THE PLACE WE CALL SOMEWHERE

I stepped off the bus after three long hours of travelling. The view before me was a pleasant scene. It was somewhere between a Hollywood film and a normal “non-crazy” dream. The warmth of the summer sun, on my back, the fragrance in the air, was somewhere between percolated coffee and rose bushes: no need for despair. I followed the crowd as it too relaxed in this place we called somewhere. Blue skies with fluffy white clouds in the unnamed town of nowhere.  Our steps took us down a path unfamiliar yet enchanting. Green grass lush and soft, fresh air therefore no panting. I stopped to take a photograph for nowhere had I seen the combination of parkland and seaside with roses in between. Ordinarily, in the suburbs which I would call home; the sea would dry out the fauna, and green become chrome. But there the poetry must end, at least in this tale, for a fragile mind and hurting heart can only bewail circumstances beyond our control and indeed I don’t want to show; instead, you want to walk with me through the place neither of us knows.

The sound of the sea was peaceful and clear as the waves met the shore. It conveyed an invitation for me to let go and heal. Tempted as I was to lash out and cry, the soft sand and the waves beckoned, yet bid me rest. For once the antics of toddlers as they tickled their toes at the water’s edge did not frustrate me, instead, I smiled. One little girl threw her balloon, the wind carried it farther than she could go. It landed, safely at my feet. Retrieving it I walked down towards the children heedless of the reaction, and gently placed the cord in her hand. She smiled at me; her Mum prompted her to thank me. What had I done but give her that which belonged to her?

I walked along the sand; the air rich with seaside fragrance, and the sharp “hark hark” of seagulls scavenging. I never liked them, but somehow on this day, it seemed that their presence was part and parcel of the beauty. The sand so fine and white, without a piece of trash in sight. I stopped; it was impossible to count the number of Norfolk Pines standing sentinel-like a hedge of protection, along the beach, between the sand and the street. I could still smell roses despite the aromas that are part and parcel of the seaside. I walked back to the shade and sat on a bench under one of the pines. A car horn tooted, taking my attention, I turned, noticing only that it was old but not out of place in this sleepy hollow. My rest over, I walked back up the street, turned right and walked up that street. A row of cottage-like houses stood side by side. They had tiny front gardens again with lush green grass. Some had ferns and cacti, others masses of rose bushes all in flower most of them scented.  Could this place be real or was it my imagination? The reason why I ask, and indeed ask of you, is: there was not a weed in sight. Unlike the suburb I was used to, these gardens were beautiful in a regimented sort of way. I half expected that a Sergeant major Norfolk pine would appear and inspect the rows one by one. I was used to kids toys in the garden, several family cars. various rubbish bins and if you were lucky an unmown lawn and shrub or two. This was indeed beautiful, but clinical.

The main street held quaint shops, a bakery and café, a confectioners’, antiques and of course the nursery. No Grocers. greengrocers, butcher, heck! no pub. Worse than a pub with no beer was a town with no pub! Indeed, no business, no hairdressers, petrol station, funeral director, medical centre, chemist, hospital.

A voice from behind me spoke, fortunately, I recognized Brian, the bus driver’s merry quip.

“If you are wondering, Mary, the uninteresting shops are two blocks down.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said

“No worries.” 

Of course, I had no need for such mundane things as groceries, but I was curious and perhaps the others in the group were too, otherwise, Brian would not have informed me. Oh, I loved this place, even if it held a surreal quality. It calmed me: no thoughts of Paul, only living things surrounding me. Out of habit, I touched my finger, the lack of rings reminded me of my status. Time would heal so ‘they’ whoever ‘they’ were, said. What an irony.

I bought a sandwich and coffee from the bakery and headed back to the sea, nodding to a couple who were on the tour with me, but fortunately, they did not invite me to join them. I wondered how often the seaside had brought comfort; certainly, it was not without tragedy. It was still soothing, the gentle lapping at the shore encouraging your own steady breathing, I did not want to leave yet in a little while I must, we all must.  Our overnight stopover was elsewhere.

There was a Main Street, a Beach Road, Garden Square, a Boutique Walk, the information I gleaned from the “You are Here” directions bulletin board near where I had been sitting, but nothing to tell me what the town was called. How could I know where to direct my friends if they were coming this way? What name would l use on the postcards? “Somewhere Over the Rainbow? Nah Judy Garland would haunt me; La La Land? there could be a ring of truth to that. What did they put in my coffee?

Suddenly the wind changed direction a little less warm than before. Looking across the sea, grey clouds were forming. I checked my watch; it was only three-thirty, perhaps I should venture to the quaint shops and buy a souvenir. I wandered into the Antique shop smiling, for, I was becoming something of an antique myself. Another smile. I could not resist the purchase: an umbrella round wooden handle, long spike, silk material print of roses and all things seafaring.

It did not matter what the town was really called, but it could not all be my imagination because it was real money that paid for this real umbrella, a real mobile phone that held the photograph of the real beach. I’d hate to think that this was only a dream!