
The tide was too high for her to go any further, even if she could see clearly to place her feet safely on the slippery rocks. She leant back against the cliffs’ unyielding sandstone, her whole body vibrating as tears poured down her face and dribbled onto her vest. Desperate to feel something, anything other than this, she turned the volume right up. Amy Winehouse’s Rehab filled her head. Beating her fists on the stone behind her in time to the music, she mouthed the chorus over and over.
The light was starting to fade. Oblivious to her scratched and bruised hands, she pulled off the soggy top and used it to blot her eyes and cheeks. Stuffing it into the waistband of her shorts, she jogged past the high dunes and towards the village once more. “This is the last time I’m going to cry,” she told herself.
Passing houses and people again, Paula noticed a girl of about eleven or twelve in lilac pedal pushers and a matching hoodie walking a tall, thin dog on a short lead. They were dawdling along the edge of the water roughly opposite her new home. The girl wore her white blonde hair in two spiky bunches pulled high on the sides of her head and appeared to be watching something. She would walk a few paces, turn and retrace her steps, bending occasionally to stroke the dog, but her gaze never wavered from whatever was holding her attention.
The closer Paula got the more certain she became that it was her house the girl was scrutinising. She could see now that the dog was a greyhound, its velvety coat a blurry mix of fawn and pale grey, and each time the girl went to pat it, her lips moved beside its ear, as if she was relaying her observations.
Paula veered up the beach and stopped at the bottom of her steps. They were just a few metres apart now and for an instant their eyes met. The girl’s were ringed with black eyeliner, her lashes thick with mascara. She turned away and Paula bent over to catch her breath. When she straightened up seconds later, the girl was gone.
Fish supper, no sauce
Paula woke with a start, immediately conscious she had forgotten something, and for once it wasn’t her loss. That was with her, like a physical presence in the bed, filling the space so she barely had room to move. She tried to think what other fact might have been misplaced. Making a complete fool of herself with Andy? No, unfortunately that memory was as fresh as when it happened.
The bedside alarm said 10:00. What day was it? She struggled to focus on this more basic question. Sunday, it was Sunday, and that meant a big pile of newspapers with glossy supplements.
Arthur, the dormouse, regarded her from the neighbouring pillow.
“You don’t know how lucky you are being a stuffed toy,” she said, poking him in the stomach. “No stress, no worries – no emotions at all. You’ve no idea how much I envy you.”
She was heading out the front door, keys and purse in hand, when she remembered what she had forgotten. The tandem was still out in the garden. She had left nearly five grand’s worth of racing bike propped up overnight under the kitchen window.
“No need to panic,” she thought as she rushed down the hall. “The back gate’s locked and no one knows it’s there. It’ll be fine.”
Gripping the edge of the sink beneath the window, she stretched up on tiptoe to try to catch sight of the bike, but the wide stone sill got in the way.
“It’s definitely down there,” she told herself. “I just can’t see it.”
But as soon as she stepped out of the back door she saw it was gone. A hand flew to her mouth but it was too late to stifle the cry of anguish.
An upstairs window opened and Mrs McIntyre stuck her head out. “Another fine day, the day. You’ll mibby find what you’re looking for under the big window.”
Paula glanced to her right and there was the bike, leaning unharmed beneath the study sill.
Relief flooded through her. “Did you move it?” she demanded.
“I’m seventy-four, I’ve got arthritis and I live alone. I couldnae be hauling that huge thing about the garden even if I wanted to,” Mrs McIntyre responded evenly.
“But who else could have? I locked the gate when I came in last night.”
“If I were you, I’d check what’s been left down there.”
Before Paula could ask what she meant, the old lady had bowed back inside and closed the window.
Paula turned and looked down the garden. The greyhound from the beach was standing patiently at the bottom of the path, its lead tied to the handle of the gate. As she approached, the dog regarded her with its head cocked slightly to one side. Paula held out the back of her left hand so it could smell her before she went any closer. It gave a brief sniff and tried to lie down but the lead wasn’t long enough.
“Hello there,” she said. “How did you get here?”
She checked the gate: it was still locked. Crouching down, she felt round th
e dog’s collar for a tag but there wasn’t one.
“So you’re incognito. Did that girl leave you here? How did she manage to get you through the gate, or did she haul you over the top?”
Paula glanced down onto the beach. Half-a-dozen plastic fish crates lay in a heap at the bottom of the steps.
“Those weren’t there last night, were they, dog? Did your friend borrow them from the harbour to make some extra steps? She must be stronger than she looks.”
Paula bent down and stroked the dog’s narrow head. It leant against her. “Was she the one that moved my bike? Why did she leave you behind?”
“If that’s Bovis you’re talking to, don’t expect any sensible answers,” a voice said from the other side of the gate.
Paula peered through a knot hole in the blistered green slats. A woman of about her own age with close cropped red hair looked back at her.
“I don’t know what he’s called,” Paula said. “He’s not wearing a tag.”
“That’ll be Bovis.” The woman climbed the steps and put her head over the gate. “Hello you,” she said to the dog. “Has that scamp left you as bait?”
“The girl I saw with him on the beach last night?”
“He’s a she actually.”
“Oh, sorry.” Paula leant down and addressed the dog. “Sorry for getting your sex wrong, Bovis.”
“Nora Roberts,” the woman said, offering her hand. “I live a few doors along. And this is Terry Two.” She pointed towards the sand. Paula leaned over the gate. A fluffy West Highland terrier puppy on a long lead was sniffing a piece of seaweed.
“Is there a Terry One?”
“He’s at home waiting to be fed. We’ve been out so long he’s probably got his own breakfast by now.”
“He must be a clever dog.”
“I’ll tell him you said that. He’ll be flattered.”
Paula let the strange comment pass. “Isn’t it confusing them both having the same name?”
“We manage. This one was already called Terry when I got him from the rescue centre.” Nora addressed the puppy. “Weren’t you, sausage? He had a difficult start in life and I didn’t want to make things worse by confusing him with a change of name.” She turned back to Paula. “Are you the new tenant?”