Encounters

by Barbara Erskine

  They had been going to stay in a cottage at the end of the town, where the old fishing village was, where the pebbly beach and the harbour gave way to sand dunes which stretched for miles, shifting and changing shape in the wind, so that they, like the sea, were never the same.

  John had seen the advertisement in the paper; end of season let. And on the spur of the moment they had decided as the days were still warm, to go.

  ‘Are you pretending we’re married?’ she had asked as he sealed the letter and he had laughed. ‘Whatever for?’ he said and he kissed her fiercely.

  Whatever for indeed, after all this time? She had gone to the long narrow kitchen of the flat they shared and beaten the eggs for the omelette until they frothed angrily, spluttering in the iron pan.

  ‘It’ll do you good to go away, Lou,’ her boss had said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so you have been looking a bit run down. Going with your nice friend from the flat are you?’

  She forgot to fold in the carbon as she scrunched it in her fist and her hands became all black. ‘Yes, Mr Fielding. My nice friend from the flat. That’s right.’

  They packed and threw their cases in the car and left early to avoid the Friday rush. At the first traffic lights John turned and looked at her with a little smile. He drew his hand, electric, along her thigh. Then the lights changed and he reached for the gear lever, leaving her heart bumping a little at the message she had seen in his eyes. Resolutely she gazed through the windscreen; she hated herself sometimes for loving him still so much; for knowing herself to be so dependent on him while he remained so free.

  The cottage was built of stone, sparsely furnished beneath its roof of slate at the edge of the sea. The only colour in the white-painted bedroom under the eaves came from the exquisite patchwork quilt on the bed. Dropping the cases John turned to Louise.

  ‘At last,’ he said, and held out his arms.

  Outside they could hear the whistle and crackle of gossiping starlings somewhere in the heavy-laden apple tree on the lawn at the back.

  ‘Stop!’ she laughed. She struggled in his arms, pushing him away.

  But already his lips were pressed urgently against hers; she felt the edge of the bed behind her and they fell, clinging together on the gaily coloured patchwork.

  Then at last he allowed her to push him away. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  She sat up slowly, watching the dust dancing in the shaft of sun which shone through the window. If only she knew how to tell him what was wrong; tell of her fear and her insecurity; of the longing in her heart to hear that he needed her as much as she needed him.

  As he got up and wandered over to the window she glanced down at the brilliant colours in the quilt she was sitting on. Some woman had spent hours, months even, of her life stitching the tiny fragments of cloth into this beautiful pattern. Surely the pattern of a relationship between two people who love one another and are prepared to declare their love to the world should be a little like that? Thousands of intricate multi-shaped pieces formed with time and caring into an enduring whole. Gently, wistfully, she stroked the patchwork.

  ‘Louise?’ He had been calling her name.

  She looked up. She saw his hands and rose and went to him, as she knew she always would.

  They wandered along the beach beyond the dunes, over the strip of flat wet sand collecting the fluted razor shells which lay nestling in among the scattered weed. The hazy September sun had been warm on Louise’s shoulders as she glanced round the deserted beach. Then her depression vanishing as suddenly as it had come, she began to run, feeling the sand between her toes, the spurts of sun-warmed water beneath her instep. And she laughed as he began to chase her.

  They walked for miles, not talking, as the sun sank lower in the sky, watching the tiny high, flecked, white clouds turn pink and gold. Imperceptibly the tide turned and the mother of pearl water crept once more slowly over the evening sand.

  Near the point the beach grew steeper and the dry shifting dunes drew near the water. There were no other people in the world. At the water’s edge an oystercatcher ran jerkily through the dribbling tide, thrusting its red beak ramrod straight into the sand. Then it flew arrowlike out towards the distant mistiness of the sun and they heard the eerie sad whistle of its cry.

  The sound made Louise shiver suddenly. John looked at her, then he drew her to him, his arms strong. As he said her name there was no mistaking the tone of his voice.

