The Girl on the Beach

by Morton S. Gray

  ‘Nicholas has a lot of talent. To be able to show a scene in so few brush strokes is masterful. I can teach him to add just a touch of colour to his pictures to make them even more striking. If he can paint to this standard already, he could be famous one day.’

  John came to stand next to her. ‘Yet, he’s the sort of lad who could be totally overlooked. He could quite easily leave school with no qualifications or prospects. He’s come close to being excluded because of his behaviour many times. The fine line between famous artist and school drop-out, eh?’

  ‘I can see why you would prefer him to have a mentor, but he would need to be willing to accept help for it to work.’

  John sighed. ‘The biggest challenge of a teacher is to help students fulfil their potential and, sadly, it isn’t always possible. You can’t do it for them. You have to sow seeds in their minds and just hope that one day they germinate.’

  ‘The challenge of being a parent too.’

  Her eye was caught by a crude picture of a camper van; she’d seen it when she was judging the competition, of course, but since her insight into Harry’s identity, it had taken on a different significance. It was enough to transport her back to the day after Ben died, the day when his camper van was towed away from the beach road and Ellie had wanted to grab onto the drying rack at the back where Ben’s wetsuit always hung. It felt as if they were taking Ben himself away and she had no memento to remind her of the love of her life, the man she’d given her virginity to …

  John Williams was looking at her with a strange expression on his face. It was time to go. She forced herself to smile, made her goodbyes and walked out of the school towards her gallery with a lot of things on her mind, not least Harry Dixon.

  After putting his socks and shoes on over sandy feet, Harry brushed sand from his tie and jacket. The day had become hot and airless, the sky deep blue. He hoped that it would be a warm summer, although a glance at the waterfront confirmed his suspicion that the sea here wouldn’t be suitable for surfing. It was more a beach for sunbathing, sandcastles and paddling. Never mind, it was close to his beloved ocean. He took a deep breath of salty air. A wistful yearning for his long lost campervan and surfboard rose up in his heart. Life used to be much less complicated.

  Borteen was typical of many small seaside towns. It had a promenade along the seafront, butting up to a high street, where shops sold wetsuits, kites and beach gear, in amongst the butcher, bakery, newsagent and the, seemingly these days, obligatory charity shops and cut-price chemist.

  Gaps in the buildings revealed small alleyways, the homes of craft shops, galleries and cafés. Harry knew from Ellie’s leaflet that Golden Design, her gallery, lay in one of these streets. When he found it, he was impressed by the crisp white paint and the large window displaying colourful artwork and pottery. The shop sign was a mosaic of brightly coloured pieces of glass with “Golden Designs” outlined in gold paint on top.

  He squinted through the window, trying to see if the paintings were Ellie’s. The ones on display all had the same stylised signature and, although he couldn’t tell what it said, he imagined it must be her work.

  They were large canvases with bold blocks of colour, somehow not the sort of artwork he would have imagined being produced by the woman in the drab grey suit he had met today. She must have hidden depths, using her painting to express a part of herself she didn’t reveal in real life. His reflections added to the intrigue surrounding Ellie Golden, but, he reminded himself, she could pose a threat to his new life and even his safety.

  There was a big “Closed” sign on the gallery door. Harry tried the shiny brass handle, just in case, but the door was locked. He would have preferred to tackle this risk to his future straight away, but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. He needed to plan the most effective way to deal with Ellie Golden and her knowing stare, or else decide to abandon his life in Borteen before it had even begun.

  Ellie had finally begun to relax on the walk to the gallery. The knots in her shoulders unwound one by one in response to the sight and sound of the sea and the warmth of the sun.

  The tension flooded back all at once, as she reached the entrance to the alley and spotted Harry Dixon outside of her shop. She moved behind the nearest wall and watched him peering through the window at her artwork. He took his time, examining the display closely. She wondered what he thought about her paintings. When he tried to open the door, she thought for a moment he was going to break in. Amazing how when your suspicions are raised, you can imagine people capable of anything.

