by Annie Dyer
I write too much of myself, Marcy, and do not consider your feelings. The truth is that I no longer know what the future can hold for us. In this state of purgatory I am no use to you. I am reluctant to take you away from the village and bring you to this life that could be filled with misery, for that seems to be all that I have caused.
However, I am desperate to see you, to be able to hold you and touch you as if you were mine all over again. I may be able to escape Julia’s parents for a weekend, to find an excuse to check on the boats, although I doubt my father will want me to, given he will imagine the horrific memories it may hold for me.
It doesn’t. I have only recollections of you. It is as if Julia has blurred into a fine mist, as if she were a bad dream, but you are as clear as the midday sun, warming me just by my thought of you.
I shall come soon, Marcy, as soon as I can. Then we can discuss how to play this hand that fate has dealt us.
With all my love,
Don
He was awake when I finished, just very still.
“Do you think he pushed Julia off the boat?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted his answer.
Gabe said nothing for a moment and my chest pained a little.
“I don’t want him to have.”
He shook his head. “Honestly, no. If he wanted your aunt, she was there for the taking. He didn’t need to be divorced or widowed.”
“Good.”
He kissed me and took the diary from my hands, placing it on a shelf above the bed. “I think he loved her. And he wanted to be with her. What happened was a tragedy and from what your nan said, it was one they found difficult to overcome afterwards.”
“But they got there.”
“They did.”
He kissed me again. The apocalypse had passed.
We would survive.
I left a week later. September had brought storms with it, the holidaymakers having left the island with August. I’d always had excitement for the new school year, keen to sort my displays and make my classroom as exciting as I could for my new pupils, but this year that enthusiasm wasn’t there. Lorna had been in touch with the gossip and details about the new teachers that had been employed, and updates on her tasty chef, but even that hadn’t been enough to make me feel the slightest bit of excitement about going back to London.
I wouldn’t have Calen’s class this year. They were moving up a year group and I was moving up two, to year three, a year group I adored and had taught before. The fear of seeing little faces I’d associate with a boy who would never grow up wasn’t there and although moments existed where I would be overwhelmed with guilt and grief, I could see light filtering through them.
Every summer I left my family to go back to work. Every summer I had felt sadness at leaving them, mixed in with a healthy dose of relief. This year that relief was negligible.
Kim had come home with the baby; Harry had adjusted to being a big brother to the extent he had warned Gabe’s nephews away from her; the guesthouse was booked up from September through till the end of November with guests seeking off-season rates and visiting friends and family who made the island their home.
Life was good. It was strawberries and honey and sweet wine.
And I had to say goodbye to Gabe.
Our last week together tasted of freshly harvested apples and mead. We drank each other up as if we had just crossed the desert and were dehydrated, all the while knowing that we were going to be hours apart and unable to touch for the next couple of months. I couldn’t get away for a weekend. I needed to sort out my class and go back to the grind of work and nurturing the friendships I had in London. And look for another job.
He needed to decide what he was going to be and although we never spoke about the night when he wouldn’t get into the car with Harry, it hung over us like a sea fret, one that hadn’t cleared for days.
There was nothing for us to say about it. I was leaving. I couldn’t stay any longer no matter what I was going to do. My school had supported me; I owed them and the children to make sure they had a successful start to the school year at the very least. There was no discussion to be had around it.
And there was also Gabe’s need to release his dependence on hiding in his cave. We didn’t talk about it: the guilt he carried, the fear he had. Because talking would only reinforce what we already knew.
Time apart was not the choice I would’ve made, but it was the only one we had. None of that made walking through the door into my London flat any easier.
The air was stale and I felt the haunting of sleepless nights and nightmares. After the vaulted skies of home, this felt claustrophobic and crammed, lacking the space around and above me. I slumped down on my sofa, knowing that I wasn’t going to be unpacking for a few days. My phone was in my hand and I started to scroll through the photos I’d taken the last few weeks: Kim with the baby, Harry with his cast, Nan yelling at someone – possibly me for taking the photo. Then there were photos of Gabe, his paintings, him on his mattress about to ambush me with a pillow.
Jesus. I missed him.
A photo appeared that I didn’t remember taking. It was a little blurred, a mirror selfie with a hand held towards the mirror. With a heart drawn on the hand.
I stared at the photo, seeing his grin and the light in his eyes. There was an innocence to the picture, a sweetness I hadn’t known since I was a bit more than a kid. My heart sang, its melody loud and clear.
My Wi-Fi was down, which didn’t surprise me given the length of time the place had been empty, my housemate having left a month or two ago. I managed to fix it and dug out my tablet, by-passing the emails that were waiting for my attention and the social media notifications. I found the website where most schools advertised their vacancies and headed straight for within a thirty-mile radius of the island. Even if this with Gabe didn’t work out, even if we were just meant to have a summer romance, it was time to go back home.
