Not Quite The Sea

Wakened by birdsong, Pat pulls off her duvet, slips on her dressing gown and steps into the garden. A hint of frost nips, but the magnolia’s velvet jackets have split open, transformed into petals of lustrous white. Catkins like tiny helicopters cascade from the birch, forming a mossy overcoat as they land on the lawn.

The sky, cyan blue, makes Pat think of the sea. In dreams once shared with her husband Bill, she’d pictured herself living in a cottage by the coast, greeting foamy white breakers crashing along the shore, eating freshly caught fish, and breathing in the salty tang. They’d planned to carve out the remainder of their lives indulging their separate passions: gardening for him, collecting shells and other delights thrown up by the waves to make into handicrafts, for her. In the winter, there’d be a cosy fire to snuggle up to and the summer months were to be filled with the grandchildren’s laughter. What could be more rewarding than watching the imprint of small feet as crabs were carried from rock pools in cheerful buckets? Moments of triumph marked with the placing of flags on damp ochre sandcastles. It may have been her dream more than Bill’s, but he’d been happy to share it. 

Except it hadn’t worked out like that.

They’d forgotten to include the rain.

**

“You must eat!” Bill might not be with her physically, but boy is his spirit making up for it. His voice constantly in her ear cajoling her to eat in case she forgets. Ironic considering she’d been the one having to persuade him in the last months.

“I don’t feel like eating,” she mutters mutinously, immediately feeling bad because he’s only trying to help. 

“You’ll waste away if you don’t eat.” Another voice enters the fray, this time Pat’s mother, long since passed. “You’ve always been a scrap of a thing. Nothing of you.”

“Go and haunt someone else, Ma.” Pat had almost married Bill for a bit of peace.

“Someone has to keep an eye on you.” The no-nonsense voice, echoing tough love down the ages. Pat’s mother had always loved her, even though she’d never said it. “Mushy words for softies,” she’d called it. Not like now when Pat’s grandchildren always ended their calls and texts with “Love you, nan.”

**

Pat had been the youngest of seven children. The quiet one, the “mouse of the family.” Her brothers teased her saying, she wouldn’t say “boo to a goose.”

Now, life has thrown more than a goose for her to deal with.

“Ok mum.” Pat forces in another mouthful of scrambled eggs and toast, longing for coffee. She hasn’t felt much like eating since chemo. She’d never been so tired. Barely able to drag one foot in front of the other during the last round. 

“And while I’m at it, you can’t stay in this house all day. Time to perk up, make a new life. Go and meet people.”

“I’m trying, mum.”

**

The last few years have been tough. There are no short cuts here – fighting cancer is tough. Pat had cried when her oncologist told her there were no obvious signs of cancer, although she’d have to wait 5 years to get the “all clear.”

Did one really ever get it?

But then just as she was ready to move on, her husband had broken the news that he had it too. She’d wanted to beat her fists and cry out at life’s unfairness, but she’d kept it all in. She’d watched Bill become a guinea pig, admiring his determination to take part in the latest clinical trials. The treatments had extended his life for a while, but in the end, he’d told her. “You’re stronger than you think. You must make a new life for yourself without me.”

Except, how could she?

With Bill gone, the dream of the sea receded. Then Louise, her eldest daughter, had wanted her to move near her and maybe one day she would, just not yet. 

Pat anchors herself in their conversation. 

“Dad’s been gone over a year now, mum. I know you were planning to move to the sea, but it didn’t happen. Why not give Stukely Waters a try? I’ve been looking at it on the internet. It gets great reviews as a place to live. The scenery is lovely and there’s loads of amenities. A change might do you good.”

“Do you think dad would mind?” Pat had asked tentatively. “I wouldn’t want him to feel he’d been forgotten.”

“He wouldn’t. You often talked about visiting it. You just never got round to it. Now’s your chance.”

“That’s true.”

“We’ll never forget him, mum, but a fresh start might help. It’s not that far from me and it’s near the sea. It has a theatre and small cinema, and a park. There’s even dragon boat racing in the summer.”

Pat experiences a pang at the thought of Bill missing out on the dragon boats.

