The Thoughts and Happenings of Wilfred P

9

The Sea


Flora laughed. ‘On the back of your bicycle? It’ll buckle the wheel.’

‘Let’s go quickly. Hop on,’ Wilfred said. ‘I’ll cycle. The tide will be out soon.’

Saturday had come again and Wilfred and Flora were outside the cottage door. Flora climbed carefully up on to the saddle and Wilfred stood on the pedals. They set off precariously, veering from side to side along the winding lane from the cottage.

‘Won’t someone see us?’ Flora asked.

‘I don’t care,’ Wilfred replied.

‘Mind the hydrangeas. Mind the hydran—’ Flora called. Wilfred steered the bicycle sharply to the left, just missing the bush, though a couple of the pink flowers brushed against them.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Flora as the hydrangeas fluttered against her face and bare arm, pink petals scattering. She smiled.

‘Sorry, dear,’ Wilfred called over his shoulder.

‘I’m fine,’ Flora replied, her chin resting on his shoulder. ‘I like wild hydrangeas.’ He called me dear, she thought.

It was sultry and would soon be scorching. The sky was utterly cloudless and a bold mid-blue. They were saved from the heat of the sun by the shade of the hawthorn and lime trees beside the path, but when they reached the sea road there would be no protection. Flora had an arm around Wilfred’s waist and with her other hand she was holding on to her cloche hat as the bike hurtled in the direction of the sea.

‘Slow down!’

‘No!’

Flora stretched her legs out from the bicycle, asking, ‘Do you drive the hearse like you ride a bicycle?’

‘I never get any complaints from the passengers.’

‘You’re laughing,’ Flora said. She took her hat off, putting it under her arm, and wrapped both arms around Wilfred’s solid body, laid her head against his back and held on tightly.

The bike clattered and bumped down the steep hill to the cove and Wilfred steered it skilfully, avoiding jagged flints and dry dips that had recently been puddles. They cycled over twigs that snapped sharply and the bicycle bell jingled and the mudguards rattled.

‘Yahoo!’ Wilfred shouted as they jolted over the lip of the road and freewheeled down the lane and round the corner. When they reached Heane Castle, Wilfred stopped the bike. ‘Off, my fair lady, while I make adjustments to our carriage.’

‘Is the wheel buckled?’ Flora asked.

‘No, Raleigh bikes are sturdy.’ Wilfred straightened up the handlebars, stepped over the bar, put his feet on the pedals and said to Flora, ‘Your carriage awaits!’ He bowed down low and made a flourish with his hand.

Flora had never seen Wilfred playful before. She’d seen him stiff and formal at her father’s funeral, seen him serious in the cottage – he had even held her as if it was a serious matter – but today he was different, free, light: it was almost, Flora thought, as if he was careless.

‘I shall lead my fine damsel to the enchanted forest. And away we go!’ Wilfred announced, cycling again.

The road was flat and empty and they made slow progress now they were no longer going downhill. Wilfred worked hard cycling and Flora said sympathetically, ‘I’m trying not to weigh too much.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘I’m used to having corpses in the back; one elegant lady is no burden.’

By the time they reached Amroth, the muscles in Wilfred’s legs were burning and his face was dripping with sweat. He took out a comb from his back trouser pocket and combed his hair to the side while Flora smoothed down her long hair hand and tucked her cotton blouse back into her skirt.

‘I think we might find the forest because the tide is so far out, the furthest I’ve ever seen it,’ Wilfred commented. It was getting hotter; it would soon be sweltering. He propped the bike against a large granite rock, adding, ‘Shoes off!’ While he untied the laces of his shoes, Flora unbuckled her sandals and then took her camera from the basket on the front of the bicycle.

‘To the sea!’ shouted Wilfred. He grabbed Flora’s hand and began running. They jogged towards the water for a quarter of a mile or so, their steps in rhythm. The sand was dry and the running arduous, and grains leaped up in their wake.

When Flora slowed into a walk, aware of the growing heat of the day, Wilfred slowed down with her but held on to her hand. She glanced behind them.

‘The sand is soft: we haven’t left footprints,’ she said. ‘No one will know we have been here.’

‘We are alone in the cove,’ Wilfred replied.

It was true, Flora thought. Amroth was deserted. The day-trippers would be further down the Pembrokeshire coast in Saundersfoot and Tenby and, since the anthracite mine had closed last year, Amroth was very quiet, empty even. She and Wilfred were alone in an enormous space.

