Chapter 1
The waves can be heard so clearly.
In fact, much more than that, I can really feel them now. All sensations heightened by the absence of sight. Instead, I’m merely feeling what I assume to be the hint of early morning sun accompanied by the caress of the gentle breeze. The force that causes the waves to change the beach, the rocks and all that is left behind. Just as it always does, every single day.
Exhaling, I open my eyes slowly, just the tiniest of windows. Now feeling lost in the moment, absorbing the sounds ahead of me and the sensation of the gradually rising sun. It feels almost meditative. There’s a hint of at last being able to let go. To let this moment, this place wash over me. The subtle breeze is now a beautiful veil. Delicately moving over my contours. Eyes closed once again, so I can immerse myself in the sensation. The calm of this moment.
I’m pretty sure that death is not what I am yearning for right now. I’m not standing here, waiting with open arms for the end to arrive. Taking that split second decision to give it all up.
Well, at least I don’t think I am.
Death isn’t really the reason I am here. In this spot. Poised. Balancing. Yet deep within me, I know and accept that I really need to find out how much I actually want to live. If indeed I even do.
My feet, those plates of stability, trace along the angular yet erosion-smoothed edges of the rock face. My eyes held softly closed. Toes subtly shuffling, moving just enough to carefully feel along the edge, without taking me too far from my spot. This place. This moment. The cliff edge I have passed on foot so many times in recent months was then void of too much consideration.
It holds the most perfect view out to the side of the bay. It really does. A favourite expanse amongst those who desire adventure between the varying rock faces. To explore the crevasses, the remnants of tides gone by. A multitude of layers, buffeted away over the years, to reveal a beauty that continues to change, develop, and grow. Gradually and subtly. On the other side of the rocks, the land is open. Ready and welcoming in its space. That area. Its vastness being utterly perfect for those wanting the sound and feel of the sea rather than to experience the stories told by the creativity of weather and time.
I take a breath in. Just a gentle one. I don’t want the decision to not be my own.
Yet despite my care, I almost start to lose my balance. A slight wobble within legs, loss of traction within feet. Without taking control of the moment, I will relinquish my decision to the landscape, the weather, this place. It will have taken my future.
I want to live. Really, I think I do. But can I actually convince myself that I want it enough? Am I enough?
Having steadied myself, I open my eyes fully. Take a second to fleetingly look down. A moment of shock. Though really it shouldn’t be. I already know what exists below and how close I am to becoming a part of it. With a small, sharp intake of breath, I step back, just a tiny distance. Hearing the waves crashing reminds me once more of what lays beneath as I try to ease my wayward breath. A heart pounds. I realise it is mine. The beat joins the sound of the waves as though this were some musical improv event. Not really working together, but each producing its own music, sharing the same space. I am aware that the air is cold, not windy as such, but providing a brief movement to remind me of its existence and power. I don’t dare look around me. Conscious of how risky that might be. To tempt, upsetting my own stability.
Not wanting to share my moment with anyone else, I pray that no one has been standing away from the cliff edge trying to decide whether to intervene or not. Considering whether that might actually cause me to fall. Would I fall? Maybe I would find I could fly? I recall how I used to dream of that. I’d be a vision, floating above fields, arms spread out over houses. My flight would be low enough to appear as a though I were a balloon, somehow lost by a small child, no doubt now distraught. How wonderful it had felt…to fly. Floating over the waves, filling my chest with hope, calm, maybe a little excitement for a future. A future that was mine to explore.
Having now stepped back, there exists a pause. I’m feeling able to press that button. This decision does not require my immediate action. Looking down, I randomly catch sight of my toenails. An imperfect red. Slightly hardened skin. Yet what I most notice is that they really need re-painting. A completely ridiculous consideration right now. But I’m at the beach. It is the end of summer, and I should have colourful toes to display in my flip-flops. An indication that I’m having some ‘down-time’. Yet the difference is that I am not. The reality is that this is not a holiday. This has not been a breakaway. It is almost now my home.
I had been so intrigued by this coastline when we all arrived here before. The hotels, grand houses, balconied flats. A myriad of different colours and designs throughout. So many of them are clearly in view from the main stretch of the beach, which is ridiculously wide and almost as deep when the tide is out. On the other side of the barrier of rocks exists a cascade of greys and blacks, marking out areas for tracking down little fish, pond dippers, and the like. These two beaches sit separated by a barrier of huge rocks. Bouncers keeping control. Such unique landscapes are on either side of this rigid division. Either the expanse of sand or an interest in the delights of the coves often draws visitors. I was told once that generally those who do not live here fall into one of two categories. Those who never arrive and those who return constantly. No one resides in between.
The beach, the cliff edge, it now draws me down. I can now feel it. Even though I have just stepped back a little, it is all drawing me over, pulling me further in.
