The Headland: Part 13 - The Goldfinches

Although Alice would never be able to pinpoint exactly when John began to turn away from her, after her visit to his flat the gentle fluidity between them began to harden and cool. Alice sometimes felt she could see the shadow that stalked him, and understood he would never be free of it. The days lengthened with the change of season, and so too did their absences from each other. His distance and silence was counterbalanced with an equally stubborn desire within Alice to hold a piece of herself back. She stood on the perimeter of the relationship, determined never again to feel out of control. Under the surface, feelings surged like magma, but they never spoke of their relationship. They never defined it. Those words were too dangerous to explore. Time together was spent in the fragility of the blue hour, outside the harsh daylight of reality. It was beautiful, but ephemeral and sadly Alice began to understand, momentary. 

On the first morning of whit week, Alice realised she had not heard from John in almost a month. She assured herself in a wise, authoritative voice: she was not needy, she was not lonely, she was not scared. She had not lost her balance. But all the same, she missed him. She missed him with an unarticulated ache. She missed his sardonic nonchalance, his scent of wood and beeswax after a day of work and the sensual pleasure of seeing his coat hanging on the banister or his keys tossed on the coffee table. She would have given anything to see him. Anything other than telling how she felt, of course, of revealing her tremulous aching. She was stoically determined never again to bestow the responsibility for her happiness to a man. And equally determined to savour every moment of her week away from work. May was her favourite month of the year. Winter was a distant memory, a curse that had been endured and was now long past. The mornings were glittering and full of birdsong and the long, languid days of summer felt endless and full of hope. 

She stretched luxuriantly in cool linen sheets. Raven, curled like a velvet apostrophe on the pillow next to her, reached out a tiny black paw and curiously patted her face. When he saw she was awake, he yawned extravagantly and blinked his citrine eyes. In her basket under the window, Hetty snorted and snored. The air stirring the curtains was as mild and soft and touched with grace. Alice had nowhere to be, and nothing to do: a wonderful feeling. She closed her eyes to doze a little while longer in the mellow morning light. As she sank into sleep, her unconscious thoughts meandered to the dene. She saw herself walking barefoot through the little stream, the cold water teeming through her toes like liquid silver. She could hear birdsong in the trees, melodic and sweet. It was so restful, so lovely. The fluttering brilliance of sunlight through the lace at her window became the pear-green dappled light of the woodland. She could smell the ethereal wateriness of bluebells. The most lucid part of her dream was the sound of the birds. Their singing seemed to be intensifying, reverberating, surging, silencing everything else. Abruptly shaken from her slumber, Alice realised the birdsong she heard was not in her dream; it was swelling through the open sash window. Raven scrabbled over her body and leapt to the windowsill. He was, she saw, was transfixed by the sound. He stood on two legs like a tiny black monkey and scrabbled at the glass with furious paws. His teeth chattered with devilment. Even Hetty roused herself from sleep, lifted her head and cocked one curious ear in the direction of the back yard. Alice threw back the sheets and went to the window. She picked up the squirming kitten, who slipped through her hands like black silk and scampered downstairs to the kitchen and the cat flap. Alice pulled back the lace curtain for a better view. The old apple tree stood like a bride in the centre of the yard, demure in her gown of frothy white blossom. Perched in her tangled branches, their pearly beaks open to the sun, hundreds of ruby-faced goldfinches sang. Alice had never seen or heard anything like it before. Black and yellow wings fluttered everywhere, causing blossom to fall like tiny stars. The chirrups rang sweet and high, as if made from the tiniest bells of silver. Then, in a gusty explosion of feathers and blossom, the birds were gone. Alice noticed an artful flash of black as Raven shot through the falling blossom to towards the tree. He was too late. The apple tree stood empty and silent in the golden sunlight. The morning had bestowed her blessing. The day had begun.

Later, sitting under the tree, Alice sipped tea and shared soldiers of buttery brown toast with Hetty. Raven was tentatively exploring the apple tree, clinging to a swaying branch. ‘I’m not climbing up to get you mind, Raven. Don’t go too far.’ He swished his tail imperiously and scrabbled higher. His chiming gold bell on his collar reminded Alice of the sound of the goldfinches. ‘That’s the difference between dogs and cats, Hetty. Cats are wilful and contrary. You, on the other hand, are a loyal creature.’ To signal her agreement, Hetty helped herself to the last piece of toast and began to diligently lick the butter from Alice’s fingers. In the passing months, Hetty had aged noticeably. Alice had not taken her on their favourite walk through the dene to the headland for quite some time. Partly this was due to the old dog’s increasing stiffness and lack of energy, but also those places had become painfully associated with John. The headland would be beautiful at this time of year. The North Sea, so often drab and opaque, would shimmer with an abalone light. Tiny harebells and horned poppies would spring from fissures in the cliffs. The gorse, Alice’s favourite flower, would be in full bloom. She loved its bold yellow blooms which opened like the beaks of ravenous birds, and its ferocious tangle of dark thorns. Alice would take great, energising breaths of cool salt air laced with the coconut aroma of gorse. She had missed her walks by the sea. Raven mewed, rousing her from her memories. He had reached the top of the apple tree and was scrabbling on a spindly bough towards the open bedroom window. Above him, the sky was a cloudless, forget-me-not blue.