Looking Back

THE tide must be just on the turn. There is even a thin ribbon of sand visible now between each lace-edged wave. If I wanted to, quite soon now I could walk to the island.

But I’m not ready; not yet.

Shading my eyes against the low morning sun, I stand looking out across the beach, where there is not a soul to be seen – only a flock of gulls which took off, shrieking indignation when I disturbed them minutes ago.

They have now landed again further away, looking slightly aggrieved.

Nothing much has changed. At least the tatty amusement arcade, with its leering pirate pub sign and hall of mirrors which as children had terrified and delighted us, has been swept away, replaced by upmarket apartments.

And I know that, out on the island, the hotel is as sleek as the cruise liner it resembles. When the four of us were small, brought here as a treat by one or other of our parents out from Plymouth to the seaside village of Bigbury, it was shabby and neglected. I expect it was demolished before it fell down.

I always used to hope the tide would be in when we arrived. As we drove through the narrow, high-hedged lanes, with the glimpses of sea – always blue in those days – through gateways, I used to will the causeway to be covered.

If it was, we paid our fare, climbed aboard the old tractor-tram and chugged through the swirling waves.

I remember one day we worked our way round the island until we came to the lawn in front of the hotel. I think Charlie’s parents had brought us and I recall his mother told us that Agatha Christie had stayed there once and had set one of her murder mysteries out on the island.

Well, you can imagine what that did to our imagination. I gaze back across the years, seeing four youngsters as we edged across the unkempt grass, the other three no doubt as frightened as I was, though Harry and Charlie were hiding it behind a bold front.

But when we peered in through the dusty panes of glass, we were half-relieved and half-disappointed to see there was no body stretched out on the tiled floor.

I’m looking past those figures now, almost over their shoulders into the future – their futures, which on those bright, hot days seemed golden.

The pictures, like the kaleidoscope I was given one Christmas, are tumbling and reforming in my mind.

I remember that first time we came out here on our own, Suzanne and I perched precariously on the backs of Harry and Charlie’s old motor bikes, our skirts tucked decorously in as we swooped through the lanes.

For a moment, I can smell again the honeysuckle in the hedgerows, the pungent hot tar and the tang of the sea . . .

I can hear Charlie’s joyous laugh, feel the hardness of his back as I held on tightly, my arms around his waist and my cheek against his shoulder, his blond hair tickling my skin.

And it was right over there, near the low cliffs, that the two lads carved in the sand two enormous hearts with Charlie loves Juliet and Harry loves

Suzanne and we stood inside them, safe from all the world.

Suzanne and Harry were married six months before us. Charlie and I were best man and bridesmaid, of course, and they in their turn acted as best man and matron of honour for us.

I was in cream silk with pink rosebuds that day. Charlie was looking very solemn and my mother very flushed.

Not from crying, I found out later, but because he had convinced her that he’d lost the ring and she was just about to box his ears with sheer relief when, miraculously, he found it just as Dad and I hoved into view at the top of the aisle.

****

Far out at sea a yacht, looking like a toy at this distance, is skimming along, its bright white sail gleaming as it catches the light.

I perch on a rock, snuggling into my cardigan, for the wind still has a sharp edge to it, reminding me that it was a late spring this year, and that the lanes last evening when we drove down them still

Years ago we had come here together. Today, I was here alone . . .

had a few stragglers of primroses and red campions.

I smile faintly, absently watching the yacht. I am remembering how, even though we haven’t been here for years, I knew the exact spot where I would glimpse the sea for the first time, and held my breath in case it had vanished.

But it never had, of course, and I’d always laughed with relief.

Footsteps crunch across the shingle and then my husband perches on the rock beside me. He gives me an affectionate little nudge with his elbow.

“You should have roused me, love – I was only dozing. I would have come down with you. Anyway, penny for them?”

“Oh, I was just thinking. Remembering.”

He nods his understanding.

“Yes, brings it all back, doesn’t it?”

His eyes are fixed on a far point and I know his thoughts, like mine, are as distant as the far horizon.

“Remember that day when we all came out here?” I say. “The way we talked about our lives. Remember all the plans we made for those perfect happy-ever-afters?”

“Yes.” His tone is sombre, and I take his hand and squeeze it.

****

It’s strange, really, how things so often don’t work out. You jog along nicely and then suddenly, well, life ambushes you. For the man sitting at my side is not Charlie.

My darling Charlie was killed, taking part in a motorcycle rally on his beloved old Norton, leaving me a young widow with five-year-old Charles, the image of his dad.

I thought the world had ended at 2.30 p.m. that September day when the kindly policeman and woman came to the door. But, of course, it hadn’t.

Somehow, you pick yourself up off your knees and you get on with the rest of your life. You bring up your son the best way you can, and never stop telling him how much his dad loved him. How proud he would be of him.

And Suzanne and Harry? Their golden dreams gradually turned sour. Though they did try for years, not least for the sake of little Harriet, finally Suzanne left. It was nobody’s fault. They just became different people, people who didn’t quite love each other any more.

They had stood by me through my nightmare, and all of a sudden it was my turn to try to support them both.

Suzanne, who was going to be a top businesswoman, who was sure that she and Harry were going to live in a luxury apartment in Paris, is now living – I can still hardly believe it – on a croft on a remote Scottish island.

She is blissfully happy with Rory, whom she met on a train some time after she and Harry divorced. And what of Harry? He was so devastated when the final parting came, so reluctant to admit defeat, so sorry to see their dreams shatter, that he shut himself off from everyone.

At last, it was Harriet, his lovely daughter, who brought him in out of the cold.

She arranged a surprise forty-fifth birthday party for him, and of course I was invited, as was my Charles, now a marine biology student in Plymouth.

Something happened to Harry that evening. Whether it was the outpouring of affection of the family and all the friends whom he had kept at arm’s length for three years, or just the healing of his heart by time, I couldn’t say.

But when I invited him to mine for a meal, he accepted. We caught up on old times, relived the happy moments, and gradually, very tentatively, we moved into a new relationship.

From lifelong friends from infant school days we turned into something deeper, until he asked me to marry him.

****

It is different, of course, this time around. The youthful bliss Harry and I have both known with other people could not be repeated. Our love – this love – is calmer, less intense, but infused with deep affection and trust. And it’s with that affection that I suddenly hug him tightly to me.

“What was that for?” He grins down at me then kisses the tip of my nose.

“Oh, nothing. I’m just happy, I suppose.”

“Me, too.” He hugs me back, and then pulls me to my feet. “Come on, or the B and B will have stopped serving breakfast.”

I nod, then point. “The tide’s going out. Look – the causeway will soon be clear.”

While I’ve been sitting here the waves have been gradually pulling back until, before us, there’s now a broad, shining pathway of wet sand.

“We could walk across to the island later, if you like,” Harry suggests. “Before we leave.”

I smile.

“Yes, please. And maybe we can have coffee and a scone at the Pilchard Inn.”

The scene is so perfect at this moment that neither of us is keen to move. The sea and the sky are empty except for a lone gull hovering ahead, and the island.

We haven’t come here for years, and we shan’t be coming again. I know that for sure.

Amazingly, my Charles and Harry’s Harriet fell in love, too. They are married and living in Australia, and finally we have decided to give in to their pleadings

and settle there ourselves.

As we turn away I laugh, for there is a huge heart carved in the sand behind me. Harry loves Juliet.

I nudge him.

“You were very sneaky.” Harry takes my hand and we stand together inside the circle for a moment, then we walk back across the deserted beach. n

Somehow, you pick yourself up and get on with your life

We shan’t come here again. I know that for sure