by Annie Dyer
The small fishing port is said to be in deep shock that something so tragic has happened on its doorstep.
Julia Stretton, formerly Julia Stanley, was born in Wolversham. She was the daughter of the business man, Hubert Stanley, who lost his fortune after being sued by his former partner. Her funeral will take place on Thursday at St Michael’s and All Angels Church in Wolversham. Mourners are welcome to attend.
“You know about Aunt Marcy?”
“Know what about her?” Nan eyed me.
“This couple stayed here. Donald and Julia Stretton. Marcy had saved a bunch of letters. I didn’t realise Julia died.”
Nan stood up and stretched. “Marcy had secrets. Over the years, I discovered a few, especially when she got older and her friends that she’d grown up with were few and far between.”
“Did you know about the letters?”
She headed to the door. “This was a local mystery. Occupy your mind with it. Find out a little bit more about how life isn’t black and white.”
I read the next of Marcy’s letters next, my hair still wet against my thin dressing gown, my body still quietly aching. Occasionally my thoughts would drift to Gabe, but I didn’t analyse. I didn’t wonder if he was thinking of me, or whether we’d have a repeat. We’d see. And I lost myself in a piece of history that had almost stopped existing.
Dear Alice,
I was so excited to receive your letter! It sounds like you’re having a smashing time in Cardiff and I wonder if you find Arthur a little more than interesting. If you can, I’d love to receive one of his books, even though I’m not sure I’ll find time to read it this summer. I do hope you aren’t planning to stay there permanently though. It’s strange here without you, although I doubt we’d have had much time to drink our teas and sit on the beach given the busyness of the guesthouse.
I saw Donald again last night. It feels strange to call him Donald rather than Mr Stretton, but Mr Stretton seems odd too. I feel as if I know him a little already even though we’ve only spoken briefly. I don’t quite understand it. The sky, as it does at the height of summer, had changed rapidly from blue to black, and only a few stars were visible, such was the cloud cover. It’s still my routine to take a walk most nights across the beach, to smell the fresh sea air and take in the clarity that night time brings with it. You used to tease me about doing this, but it’s still one of the few ways I can still my mind before I go to sleep. The day had gone much as usual, the chores had been done and I had cleaned the vacated rooms thoroughly. It was a task Clara used to do, although even four years later I’m still unaccustomed to the task and I really dislike cleaning up after people- some are just so untidy and dirty, especially the ones who look so grand.
The evening’s the only time I have to myself. Yesterday was filled with other people and their problems. Peter at the inn had been short staffed at lunchtime so I had found myself helping out there. The talk was of Donald Stretton and his visit to the village, about how much damage he could do to the jobs of men who worked on the boats and whether his father would decide to share his stake in the boats and to whom. I said nothing all day, merely smiling and nodding appropriately. I knew it didn’t do to gossip, and even if I had told Jennifer of what he had said, she wouldn’t go blathering to anyone. If we were reputed to be gossips then no one would want to stay at the guesthouse.
Some of the women who came in at lunchtime were full of wanting to know how Mrs Stretton had been dressed, and what the fashions were like that she chose to wear. I answered honestly until Martha Grey asked what Mrs Stretton had gone to the doctors’ with. Then I pretended that I knew nothing at all. It was amazing how quickly the slightest bit of news runs across the village. But then it surprises me what news manages to stay well-hidden too.
Donald was dressed in a shirt and slacks when I saw him last night. He was barefoot, carrying his shoes in one hand as he walked the water’s edge. His face was lit by the moon and he carried a thoughtful expression on his face. Still there was no Julia. This has stopped surprising me. She reminds me of one of the wives in a Victorian novel, where they are pale and sallow and can do very little.
I was sitting on the rocks, my usual post, where I could see the boats as they sailed away from the jetty, night fishing. The lighthouse was flickering, Walter having gone to his position for the night, warning the sailors of the treacherous rocks below. He hasn’t changed; he was asking about you the other day.
The night was still, the wind little more than a gentle breeze, one of those nights when we would’ve giggled and ran around the garden if we were still children. I could hear callings of birds not yet settled for the night and I wondered about my father who had gone out of one of his rare fishing trips, still unable to permanently keep his feet on dry land, however much my mother fretted when he was on the water.
I was aware that Donald could not see me. Hidden in shadows, I had a good view of the scene, lit by a crescent moon and the lighthouse’s beacon. He didn’t know I was there. I studied his form, his head was held higher than it had been this morning and the previous evening; he looked more relaxed, more confident. One hand was in his trouser pocket, the other still holding his brogues. He had turned and was looking out toward the sea, the waves toppling in to shore with the irresistible pull of the moon. I stood and felt really quite uncomfortable watching him, as if I was a spy for the men at the inn. I clambered down from my spot and began to walk stealthily to him and the sea, the area, my territory, giving me confidence.
“Mr Stretton,” I said, alerting him to my presence. “It’s not often anyone walks around here at this time.”
“Marcy,” he said to me. “I thought I was alone.”
