Ten Journeys Read online

  The water broke like blossoms and dripped from me as I shivered in its grip. I gambolled recklessly in the water, washing away the dirt of school, the stale dormitories, the frozen sinks – they all dissolved in the beautiful August sea as I plunged and plunged and plunged.

  When the winter came, I would lie in bed and listen to music, which took me back to the graceful sweep of that ocean. But I couldn’t capture its essence, except from when I was immersed in its arms, its waves breaking over me in a turquoise shimmer.

  How do I describe this to someone who has never stood on a beach in a summers evening, with the sea painting itself endlessly in its own colours? What am I hoping to achieve as I immerse myself in my memories so deeply, to try and recapture that essence? Perhaps I am hoping to gain something I lost, or hoping to achieve the greatest of indulgences – to shed all responsibility to the future. But inevitably I must accept that I have to let go.

  When the train first slid into the station I looked for Bella, trying to seek out a mad vision perhaps muttering to herself under a mess of hair, but no-one stood out. Unlike other relatives who’d be keen to find me on arrival, Aunt Bella couldn’t be seen. I often entertained the thought that she could appear on will. There were a few occasions during the summer when I desperately tried to find her in her favourite haunts (that word seems so relevant now) and she couldn’t be found at all, not sitting by the pond pushing pages, nor under the shade of the willow tree. She appeared when she wanted to appear, she seemed to have assumed the rhythm of life and in her mad dexterity was able to influence it, to appear and disappear at will.

  I searched for her through the smudged grey window of the train, distracted by the noise and the heat, but she wasn’t amongst the men in suits, the tourists smiling to themselves and the slim girls in blue. I was wild-eyed, and frantic and then she arrived without a greeting. Startled, I was clutching the bunch of flowers my mother had given me and I held them out to her. Bella seemed unable to smile, except faintly when she was by the sea and even in that first meeting she was very distant.

  I never knew her in the way most people know others, through a shared secret or a similar pursuit; our bond came about through a mutual understanding, which I thank the sea for. At no point did she try to talk to me about school, and her efforts to make me study in the holidays came purely out of guilt; she would have hated to see anyone work in the summer.

  My mother had instructed me that Godfrey, her husband who had recently passed away, was not to be mentioned. She’d told me they had been ‘two peas in a pod’ and that when he died, she wouldn’t be far behind.

  But this world still had her for a few moments yet. Bella had accepted his death with the quiet, helpless inevitability of one who knows the cruelty of the world only too well.

  She asked me if my parents were well and how my brother was, and said how she’d been looking forward to meeting me. She never seemed unhappy, but I felt infectious moments of bliss rise through her occasionally, when the sun blasted white onto our lithe bodies, making her complexion shine. She never looked wrinkled to me, only ruddy and strong, despite her frailty.

  I wonder whether or not I sent secret messages out to the sea when I arrived, and whether or not it responded to me in some sensuous way. I’d been brought up for the first years of my life by it, so I had grown to know its rhythms, and I felt in some strange way that it welcomed me when I arrived at The Willows, as it beat down on the shore. The Willows soon seemed more like home than home did, and I realised as I walked through it that even though I didn’t know where everything was, it would soon come to represent an oasis to me. I had my room, and unlike my room at home it was full of the spicy airs of the sea. I longed to slip into the soft and warm water, and I knew that when I did all responsibility would be shed from me.

  I slipped out alone and laughed. Out loud; it shivered in the wind. I was free – I knew no-one. It was a beautiful feeling. Summer was clear around me, full of mysteries. I had the promise of romance, the sea and a mad apparition to live with, and I loved it all.

  Bella later said, in her more affectionate moments, that I was beautiful like only a child who’d lived his first year by the sea could be. She said she doubted my eyes would be as blue if they hadn’t reflected the waves for my first year. She was full of these mad ideas. And she promised that I would also spend my dying years by the sea, and in that respect she was right.

