Daisy Darker(3)
The tiny island it was built on almost two hundred years ago has slowly eroded over time. Being exposed to the full force of the Atlantic Ocean and centuries of wind and rain have taken their toll. The house is swollen with secrets and damp. But despite its flaking paint, creaking floors and ancient furnishings, Seaglass has always felt more like home to me than anywhere else. I’m the only one who still visits regularly; divorced parents, busy lives, and siblings with so little in common it’s hard to believe we’re related, have made family gatherings a rather rare occurrence. So this weekend will be special in more ways than one. Pity fades with age, hate is lost and found, but guilt can last a lifetime.
The journey here felt so solitary and final. The road leads to a hidden track on top of the cliff, which soon comes to an abrupt dead end. From there, the only two options to get down to Blacksand Bay are a three-hundred-foot fall to certain death, or a steep, rocky path to the sandy dunes below. The path has almost completely crumbled away in places, so it’s best to watch your step. Despite all the years I have been coming here, to me Blacksand Bay is still the most beautiful place in the world.
The late afternoon sun is already low in the hazy blue sky, and the sound of the sea is like an old familiar soundtrack; one I have missed listening to. There is nothing and nobody else for miles. All I can see is the sand, and the ocean, and the sky. And Seaglass, perched on its ancient stone foundations in the distance, waves crashing against the rocks it was built on.
Having safely reached the bottom of the cliff, I remove my shoes and enjoy the sensation of sand between my toes. It feels like coming home. I ignore the rusty old wheelbarrow, left here to help transport ourselves and our things to the house; I travel light these days. People rarely need the things they think they need in order to be happy. I start the long walk across the natural sandy causeway that joins Seaglass’s tidal island to the mainland. The house is only accessible when the tide is out, and is completely cut off from the rest of the world at all other times. Nana always preferred books to people, and her wish to be left alone with them was mostly granted, and almost guaranteed, by living in such an inaccessible place.
The invisible shipwrecks of my life are scattered all over this secluded bay with its infamous black sand. They are a sad reminder of all the journeys I was too scared to make. Everyone’s lives have uncharted waters – the places and people we didn’t quite manage to find – but when you feel as though you never will it’s a special kind of sorrow. The unexplored oceans of our hearts and minds are normally the result of a lack of time and trust in the dreams we dreamt as children. But adults forget how to believe that their dreams might still come true.
I want to stop and savour the smell of the ocean, enjoy the feel of the warm afternoon sun on my face and the westerly wind in my hair, but time is a luxury I can no longer afford. I didn’t have very much of it to spend in the first place. So I hurry on, despite the damp sand clinging to the soles of my feet as though trying to stop me in my tracks, and the seagulls that soar and squawk above my head as if trying to warn me away. The sound of their cries translates into words I don’t want to hear inside my head:
Go back. Go back. Go back.
I ignore all these signs that seem to suggest that this visit is a bad idea, and walk a little faster. I want to arrive earlier than the rest of them to see the place as it exists in my memories, before they spoil things. I wonder if other people look forward to seeing their families, but dread it at the same time, the way I always seem to. It will be fine once I’m there. That’s what I tell myself. Though even the thought feels like a lie.
The wind chimes that hang in the decrepit porch try to welcome me home, with a melancholy melody conducted by the breeze. I made them for my nana one Christmas when I was a child – having collected all the smooth, round pieces of blue and green glass I could find on the beach. She pretended to like the gift and the sea glass wind chimes have been here ever since. The lies we tell for love are the lightest shade of white. There is a giant pumpkin on the doorstep, with an elaborate scary face carved into it for Halloween; Nana does always like to decorate the house at this time of year. Before I can reach the large weathered wooden door, it bursts open with the usual welcoming party.
Poppins, an elderly Old English Sheepdog, is my nana’s most trusted companion and best friend. The dog bounds in my direction, a giant bouncing ball of grey and white fur, panting as if she is smiling, and wagging her tail. I say hello, make a fuss of her, and admire the two little plaits and pink bows keeping her long hair out of her big brown eyes. I follow the dog’s stare as she turns back to look at the house. In the doorway stands Nana; five foot nothing and radiating glee. Her halo of wild white curls frames her pretty, petite face, which has been weathered by age and wine. She’s dressed from head to toe in pink and purple – her favourite colours – including pink shoes with purple laces. Some people might see an eccentric old lady, or the famous children’s author: Beatrice Darker. But I just see my nana.
She smiles. ‘Come on inside, before it starts to rain.’
I’m about to correct her about the weather – I remember feeling the sun on my face only a moment ago – but when I look up, I see that the picture-perfect blue sky above Seaglass has now darkened to a palette of muddy grey. I shiver and realize that it’s much colder than I’d noticed before too. It does seem as though a storm is on the way. Nana has a habit of knowing what is coming before everybody else. So I do as she says – like always – and follow her and Poppins inside.