Part 1> Agoraphobia

Shirley sits by the window. This chair needs to be sanded, she
thinks, picking at splinters. She is watching, half-hidden behind a red
linen curtain. Every now and again, a breeze blows the curtain into
Shirley's face, but she doesn't flinch, just breathes in the scent of
new fabric. On the map she had studied, the coastline had looked spiky
and malevolent. She had searched on the internet, and read about the
shipwrecks, over a hundred in such a small patch of sea. She had looked
forward to living in such a strange place, so far removed from the
world she was used to. Now she is actually here, examining this place
she has chosen, and it is making her dizzy. All the colours, of the
plant life and the shingle that is everywhere, meld together to become
a dull brown. It looks like the sky comes right down to the ground.
There is a strange imbalance in the light here, she thinks. It always
looks like there is about to be a storm, the air shines somehow.
She can see the power station. She never thought she would live within
ten minutes walk of a nuclear power station. It looks menacing, hunched
against the sky. Two lighthouses stand close by, thin and defiant. She
narrows her eyes, annoyed. Something is bothering her about the view:
there is something odd, something not quite right, but she cannot pin
it down. It infuriates her that everything is so still. There is no one
out there. She reminds herself that is the reason why she came here,
why she chose this place. She reminds herself that she made a choice
and made a decision, and now she must live with it.
She leans forward, intrigued by a movement on the landscape that had
seemed so much like a painting. A figure - a woman, with a blue and
white skirt, and long grey hair. Shirley wishes she could jump up and
just run out there. Make a friend. She is struck by a memory - the
woman has a certain gait that reminds her of someone else, someone from
the past. Shirley gets up to go into the nursery. She will stop
remembering things. She doesn't need to.

Shirley decides that she will venture out. She is a little worried that
if she does not step outside the house soon, the walls will become
bigger than her and she will not be able to leave at all. She has
suffered in this way before, a long time ago. So she combs her hair,
puts on some mascara, and tips a box of winter accessories out onto the
bed to find her favourite scarf, the Rennie Macintosh one. Her
movements are frenzied. I've got to leave, she thinks, I've got to get
out of this house now. Can you be agoraphobic and claustrophobic at the
same time?
As she walks down the path and carefully opens the ratchety gate, she
is exultant inside. Look at me, she thinks, going to the shops in my
hometown, just like anybody. She wraps her scarf around her throat once
more, wishing she'd brought a jacket. The lighthouse stands in the
distance, a pin in the landscape compared to the hulking power station.
She looks away from them.
The shop, when she arrives, is disappointing, very small and selling
not much more than the basics. I will just have to get used to this,
she thinks. Other people have, other people do. I will cook good,
homely food, like a woman in the country. I will learn to make broth.
Me and my baby will have broth. Frozen food is bad for you anyway. And
she sags a little in front of the flour, as she remembers the
Sainsburys she used to go to, the big family shop every Monday.
She takes her chosen items to the counter and lays them out across the
newspapers. The woman behind the counter is older than Shirley, with
thick blonde hair pulled back from her face and a cream woollen jumper
on. Shirley smiles warmly and the woman smiles back, then raises her
eyebrows.
"I don't think I've seen you here before love. You on holiday at the
Romney camp?"
Her tone is friendly, but Shirley falters a little in her answer,
unsure how it will be received.
"Actually, I just moved in, a few days ago. Prospect Cottage? Along
the way there?"
"Oh! Right. The cottage that used to be Mrs Faulkner's?"
"Um, I believe so - yes."
Shirley is slightly suspicious, but the woman still appears to be
friendly. She smiles, and tries to relax a little.
"Have you explored much yet? Know where everything is? I s'pose you
must have, or else you wouldn't have found me!" The woman laughs, a
pleasant noise, yet with a slight braying quality to it. Shirley smiles
again.
"Actually, this is the first time I've been out."
The woman looks at Shirley quizzically. She tries to smile again.
"You know how it is, just moved in - I've had a lot to sort through,
to organise."
The woman smiles lightly, but her eyes have warmth in them.
"Yes, I s'pect you've been very busy. Well, if there's anything you
ever need, just come by."
"That's very nice of you. I'm sorry - what's your name?"
"I'm Janice. And yourself?"
"Shirley."
"Well Shirley, remember - if you need anything. You should come over
to the pub sometime, meet some of us. Everyone'll be interested to meet
you, I'm sure. The Britannia? Just near the lighthouse?"
"Oh yes, I know where it is I think."
"Lovely. See you soon, Shirley."
Shirley says goodbye and leaves the musky darkness of the shop.