  I felt recklessly happy as I stripped off my travelling clothes and slipped into the water that lopped around me, its cool lip rising with a thin line of bubbles over my slim knees and up the twist of my body. As I looked down on myself my body was pale and white in the water. I hoped it would soon ripen in the sun. I dived under, felt the water splay through my hair, and I rose invigorated. I kicked around in pleasure and when I was too tired to swim any more I walked back to the shore and let the sea dry on my body as I shivered and dripped on the sand. I got to know the boats, the faces and the sounds of that corner of the beach so well.

  As I sat with her on the third night, she poured us wine and stared at the sky outside our window.

  “Did your dear mother tell you that you would be having company?” she asked.

  I shivered all over. I knew it would have to end.

  “One of my closest friends has a daughter – who I admit I've not seen in a long time. He wants her to spend a little time away from home, as apparently she’s become withdrawn. And what better place than here!”

  She said the words with a quick wave of her hands.

  “She's coming tomorrow, and if her father’s anything to go by she will be a gentle, sweet thing. Her mother died two years ago and she hasn’t been nearly the same since. She was a dear woman, but we know how the world takes its toll.”

  She took a nervous sip of wine, and shook slightly.

  “Her name’s Olivia. Dear me, I shall feel like quite the mother figure what with you both here. I shall have to steel myself.” She quivered again, and then looked back at me firmly. “Here is the only place to be in the summer. When your mother sees you next, you will be different boy, you mark my words. I can see the grey around your eyes starting to fade already. I shall watch you blossom.” She paused, and then murmured to herself affectionately, perhaps imagining it.

  Olivia arrived the next evening. She came in tattered city clothes with eyes that I saw myself in. Standing at the station wrapped in smoke she was bewitching. She greeted me with an awkward smile, and then averted her gaze. But what flashes she gave me of it told me I could hide nothing from her.

  She touched Aunt Bella shoulders gently when she greeted her, and I felt the glare of her gaze on the side of my face when she realized I was watching. Aunt Bella made quick inquiries about her father and then, perhaps afraid of uncovering some shadow, left us alone together. It was exactly what I’d wanted, but I was afraid I’d say something inappropriate.

  She had a strange, gentle allure, and though I wasn’t yet close to her I promised myself that I must be soon. She wasn’t quite the fragile flower I’d expected and the apparition that appeared so thin and fragile was in fact furiously intelligent and bright. Her eyes were china blue and searching, and they gave you the feeling of being naked under their gaze. I often felt that no-one could lie to those eyes, and if they tried they would search among the knots and crevices of your mind and triumphantly seize on the truth. Life to her seemed intense and fleeting, she was almost ashamed at the brevity of it, and she treated it with a passing ecstasy and despair, all dispatched with the same weary reverence. So far she sounds just like a fireball, but she wasn’t; she was beautiful and dark, and I was desperate to know the her she was trying to hide.

  Another moment haunted me when she first came to The Willows, and that was the strange twist of a smile she gave when she first saw the shimmering sea. The intimacy the three of us felt just seeing it made us seem complicit in something. How could something that distant still remain so intimate? It was as if we were part of a secret tr
ibe, and we knew our secrets but they were so powerful and intangible that we could never share them with anyone, not even each other. All at once I wanted to pour it all out to Olivia; shamelessly, recklessly. I wanted to tell her I that felt close to her although I knew nothing about her. I wanted to tell her about the emptiness I felt at school, about the release of the sea when I sank in it, about all of the ecstasy and confusion I saw ahead of us – but social timing made me refrain. She seemed to know, and when it was difficult, as at first it was to think of something to say, her gaze rested on me and I was at once exposed and settled.

  She played the guitar, singing in a gentle whisper that I was drawn into. It was as intimate as a late night confession between strangers. When she sang she lightly carried the melody of the song but hid the words, which I imagined she felt were too personal to reveal. I watched those slim, long fingers flicker delicately over the strings of the guitar, and as I write now it seems impossible to convey the ecstasy I felt when she plucked those chords and coaxed my soul.

  “Teach me,” I said. “Teach me all of them.”

  She smiled slightly, as if seeing that she’d met someone who cared, someone whose soul was made from the same odd, awkward stuff. We’d be soul mates; I’d tell her all my visions and I’d want nothing back. For a moment I thought there were strange runes carved into her guitar, which gave her the ability to touch the nerves of life and dance on its fingers.