**

After spring cleaning, there’s nothing left to do in Pat’s modern downsized home where the rooms all smell of lemon and pine. Except for the spare room which she’s come to think of as Bill’s room – even though he’ll never step foot in it now. Her daughter took care of most of her father’s things before she moved, but Pat insisted on keeping a few of his best Hawaiian shirts because they reminded her of fun holidays, and had hung them in the wardrobe. Then, there had been the watch with its distinctive timepiece, a family heirloom he’d kept in its original box. He’d asked her to donate it to a cancer charity. “That way, someone else can benefit from it.”

After a final check in the mirror, Pat is as happy as she can be with her appearance. She touches her goldilocks curls in the mirror. Much loved by her family, she was saved from the discomfort of having to sleep in curlers like her sisters. 

“Your hair has always been a bit kinky – like you, Patsy.” Bill was the only one who called her that. Most people called her Pat. As a child, her mother called her Patricia when she’d been naughty which was rare. An outspoken man, Bill had never been afraid to tackle life head on and she’d liked that about him. How she misses those big arms enfolding her. Even when they lost density and turned sinewy, they always offered comfort.

**

Pat hasn’t quite got to grips with her new town yet. Every so often, she’ll emerge moth-like to do her shopping and take a walk round the park. Today though, with the sun shining, she’s more like a butterfly opening out its wings, and warming itself in the sun. For a while, she pauses at the town’s medieval bridge watching the river swirl below. In the distance, a stiff-necked heron stands vigil near a vacant swan’s nest, its sharp eyes missing nothing. Pat’s courage fades and she becomes more tentative along the path – dawdling her mother would have called it – until relieved, she sees the river branch out, glistening gold streaks, boats chugging along in the distance. A swan drifts by, trooped by ten cygnets, fanning out and rippling the surface.

At last, Pat catches sight of the town’s main pub where people sit under green parasols, their glasses glinting in the light. The path levels off and the town’s shops open like a canopy.  

Preoccupied, Pat steps into a bright space, not noticing someone fixing a poster on the inside of the shop window. Rather, her eyes are drawn to the huge banner on the wall. “Come and help us beat cancer,” it says, reminding everyone that proceeds from all sales go towards raising precious life-saving funds. How many customers think about that when they grab the latest bargains? No, the message is quiet and dignified. Let’s beat this thing, once and for all. At least, give it a good go.

**

For Pat, the charity shop is about so much more than its wooden floor, ample chrome shelves and attractive stock. Fortunately, no mustiness here – not like in some places. Of course, if Pat worked here, she’d polish every counter till it gleamed and it would stay that way.

A few metres from the till, a man flicks through a stack of vinyl, clearly pleased with his selection. 

“This is my favourite shop,” a young boy tells his mother. He dances round, spoilt for choice, before settling on a spinning top with a picture of farm animals. He’s also excited by the train that’s running round a track in the window. He purses his lips. He can only choose one and he likes them both. 

“While you decide I’m going to take a look in the jewellery cabinet,” his mother tells him.

“If I worked here, I’d get to see the toys every day.”

“That’s right, but at the moment you may be a little too young to help. You could always ask the assistant wearing the lanyard at the counter. He may be able to advise you.”

While the boy mulls, a woman squeezes past bearing an armful of clothes. 

“Excuse me, I just want to try these on in the changing room,” she says. 

**

Pat investigates the homeware section at the back of the shop. Plenty of items, some suitable for her new kitchen. The sorting room door is ajar, and she can hear the good-natured banter of volunteers helping.

The assistant has moved from the till and is tidying a rail of trousers. He nods and says hello. 

Pat wonders if he recognises her or is just being polite. 

She takes a deep breath trying to frame the question uppermost in her mind, but it sticks like a craw in her throat. How hard can it be? She’s popped into the shop a number of times since moving, to check out the latest items. Everyone seemed friendly, but it had been painful leaving a bag of her husband’s clothes. Even harder donating the watch and trying to explain its value. She’d been relieved when the staff member had taken her bag and said, “Thank you,” so nicely. Maybe she’d been through the same thing herself. 

