Jo Rhodes

Beattie

 

Beatrice stepped out into the sunshine, pulling the carved wooden front door shut behind her. The latch clicked into place smoothly, the soft sound signalling the start of her free time. She breathed in the fresh air, fragranced by the blush pink roses blooming in the front garden of the School House. She must be back soon, but for the hour that Father Cotts was visiting with Edward she would have some time to herself. She would take a walk down to the promenade, perhaps take a seat on the pier, watch the seagulls swoop and try, just for a moment, to let go of her worries.

As she turned to close the wrought iron garden gate behind her, her gaze automatically drifted up to the window in the top right-hand side of the house. It was their bedroom, hers and Edwards, but now Edward slept in a makeshift bedroom in the back parlour, and she slept alone, curled up to the edge of the bed so that she didn’t accidentally reach out and feel the empty space where her husband should be. Poor Edward. How could a man so strong, so intelligent and kind be reduced to a bedbound wretch? And what would become of them without his income? If he was no longer Headmaster, they wouldn’t be allowed to stay in the School House. She drew a shaky breath. No, no, this wouldn’t do. There was no reason to think such negative thoughts. She must have faith. Edward was regaining movement. He was able to grasp objects in his left hand now, clumsily spooning his supper to his mouth and returning the squeeze of her own hand when she placed it in his. He was a miracle and, God willing, one day he may be healed.

Her fingers toyed anxiously with the lace of the handkerchief in her pocket as she made her way downhill towards the sparkling sea. All around her was a bustle of activity. Day visitors arriving at the newly built train station swarmed towards the seafront, chattering excitedly. In the distance the clatter and bangs of building work could be heard from the developments further back from the coastline, where new houses and hotels seemed to pop up like crocuses in the spring. The rhythmic clop of hooves on the roads reminded her of her childhood home back in the country, next door to the Coach House. Over the bustle of activity, the holler of sellers touting their wares could be heard, alongside children exclaiming excitedly and calling to one another. Well-dressed boys and girls walked ahead with quick measured steps and barely contained excitement, trailed by their families. Less well-heeled children shouted and chased each other, darting between carriages. Beatrice winced, imagining the worst, and turned her gaze away. She and Edward had not been blessed with a child of their own, the time for childbearing had long passed and for the most part she had made her peace with that. Though sometimes she would look down at her hands and imagine what it would feel like to have small fingers reaching for hers, a chubby little fist wrapped around her thumb. She wondered if a child of theirs would have inherited her brown hair or Edwards shock of white blond. Beatrice raised a hand and patted her hair, pinned back in its usual, modest style under her hat.

As she crossed the road towards the pier, dodging ladies’ parasols and overkeen market stall traders, she mused on the changes in her over the years. Despite her mother’s best efforts to instil in her a deep-seated self-hatred, she loved every part of her body. How could she not, when Edward so clearly adored every inch of her? Edward was no fool. A fan of great literary works, both classic and contemporary, he also followed new scientific developments with great interest, had a keen mind for numbers and could hold his own when debating politics over supper with that bloated, pig-headed school governor Mr Rolship. And even more important than his intelligence was his honesty. Edward had never lied to her and after 43 years of marriage when he told her she was beautiful she had no choice to believe him. He made her see herself through his eyes instead of her mothers. Her hair wasn’t a dull brown, it was silken ropes of chestnut and these days it was gilded, heavily gilded, with silver. Her eyes were not a lifeless grey, they were striking slate, gleaming with untold secrets. Her thick waist and short, stocky legs had made her mother eye her with scorn and on the first night with Edward she clung to the bedcovers like a shield as he approached her. She remembered how he gently peeled them from her grasp and discarded them. How he stared down at her, eyes boring into her skin as she tried to shrink herself into a daintier, more pleasing shape. As shame and embarrassment flooded though her, staining her cheeks, she closed her eyes before feeling the rough scratch of Edwards beard on her neck as he leant down and murmured in her ear “My Aphrodite…”and she felt the weight of the previous two decades of her mother’s criticisms and insults fall from her shoulders, and as Edward gathered her to him…