Chapter 2
My name was Georgia Florence. I was a wife, a mother, a friend, and an accountant. I found myself to be all those things, not necessarily in order of priority, it must be said. That was my existence. And I was never, ever late.
My pace quickened and I could feel my heart pounding as if somehow that might help jolt me forward. Maybe it would increase my speed of travel, my ability to get to the station sooner. The sound, against the pavement, mapped out my footsteps for all to hear. My hips endeavouring to take my legs forward at a pace that I wasn’t familiar with at that time of day, and in those shoes.
I was never late.
Heels were really not the ideal attire for dashing to catch the train to work. I should have known that. Red heels, bar across the top of my foot. A sophisticated look, not much else. My legs would undoubtedly pay the price for this for the rest of the day. Why the hell was I suddenly running? A question I couldn’t justifiably answer. Would it really matter if I was half an hour late? Clutching my oversized handbag tight to my side, I mentally scrolled through the memorised paper diary that sat central on my desk. My eyes imagined darting across the words I recalled, skimming over them as I moved with haste through the front entrance of the station.
I was never, ever, late.
Remembering there were no meetings, just a few accounts to finalise and several new clients to call and touch base with, I could acknowledge that there was nothing that would be heavily impacted by my inability to wake on the alarm that day. The reality was that no one was going to direct a look of disappointment at my tardiness of arrival. There would only be my own disappointment with self. As always.
Purposefully tucking my hair behind my ears, while trying to remain casual, I watched as the train pulled in at the exact moment my feet found the platform. Just a little out of breath but trying to look as though I had arrived leisurely, I paused and waited for the train to come to a complete halt. A gentleman I often saw at that same platform, at around the same time each day, signalled for me to board first. There was a knowing smile. His beard hiding the full extent of his smirk, no doubt. He’d undoubtedly witnessed my last-minute dash through the gate not ten seconds earlier but was refraining from directly referring to it. He didn’t need to. His face conveyed the notice. Not in the same critical way I was at that point viewing myself, but maybe with a touch more sympathy. I boarded the train and turned to the right. Heading for my usual seat, in the usual carriage, on the usual side of the train.
The views I knew so well greeted me through the carriage window. With open arms, they cared not that I almost did not make the train. They did not inflict the element of judgement that I inflicted upon myself. The familiarity of the places I found myself passing through provided a small amount of comfort. Those colours. Those shapes. I saw them almost every day. It had become second nature. As the train trundles along the back of different homes, I would find myself noticing where curtains had not been opened as usual. Where trees had increased in height in what felt like days. Leftovers of the previous evening’s garden socialising remained discarded. All were small hints provided on the lives I saw flashing by.
I don’t think I really knew where it all actually started.
I had no real grasp of the moment I began feeling so lost. Consumed by a desire for more, or maybe just for different. That sense of something missing, of someone no longer there. Pieces missing. Jigsaw incomplete. All I really knew was that the missing part was me.
You see, I wasn’t the only one. That I really was sure of. I couldn’t be, could I? We all sat on that train, other trains, going to and from work and I was sure others must have felt it too. That unwavering desire for more. The hope of finding ourselves again, maybe once again.
Bumping into our very own beings in the spaces between carriages. Finding ourselves, our future selves. Happy? Together? Or maybe that was just us, but in the past. What kept us all tucked up within our lives? Afraid to do more? These repetitive wranglings ran through my head as I walked, now without hurry, from the station to the office. Self-evaluation. Random wonderings. A conversation almost impossible to switch off. Personal podcast ramblings. It was all such a regular part of my life back then. Considering who else also found that hollow, where once there was a spark. A drive. A determination to move things. To do things. To be everything you could ever possibly be.
I questioned myself constantly. Did I look OK? Could I do my job well enough? Did I even care? Did my boys still need me? I had been going on like that for months, maybe years. Who knew? But the one, most reoccurring question that lurked above all others came up time and time again. ‘Was this all there was ever going to be?’
The track ran along behind garden after garden. Occupants barely seemed to notice the existence of us as we passed by. Glimpses of others’ lives moved in front of me each day. Like old friends, I welcomed their new day, just as they welcomed their own. Preparing to ‘see them later’ on the return home. I despised yet found some solace in the regularity of these people I did not speak with on my journey between home and work. Finding myself more settled in my seat, I leant back, getting ready to be updated on the lives of these imaginary old friends. Speed gathered. My breathing had settled. Legs eased and my journey then began.
Chapter 3
‘Those toilets really are something else.’ Chrissie’s declaration had gained everyone’s attention as she made her way over to us at the makeshift outdoor bar.
