by Erin Green
‘Everything,’ he declares as the walkway of aged walls leads us towards a bark-laden pathway surrounded by greenery. We continue until we reach a clearing overlooking the posh hotel and its sumptuous terraces scattered with relaxing guests enjoying the final moments of the day.
‘Have you heard the church bells chiming during your stay?’ Martin asks.
‘I have, and we’ve been trying to identify the tune, but none of us can name it.’
He smiles, viewing the property through the foliage. ‘I’m surprised you don’t recognise it. It’s “Abide With Me”.’
Instantly I do. I’ll share that snippet of enlightenment with Ruth and Benni later.
‘That hotel used to be the vicarage where the Reverend Lyte wrote the words. It was originally a poem, and later became the hymn. His church honours him twice a day.’
‘People ring that twice a day?’ I say, imagining what a bind that must be to the parish volunteers.
‘No, it’s an automated system using tiny hammers on the church bells – like a giant music box really – but still, his work is recognised.’
I watch his brooding profile as he speaks. He’s interesting, knowledgeable and passionate about his local area – so different from other men I’ve dated, who seem like empty vessels until they’re alongside their drinking buddies. At which point I’ve been ignored or forgotten whilst a stream of infantile conversation unfolds like a childish game of Top Trumps, whether it be on world politics, motor racing or two raindrops running down a window pane.
My heart twinges again. Maybe such memories say more about me and my choice of men. At least they were enjoying their time amongst friends, unlike me. I should have had the self-esteem to collect my handbag and exit stage left. Sadly, I never did. Which I don’t understand. I’m fairly confident, naturally outspoken and yet I stayed. Possibly for fear of upsetting and hurting others when all the time I was silently hurting myself.
Martin explains the importance of Torbay’s nature reserve, and its historical significance due to the presence of a Napoleonic fort and the abundance of wildlife which needs protecting in this day and age.
‘On winter mornings, standing on the main headland, you can watch a small pod of harbour porpoise swimming; they’re beautiful.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘A porpoise?’
I nod. I’m so naïve, ignorant of most topics outside of catering. My education wasn’t the best, but simply good enough.
‘They look like small whales and are, I believe, related to dolphins,’ he explains confidently.
I usually get flustered when I have to admit to my ignorance, but Martin isn’t condescending; he simply explains things in a matter-of-fact manner.
‘And do they play like dolphins?’
‘Many people mistake them for dolphins when they see them tumbling through the waves, but they’re incredibly rare nowadays – near extinction at one point.’ He stops walking and turns to face me before continuing. ‘Maybe you’ll come back nearer Christmas and we can view them one morning?’
My face beams at the clear indication that he’s enjoying my company as much as I am his.
‘I’d like that.’
His arm unhooks from mine and he takes my hand. My palm tingles as our fingers wrap together and knot. Instantly a deep warmth flows like molten lava through my body.
I’d forgotten how good this simple act feels. How long has it been since a man lovingly took my hand in his? Five years? More? How can a marriage built on ridicule and reproach expect tenderness to survive? How ridiculous that I’ve shied away from a loving relationship for so long for the fear of being hurt. Surely moments like these outweigh the risk?
‘Come on, if we hurry, we might be able to watch the sun going down,’ says Martin, lengthening his stride. I’m pulled along for a pace or two until I catch up on the bark-strewn path.
Without warning, the overhanging foliage gives way to a vast area of grassy headlands, divided by a well-trodden gravel pathway. As we crunch along the path, signs on either side point us to the Northern Fort, a bird hide, the visitors’ centre and a café. Martin ignores them all, continuing his pace straight ahead.
‘A lighthouse?’ I exclaim, releasing his hand and dashing forward towards the circular building. ‘Why’s it so short and squat?’
‘It doesn’t need to be tall and majestic like the one in the harbour. It’s sitting at the highest vantage point in the county, so remarkably, it’s the shortest and yet the highest lighthouse.’
