Where the West Wind Blows (5 page)

I continue to walk alone. Sometimes I feel, if I could just go far enough, I would find myself again, bump into the person I used to be coming from the opposite direction along the footpath. Slowly, I am waking, forgetting to be miserable, letting my grief slip like a shawl that is no longer required.

Day by day I begin to notice more wonderful things, the play of light on the water, a family of dolphins off shore, a treasure of tiny shells washed up and left high and dry at low tide. I tuck each experience away in the sketchbook of my mind, telling myself that, one day I will bring the memories out, shake out the dust and give them colour and light – one day, when I can laugh again I will share it with someone.

Often now, I go for hours without thinking of James or worrying what my future will hold. I find myself absorbed in small things, the structure of a sea shell, the way the sand trickles through my fingers, marvelling that there should be so much of it, amazed that it is constantly forming, constantly shifting, constantly increasing.

Infinity.

One day the whole world will be nothing more than a pile of sand and, with nothing to bind the planet together, it could just all blow away in a sudden gale to drift about the universe, taking the whole of humanity with it. Not even a memory of our species left, for there would be none to remember. 

Nobody left to mourn.

Such is life; such is love.

Suddenly I become acutely aware of the rock I am leaning on. It has been here since the world began and, now, it is my resting place. How many other people have halted here, looked across the sand, eaten a picnic on its rough, scarred surface? I take out my sketchbook and begin to transcribe the pattern of the rock onto the page. In my head I am planning a great abstract, powerful multi-tonal strands of stratified rock as a metaphor for human DNA.

This rock and I, we both have a story.

My hair blows across my face, strings of nuisance, getting into my eyes, catching in my mouth, tangling with my tongue. My marks on the page are insubstantial, just like a promise. My pencil keeps moving, building a picture, increasing the shadows, deepening the lines, perfecting the image. Just as my time here will be short, the day will come when this rock is also no longer here. Slowly it will turn into sand, like our dreams, James’ plans, our love.

And, as for my drawing, in all likelihood there will be nobody to ever see it. Even if I return to my attic and transfer it to a giant canvas, paint it with rich browns and greys, a touch of purple, the people who view it won’t understand it. It will really never be anything but marks on a page. The scrapings of my mind.

If I hang it in a gallery, give out free tickets and bring a thousand people to look upon and venerate my representation of this rock – that still won’t make it permanent. Everything, my paintings, my sketches, even the earth itself, are just fleeting things.

Like love.

Like James.

Like me.

We are all transient. Temporary.

Only
death
is permanent.

Near the bottom of the page, where the rock meets the sand, I begin to sketch in the cluster of bladderwrack and mussel shells, concentrating on the sheen of the water, the shine on the surface of the seaweed. I work fast and purposefully and when a shadow passes over the sun, spoiling my vision and stealing my light, I look up in some annoyance at the intrusion.

And there he is, Mr McAlister, seemingly as solid and immoveable as the rock itself and my brief creative brainstorm blows away in the wind.

“That’s not bad.” He squats down at my side and takes the drawing from me. I clamp my lips in a straight line and sit tight, irritated at the intrusion, at his rudeness but at the same time, reluctant to take up the fight with him again.

“Thank you.” I go to snatch back the book but he jerks it away and begins to flip through the pages. My heart sets up a steady, sickening thump, making me uncomfortably aware that I am alive. “Give it back.”

He lets out a yelp of humour and waves the book beneath my nose. “Now, he is a handsome fellow. Anyone I know?”

Furious now, both at him and myself, I scramble up and lunge for my notebook. There are umpteen sketches of him, every one of them not quite right, recognisable but with something vital lacking, making the representation of his mobile face nothing more than a mask. He turns into the wind, hunches over the book, flipping the pages, examining each likeness, glancing up at me from time to time. He is thinking, considering, while I wait, arms folded, fuming with anger, until he straightens up and hands back my property. “Why would you want to sketch an ugly bugger like me?”

I shrug and turn away so that the breeze blows my hair away from my face. I feel like a sulky child caught out in mischief.

“Your face is interesting, different.”

“You’re not kidding. I’ve certainly never won any beauty contests.”

He hands me his flask and I shake my head in rejection but he nudges me.

“The tip of your nose is blue with cold, woman. Have some.”

I take it from him and enjoy again the burning comfort of his bottle. “Thanks.”

I pass it back, jumping out of my skin when our fingers touch, just briefly.

His hands are huge, stained with oil, the skin roughened from work, the nails black around the edges. I look up at his face, trying to fathom the aspect of him that I cannot capture in my drawings. “What do you do?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do I do?’”

“Work wise. What is your job?”

He shrugs, “Oh, this and that. I don’t really have one. I grow my own veg, keep a few hens, catch a few fish. It doesn’t take much to feed yourself, not even for a big fella like me.”

That explains the aroma of fish that clings to his jersey, the mud beneath his nails. Above us the seagulls mourn, their shadows turning in the emerging sunshine.

“Why did you kill her?”

He looks down at me and has the grace to flush. My words have affected him. Perhaps he is not so tough as he seems. “Well, you don’t pull any punches do you?” he says at last. “I had my reasons.”

I don’t know why but I am suddenly consumed with the need to know but his face is inscrutable; he is not going to confide in me lightly. I remember my analyst, teasing information from me and I decide to soften the path by trading confidences. I take a deep breath.

