and wonder what I have done to warrant such a warm introduction. Mrs Davis continues to babble, the words rising and falling like a swelling sea, her high-pitched, sing song voice too sincere to be credible. “Fiona doesn’t know many people hereabouts yet, I was thinking of asking her to come and join the W.I, Mrs Lloyd. Do you think she’d enjoy it?”
The W.I? I’m not sure I’m ready for that . I fix a brittle smile on my face while Mrs Lloyd launches into the thousand ways that joining the W.I changed her life. As she chats on I move away a few paces and begin to flick through a display of brightly coloured greeting cards. It isn’t anyone’s birthday. I realise I don’t have anyone to send greetings to.
I progress toward the canned produce and pick up some beans and tinned tomatoes, slip a bar of chocolate in with them while the voices of the women rattle at the back of my head. “Fiona is walking out with my grandson, Huw …” I drop another tin into my basket and spin round, horrified. Both women are staring at me, Mrs Lloyd appraisingly and Mrs Davis with smug satisfaction. I hurry toward the counter.
“Mrs Davis, I am not walking out with him!”
She waggles her head, dismissively. “Oh, you don’t have to be so coy. We are all friends here and I am so very pleased. Huw is a lovely boy, you could do much, much worse you know.”
Huw is forty if he is a day. “I am not ‘being coy’ Mrs Davis. I don’t know what he has told you, but the extent of our friendship is one drink at The Ship on a Tuesday night. That hardly constitutes ‘walking out’.”
I shove a fresh loaf in my basket and wave my hand, indicating that she should tot up what I owe her. “He will ask you out again, bach . Don’t worry on that score. Why not ask him if he will bring you over to my place for tea.”
“I will probably be too busy. I work very hard. It leaves no time for socialising.” Thumping the money onto the counter, I transfer the shopping to my re-useable bag and turn to leave. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Lloyd. Good bye Mrs Davis.”
“Call me Gaynor, bach . See you soon.”
Grrr, the woman is infuriating . One drink, two lousy bottles of tonic water and it’s all round the village that me and Huw are courting. ‘Walking out?’ Where on earth did she dig up such an antiquated phrase?
I stomp along the path, for once the sun is shining and the unaccustomed feel of it on my face helps my irritation to wash away. I wish I’d left my coat off. It flies behind me in the breeze, flapping like great wings in my wake. The autumnal light dazzles off the dancing sea making me squint my eyes, screw up my face. If I keep peering into the horizon like this I will develop more wrinkles than I have already.
At the highest point I stop to look around. The beach is empty, apart from a lone woman with a black Labrador. She throws a stick and the dog bounds off into the surf, tail wagging, his barks silenced by distance. When he comes lolloping from the waves to drop the stick at his mistress’s feet he is streaming seawater. He shakes himself, scattering droplets that sparkle like diamonds.
Dogs have no problems. Gossip doesn’t affect them. Their only concern is the next stick, the next bitches arse to sniff, the next biscuit, the next walk. I wish I were a dog.
I drop my bag in the usual place and perch on a rock, enjoying the view. The air is fresh, the sky, clear of cloud, is like a bright blue handkerchief stretched across the earth. Sniffing the salty tang in the air, I am suddenly glad to be here, glad to be alive – almost. But the longer I sit here the more aware I become of being alone. I long to share the view with someone, discuss the multitude of ways it could be represented on canvas. I miss James so much. I sigh and look down at my scuffed trainers, the edging of light brown mud decorating the hem of my jeans.
A footstep scuffs the path beside me and I look up to find Mr McAlister blocking out
The W.I? I’m not sure I’m ready for that . I fix a brittle smile on my face while Mrs Lloyd launches into the thousand ways that joining the W.I changed her life. As she chats on I move away a few paces and begin to flick through a display of brightly coloured greeting cards. It isn’t anyone’s birthday. I realise I don’t have anyone to send greetings to.
I progress toward the canned produce and pick up some beans and tinned tomatoes, slip a bar of chocolate in with them while the voices of the women rattle at the back of my head. “Fiona is walking out with my grandson, Huw …” I drop another tin into my basket and spin round, horrified. Both women are staring at me, Mrs Lloyd appraisingly and Mrs Davis with smug satisfaction. I hurry toward the counter.
“Mrs Davis, I am not walking out with him!”
She waggles her head, dismissively. “Oh, you don’t have to be so coy. We are all friends here and I am so very pleased. Huw is a lovely boy, you could do much, much worse you know.”
Huw is forty if he is a day. “I am not ‘being coy’ Mrs Davis. I don’t know what he has told you, but the extent of our friendship is one drink at The Ship on a Tuesday night. That hardly constitutes ‘walking out’.”
I shove a fresh loaf in my basket and wave my hand, indicating that she should tot up what I owe her. “He will ask you out again, bach . Don’t worry on that score. Why not ask him if he will bring you over to my place for tea.”
“I will probably be too busy. I work very hard. It leaves no time for socialising.” Thumping the money onto the counter, I transfer the shopping to my re-useable bag and turn to leave. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Lloyd. Good bye Mrs Davis.”
“Call me Gaynor, bach . See you soon.”
Grrr, the woman is infuriating . One drink, two lousy bottles of tonic water and it’s all round the village that me and Huw are courting. ‘Walking out?’ Where on earth did she dig up such an antiquated phrase?
I stomp along the path, for once the sun is shining and the unaccustomed feel of it on my face helps my irritation to wash away. I wish I’d left my coat off. It flies behind me in the breeze, flapping like great wings in my wake. The autumnal light dazzles off the dancing sea making me squint my eyes, screw up my face. If I keep peering into the horizon like this I will develop more wrinkles than I have already.
At the highest point I stop to look around. The beach is empty, apart from a lone woman with a black Labrador. She throws a stick and the dog bounds off into the surf, tail wagging, his barks silenced by distance. When he comes lolloping from the waves to drop the stick at his mistress’s feet he is streaming seawater. He shakes himself, scattering droplets that sparkle like diamonds.
Dogs have no problems. Gossip doesn’t affect them. Their only concern is the next stick, the next bitches arse to sniff, the next biscuit, the next walk. I wish I were a dog.
I drop my bag in the usual place and perch on a rock, enjoying the view. The air is fresh, the sky, clear of cloud, is like a bright blue handkerchief stretched across the earth. Sniffing the salty tang in the air, I am suddenly glad to be here, glad to be alive – almost. But the longer I sit here the more aware I become of being alone. I long to share the view with someone, discuss the multitude of ways it could be represented on canvas. I miss James so much. I sigh and look down at my scuffed trainers, the edging of light brown mud decorating the hem of my jeans.
A footstep scuffs the path beside me and I look up to find Mr McAlister blocking out
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