I still felt grief. I always would. But where there was grief, there was love too.
Gabe
September
“This is the bit where I don’t breathe for ten minutes.” The site manager’s sense of humour came from the gallows.
“It’s all good.” I managed to say the words although watching the huge pane of glass being fitted was the closest I’d come to having to screw up my eyes and demand a cushion to hide behind.
It was one of the final external pieces of construction, three windows that would allow views across the coastline. For weeks, the spaces where they would go had been boarded up, waiting for the glass to be ready.
Now it was, and the house – my house – had started to become what I’d planned. I had a studio on one side, looking out across the sea. Above it was a study where I would install a drafting table, the light that would come in perfect for what I needed.
I watched a while longer as the final sheet of glass was installed, hearing the site manager finally exhale. I headed inside, wanting to see the view I’d be moving into in a few more weeks.
End of October. We were actually ahead of schedule. Another five weeks and I’d be living somewhere other than a barn and have a bedroom with an ensuite. The ensuite reminded me of Anya and I’d fitted it with her in mind: low level lights that were motion sensitive were being installed, enough storage and shelves, walk-through shower. We’d had a conversation about it before she’d left, where she’d told me everything that was missing when we slept in the barn.
I’d heard from her daily. Nothing deep or intense, just day-to-day messages about her job, the kids she had, life in London. I’d sent her pictures of the house and the sea, sometimes selfies taken at the bar and especially when Catrin had decided that a hangover was fair payment for a night that got far too wild and ended in her proposing to Anders. She hadn’t remembered it the day after, but there’d been enough video evidence to make her glad that her latest research project meant she’d be at sea for three weeks. With Anders.
I’d kept the ho
use as light as possible and opened up the older, original building so there was a seamless change from the old into the new. Small rooms had become larger, fireplaces opened back up and wood burning stoves installed. Solar panels had been added and I’d found other ways to produce energy that would’ve made Ryan proud of me. Four weeks had made a massive difference. Four weeks of missing Anya. Four weeks of finding parts of me that I’d lost.
I spoke to the glazier, then found my phone hidden under a set of paintbrushes. There were a couple of messages from my sister, another asking if I was going to the bar tonight and then one from Anya.
Half-term in four weeks!
She hadn’t said yet that she was coming home for the break, but I’d figured it was likely. Her being back, even for a short time, could not be my focus though. That had shifted.
I headed back out and found my bike, jumping on it cycling down the quiet roads towards Llangefni. There was a therapist based there, a man in his sixties who specialised in pretty much everything as the island was small and mostly the sea counselled people who needed healing. I’d had nine sessions so far. A start.
His door was open as always when I finally got there, my bike chained to nearby railings. The office was traditional, lined with books and a leather chesterfield sofa that seemed almost too much a cliché, but given that the reality complied with the expectations, it was less scary.
“How’ve you been?” His name was Chad and he passed me a glass of water like he always did.
“Better. The house is looking like it might be liveable.”
He nodded, gesturing for me to sit down. I did, that slight pinch of nerves there as always.
“For you?”
“I think so.”
“How do you feel about it being yours? This place that you’ve designed.”
I stared at the water. In my first session I’d talked about how I didn’t know if I could live in it, that the barn was a better space and I didn’t need more than that. He’d made me explore why I thought I didn’t deserve more and at first I’d been unable to find the words, then they’d come. And as I heard them, I heard what Ryan would.
“Proud. It’s been an almost perfect project.”
“And you’ve decided to have your studio there?”
“I’d be stupid not to. The house is massive. I don’t need to leave it if I don’t want to.”
“You sound like you would though. Want to tell me about the last few days? Did you manage to do what we talked about?”
And both the hardest and easiest forty-five minutes began. We didn’t speak about Anya, because this wasn’t about her. I thought of her often, but the choices I was making weren’t determined by her. Or even Ryan.
Chad’s office was awash with neutrals, the colours kept away so people could bring their own. I’d painted it early on after my second or third session, focusing on the window and the light that fell through, the silhouette of the counsellor dark as he reclined in his chair, shadows cast about him, some of his belongings illuminated by the brightness. I hadn’t finished it yet, but I already had a buyer.
Catrin, because she was an irritant, had filmed me painting one day while I wasn’t aware and had uploaded it to social media and a couple of other websites. It had been picked up and all of a sudden, I had a following who were interested in my art.
My website had seen an increase in traffic and sales quadrupled. The partners in my firm had messaged me, taking the piss over my change in career.
A month. It had pretty much been one month. And I’d moved on from hiding away in my cave.
“Next week,” Chad said. “The day before and the day after.”
I nodded, standing. “Sounds like a plan.”
