The Seal Man

This short story by Michael Ingram takes place on a remote island.

CARRIE picked her way carefully down the narrow path towards the lighthouse. It was getting dark. Beside her, the cliffs dropped sheer to the angry sea. Gusts of wind buffeted her and rain stung her face. She flicked a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes.

Trim and tanned, she was a single career woman “currently unattached”, as she liked to say.

She pulled her anorak tightly around her. This was a long way from her bijou art gallery in the city – no way was she going to make it back tonight.

Tania, her young assistant at the gallery, had suggested she needed a weekend in the fresh air.

Carrie laughed out loud. She was certainly getting enough of that!

“I’ll pick you up at five sharp,” the boatman had said when he’d dropped her off on Seal Island that morning. “Don’t be late. They’re giving it blowin’ up tonight. If’n it comes early, head for the lighthouse.

“The Seal Man’ll give you shelter. No good trying to ring me. No signal.”

She had spent the morning watching the seals until the weather changed. Early in the afternoon the sun slipped behind storm clouds, the wind picked up and spume whipped across the top of the waves.

She’d waited hopefully by the jetty until dusk, but no boat came.

“Well done, Carrie,” she muttered as a squall of rain swept in. “Only you could get yourself stranded on an island with no phone signal.”

Nothing for it: she would have to seek shelter in the old lighthouse.

She wasn’t worried. She was used to challenges. A short, tumultuous marriage had driven much of the softness out of her.

She had built up her gallery business by sheer determination and a steel core that drove her on.

She loved art and revelled in the discovery of new talent – as long as it was saleable, of course.

The path dipped steeply. She looked up. The lighthouse had disappeared in the darkness. Her feet slipped on the wet stones.

She shivered. This wasn’t so good. She had to find shelter soon or she’d be in real trouble.

Blinded by the stinging rain, she moved forward carefully. The thunder of surf deafened her.

“Stay right where you are!” The urgent shout came from behind.

She turned. A man materialised out of the gloom.

“Whatever you do, don’t move forward.”

She looked down. Below, whitecaps smashed against the rocks. She was on the edge of the cliffs! One more step and . . .

A gust of wind tugged at her anorak. She swayed forward. Strong arms grabbed her around the waist and her legs dissolved into jelly.

The man pulled her back from the cliff edge.

“It’s OK. I’ve got you.” He released her and stepped back.

Her teeth started to chatter uncontrollably. She pulled the anorak tightly around her.

“Better get you into the warm!” the man shouted. “Follow me. And watch your footing.”

Carrie clambered around a rock after him. The lighthouse loomed out of the darkness.

“Oh, I only missed it by a few steps.”

“A few steps that nearly cost the rest of your life,” was the dour reply.

“That’s cheerful,” Carrie muttered as they reached the door at the bottom of the lighthouse.

****

The door opened into what was obviously the living-room. The man closed it behind him. The sound of the storm was cut off abruptly.

The room was small and cluttered. A log fire crackled in the grate.

Carrie took off her anorak and propped her rucksack by the fire. She felt the warmth seep into her chilled body.

The air smelled of smoke, the sea and . . . oil paintings. They were everywhere – stacked against chairs; covering every inch of wall space; in every nook and cranny.

They were all shapes and sizes, painted on bits of

Who was this talented, reclusive artist? Carrie was determined to find out . . .

driftwood, and they were good.

Carrie moved slowly around as her rescuer disappeared into another room.

In fact, they were stunning. Seabirds wheeled and dived over angry seas. Craggy cliffs towered over white beaches. The lighthouse appeared in many of them – and seals.

They were everywhere. Soft-lit against a glittering sea or etched against threatening skies, they stared back at her, doeeyed.

Of course, Carrie thought, the Seal Man. She glanced at the door. There was no sign of him. From habit she took out her smartphone and began photographing the pictures.

She’d ask him if it was OK later, but right now she couldn’t help herself – they were so dramatic.

As she walked around the room she noticed a framed photograph on the desk. It showed a smiling couple with a young girl standing between them.

They were leaning against an Aston Martin in front of a large house.

There was something familiar about the man. Carrie snapped it without thinking.

A door slammed. Guiltily she stuffed the phone into her pocket.

****

The Seal Man returned carrying two steaming mugs. He handed one to her.

“Chicken soup,” he said. “Need to get some warmth into you.”

He threw a piece of driftwood on to the fire. It sparked and roared.

Chicken soup was

Carrie’s least favourite; normally it reminded her of hospitals. But this tasted like nectar.

The man stood by the fire. Steam rose from his thick woollen jacket and heavy cord trousers. A salty, wet-wool smell filled the room. It was not unpleasant.