‘I love it!’ I can’t stand still, but pace around the green and white base, staring at the not-so-high circular eye. The roof is literally a few metres above my head.
How cute.
‘I thought you’d be impressed, but not this impressed.’ He laughs, watching as my face shows my delight. ‘But that isn’t what we’re here to see. Look.’
He points out to sea. I stop pacing and turn as directed.
The sun lingers on the horizon, a fireball of red and orange, slowly sinking towards the waves.
‘Come over here and watch.’ Martin walks to the nearest bench and settles, his arm resting along the wooden backrest. I follow, sliding presumptuously into the space beside him. We sit. We watch. And we wait in silence.
As the sun slowly lowers, the sky comes alive in a blaze of warm tones, like a canvas masterfully touched by an artist.
I hold my breath as the final arc dips beneath the waves.
I turn to see Martin watching me, and not the horizon. Our faces draw near, his gaze lingers, and finally, our lips meet.
Ruth
My mobile rings at 3.05 in the morning. I leap from the sofa to answer as Benni and Emma both stir in their armchairs, pushing aside their duvets.
‘Hello?’ I say breathlessly.
‘Hello, Ms Elton? It’s Mrs Tedds here.’
‘Yes, speaking . . . have you found her?’
‘Yes, we have, Ms Elton. We located your mother a matter of minutes ago, safe and well, I’m glad to report.’
‘And where was she?’
‘Inside the care home, as we expected.’
‘Where exactly?’ I snap, impatient for details.
‘Under the staircase in the lobby area. She’s quite well despite being hungry and a little thirsty; nothing a good bath and an extra-long lie-in can’t correct.’
Instantly an image of my mother sitting in a dusty cupboard springs to mind.
‘And she was in there for how long?’ I say, stunned by the details but calming by the second.
‘Potentially seventeen hours, Ms Elton. The alarm was raised at ten o’clock this morning, and as I said, we located her a few minutes ago. It’s quite common for people with this condition to hide things.’
‘But to hide herself, for seventeen hours . . . how is that even possible?’
‘I can assure you we didn’t stop looking all day. The other residents have been quite concerned that such a lovely lady was missing.’
‘And my mother?’
‘As I said, your mother is absolutely fine – none the worse for her ordeal.’
‘Despite spending the day sitting alongside the spare Dyson!’ I shriek, not caring for her blasé tone. ‘I wish I could be as certain as you, Mrs Tedds.’
‘I shall call you first thing in the morning with an update. I assure you, Ms Elton, your mother is in the best possible hands.’
I tap the screen to end the call. I don’t want to hear her excuses for a second more.
‘Safe and sound?’ asks Emma.
I have enough time to nod before tears spill over my lashes.
‘Oh come here,’ says Benni, wrapping her arms around my quivering shoulders. My head sinks deep into her warm body and the fear of today is slowly released amongst friends.
Chapter Six
Thursday 23 August
Ruth
The three of us shield our bleary eyes from the morning sun and peer into the gallery window, looking past the shutter grille to admire my painting. The place may be closed, but glimpsing my own work displayed on the wall is the biggest thrill I have ever had. To the right, I can make out my framed piece. In my head the colours are fresh and vibrant, but in the darkened gallery it’s as if each composition is sleeping, awaiting the spotlights to illuminate each highlight.
‘I can’t see it,’ mutters Benni.
‘The central painting on the right-hand side . . . got it?’ I say, not wanting to boast that once you’re inside the gallery, my composition is in prime position on the main wall. Sadly, whilst peering from outside, the only prime position is starring at us centrally from the gallery’s window. I can only dream of painting a composition to be exhibited in such a manner.
A pang of pride ignites inside my chest. After a lengthy absence from all things creative, I painted that!
I felt a little embarrassed asking the others to accompany me, grateful that both were delighted with the invite, despite the fact that it’s only 7.30 in the morning and we endured a disturbed night. The painting is finished, framed and on display. Who knows how long I’ve got until it belongs to another person. Then I’ll never see it again.