“I apologise if I am intruding, sir,” I said, not meaning it. This was my time on this beach.
“Don’t,” he turned toward me. “It’s nice to have the company. I’ve spent much of the day without anyone to talk to.” He smiled and the moon dimmed further.
“How is Mrs Stretton?” I asked, although I found I was not missing her company.
“She is not too bad. The doctor could find little wrong with her. He told her the sea air would help strengthen her constitution, but that is not one of her concerns. She has spent much of the day asleep or reading in bed,” he said. His tone was grim and lacked the patience it had had in the morning.
“Perhaps she would be better for some company,” I suggested. “She should come down to the sitting area after breakfast. There are several ladies who meet there at that time; some play bridge and some simply talk. I’m sure she would enjoy it.”
“I will suggest it to her,” he said, not smiling. “Maybe she will partake. Maybe she won’t. It will depend on her mood.”
I smiled, knowing that he would not be able to see my expression. It sounded that he frequently suffered at the hands of his wife.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I intend to take a look at my father’s boats and put the men out of their misery. I suspect that many of them are fearing for their jobs,” he said, giving me a conspiratorial smile.
“The boats have never looked so clean,” I said. “Your visit will clearly have done some good. I don’t think it does any harm to have them cease being so complacent from time to time.”
“I agree,” he fell silent for a few seconds while a gull called noisily overhead. “If you don’t mind me asking, Marcy, where were you educated?”
“Here, at the village school. Well, not here exactly, but in Menai, about six miles inland,” I said, surprised at his question. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you don’t speak like I would expect a fishing village girl to,” he told me.
I was surprised to see his skin colour redden. I laughed, hoping to put him at ease.
“My mother encouraged us to read books. We have all of Dickens’ works and the Bronte sisters and more besides. It’s something I enjoy when I have the time,” I said. “Of course, I don’
t particularly share that with the guests here; otherwise I am sure that my parents would be berated for letting me have the time to read when I should probably be doing chores.”
“I imagine some of them would be impressed. Julia reads, but never classic novels. She says they bore her,” he said as we began to walk along the beach together.
“Tell her to try The Scarlet Letter or The Awakening, I’m sure that no one can find them boring,” I said, cringing at the enthusiasm in my voice.
He laughed and then noticed my crestfallen look. “I’m sorry, Marcy,” he said, the amusement still there. “But it is nice to hear someone else be vocal about novels and reading. Too few people are and I often find myself in a minority when discussing such things.”
“What do you read?” I asked. He began to tell me as time slipped away, the sea merging into the darkened sky. We passed what must have been almost an hour discussing books and I completely forgot my promise to Jennifer to play her at cards.
I was reminded when I heard her voice calling me. She of course knew my habit of strolling across the sands in the evening. I stopped, Donald looking round at the same time as me.
“Are you playing or what?” She asked, appearing from out of the shadows.
“I’m sorry, I’ve kept you again,” Donald said, a hand running through his hair. I had noticed that it was a habit he had for when he was concerned.
“Not at all,” Jennifer said. “My sister has always been the flighty one!”
“I would never believe that,” Donald said. He made my cheeks turn crimson this time.
“Would you like to join us?” I asked, unsure whether it was something he would consider when his wife was lying ill in bed.
“That would be very kind, thank you,” he said. He surprised both of us when he said that. I thought he would be the dutiful husband and stick to Julia’s side, but maybe he needed something more.
I feel like I’m writing you a book with all of this but putting it on paper makes it clearer in my mind. I’m finding it difficult to stop thinking about him and I know that’s wrong. He’s married, Alice, and I shouldn’t be thinking of him like this. I wish you were here so you could talk some sense into me.
I’m looking forward to hearing more about Arthur!
Love,
Marcy
Gabe
It was the first time I’d brought an easel and paints down to the beach. The tide was heading out, leaving enough smooth solid sand for me to set up on and the wind had dropped considerably since the heavy rain on Saturday. I hadn’t painted outside of the barn yet, but I’d seen other people on the island doing so, setting up windbreakers or using their vehicles to keep their canvas shielded.
It was Tuesday, although given that I didn’t have a Monday to Friday job any more, the day of the week was almost irrelevant. I’d been out on the boats yesterday morning and then met the client on the island, biking to meet him with my laptop and camera in my backpack. He’d been amused by an architect turning up without a big car and a suit rather than put off, which had gone in his favour when I’d agreed to take on the job. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to handle doing a design without Ryan. While I’d walked the building, I’d heard his voice, pointing out the features I would’ve missed. He was the restoration expert, I was green and that’s how we’d been through university, through our placements, when we started out on our careers.
I started to paint, sketching out first. This was a picture only for me, at least for now it was. Snowdonia ranged across the Strait and I saw Ryan there. Somehow I was going to capture that on canvas, with colour and light, rather than solid form. Something different that the landscapes and seascapes I’d been doing.
“I’ve brought you some sandwiches.”
