by John Heap
The Call of the Sea
By John Heap
Copyright 2012 John Heap
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The Call of the Sea
It was early morning and Peter Farris, camera bag over his shoulder, was walking along a deserted Marine Drive in Southport. He was supposed to be working but that morning the light was flat, grey and disappointing. Noticing the bright beads of water collecting on his fleece he realised that the once soft drizzle was now more insistent and that his waterproof was still in his bag. He looked up ahead to see a brightly painted shelter guarded by a solitary gull perched on the seawall railings. On reaching the shelter, he nodded to the gull but then stopped, startled by the presence of a young woman. After an awkward moment of indecision, he sat down.
She looked across at him.
He removed his jacket from the bag and spent a long time putting it on; his goal of a smooth action followed by a smooth exit confounded by the awareness of being observed.
But to be fair he was observing too.
At art school he had unwittingly developed an ‘artist’s eye’, and from even the briefest of glances he was building up a picture of the girl. She was casually dressed, with faded jeans and an equally faded t-shirt, over which she wore a dark tan leather jacket. She looked eastern European; perhaps Polish and her short dark hair matched her equally dark eyes set above striking cheekbones. Peter had never seen such striking cheekbones.
After lovingly re-fastening his bag, he looked out to the sands. Out there, at a distance almost beyond reckoning, was the economical line that provided both the horizon and the hint of a sea. Southport has a landscape that is based on this line. On the edges of this curving thread are the hills, pale Welsh on the left, dark Cumbrian on the right, in the space between are balanced the ships from Liverpool, the gas platform, and sometimes, to the annoyance of the quiet people of this borough, that shimmering symbol of northern class, Blackpool Tower.
‘Do you come here often?’ she asked.
Peter didn’t know how to react to this opening line, he thought that she must be joking, but then they were in an Edwardian rain shelter overlooking a desolate beach at eight-thirty in the morning, so perhaps she wasn’t.
‘Not often.’ he said hesitantly, but on looking across he saw she was smiling.
‘I do.’ she paused then more quietly, ‘Every day.’
She looked out through the rain to the sea again, and they were both silent for a while.
Then she turned and said brightly ‘My name’s Maria, what’s yours?’
‘Peter.’ he said and turned to face her, ‘You mean you come here every morning?’
‘Hello Peter, it is good to meet you’, she replied then continued, ‘I like it here, at least at this time of year, and the view of the sea is good is it not?’
From a pocket she took out an almost flat cigarette packet and extracted an equally flat cigarette which she carefully moulded back to shape. Looking across she saw Peter watching and with a smile she offered it to him.
For some reason he accepted it. She took another for herself, and then moved closer to light them.
‘Thanks.’ he said and inhaled rather too deeply.
The dizzying hit was immediate. This was his first smoke for three years. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken it, but it was as if his life was now something else, different from a minute ago, and that all those old rules no longer applied.
‘So Peter,’ said Maria, watching him struggle, ‘what brings you out here?’
‘I’m a photographer, early in the morning the air’s clear and the light can be fantastic...’ he trailed off as he realised she wasn’t particularly listening but was again staring out to sea.
He took another drag on his cigarette and was about to ask her about herself when she shuddered, looked at her watch, stamped her cigarette out, and stood up, zipping her jacket.
‘It’s turning.’ she said, still staring out, ‘I must go now.’
As she made to leave, Peter quickly rose and asked, ‘But will I see you here again, tomorrow?’
She looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time, her eyes struggling to refocus from the distant horizon.
‘Maria, the same time tomorrow?’ Peter persevered loudly; as if afraid she couldn’t hear him above the wind.
‘No, I’ll be an hour later.’ She replied and with that she was gone, enveloped by the gathering storm.