‘Just think, someone else might admire your painting whilst sipping a gin and tonic in their favourite armchair,’ says Benni. ‘How weird is that?’
‘It could travel anywhere in the world and Ruth’s talent will be viewed by people she doesn’t even know,’ says Emma, moving her face nearer to the grille.
‘I know, but at least I’ll be left with memories like this,’ I reply.
‘It looks lovely, Ruth – I bet you’re delighted.’ Emma cups her hands around her eyes to view the painting more clearly.
‘I am. I’m still a bit taken aback that Dean thinks so highly of it, but he must feel it’s worthy.’
‘Exactly. I don’t think you can always judge your own work,’ says Benni.
‘Do you think every artist does this?’ I ask nervously.
‘I’m sure they do,’ says Emma, her nose squashed to the grille.
‘Really? I can’t imagine that Monet would have walked around Brixham at some ungodly hour to view his marina painting.’
‘If he ever painted in Brixham he would have,’ jokes Emma. ‘Though the title would be Marina in Midday Light and not . . . what did you call it?’
‘Marina Mania.’
‘Fitting. What does the price label say?’ asks Emma, stepping away.
‘Two hundred and twenty pounds.’ I blush at the thought. ‘I didn’t think he’d charge so much. I’d have happily sold it for a fraction of the price.’
‘Hey, what do you know about selling art? Let him do his job and you do yours,’ adds Benni.
‘Are you happy with how you’ve arranged it financially?’ asks Emma, turning to face me. ‘I’m not asking how much, but I hope he’s been fair with you.’
I give a slight nod, unsure what to say and slightly embarrassed that someone would care enough to want assurance that I’m not being fleeced. ‘Thank you, that means a lot to me. Not everyone would care how much I’m receiving. I think he’s been very fair regarding the percentage split.’
‘As long as you’re happy.’
I pause. ‘The thing is, it’s not about the money for me; it’s more the opportunity to prove to myself that I can paint. For so long I’ve told myself that my opinion doesn’t count. So until someone else appreciated my painting, deep down I thought I’d always doubt myself.’
‘Oh Ruth,’ says Benni, her hand gently rubbing my forearm.
‘Seeing my work displayed like this is particularly special today,’ I say, knowing I’ve gone too far to stop now. ‘It’s my birthday.’
Amidst a squealing chorus of ‘Happy birthday!’ I receive bear hugs from both Benni and Emma. It’s been a long time since I celebrated my birthday, let alone shared it with friends, but already this one feels very special.
Benjamina
Apart from our early trek to the gallery, I’ve spent the entire morning at the stables. In four hours, I’ve helped Maddie muck out Bruce’s stable, wheelbarrowed a load of dirty straw for the girl in the stable next door, and helped to sweep and hose down the yard with three other young women.
‘Are you ready for some lunch?’ asks Maddie, grabbing a rucksack and leading me outside.
‘I am, but . . .’ I didn’t plan on being here come lunchtime. What I thought would be a quick visit kept me busy for far longer than I’d imagined.
‘We can share,’ she offers, striding across to an open barn homing each riders’ allocation of hay bales. I watch as she climbs up with ease to settle on the top as if it were a large stage.
Please don’t let me struggle up only to fall off unceremoniously and break both legs, I pray.
I take a big breath and lift my right leg. It’s probably the highest it has been raised for many years. My left leg propels me up off the concrete with a huge push. It feels weird not being on the ground; the bales have a spongy, sturdy texture beneath my voluptuous frame.
Maddie politely looks away and pretends not to notice my struggle.
With some panting and much grasping at the hay, I finally make it to the top and settle beside Maddie, who has unpacked her lunch box. She offers me a sandwich.
‘It’s only ham and cheese,’ she says, ‘but the pickle is home-made by my mum.’
I give a nonchalant shrug, desperately trying to keep my face straight as it threatens to burst into an uncontrollable smile. I’ve accomplished something else new that if I’d thought about for too long I’d have refused to try. Go me!
‘I’ll provide lunch next time,’ I say, taking her offering.
