by Erin Green
I have no idea what Dean might advise, apart from his standard phrase: ‘always complete’.
I need inspiration. As beautiful as the cove is, a composition has to have a focal point, otherwise it’s simply a pretty watercolour. I don’t want to produce chocolate-box images. I want to be a true artist, like the one featured in the gallery’s window – they aim high, so why shouldn’t I? I need to express myself and paint with passion to capture an honest interpretation of the surrounding world.
I scan the cove, searching for something, though I’m not sure what: a glimmer of light on the water, perhaps; an interesting feature high on the rock face; any focal point other than the lighthouse.
That’s when I spot it, way out from the shoreline. It’s tiny at first, just a ripple breaking the surface of the sea, but as it comes closer, a seal’s pointed face is clearly visible above the water line.
My breath snags in my throat; I’m spellbound.
An infectious buzz starts up amongst the swimmers, both in the water and those drying or undressing upon the water’s edge. Everyone turns and watches entranced as the seal dips and dives about the cove. It appears on one side of the cove only to vanish from view again, causing heads to swivel and scan the waters to see where it will pop up next.
After a twenty-minute master class for the cove’s swimming fraternity, the creature leaves as quietly as it arrived.
But not without delivering my muse.
Emma
I return home in a foul mood, having spent my entire morning in the computer section of the local library, shushing the noisy teenagers who’d rather chat than study. My heightened annoyance probably reflects my struggle to draft, scrap and redraft a feasible CV that will convey my talents as a chef, despite my limited experience, whilst minimising my deep-fat-frying expertise. I’ve gone overboard about my ice cream production, even creating a mini menu to entice and influence prospective bosses. I didn’t realise how much places charge to print on coloured card, but needs must.
I sit and admire my slimline menus with their fancy font. I might have stretched the truth just a tad; I haven’t actually attempted all the combinations listed. But if any establishment asks me for interview, I’ll ensure the blends work, and even take samples with me. In my opinion, there’s something for everyone in my flavour selection.
Avocado and crab
Black walnut
Roasted turmeric and candied ginger
Sweetcorn and butter
Goat’s cheese and beetroot
Green tea
Lavender and honey
Cardamom and black pepper
Horseradish
Fig and balsamic vinegar
Peanut butter and jam
Rhubarb and ginger
Champagne and violet
Guinness
Pink gin
I pile the rest of my freshly printed stationery on the dining-room table to make an immediate start at folding, sealing and addressing. I settle down to the laborious but necessary task. It feels good to be doing something constructive rather than endlessly replaying events on a loop and berating myself for my foolish behaviour.
Despite the fact that I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Rob since his visit to Rose Cottage, I can’t ignore our situation any longer. Whether he’s here to discuss the matter or not, our living arrangements are the next issue I must address, once these envelopes are in the post.
After an hour and a half, I have fifty sealed envelopes, each one neatly addressed in my best handwriting. It’s going to cost a small fortune in postage, but if any one of the classy hotels in the surrounding area responds with a job offer, I won’t be complaining.
I grab my car keys and head towards the post office.
Benjamina
I don a pair of yellow plastic waders, as instructed by the trawler’s captain – I’m not sure he’s aware just how unflattering this garb is for a girl with a fuller figure – then stand stock still on the decking amidst the all-male crew, who scurry busily back and forth. Despite the fact that I’m clutching the metal railing in an attempt to retain my balance, I sway from side to side as the trawler crashes against the waves.
‘Here . . . grab hold,’ shouts Ziggy, throwing a bundle of netting in my direction. ‘Let it feed though your hands as we lay it out to sea.’
As I follow his lead, a wave of nausea lurches about my innards. The trawler lifts and lowers in a rhythmical pattern, and my throat constricts with each move. I fear I will be sick, confirming my lack of resilience for the open waters of Brixham.
‘Don’t just stand there like a wet squid, girl – grab hold and start working, otherwise we might as well throw you overboard for the fishes!’ barks a voice from the front of the trawler.
I daren’t argue, so join the line of fishermen feeding a continuous stream of netting into the choppy sea. I can hardly see the end of it from the deck, but I imagine the net sinking deep into the ocean’s inky depth to await a shoal of fish.
I thought I’d be hardy and tough on board the trawler. Sadly, I’m not. I’m a mess. A wimp, according to one of the men. I wrongly imagined that this would be a beautiful way to end my holiday, knowing that I’ll soon be saying goodbye to Ziggy.
The only beautiful thing about this experience is the full moon smiling down on me. With little light pollution, the night sky is the blackest I have ever seen, with large ghostly clouds veiling the starry backdrop.
‘So is it as you imagined?’ asks Ziggy, gently tucking my hair into my woollen beanie and pulling it low over my ears.
From my position lying supine on a wet wooden bench, I look up at him and grimace.
‘I want to go home,’ I whine, as my body rocks uncontrollably from side to side while my innards rock in the opposite direction.
‘Welcome to the fishing industry, but I’m afraid that won’t be happening for another five hours. I’m not brave enough to ask my dad to quit a night’s work because you’ve fed the fishes by vomiting.’
