Maker of Footprints
Page 37
Hazel was helping to build a huge sandcastle some distance beyond Cora. Hazel had grown old; the sum of grief and years had creased her skin at last. Her journey had mirrored Paul’s. From denial she had travelled through anger and fear and then an acceptance that had drained her energy and left her weak. Because of this, Jenna formed a bond with her. The two women, united by an inexpressible loss, found expression in the silent communion of mutual pain.
The only one missing was Adam; Uncle Adam, who could not get the day off. He was still single, older and wiser. Jenna had made her peace with him and hoped that he would be a good uncle.
The excited chatter of a small child was loud as she approached. Toddling from behind the sandcastle came a small body, shimmering with clinging sand. He was holding out something in his hand and was bursting to explain in the new wonder of words. “Mummy, Mummy! Daddy shell! Daddy shell!”
He reached up sandy fingers and she took the shell. It was a razor shell, just like the one he had known all his short life.
“We’ll take this one home, shall we? We can put it beside Daddy’s shell.”
The razor shell sat on the mantelpiece beside the photograph of Paul that she had taken at this spot, when he was only hours from death. Paul must have known that and had deliberately made sure that the last picture she would have of him was a happy one.
She lifted her son and smoothed his hair. It was very fair, although already it was beginning to darken. He would probably grow to be as dark as his father.
But where are you now, Paul? How could you just leave me like this? Without a sign, without anything? I’m cross with you!
And then he was there. Her eyes widened at the chimera by the edge of the sea, feet apart and hands on hips, just out of reach of the nearest wave, teasing her. His long coat was battered by the wind, his face was alive and dancing in the light of the sea, the foam of the breakers crashing behind him.
Her little boy went still, looking where she was looking. Then it was over, gone. The memory that had nestled in her brain for so long had welled up to comfort her; that was all. Then she became aware of the child’s face close to hers as he leaned back in her arms to look at her. His eyes were puzzled, a little frown between them.
With a sudden jerk he swung round and pointed to the sea. “Daddy?” he asked.
Her breath caught. “Did you see Daddy?”
He turned back to her and nodded, a slow movement of certainty. Then he was wriggling again. “Down! Down!”
She set him on his feet and he scampered to his granny squealing that he wanted to knock down the castle now. Jenna sat on the boulder and bent her head. A tiny sand beetle struggled across a shred of seaweed.
Sunshine swelled across her and warmed her like the touch of hands upon her head. In the sand at her feet there was a scuffling of small footprints where her child had jumped around, excited, in the place where Paul had left his own last mark.
Her spirit surged into life. She stretched her arms like wings unfurling from a chrysalis. She had known the love that puts strength in the heart, and that would never leave her, but it was a flare to light the years ahead, not a candle to throw shadows on the past. He had been right, so right. He was gone now, but she was ready for the future, a mature woman who had much to give, worlds to find and boundaries to leap.
Her son danced round the sandcastle squealing in glee: dancing, running, jumping, until the sand was a chaos of small footprints, this way and that, pointed right and left, deep and shallow, more and more and more of them until they were countless beneath his feet.
Did she wish none of it had happened? That she had turned this way instead of that way?
No. A hundred times No.
Author’s Note
IAM GRATEFUL to my wonderful sons, Malcolm and Wesley, for their help and encouragement in enabling this second edition of Maker of Footprints to make an appearance. Special thanks also to Lisa Dynan for the fabulous cover design. Thank you, Lisa, for your talent and patience!
Thank you to all the staff at Colourpoint for being a great team and for being generous with their advice and experience. Even so, any mistakes are mine alone, I’m afraid.
Very many of the places described in Maker of Footprints are real places that I know well. I am particularly fond of Rossnowlagh, a beautiful strand on the west coast of Donegal, facing Donegal Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. I spent many happy days there as a child and have revisited often in adulthood. It has changed over the years and one of the most significant developments has been the growth of the local hotel, The Sandhouse Hotel and Marine Spa, the hotel of the narrative. Many of the rooms have a fabulous view over Donegal Bay.
Gortin Glen, one of Paul Shepherd’s favourite places, is near the village of Gortin, not far from Omagh in Co Tyrone. I lived in Omagh for twenty-three years and knew Gortin Glen well, although I wasn’t as lucky as Paul to see one of the local red squirrels.
For Jenna’s family home, I have drawn on my memories of the house I lived in as a teenager in Co Antrim, not far from an airfield that was used during the war. Over the back fence, there were the remains of huts, much as I have described.
I do hope you have enjoyed this story. If you have any comments, you can email me at: sheilaturnerjohnston@gmail.com.
Sheila Turner Johnston
Bangor, Co Down
April 2019