“My husband died very suddenly, there were no goodbyes, nothing.”

“Bastard,” he spits, and I flinch in astonishment.

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘What a bastard.’ Meaning your husband, for having the nerve to just die without asking your permission first. Did you hen-peck him to death? Was death the only way out for him?”

“How dare you! You know
nothing
about it.
Nothing
about us. We were happy.”

“Sure you were.” He swigs again from his flask, winces as the liquid sears his throat. “Aren’t we all?”

I am almost crying with rage, balanced on the cusp of stormy tears but I take a deep breath, determined not to break down in front of him. The far horizon continues to absorb his interest, he is like a blemish on a faultless face. His flippancy is spoiling the perfect grief I have created, making me remember the few times when James and I
did
fight. The time we almost parted when he accused me of flirting at a studio launch party, the time when I was unsure about a certain model that he spent a lot of time painting one summer.

“James and I
were
happy. I was devastated at his death. I still am.”

“Are you? Or are you just annoyed that he’s left you in the lurch?”

“You know nothing about it.”

“No, and you and Mrs Dogooder-post-office-lady know nothing about me either but it doesn’t stop your jaws from flappin’, does it?”

The sun goes in. I scowl and silence swamps us. We look in separate directions across the beach toward the sea while the wind thrashes against the shore. He is much taller and broader than I am, the bulk of his body is shielding me from the worst of the weather but when he turns suddenly, it buffets my face, blows back my hair. His eyes burn into mine and I am able to look at him properly for the first time. I see anger, I see regret and, to my surprise, I see sorrow. And in that innate sadness I recognise something of myself and feel some kind of a connection. And, as if of its own accord, my hand grips the damp sleeve of his anorak. “Sometimes it helps to talk.”

“You sound like a fuckin’ shrink.”

“Maybe I should talk to
you
then, and prove I’m not.” I pause for a long time, fumbling for words, wondering where to start, while he continues to stare at the horizon as if he is on coast guard duty. In the end I open my mouth and just start blabbing. “James and I met at art school. We were very young and were friends long before we were lovers. He said that was the best way to be, so that if the loving ever stopped, we’d still have a foundation of friendship.”

“Did it?”

“Did it what?”

“Stop.”

“No.”

I lower my head and bite my lip, swallow the obstruction in my throat. “He was just turned fifty when he died. We’d spent the morning making love, then after breakfast, he went out to tidy the garden while I washed up before starting to prepare dinner. It was a Sunday …”

The memory of those lost, quiet, domestic Sundays catch at my heart. The long morning in bed, the newspapers he read from cover to cover, the shared breakfasts, the aroma of fresh coffee, Paul Simon playing on the radio. My life was so ordered then, so safe compared to the knife-edge I walk now.

“So, you could say you fucked him to death then.”

Again he has spoiled my perfect vision of my life before. My breath falters and my neck snaps up furiously, but then I see a glint of laughter and realise that, in his own rough way, he is teasing me …as James might have done. He often said that those Sunday mornings would be the death of him. I manage a half smile. “James would probably agree with you.”

Above us the screaming gulls are turning vast white circles in the angry sky. Gulls have no cares, they think no further than the next fish, the next rocky ledge, the wake of the next fishing boat. I wish I were a gull. It would be better than standing here, pouring out my heart to a half-crazed stranger. I should stop speaking, just walk away from him and slam my cottage door against him but loneliness doesn’t let me. Mr McAlister is the closest thing I have to a friend.

“Go on,” he prompts and I take a deep breath and continue.

“Afterwards, when he was gone, I didn’t know what to do. It was impossible to just slot myself back into life without him so I …I …”

“You ran away. Others have done the same.” 

I am getting a pain from looking up and, with a frozen hand, I massage the warm skin where my neck meets my shoulder.

“Did you run away too?”

“After they let me out of prison I did … I came here. It seems to be that sort of a place.”

“Prison must have been awful. How long were you in for?”

“Too bloody long but it didn’t seem as endless as the months I spent watching her die.”

He gets up and begins to stride backward and forwards on the sand while I remain balanced on the edge of the rock. He is like a caged animal, the hard rippled sand trampled beneath his feet until he lets out a growl of despair or maybe anger …I am not sure.

Then he comes to rest beside me, his body three, maybe four times the size of mine, and sits quietly again. My eyes travel down to his massive fists that are clenched tight as if they are the keepers of a great secret. I am fascinated and acknowledge that, if he chose to, he could extinguish my life just by squeezing them tight about my throat.

“You did love her, then?”

He runs a hand over his face, momentarily smudging the outline of his features.

“Aye, I loved her.”

His voice is resigned, sad, as if his heart, as if his whole world, holds nothing but emptiness.

I can relate to that.

I let this information sink in before I ask, “But why, then? Why did you do it?”

His sigh merges with the gusting wind and his voice, when it comes, is as angry as the roaring tide, his words a shipwreck as the disaster of his life spills out onto the sand. 

“She was dying anyway. It was cancer. She was in agony and
I
was the one that had to watch it, day in, day out as she grew worse and worse. She couldn’t take anymore.
I
couldn’t take any more. She couldn’t ask me to do it but I knew, and in my heart I still know, it’s what she wanted.”

Christ.

I wish I hadn’t pressed him.

He is still living it,
everyday
, living with the guilt of having killed the woman he loved. He’s been to prison and done his time but still he is suffering and, like me, he will probably suffer forever.