I tried the window, but it wouldn’t budge. Painted shut. The room was stale. There was a scent swirling amongst the dust motes that I couldn’t quite pin down, feathers, old pillows. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant. I peered out at the darkening sky, clouds where creeping in, soon I wouldn’t be able to see the hills across the water.
The bed was damp and unaired, the sheets clung to me, and a chill settled upon me. My stomach growled, I should have eaten on the ferry, but the food in the canteen had looked plastic, hardly appetising. And the rolling waves had done nothing to inspire hunger. I turned the light off and darkness swallowed me.
I dreamt I was flying a kite. I stood barefoot on the beach, the icy waves washed over my frozen feet, back and forth, back, and forth. I faced the ocean, but I could sense someone up on the dunes watching me, the creep of their eyes upon me. The wind tugged at the kite. Snatching it and snapping its line.
I woke as the red and yellow kite was swallowed by a towering cloud.
The room was still dank, and the funk of my sleep had done nothing to improve the smell. I pulled on the thick woolen jumper I had picked up in a charity shop while waiting for the ferry. It prickled my skin, but it was a barrier to the cold. The curtainless window revealed a dreary day, with heavy clouds. White horses raced over the waves and for a moment I thought I saw something breach, a fin, or a tail, but it was engulfed and lost from sight almost instantly.
Something fluttered by the window. I moved closer to the jack frosted panes of glass. It was a bird’s wing, the rest of the creature was a fetid mass, stuck to the rotting wood of the window frame, but its wing was flight ready. I watched it twist in the wind and remembered the kite.
Nobody was about downstairs, but the water in the kettle was still hot. I made myself a cup of tea, which I drank in a hurry. It sloshed in my empty stomach stirring a sense of nausea. I needed to eat something.
The fridge was empty except for some wilted celery, a crumb covered lump of butter and tub of chopped up bait. A search of the cupboards revealed various aged tins and a packet of half-eaten mince pies which were nearing their first birthday. I hate mince pies, but I don’t function when I’m hungry.
Picking pie from my molars with my tongue I wandered down to the beach. The wind turned my hair into a mess of writhing snakes, which whipped and snapped at my face. I could feel the pounding of the waves through the soles of my boots. I stood just out of their reach and watched as they threw themselves on the sand with frantic hunger.
I was hypnotised by their energy and didn’t hear Magda until she spoke, her words soft and warm in my ear, ‘Did you bring your wetsuit?’
I laughed, of course I hadn’t. No time for that, as soon as I had hung up the phone I was in the car, on the road, on my way here.
‘Only a fool would swim on a day like today,’ she concluded. But there is a challenge in her voice.
For a moment neither of us moved. Statue still. Runners poised at the starting line. Then I was a tangle of limbs, twisting, pulling, hurriedly ridding myself of my clothes. The bitter wind lanced through my exposed skin. Beside me Magda skipped on one leg as she tried to pull her foot free from her jeans. I gave her a shove and she fell bare arsed on the cold sand with a satisfying slap.
Then my sister and I are naked as we were when our mother pushed us out of the womb we once shared. I grin at Magda, and she returns my smile, for hers is mine and we run, full tilt into the wild ocean.
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved
A Year of Time 