‘I like that the sea goes out in Pembrokeshire,’ Wilfred said enthusiastically as they walked along, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was excited to share his thoughts with her and had imagined and practised this conversation in his head.

‘I read that in Spain the tide only goes out a yard or two. Whoever heard of such a thing? What do folks do when they want to go somewhere to have a think?’ Where we are now, and that rock there, in a couple of hours’ time, the tide will have come in and that’ll be twenty feet, even thirty feet underwater while right now, it’s dry as a bone in the sun.’

Flora looked at him and smiled with her eyes. He was right; the sea would be very deep here before too long. Once the tide had gone out as far as it could, the water would then determinedly, unhesitatingly wend its way back towards the road. It would probably turn quite soon.

‘Let’s run again!’ Wilfred enjoined. He pulled Flora’s hand and they went towards the sea.



The ancient forest was unearthly: logs of ochre-red, fossilized wood lying on soggy sand, some still standing. The stones were orangey-brown, the colour of a tree trunk.

‘How long do you think it has been here?’ Flora asked Wilfred.

‘I read that the forest is seventy thousand years old.’

‘Where did you read that?’

‘When I was a boy I had a Chatterbox Annual every year for Christmas, and one year there was a full page on the petrified forest of Amroth. There, in my book. I wanted to come and find it, but my da said no one he knew had seen it. My da’s da had heard of fishermen who worked on schooners from Saundersfoot who’d spotted it at very low tides, but no one in Narberth has ever seen it.’

Flora touched the stone tree with her fingertips.

‘How can wood become stone?’ she wondered aloud. ‘How can a tree that grew and was green with leaves turn to stone?’ She took her camera from around her neck and began to take photographs of the trees. Wilfred gazed at the large stones encircling them, shielding his eyes from the sun.

‘The patterns in the tree trunks are very beautiful,’ Flora commented, glancing away from her lens.

‘What do you take photographs of?’ Wilfred asked.

‘Shells on the beach, the rocks at the cove – and now fossilized wood. Sometimes people.’

‘Who?’

‘The people I love – portraits of them.’

Wilfred wondered, with a sharp pain, if there was a man; she might have a man she loved. There could easily be, she was so beautiful.

‘I haven’t taken any photographs of anyone for a while,’ she offered.

Wilfred noticed her looking at him, as if assessing the proportion and angles of his face.

‘What do you do with the photographs?’ he asked.

‘I keep them in an old chocolate box in my bedroom and look at them sometimes. And I make albums as well.’

‘Would you like to be a photographer?’

‘I would, but I don’t know how. Perhaps I could take photographs for postcards or do wedding portraits.’

‘That would be exciting. There are very few ladies who are photographers.’ There is a world of thought and creativity within her, Wilfred thought.

‘To think,’ he continued aloud, keeping his thoughts to himself, ‘that where we are sitting now, on this flat sand at the edge of the sea, must once have been a wood. Maybe people even lived here.’

‘That was many ages before our cottage was here,’ Flora replied.

Our cottage, she’d said. Wilfred looked down at the sand. Our cottage. Perhaps if it had been their cottage when this was a forest, instead of water and sand, he could have lived by the cove with Flora for all of their lives, had a different life, a happy one.

‘Are you thinking about something?’ Flora asked. ‘You are frowning.’

Wilfred smiled at her. ‘Come and sit by me,’ he said gently. Flora moved along on the fossilized tree and Wilfred put his arm around her shoulder. He liked wrapping his arm around her. She stretched out her legs and put her toes in a small puddle of seawater.

‘I want to tell you something, Flora. It’s not important. But I want to tell you anyways.’

Flora looked up. The sea was still at a distance, but turning; before too long they would have to head back to the road that led to the world beyond. This copse in the sea was magical: an ancient forest hidden beneath the waves. The sea had a secret.

Flora waited for Wilfred to speak.

‘It sounds important even though it isn’t,’ Wilfred repeated. He took Flora’s hand in both of his. Her hand was much smaller than his, more papery and delicate.

‘It’s not important, Flora, but I’m married.’

The waves swished in the distance. Eventually Flora said evenly, ‘But you’re not wearing a ring.’ She looked at Wilfred’s large, square hands. His fingers were bare.

‘It’s in my pocket.’