At home, as she puts her few groceries away in the cupboards, Shirley
plans the rest of her day. She must finish unpacking her clothes. And
put some shelves up. Maybe she should go back to the shop and ask for
someone to help her? No, she decides, I can do it. I can put up
shelves. I don't want anyone in my house yet. It's not ready.
She moves to the kitchen table and begins to make a list. As she is
writing, the words loom larger and larger in her vision. A stillness
creeps into her ears, spreading to her mind. She gazes at the notepad,
at her scrawls. Her hand moves to her belly. Shirley stays this way for
a long while, completely out of time. When she breaks the trance, she
is flustered and unsettled. She looks at her watch, and more than an
hour has somehow gone to nowhere. She feels all wrong, like she is
underwater. When she stands and knocks over the chair she has been
sitting on, the noise it makes is muffled and slow. She moves to the
window and grips the red curtain. Everywhere looks bleak and alarming.
Grey. Why is it grey here? she thinks. Why did I choose this place? I
must have been mad.
Shirley stumbles from the window into her bedroom, throwing herself
onto the bed. She wants to sob, she wants to buck and writhe in
hysteria, but none of it will come. She is just cold, and grey. She
wraps the duvet around her body and rolls gently back and forth on the
bed, thinking of the baby and the warmth it will bring to the house. My
baby, she whispers, my baby, until sleep finds her.

Ken sits at the bar of the darkened pub, periodically checking his
wristwatch. At ten he pulls the thick green curtains apart, letting in
the transforming sunlight, and then takes his seat again. At ten
thirty, he unlocks the front door with the key that, when his father
had given it to him, had seemed strong and promising. Now it is just an
annoyingly heavy key. At ten forty, after watching the door, he allows
himself to lean over the bar and reach underneath. He arranges in front
of him two bottles of Newcastle Brown ale and his tattered copy of John
Cooper Clarke. He knows he is safe. Ken knows his regulars think he is
teetotal, and would be shocked to see him drinking, but he knows they
never will, despite the open door. There are certain rules. Ken opens
his first drink and his private book, and reads himself back into the
past. A third of the way through his first bottle, he can feel the fat
of age fall away, the sinews bloom again from beneath his skin, the
grey hairs slip back into his scalp. By the end of the bottle he is
kissing a boy he does not know in a basement bar, laughing as their
mohicans bump together. A quarter into the second bottle and he is
hurling abuse at a bearded academic; he is spattering paint onto the
canvas with all of his strength; he is punching himself in the mouth,
because he can. He begins to calm himself as the last bottle gets
lighter, knowing he will have to drag himself back soon.

As Shirley approaches the pub her heart is racing, in rhythm with the
crunch of her feet across the pebbles. She is not yet used to walking
on this new ground that moves about under her feet, and stumbles as she
nears the open door. Before she enters she glances about her, checking
for witnesses but finding none. She steps through the doorway and into
the amber light of the Britannia, and is surprised to find the pub
empty, except for a man behind the bar. As she approaches the bar she
anxiously checks her watch. Seven thirty. Surely not too early? Janice
must have invited her knowing there'd be no one there, she'd be
laughing about it now. Biting her lip, she pushes back the paranoia and
takes out her purse. The man looks up from the newspaper he is
reading.
"Hello there, what can I get you?"
"I'll just have an orange juice, please."
"Are you sure, love? I've got a special offer on these Smirnoff Ice,
no one's drinking them?"
Shirley smiles shyly.
"I've stopped drinking?"
She moves her jacket to display her slight bump. The landlord smiles
widely.
"Sorry, love. I didn't realise."
Shirley settles on a stool at the bar, hoisting herself up
carefully.
"A bit late for you to be out round here, isn't it? I thought the last
chuffer left at six?"
She stares at the man, confused. It takes her a few moments to realise
that, like Janice earlier, he thinks she is a tourist.
"Oh no, I?I just moved in here. On Monday. Prospect Cottage?"
Recognition flits across his face.
"Ah, you're that girl. Janice said you'd moved in."
"Yes, Janice - I met her today. She invited me here tonight."
News travels fast here, Shirley thinks. I must take care.
"Well my love, you don't need any invitations. Come by whenever you
want. They're all here, most evenings."
Shirley glances around the empty pub and back at the man questioningly.
He chuckles, low, in his throat.
"They'll all be here later. You've come early. Everyone's probably
having dinner at the moment!"
As he pours himself an orange juice, shaking the last drops from the
carton, Shirley takes the opportunity to look around the pub. The amber
light makes it seem warm, and cosy. There are horse-brasses hanging on
the walls and on the dark brown beams. The cushioned benches that line
the walls look inviting, and the wooden chairs match the beams. I will
come here again, decides Shirley, and sit at one of those tables next
time.
"So what's your name? I'm Ken."
"Shirley."
"Nice to make your acquaintance, Shirley. And what do you do?"
Shirley takes a large sip of her orange juice to give herself time to
word a reply. When she speaks, she is casual.
"Bits and pieces, actually. Freelance writing, a bit of photography.
And you're the landlord here?"
That's good, deflect the question. Fifteen-love. I'm doing fine.
"Yes indeed, been here almost twenty years, since my father handed it
over to me. What kind of writing?"
Shirley sips at her drink once more, concentrating on steadying her
hand.
"Oh, all sorts. Children's magazines, mainly."
"Pay well, does it?"
"Yeah, yes it does."
"Well, you might be lucky round here then, the local paper perhaps?
And there's a good few fishermen who want to get their memoirs down or
so I'm told, at least if the whisky hasn't addled their brains too
much!"
Ken breaks into a loud, cheerful laugh and Shirley, relieved, laughs
with him. See? She tells herself. He's just being friendly, not nosy.
He's fine, he's alright.

