unwanted, which had been thrown away, and making it desirable again.’
‘But that’s good, though, isn’t it?’ he pressed, ‘what the sea can do?’
‘Of course, but I wish—.’ She paused, confused by the obligation to speak her feeling aloud. ‘But it’s no reflection of life, is it? That’s what saddened me. In life, what’s broken can’t be remade into something good— it never happens.’ The wind blew her hair across her cheek as she said this, and she faced about to the sea to let it flutter clear. The idea was too awkward, too sharp to define, so all she could conclude, as an aside, was, ‘There’s no sea for me.’
His frown persisted, but he half-smiled too. ‘The things you say,’ he remarked. ‘You say lovely things— it’s like hearing your thoughts.’
She glanced at him with new attention, and provided the other half of a smile herself. It was certainly no striking sentiment— it took no ancient philosopher to discover that words express thoughts— but somehow Arabella got a sense of him from it— his honesty, his modesty, his admiration— and these pleased her.
He whistled to his pet, which eased the moment, and they continued walking along the shore together— and from there spent the next hour chatting, laughing, and tentatively becoming acquainted. It was only in the evening, when she took time to reflect on the meeting, that she identified that particular comment of his as the first hook that made her like him. At the same time, however, in strict self-examination, she realised that his words had attacked her most glaring vulnerability, which no doubt accounted for their success: her vanity. A good-looking woman is armed and defended against compliments on her beauty; but appeals to her articulacy, and her intellect, especially from a man like Seaglass, who seemed to have no personal pretensions to these accomplishments, were almost sure of their effect.
At breakfast the following day, Julie announced that she was determined to make the most of her break, and proposed a walk along the cliffs, in which scheme Arabella readily assented, though with the warning that the weather was still very changeable.
‘Oh, what does that even mean? The weather’s always changing,’ Julie insisted cavalierly, and they set out along a steep and picturesque path. But of course, as soon as they had gone further than would allow a quick retreat to shelter, they were caught in a thoroughgoing downpour, and slogged their way back through it.
‘This damned weather!’ became the refrain then, as they became steadily more sodden.
‘Oh, Julie!’ teased Arabella, who was attired rather more appropriately than her companion: ‘Dressed for a summer’s day in the pouring rain— and the weather’s to blame!’
The other pursed her lips sourly. ‘I’m going to catch my death,’ she seethed, and having predicted such a malign fate, determined to carry it out too: no sooner did they reach the guest house than she went to bed ‘feeling ill’, and by the morning was declaring herself on the brink of pneumonia. The most effective medicine for her particular strain of that affliction, however, seemed to be sympathetic messages from London, so Arabella did not attempt any other diagnosis.
A day and a half later, Julie had achieved that petulant state of mind in which nothing but a return home will do, and was determined to curtail the holiday at whatever unnecessary expense.
‘But we’ve only tomorrow,’ Arabella reasoned, when she heard this resolution in the evening, ‘and then we leave anyway.’
‘I can’t last another day,’ her companion exclaimed, with a wild, pained expression such as she supposed any consumptive might wear. ‘I’m sick of this God-forsaken place! How can you stand it?’
‘You’re not fit to leave the city, that’s all it is. You can’t survive for long without something or someone drawing you back.’ She nodded towards the ever-ready phone. ‘You go ahead and take an earlier train, since your life depends on it, but I’m going to stay. In fact, I’ve been considering perhaps hanging on for a few more days— maybe another week.’
Julie suddenly sat up with interest. ‘Arabella! It seems to me someone’s drawing you as well as me! What have you been doing while I’ve been staring at this maddening wallpaper? Where have you been nipping out to between the showers, all week? And more to the point, who with?’
Arabella was too flustered by this abrupt assault to pass it off indifferently; and part of her consternation arose from realising how much, without really intending to, she had been concealing from her friend.
‘You’ve never asked,’ she protested. ‘You’ve been too busy moaning.’
‘Well, I’m asking now!’ Julie returned, with relish. ‘You’ve been having a fling, haven’t you? A holiday romance! What a sly thing you are, Arabella— who is he? Not that strapping one with the name? It is! Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have been dying of boredom if I’d known.’
Arabella was not altogether certain why she hadn’t told, and that added to her embarrassment. The truth was that she had met Seaglass every day since their first meeting, and for hours and hours together, on account of Julie’s convenient confinement indoors. She saw in him the naïveties she had herself forsaken, and yearned for them. When he related the tale of how he had been found as a child, she wondered whether she too were finding him, just as fresh in his heart, and open to the arms that reached for him, as he had been on that day; and would he now find her likewise, rescue her, as he had been rescued? That very morning, he had gazed at her intensely, and murmured something tender and banal, like: ‘I’ve never met someone like you’ —and she knew then, from having heard it too many times before, that from him it was sincere, and that he was feeling his way towards saying that he already loved her. And in a moment, or two moments, of abandon, with her mouth full of briny air and ears pressed with the roar of waters, it seemed there would be no shame for her to say it too, and to mean it. But she could not bear for it to be rendered trite, a fling, an inconsequential, ordinary business, as quickly derided and forgotten as executed— so she had hidden from her friend.