‘Stop joking around, Ziggy, I’m dying here.’
I close my eyes and listen to his raucous laugh.
‘You’re not dying, Benni – you’re just not used to it.’
‘I was fine on the ferry on Monday.’
‘Ah, the ferry! Benjamina, there’s a huge difference between that titchy little boat used by holidaymakers and this industrial sized trawler . . . Now, I suggest you sit up and hang your head over the side when you need to, OK?’
It isn’t OK, but I haven’t the strength to argue that he’s being unkind or unfair towards a novice fisherman. In addition, I fear the scorn of his father, who probably remembers me saying ‘I’ll be fine, honest – I don’t get seasick.’
When I’m brave enough to open my eyes, I’m alone. I assume that Ziggy has returned to the other men to earn his money.
Emma
I sit in the armchair for the entire evening waiting for Rob to arrive home. I don’t care where he was last night; I’m not interested in hearing a lame excuse involving a friend, a friend’s mate or even a friend of a friend’s mate.
It’s none of my business any more. I officially want out.
I hear him hang up his biker jacket; I hear his boots hit the skirting board as they’re removed with a flick and a kick. And when he enters the lounge, I see the look of surprise flitter across his brooding features. Despite his towering frame, he looks drawn, tired and somewhat bewildered.
‘When did you get back?’ is all he can say.
‘That’s irrelevant, Rob. I’m here now.’
I stare at the tiny gold object sitting centre stage on our coffee table. I’ve cleared away his dog-eared motoring magazines and the coffee-ringed coasters to ensure our discussion has focus.
‘I’m not putting it back on, Rob. You’ve been acting like it isn’t, but we’ve both know
n it for years, that this . . .’ I wave my hand casually between us. ‘Is over.’
He gives the tiniest of nods acknowledging my sentiment before I continue, Benni’s words ringing in my ears.
‘It was wrong of me to lie, I’ll admit that. I should have told you about my plans for the fortnight; it would have saved you worrying and a wasted trip to Brixham, but under the circumstances, it was my choice. The life we’re living . . . I’m living . . . it isn’t me any more. I’ve got the chance to move on while I’m still young enough to start again; be the woman I want to be rather than the one I’ve become.’
He slowly settles into the nearest armchair, then sits back and stares as if I’m posing a simple question about what colour to paint the lounge or where we should spend Christmas.
He says nothing.
He does nothing but stare.
I’m expecting a reaction, an argument, or even a plea to try again. But it’s as if he doesn’t believe me. Or believes he can talk me round, like every other time.
‘I’ve moved my belongings into the spare room, and I’ve also organised a separate bank account for my earnings, though I’ll make sure I transfer enough into our joint account to cover my share of the mortgage and bills.’
Still nothing.
I look down at my left hand. The white indentation on my third finger is starting to regain colour and flesh out given two weeks of being bare. I expected Ruth or Benni to spot it during the first few days at Rose Cottage, but neither of them did.
‘Rob . . .’ He blinks as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I plan to remain in this house for a few more weeks, living as we have been, while I find a place to rent.’
I have the beginnings of a plan forming, though I feel no obligation to share the details. Anyway, it depends on whether Ruth’s still contemplating her own future.
I sit and wait, allowing him time to digest and speak, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply continues to stare. I can almost see the cogs of his mind working overtime, devising a plan of action, seeking quick-fix solutions, clever words, heartfelt promises – which have always worked in the past. Tactics I’ve happily accepted, which have kept me in my place in life beside him.
‘Emma, we’ve been together for twelve years, married for just over ten . . . is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind? We could plan a holiday, if that’s what you need. We can go to counselling to discuss our difficulties, or even sit down and begin talking about the family you’ve always wanted. What’s it to be, babe?’ His eyes never leave mine as he speaks; he knows I’ve waited years to hear him suggest the final option. Typical Rob, he didn’t even pause after his original question denying me the chance to answer before he lists my options. He makes it sound as if I have choices, that I’m steering my own ship, deciding my own fate, when really, like always, they are his choices from which I must select.
I never provide the selection of choices. Ever.
And for twelve years his method of control has worked; his jealousies and insecurities have kept me just where he’s wanted me. It’s very different to the control that Ruth has encountered from her mother, dominating her life, but still Rob has called the shots in the calmest and most calculated manner throughout our relationship. There’s never violence or fear, but always an imbalance of control.
‘Which one is it to be, Emma?’
I answer him as calmly as I can manage. ‘None. I have my own plans, thanks; my days of choosing are behind me.’
I have nothing else to say or discuss. This shouldn’t be a surprise to him given how we’ve lived. I stand and make my way towards the lounge door, leaving my wedding band on the coffee table.
‘Emma.’
I turn to see his upturned face, etched with sadness and remorse.
‘I’m sorry, I truly am.’
‘I know.’
I open the door and make my way to bed.
Chapter Fourteen
Friday 31 August
Benjamina
A sharp pinch to my cheek wakes me with a start. I’m bewildered by the sun streaming into my eyes. There’re no curtains, no comforting duvet – just a row of stony sea-weathered faces staring at me.
