Another Life: Escape to Cornwall with this gripping, emotional, page-turning read. Sara MacDonald

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ with someone else.

      And yet … she too had moved on to another place; she was not in the same place that he had left her. In those first days of his leaving she had flown to his empty room just to breathe in the smell of him. The pain that cut deep into her ribs, making her breathless with loss, eased, as she too slipped into a separate life without him.

      Mark and Gabby both slept facing towards each other. The sun dipping slowly lower over the sea cast a shadow for their faces out of the jutting rock. Their fingers relaxed, but remained touching. Both perfectly at ease, felt, in their sleep, intense happiness.

      Gabby woke first and watched Mark’s face as he slept. It was a surprise to find how familiar his face seemed. Like a map she already knew her way around. It was a shock to realize that at the end of this day she would never see his face or experience this stab of recognition again.

      He suddenly opened his eyes as if her gaze had woken him. They looked at one another in silence. His eyes were serious, she could find no hint of laughter in them. He closed his fingers around hers for a moment and then sat up yawning.

      ‘I suppose it’s time we went.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Just time for one more look at the figureheads?’

      ‘Yes, we’ve got time.’ Gabby gathered the beakers and the empty wine bottle and Mark put them back in his haversack. A small wind got up and Gabby pulled on her sweater. Mark, smiling, reached out to pull the collar of her tee-shirt free at the neck. While his hand was there he could not resist taking a wisp of dark hair from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear.

      Gabby experienced such a violent lurch of desire that she wobbled about, her feet sinking into the sand. Mark steadied her, and taking her hand in his they walked back towards the gardens. Standing in front of Valhalla, Mark got out his camera and took some more photos of the figureheads.

      ‘Now, one of you, Gabriella … standing right there … that’s it.’

      ‘OK,’ Gabby said. ‘Now I’ll take one of you, for your book and for your family.’

      Around them birds scuttled and squawked in the undergrowth as the sun started to slip into the sea. Gabby bent and took out a piece of roll she had kept. Sparrows hopped around her for a second or two, then suddenly a brave one landed on her hand and grabbed a crumb, then another and another until it seemed as if birds were springing from her fingertips. Gabby threw back her head and laughed silently for the sheer joy of the moment.

      Mark snapped her again and again with his camera. He did not know why, but something deep inside him felt as if it was fragmenting, as if he had witnessed and captured a moment he might never have again.

      Voices faded, the garden grew full of shadows and the scent of spring flowers more intense as they retraced their steps out of the garden. Above them the helicopter hovered noisily, and landed.

      Mark stood beside his hire car jangling his keys. Gabby’s car was next to his and she opened the door and all the windows because the windows had misted up in the damp old car. She said awkwardly, ‘Goodbye. Have a good journey to London and good luck with your research … It was a wonderful thing you did, returning the figurehead …’ She petered out.

      Mark took her hand. ‘Thank you for coming with me today.’ He seemed to be laughing and he showed no sign of letting her hand go. It appeared to be a habit of his. He brought her fingers to his lips again, then in a small quick movement drew her towards him and said softly, ‘Gabriella, do you really believe that we will never see each other again? That I can say goodbye and just walk away?’

      Gabby could not speak. He shook her hand gently so that she looked him in the eyes. ‘Do you?’

      ‘You live in Canada. I live in Cornwall. When this trip is over you will go home.’

      ‘Yes. But I have an English publisher and I will be coming over regularly.’

      Gabby stared at him, her eyes giving her away. Joy soared and she did not care.

      ‘Have you got a mobile phone?’ he asked.

      ‘Not yet, but I am getting one. Josh is always complaining about not getting hold of me.’

      Mark let her hand go and dug into his pocket for a piece of paper.

      ‘Right, this is my mobile number. Do you know how to text?’

      ‘I think so.’ She laughed nervously, a part of her not believing she was having this conversation.

      ‘When you get your phone, text me your number. I know you won’t ring me, because you will have decided by the time you get home that we did not have this conversation. I’m in Devon for one night, then in London for two more before I fly back home.’

      He picked up her hand again. ‘I will be in hotel rooms, which I hate. It would be great to talk to you.’

      Gabby heard the first note of anxiousness in his voice.

      ‘I’ll ring you, even if I don’t have a mobile phone.’

      He bent and held her face between his hands, kissed her mouth quickly, then turned away to his car.

      ‘Au revoir, Gabriella. Drive carefully home.’

      He sat behind the wheel until Gabby had finished demisting the windows of her car. She waved, then turned out into the road and was gone.

      Mark started his engine. The wind had got up, whipping the sea into white. He did not like the thought of her driving into the wilds of nowhere in the dark, in what looked like an unreliable car. It was a long time since he had had the chance to feel protective about anyone.

      He thought about the lights of a farmhouse with people he did not know waiting for her and felt a pang of jealousy. He could not ring her, and there was a chance she would not find the courage to ring him. He knew this. A day can fade so easily, changing shape, becoming an amorphous thing, a trick of the imagination.

      Back in his hotel room, he undid the two small paintings and sat on the bed staring at them.

      Cottage before a Storm. There, in front of him, the inherent, inescapable dark night of the soul. Spirituality glimpsed. A loneliness so stark it had to be skilfully transformed into colour and paint; the dark shape of pain captured forever in violent colour. Too recognizable for comfort.

      Something lost. This small house dwarfed by the fierce landscape and angry sky, rendering all to a speck, as nothing, impotent to change one aspect of the hidden power of the elements or the isolation of the human spirit.

      To understand what it is you have lost. To recognize so suddenly an area of your life you have hidden from yourself; an unease, a pointlessness that has been threatening for some time, is unnerving. Mark, his imagination coloured by whisky, almost believed he had been led to this painting, convinced himself this picture had been painted just for him. An omen. Facing the demon within. He determined to write to this Elan Premore, to explain the impact this small painting had on him.

      The sunrise was for another day. The sunrise was full of hope. These two pictures were painted before and after some personal crisis. They belonged together, Mark was sure of this.

       Chapter СКАЧАТЬ