  I went for walks with her, long searching walks where we trespassed around the curve of the beach and scrambled up the sandy mound, looking out at the sea. I held her arm and helped her along and she looked at me inquisitively. We sat out of breath at the summit, and looked at the beach and the sea below us along the horizon. Ships passed quietly out on the water, children pushed out dinghies and put on bright lifejackets. The smoke, the soft glow of barbecues wafted around, even laughter and the clink of wine glasses. I breathed in, smelt life.

  “Don’t you love it?” she whispered, her eyes alive. She looked at me and said louder, “isn’t it so beautiful?” The slim girl beside me was everything anyone had promised. The same soft posture as the other girls, with brighter eyes, more mysteries, more promises.

  “I'll take you out in the boat,” I said. “Can you row?”

  “No, but I’d love to learn. Can we fish as well? I can’t fish, but how hard could it be?”

  “Not hard at all,” I replied. “You can see right through the water early in the morning. When no-one else is up we’ll take the boat down to the shore. OK?” She smiled her agreement.

  “If you teach me to play the guitar, I’ll teach you to row” I said, keen to further our intimacy into the realms of somewhere reckless.

  “You’ve got the best end of the deal there,” she said, carefully putting her shoes back on. “There’s nothing like learning to play the songs you coax yourself through with.” She seemed to say it more to herself than me, and as she began the climb down to the sand she looked suddenly distant.

  London had packed its bags, made its way south and now had begun to flood our beach. The creamy waves of sand were washed away by the trudge of sandaled feet, and the clear ocean was peppered with speedboats, dinghies and half-naked swimmers. But I didn’t resent any of it, I loved it all. I loved the milky smells and the peace after the bodies deserted the sand for home, and the surrounding solitude of the falling dusk.

  I soon realised that it wouldn’t last forever, that the machine would soon want me back, turning me from a wild-eyed child into a custom made adult with fitting degrees.

  I realised something else; that the bewitching girl who I longed to know beside me had everyone’s eyes. Moving with grace through the beach she cut an air of serenity amongst the ecstatic havoc of the tourists.

  The sea stirred me awake in the morning, and a sleepy morning sun lit the room. I looked out of the window to see Bella gazing out at the sea, the waves finishing their crawl in a confusion of foam at her feet. She was looking out at the still ocean, and the beach was silent and empty. She was a solitary silhouette in the morning sun.

  Pulling the covers around me I moved onto my knees and watched her slim, bronze feet shuffle into the waves as they broke in circles around her. Did she quiver slightly as she breasted the water, her head held high like a swan as she swam out to the horizon? I sat there and watched her for a while, as her shoulders and head arced around in circles on the brink of the waves. She stood on a sandbank in the distance; she got tired and held onto the stern of a boat and finally, chin still high, with a look of ridiculous dignity, she paddled back to the shore. Her clothes were waiting for her on a rock and she patted herself dry. The air was still bright. I stepped out and across the landing, and seeing the door slightly ajar I tiptoed to Olivia’s room; this was the perfect morning for a row.

  The blankets were swaddled around her and she was still, swathed in sleep, her blonde curls scattered over the pillow. I whispered her name, and she stirred. She lifted her head sleepily, and croaked, “What is it?”

  “This is the perfect morning. Look out the window.” She groaned. A second later a slender wrist yanked back the curtains and sunlight spilled onto us in a hot, slanting ray. She sat up, her hair falling around her strangely uncreased face. She pouted cheerily. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you? Let me get dressed.”

  We ran out of the porch and onto the grass, down to the bottom of the garden and opened the gate. She’d left her hair an awry, beautiful mess. Sleep hung over the houses; it felt like we’d made a break for our liberty. I found Eeyore under a blue tarpaulin and turned it over. We limped with it down to the water’s edge and pushed it quietly into the water.

