‘Sorry, we’re not open yet,’ I call.
He comes to an abrupt stop, looking thoroughly fed up. ‘What time do you open?’ he asks shortly.
‘Ten a.m.’
It’s only a quarter past nine.
He mutters under his breath as he turns on his heel and walks straight out again, leaving the door wide open.
Rude!
I go over to shut the door and glance down at the beach in time to see another wave crash onto the sand, erasing a whole section of tree. Despite my determination to stay upbeat today, I can’t help but feel a little melancholic as I get on with opening up.
There’s no car parked on the drive when I return to Beach Cottage, the aptly named house that has been my home since the age of thirteen. A few years ago, I had it converted into twoseparate apartments, but from the outside it looks like a two-storey cottage. It’s built of grey stone with a central door and four symmetrical windows with pale blue frames. Peeking above the high wall enclosing the property are the spiky heads of three fat palm trees. Along the front runs a bubbling stream which is hugged by a waist-high stone wall with so much lush moss and foliage packed into its cracks and crevices that it looks half alive. Two bridges, only a metre and a half long, allow access to the driveway and my front door.
I cross the tiny bridge to the main door and let myself into the hall before unlocking the downstairs apartment. My previous guests didn’t have children and Tom is coming on his own, so there’s little to do in the bunk room and its adjoining bathroom.
Wandering through to the cosy living room, I look around, smiling at the perfectly plumped sofa cushions. The open-plan kitchen and dining area at the back of the cottage are equally spotless. If only all guests were this thoughtful.
Satisfied that I’ll have the place ready in no time, I tap out a quick email to Tom, letting him know that he can let himself in at midday. Hopefully, the news will make him happy.
The next morning, when I get out of bed, I go straight to the window and pull back the curtains.Stillno car on the drive! Did this Tom guy even check in? I haven’t seen or heard him and he didn’t reply to my email.
An hour later, all thoughts of my wayward house guest are forgotten as I stand on the balcony outside Seaglass and stare in stationary silence at thetwotrees now etched into the beach.
The first, on the left, stretches outwards from the stream in the same style as yesterday’s, a span of leafless, elegant branches.
The second has been sketched directly onto the sand in the centre of the beach, a tall, slim, spire-shaped conifer that makes me think of the Italian cypress trees I once saw lining the paths of the Boboli Gardens in Florence.
The memory makes me feel hollow.
I find myself being drawn down to the beach, and up close, I notice how the edges of the cypress feather in a way that looks realistic. I think they might have been created with a rake, but the tree that is emerging from the stream seems to have been scored into the sand with a sharper object. I’d wondered if it had been imagined in winter, but next to the tall, strong cypress, it appears starved of life.
I’m desperate to know what my fellow artist was thinking and feeling when they created these pieces. Did the work come from a place of joy or sadness or from somewhere else entirely?
There’s an ache in my chest as I walk the length of the cypress and stand staring out to sea and thinking about Florence, a place that once held so much hope for me.
I’d only just left university when I attended the Florence Academy of Art six years ago and I still felt very much like a student playing at being an artist. But during my four weeks there, as I made cold clay come to life under my hands each day, the future felt wide open and full of possibilities. I was so excited about the next stage of my life: moving to London and getting a job in a studio.
Then it all came crashing down.
I may not have made it to London or back to Italy as I’d once dreamed, but Iama professional sculptor now. It doesn’t matter that I’m not sculpting full-time – I like working at Seaglass during the summer months.
I smile at the sea and the ache in my chest recedes.
Returning to the balcony, I take a few pics and post one to Instagram with the words: ‘More exquisite sand art gracing our shores this morning … We’d love to know who our mystery artist is!’
Saturdays are my busiest day, what with opening up for brunch, followed by several hours of cleaning and prepping the three other holiday cottages I manage before returning to Seaglass for the evening shift. Before rush hour kicks in, I take a quick look at the post and discover that it’s already closing in on fifty likes. I scroll through the comments, hoping for answers but finding none.
One of my oldest friends, Rach, has commented.
‘Which one’s your favourite?’ she asks.
I reply without thinking: ‘They move me equally, but in different ways.’
Somehow, they both speak of loss, even as one thrives while the other falters.
She must be online because she replies within seconds: ‘Wonder if there will be more tomorrow…’