  She debated whether to stroll casually up the alleyway and confront him, but she knew that he would then have the upper hand, standing between her and the gallery door. Cornered men could be unpredictable, as she knew to her cost. Her hand unconsciously traced her nose and cheekbones. She needed to find a place and time where she felt safe and in control to have a conversation with Harry, to get the answers to the questions buzzing around her brain, but right now was not that time. She could afford to be patient.

  As Head of Borteen High, Harry was going to be around for a while, but did her suspicions about his past make his position at the school impossible? How did someone die and then reappear with another name? Why did she think it necessary to consider his feelings and career? If he was who she believed him to be, he was deceiving everyone.

  Harry turned. There was no other way out of the alley, so he would walk straight past her if she stayed where she was. She scurried round the corner into the bakery, hoping he hadn’t seen her. Her heart thumped in her chest. He couldn’t find her spying on him, that would be just too embarrassing.

  She studied the display of pies at the back of the bakery for a long time, hoping Harry had left the street. As soon as her heart rate and breathing had calmed down, she bought a chicken and mushroom pie for herself and a steak and onion one for Tom’s evening meal.

  Emerging cautiously into the late afternoon sunshine, she scanned the seafront. There was no sign of Harry, but she didn’t want to risk him still being near the gallery. Annoyance at her reaction to the man caused her steps to speed up as she made her way up the hill towards home. How dare Harry Dixon or Ben Rivers, or whoever on earth he was, invade her space and make her uneasy in her own town, her own skin. The situation would need to be sorted out as quickly as possible. She refused to live with insecurity again.

  Chapter Four

  Ellie was puzzled when she reached home as Tom wasn’t in the house. She could tell because the post was still on the doormat and there was a package for him. Normally, he rushed back up the road from school and sat ensconced in front of a computer game until teatime. Nonetheless, Ellie went upstairs, calling his name. His pristine bedroom lay empty. She worried that he still felt the need to keep everything neat and tidy, a hang-over from living with his step-father’s temper.

  She tried not to worry that he wasn’t back and, of course, trying made the worry even worse. She made a cup of tea in the tiny kitchen. Peeled potatoes to boil for mash to go with the pies. Checked she had frozen vegetables in the freezer. Tidied a couple of shelves. Still, no Tom. It had gone five o’clock; he should have been home ages ago.

  Exasperated with both herself and Tom, she dialled his mobile number. He didn’t answer; the call went to voicemail. A rush of fear passed through her, but she argued against going out to search for him. Not just yet, he was fourteen, after all, she needed to get used to giving him more freedom.

  Anxious to occupy her troubled mind, she took a large sheet of paper and pencils to the table. On her walk home, she’d begun to doubt her suspicions about Harry Dixon. Was her mind playing tricks on her?

  She drew two columns. One she headed Harry Dixon, the other Ben Rivers. Writing Ben’s name stirred up a turmoil of emotions. Had she made him into a sort of god-like hero with the passage of time? She gritted her teeth and began a clinical comparison of the two men.

  Harry Dixon, about five inches taller than herself, so just over six fee
t tall. Brown eyes, big brown eyes. Dark short hair, stubble, unmistakeable cleft in chin. Even, white teeth. Muscular rugby player’s build. Damaged ear, left side. Possible tattoo removed from forearm. Well-spoken, slight accent, but she couldn’t decide where from. Alive.

  Ben Rivers. Oh, Ben Rivers. Ellie traced the letters of his name, overcome with unexpressed emotions. She forced herself to continue with the analysis, gripping her pen like a lifeline. Five inches taller than herself, about six feet tall. Huge brown eyes. Long blond hair that flopped over his face. Cleft in chin. Even teeth. Muscular rugby player build. Tattoo on forearm. Voice accented with soft West Country tones. Dead.

  Could she be mistaken? After all, it didn’t make sense. She’d seen Ben Rivers buried in a Cornish graveyard. She’d visited the spot numerous times, especially when she needed to escape from the house and her now ex-husband, Rushton’s temper. She’d taken shells from the beach to decorate the earth. She’d planted primroses in the spring and watered them with her tears.

