The Beachcomber. Josephine Cox
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her open, infectious laughter had only made him realise how lonely he really was.
But what a strange coincidence, he thought, to have seen her three times; twice in his native London, and now here, in this quiet, tucked-away place where he had sought refuge.
Beyond sleep for the moment, he put on his jacket and went out into the night. Up here, out on the cliffs, there were no lamps to light the way, only the moonlight, which hung low in the clearest of skies, shining down like some kindly beacon to guide his footsteps.
Picking his way through the low bracken, he went softly along the well-trodden path towards the cliff-edge, and down, side-stepping, half-climbing, half-sliding, to the bottom. Once he was down on the promenade, he cut round by the wall and onto the beach, almost all of which was now swallowed by the incoming tide. The sound of surging water sang in his ears, and the familiar tang of salt air stung his nostrils.
For a time he walked the beach as he had paced his room: frantic; driven by the same demons that had brought him here. With the sea lapping at his feet, he pushed onwards, to where the ground slipped away into the sea and there was barely enough room for a man to walk.
Once there, where he could go no further, he flattened his back against the rocks, a man alone with his troubles, his eyes raised to the heavens, and his heart breaking.
After a while, as always these days, his heart was calmed, his mind quieter. He began his way back, to the widest part of the beach, where he sat listening to the rush of breaking waves and the many comforting sounds of night: nesting seagulls ruffling their feathers; creatures of the water shuffling a path through the sand.
In the dark, where no one could see, the world was breathing all around him. It was his now, this part of night when others slept and dreamed. In the semi-darkness, this place, this world, this precious time was his, and he cherished every minute.
Content now, oblivious to the minutes and hours that ticked by, he stayed; satisfied just to look and listen.
After a time, when night began to merge with daylight, he made his way back.
As he wended his way along the clifftop, he thought of his wife again, he thought of Kathy and that quiet conversation while she sat on the wall eating her fish and chips. He heard her laughter in his mind and smiled. ‘She’s like a ray of sunshine,’ he mused.
From what he had heard of her intimate murmurings to her late father, he suspected things had not been easy for her.
In those few brief moments when she laughed at her mistake with the hot chip, then again when she was sitting on the house wall, he had seen a woman who had that rare talent of being able to laugh at herself, a woman of compassion and heart. A woman who had the ability to take the world by the horns and shake it into submission.
He wished her well.
Then he shut her out of his mind, for there were other things he must consider. Things of the past; things of the future.
The present was less important.
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