The Gin Shack on the Beach. Catherine Miller
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It didn’t wish to cooperate and all at once she knew something was wrong. Something was very badly wrong and she didn’t know what to do when her body wasn’t moving as it should. When her brain wasn’t able to align the dots.
Rather than seek help, she’d sat at the kitchen table, not able to function. It had taken only moments for her to turn from the fiercely independent woman she liked to believe she was, to a shadow unable to perform. And then she was back. The teabag abandoned on the floor. Her arm perfectly able to move as before. It was like that moment of being there while also being missing had vanished.
It had been a TIA. A transient ischemic attack her doctor had called it. A mini stroke. A warning sign.
It was also a wake-up call. So, when Richard had suggested she move into retirement quarters, to her surprise, and his, she’d not even resisted. Of course she hadn’t. At her age, she’d lost any desire to cook anything extravagant for herself. And she had a lifetime of washing dishes behind her. If going into Oakley West meant someone else did the cooking and cleaned the dishes, she was all for it. When she found out they’d do her clothes washing as well, she was sold on the idea. It would be a chance to enjoy life more, without the mundanity of running a household. Richard didn’t need to know about the other reason. About the time she was lost and it was only luck that had meant it wasn’t a more permanent problem. He didn’t need to know about the extra tablets she now took to prevent its ever happening again. He was wrapping her up in enough cotton wool already. It would add more fuel to the fire about giving up all aspects of her independence. The fact was, the beach hut was her lifeline to the outside world. These people were her neighbours, not the ones she was leaving behind at the house.
With the sun having risen adequately to burn off the chill, Olive put away the blanket, careful to ensure it concealed the rest of the ottoman’s precious gin cargo. Leaving the chair out and the beach-hut doors wide open, she went for her early-morning walk. She liked to feel the sand beneath her toes. The early-morning sun making the grains toasty and inviting. It was the perfect time of day. It was possible to hear the entire village creaking awake. There were kettles being pinged to life, toilets being flushed, showers being run. The early risers were few and far between and it was only on the odd occasion that she would spot a dog-walker grumpily mooching along the promenade. This morning was one of those days when there was no one. Even the seagulls were still resting their weary heads, not ready to give their dawn chorus recital just yet.
Olive took a breath of the crisp sea air and smiled towards the sky. ‘Couldn’t ask for more perfect conditions,’ she said, half expecting the earth to reply. Taking one last glance to check she was alone, she removed her bright kaftan-style top and elasticated trousers. In two easy manoeuvres she was naked. Who needed underwear at the beach? They were unnecessary complications. Leaving her clothes in a pile a safe distance from the lapping tide, she tiptoed towards the sea. She loved that first moment of dipping her toe in the water. It was the closest thing she’d found to making love. That glorious point of entry where you were surprised and delighted all at the same time. Where the body braced itself, but then instantly relaxed into being at one with this new sensation. It was funny how it reminded her how long her husband had been gone, but also made her feel closer to him than anything else in the world.
It was ironic really. When she’d first spotted that woman swimming in the morning months ago, she’d thought she was crackers. Who would want to expose themselves to the elements at that time of day? But when she finally spoke to the lady, she said to her it had become like oxygen. It was what reminded her she was alive.
Olive didn’t jump in the moment they had that conversation. It took weeks. She observed the woman, realising it was always a Tuesday morning that she came for a dip, always at the same time, always in a knee-length wetsuit, always prepared with her towels and dry clothes. For weeks, Olive stared at the sea and wondered what it would feel like to be reminded she was alive. She also wondered where on earth she would find a wetsuit for a shorter, portly woman with larger than average breasts.
It was a morning just like this one when she gave in to the urge. The sea lured her in with its promise of being her oxygen. Having never sourced the not-on-the-market wetsuit, she went commando and by golly, it truly was the way to feel alive. The first time, she rushed in and out so quickly it had taken her breath away.
These days she was more relaxed about the whole thing. Today she strode in so she was up to her shoulders, her breasts floating like buoyancy aids, and then swam parallel to the shoreline without a care in the world.
With each dip she’d increased the distance more and more, turning so she was always within a reasonable distance of her beach hut. She was too old to worry about safety. If the ocean wanted to swallow her up and take her, she was too near death to care. The thought was freeing. The fact that her sagging eighty-four-year-old butt might be seen by passers-by had once been a concern, but after the first few cheery Good Mornings, she’d become proud of putting a smile on the faces of even the grumpiest of early-morning dog-walkers. She would only be embarrassed if one of them caught her on the naked stroll back to the beach hut. She tended to wait in the water until the coast was clear (literally), before heading back to the comfort of her beach hut, where she would pop on the gas heater and get herself dry in privacy.
Turning before she was too far away from the hut, she decided she would cut this morning’s dip short. She needed to be ready before everyone else arrived and she didn’t want to have to rush. It was important that Richard understood…
‘Mother.’
…that she hadn’t lost her marbles just yet.
Next to Olive’s small pile of clothes stood her son in his business suit, looking grumpier than all the grumpy early dog-walkers put together.
‘Glorious day for it, don’t you think?’ She offered a wave, causing her breasts to bob a little more freely than she would have liked. Turned out being spotted on her naked walk back to the beach hut wasn’t going to be the most embarrassing thing to result from her early-morning skinny-dipping hobby. Oops. A definite double D oops.
‘I’m not coming out.’ Olive was certain about that.
‘Mother. You will catch your death if you stay in there any longer.’
‘That would suit you down to the ground. You may as well leave me to it.’ Despite the fact Richard had sourced a towel from the beach hut, she was still resolute about not getting out with her son standing there.
‘I’m not leaving you to it. This is exactly why you shouldn’t be left to it. Don’t you realise how dangerous it is, swimming around in the sea without any lifeguards about? There’s not a soul about to help you if you were to get into trouble. Haven’t you heard of riptides?’
‘Oh, Richard. Don’t be such a worrywart.’
‘Come out right now and I’ll kick the habit in the gut straight away. It’s just someone – naming no names – keeps giving me very just cause for concern.’
‘I’m not coming out. Not unless you get off the beach so I can go and get dressed in privacy.’ Olive didn’t want to risk her son catching sight of her noo-noo. The fact he’d caught her skinny-dipping was bad enough and she was pretty certain she’d already flashed a nipple by accident. That was enough trauma for the pair of them for the day. She wasn’t planning on adding to it.
‘Did you not hear what I just said about it being dangerous? I’m not leaving until I know you’re out safely.’
‘Don’t be such a killjoy. Of course it’s safe. I’ll be walking to the shore. But I won’t be all the time you’re stood there with that towel.’ This was hardly how she’d expected this morning’s protest to go. Richard had said he would be here at nine to make sure she handed the keys over. Trust him to be early.
‘I’m not leaving until I know you’re out safely.’
‘You’re being