  The memory of the raw sensations in her body when she’d discovered that Ben had died in a surfing accident could even now reduce her to sobs, despite the passage of nearly fifteen years. How could she even imagine that he still lived? Was she deluded? Had her mind played tricks on her and made her believe that Harry and Ben were one and the same man?

  For a moment she was back on the beach in Cornwall, watching Ben surfing a wave. All the girls loved him, which is why Ellie never stood a chance of getting close to him. It was a warm summer, her skin was tanned, her bikinis bright and tiny.

  ‘Mum, I’m home,’ yelled a voice, making her jump and draw a line across her notes.

  She wiped a hand across her face, as if to close down the past, and quickly folded the paper several times so that it could be shoved into her pocket. She didn’t want Tom to question what she’d been doing.

  ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been worried.’

  He stood in the doorway, school jumper tied around his slim hips, tie hanging loose round his neck.

  ‘Mum, it’s you who’s always saying I should be making friends. I went to the beach with some mates. Bought them ice creams with my winnings.’

  Ellie immediately wondered if the crisp ten pound note that Harry Dixon had given to Tom was the source of the sudden friendliness of the other boys. Still, Tom seemed happy and that should be all that mattered.

  ‘We’ve got pie and mash for tea.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  Harry, about a mile away in his rented flat, paced the lounge. It was easy to pace, it was small and he hadn’t got much furniture yet.

  Had he become too big for his boots? If he had stayed a games teacher, moving school and occasionally country every few years, it might have been safer. He’d worried that the deputy head-ship at his last inner-city school had been too prominent, but he was competent at his job; he was bound to get promotions.

  Was a headmaster’s post a step too far? Had he raised his head too high above the parapet of anonymity?

  He wanted to be the head of Borteen High, dammit. Why should his early career choices and actions in his twenties colour his whole life? He felt sure that he could do a valuable job at the small senior school, but was it inevitable that, sooner or later, the past would catch up with him? He’d had one or two near misses before when someone thought they recognised him, but Ellie appeared much more certain.

  The expression on her face at the prize-giving haunted him. She looked as if a light bulb had suddenly ignited in her brain. He’d seen her eyes widen with an emotion or memory – recognition, a remembered scene?

  He might have made nothing of it, but hadn’t she already asked if they’d met before and had he heard a soft Cornish accent appearing sometimes when she spoke? How likely was it that she’d known him in his past life? He certainly didn’t recognise her, but then there was that period in his history which refused to be anything other than a complete blank.

  He wished he’d been able to keep photographs of surf gatherings, he might have identified Ellie from the pictures, but, on the other hand, if he had met her, he didn’t really want any proof of the fact. At the moment, she believed she knew him, but he didn’t think she felt totally certain. What could she accuse him of anyway, even if she did recognise him? Did it matter?

  If he made one phone call, he could be whisked away and his existence in Borteen erased. But, could he face reinventing himself yet again?

  He looked at his suitcase and rucksack in the corner of the lounge. They contained all of his belongings. He’d learned to travel light in his nomadic existence and not to get attached to things, or people for that matter. His was a solitary existence.

  He wished she’d been at her gallery this afternoon. Then, he could have tackled things head on and be feeling more settled tonight, or at least have a sense of which way the wind was blowing.

  The art exhibited in Ellie’s window was pleasing to the eye. There had been several pieces that he would have happily bought, although she had cleverly hidden the price tags. Any prospective buyer had to actually go into the shop to ask for the prices and he suspected the pictures he liked might be beyond his budget.

  Harry’s stomach started to rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. He decided that a walk on the beach, followed by a take-away meal might clear his head and help calm his troubled thoughts.

  ‘Della’s coming to sit with you tonight.’ As she said the words, Ellie felt her stomach muscles clench and brace for Tom’s reaction.

  ‘Mum, I’m too old for a babysitter.’

  ‘True, but I can’t enjoy myself thinking of you at home on your own, while I’m out till late.’

