Mondays

Ever since that day at Whittleclose pebble beach with my father, I can’t get her words away from dancing on the fringes of my brain.

He thought he had stopped me from hearing, that he had covered my ears fully; Coupled with the natural amnesic effects of fading youth and passage of time I believe he thought I had forgotten. Or he had hoped I had at least. Unfortunately her words had never left me, but as I grew older they had only grown clearer.

That day had been as common as a grain of sand on the shore. Since mum had died my father and I had been inseparable, thick as thieves. Eventually, he had taken me out of the public school system for home-schooling, well, as far as any governmental peering eyes were concerned anyway.

It was within these years we maintained the light house and spent every second together. No matter the ebs and flows of life Mondays had always been our day. ‘The best day of the week’ my father would proclaim enthusiastically tying up his brown laces on his old, warped from wear, boots. It was one day a week where we were father and son and not subject to any custodianship duty that the lighthouse held is to.

On early Monday mornings, when the rest of the world was still paralysed in uhtceare, he would grasp my hand and with fatherly steadiness help me down the slippery, mischievous, lighthouse steps. They were thick slabs of rock worn into uneven tricky stairs by the caress of salty watery friction. Many species of anemone and seaweed had made home on their surface, adding to their slimy capriciousness. Once my father had guided us to the bottom of them, ankles unharmed, we eagerly made our way along the coastal path two miles West to Sunny Sundae.

That Monday had been a day of perfection, a sailor’s delight with beautiful sun unfettered by clouds and with a constant gentle soothing breeze.

Cleansed from the bustling weekend traffic Sunny Sundae ice cream parlour sat peacefully guarding the shore front. Its face singing a cacophony of striped colours, it boasted a selection of ten flavours.

Nevertheless, whenever Mr Burton heard my father’s familiar shuffle though the door proclaiming ‘the usual’ he would immediately begin scooping two single cones, placing them into the wooden stand by the counter for me to grab whilst my father emptied the change that weighed down his fraying jean pockets; One rum and raisin and one mint choc chip.

I had always felt a certain smugness to be tucking into the sticky treat so early. Sat on one of the benches that lined the edge of the beach, I would usually catch the sleepy longing glances from passing children, pinned up neatly in their school uniform ushered on sternly by pouting mothers. As a child it had never struck me that my father and I were anything odd, but as I began to reflect with the sobriety of adulthood, I see that these moments were my father’s acts of quiet rebellion. An outward demonstration of his distaste to the silent rules that manage us and in the end enslave us to cookie cutter lives. To me they were just Monday mornings with my dad.

Usually Mondays left the promenade clean and quiet, to the exception of the odd commuter, but on this particular day there was still a buzz in the air with the flurry of lingering visitors.

Scanning the horizon, the distant peer boasted a deep red canvas tent, with burning orange flags whipping back and forth in the rising sun. I remember the bounce of excitement in my tummy when my ever predictable place had grown such an captivating newness. I pointed with an accusatory forefinger towards the circus like thing that invaded our view. Begged and squeezed hurriedly at my father’s forearm as he reluctantly stood up brushing off the wafer crumbs from the front of his shirt.

As we approached the intrusion, I remember how the fuzzy middle of each flag from the distance had an embroidered cream cockleshell within their centre, each again with a large swirling M in the middle of the shells.

My father walked with long confident strides, being a tall man, that I struggled to keep up with. I would often have to jog beside his usual pace so as not to left behind.

As we marched down the peer and eventually lingered at the tent’s doorway my father had attempted to explain the concept of fortune telling.

I must confess, I have never since that day been charmed by the art of divination. Having seen that mysterious tent pop up time and time again with too many ‘charlatans’, whilst caressing the hands of their victims, whisper sweet putrid promises. Sometimes they materialise and other times not. Like many aspects of life, I understood a little too late that there is one thing to be unquestionably true: human curiosity is a much stronger beast than sense.

“Charlatans” he had proclaimed loudly at the curtained doorway to the tent, “robbing none-sense”. Yet, he had still pushed a small coin into the centre of my palm and ushered me through the veils of fabric only to bump into the rather disgruntled glare from a woman with dark tressed and bright sky eyes. She was sat crossed legged behind a small calf high table, cups, cards and crystals scattered on top of a tablecloth showing off the same cockleshell and calligraphy M as the flags outside.

‘Meg I’m guessing’ my father chuckled out with his familiar amused shoulder shake as we sat down on the floor on the other side of the low table to face her.

‘Martha actually’ she had replied unamused cracking the ache in her neck from side to side as though preparing for divine exertion.

‘What are your names?’ she inquired pouring boiling hot swirls of tea into two sage white cockleshells as large as her hands.

The shells were entrancingly large, more than twice as big as any cockleshell I had ever found or have ever found since. The tea leaves swirled with the riptide of water caused by the kettle’s spout to eventually settle in their receptacle’s grooves.

‘Shouldn’t you already know?’ my father stubbornly joked through the tension.

The crystal beads that adorned the braids scattered throughout Martha’s hair clinked together as she raised her head to meet his gaze.

‘Hunny I doubt you are here for me to tell you something as trivial as your own name. Now drink these.’ She handed us one cockleshell each, mine with a little less abruptness and irritation than my father’s.

The liquid sung golden notes of jasmine and honey. We drank it in hurried gulps, my dad winking at me over the rim of the cockleshell held to his lips. Once emptied and shells placed back on the table all two sets of curious eyes peered over the edges to see what the tea leaves had swirled to form. I looked at my father confused at, searching for some familiar acknowledgment within his features, but he too was sat frowning back at the clumps of meaningless blotches, until Martha snatched them away tutting with knitted brow.

‘Do you erm, are you a fisherman Atticus?’ her blue eyes deepened, despairing cloudiness gathering at their edges. Their intensity grew and I could see within their irises the rise and fall of a monstrous wave, tears began to trickle down her cheeks, an ocean overflowing.

‘That’s my name.. who told you my name?’ uneasiness danced on the lines of his forehead as he frantically grappled for my hand, eyes locked with hers.

‘Don’t go to sea Atti’ her voice once smooth like a babbling brook turned ruff and jolting. My father abandoned my hand and moved to my ears whilst hoisting me into his arms as he stood up.

‘Mother nature will claim you.’

Everything was muffled from my fathers protective hands over my ears, but I will never forget from over his shoulder her eyes pure black now locked onto mine, hands still cupping the angry seashell, she chocked out, strangled by the rising tide in her throat ‘and you’. The tent flaps whipped angrily in the wind as my vision bounced up and down to my father’s pace back to the safety of the lighthouse.