I broke suddenly from my concentration. The sun was lowering, putting time at late afternoon. The voice was one I’d thought about more than Ryan in the last couple of days and its owner stood in front of me wearing a long dress. I knew she wouldn’t have underwear on but that wasn’t what captivated me at that moment.
We’d seen in each other fleetingly over the last couple of days. The guesthouse had been busy and her sister had been officially put on bed rest. The new employee needed training and a member of staff had left to visit home where he had a sick relative. I’d been out on the boats and had started to sketch out ideas for my house, keeping Ryan’s voice in my head. I’d started to draw up blueprints for it too and had found myself lost in the dimensions and the possibilities.
Maybe I was moving on.
Maybe.
“I had no idea what time it was.” I stood up and headed over to her. She carried an old wicker basket filled with what looked like sandwiches and cake, very Victorian or some period of history I should’ve known more about.
“Clearly. I spotted you down here earlier and figured you were lost in your work.” She pulled out a blanket and spread it out on the sand that was softer and drier than it had been earlier. It was still warm, still a record June for the area, but not a boiling as it had been before the rain.
I covered my paints up and headed over to where she was bringing out food. Hunger hit me, another reminder that I hadn’t died. For months I hadn’t felt the urge to eat. The time I spent in hospital between surgeries on my spine had seen me lose almost a quarter of my body weight, muscle wasting. I felt guilty for how I’d handled it now, at the way I’d let it hurt the people around me even more. Everyone lost Ryan and I hadn’t wanted to live, so I hadn’t tried. It had been Janie and my nephews that had made me pull myself into something other than a ghost.
“This looks great.” I sat down next to her, our legs touching and she gave me a smile that warmed me more than any hot summer.
There was a shy shrug. “We were doing picnic baskets for some of guests so I figured I’d make extra for us. That’s if you want to share a late lunch with me.”
I put my hand on her back and felt her body stretch, move into my touch. “Only if I can buy you dinner.”
Her smile was genuine. “I’d like that.”
“Good. So would I. How about the tapas place in Beaumaris?” I had no idea how we would get there. Maybe a bus. I could handle a bus. Or boat.
There was a nod. “Definitely. Tell me about what you’re painting. It’s beautiful.”
I wrapped one arm around her and started to attack the sandwiches with the other. She’d made typically British sandwiches, cucumber without the crusts, pate, ham and mustard. Then there were scotch eggs and tiny pies, with ready made up scones for afterwards, like something my sister would prepare for her boys if they were going out for the day.
“It’s the mountains over there.”
“That’s the blues?”
“Yep. The yellow and white are kind of people who we’ve lost.” I didn’t know how else to explain it as it sounded pathetic and weak.
“Ryan?”
“Ryan.”
She kissed the side of my face. “Eat.”
We finished our food in silence, bodies touching, watching the sun as it glided over the mountains on a never-ending journey.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Her words were quiet, almost drowned out by the sound of the waves. “I’m sorry about Ryan and everything you’ve been through, but I’m glad you’re here.”
I didn’t know if I could tell her that I was too, because that felt too much like being grateful for the crash, but right now I felt peace like I hadn’t in months, years even.
“I’m glad I’m with you. I wish he could’ve been here to meet you and see it here. Although you’d have probably spent Saturday night with him and not me.” We’d had few competitions over women, sometimes just because Ryan figured he could. He’d have liked Anya, but not for himself. For me.
“Probably not.” She leaned further into me, her soft skin warm against mine.
I shifted us so she sat between my legs and could lean onto my back. I couldn’t see her as we spoke, but I could feel her and hold her
. Holding her seemed crucial at the moment, the prolonged contact essential in reminding me that merely existing wasn’t the only option.
“I like you.” Her words were simple.
“Why?”
She laughed gently. “Because I do. How you helped me when I was upset; how you listen and understand without me having to explain. I know we’ve both been through similar sorts of losses and I guess that’s why I feel easy around you. And you’re hot.” She grabbed my bicep as best she could. “These are pretty good, you know.”
“I get it. You’re all about the muscle.” I wrapped my arms around her. “That’s all I’m wanted for. That, and my dick.”
Her laugh was louder this time. “You have other qualities.” Soft hair fell against my chest and arms. I remembered waking up with it across me, like some kind of princess had fallen asleep in my pauper’s bed.
“I’d ask you to elaborate but I don’t think you’re going to want to feed my ego.”
She kissed my arm. “I don’t think you have an ego to feed. I think the crash has stripped you of it.”
My words were on the wings of a seagull as it flew out to sea.
“Gabe. I get the guilt that you feel. But guilt isn’t going to reverse time and stop that driver being on the wrong side of the road.”
“I know.”
And I did. I didn’t deny that what she said wasn’t true. There was nothing I could do and nothing I could’ve done then. I’d replayed everything through over and over, trying to work out where I’d gone wrong and if I could’ve gone back, I didn’t know what I’d be able to change. Maybe stop Ryan from having one last drink, or let him have another, and we wouldn’t have been on the same road at the same time as the drunk driver, but that would’ve required the ability to see the future.
