Come Away With Me. Sara MacDonald

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       FIFTEEN

      The creek lay still and deserted in early evening. The tide was in and the last streak of gold-grey sun slanted through a crack in the darkening sky and lit up the water. The boats were turning in a brisk breeze. The world looked like an old black-and-white film.

      Terns swooped like dancers in a ballet or an expert aerobatic team and waders cried out over the water. I sat in the hired Volkswagen camper watching the light go. I loved creeks and inlets. The mudflats were not ugly when the tide was out, but beautiful, full of the patterns of birds’ feet and the differing cries of waders. The sound of their cries echoed something primitive inside me.

      I pulled the hood of my thick Barbour round me, making sure it hid my face and hair, and stepped down on to soft wet ground. My walking boots sank and I lifted the long coat so that it didn’t trail in the mud. I started to walk along the path.

      The creek was deserted. People in the cottages had already drawn their curtains and were busy eating or cooking supper. I knew I must not walk too far because the dark would come quickly and engulf me.

      I walked fast past godmother Sarah’s house where Adam and Ruth were staying. The curtains were not drawn and music came from a lighted window. My heart gave a lurch at the thought of them together inside the house. I was on the outside.

      I knew that I could walk up the path to the front door and knock. I knew I could be on the inside of that house if I wanted to be, but I couldn’t do it. How could I say anything to Adam with Ruth there? I would have no chance to explain the truth to him: that he was Tom’s son and mine too.

      The path was muddy and the hedges high and bare still. Small birds scuttled and swooped past my head, gathering and screeching territorially as dusk descended. I reached the lake on the left of the creek where the birds overwintered. It was ruffled and pitted by wind and current, as if a giant had blown on the surface of the water.

      I watched a heron fly over my head and land in the shallow water beyond. It gathered its wings fussily round it and became as still as a stone, long neck and head craned away from me as if praying to some unseen god.

      Two swans sailed majestically towards me on the tide, like an omen; feet operating like miniature paddle boats as they hoped for bread. I had so many memories of walking here with Dad on shopping trips to Truro or coming here with Ruth at weekends to her godmother. This place had always been eerily magical.

      On my right the hedges disappeared and I walked within sight of the creek again. A lone canoeist appeared out of nowhere, negotiating the narrow channel of water left by the tide with speed and skill. The light was almost gone and it was time to go back. The tide was on the turn and the waders strutted in the shallows making complicated footprints I could not see but only hear in little plops on the chocolate mud.

      I had a bizarre feeling that I was watching myself noticing these things. As if I had to note them in order to be here, in order for them to be real. Why am I here? I felt fear prickle my skin. I turned and walked quickly back the way I had come.

      The only lights now from the cluster of houses were the cracks from behind curtains and I felt an overpowering sense of loneliness engulf me. I looked at the cottage and the closed front door, and wanted to run up the path and hammer on it for Adam and Ruth to let me in.

      I got back into the Volkswagen. I was too tired to drive away. I would risk parking here for tonight. My hands trembled as I lit the gas burner to make tea. I climbed into my sleeping bag, pulled back the window curtain and watched the stars.

      I could hear the waters of the creek moving gently around me and splashing against the sides of small boats. Curlews wailed their lament, then were silenced by the night. I sat up and stared across at the thatched cottage where Adam and Ruth moved about together inside.

      One by one the downstairs lights went off and two lights came on upstairs. I thought I could dimly hear the sound of a clarinet. I imagined Adam sitting up in bed in his pyjamas, playing. Then every light went off in all the cottages. There was only a heavy blackness, as if every light in the world had been extinguished.

      I felt as if a thick blanket were enveloping and pressing down on me. I opened my mouth to cry out but no sound would come. I stretched out my hand into the cold dark air to feel the warmth of their hands. Rosie’s little hot, sticky one and the large, safe hand of my love. My fingers grasped only air. There was nothing there, nothing to hold on to and my open mouth could not even form a scream.