‘That’s because when everyone around you is a bit older, you don’t have to worry about someone else having blocked the loo or finding a sea of fag butts on the floor.’ Erica pointed out the obvious to several expressions of agreement. ‘And let’s face it, we here are very much all of an older age.’ Agreement diminished. However, finding humour in reminding us of this fact Erica managed to make light of the passing years, at the same time as she searched through the contents of her bag for something that was clearly starting to distract her.
The sun was beginning to wane, in the gentle fashion it so often did on the best summer evenings. No real breeze, yet still the music carried itself across the field, uninterrupted in the main. Draping us all in a delicate cloth of light-hearted enjoyment. A break from the day, from the entire week, from true life. The bands were mainly those who probably should have retired their instruments and fame some time ago. The outfits undoubtedly not retained from their original height of popularity. Yet for us, it was a chance, for just one evening, to be all that we once were. Casting off all the anxiety, responsibility, and doubt. Or maybe that was just me?
It was Chrissie’s idea, as plans often were, for us all to go. She’d seen tickets somewhere and before we knew it, four of us were booked and then committed.
Drinks collected. We all sidled away to find a spot where we wouldn’t bother anyone else with our gossip and general catch-up chatter. Occasional dancing was also likely to feature, so we made our camp towards the back of the field. Still close enough to see and hear the bands, but far enough away to avoid the reality of their aging and probably allowing us to ignore our own.
That time of day brought us a peace like no other, even with the surrounding sounds and activity. That rare feeling of being able to really let go of events of the days before encompassed me as I leant down and took a seat on the blanket. Not usually a worrier or an anxious person, I’d recently found it so much harder to move on. To let go of general stuff. It all seemed to just grab a hold of me, sapping me of the strength required to just shake it all off.
Idle chatter about children, updates on health and work issues, accompanied by humorous anecdotes, filled those precious hours. The music was, in the main, just as we all recalled. It dragged us back to a time of bedroom walls fully adorned with endless posters. Popular vinyl purchased on Saturday afternoons from the record shop along the nearest high street. Despite the fact none of us knew each other back in the days of questionable eyeshadow, we’d lived the same times, just separately. We all remembered how those days before made us feel. Then placed together, in that field where history ran excitedly to greet us, the ease of those days before filtered through to the conversations. Many of them were unhurried, light-hearted. All of them undeniably easy, without pressure or judgement.
Just a drink or two with the slowly departing sun and music. That was all it took to take me back to that other time. To remind me how it really had existed then. That other place. That other life. The seemingly endless summers. The ease of existence. All in the glow of my very own mum.
She would have loved that day. Open air, music, all completely her thing. She would have been in that field, much as I was, with a group of her closest friends. However, unlike me, she would have been dressed in some outrageously vintage costume. I’d become too serious for that. Also, unlike me, she wouldn’t have felt she desperately ‘needed’ the break. I never recalled her needing or asking for anything much. My mum always appeared content with her lot, loving her life, never yearning for anything more than the blessings she already had.
I wasn’t one to think about my mum every day. Not anymore. That sounds awful, but I didn’t. It had been almost twenty years since she left. Yet now and then I found something to bring her back to me. For those memories to come flooding through. Sometimes it was something I wish she had seen, heard, or known about. Sometimes it was something I knew she would have enjoyed. Those moments spent thinking of her sparked a light in me. Dim though it was. That evening was most definitely one of those occasions.
Erica disappeared back to the bar again, returning with more drinks for us all. I was convinced she’d managed a few shots during the journey by the look of her, but I wasn’t there to judge. Everyone needed to take their own medicine at times, I figured.
Dusk fell, the shroud signifying the approaching end of the day. Bodies lay on blankets all around, lazily letting the music and peace of the moment wash over them. Voices were heard, idle chatter, laughter, the odd beginnings of an argument. The alcohol, the music of a time before. It all became like a huge sway of peace over and above what I expected to receive from coming. Glancing over at my friends, my extended family, I was warmed and, for that solitary moment, content.
Erica started to look agitated as she frantically dealt with what I assumed were urgent messages on her phone. She’d discarded her vintage straw hat. Anxious jolts of her arms as they moved at pace. Annie looked over at me as if to question whether we should ask anything. I shrugged, to indicate that I had no idea what to do for the best.
‘Everything OK?’ Annie took the plunge, directing her gaze concernedly over at Erica. Chrissie was oblivious, relaxed out on one of the rugs, singing softly, her eyes closed – I assumed – with a random straw hat draped over them.
I looked up and over at Erica, awaiting a response.
With a brief look up at Annie, Erica replied, ‘It’ll be fine. Just the usual. Dad’s restless and messaging me loads. But the carer should be there in a bit. I guess just running a little late.’ Her phone signalled a message received, and she went back to giving it all her attention again. Annie and I shared a briefly sympathetic look between us.
