It was as if the sea, having gone out, had decided to stop and take stock. There was no hush of waves, no tippy-toeing wavelets birling their eightsome reels across the sand. Michael stood quite still, along with the rest of the day; he could sense a sound so deep that it was a feeling. It was a slow-rolling comforting thrum, as if the ocean had a heartbeat. He closed his eyes as his head fell back and he inhaled the warm seashore scent. He exhaled and his shoulders relaxed.
Michael had moved to Banffshire coast six months before; a tectonic uprooting that only heartbreak could have set in motion. His grief was like the seed that could split the mountain. Looking around him now at the beauty, he would never have believed he’d leave the Georgian splendour of Edinburgh and for an ancient fisher cottage right on the sea wall. He looked down into the rocks and seaweed below him. He would never have believed a lot of things that had happened. How someone so young could be taken so quickly by that bastard disease. How easily it came to him sell up their home and leave. How useless a man can feel.
A curlew called as it flew up from the shoreline and he too turned to go home. He was dreamily planning some of the small pleasures that make for a contented life; kettle on first and then light a fire, when in the distance, he saw the woman again. She was further along the broad beach walking towards him. Her black spaniel, all paws and ears, running then stopping, spinning in circles trying to find the ball she had just thrown. It was the worst throw he had ever witnessed. Her arm looked straight enough, but somewhere between the aim and the release, some quirk had happened sending the ball ninety degrees to her left. The dog looked at her and looked back down the beach. Michael wondered how even dogs knew that a ball, once thrown, should fly straight ahead. Not off to the left frustrating all involved. He found himself smiling; Claire couldn’t throw for toffee either. It’s a female thing. No hand-eye co-ordination. Can’t reverse park, can’t throw a ball. He reached the path to his cottage, and took a last look back along the beach to see the woman finding the ball herself and trying again. Taking off his boots at the door, he wondered what black spaniel was called.
The next day, Michael was in his kitchen waiting for his soup to heat up and admiring the seascape from the window. The fisher cottages had all been built side-on to the sea. The façade and front door of the cottage faced fully east, with a seaward gable wall at the north side to block the elements. It was as if the white cottages had turned their heads backwards out of the wind, and tucked them under their wings, like swans. Being on the far north coast, it also meant that the sun, which was behind the beach for most of the day, shone through the main windows in the morning. An old fisherman had told him that there was a religious element to the layout too. The kirk altar and graves all face east, to greet the Lord on the day of judgement. Fisher folk, being highly superstitious, never turned their back on the Lord. Even for the chance of some evening sunlight. Over time, as the cottages had become more up-market, the fashion had been to add a picture window into the seaward wall. Michael’s kitchen window looked straight out to the Moray Firth. It was that panorama which had sold the cottage for him, that and the open fireplaces. His mother had asked him what he was thinking, all that mess and work when he could have nice clean heat at the flick of a switch, but he had stood his ground. He liked the physicality of cleaning the hearth, setting the fire in the morning, preparing it for the evening ahead. He needed the routine. He needed something to come home to.
In the kitchen, he had soon mounted his telescope by the window and looked out of it at every mealtime. He’d seen a rig being shipped offshore while his porridge simmered. He had seen a huge cruise ship while his kippers poached. He had even seen the northern lights one evening; dropping the contents of his prawn sandwich all over the floor in the excitement. He had yet to see the Moray dolphins.
That day there were three big container ships on the horizon, on their way to Aberdeen by the looks of them. They’d be returning from the rigs probably, or maybe bringing in timber from Scandinavia. He had been offshore once or twice himself. He had more than enough money to live on from the sale of their Edinburgh home and his share in the practice. His mind’s eye flashed back to their worried faces and concerned words; was he doing the right thing, better to give it a year, not to make any big decisions yet. The heartfelt concern of the genuine folk he’d worked with for the twenty years since he had graduated. But he had to get away; he couldn’t face the weight of their kindness. At first, he’d registered with an agency in Aberdeen. He had taken the odd offshore job here and there, as a temporary medical officer. The day the container ship came to the rig put him in mind of how his granny had talked about the end of ration books. Bananas aren’t often shipped offshore. The skins go black and they turn the other foodstuffs with the gases they give off. A banana day offshore is a blue moon event. He smiled at the memory of the offshore gadgies in their orange boiler suits and safety boots whooping like kids on Christmas morning, all over the head of a banana.