‘Can I see?’

Wilfred stood up, delved his hands into his trouser pockets and there was the sound of coins jangling. He brought out a handful of money and among the shillings and sixpences was a large, gold band. He picked it up between his fingers and showed it to Flora. It was proof. To Flora the ring was a circle of proof.

‘That is your wedding ring?’ Wilfred nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked faintly. Flora stayed sitting on the log, Wilfred standing in front of her. She felt as if scaffolding was collapsing inside her, planks and poles collapsing and falling down with a distant din. This is betrayal, she said to herself. I am being betrayed.

Wilfred took her hand and pulled her up, put his arms around her. This time he held her to him more confidently than he had before. He placed his arms around her purposefully, with intention, as if he knew what he wanted, and breathed in the scent of her.

It was a couple of seconds before Flora realized she was holding her breath. Then she felt herself imperceptibly curl forward. In her mind’s eye she saw an unborn child curling up on itself. Wilfred would not have noticed the movement she made because it was so slight, yet she knew that it was a profound and decisive moment that would mark her for the rest of her life. She felt like an unborn child regressing and curling in on itself.

‘Flora … Flora,’ Wilfred said gently, calling her. She pulled away and looked up at his face: his thick eyebrows, his straight eyelashes, the reddish flush of his cheeks. Wilfred in turn saw the whiteness of her face, how she had blanched since he’d told her, despite her skin being burnished by the sun.

‘I wanted to tell you – I want to tell you because if I only speak the truth to one person, then I want it to be you.’

Flora looked out at the sea and noticed it was coming in fast. They were a long way from the road; the tide in Pembrokeshire was unexpected and the water could have fractured patterns and strange eddies. Sometimes the sea made islands of sand as it came in, islands it was possible to be stranded on until the sea came in. It wasn’t only this dead wood that was drowned by the sea. They were silly, stupid, to have come so far out. She could swim a little but the sea was strong. Anyone who lived by the sea quickly learned to respect it.

‘The sea is coming in fast,’ she said. Wilfred had forgotten himself. He, too, saw the sea, its small waves heralding powerful, more wilful ones.

‘We need to go back. Come on, best if we run.’ Wilfred took Flora’s hand, and began to pull her towards the cliffs.

They had been looking out at the sea but the sea had come in behind them: where they had been sitting on the beach was now a sand dune. The sea has come in already, Wilfred realized with horror. There was water between them and the road. It was an inlet, and would be deep already. Could they wade across it? Could Flora swim? How wide was the inlet? Ten feet. No – more. Twenty … thirty feet. It was hard to see the further edge clearly in the shimmering light. The sea was surging into the inlet from both sides. It would be getting deeper by the second.

‘Run, Flora, come on!’ He clasped her hand and she took great paces, pushing her feet against the sand.

‘Look!’ Flora exclaimed. ‘It’s come in already!’ She felt panic, fear. They were at the edge of the water.

Wilfred unbuckled his belt, yanked down his trousers, pulled off his shirt.

‘Take your clothes off now! They will pull you down.’ In her panic, Flora couldn’t undo her buttons so she ripped them apart and tore off her blouse.

‘Your camera as well!’ Wilfred grabbed her forearm with his muscular hand and dragged her into the water. It was cold. A few steps and the waves were at her thighs.

‘But I can hardly swim,’ Flora cried, resisting. Wilfred, a few steps ahead, tugged her forward. Flora stood on a stone, stumbled, and her face went into the water.

‘Quickly,’ he insisted, but the water thwarted them and they couldn’t run. Wilfred was attempting to cross in a straight line but the current was forcing them to the left.

‘It’s hard to walk,’ Flora replied. ‘Shout for help. Help! Help!’ But the beach, the whole cove, was deserted. There was no one.

‘Hold on to me.’ He was still gripping her forearm powerfully. She held on to his arm with her other hand as well and they entered the middle of the channel.

‘I have you,’ Wilfred stated, surging forward. ‘Take deep breaths.’ Flora was on her tiptoes now, the water at her shoulders, tight waves slapping her neck and face. The water was thick, forceful, hard to move against.

‘Wilfred!’ she yelled. ‘I can’t touch the bottom!’ But he kept moving forward though the water was up to his neck. He took more steps and hauled her. She was going under now; with each step, the water was getting deeper and faster. She gasped and swallowed air, then water.

