The Headland: Part 9 - The bookcases

Although evenings were noticeably lighter, John resented the way that January mornings stayed mired in a trench of darkness, refusing to accept the inching progress of spring. He parked his van outside Alice’s cottage at quarter to eight, as agreed, and looked across the village green. His landscape was the cramped colliery with its terraces, backyards and dingy ginnels. There everything seemed to be pressing in, pressing down. Even though it tottered on the edge of the sea, views of the coast were obscured by the crushing buildings and the brutalist towers and wheels of the pit. The only suggestion the coast was the constant wheeling and crying of gulls. The village on the hill was open and breezy. From there, John could see far over the colliery roofs to the sea where the sun was exploding into the day. Above dark water, a gilded ribbon of orange flamed across the dark sky as if, just below the horizon, a dragon was awakening from its slumber. Winter sunrises, at least, were some consolation at least for the drabness of the season, John thought to himself.

Since their Christmas at the headland, John had seen Alice only once when he delivered her lamp and took measurements for her bookshelves. He had been unforgivably distant, he knew, as if governed by an obdurate compass that impelled him to turn away from her. Yet, that Christmas morning at the headland, he had felt so at ease. He had given voice to his memories. He had thought that to speak of his daughters would have been impossible. That he would have had to push the words out against the sharp wind. But words had flown from his mouth like birds freed from a cage. And their articulation had brought such unexpected comfort and pleasure. That the kiss with Alice had been the sweetest moment he had experienced in years spoke to how chilly and desolate his life had become. He had thought about that moment many times during the previous week. He had pictured the tableau of their embrace by the grey, messianic sea. It was both unworldly and beautiful to him. And yet, still he found himself turning away. The compass would not be stilled. 

On Christmas night, he’d sat with Lucia by her fireplace drinking grappa brought back from her annual trip to Italy. She would be leaving again soon, avoiding the damp drabness of a Northern winter, spending two months with Stella in Campania. John often wondered why Lucia had stayed in the colliery at all. Of all of the Cichellas, he’d assumed she would be the first to leave. That Christmas night, disquieted by his morning with Alice and intoxicated with the fiery grappa, he’d asked her why she’d not left.

‘The happiest years of my life were here, with Tony, and Stella and the girls. They are still here. I feel them. I see them. I speak with them. You’re right, at the time I didn’t always appreciate this place, not like Tony did. But think of it, John, Tony built a business, a family, a whole life here. Such an achievement. My roots are here now. As long as I can avoid the winters, of course. Those, I cannot bear.’ She’d looked at John intently, as if she had sensed that something had altered within him. Lucia often seemed to have a preternatural ability to understand him. They were bound together by tragedy, he assumed, knowing things others would never see or understand.

 ‘It never quiets. It never fades, but there is room for happiness, John. There is room for love, even, if you allow it. If you don’t sabotage it.’ Lucia continued. 

‘Why would I do that? Why would I sabotage it?’ John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A chill had fallen upon him. It was as fragile as a cobweb, but he could feel its dankness, despite the glowing fire. Sabotage, was exactly what he seemed to be unwillingly doing. 

‘Because you mistakenly believe you don’t deserve love. Or maybe you believe it will be taken away again. The loss is etched in you, like a fossil in a rock. Is that the word, fossil? Those stones you find on the beach with those mysterious swirls and patterns in. That is you, John. Hard, grey, marked. Of course, fossils are also rare and extraordinary. I would so love to see you happy. That’s all. You would not be betraying them, with your happiness. You would be honouring them.’ 

John saw that she was right. It was immutable. He had allowed himself to become defined by grief and loss. It was imprinted within him. It was there in the nights lost to drink, in his empty relationships with women, in his churning insomnia and in the way his body ached every single day. He pictured an ammonite fossil, its whorls curling and shrinking within itself. He too curled himself away from the world. He had hugged Lucia tenderly and wished her a safe trip to Italy, but left without commenting on what she had said.

 That January morning, John opened the van and started unloading the wood and tools he needed for Alice’s bookshelves. He was delaying knocking on her door, he knew. He was embarrassed about how he’d acted, how he’d turned away from her. He hoped she would leave for school soon and leave him in peace, that he would finish the job before she returned at the end of the day. He would sweep up all the sawdust and remove all traces that he’d been there. He wouldn’t even send a bill for the work. Maybe that would be for the best. 