“My name’s Carrie,” she said. He nodded.

The silence was broken only by the hissing of the fire. Carrie looked at the pictures on the walls.

“These are very good,” she continued. “I presume you know that?”

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked around the room, grasping the hot mug between her hands.

She didn’t feel threatened, even though she was alone on an island cut off by a storm, in a house with a stranger. She was at ease.

Maybe it was because she could sense something in the paintings. Beautiful as they were, they exuded a haunting loneliness.

“Thought you’d miss the boat.” His voice was deep, almost a burr. “Saw you watching the seals earlier, too. When the storm came I reckoned I’d better go find you.”

“I’m very glad you did.” She looked at him. Tall and thin beneath his jacket, he wore a checked shirt loosely tucked into wellworn cord trousers. Pale blue eyes were set deep in a tanned, bearded face.

Carrie stood in front of one of the paintings. It was a small, delicate seascape of a seal on the beach below the lighthouse.

“I run an art gallery in the city. I would love to set up a special exhibition –”

“I don’t mean to be rude, lady, but I’m not interested.”

“You don’t understand. Your pictures –”

“I said I’m not interested.”

Carrie looked at him, puzzled. His eyes weren’t angry, just sad, unable to hold her gaze.

She noticed the flecks of grey in his beard and sideburns. The rest of his hair was dark, curling naturally over his collar.

Carrie looked at the photograph. The eyes told her it was the same man but clean-shaven. Another time, when the eyes were full of laughter.

She turned back to the painting.

“Is this why they call you the Seal Man?” she asked suddenly. “Because of the paintings you do?”

He frowned, seeming confused.

“Nobody sees my pictures; I don’t sell them. I just watch the seals, check the pups. Sometimes I cut the fishing lines from them. Sometimes I can’t, and they die.” His voice lowered. “Mostly I just watch them, and paint.”

He turned and poked the fire. A log rolled over, spitting loudly. Silence hung. For the moment he was somewhere else.

Carrie broke the spell. “You know, these would fetch a lot of money.” He shook his head.

“No! No. Never again.” And the conversation was over.

“It’s late.” He grunted. “The boat will be in early to pick you up.”

He showed her to a room clearly kept for castaways like herself. It was fitted out with the basic necessities, with a small shower room off it.

Tired and not a little confused, Carrie lay down fully clothed on the bunk bed. Within minutes she was asleep.

Rain rattled the skylight in the darkness until, with the dawn, the skies cleared and the wind died away.

In the morning her host was nowhere to be seen. Carrie picked up her rucksack from beside the fire and made her way down to the jetty. The boat was waiting for her.

Twenty minutes later Carrie stepped ashore in the village and made her way to the car park.

As she placed her rucksack on the passenger seat she felt something hard. She opened it.

Neatly wrapped in a piece of oilskin was the small picture of the seal.

****

On Monday morning Carrie hung the picture in the gallery.

She transferred the photographs from her phone to the computer and set up a continuous slide show.

She felt uncomfortable that she hadn’t asked him, but he’d clammed up before she could.

She shrugged. No way he’d know, anyway.

She looked at the wall. Soft, almost Impressionistic, the pictures faded in and out around the seal painting.

Her assistant Tania stood mesmerised.

“I don’t know what it is,” she said to Carrie, “but there’s something about

The paintings, though beautiful, exuded a haunting loneliness

them. I’m sure I’ve seen that style somewhere before, when I was studying.”

Tania had only recently joined the gallery. A graduate art student, she had just turned up one day and asked for a job.

Carrie had been impressed by her enthusiasm but knew little about her.

“How do you think we should price it?” Carrie asked.

Tania mentioned a figure. Carrie raised her eyebrows.

“Really? You think it’s that good?”

Tania nodded and Carrie shrugged. She could always negotiate a lower price.

She wrote out a price tag and placed it beneath the painting.

The gallery was quiet so Carrie busied herself dealing on the internet.

She also went on to Google as the photograph was niggling her. She wanted to find out more about the Seal Man.

It didn’t take long.

The photograph had shown a personalised number plate and the house name on the gate post. That was enough.

Soon she was staring at the same picture in a national newspaper dated 10 years earlier.

She remembered the story. David

Bartholomew had been the “in” artist of

the day. But alcohol had caused his downfall. Driving while intoxicated, he had crashed his car.

His wife died of her injuries and, soon after, his daughter ran away. His life had spiralled down rapidly.

The article described his desperate search for her, his battle against the bottle and the squandering of his fortune. And then he just disappeared.