‘Sure, it’s what we do around here. There’s none of this “that’s mine and that’s yours” kind of thing. We literally all muck in together . . .’ She pauses. ‘Unless you’re Sonya, Gallop’s owner, she never shares anything.’
‘Gallop?’
‘Yeah, stupid name for a horse if you ask me. It confuses the other horses if they’re voice trained and she starts shouting, “Gallop!”’
I frown as I munch my sandwich.
‘I never go out riding with her. I think it’s dangerous if you’re not ready and boom, your horse starts galloping. Sonya thinks it’s funny. My mum asked me not to go hacking with her. Though I wouldn’t anyway, we’re not friends.’
‘But still.’
‘Yeah, but still. My mum trusts me to only go hacking with someone if I think I’m safe and they’ll look after me and the horse.’
‘Hacking?’
‘It’s another term for riding, but for light exercise rather than anything too strenuous – a gentle ride,’ explains Maddie, chomping her sandwich between sentences. ‘Bruce loves hacking with Rosie and my sister’s horse Wispy, so I tend to go with them mostly. They don’t do stupid stuff or dare each other.’
‘Dare?’
‘Oh yeah, some riders act stupidly on horseback. They seem to forget that they’re responsible for what happens to their horse – they can easily get injured.’
‘And the vets’ fees?’
‘Huge! What looks like a small hoof injury can cost loads. I daren’t risk it, but anyway I wouldn’t treat Bruce that way.’
Yet another reason why I couldn’t have gone riding as a youngster. Where was a single mum from Burntwood going to find the cash for vet’s bills, let alone all the other costs?
I notice that Maddie’s face lights up every time she says Bruce’s name.
‘You love your horse, don’t you?’ I ask.
‘Yeah! Slightly more than my sister,’ says Maddie, without hesitation.
We both fall about laugh
ing. There’s no point trying to backtrack and pretend. Horse folk seem to tell it as it is.
I step backwards as Bruce gently nudges my hand with his white-striped muzzle. It’s taken me several minutes to pluck up the courage to approach the sturdy black cob, as I’m in awe of his size and his dark shiny coat.
‘He thinks you’ve got treats,’ laughs Maddie, dipping a hand into her pocket for a handful of torpedo-shaped brown pellets.
‘Can I?’
‘Of course, here . . .’
I hold my hand flat, my thumb out of the way, and offer the treats to Bruce. He doesn’t need asking twice; his lips nibble gently at my palm, removing the pellets. His dark gaze is transfixed, as if memorising my features, reading my thoughts and looking deep inside my soul.
An excited buzz runs along my spine. I can see the attraction of these majestic animals – like an invisible bonding that draws you in. I might be twenty-five, but I feel like an excited child feeding a horse on a walk in the country.
Emma
I’ve spent the morning on the phone trying to find something we can do at very short notice to celebrate Ruth’s big day. Sadly, everything I try – whether it be a local spa day, a concert or an afternoon painting aboard a pretty boat – draws a blank at bookings for today. There’s not much point taking up their offers for tomorrow; it’s today or nothing.
I quickly rustle up a sponge cake and decorate it with iced roses and a few green tendrils. Simple and classic is my intention. I nail both elements.
I daren’t guess at her age so don’t add any candles; best avoid offending when we’re trying to be kind. If asked, I’d say early fifties, but there’s no telling with some folk. I know women who look far older than their years, and others who haven’t a wrinkle in sight and can pass for ten years younger. Fingers crossed it isn’t a milestone birthday requiring something a little more elaborate than my classy sponge.
As I clean the kitchen countertops, I catch sight of the leaflet Ruth was reading a day or so ago. I could have sworn she’d thrown it in the bin. The front cover depicts the local riding stables – obviously this leaflet has done the rounds between all three of us during our stay. I flip through, uncertain what I’m actually seeking amongst the bar and restaurant adverts, local fish market and the Berry Head Hotel’s menu. On page 6, though, I stop, ponder and breathe a sigh of relief.