by Annie Dyer
They seem smitten with the island. I saw him walking along the beach early this morning when the tide was out. He was standing on the sand when I was coming back from the bakers with the bread for breakfast, watching the fishing boats coming in from their night’s trawling.
I don’t know what made me think it, but he looked so lonely down there. I know they say he’s arrogant, but I can’t see it. He’s just another man.
Anyway, I have to finish this now if I want to make up three of the rooms and make it in time to the post office before Frankie collects the letters.
Send me a postcard from Cardiff!
Yours,
Marcy
I put the letter back, puzzled. This Marcy wasn’t one I was familiar with. She sounded naïve and young, but then I suppose she had been once, just I like had, until things had changed. Laughter echoed outside; guests I hadn’t met yet. And then a man’s voice that I did know.
Gabe.
“You will be at at the barbecue tonight, won’t you? I mean, it won’t be the same if you’re not there.” The accent was Australian and very female.
I took hold of Marcy’s book and headed out, seeing a slim blonde with legs that were far too long. Were leg extensions an actual thing? She was following Gabe, who was without a T-shirt and wearing boarding shorts. I felt hotter than I needed to, trying not to watch where they were going as I left Marcy’s room and went into mine through the outside entrance. The adjoining doors had been locked for months as she would wander into my room and become confused or tired. I left her folder of letters on my dressing table, the fact that it was dust free suggested my mother had been in cleaning. Or rooting.
Gabe’s voice echoed down the garden, his sentences punctuated with the banging of his hammer. Catrin had told me bits about him: he was here to stay, it seemed, integrating himself into the community without giving much away about his history. She had dug, searching for information, which was only her second favourite pastime after watching reality TV shows, but she didn’t have too much to say. Apart from the fact that he had gotten carnal knowledge of several tourists that passed through.
She didn’t judge him. She’d have been struck with several blades of lightning if she had, given that was her summer form until she’d met Anders. And my brother had done the same as soon as he’d learned how to deviate from irritating women to charming them.
I found a couple of bottles of water in the kitchen and then headed towards the summerhouse, hearing music being played. Everything around me seemed swimmy and unsteady, the noise of the music and the birds and the sea merging into one.
There was a bench near the rose garden that my grandfather had made years before, a plaque in its centre commemorating my grandparents’ anniversary and I headed to it, each step feeling like I was at the end of a marathon. I dropped the water on the ground and sat down, leaning forward to lower my head, focusing on my breath like the therapist had told me to do, counting the seconds of each inhalation, lengthening the exhalation, trying not to focus on the thoughts that were fluttering haphazardly around my head.
I felt an arm go round my shoulders and a warm body become my bookend.
“It’s okay.” It was Gabe’s voice, deep and firm. “You are okay.”
I kept my head hidden, not wanting him to see how red my eyes became or how my lips would swell across my face when I cried. I was an ugly crier.
“I don’t want guests to see me like this.” Always, as kids, we were taught to keep our arguments and our tears away from the guests. No one was being cruel by suggesting it as we had enough places to go that were private for family and we grew up understanding how things worked in hospitality.
I was lifted up by the strong arms I’d been thinking about far too much and buried my face into his chest, feeling sobs start to run through me. He carried me to the summerhouse, far easier than he should’ve, and then I was on his knee as he sat down on the wooden bench he’d made, feeling his arms around me as I cried.
Gabe didn’t give me words. There weren’t any words that could’ve healed me right then. The wound from the loss of Calen was deep, and although the surface looked only scarred, underneath it was still bloody. Marcy’s loss was ever-present, radiating stronger since going through the box and finding her letters.
My reality had changed.
“I’m sorry.” I forced the apology out.
“What the fuck for?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“For getting upset.”
His response was to hold me closer, almost rock me.
“I shouldn’t be burdening you. Your barely know me.” I put a hand to his chest and felt the muscle underneath. It was not how I imagined an architect to feel, not that I’d given too much thought to how architects felt under their clothes.
“I know a little of how you feel.”
I looked up at him even though I knew my eyes looked like they belonged to a red panda. “I’m not sure you do.”
He kissed the top of my head, pressing his lips down onto my hair. It was too familiar for someone who was only one step away from being a stranger. “No one’s told you what happened?”
“I’ve only been home a day.”
“It usually takes less time than that for the rumour mill to churn. Mavis in the bakery usually gives away a piece of gossip with the bara brith.” His pronunciation of the Welsh name made me smile.
“How do you know how I feel?”
Gabe shook his head, his face close enough to mine that I could see his eyes were a silvery blue that I’d never come across before.
“I was in a car accident. A drunk driver hit my vehicle head on. My passenger and the other driver both died. I was the only one who survived.”
Simple basic sentences. No elaboration, just facts. Facts that contained a history book of pain.
“How long ago?”
“Two and a half years.”
“Fuck.” I put my forehead back to his chest and closed my eyes, inhaling his scent, feeling his skin against mine.