But now, confronted by Julie’s pursed smile and raised eyebrow, her defences were automatically engaged, and she said carelessly, with a laugh: ‘Well, why shouldn’t I have a little fun?’ —which was meant to conceal anything genuine behind a veneer of apathy; but she realised, with a sharp, sudden sense, that the carelessness was too habitual— that with very few such blithe words she could belittle Seaglass into a mere triviality, a shot of lust to punctuate the dullness, and in deceiving Julie would convince herself too. He did not deserve that— and she dreaded to lapse into it— so she stopped short.
Thankfully, just then, a persistent buzzing interrupted them, and her friend scrabbled to answer the call, so Arabella escaped. When they next met, Julie seemed to have surmised everything she might wish to know about her friend’s romance, and was content with knowing nods and wry pokes. Her health was apparently restored for having convinced herself of the dire need to return to London, and she had booked a train for the morning.
‘I’ll see you when you get back, I suppose,’ came with her parting kisses. ‘If you do come back, Arabella. You may decide to stay forever. This sea air is so bracing.’
Arabella returned the smirk and waved her off from the platform, before walking back to the guest house alone— and feeling the significance of that solitude. Her holiday was effectively over: she was there for Seaglass, and it was daunting. But exciting, too, without doubt— she meant to let herself relax, let the shell soften, let Seaglass soothe her, and then inspire; she meant to let herself feel again, and feel for him.
Her own ticket was supposed to carry her home at noon the next day, but that was to be abandoned: Seaglass had proposed something different, and she meant to follow wherever he might lead. He had told her that, for some time, his friends had been daring him to prove his prowess by swimming out around the rock in the bay at high tide. This was not as straightforward as it sounded; as well as the distance, there were submerged reefs and unpredictable undercurrents to consider.
‘No-o
ne’s ever done it, so far as I know of,’ he said, ‘without giving up or getting into trouble. But I’ve been practicing for a while, and I reckon I’m ready to give it a try— if you’ll come along and watch me.’
She had assented, pleased to let him impress her. So they made their arrangements for the next morning, including a very early start, to catch the tide— but all was novel and charming to Arabella, right down to the pastoral simplicity of it, a swimming challenge, a feat of strength. A man like Seaglass would not show off wantonly, however his companions may bait him; his wish was to perform for her, and only her congratulations would satisfy him.
Friday dawned, and soon afterwards Arabella found herself passing through the deserted streets down towards the shore. The sky was dour with mist and the air was numbingly cold— even the waves seemed to shiver— but she found Seaglass undaunted, limbering on the narrow remnant of beach in preparation. Arabella was disconcerted to find him there with only the mongrel for company.
‘Where are your friends?’ she asked. ‘I thought they’d be here to see you prove them wrong.’
He grinned and hugged her tightly. ‘Come on, warm me up,’ he said, nuzzling into her hair.
‘But where is everyone?’ she persisted. She had envisaged a little crowd of spectators, cheering on his attempt.
He looked into her face evenly, and rejoined at last: ‘I’m going to do it for you. And guess what?’
She was nonplussed, and touched. ‘What?’ she replied.
‘When I get out there, I’m going to take a dive, and you never know, I might bring you back another bit of that red glass.’
This was a new mark of his esteem. She knew by now how Seaglass came to possess that rock of deep, bloodlike glass he had set into his sculpture, and together they had indulged in daydreams of such jewels, clustered among the crusted spars of the wreck, hidden out past the shelter of the cove. They had pursued this notion between them, until now his imagination fired him to present her with that very prize— a quest for something valueless that effort and affection would make a treasure.
A kiss of encouragement was the only answer to this promise, and she gave it, wondering at him, and at what she had come to expect of men. She should laugh at his folly, of course— but if she did, didn’t she deserve to be rebuffed in her turn? Could she not take an open hand, without waiting for it to clench from her into a fist?
He made ready to set off, and she charged him with wishes of good luck. He padded down to the waterline, waded in, turned to raise his hand, and then arched into the breakers, cleaving the water with assurance. His dog paddled out in pursuit, until, defeated by the depth, returned to the shingle to bark his approbation, shake the water from his coat, and linger restlessly.
Arabella perched herself on a crag by the discarded towel, rubbed her chilly hands and watched his grey wake diminish. A long, low ridge in the water beyond the reach of the surrounding headlands was Seaglass’s goal, and it seemed very far away; indeed, it faded with distance as the mist became more dense. Before long it gradually disappeared.
How would he find it if the fog got thicker still? How would he even find his way back to shore? Perhaps she should have stopped him going? But then, he knew the cove intimately, had swum there for years. And besides, he had practiced this trial time and again. He had claimed so.
The tedium of waiting settled upon her. The dog lay down, head on paws, and gazed after his invisible master. She sighed, slightly anxious. Had he really practiced, or was this entire stunt an act of bravado? Was he that naïve?