“I beg your pardon!” Beatrice was pulled out of her reminiscence when she almost collided with another woman. Beatrice stared at her stupidly for a moment, shocked to find herself in the here and now, before mumbling her apologies. The other woman sniffed and adjusted her oversized hat before stepping around Beatrice and joining the queue at a coffee stall. Beatrice gave herself a shake and turned to see that she had reached the gates of the pier, its wooden floor stretching out to sea like a pathway laid out for her by Poseidon himself. Despite the busyness of the promenade, the pier itself was relatively quiet. It was nearing lunchtime and most people tended to take their walk on the pier in the early afternoon. Beatrice found a seat on a bench far enough away from others that she could be alone with her thoughts. She wanted to go back there, to the happier times but her reverie had been shattered and her current anxieties were trying to slither to the forefront of her mind again. She took a deep breath and quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching her before closing her eyes. She reached out with her other senses. The hot sun warming her skin, the smell of salt, of fish, smoke, muffins, coffee… The sound of the waves lapping at the shore, pulling the pebbles back with them with a clatter. There. There it was. A happy memory in the sound of those waves. The first time she heard the sea. It had not been on a warm gentle day like today.

A desperately bleak Saturday in January, more than 40 years ago. They had come down south to visit the seaside, staying in a boarding house run by a diminutive man with small beady eyes and a furtive manner. He reminded Beatrice of a rodent. The couple had barely unpacked their travelling cases before Edward insisted that they visit the promenade. Beatrice had balked at the idea. The wind howled past the windows making then rattle in their frames and the air was heavy with the promise of rain. But Edward had laughed, “Then we better get there before the rain does!” and before she knew what was happening, they were striding towards the English Channel as best they could, the strength of the wind pushing back their advance as they laughed and clung to one another. When they finally reached the promenade, cheeks red and numb from the chill, Edward had led her to the balustrade, to see the sea up close for the first time, and she found she was looking out at a vast expanse of angry grey. A feeling of dread bloomed inside her stomach and quickly snaked its way through the rest of her body. The sea felt like it was reaching out to grab her and pull her in as it lunged towards her then retreated, gathered energy and threw itself towards her once more. Spraying her with icy droplets that stung her face, like a thousand little slaps. She had felt sick with terror. The sea roared with fury, rising to pull her in. She had stumbled back, Edward catching her before she slipped. He righted her and turned her to face the sea, holding each of her hands in his. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. See how eager the waves are to greet you? How happy they are to see you? The sea is tripping over itself to be near you.” He had raised his gloved hand to her cheek and wiped away the spray. “My goodness me! So many kisses from Poseidon to my wife, I should be a jealous man!” And she had laughed wildly, frantically. Partly at the absurdity of her husband’s speech and partly in some morbid amusement at standing on the edge of solid ground.

Edward had grasped her firmly by the waist and nudged her further forward. “She is mine, Poseidon! My one true love! You will never take her from me!” He was yelling at the waves like a drunkard yells at the stars. “You may be a God, but I am a man in love and there is no power greater than that!” Beatrice had looked around to see if anyone was witnessing him acting like a lunatic but they were completely alone. Just them and Poseidon. She had straightened her back and raised her chin. “My husband speaks the truth, I am his forever!” she yelled into the roaring swell. They giggled helplessly together like children and above them the thick, dark clouds began to gather and droplets of rain splattered down, mingling on their faces with the salt spray. Beatrice turned her face skyward, all her fear had gone. She felt alive, electrified.

“Well, there’s no use in weeping!” Edward had scolded Poseidon, pointing a judgmental finger towards the clouds “The lady has made her choice. A gentleman would take his leave!” A clap of thunder boomed in the distance and Edward had turned to her and raised his eyebrows as if dealing with a petulant child. “I think the gentleman has taken too much wine and needs to rest. I will escort you to your lodgings, my sweetheart.” Breathless from laughing and with her cheeks starting to burn from the cold, Beatrice had nodded and turned to curtsey at the sea. “Goodbye, dear Poseidon! I hope when we next meet, you are in better spirits!” And they had run hand in hand back to their guest house, boots slipping on the cobbles, smiles lingering on their lips even though their teeth chattered.