He leaned back against the wooden wall and held me close. For the longest time we sat there together, neither of us having anything to say, because we both knew that sometimes there were no words. Only the birds sang, and the waves still echoed.
They always echoed.
Gabe
Holding her had made me feel as if my world had just been steadied on its axis. Seeing someone, anyone, upset wasn’t something I wanted. I didn’t get how to handle tears from another adult, hell, even a child’s tears made me feel as if my heart was being repeatedly shot, and seeing Anya sob had torn me.
But holding her had brought pieces of me together that had been scattered for so long, maybe calling some particles up that had been scattered years before. We’d stayed close long after she’d quieted. Her sitting on my lap, head pressed against my chest and my arms wrapped around her. Despite the one night stands I’d had, it was the longest physical contact I’d had with anyone since before the crash.
I went back to the barn after her nephew interrupted us. We didn’t talk about what had happened, simply disengaged the contact and went outside, like two lovers who had been caught in the act. I’d watched her chase him about the gardens as I hammered and nailed wooden pieces back into place, doubly insulating the walls to make it possible for kids to sleep over inside the summerhouse.
The walk back to the barn was a strange one. It was bright, the weather a perfect Welsh summer. The seagulls were high in the air, the wind insignificant meaning they could make the most of their skills.
I walked barefoot. The island was the opposite to the city; without harm. There was nothing underfoot that I should be worried about. Jellyfish and sharp shells were the limit of dangers, and those I could watch for. The sand filtered between my toes and I imagined I could feel every grain.
I hated the fact that Anya’s pain had brought me some sense of calm and I didn’t understand why. Maybe it was because I’d felt some sense of achievement. I’d he
lped her. I’d known she hadn’t needed words or a post-mortem because what she was going through seemed like a process; something that had to be done.
The barn loomed in the early evening light. It had become home, which worried me when I had the time to think about it. This was no permanent residence, unless you were a mouse or some other creature. Right now, while limbo was my master, it was the right place for me to be. I didn’t need a home with beautifully plastered walls or designer wallpaper. A bespoke kitchen was beyond me when I couldn’t even function my way through a microwave meal.
Had you given me Anya needing a perfect house or a perfect kitchen or a perfectly prepared tasting menu, I’d have managed it. What she’d been though made me know that she deserved it.
But me? I wasn’t there yet. And I didn’t know why.
I left the canvas I’d started with Anya on the beach and instead began a new one, this one not as bright, more textured even from the start. I saw the cliffs and the depth the gulls flew from, diving towards the sea with an innate confidence in their own abilities. I envied them.
And I feared them too.
The gull would be the centrepiece, yet it was to one side, the sea would cover most of the canvas. I saw the palette of blues that would be needed, the darkness coming through as the unknown.
I paused when my phone rang, half grateful and half irritated at the interruption. It was Michael, Anya’s brother, wanting to know if I was helping setting up the barbecue or not. It rankled that he had to ask, because as much of a dick as I’d always been, I would muck in. I could be relied on, by everyone else, if not myself.
I carried on painting after the call, working out in my head where the details needed to be. A shade against the cliffs, the aura of the sun – where would it all fit? I felt in colour, that was how I interpreted the world, through different shades.
Which was where blueprints didn’t live up to the name. When I’d designed houses, I’d drawn the lines in different coloured inks according to rooms or views or just the feel I had about that idea. It hadn’t always been accepted, especially when I was training, but as a partner it hadn’t been anyone’s issue but my own.
The music I was playing switched tracks, bringing me back into reality, away from the colours. I stopped and wondered about Anya, whether she was smiling now. I wanted her to be smiling. I understood what she’d been though and why she felt the way she did, but it was clear to me that she wasn’t responsible. Something easier to see from the outside than from within.
I took a step back and looked at what I’d done so far, understanding what I was trying to communicate. We were the gulls, diving from the tops of the cliffs, reliant on pockets of air and the wind. And our wiles.
I started the outline of a second bird, one that flew slightly higher than the other, shielding the one below from any elements. I didn’t know exactly who the birds were, maybe they were interchangeable or souls that inhabited who they chose, but they were necessary.
I headed down to the beach after having to do some amateur plumbing to get the sixties’ shower to work. When Janie appeared I was going to get a lecture the length of the Magna Carta about sorting out the house. It wasn’t really liveable, and Anya was right: winter and the autumn storms were going to hammer the building. It had stood there for centuries in parts, but the bits that hadn’t didn’t have much life left in them.
The beach was already busy with activity. The chef from the local restaurant was setting up the barbecue. Michael was organising an obstacle course for the kids and someone was setting up what looked like face painting. Music blasted out of an old sound system.
The sea looked silver, the lowering sun glinting on the tops of the waves that bobbed playfully. The gulls and other seabirds were further out at sea and I could see a couple of fishing boats whose shape I recognised, making the most of the good weather and heading out for a full night’s fishing, or maybe taking people out on a trip.