He hummed “Yes we have no bananas” to himself as he panned the telescope left and scanned the horizon. Not a dolphin in sight. Moving slowly to the right, the full length of the beach was visible. The tide was fully out. The silver sand shimmered. There she was, with black spaniel hopelessly hunting the wide-ball. He could see the detail of her face. She looked good natured, pointing left up the beach and telling the dog some instruction or other. She was pretty, with auburn hair pushing out from her blue woolly hat. He watched her slim form dipping and picking up the wayward ball and as always, she tried again. The tip of her tongue curled out over her top lip to aid accuracy, to no avail. Eating his soup, he thought that someone should teach her how to throw.
The following day, he found himself not scanning for dolphins, but for black spaniel and a woman in a blue woolly hat. It took a few passes of the horizon at various mealtimes and kettle-boiling throughout the day, until he saw her, and she was alone. The weather had turned colder and wilder. The wind was coming in horizontally from the North. It made her blow her nose and wipe her eyes, as it pinged sand at her face, whirling small sandstorms around her ankles. He smiled to himself, as he turned to sit by the fire; black spaniel had more sense than to be out in this weather. The fire sparked green and blue from the salts burning in the driftwood. He wondered if her lips would taste salty from the sea spray.
For two whole days there was no sign of her. He had resolved the next time that black spaniel and the woman were on the beach that he would walk too. He would nod a hello and perhaps throw the ball for the dog and casually offer ‘can I show you?’ He wondered how to start the conversation without offending her. ‘I couldn’t help but notice…’ no, she might ask when did he notice, on just one throw of the ball? She’d think he was a stalker or a peeping Tom. He blushed, and moved away from the telescope. He could just show her that it was all in the grip and leading with the index finger at the moment of release. It was all in the follow-through, he’d explain. Point the index finger to where the ball is intended to fly, and it will. He’d smile and look at her and make a fuss of black spaniel so that she’d know he was only trying to help. Perhaps he’d flirt a little, standing behind her, shaping her hand and arm to the right position. He’d have to gauge that on the day. Women can be funny about a man getting too close too soon. She’d be fine about it, he was sure. Anyone who persevered with throwing a ball for a dog as much as she did would be easy-going about most things. A calm and gentle sort, she just couldn’t throw. She’s not even hysterical about that, she had never once thrown the ball in anger. No, he decided, she’d enjoy the company. He’d do it. Next time he saw them, he’d speak to her, teach her how to throw. As he took the kettle off the hob, he wondered if he stood close to her, would her hair smell of the sea.
A week went past, no dolphins, no woman, and no black spaniel. He had walked the beach at dog-walking times of day. Scanned the mealtime horizon, but they never appeared. He spent his evenings putting himself through the mill about his lack of action, letting his life go by him. Was this all there was for him now? Hiding out here in his quaint little cottage that didn’t even have the balls to face the oncoming wind and shout – ‘Bring it on!’ He went into the kitchen and spun his telescope away from him in temper, hitting himself on the elbow with it. It was expensive and that was the only reason it didn’t go flying out of the window, but rather was gently twisted back into place, to stand and stare. As he looked through it to check the angle was right and that there was no damage. There she was. Standing stock still, looking out to sea. Not a ball in her hands but a small urn. He watched as she lifted the lid, raised her arm and threw the ash onto the sea, without checking the prevailing wind, so that the ash promptly blew back all over her. She dropped the urn as her head and shoulders slumped in dismay. He stepped away from the telescope and sat down by the unlit fire…
Michael hadn’t looked out of his telescope for months; even the thought of it irritated him. It was the anniversary of Claire’s death and he simply had to get out of the house. He wondered if he could face a trip into town, but the thought of the crowds put him off. He felt the need to dress up for her; decorum marking the day. He put on his black shoes, black moleskin trousers and his good jacket. Then headed to his silver beach to walk it out, let the wind collect his tears if they came, while he collected driftwood for his evening fire.
As he bent to pick another white stick of driftwood a collie pup came bounding up to him, licking and sniffing his hand while jumping to the left and right on all four paws. All legs and intelligence, it was nodding to the stick and back up to Michael with a look that said ‘Throw it then.’ So he did. The young dog pelted off, then leapt up catching the stick mid-air. Proud as Punch, he brought it back, dropped it at Michael’s feet, and then barked that specific bark which means ‘Again!’ Michael laughed as he put down his bundle of driftwood, and tried to stroke the puppy’s head, but it was having none of it. ‘Throw the stick, throw the stick!’ was in the very air, so Michael did. A great long releasing throw that felt as good as it looked.
“I wish I could throw like that”, a voice said from beside him, “I’m completely useless at it”.
He looked down into the green eyes under the blue woolly hat and said,
“Would you like me to show you?”