“Well, I know where you’re hiding, David Bartholomew,” Carrie muttered. “You haven’t seen the last of me, Mr

Seal Man.”

The next few days were hectic. The painting was admired. To her delight it sold that first afternoon, at the asking price.

The buyer agreed she could keep it on show for a couple of weeks. Word spread. The gallery was busy every day.

Carrie knew she had a winner on her hands. The buyers were there but the pictures weren’t! All she had to do now was convince the Seal Man to give her some more.

“And that might not be so easy,” she mused.

She decided to go back to the island the following weekend, but events overtook her.

Even though there were no more paintings by the Seal Man, sales of paintings by Carrie’s other artists were so brisk she opened the gallery in the evenings.

One night a group of art students came in. A mixed bunch, they were noisy but harmless. Two of the girls were Goths, all rings and chains, black eye-liner and leather.

Carrie saw one leaning against her desk, watching the slide show intently.

It wasn’t until later that Carrie noticed her phone was missing from her desk. She checked the till drawer. It was £40 pounds short.

It was too small an amount to call the police over, but she was angry with herself for being so trusting.

The following morning she woke up with a splitting headache. By lunchtime it was obvious she had caught a bad cold.

It laid her low over the next few days until Friday, when the buyer came and collected the seal painting.

With regret, Carrie switched off the slide show. She had an order book full of potential buyers, but no Seal Man pictures.

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to get back to the island.

Somehow she had to make him see reason and let her have more paintings.

****

Things didn’t quite work out as she planned. The weather was fine, the sea calm, and the seals were out on the rocks sunning themselves.

The only trouble was, the Seal Man had gone, and not just for a few days’ holiday.

The boatman had warned her on the way out.

“Moved them off two days ago,” he’d said.

“Never seen so many boxes. Who’d a’ thought he had so much junk? Took two trips.”

Carrie didn’t know who “them” might have been but she had to see for herself. She climbed up the path to the lighthouse. The door was padlocked.

She peered through the windows. The bare walls mocked her. The paintings had gone. The furniture was there and his boots were still by the fire. But the grate was cold and empty.

“I must have frightened him away,” she said out loud. “And those paintings were so good!”

As the boat puttered back to the mainland, Carrie watched the island disappear into the haze behind her. A seal popped its head up beside them.

Its brown eyes stared at her. Then slowly it slipped below the surface.

“Like my dreams,” Carrie said quietly.

But there was something else. More than a feeling of a chance let slip. It wasn’t just the paintings.

The more she thought about it, the more she admitted to herself it was the Seal Man she had really wanted to see again.

With a shock Carrie realised he had been in and out of her thoughts since she was last here. A feeling of sadness swept over her.

Something had been lost where she hadn’t known something had existed. There was a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

The sun slid behind a cloud. She pulled her anorak around her in the sudden chill.

Ah, well, she thought, silly me. He wasn’t the most talkative of men anyway!

But putting a brave face on things didn’t help. She felt dejected for the rest of the weekend.

It was a quiet and unsmiling Carrie who opened the gallery on Monday morning.

She looked at the space where the Seal Man’s painting had hung. She wished now she hadn’t sold it. The gallery felt emptier without it. As did she.

****

Two weeks later the Goth reappeared. Carrie heard chains jangle as the door opened, and she looked up.

The girl walked over and placed Carrie’s phone on the desk. She put two £20 notes beside it.

Carrie blinked.

“I’m really sorry I took your phone and the money,” the girl said nervously. “You see, I recognised the pictures on the wall.”

She pointed to where the slide show had been.

“I knew immediately who had painted them.

“I had to find out where he was. I saw your phone and thought maybe you had his number or address.

“The drawer was open. I saw the money. I hadn’t any and I – I had to find him somehow.

“I’ve been trying to find him for years. I know I could have asked you but I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

To say Carrie was surprised was putting it mildly. All the pictures were in her phone, as well as her ticket bookings to the village and the island. But why?

The door opened. A man came in carrying some pictures under his arm. For a second Carrie didn’t recognise him.

“You did say you wanted some of these, didn’t you?”

The Seal Man leaned the pictures against the wall. Walking over, he put his arm around the girl.

“Thanks to you, I’ve found my daughter again. Or rather, she found me.

“Out of the blue, there she was, after all these years, suddenly standing in the sunshine outside the lighthouse door.”

There was laughter and warmth in his eyes.

“I hope she has apologised for taking your phone and money.

Actually, though, I’m glad she did.” He radiated happiness. “We have so much to thank you for. I’ll tell you all about it, but I am not sure where to begin.”

Carrie couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. Suddenly her day was looking a great deal brighter – if a little blurred through the tears.

The End.