The Sealwoman’s Gift

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The rain has freshened the air again, leaving one of the soft springtime evenings she used to love best, the clouds harried on their way by an eager breeze, a spangle of late sunshine on the water. Behind her a snipe has begun a humming circuit of the heath and she has to force herself not to turn and search the sky for it. No, straight down the wall of the cliff is where she must look, nowhere else, and only pay attention to the waves bellowing up for company. She steps closer to the edge, smoothing her skirts against the flurries of wind. The stones are slippy with damp moss.

Here is a point to consider. If the wind were to take her before she made another move, or if, say, her chilled toes should lose their grip, it wouldn’t be so bad a sin, would it? Hardly her fault at all, really, if you look at it that way, although that is not to say God would. Certainly it would be better received at her funeral. On this matter at least people would be sure to give her the benefit of the doubt. Poor soul, she must have forgotten how easily the April gusts can seize you. God be praised, she won’t be able to corrupt anyone now.

The patrolling snipe is distracting her, like one of those dozy black flies that insists on buzzing when you want peace to think. Go away, please. I am trying to imagine my funeral. The whirring stops, then starts up again, somewhere high in the sky but nearer now. She tries to guess which direction it will come from next; imagines the flash of white breast behind her as it swoops, silvery in the sun.

Oh, this is no good. The emotion that drove her from the house has started to ebb, all that furious despair giving way, now that she is truly on the edge, to a numb misery she can feel draining the power of action. So perhaps she will just turn and permit herself one look at the bird circling in its lovely blue vault, and let it be her last sight on earth before she closes her eyes. She turns and her hand flies to her mouth. The man is little more than an arm’s length away. His face, what can be seen of it under an unruly beard that makes him look very different, is white with alarm. The arm he has reached out to grab her is frozen in mid-air.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’