  ‘Della smells.’ Tom crashed the plate he’d just wiped up onto the pile in the cupboard.

  ‘Thomas Golden, that’s a horrible thing to say.’ As he hadn’t broken it, Ellie didn’t mention the plate.

  ‘Maybe, but it’s true.’ He stared at her defiantly and, after a few moments of staring at each other, they both dissolved into laughter.

  Ellie hugged her son close, noting that he’d grown again and they were almost the same height. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be towering over her. She ruffled his hair. ‘You know I worry. If Della’s here, at least I can relax. I don’t go out very often, do I?’

  He pulled away from her. His brown eyes were liquid pools. ‘Okay, Mum, but I’m going to be upstairs doing homework anyway. Della won’t see me. It’s a waste of money.’

  ‘I’m sure that will suit Della. She can watch her favourite TV programmes. I’ll be back after eleven. Make sure you don’t stay up too late.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ He saluted her, a cheeky grin on his face and disappeared out of the room.

  Once every couple of months, Ellie allowed her friend, Mandy, to drag her to the local wine bar for an evening out. They’d met when Ellie had first come to Borteen four years ago and set up a temporary art exhibition in the local craft centre, which Mandy Vanes owned.

  The rapport had been instant, as if they’d always been friends. A past life connection, Mandy called it. Ellie trusted Mandy above all others, but did she trust her enough to tell her about Harry Dixon and Ben Rivers, even though she badly needed to discuss the situation with someone?

  She pondered her dilemma, as she applied a swish of eye shadow and a flick of mascara. She didn’t normally bother with make-up, but, as Mandy used it heavily, Ellie couldn’t face feeling pale and pasty sitting next to her friend. She’d given up trying to tame her hair. It bubbled around her head, the mass of curls more exuberant than ever after her shower. She peered into the mirror and sighed. She’d have to do.

  The doorbell sounded and Tom pounded down the stairs to open the door.

  ‘Mandy!’ The delight was obvious in his voice. Ellie wondered what sugary treat Mandy had bought for him this evening. She’d become the auntie that Tom had never had, to the benefit of both her son and her friend. Ellie couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse to have n
o brothers and sisters. Her parents had both died while she was married to Rushton. With hindsight, it felt as if they’d both stayed alive just long enough to support her through Art College, looking after Tom whilst she studied.

  As she came down the stairs, Ellie could hear Tom telling her friend all about the art competition and his special prize from Harry Dixon. The joy was evident in his tone.

  ‘I hear Tom’s inherited your artistic talents,’ Mandy said, as Ellie came into the room. ‘Special new headmaster’s prize, eh?’

  ‘Tom has an artistic style all of his own. His paintings are very different to mine. He’ll be exhibiting in the gallery before I know it.’

  Mandy looked sleek and glowing in a bright strappy top and leggings, her straight blonde hair falling over her bare shoulders. Ellie lamented her own uninspiring wardrobe, her white shirt and wide-legged trousers worn to help her fade into the background.

  The doorbell sounded again, but this time Tom didn’t rush to answer it. Ellie shot him a glowering look, as she went to let Della in. She reflected that Tom might be right, as a faint smell of body odour followed the older woman into the house. Della was their neighbour and she happily sat with Tom when Ellie wanted to go out. Della relished the pocket money, free range over the treats in Ellie’s kitchen and the chance to watch what she wanted on television without her husband’s grumbles.

  Ellie grabbed her jacket and bag, nodding at Della.

  ‘Thanks for sitting with Tom, Della. We’ll be home by half eleven.’

  They left the house, already giggling. It was nice to have the freedom to chat with a like-minded soul. The responsibilities of being a single parent often weighed heavily on Ellie’s shoulders, especially since Tom had become a teenager.

  ‘Come on then, what’s been happening with you? I want to hear all about the school art competition and, most of all, about the new headmaster. Rumour has it that he’s rather dishy?’

  It seemed Ellie was to be confronted by her demons straight away. She didn’t answer immediately and realised, belatedly, that it was a mistake, because it aroused Mandy’s interest even more.