This morning before I left for Aldeburgh, the postman dropped a letter onto the mat. I recognise Red’s handwriting now - he’d taken to leaving little notes around the flat for me — ‘I’m happy in here,’ in my underwear drawer, and, ‘Save some for Red,’ in the biscuit packet. I could feel a square shape inside, like a big credit card. I was about to open it and felt suddenly nervous — maybe he never wanted to see me again, whatever I decide? Or he might say something that would persuade me not to go? So instead I put it with the other things I was bringing along — the turpentine-y rag he gave me to blow my nose on, a pebble from the beach in Brighton, the postcard.
I also took a few of my favourite birthday cards from Abbie, the recipe for lemon tart she’d written down for me (she’d drawn little pictures of lemons round the borders), and the old, blurry photo of Oscar she’d given me. The only photo I have of Dan. A card Zoë had bought me to say thanks for having her, and the necklace I bought on our first shopping trip. And finally a photo of the three of us at the beach when I was little, Mother squinting into the sun, Dad with his arm around her, stiff, proud.
I set off mid-morning with my case, feeling like Paddington Bear. Please look after this bear. Before I left the flat, I went around and touched everything — my computer, my pillows, the clothes left in my cupboard, my kettle, the rug in front of the sofa… silently letting go of each thing. As I drew my fingers away from the TV, from the bed, I cut ties with each thing and it sank, leaving me lighter. By the time I’d finished, I was floating. I shut my front door behind me and then touched that too, and the whole flat slipped away from underneath me.
I looked through the train window at the grass and trees gliding past and saw a heron stood by a lake doing tai chi like an old man. Crows took off from the tops of trees suddenly, like warnings. Where was I going?
The hotel had a good feeling to it, the art was tasteful, modern, there were comfortable sofas downstairs; it was clean, new. The staff were professionally distant — the woman who checked me in said, ‘Here on a holiday?’ and when I said a short, ‘Yes,’ she didn’t push it; she left me alone. I wanted to be left alone.
I ordered a late lunch in my room (oh, the wonders of room service) and then noticed a voicemail on my phone. It was Mary. It was the first time she’d ever called me on my mobile — I’d given her my number weeks ago when she was still living at home with her mum. She said on the message that her mum had caught her boyfriend cheating on her with a much younger woman and had kicked him out. Mary was going to stay where she was — she was enjoying her new independence — but she’d plucked up her courage to confess to her mum what had happened. Her mum had been upset, said she was sorry for not noticing, told her she shouldn’t blame herself. Mary was calling to say that she was grateful to me for telling her it wasn’t her fault, and for listening. She had heard I was off work for personal reasons, and she hoped everything was OK. I put on the burden of her caring for me like a heavy overcoat.
I needed some air, went for a walk on the beach. The hotel backed onto the shingle — from inside you couldn’t see the beach, and it looked like the whole place, with its identical lamps and bed linen and full English breakfasts, was adrift on the ocean. It was a blustery day and felt more like autumn than spring. A few hundred of the billions of pebbles crunched underneath my feet. The smell of salt reminded me of Brighton, and I had a pang of missing Red. I walked until I reached the Maggi Hambling sculpture I’d read about when I was looking for a hotel. It was installed in honour of Benjamin Britten, who’d spent most of his life here. There are two giant, severed scallop shells rearing up out of the beach in an explosion of steel, four tonnes of it, twelve feet high. A lot of the people around here hate it — there’s been a petition to get it moved. I thought it was wonderful — solid, silvery, a shipwreck, a spaceship. Along the top rim, a phrase from one of Britten’s operas is pierced through the steel so you can read it against the sky — ‘I hear those voices that will not be drowned’.
Apart from an old woman walking her dog, the beach was deserted. I looked for a place to sit on the massive structure and found a spot where I could rest my back. It was cool to the touch. I sat and looked out at the sea. I looked and thought. The wind blew through me. The sea listened to me. By the time I got back to my room, I was exhausted. When I’ve finished writing I’m going to fall straight into a dreamless sleep.
If this is your first visit here, then it's lovely to see you.
Posts