“It’s good to have a plan. Think of it as being a backbone that holds everything together. You just need to work to put the flesh on it. And the muscle.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t hard and that there won’t be days when you don’t want to go outside or fulfil your commitments.”
“I know. Some mornings I wake up to the sound of metal crunching.” Because those days were still there, especially because I didn’t have Anya next to me to lose myself in.
“So what do you do?”
This was one of the first things I’d talked about in my first couple of sessions, how not to let the tide of grief pull me under.
“Make coffee. Eat breakfast. Check the news. My emails. Look at the sea.”
Chad gave a nod so slight it was barely noticeable. “Patterns. Routines. We need them. Go make that call.”
I walked outside into the autumn sun.
And I made that call.
Catrin was at the bar by herself when I got there. She had a pint of beer in front of her and was staring at it as if she was about to turn the drink into liquid gold.
“What’s up?” I rarely asked anyone that question because I figured if they wanted to tell me they would without me prompting them. Cat was different. She’d mull over something until you took off the lid and left her to overshare.
“Nothing. I don’t know. It’s weird.”
I raised my brows then gave the bartender a nod for a beer. “What’s weird?”
“I feel wonky.”
“That’s your normal state, isn’t it?”
“Fuck off.”
I laughed. Irritating her had become a sport. “Missing being at sea?”
She shrugged. “Anders has gone back home for a week to see his gran.”
“And you’re missing him?”
She shook her head. “He’s a booty call. Why would I miss him?”
“Because you’ve spent most of the year glued next to him. And proposed?”
She tapped her glass. “Have you heard from Anya?”
“A few times today. Swift change of subject.”
“I’m good at those. Just need to work on their smoothness. She’s applied for a job in Bangor. An assistant head teacher position. She said I could tell you.”
I wondered why she hadn’t told me herself. For a second I felt annoyed, maybe hurt that she hadn’t told me, but our messages weren’t anything life changing.
“That’s good. It feels quiet without her.”
Cat’s head twisted to stare at me quick enough to give her whiplash. “It feels quiet without her? Are you insane, Gabriel? I’d have thought you’d have been doing cartwheels at the idea of her being back so you can spend every evening and weekend fucking like rabid bunnies?”
It had been too long since I’d been inside her. My hand had become too accustomed to soap and the shower and thoughts of Anya. Cat’s comment made me ache. I wanted my good little school teacher back in my bed with her legs spread wide.
“Fucking too right. But she needs to apply for this job because it’s for her, not for me.”
I felt Cat’s glare. “Does that mean you’re not interested in her?”
I looked away. “You know that’s not the case. But I can’t be the reason why she comes back home. Just like she can’t be the sole reason I’m trying to sort my life out.”
I felt Cat’s eyes on me before I met them with my own. Her expression was softer, not as accusing as it had been.
“I do get it. And it’s probably healthier. Just you seemed to make each other happy over summer.”
“Summer romance.” I accepted the drink passed to me.
She shook her head. “Me and Anders were meant to be a work’ fling. I think it’s gone on a bit too long for that. How often do you hear from Anya?”
“A few times a day. Just messages. We haven’t spoken at all.” I didn’t want to speak to her over the phone; that would make not having her there to hold ten times worse.
“Surprise her. Pay her a visit.” Cat’s tone was challenging. I’d told her about the therapist I was seeing, and about travelling.
“I have to to go to London next month.”
“Why not arrange to meet up?”
�
�Maybe.” Maybe I needed more time. Maybe she did.
“That should stop the ivy from growing back – hopefully.” I put down the tools I’d been using.
“It’ll be back. It always returns.” Nan sat down. She looked tired. Her new great-granddaughter had been keeping them awake and I knew she was worried about Anya.
“Maybe not. I’ll keep an eye on it in spring and see if it starts to grow back. If it does, I’ll try something else.”
“You’re definitely staying then?”
I studied her. So this was what this conversation was about.
“That’s the plan.”
“I heard the island council had commissioned you to do the refurb on old Lyme Manor.”
“News really does travel fast.” I’d only heard about it myself two days before
Nan grinned. “Wasn’t sure if it was true but you’re incapable of telling a lie. How long will that take you?”
“Months, if not a year. We don’t really know the extent yet of what can be saved so there will be a few stages of planning. And once that’s underway, I’m looking at the hall that’s on the same site.”
“What’s it going to be used for?”
“Museum, new library. Then artists’ studios and a shopping outlet, but for independent traders. That’s all I’ve been told so far and it could change.” I wasn’t telling her anything more than what would be available in the public domain in the next day or two, and I didn’t know any more. Only the first phase of restoring the manor was one hundred percent certain.
“So you’re becoming an islander?”
“I thought it took twenty years to become an islander.” Morris Glenworthy, who ran a local baker’s, was still referred to as a newcomer even though he’d been there fifteen years.