  High above them a plane flew straight and sure across the indigo arch of the sky, too high for them to hear it, its vapour trail a ruled line of silent gold. Slowly, his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him and kissed her. She closed her eyes and he kissed each eye-lid, his kisses growing more fierce and demanding, tracing the line of her lips with his finger. This time she didn’t push him away. Her desire rose at his touch, a new warmth of love flooding through her as she felt the urgency of his love, unconscious of the warm wind which stirred the wiry marram grasses near her head or the thin mist of sand which had blown across her discarded crumpled dress.

  They were roused at last by the gentle lapping of the water on the beach. John sat up and looked round him. Then smiling to himself he leaned forward, grasping a shell which lay near his hand and began to draw, watching the crisp curl of sand beneath his sharp strokes. With a sardonic lift of the eyebrow he drew an enormous heart.

  Louise, pulling herself dreamily to her knees ran her finger through the crisp tangle of her curls. Then she reached for her dress. She laughed when she saw what he had done. ‘You old Romeo,’ she teased; ‘who’d have thought you were a romantic!’ Snatching the shell from his fingers she added a cupid’s dart and put their initials, LM and JG. ‘There you are. A Valentine heart!’

  He grinned wryly. ‘What else?’ A deep haze was drawing in from the sea. The gold of the sunset was distant now, shrugging out of sight beyond the cloud. ‘Come on, it’s time to go,’ he said abruptly. ‘You’ve got to find the food and get us a meal, remember?’

  Already the water was nibbling the edge of the heart.

  ‘You know something?’ she said casually, brushing the sand from her breasts as she buttoned her dress, ‘I had always hoped, a little, that our first holiday would be our honeymoon.’

  Seeing him frown she bit her lip. ‘It would be nice, wouldn’t it, John? To be married?’ she persisted gently.

  He hesitated, straining the sand through his fingers. ‘For some perhaps. But not us …’ He gazed out to sea, not looking at her.

  A thin trickle of water was flowing round the heart in the sand, blurring the edges, gently smoothing away the J. She didn’t notice. ‘There isn’t any reason we shouldn’t get married is there? We love each other so much …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘No reason, except that I don’t want to. We’re happy as we are. Marriage would spoil it. I don’t want to be labelled and slotted into the system …’ He turned to her, narrowing his eyes and took her hands in his. ‘I thought you felt the same. We don’t need marriage. Haven’t we proved it after all this time?’

  The lapping water had washed the sand again. Both John’s initials had gone. It was growing cold.

  Louise leaned towards him, frowning a little; intense. ‘John you did say a long time ago that we would get married. One day.’

  He looked away, a little guiltily. ‘Did I? Well one day perhaps we will. But not yet.’

  But she couldn’t leave it alone. Some demon had made her go on.

  ‘John. I want to get married. Now.’ She rose to her feet, her toes sinking a little into the soft sand.

  ‘No.’ He cut her short. ‘No, Louise. I’m sorry.’ He glanced down angrily.

  The drawing had gone. The transparent tide rippled gently over the place where the pierced heart had been, a strand of sea-weed fluttering gently in the bubbles in the half-light.

  John said nothing. Then slowly he turned to her. She was crying suddenly, blindly gazing down. ‘It went so fast,’ she sobbed. �
��And you think our love is like that. You think it will disappear like a drawing in the sand …’

  ‘No, of course I don’t.’ He was impatient. ‘Come on, Louise, nothing stays the same for ever, you know that. What if the sea does take away the heart? Well draw another. Well come back on Valentine’s Day itself, if you like. Come on; stop crying. You can’t trap things. You can’t freeze them and preserve them. Relationships change; love develops. It needs to be free, don’t you see?’

  She shook her head wordlessly as the evening breeze teased the blues and greens of her skirt in the dusk, thinking suddenly again of the patterned patchwork in the bedroom of the cottage. The sea knew. The sea knew it couldn’t last. Your love couldn’t last.’