While the assistant moves to the till to serve the man with the records, Pat hovers by the homeware. She thinks of her youngest daughter, now in her second year at university. Students go through plates and cutlery like there’s no tomorrow and Chloe is no exception. Like her older sister, Chloe encouraged Pat to donate items to the charity shop. “It’s a great way of recycling and helping the environment, mum. Everyone’s doing it these days.” Not that she needed any encouragement.

The woman has emerged from the changing room and is waiting to be served. She checks out a plain white blouse holding it up for the assistant to see. 

“What do you think? It might do for work.”

“It looks nice. Very springlike.”

“Hmmm.”

Pat waits patiently, ready to pay for her goods. 

“What do you think? You look like you’ve a good eye for colour,” the woman says, appraising Pat’s outfit.

Glad to be of service and enjoying the compliment, Pat places her set of plates on the counter. The blouse is ok, but it doesn’t reflect the woman’s personality. 

“It’s nice, but I would say the leopard print is definitely more you.”

The woman holds both garments up to the light. 

“I’m inclined to agree, but as it’s a good cause, I think I’ll buy them both. I can always re-donate one of them if I change my mind.”

“That’s a great idea,” the assistant says.

“Better than having to refund it,” Pat says. 

“Do many people want refunds?” the woman asks the assistant.

“Some do.”

“You get such great donations here! I was actually looking for a watch for my son’s birthday. He’s into vintage stuff. Have you anything in?”

“Nothing at the moment. We had an amazing one in a few weeks ago. A very distinctive classic man’s Rolex watch with a black strap and matching silver hands and button. A beautiful piece. I wasn’t there when it was donated, but the donor asked us to try our best to get a good price for it.”

“And did you?”

“Well, we actually took it to auction, and it fetched £2,000. Imagine that!

“Wow!”

“It made everyone’s day here, I can tell you.”

Pat beams to herself, hoping Bill is listening.

“That was a generous donation!” The woman turns to Pat again. “You know, I get the feeling this lady knows what she’s talking about when it comes to selling things.”

“I did work in a clothes shop after I left school for a while,” Pat admits. An image springs up of her younger self. What had the manager said before she’d left to have her first baby? It was coming back now. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Pat.” She’d liked to have gone back, maybe become a supervisor, but things were different then. Her second daughter came along and soon she was helping her husband achieve his dream of a bed and breakfast business. Kind words surface like gems from a treasure chest, to be dipped into, when most needed. 

“You certainly have a way with customers,” the woman says. 

“Thank you.” Somewhere along the way, Pat had lost something of herself. Bill hadn’t meant to take anything away from her, but he’d been a strong character, always so sure of himself – like her mother. Now, she’ll have to get used to standing on her own again. Maybe, she will even get to like it.

“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?” the woman asks. “You look familiar.”

“You might have done. I only moved here a few months ago, but I usually pop in about twice a week.”

“I’m pretty much a regular myself.” The woman grins mischievously. “You have to be careful round here. They’ll be asking you to volunteer your services next.”

“Funny you should say that. We are looking for volunteers,” the assistant perks up.

“I thought you might have enough helpers already,” Pat says. “I meant to check the notice in the window, but I forgot.”

“My name’s Graham.” The assistant searches under the counter and passes Pat an application form. “There you go. Although you can do it online if you’d prefer.”

“No, I’ll fill this in and return it to you tomorrow. That is, if you’re sure you need me. My name’s Pat, by the way.”

“Hi Pat. Nice, to meet you. We’re never short of things to do here.”

Pat leaves the shop with a spring in her step. She didn’t have to ask about volunteering after all. Now, with a fresh start in a new town, it’s going to be a different kind of life. For the first time in a long time, the road ahead seems clear. 

Heading home across the bridge, Pat thinks of Bill’s words. “You’re stronger than you think.”

A flock of seagulls fly overhead, their glaucous wings black-tipped, their calls high-pitched and fierce. As they they head towards the coast, Pat remembers her dreams of the sea. For a few moments, soaring like them, she has no regrets. She knows she will be happy here in her new town.

Not quite the sea, but close enough.