“Thanks for coming down.” Michael moved over to me, dressed in an old T-shirt and long shorts. He was a reserved man, one who kept himself away from the attention, preferring to just get on with things. He still lived in the town, but didn’t work at the guesthouse. He was an accountant, one of a handful on the island and mainly specialising in wealth management for the retirees who headed here for island life. “I’m not sure this is your thing.”
He was right. It wasn’t. Two years ago I’d have loved it, have brought my guitar down or even a sketch pad and drawn caricatures of people for fun, but now my scars were too visible in my expression and I didn’t want to take people’s sympathy as my medicine. It tasted too bitter.
“I don’t mind. I like people being happy.”
He nodded. “My sister. Anya.”
I felt a change in my chest. No one had seen the painting of her, because I knew there was something in it that would make the viewer ask what she was to the artist. I had no answer. I’d known the woman two days.
I looked him in the eye and waited for him to explain.
“She was upset this afternoon. I saw her through one of the windows when I was over to see Nan. You looked after her. I just wanted to say thank you.” He put his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable.
I shrugged. “She’s had a tough time.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to not say she should’ve come home earlier – not for Kim, she’s said it already. An has to do it her way. We don’t fully get it. What happened wasn’t her fault, but she blames herself. It’s hard seeing her this way. My sister isn’t quiet or emotional.” He stopped, looking out to sea. “Anyway. I shouldn’t be gossiping about her. But thanks, man. Now can you help us put those windbreakers up?”
We started to unfold them and I learned why Michael was an accountant and not an architect, given he had no idea how to sort out any form of structure. We put up a couple of teepees for the kids to go in, or for teenagers to sneak off to. Around us, the volume of voices grew and by the time we’d set up what needed to be done, the bonfire was catching on the sands and there were people flooding the beach, some going into the sea, some sitting round with beers or soft drinks for the kids.
I heard Anya before I saw her, talking with Catrin and Polly, one of the shop owners who made her own bath and body products in town. She laughed, but I didn’t hear her heart in it and mine fractured a little more for her.
It’s not your fault. You are allowed to survive.
The words weren’t mine. They’d been given to me, and I couldn’t use them. Wasted words for someone who just didn’t understand how to deal with the fact he hadn’t died.
“Gabe!”
She interrupted whatever Catrin was saying to shout my name, looking surprised that she’d been impulsive.
I felt my grin. It pulled at the sides of my mouth and I knew that around my eyes was crinkling. She looked pretty, her skin pinked from the sun and her hair loose about her shoulders. I didn’t think I could ever want to take my eyes away from her.
Catrin and Polly were silent, watching us and I felt their eyes on my skin, two assessors from some strict company.
“Have you brought marshmallows?”
Anya rolled her eyes. “Of course. We can’t have a beach barbecue without cindering sugary goodness.”
I could see Catrin’s eyes widen, her mouth shaping into a look of surprise. Figuring I was safe from being maimed by protective girl friends, I headed towards Anya, stopping about three feet away. Any closer, and I’d be holding her like I’d done earlier.
And I knew I was still grinning like an idiot.
“No one mentioned burning them. You have to watch carefully for their response to the heat, make sure they’re not getting burned by the flames too quickly. Maybe pull back some, just to get them ripe enough, so that when you do put them in your mouth they ooze all over your tongue.” Even though I kept my voice low, I knew Catrin and Polly were listening and their laughter told me they understood exactly what I meant.
“Are you still talki
ng about marshmallows?” Anya’s face wasn’t just pink with the sun now.
I laughed and stood up straighter. “Marshmallows. That’s it. Just marshmallows. Can I get you ladies drinks?” It was a sentence I hadn’t said since before the accident. My fucks and blow jobs had been the result of quiet interactions where the woman would eye me across the bar or on the beach and head my way when she could. I hadn’t always said yes, but everyone had a certain beauty and fucking my way into oblivion had been a release, some days the only one.
Not in twenty-five months had I made any sort of move towards a woman. And I wasn’t sure that offering to get drinks – that were free – would be classed as such.
“What’s the punch?” Catrin was the first to respond. As usual. Cat was always there. I saw Anders walking to her, taller, broader and quieter. The opposite to her.
“I believe it’s meant to be a Caribbean concoction.”
Catrin nodded. “Which means someone’s been cooking up homemade rum. And someone’s got coconut milk on offer.”
Polly nodded. “That’d be Francis then. Better make sure there are a couple of bins around for when people start to vomit.”
Anya’s laugh was softer and she shook her head. “I’ll tell them to add more pineapple juice to it. Tone it down. We don’t need everyone on the island hungover tomorrow.”
Catrin tapped her shoulder. “Live a little. You’re not in charge now. Let your hair down. And I don’t mean literally.”
“I know. I’ll have a beer though.” Her eyes locked on mine as she spoke, questioning, unsure.
“Punch for me and the second bestie.” Catrin dug Polly in the ribs. “And Anders will have a beer.” Anders was now standing behind her, eyeing her as if he was well aware of what he’d be taking home later.
“And next week we’re back on a boat, so make the most of it.” His accent was becoming less strong.
