I walked barefoot. The island was the opposite to the city; without harm. There was nothing underfoot that I should be worried about. Jellyfish and sharp shells were the limit of dangers, and those I could watch for. The sand filtered between my toes and I imagined I could feel every grain.
I hated the fact that Anya’s pain had brought me some sense of calm and I didn’t understand why. Maybe it was because I’d felt some sense of achievement. I’d helped her. I’d known she hadn’t needed words or a post-mortem because what she was going through seemed like a process; something that had to be done.
The barn loomed in the early evening light. It had become home, which worried me when I had the time to think about it. This was no permanent residence, unless you were a mouse or some other creature. Right now, while limbo was my master, it was the right place for me to be. I didn’t need a home with beautifully plastered walls or designer wallpaper. A bespoke kitchen was beyond me when I couldn’t even function my way through a microwave meal.
Had you given me Anya needing a perfect house or a perfect kitchen or a perfectly prepared tasting menu, I’d have managed it. What she’d been though made me know that she deserved it.
But me? I wasn’t there yet. And I didn’t know why.
I left the canvas I’d started with Anya on the beach and instead began a new one, this one not as bright, more textured even from the start. I saw the cliffs and the depth the gulls flew from, diving towards the sea with an innate confidence in their own abilities. I envied them.
And I feared them too.
The gull would be the centrepiece, yet it was to one side, the sea would cover most of the canvas. I saw the palette of blues that would be needed, the darkness coming through as the unknown.
I paused when my phone rang, half grateful and half irritated at the interruption. It was Michael, Anya’s brother, wanting to know if I was helping setting up the barbecue or not. It rankled that he had to ask, because as much of a dick as I’d always been, I would muck in. I could be relied on, by everyone else, if not myself.
I carried on painting after the call, working out in my head where the details needed to be. A shade against the cliffs, the aura of the sun – where would it all fit? I felt in colour, that was how I interpreted the world, through different shades.
Which was where blueprints didn’t live up to the name. When I’d designed houses, I’d drawn the lines in different coloured inks according to rooms or views or just the feel I had about that idea. It hadn’t always been accepted, especially when I was training, but as a partner it hadn’t been anyone’s issue but my own.
The music I was playing switched tracks, bringing me back into reality, away from the colours. I stopped and wondered about Anya, whether she was smiling now. I wanted her to be smiling. I understood what she’d been though and why she felt the way she did, but it was clear to me that she wasn’t responsible. Something easier to see from the outside than from within.
I took a step back and looked at what I’d done so far, understanding what I was trying to communicate. We were the gulls, diving from the tops of the cliffs, reliant on pockets of air and the wind. And our wiles.
I started the outline of a second bird, one that flew slightly higher than the other, shielding the one below from any elements. I didn’t know exactly who the birds were, maybe they were interchangeable or souls that inhabited who they chose, but they were necessary.
* * *
I headeddown to the beach after having to do some amateur plumbing to get the sixties’ shower to work. When Janie appeared I was going to get a lecture the length of the Magna Carta about sorting out the house. It wasn’t really liveable, and Anya was right: winter and the autumn storms were going to hammer the building. It had stood there for centuries in parts, but the bits that hadn’t didn’t have much life left in them.
The beach was already busy with activity. The chef from the local restaurant was setting up the barbecue. Michael was organising an obstacle course for the kids and someone was setting up what looked like face painting. Music blasted out of an old sound system.
The sea looked silver, the lowering sun glinting on the tops of the waves that bobbed playfully. The gulls and other seabirds were further out at sea and I could see a couple of fishing boats whose shape I recognised, making the most of the good weather and heading out for a full night’s fishing, or maybe taking people out on a trip.
“Thanks for coming down.” Michael moved over to me, dressed in an old T-shirt and long shorts. He was a reserved man, one who kept himself away from the attention, preferring to just get on with things. He still lived in the town, but didn’t work at the guesthouse. He was an accountant, one of a handful on the island and mainly specialising in wealth management for the retirees who headed here for island life. “I’m not sure this is your thing.”
He was right. It wasn’t. Two years ago I’d have loved it, have brought my guitar down or even a sketch pad and drawn caricatures of people for fun, but now my scars were too visible in my expression and I didn’t want to take people’s sympathy as my medicine. It tasted too bitter.
“I don’t mind. I like people being happy.”
He nodded. “My sister. Anya.”
I felt a change in my chest. No one had seen the painting of her, because I knew there was something in it that would make the viewer ask what she was to the artist. I had no answer. I’d known the woman two days.
I looked him in the eye and waited for him to explain.
“She was upset this afternoon. I saw her through one of the windows when I was over to see Nan. You looked after her. I just wanted to say thank you.” He put his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable.
I shrugged. “She’s had a tough time.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to not say she should’ve come home earlier – not for Kim, she’s said it already. An has to do it her way. We don’t fully get it. What happened wasn’t her fault, but she blames herself. It’s hard seeing her this way. My sister isn’t quiet or emotional.” He stopped, looking out to sea. “Anyway. I shouldn’t be gossiping about her. But thanks, man. Now can you help us put those windbreakers up?”
We started to unfold them and I learned why Michael was an accountant and not an architect, given he had no idea how to sort out any form of structure. We put up a couple of teepees for the kids to go in, or for teenagers to sneak off to. Around us, the volume of voices grew and by the time we’d set up what needed to be done, the bonfire was catching on the sands and there were people flooding the beach, some going into the sea, some sitting round with beers or soft drinks for the kids.
I heard Anya before I saw her, talking with Catrin and Polly, one of the shop owners who made her own bath and body products in town. She laughed, but I didn’t hear her heart in it and mine fractured a little more for her.
It’s not your fault.You are allowed to survive.