As he was considering these options, the door to the neighbouring cottage opened and Alice came out. ‘Thank you, Mabel, don’t spoil her too much mind. No more than two cheese scones.’ She closed the door behind her, turned and saw John. She waved and smiled. The dozens of thin golden bangles she wore on her wrist chimed as she waved. She was wearing a long brown flowered dress and her hair was piled upon her head. She looked like a school teacher from the Edwardian age. If she was annoyed with John for his distance and coldness, she didn’t show it. She was as serene as the harvest moon. As she walked up the cottage path, he could feel himself smile. He sensed the earth turning, as if towards her. The compass, in her presence at least, was altered. 

 ‘Morning, John. I was just dropping Hetty off at Mabel’s, she pointed to the window of the cottage where Hetty’s long nose was squashed against the glass. The lurcher was watching them with the simmering disapproval of an elderly busybody. ‘I thought maybe it wasn’t wise to leave you two together. Come on in. Can I carry anything?’

‘Really, no Hetty? I’ve brought the ginger snaps and everything, flower. No, I’ll get the stuff in. Don’t worry.’ He was pleased at the thin veneer of nonchalance he’d effected, despite the turmoil of his thoughts. He followed Alice into the cottage carrying his toolbox. Once inside, she took a bottle-green coat from an oak hat stand, pulled it on and picked up a carpet bag crammed with books. ‘You know where everything is? I’ve got to rush. First day of term is always utter madness. There’s something in the fridge you may like. I made it especially for you. Help yourself.’ As she passed him in the doorway, she reached out and touched his arm, making her thin golden bangles ring again. Her hands were as soft as a child’s. 

John watched her walk up the green towards the sombre grey church as he unloaded the van. With her long green coat, laced boots and bag, he was reminded again about how out of time she seemed to be, how ethereal. This feeling was amplified inside the cottage too. After she’d gone, he took the time to walk around the empty rooms and soak up their curious essence. Each seemed to radiate a stillness and quietude. The walls were all dark, papered with old fashioned designs of swirling flowers and leaves. In the sitting room, when he looked carefully at the moss green wallpaper he noticed little hares or rabbits hidden within the design. There were books piled everywhere. Cushions and blankets strewn on every chair and sofa. The walls were covered with pictures in dusty, mismatched frames. In the bathroom, he smelt the purple soap on the sink, and recognised it as lavender. In the bedroom, he sat on the bed, an old wrought iron bedstead heaped with floral eiderdowns and crocheted blankets. The Victorian lamp he had fixed for her stood on a bedside table with a silver clock and a book of short stories. An art deco style walnut dressing table was scattered with lipsticks and golden powder compacts and bottles of perfume. He walked back down the creaking narrow staircase with its red patterned runner and brass stair rods and went to the kitchen. On the table, the earthenware green bowl of shining red apples reminded him of a still life painting from Stella’s collaged wall of pictures. Remembering Alice’s words, he opened the fridge and discovered she’d baked him a pie. He’d not bothered with breakfast so he found a knife and cut through the crumbly golden pastry. It was corned beef, his favourite. He had told her that, that morning at the headland and she had remembered. The warmth and tenderness of the gesture felt unfamiliar to him; such kindnesses had been absent from his day to day life for so long. He pictured Alice standing at the kitchen table, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her golden bangles piled by the sink, an apron tied round her waist, rubbing butter and flour together to make pastry. He was peculiarly moved by the thought. 

He opened the back door and stood in the yard while he ate his slice of pie. It was a small yard. Its walls were thick with tangled ivy. Terracotta pots, furred with moss and lichen, crowded round the back door. In the centre of the yard stood a tree with branches like silver bones. He could imagine Alice here, planting tulips and geraniums in the pots. In summer, sitting in the shade of the tree reading with Hetty on a blanket by her side. He could picture her marking books at the kitchen table. On winter nights, she would light the yellow candles on the fireplace and the whole room would smell of beeswax. The cottage spoke of a life well lived. A life of small, solitary pleasures. There was a lush sensuality in the piles of books, the scented soaps and faded velvet cushions. It was very much at odds with his own flat with its perpetually empty fridge and unmade bed. 

From the cottage next door, he heard the sound of a door opening and the swift rat-a-tat-tat of claws on stone followed by a furious whirlwind of barking. ‘It’s all right, Hetty. It’s just me. Your favourite bearded oaf,’ he called over the wall. The barking stopped and was replaced by a low, uncertain yodel. 

‘Here, I didn’t forget you, girl,’ he unwrapped the ginger biscuits he’d put in his pocket and threw them over the wall. When he heard a frantic scrabbling of paws followed by a contented crunching, he went back inside the cottage and started work.