The Sea And The Stone

The Sea And The Stone

It had been the worst storm Cornwall had seen for over twenty years the
wind pulling at the earth uprooting trees, sending slate roofs across
narrow lanes that had become small rivers. Cattle and sheep terrified
huddled together in the fields; in Falmouth a man and his dog drowned
blown into the sea; even the Gulls screaming for a sky they could feel
safe in.

It was March, his father had died, it had left him feeling empty
without emotion. David Lee a Cardiologist, ensconced in Harley Street,
tending the hearts of the rich and famous, wealthy respected and
revered, hadn't it said all that and more in the Times obituary; a
difficult man, vain, withdrawn and cold, not the best of fathers or he
the perfect son, perhaps each had failed the other. Maybe if his mother
had stayed, but in the end their great love, a love that started with
casual glances&;#8230;died. Quietly beautiful, a woman in conflict
with his darker side that was exacerbated by alcohol; fuelled by
regret, she had the sense and verve to move her life sideways, moving
to France with a different man. Telling them not to worry for her as
doctors bury their mistakes, making claim to happiness, but dying
alone. At her funeral, their father smiling at grief, informing his
children,
"That when love and hate are absent there is only bliss,"
but when his heart gave, her letters close, her lace like hand
interwoven with their memories, still carrying the rhyme and reason of
her.

His son John, tall and dark like his father, it was left to him as the
executor to settle the estate, forty-four a writer, several years ago
he'd written a moderately successful novel, his father a constant
reminder he'd done little since. Clara and Mary his younger sisters,
they ran a bakery in West London, that specialised in losing money,
always looking to their father to bale them out.
Three siblings each had their moments, love and loss, small success and
wonders; their father unable to suppress his disappointment, in his
children's lesser achievements; not interested in bakers and writers he
wanted more doctors as his father before him.

When the prayers were said - The Lord Is My Shepard - his son who was
still looking for his God&;#8230;it was left to him to address the
great and good&;#8230;kind words he couldn't. Instead, telling them,
that yes a great man, a Samaritan to some, however his own life told a
different story. Giving them an example of his father's kindness at age
nine bringing a friend home to meet him. The great man coming to the
door, Whisky sour, glaring at him&;#8230;then without warning
slapping him hard across his face; never understanding why?
And that grief can serve itself, he was only there in his mothers
memory, refusing to meet the silence that followed; feeling sure his
father would rest in peace, with so many family, friends and
distinguished colleagues showing their respects; then on that hard
ground, cultivated in marble slabs they watched while the earth
received him.

The wake that followed, held at his lavish home, greedy eyes, focussing
on his fathers collection of beautiful things, William IV furniture,
Georgian silver, his irreplaceable collection of miniatures, object'
art acquired from a life time of travel; all to be sold.
Clara and Mary circling round like Vultures, hungry for their share,
unsupportive, refusing to comprehend the estate was complicated and
would take time.

The cottage had belonged to his father, a place he loved in Zennor, a
church crowned village on the windward coast, for over two hundred
years it had clung to the hillside, stone and cob slate roofed, high
above the sea, held tight and proud by the wind. Once it had belonged
to Mathew Trewhella son of the local Squire, a Chorister in the parish
church; a narrow path led down to the beach and the sea; often wild and
sudden storms would raise, a place full of myth and legend.
When children they had the best holidays,
"A haven," his father would call it," It must never be sold."
&;#8230;escape grabbing at the opportunity, delayed by the storm the
drive from London to Cornwall had taken him over seven hours, arriving
gone midnight, exhausted he went straight to bed, rushing into
sleep!

&;#8230;waking late into the morning, the presence of the past,
mirror glimpses of troubled dreams, drifting between&;#8230;
His mother and father standing over his bed, telling him not to worry,
everything would work out fine&;#8230;then! His father changed now,
angry berating
him&;#8230;privileges&;#8230;expectations&;#8230;high
standards&;#8230; and his mother holding out a warm towel for a sick
child. Then on the beach&;#8230;quick sand&;#8230;three
children&;#8230;pointing and laughing at the silver-shinning tail of
a dead fish, the waves escaping&;#8230;revealing a translucent eye
watching green and gorged by the endless tides.

&;#8230;taking the measure of it, the cold hard rock of a place
where most dreams end, dressing and lighting a good fire before
venturing outside, unprepared for the cold that cut into him; carefully
threading his way down the steep path that led to the beach.
The storm had died replaced with a strange calm, apart from the wind,
gentle then gathering in huge gusts across the sea; the beach desolate,
the sky an ugly shadow, it felt like the earth had been turned over.
Bracing himself from the cold saline wind and slicing rain, past the
row of old fishing boats, their weather stained awnings half torn away
by the storm, exposing them to the wind and rain; most of the boats
abandoned so long ago they were rotting into the sand. Once they had a
name and a past, a reminder of the brave all weathermen who sailed in
them, few left prepared to eek a living from the sea.