  It was still and silent at sea as she lay back, looking at the sun with her eyes half-shut as the boat rocked and splashed on the water. I remember seeing fish dart in strange movements, like secret arrows backwards and forwards under the web of the glowing, undisturbed waves. She let her hands trail in the sea, and she picked up shooting stars – clumps of seaweed attached to stones. She taught me how to whirl them around my head like a lassoo and let them fly, and they would dive like spinning, falling missiles into the sea. I was near her while she span them around her head, I could smell the softness and warmth of her body. These were the most beautiful of moments out there in perfect isolation while the village slept.

  Bella probably saw us while she sat on the porch with iced tea as we frolicked in Eeyore, the small powder blue rowing boat, secluded from the world. We rowed up to the moored dinghies and peered inside at the possessions; lifejackets, penknives and flares. There were beautiful names for the boats like Juno, Serena and Barnacle, painted in intricate letters on their sides. The sun caught the edges of the varnish and lit them up in shallow flames. Their hulls splashed on the water, which sloshed around them.

  On the way back I taught her how to row. She sat beside me and took an oar in each hand, and as I looked at her I saw that her eyelashes were dark blue, almost violet. Her oars bashed the water, we got nowhere. She laughed and dipped her hands back in the cool sea, and screamed with pleasure when she saw a silver fish, pulling her hair back from her face, peering into her own swimming reflection on top of the transparent water. I was madly in love with the girl at the other end of the boat in a cotton skirt who constantly smiled. Now I wish I’d rowed slower and preserved those moments more carefully.

  On the way back she craned her head over the edge and tried to catch a crab as we neared the land. The water spread around the boat like doves. She toppled into the sea and I caught the hilarious look on her face as she realised she was falling. She fell onto her knees, with a charming look of complete helplessness on her face. She screamed, pretending to be angry when I laughed at her. The water dripped from her hair as I wrapped a towel around her, and she clung to me. I took in her smell. As she looked up I felt a glowing sense of content as she shivered under my arm while I rubbed her hair dry. She looked up at me and said, “The crab got away.”

&n
bsp; A half-smile crept over her face, and I leaned in. I heard her lips part, we moved closer and then her fragrance enveloped me as we kissed. I tasted the salt on her moist lips, and her fingers snaked through my hair as she pulled me nearer. I felt a sharp, passionate intake of breath against my body. I was wrapped in her, for a second I was suspended in the glow, splayed with reckless desire, but my awkwardness stopped me. It lasted a few beautiful seconds. It wasn’t my first kiss, but the first time one had affected me. I felt the huge silence of the morning, the lapping of the sea, the wet smile that spread over her mouth. She held her head to one side, still dripping. We kissed again, and the taste stayed on my lips when she drew back and laughed. “I’m all wet!” She turned quickly and pushed me into the water.

  That afternoon, we decided to leave the beach for the first time and walk to the nearby town. Olivia took off her shoes and we walked the dusty track that led up the hill. Neither of us knew exactly where we were heading, so we followed the scent of suncream left by people who’d abandoned the midday heat to find shade in a café. There were no signs on this side of the coast, so all we had to follow was that elusive scent, and the bowed heads of those who knew better.

  We walked past the youths smoking their cigarettes wearily in the heat. None of them seemed in any hurry; each seemed to pause as they inhaled, swilling the smoke around their chests. Their smoke only travelled one way, drifting towards the slate roofs of the town. On the way in Olivia talked without pause. I wish I could remember more of what she said; all I can recall is that her words seemed to roll from her tongue as if uncoiling from the very part of her she’d kept secret. I remember her telling me how her mother used to play the violin in the evenings, and of the time she ran away from home, returning before anyone had even noticed.

  I remember looking at her as she spoke. Years later I was told that at university people would be drawn over by the sound of her voice as she talked in the corner of some bar. Her voice had a curious mix of something I have never heard before or since; it was at once assured, flirtatious and rapt. I was able to imagine even then the magnetic effect it would one day have on people, an allure made more potent by the sense that her voice had been restrained for so long. That afternoon I told myself not to interrupt that flow, thinking I may never hear it again. We chirruped like children up the long hill to the houses; both of us seemingly chasing the tail of some feeling that seemed difficult to define.