Shirley awakes suddenly. Someone is knocking at her front door,
hard.
She panics, hurriedly pulling on her dressing gown, and glances at the
alarm clock. Eight thirty. Who would come now, she wonders, trying to
take deep breaths, when I don't know anyone here? She goes to the
window and tries to see out through the gap in the curtain, but it is
the wrong angle. Moving back to the door, she knots her dressing gown
cord tightly and asks who it is, in a high voice that does not sound
like her own.
"Morning love, it's Ken."
She exhales loudly, feeling the tremors in her breath, but then wonders
why he has come. Oh, she thinks. I hope it's not that. That's the last
thing I need. She unbolts the door. Ken smiles brightly at her,
removing his cap.
"Hello! Sorry, I didn't realise you wouldn't be up. It's just-"
"Come in, Ken, come in. Nice of you to stop by. Would you like a cup
of tea?"
"That'd be great, Shirley. Two sugars, please."
"I think I'll just quickly go and get dressed! Bear with me?"
Shirley hurries back to the bedroom and dresses quickly, throwing on
paint-spotted jeans. She starts to put on a blouse but then thinks
again and chooses an old jumper. Her skin feels tight and dry so she
quickly smears some moisturiser over her face, and then she is ready to
face the world, to face neighbours and men.
Ken, when Shirley rejoins him, is not where she left him. He is in the
nursery, running his hands over the mural on the west wall, and smiling
as he touches the cot with a finger. Shirley watches him a moment from
the doorway, until he notices her standing there and he jumps
slightly.
"Crikey love, you scared me! This is a lovely room! The littl'un will
love it! And you've done this all by yourself? Since you got
here?"
Shirley smiles, proud of her work.
"Yep Ken, that's right."
He shakes his head, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.
"That's great, Shirley. But-"
His hesitation is reluctant, Shirley can tell. She decides to be firm,
surprising herself a little.
"Come on Ken, say what you were going to say."
She thinks she knows what the other half of the sentence might be, but
she wants to hear it, she is iron strong. Ken bites his lip, still
looking at the floor.
"Well love, I wondered - and I'd stake a bet that others will too, out
here - I wondered what the circumstances were, with the father and
that. You know, you should be getting some help, alone, with the house
to take care of and a baby on the way. You know what I mean?"
His tone at the end is pleading. Shirley feels a little faint, a
rushing stream somewhere behind her temples. She motions for Ken to
move to the chairs and they do in silence. Resting her head on a palm,
Shirley considers her options. From the corner of her eye she watches
Ken, and knows he thinks he has offended her deeply. Finally she
speaks, and the worry eases a little in his face.
"Ken, I'm moved by your worry, I really am. Not knowing anyone here,
or having any friends, it means a lot to me to know that there is
someone here thinking about me. But this is a sore, sore point for me.
I want to forget, and in a way, I think I've come here to make a new
start. I don't want to think about the baby's father."
"But, love, it's just-"
"He's dead, Ken." She says it quietly, knowing it will shock, knowing
it will stop him. He opens his mouth, but does not speak for a moment,
ashamed.