  ‘Louise, that’s rubbish. Stop making a scene.’

  ‘I’m not. How long have we lived together? Years, John. If you’re not sure now, you never will be.’

  He shrugged bitterly. ‘Then you must look for someone else. If the security of my love isn’t enough, you must look for someone who can give you more.’ He turned away from her suddenly, his voice grating, and stood, his hands in his pockets, staring hard out to sea.

  She took a step towards him, frightened by the bleakness of his voice, but the uncompromising line of his jaw stopped her. Her eyes were full of tears.

  ‘All right then, I will.’ Her voice broke on the words. She hesitated, but he didn’t move and suddenly overcome with misery and hurt she turned and stumbled away from him up over the shifting sand of the dunes and half ran, half staggered back towards the lights of the town. She didn’t look back. In any case he was soon lost to view behind the dunes. She didn’t turn, didn’t see the look in his eyes as he gazed after her.

  The cottage was in darkness. She lifted the latch with shaking fingers and stepped in, her heart thumping. Then she picked her way slowly up the stairs, dashing away her tears and clicked on the light in the bedroom. Their two cases still stood side by side on the carpet where John had dropped them. She had never even unpacked. Listening for his step in the garden she ran to the window and leaned out, but the dunes beyond the hedge of osiers at the edge of the lane were silent and empty.

  ‘I must go. Now. I must,’ she had murmured.

  She bent to pick up her case. If he came she knew she would weaken; if he took her in his arms and kissed her she would be lost.

  She hesitated, praying he would come, knowing she must go.

  Then at last, when she knew he wasn’t coming she carried the case down the stairs and walked out into the misty night towards the station.

  John did not return home to the flat the next day, or the next, so she packed her belongings slowly and miserably and took a taxi to her sister’s flat. There she waited, desolate, for him to ring her. A hundred times she picked up the phone herself and began to dial his number – the number which had been hers as well. But something stopped her. Pride? She supposed so. Bather desperately she began to go out with other men, but each date was a hollow meaningless pretence and not repeated. She grew thin and permanently sad. And almost every night she would lie awake thinking of that evening on the beach. If only John had turned and called her back. If only he had smiled. If only …

  Christmas came and went without a word. Not even a card. And now it was February. Drawn irresistibly by the memory of the heart in the sand, masochistic, longing, she had come back. It was the fourteenth. Later, when the tide had gone down a little, she would walk back alone down the beach and look for the place where the heart had been and they had made love for the last time.

  ‘Louise!’ The voice sounded close to, but she dismissed it from her mind as she always did. Her hands had grown numb from gripping the ice cold railing so long. Shakily she raised one of them to brush away the tears which were hot on her cold face. The tide had withdrawn a little now, leaving a strip of shiny glossy pebbles. The sunlight in the distance had come closer too.

  ‘Louise!’ Again she heard the voice and again, ‘Louise …’ She could hear feet on the road behind her. Incredulously she turned. It wasn’t a dream. It was John.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. He was looking down at her, his face very close to hers, his dark eyes anxious, but warm and loving. ‘It’s Valentine’s Day. I didn’t dare hope you would remember.’ Hesitating a little he held out his hands.

  She smiled, biting her lip to stop it trembling. What did it mean, his being here like this? Suddenly she realized how much courage it had cost him to come at all.

  She heard his voice again, as if from a distance. ‘I was determined not to contact you. I knew you must have the chance to find out what you wanted.’ He looked down at her with a wry smile. ‘If you knew how many times I’ve picked up the phone.’ Suddenly she felt his lips on her hair. His arms went round her, hard; hurting. Then he released her. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go to the beach …’

  Excavations

  The bulldozers and JCBs were already there, lined up by the high chain-linked fence. The excavation was a sea of mud. Frances felt her eyes fill with tears. Only a few more hours and the machinery would begin its destruction; two thousand years of history would be shovelled aside to accommodate an underground car park beneath a store.

