More than a Mistress, Not Yet a Wife

Inspired by the song “You’ve Haunted Me All My Life” by ‘Death Cab for Cutie’.

All locations, people and events are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

Mrs. Follwick was standing in her front garden when the lime-green car rolled up. If she had not been pulling up a clump of dandelions when it parked, she would have noticed that one of the front-lights was out. The slight whine of rubber-on-glass alerted her to its presence and she looked up into the face of a young man looking out the window at her. He was clean-shaven with the shine of gel in his hair, and Mrs. Follwick could see a white shirt and tie over the lip of the car-window. 

“Excuse me, Miss?” The man said, leaning awkwardly with one hand still on the steering wheel. She couldn’t place his accent, but it was definitely southern.

“It’s Mrs,” She said, “Mrs. Follwick.”

“Ah, my apologies. I was hoping I could ask you some questions.” The man said, though his voice seemed to hold less remorse than his words.

“If it won’t take too long. I still have the whole backgarden to de-weed.” Mrs. Follwick said and glanced around the man’s car. The space between the steering wheel and the back of the windshield was littered with unopen letters and other bits of paper. A large travel-bag and rolled-up tent lay in the backseat. 

The man smiled, disconnected his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. Removed from its confines, he turned out to be rather tall, though his posture disguised it somewhat. His trousers were equally as fine as the shirt, though the man’s shoes were for rugged walking rather than a fancy office-space. He had brought a bundle of paper from the car, as well as a pen. 

“Is this Brookshire?” He asked and turned the bundle towards her, showing maps covered with ink scrawls. 

Mrs. Follwick stepped closer to the white fence. “Nay, this is Fullenham. Brookshire is half an hour down towards the coast.”

The young man looked to his maps as she talked, drawing and scrawling with his pen. “Ah, that’s not too far then. And what about the Brookshore Lighthouse? If you’ve ever been there, can you tell me how to get there from here? My maps seem a bit out of date.”

Mrs. Follwick had indeed been to the local lighthouse, but that was years and years ago, before she ever met Peter and settled down. The memories distracted her for a moment, but the young man’s expectant face brought her back. 

“Aye, I’ve been there, though I can’t say if my route is any more updated than your map, young man. I never did get your name.”

“Oh, of course,” he stammered, “I should have started with introductions. My name is George Hallingway. And that’s quite alright, I’m grateful for any advice. I just have to be there before nightfall.” 

“Why before nightfall?,” Mrs. Fullwick asked with a rare jest in her tone, “Hoping to raise a boat?”

“There’s to be a storm tonight, that’s all.” George said. Up to now she had not thought much of the young man, but that simple reply carried so much feeling that she was taken aback momentarily.

“Let me see that map, then.” She said and reached for it. George gave it up, though his face displayed some amount of unease at doing so. She leafed through it to see what she had to work with, and the fact that lighthouses, towers and local churches were circled with ink on the maps did not escape her, though she did not know what to make of it. With some effort she focused on the question at hand and glanced at the lighthouse on the map and the roads that led to it. Her old route was only the thinnest dark-green line, but it was there.

“Mr. Hallingway, if you can see that thin green line passing through Chetwood, that is wide enough to accomodate your car, I should think. You might have to pull some bushes out of the way. Then it connects with Orwell Road here, which goes down to the lighthouse. You might have to walk the last half-a-mile or so, the lighthouse has nowhere to park.”

George listened along while nodding, offering no comments or questions until Mrs. Follwick was finished speaking. She handed him his map back and he scrawled some notes while resting the map on his thigh. 

“My thanks for the directions, Mrs. Follwick. I will leave you to your gardening and wish you a good day.” He said as he rose back up then made to turn to his car.

“You said there’s to be a storm tonight?” Mrs. Follwick said.

George turned back to her. “That’s right.”

“News didn’t say anything about that, and old Thumtorp hasn’t said anything either. Are you sure?” 

George nodded. “Completely.”

Mrs. Follwick had her doubts about the young man’s certainty, but storms was nothing to jest about. “If you’re so sure, shouldn’t you be looking for a place to stay the night? The lighthouse isn’t going anywhere.”

George smiled. It seemed to her that it held more sadness than happiness or jest. “I appreciate the concern, Mrs. Follwick, but I have no choice, I must go. The love of my life is meeting me there.” 

WIth that, the young man climbed into his car and drove away down the town’s main street until the first turning. Mrs. Follwick stood for a moment and contemplated the encounter, then shrugged and returned to her gardening. 

The car’s left rear indicator was also broken.