&;#8230;by the waters edge, letting the sea run close to his feet,
making patterns in the wet sand, the rain reduced to a fine mist, the
Sea Gulls uneasy, their raucous cry above his head broke the
moment&;#8230;
&;#8230;apparently from nowhere, a little way from him stood a young
girl, the sea swirling round her feet, motionless, looking at him,
between them without surprise, as if they were expected as part of a
mysterious tryst; to her shoulders almost white hair as pale a her
skin, a white shirt and tight jeans, she was tall and insect
thin.
&;#8230;speaking to him, softly, saying his name,
"John isn't it? It's because of the storm everything becomes unsettled
and it makes the loneliness worse,"
&;#8230;words seeming to reflect his own mood with a child like
quality, with innocence, reaching deep into his unconscious,
"I understand," he answered, "Are you from the village?"
&;#8230;from the myriad of beach stones at her feet, she gently ran
her fingers through the sand lifting up a handful, then letting them
drop, holding one back,
"Does it matter where I live?"
&;#8230;following her sea gaze to the cove and rocks thrusting up
from the storm-tossed ocean, the wind now rushing against them, sending
the sea into an angry swell,
"I live there in March," she said, pointing to the rocks!
&;#8230;taking in as much of her as he could, she had the palest
grey eyes, her strangeness,
"Before you called me John how do you know my name who are you?"
&;#8230;pressing a finger to her lips, her white hair moving in the
wind,
"Listen," she said, "Can you hear&;#8230;voices in the waves?"
&;#8230;was he seduced by the softness of her voice, the sea seeming
to make music, voices in the waves?
"Look at your cottage, it seems so tiny from down here, I've often
wondered about it,"
"How do you know where I live&;#8230;if you like you can see it,
that's if you're up to the climb, but I still don't know your
name?"
"I'm called Aurelia,"
&;#8230;saying her name,
"Aurelia you must be freezing?"
&;#8230;noticing she wore nothing on her feet,
"I barely feel the cold," she answered, "Not outwardly anyway,"
&;#8230;walking along the sand together, laughing with her, as a boy
back on the beach, sharing with her shards of memory, a boy progressing
from sand castles to flying Kites, five-foot man lifters. Father and
boy, being shown how to let the wind and reel do the work. Remembering,
for fear of ending up in the sea, letting go and watching&;#8230;a
red racer hot in the wind competing with the Gulls, soaring higher
disappearing up into the clouds&;#8230;
&;#8230;passing by an old beachcomber, stooped with age, his
weather-worn face set to his task, searching for precious things,
praying to the sand; then calling out to John, waving and wishing him
well, they both waved back.

&;#8230;the cottage warmer now, throwing more logs to the fire, he
went to the kitchen, Aurelia called out to him,
"I've always wanted to come in here. I don't know why I seem to know
it,"
&;#8230;the door ajar, he could see her, running her hands along the
stone walls peeping into cupboards, opening drawers barely an inch, on
her toes looking behind paintings, like a curious child searching for a
secret. Reminding him of a ballet he'd once seen where the dancers were
dressed as seabirds.
&;#8230;they sat facing each other, while showing her old
photographs, telling her about his father's sudden death and his mother
left to die alone&;#8230;
&;#8230;taking hold of one of the photographs, touching it, looking
at it,
"Can I have it, to keep," she asked,
&;#8230;a boy on the beach, with his father, tall and strong, both
struggling with the reel of a Kite, craning their necks to the
sky&;#8230;standing behind them, his mother, with dark shinning hair
in the sun, laughing and hugging to her, a pair of adored little
girls&;#8230;at the edge scrawled in his mothers
hand&;#8230;Zennor 63 / the family!
&;#8230;looking at him with the eyes of someone who watched closely,
seeing him sad&;#8230;
"Why is it and what's the reason," she asked, "Why rest on the feelings
that destroy you?"
&;#8230;the light beginning to fade, she got up, moving quickly to
the window, looking down the hill that tumbled towards the sea,
becoming agitated,
"I have to go," she said, mumbling something about the tide that he
didn't understand and that she couldn't take him with
her&;#8230;
&;#8230;persuading her to stay, it was so warm by the fire, telling
her he wanted her all night long, gently knowing her and quite soon the
approaching kiss would extinguish the light&;#8230;

&;#8230;.then it was morning, woken by a slash of light in a cold
room, waking from the wrong dream, she'd gone,
&;#8230;until mid-day, waiting, cut between uncertainty, she didn't
return, someone in the village would know her; accompanied by the half
muffled church bells, asking everyone he knew; in the scattering of
shops clutching at survival, bothering to open their doors out of
season; the Tinners Arms, dark and warm, heavy in gossip from the
storm, crowded at the bar, the old man they'd seen on the beach, drawn
to him like a last refuge, asking him to remember, the day before, the
girl he'd seen him with&;#8230;
Aurelia&;#8230;did he know her&;#8230;where she lived?
&;#8230;looking confused, the old man, swaying enjoying his drink,
steadying himself at the bar, taking an age before answering,
"I saw you alright John&;#8230;Girl?
&;#8230;taking fun from it now, the old man urging fellow drinkers
to laughter, but then sensing his apparent seriousness and becoming
serious too!
"John," he said, "There was no girl, you were alone."

It was nearly six months since he'd been back to the cottage, now
everything was calm, the waves gently licking the edge of the shore,
the Gulls singing a gentler tune.
&;#8230;on the table, the stone exactly were she'd left it, as a
child he'd wish out loud for things he didn't have, the cottage was his
now and would never be sold,
&;#8230;it was a bright blue childhood day, the hot sun played
strange shadows into the corners of the room&;#8230;from the window,
the fishing boats on the beach resembling discarded toys; thinking
about the voices in the waves, the silver shinning tails of dead fish,
Kites flying higher and how we rest on the feelings that destroy
us&;#8230;searching out to the cove and the rocks beyond, the sea
unable to give him an answer, wondering why and where she lived in
August.