Anya
The drive approaching the village was filled with fields of farmland; rape and barley waving in the breeze that waltzed in from the sea. It was a sight I was familiar with, having grown up here, and it was the sight I dreamed about when I was in bed at night, sometimes wishing for home, even though homesickness should’ve passed given I was an adult.
Faint images of boats bobbed on the waves as I looked ahead, descending the hill that dropped down to sea level, proof that life was continuing as normal. I didn’t have to concentrate on the driving; this was a road I’d taken many times before. I passed a farmhouse, situated just off the winding road I was driving on; the same dog sitting outside, basking in the sun, the same tractor parked on the large drive. Nothing appeared to have changed and time seemed to have stood still, waiting for me to return home.
I slowed down and turned off the radio, let the sounds of the birds and the faint lull of the ocean be the music instead. It was different from the city with its restless continuum of humming. There was a sense of calm; the surroundings a constant, year after year, never changing, reliable. This time the familiar landscapes contrasted sharply with the heated feelings that burned inside, the usual fun of the journey home spoiled by what was ahead.
I spent summers back at home; the six-week break from school usually enough to make me feel human again; to remind me of who I was away from the demands of children and parents and the curriculum. This summer, the break was longer. While I was driving, another teacher was instructing my class about long multiplication and alliteration. Someone else would be doing my playtime duty, and my bedroom in my shared house in Clapham would be empty for at least two and a half months as I had no intention of going back until my head was empty of the shit that had happened.
The cottages became more frequent and the farmland lessened as the final few metres were covered. Seagulls soared up into the sky, calling like a band of town criers. I passed one of the many bars, the bricks painted bright white, freshly done for the summer season. A few benches and parasols were outside, in case any of the small number of tourists wished to stop there on their way down the narrow road toward the coast, where the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks would be the background music. Then the rough road broadened, exposing the view in front; a rocky coastline with the blue sea behind, a clear drop from the rocks to the sea.
A tall, white building stood between me and the sea; a garden in full bloom in front of it. I parked the car and climbed out, the warmth of the day hitting me. My luggage could wait. There were more important people to see. I put an arm up to my face to shelter my eyes from the sun and looked at the building, the old sign on the wall still announcing it asBlue Sea View. There were voices amongst the cry of gulls and the crash of the waves.
Familiar voices.
The building’s height dominated the view. It was a Victorian guesthouse, built over a century ago, its design reminiscent of an age gone by. The white was accentuated by the black paint work, wooden window frames, maintained to keep the house as it was.
I walked slowly through the garden, the scent of the roses carrying on the breeze and a black cat lazing in the shade, grooming. Very little had changed from the outside, but I knew that once I was in, things would be totally different. There would be an absence there that would be palpable, one I’d never considered having to deal with. I stopped, looking up to the room that had been Marcy’s in the annex nearby, mine next to it, like it had been since I’d been fifteen and I’d been considered old enough to live out of the main house.
The voices died away as I headed over to it, away from the guesthouse, not quite ready to face what wasn’t there. I could hear the sound of chopping; an axe hitting wood, coming from behind the annex where there was a larger garden, one Marcy had tended when she’d been able.
I wandered towards the noise, knowing it wouldn’t be my grandfather – he was too old for heavy work much to his disgust, and as far as I was aware, my brother-in-law would be at work in Bangor at the university, working on whichever research project was currently crucial to the sea.
The cat followed me, rubbing around my legs and purring. Becoming a trip hazard. I picked her up and snuggled her fur against my chest. The vest I was wearing was thin and strappy, comfortable for a long drive and at the moment, I liked having my skin exposed to the elements. It made me feel alive after experiencing numbness. A necessary numbness.
The fur was sweet against my skin, the vibrations of her purr soothing. Her ears pricked as the chopping became louder and I paused, surprised by what came into view.
Smooth golden skin, glistening over firm defined muscles; jeans hanging on narrow hips; tattoos covering both arms and his back, and long hair tied up out of the way. I tried to focus on all of that and not what he was holding, because if I looked too much at that, I’d dissolve into flashbacks I had no right to have, because I hadn’t been there.
Had it been last year, had I not been through events just after Christmas that had made me consider my place in the world and just – why – I would’ve had a list of comments to choose from, mentioning his biceps, muscles, eyes.
But I wasn’t the same person I’d once been.
My words were feathers on the breeze.
He stopped, aware of my eyes, and dropped the axe, small precisely chopped pieces of wood scattered around him. He said nothing, merely looking at me as if I was a stray dog that had wandered over in the hope of scraps.
I felt annoyance. Irritation. I felt more than I had more months.
“I’m Anya.” I still held the cat. “I live here.”
He looked at me again, standing up straight, the sun beaming down on him and making his skin look as if it was made from a precious metal. A spotlight from nature. Only his expression didn’t look as if he felt blessed right now.
“Hello.”
He turned around and picked up his axe. I watched his back as he lifted it and slammed it down, splintering wood. The muscles and tendons in his back rippled with the action, his hair loosening with the force of the movement. I tried to focus on that and not the tool, the weapon in his hands. I tried to breathe. Focus on his muscles, his body, the tattoos. His hair. He was stunningly beautiful. I looked at him, not the axe. Not its sharp blade. Not that.
The cat had stopped purring, her eyes wide, body tense. I figured she’d picked up on my hidden panic. Despite the warmth, the atmosphere was cold.
“I don’t need an audience.” He had paused, his back still towards me. “I’m not a freak for you to watch.”
I felt my shoulders tighten, my focus on his attitude and not the axe. “I apologise. I was hoping that maybe you had manners and would introduce yourself. I’m making an assumption that you’re either working for my grandparents or helping out.” I knew from my job that there was no point in arguing, or correcting him. He was angry about something, maybe me. For some reason that bothered me. I had done nothing, except maybe watch his naked back and chest a little too much.
He visibly stiffened and turned round, holding the axe. I took a step back.
Sharp object.
Blade.