‘Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty, we’re nearly home,’ says Ziggy, moving into my line of vision. ‘I suggest you get on your feet, otherwise you’ll be feeling it in your back later today.’
I raise myself on my elbows and view the wooden plinth on which I have slept the entire night.
‘Sleep OK, shipmate?’ asks Ziggy’s father, offering me a steaming mug. A greying mop of curls pokes from beneath his woollen beanie, and his chin is a mass of silver stubble. In the morning light, I can see that Ziggy is the spitting image of his dad.
‘I’m so sorry, I’ve never been seasick before,’ I apologise while painfully easing myself to a sitting position.
‘No worries, lass. Ziggy mentioned you’re pretty good on the ferry, and no doubt grand when it comes to dinghies too. Let’s hope you can stand long enough to help unload the catch when we arrive back in harbour.’
The sunrise over Brixham harbour looks like a painting of dusky oranges and reds. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful as the trawler eases closer and the distant hills rise against the backdrop with their glorious horseshoe of terraced cottages.
Ziggy stands with me at the railing, a look of concern etched upon his features.
‘That was the longest night of my life,’ I joke, rubbing at my back.
‘Mine too,’ he whispers. ‘But unlike you, I didn’t want it to end.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, worried that I’ve let him down with my lack of sea legs.
‘It’s ending, isn’t it? You’ve one day remaining and then you’ll head back to the Midlands and all this will be a memory to you.’ I hear his voice crack, and he looks away across the water to the approaching harbour.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ I say. ‘We can be friends, keep in touch . . . Technology makes everything easier nowadays.’ I reach for his hand. ‘I’ll be coming down as often as I can to see my dad and his family.’
‘It’s not the same, is it? Your dad will want to spend time with you, and how can a screen image be the same as this?’
‘You could come and visit me. I’ll show you the sights of Burntwood . . . I’ll even show you the vinegar factory if you like.’ I go to laugh, but see that his expression is stern, his jaw set, his eyes fixed. ‘Ziggy?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Look at me.’
There’s a hesitation before he turns, though his expression remains impassive, like a mask.
‘You need to tell me what’s up,’ I urge. ‘Otherwise I’ll assume I’ve done something wrong.’
He shakes his head. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You’re constantly putting yourself down, calling out your faults, but the truth never dawns on you.’
I wince, unsure why his hushed tone sounds so agitated.
‘You, Benni, I’d simply like to visit you. Not the Midlands sights, not the vinegar factory, not even your family. Just you.’
I’m lost for words, so simply stare into his hazel eyes. We don’t utter a word, we don’t even touch – everything I need to know is visible. Despite my feet being firmly planted on the trawler’s deck, I can feel myself falling. My gaze takes in his long dark lashes, the brilliant whites of his eyes, which draw me in, deeper and deeper, as though I can see a million swirling thoughts beyond the surface. I feel the same sensation as from Bruce’s intense gaze; for the first time in my life, I’m standing before a person who truly understands me from the inside out.
Ruth
I feel nervous as I approach the gallery, knowing I’ll be leaving with my earnings. It feels great on many levels, but wrong on others. I’m used to receiving a monthly salary for working a set number of hours spent interacting with customers o
ver a cashier’s desk, not filling a blank canvas or painting board with a series of strokes of colour.
Financial rewards feel somehow more civilised when the funds simply appear in your bank account, rather than being physically collected. This situation feels more cap-in-hand than I’ve experienced before.
My stomach churns at the thought of what might happen. What should I do if Dean tries to pull a fast one regarding the amount owed to me? I know we originally agreed a sixty/forty split, which seems fair given that he’s providing a suitable frame for each composition, plus he does have overheads for the gallery too. And without the gallery, how would the Scottish couple have known about Marina Mania?
As I enter the gallery, I can’t help but admire again the large lighthouse painting which still dominates the front window. One day, maybe after many hours of practice and patience, I might produce a single piece good enough to be promoted to prime position in the gallery’s window.
‘Wow! Loving the new you,’ he says as I step inside.
‘I’d forgotten you haven’t seen my hair. I fancied a change. Benni says it makes me look sassy, but I’m not so sure.’
‘So how are things?’ he asks as he ushers me through towards the back room beyond his counter area. ‘We’ll chat in here. Tea?’
‘Please, milk but no sugar, thanks. Fine and dandy from my perspective. I’m hoping to finish a watercolour of a seal by this afternoon, so I’ll deliver that before I go home tomorrow.’
Dean drops two tea bags into a ceramic pot and adds hot water from the boiling kettle.
‘Wow! Another fabulous watercolour to offer to our holidaymakers,’ he says, grabbing mugs and a teaspoon. ‘And the title?’
‘I think Solo Swimmer is fitting, given that the composition depicts a seal playing amongst the cove swimmers.’
‘Sounds good to me, and you can deliver that by tomorrow?’
‘Absolutely. After which, I’ll be back home and working on a new composition inspired by all the photographs I’ve taken of the area. Fingers crossed, I’ll be able to produce the same quality and we can continue our arrangement.’
