%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A gallery owner struggles to come to terms with the loss of his artist wife. |
|
Selling Sarah (working title) By Mike Day Sunlight sparkled on the boating pond as Peter walked slowly through the memorial park. Gulls wheeled overhead, riding a breeze that tasted of the sea. Pennhaven, a pretty seaside town, was slow to waken this early in the season. In the middle distance a street cleaner pushed his trolley down a ramp that led up to the sea defences. Peter, still pacing along the level path, watched him head towards the High street that ran parallel to the beach. To Peter, despite the sunlight, the colours around him seemed muted, dull pastels. Months of inertia pulled on his heels as he took each step. He pursed his lips and pushed on, determined to make it at least as far as the door to his gallery. He reached the corner of the High St and paused, his hand rested heavily on the wooden window frame of Jenny’s Plaice, the first of five fish and chip bars that graced the street. Inside, the stainless steel counter reflected the violet light of the bug zapper that hummed on the wall. Peter closed his eyes, unwilling to accept any more colours, any more memories. He felt cold water as it began to run down his spine and knew that he‘d failed. This time the psychological hill was in his favour, he stumbled across the road, caught the wrought iron post of the park gate with one insensate hand and broke into a staggering, disjointed trot. From the post office roof a hearing gull mocked his feeble attempt. At his cottage he lent against the yellow wooden door and sobbed. He made no attempt to find his key letting the pain flow through him, waiting for the ebb of the tide. ----- Susan Haines was rubbing at a persistent coffee ring on a table outside her café when she glimpsed someone standing by the chip shop. Huffing at the stiffness in her back she stood up just in time to see him turn and hurry away. She was still leaning to one side trying to catch sight of him when a voice made her start. ‘Morn’n Sue, any chance of a coffee?’ Asked the man in his fifties, he had the creased and weathered face of a fisherman. ‘You gave me such a fright!’ she said as she brushed down her apron. ‘Asking for a coffee?’ ‘What’re you doing creeping up on people?’ ‘Me? I’m just after a cup of coffee…’ He said pretending to be hurt. ‘Well beggars can’t be choosers, not with business the way it is. What do you want Ted?’ she asked over her shoulder as she disappeared into the café. ‘One of them cappuccino things please, best make it to take out, got to get a wiggle on this morning.’ He called as he gazed down the road trying to figure out what she had been looking at. As Sue worked her magic at the chromium contraption, he followed her inside, ‘so what was going on down the road?’ he asked perching on a stool. ‘Oh, nothing. I just saw some bloke lurking by the chip shop. He went staggering off towards the park. ‘Tall, bout my age, with grey hair?’ he asked. ‘Sounds right, he had on one of those blue smocks that Londoners think we all wear.’ Ted nodded, ‘Sounds like Peter Metfield, owns the little blue gallery up the top end.’ ‘The one that’s closed?’ ‘Yeah, bereavement…’ She turned with a stainless steel jug in her hand, ‘oh?’ ‘Lost his wife.’ Ted suddenly felt less inclined to share. ‘What happened?’ she asked over the roar of the steam jet frothing the milk. ‘Dunno.’ ‘Oh go on, I like a bit o’ gossip,’ she urged as she deftly poured the jugs contents into the paper cup. ‘Peter drinks in my local, he was proper upset I know that much.’ ‘That’ll be one twenty’ she said as she handed it over. ‘So what’s he doing hanging around the chip shop?’ ‘Cheers,’ he paid and answered with a shrug. Outside Ted stood to take a first sip and jerked the cup away as the still scalding liquid touched his lips. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, wiping his mouth. He looked at his watch and at the still closed chip shop. He was due to meet Gary Clayton down by the harbour to look at a new dingy for the Pretty Lady, the old one had given up the ghost last time out. ‘He won’t be bothered if I’m half hour late,’ he reckoned. With a frown he crossed the road and headed towards the memorial park. Two wiry cyclists, Dutch or Germany he guessed, crossed in front of him as he left the park. They both grinned manically at him as they peddled by. ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ he muttered as he walked the last few yards. Ted paused with a hand on the wrought iron gate, whose white paint had peeled now beyond the point of picturesque decay, and wondered if he was doing the right thing. He looked at the cottage garden with its profusion of flowers that grew through, over and around each other. ‘Sarah had loved her little garden,’ he knew. ‘She was quite happy to sit there in the garden and paint all day’. A cold breeze touched him and he shivered. ‘Only thing to do in a storm, run away or head into the wind,’ he told himself as he pushed open the gate. The rusty hinges squealed in protest and set a bunch of starlings up on the wing. Set now on his course he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed hold of the black iron ring set into the middle of the door and gave two hard knocks. The birds watched from the roof top of the old vicarage that sat next to the park. He waited, patiently at first but then began to tug absentmindedly at his tee-shirt, trying to straighten out the creases that he hadn’t ironed. Judging that enough time had passed he grabbed hold of the door knocker again and felt it pull in his hand. He let go giving one last, unnecessary knock, as the yellow door swung open six inches. From within the darkness Ted heard a slurred voice. ‘I don’t want to buy anything, bugger off and bother someone else okay?’ ‘I don’t want to sell you anything, mate. It’s me, Ted…’ Silence as the hidden figure took this in. ‘Ted?’ ‘Yeah,’ Peter’s head craned around the still half closed door. ‘What do you want Ted?’ he sounded confused. ‘Can I come in, just for a chat?’ Despite his rough exterior Ted’s voice was gentle. ‘Err… The maid hasn’t been for a while. The place is a bit of a mess…’ ‘My maid stopped coming the day Doreen told me she was divorcing me.’ He said stepping forward. Pete hung on to the door as Ted pressed forward, pivoting with it. Inside the darkened hallway the first thing that hit him was the smell, fried food and the funk of a man living on his own with Jack, Jim and the gang. |
| This book is currently empty. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
PassKey Override Available