The woman’s directions were good, though George’s car was now covered in broken vines and leaves. The forest road that she had brought his attention to was indeed just wide enough for a car, but it must have massively overgrown since Mrs. Follwick was through there last. Orwell Road had been much more pleasant. Brookshore Lighthouse stood on a crop of rock looking out over the Irish Sea, but George was not really interested in the lighthouse itself. It was a fine building, but the true object of his interest and the reason he had come here on the day of a storm was the lightning-rod attached to the roof of the lighthouse. The map was tossed into the heap of unopened letters and other bits of paper that littered the dash. He parked his car by the side of the road and carried his camping gear into the woods. Technically he did not have permission to camp here, but it would not be the first he did so without permission, nor the last. It was not out of cruelty or some aversion to the letter of the law. George just had other matters on his mind and never thought about it. 

The rest of the day passed with George in a slumber. These last few months he had been keeping weird hours, and the drive up north to Brookshore had exhausted him. So he slept in his tent, waking when he heard a particular sound; thunder. Out over the Irish Sea, a storm was brewing. If a meteorologist had been present, they would have sworn there had been no signs of it. Fat, dark clouds were bunching up, bridging the distance between them with cracks of lightning. All around the coast of Ireland, Wales, England and Scotland, people would be seeking shelter or going indoors. George, however, weighed down his tent and, donning a raincoat, went up the hill towards Brookshore Lighthouse. 

Gloom fell as the storm rolled east. The forest grew noisy as winds buffeted the canopies and rattled branches. Birdsong ceased as the animals of the forest hid from the oncoming storm. George stood in front of the lighthouse, looking up at the white-plasted facade. The dark metal of the lightning rod had disappeared into the dark clouds. George smiled. When he had been a young boy, barely 10 years of age, a storm much like this had passed over his birthtown. He had been out playing in the forest and lost track of time. Before young George had realised it, the forest was swaying in the wind. He had hid under an oak tree before the first rains fell. For the first few moments he was scared, but then a calm came over him. The drumming of rain on the leaves, the sounds of the wind through the branches. He had never been so calm, and it would take nearly a decade before George felt such calm again. But that sensation was a distant second to the event that day that truly changed his life. 

He had been sitting under the tree, watching a particularly heavy shower batter the leaves, when the first lightning came. Thunder rolled in a heartbeat later but George barely heard it. For a woman was now standing on the forest path in front of him. She was facing away from him and he found he was holding his breath, though if you had asked George as a boy, he would not have been able to tell you if it was because he did not want to be discovered or if it was because he did not want to disturb her. But she turned around and changed his life from that point on. He had never forgotten that stormy afternoon. 

Here he was, 15 years later almost to the day. He had been to numerous lighthouses and churches over the last 8 years, chasing storms and lightning-clouds. The rains began to come down hard and fast. George did not move an inch. Next came a flash of light as the first lightning hit the metal rod at the peak of the lighthouse. The accompanying thunder came past, lightly ruffling the dress of the woman standing in front of him.

Despite the heavy rain and the wind, the woman’s light-blue dress barely moved. Her feet were bare and her skin was as pale as when George had first seen her. Her black hair was long enough to pool on the ground, though it did not seem to be affected by the rain or the mud. Her face was sharp with a pointed chin and a narrow nose. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, showing white pupils with a thin ring of black. 

“Hallingway.” George said, his tone as devoted as ever. He pulled the hood of his raincoat down withougt thinking of the rain.

The woman looked at the storm-tossed forest for a moment before turning her eyes to George. A smile lit up her face, and George’s heart ached. 

“George Farthing.” The woman said and stepped forward. 

His breath caught in his chest as she walked past him, the hairs on his body standing on end at her presence. “I don’t go by that name anymore” He stammered.

Hallingway stood a few metres from him. The storm did not touch her dress or her hair and she made a surreal sight with such calm in the storm. 

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” George repeated, “I call myself George Hallingway now.”

“That is not your name, George.” Hallingway replied and turned around to look him in the eye. Her smile carried a tinge of sadnes. The skies lit up with another blast of lightning, the accompanying thunder ruffling her dress. 

“I want it to be.” George said. The box in his left pocket was beginning to feel heavy. 

“There are many things we want to be true that never will be, George.” Hallingway said and turned away again, this time to look at the waters below the cliff. Waves buffeted the shoreline, tossed by the storm. “The ocean is so beautiful during a storm.”

George went to stand by her side. He wanted to reach out and take her hand or embrace her, but a part of him was afraid. He pretended to look at the ocean, but in truth he only had eyes for her. His hair was soaked and the rainwater was running down to his clothes but he did not feel the chill when he stood next to Hallingway. 

“George, I–”

George interrupted her without thinking, his mind fixed on the box now in his hands. “Hallingway, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It’s been on my mind for years now and now I cannot wait for myself any longer.” 

In one motion, George turned towards Hallingway and went to his knees in the mud. He brought the leather-bound box up from his side and opened it to reveal a plain silver ring. “Hallingway, will you marry me?”

Lightning flashed again and Hallingway was gone. The spot where she had stood was soaked with rain and mud, leaving no trace that she had ever been there. George rose and looked all over the cliffside and the lighthouse, but she was gone again. George was left alone, his clothes soaked and his knees caked with mud, the box with the ring held in his limp arms.