Flying on the wings of Dragons - Book 3, The Porth Kerensa Series

Chapter Eight

There is a brisk bitter wind as I walk the path along Widows Peak with Chloe snuffling around me. I come here often since Joe told me his mother killed herself here; it has a curious pull for me that I have not analysed. There is loneliness and a vulnerability that draws me to this place overlooking Anson beach and the harbour. I stand and stare out at the angry ocean, thinking about the desperation Joe's mother felt and the cruelty of fate. I live with knowing that I could not save my daughter and Joe lives with the knowledge that he was too late for his mother. Both of us damaged and broken in our hidden ways. Are we meant to save each other?

     On a normal night I would never have been on that train. Joe catches that train once a year and there we were; right where we needed to be to find each other. Some might call it fate, yet fate has only been cruel to me. Do I dare to believe that I was destined to meet Joe? Our paths would never have crossed any other way so did providence contrive to put me on the train? I want to believe so badly yet I don't know if I can. I don't want to risk believing in this, the way I believed in things when I was untouched by the dark side of life.

     Slowly I walk down the steps and onto the beach. I release Chloe from her lead and she races away into the ocean that sparkles invitingly even on this cold February day. The wind whips round me as I stroll along the wet sand. It is beautiful here in Porth Kerensa, I can feel the peace of it seeping into my bones and my soul with every day that I spend here. In my old life the noises that surrounded me were sirens, traffic and drunken yobs staggering home at the weekends. Here there is nothing but the soothing audio of seagulls screeching, wind whistling and the waves crashing on the rocks. It lulls me to sleep at night and it wraps me in a protective bubble by day.

     I love it here in the village with Joe, even with the unsettling frisson between us. The days are spent walking or reading, and my evenings with Joe in his warm safe cottage overlooking the ocean. We sit and watch the telly or play games. Sometimes he reads to me by the fire and we both pretend we don't notice the secret glances we give each other when we think the other one isn't looking. We have not spoken about the night of the exhibition, or the line we crossed over. We move around the house cheerfully without any awful tension, both knowing we have to address the situation soon.

     The painting of Joe's mother is packed away in my room. Sometimes when he is working I take it out and study it. There are many similarities between the portrait of his mother and the picture of the little boy that hangs on my bedroom wall. I know without asking that the boys picture is a self portrait. There is an understanding developing between the two of us. An affinity which means we don't have to put into words the emotions in the middle of us. Somehow they are there but not. The secrets we handed over to one another need to be talked about yet we both know that something else more important waits to be allowed to blossom. Something we should not sully with the bleakness of the past.

     Standing still on the beach I cannot help but think of how much Emily would have loved the freedom of this place. She would have raced across the sand with Chloe and paddled her feet in the water. She would have laughed and screamed with joy at the wind whipping her long brown curls around her face, and I would have played and laughed with her. Or maybe I wouldn't have; how hard it is to know what I would have done if Cancer had not taken her away from me. Maybe I would have been impatient and eager to get back to the warmth; maybe I would have chivvied her along and chided her for taking too long.

     We don't appreciate what we have until it's no longer there.

     I am reminded of Christmas Eve and the realisation of how many simple things Emi and I missed out on. There were so many times when I told her to run along and come back to me later; too many evenings when I missed out on tucking her in because I was at work and thought it didn't matter, that there would be other nights. Holidays we didn't take as there would be plenty of time for that when Emily was older. And we never knew that she didn't have anywhere near enough time left to make up the things she missed.