Shirley sits at the table for a while, slipping her thumbnail into the
cracks as she plays over the conversation in her mind, tracking it
again and again. She goes to her chair by the window and sits, looking
out. This is all I ever seem to really do, she thinks. Watch from the
window. This is the stuff of my day. As she follows the landscape
across from left to right, she sees the woman with long grey hair
again, this time outside a house, gardening. As Shirley watches, she
realises what has been bothering her, every time she looks out. There
are no fences. The woman's garden, as far as Shirley can see, is neatly
self-contained, yet has no visible boundary. Shirley rushes to get her
glasses and then returns to the window, standing this time, examining
the few other houses she can see. None of them have fences, as far as
she is aware. How bizarre, she mutters to herself. She has an idea that
she might go and speak to the gardening woman, and ask her. She could
pretend to be out for a bracing walk. Toying with the idea, she wavers
between decisions, and then, wanting it, leaves.

Ken pops open a bottle. He is reading a magazine, but is increasingly
distracted by thoughts of Shirley, alone and grieving with a baby on
the way. He turns a page, and wonders if he should tell her that he is
gay, in case she is already worrying about his intentions. He shakes
that thought off quickly; he cannot afford to be so luxurious with the
truth. Why should he tell a stranger when not even George knows? He
thinks, perhaps I need a plan.

The woman is doing something on the ground, bent double, her back to
Shirley. She stops at the edge of the garden, unsure where to stand.
This is where the fence would be, she thinks, if they had them here.
This is where I would lean. She coughs to get the woman's attention.
The woman stands, a trowel in her hand, and the wind catches her hair
and plays with it, sending it lashing it into her face. Shirley
smiles.
"Quite a day for it, eh? My name's Shirley, I've just moved into
Prospect Cottage."
The woman narrows her eyes, and Shirley is somehow afraid, unsure if
this is a reaction to the wind or to her presence.
"I know who you are. I've known since you came."
At this, Shirley is scared. The woman's words have a weight to them, a
resonance. Her voice is deep, and cuts through the distance and
whistling wind between them to sound right in Shirley's ears. Shirley
tries to smile, licking her lips to stop the skin from cracking.
"I didn't see you, the other night at the pub. I met a lot of people.
Will you be there tonight? I'd like to get to know my
neighbours!"
"My name is Ramona. I don't go to the public house. And I don't drink,
so it would be pointless for me to go."
"Oh, I see. I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"Where's your husband, Shirley?"
Shirley catches mocking, cruelty and anger all shuffled into the words
before they are snatched by the wind. She tells herself not to be so
suspicious. The people here are all very nice. She's just curious,
that's all.
"I'm not married, Ramona. I-"
"I know exactly what you are. And you've taken that baby away from her
father to live in sin while she's still in the womb. It's
disgusting!"
Shirley gasps, her smile gone. The coldness of the woman. Her nerve.
Ramona is unperturbed, the trowel transferring dirt onto her thigh as
she waits for an answer. Shirley cannot speak, cannot think.
"I know things, Shirley. I see things in you that others don't see. I
know you're a violent person, Shirley. I know you're wasteful because I
can see it in you."
She runs, Ramona's voice lingering. The shingle makes it difficult,
and her muscles ache almost straight away, but she runs, heading for
the power station, passing no one. Behind the power station, on the
shore, she flops down onto the pebbles, shifting her body a little,
making a nest like a dog. She lies on her side, waiting for her
breathing to return to normal. She aches all over, and suddenly wants
to be inside her house, watching the landscape from the window, not
having to be a part of it. She closes her eyes, and instead of a
comforting black nothingness she can see faces, shifting to become a
series of people. They change from one to another quickly. She opens
her eyes and lies on her back, looking up to the white sky. I have left
them behind, she thinks. I have.