  People were picking their way across the duckboards over the mud, staring at the markers being pointed out by the rescue diggers.

  ‘Don’t call us archaeologists,’ one woman had said bitterly to Frances. ‘This isn’t archaeology. All we can do now is throw things into boxes and run.’

  She heard a child shriek with fright and excitement as it slipped off the walkway into a trench in the rain and her heart gave a lurch. It had sounded so like that other child. The child in her dream. She watched as a group of people gathered, retrieved it, wiped it down and moved on. Behind them the bottom of the trench filled slowly with water, the neatly cut layers of soil blending and turning a uniform mud colour, even the scorched red clay which showed the year the city had burned nearly two thousand years before obliterated now for ever.

  She hadn’t meant to come again. She had seen the temporary exhibition a dozen times, talked to the men and women working there, read up the accounts of the ancient city which was losing yet another piece of its history for ever and wept for a past she couldn’t regain. She had tried to stop. Tried to beat the obsession, tried to control the need to return, but still she found herself walking through the gate and staring down at the neat square where two weeks earlier they had found the mosaic floor. It had gone now, rolled up like a carpet to be cleaned, relaid and set behind glass, never to be walked on or played on again.

  ‘Hello.’ The voice behind her startled her out of her reverie. ‘Good to see you again. I’m afraid it’s the last time, though, before the new precinct is finished.’

  Frances turned. The tall, bearded man had been in the exhibition trailer last time she saw him, wearing boots and a waterproof coat, with his hands covered in mud.

  She smiled. ‘No more mud for you, I see.’ He was wearing the same jacket but this time with clean cords and shoes.

  ‘No more mud. Not here.’

  ‘Even Boudicca’s effort must have looked feeble compared with this devastation.’ She tried to make her voice sound light and disinterested.

  ‘I doubt if she was as systematic as this in her destruction,’ he agreed. ‘She burned the place but she didn’t then bury it under a hundred million tons of concrete. On the other hand, I suppose we should be glad they’re not putting the population to the sword.’

  Frances flinched, but she managed a wry smile. ‘You try standing in front of one of those diggers tomorrow,’ she countered. ‘You might find them just as bloodthirsty.’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t intend putting it to the test. I couldn’t bear to see it happen. Do you want to come and have a cup of tea? The kettle is on in the trailer.’

  He had noticed how often she came to the site. He was not normally attracted to redheads, but this slightly built, beautiful creature had a strange
grace about her which fascinated him. And her interest had been so intense, so painful as she watched the men and women in the trenches that he had stopped and watched her and then spoken to her, caught by the poignant droop of her shoulders. It was the second time he saw her that he recognized her. Then he had understood. Then he had known that he must get to know her; must find out if the stories were true …

  She had a friendly smile, but the sadness was always there in her eyes. ‘That would be nice,’ she said at last. ‘I should love a cup of tea.’

  She followed him across the site to the exhibition van. It was closed today, exhibits already packed away. He unlocked the door and gestured her inside. ‘We have to clear the site by five. Then they’re putting in the security guards.’

  ‘Then only the ghosts will be left.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He glanced up as he put the kettle on the small Calor gas stove and lit the flame. ‘I’m Charles Wentworth, by the way.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m Frances.’ No surname. No catch.

  She sat down on the stool by the table. Boxes of shards still lay there, hastily labelled. The dust of the site lay over everything. It had a strange sharp smell which caught at the back of the throat.

  ‘Do you believe in them?’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Ghosts?’ He reached down a tin of tea-bags from a locker. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Sometimes?’

  ‘When a site is taken over by the developers like this, I’d like to think they’ll be chased screaming from the excavations.’ He kept his tone humorous.

  ‘Has it ever happened?’

  ‘Yes. But sadly never for long. Incentive payments usually overcome superstition.’

  ‘What a pity.’ She picked up a small square tile from a pile, stroking it with her fingertip to remove the dust.