Ken is sitting and making connections on his fingers when a man he does
not know enters the bar. The man is younger than Ken, probably in his
mid-thirties, with grey-flecked brown hair. The man looks around him
and seems disappointed when he realises the pub is empty. Ken is
astounded that someone should come in and find him drinking, even if it
is a stranger. He hastily shoves the bottle and the magazine under the
bar and wills himself to concentrate, to forget Shirley for the moment.
The stranger takes a seat in front of Ken and asks for orange juice. He
looks exhausted, slumped on his bar stool, and so Ken says:
"Are you sure you don't want anything stronger, mate? You look like
you could do with a drink." His interest is aroused. This man does not
look like a tourist somehow.
"Uh, no thank you. I'm driving and I've got the kids in the car as
well."
"Ah, just stopping for a pick me up? Have you come on a day
out?"
Maybe he's a local, Ken thinks, maybe he's from Hythe or Dymchurch and
they make this trip every year. In the winter. Why is he here? The man
hesitates before replying carefully.
"No, not exactly. I'm?it's stupid, really."
Ken waits patiently. Something warns him to keep quiet, to stay in the
background. The man puts his hand to his head and rubs his temples
forcefully, squashing the skin around his eyes into wrinkles. Finally,
he speaks again.
"Have you ever?had a feeling about something, a really strong feeling,
so strong you feel you just have to act on it straight away? Even if it
means driving hundreds of miles to see if you're right?"
Ken frowns, and swallows hard. There is something about this situation
that is making him feel uncomfortable. Nothing like this has ever
happened to him in the pub before. He shifts behind the bar, trying to
sustain a projection of friendliness towards the man.
"I'm not sure I quite know what you mean. But it's a very human thing,
isn't it? To have very strong urges like that?"
The man sighs.
"I'm not sure I'd call it an urge." He is silent once more, pushing a
pound coin towards Ken. Ken puts the transaction through the till, glad
of the clacking noises that break the silence. He pours himself an
orange juice as a gesture of solidarity, momentarily thinking ruefully
of the unfinished beer under the counter. Taking his place at the bar
again, he pretends to be lost in thought, and waits for the stranger to
get whatever's bothering him off his chest, as Ken is sure he will. A
landlord's place in the world is a funny one, Ken thinks. People forget
you're a person like them when they tell you things. The man clears his
throat and Ken casually glances at him. The man begins to speak, his
eyes fixed somewhere on the shiny surface of the bar.
"Actually, I'm looking for someone?here. In Dungeness. I thought the
pub would be the place to come. It's a small place, you must know
everyone, right?"
"Right" Ken says automatically. He hears those words, looking for
someone, looking for someone. This suddenly feels like a scene from
something, it is too unreal, all glazed and over bright. He does not
know why, but he dreads what is coming next. The man is fishing in his
coat pocket. He brings out a photograph, which he holds in his
lap.
"My wife has?disappeared. We live near Reading, but the woman who
taught her violin when she was a child used to live here, and I just
thought?"
His shoulders drop and he slumps. Ken is shocked. The man is close to
tears.
"I just thought...oh hell, I don't know what I was thinking. Stupid,
really. But if she's out there - alive - I need to find her,
otherwise?otherwise?"
The man is now close to breaking down completely. Ken still feels
uneasy, but tries to ignore it. He reminds himself that he is used to
dealing with emotional situations. Pubs seem to bring it out.
"I'm so sorry" he says, "I'm sure you will find her." And then,
tentatively, keeping his voice neutral, "May I look at the
picture?"
Muttering "sure", the stranger sniffs, and drinks his orange juice. He
plucks it from his lap and tosses it onto the bar. He seems ashamed of
his emotional outburst, and looks not at Ken, but at the floor.
Ken takes the picture carefully between thumb and forefinger and
brings it near to his face, close to the amber light. Shirley sits on a
sofa, with two little blond boys curled tightly into her.
"No." Ken says. "I'm so sorry for you, but I haven't seen her."

Ken escorts the man outside to the car park. He feels light-headed.
Thoughts seem to jostle for space in his mind.
"Look, Patrick? I do hope you find her."
What am I doing, he thinks, what am I doing, say something to him, tell
him, give him a clue at least-
"Thanks for listening. I'm sorry for all this, I'm just - under a lot
of strain, that's all. Well, better start the long ride home. These
poor two."
He indicates to the boys. Ken can see their heads bent together through
the back windscreen. Last chance, whispers his conscience. Look at
them, look at those children. He manages a goodbye, and hurries back
into the pub, bolting the door after him and then pulling the curtains
tight, to leave no gaps. He opens a bottle and drinks down most of it
in one go, then belches and downs the rest, taking out a second as he
does. He settles at the bar with his drink, sitting where Patrick had
sat. The seat is still warm. He still feels that he is somewhere
outside reality, a place where things like this happen. He hears in his
head his own voice, years ago, arguing with Jonny. Fuck rationality,
man. Go with the flow, live the feeling, that's what it's all about. He
sets the bottle cap spinning on the bar.