She clung to Wilfred’s upper arm and she could feel the certainty of his hold on her, the absoluteness with which he seized her. She could no longer speak, the water stung her eyes, she couldn’t open them, couldn’t see where she was going, where Wilfred was leading her, didn’t know where the shore was, nor which way the sun was, then finally, where the sand was or the bottom of the sea …

Breathe! Breathe! She felt an injunction upon her. Breathe! When Flora felt air on her face, she sucked in as much as she could. Breathe! It was an inviolable command from someone, somewhere, who knew what she must do, and each time her mouth emerged from the water, this instinctive voice was commanding her, Breathe! So she opened her mouth and the saltwater and air went into her. All around her was the violence and the chaos of water. There was only the certainty of Wilfred’s strong grasp on her forearm then the air on her face, then water, then air, then water …



Wilfred held Flora as she vomited slushes of seawater on to the sand. She was leaning over, coughing, retching, and Wilfred had his hands on top of her arms. The water behind them was widening quickly, they were barely beyond its reach and they must move soon – now – as the sea was advancing. And there were maybe other sand dunes forming. Wilfred took Flora’s hand and began walking swiftly, though she stumbled because of the seawater stinging her eyes, and her limbs were mottled by the cold. She had swallowed whole mouthfuls of sea and the salt was prickling the insides of her mouth. She felt dizzy, jelly-like, could hardly believe there was firm sand for her feet to stand on. Wilfred half-dragged, half-carried her, Flora almost bent double, until they reached his bicycle, still propped up against the boulder where they had left it what now felt like a very long time ago.

They were both shaken and bewildered. They walked quickly, almost ran along the road, Wilfred pushing the bike, Flora hunching her shoulders forward self-consciously. The day was now broiling and the road was blistering on their bare feet, and small gravel stones dug into their soles.

Within ten minutes they had reached the other side of the cove. Wilfred headed into the foliage of the wooded hill and began to lead the way through the bushes to where he thought the cottage was; he hadn’t waited till they reached the path, wanting for them to leave the road as soon as they could. Thorn bushes, nettles and sharp sticks brushed against their bare skin and Wilfred held back branches for Flora to pass, to save her being scratched and stung.

In the copse and further from the sea Flora began to feel safer and more grounded; her bare feet on the cracked mud was comforting to her. It was the firm, solid earth; it was where she belonged. The leaves were providing shadows from the brilliant sun overhead, which had burned down on them on the beach and the road.

Wilfred shoved the cottage door open then led Flora in. He pulled the green tablecloth from the three-legged chair and gave it to her. She wrapped it around her shoulders, making a shawl of it. Then he took her in his arms. This time, for the first time, there was no awkwardness in Wilfred’s touch, no hesitancy; he held her with strength and ease. This was the body of the woman he had dragged through the sea, had held on to hard and tight while she flailed behind him. When her head went under the water he had found a resolution within himself – one he hadn’t known he had. It was as if a force had risen up inside him and it was absolute. She would live – he would make her live, he would not lose her. His grasp was iron-like, welded to her: the muscles of his arm, his knuckles and her wrist were made of iron welded into one piece and he would do anything, everything, before he let go of this woman. His body had never been stronger, his resolve never firmer. He knew a less determined man holding a lesser woman would have loosened his grip. And when she stood slightly beyond the river, in her liberty bodice, vomiting, the nakedness and the physicality of her body were nothing to him, not even a revelation. His decision was made, it had formed within him, was strengthened, then finally forged as he had dragged the nearly drowned body of this woman, Flora, through a river that had almost, almost, engulfed them. So, in the cottage when he took Flora in his arms, it was different. He stroked her damp hair, her small shoulders and then ran his hands down her bare arms.

Flora leaned against him, her arms hanging by her side. She had swallowed so much water and vomited so violently, her drenching had been so complete, that she felt as if the water had taken everything out of her. She felt purged: physically, emotionally. In those seconds, or minutes – that timeless space when she could no longer touch the bottom of the sea – Wilfred pulled her forward. When everything around her was water, when she no longer knew which way to find air, against the endless waves was the hard grip of Wilfred’s fingers. He had had his hand locked on to her body. Looking down she saw an imprint, an emerging bruise on her skin from his four fingers and thumb, a mark of Wilfred’s commitment to her. Wilfred, noticing it, put his hand gently over the darkening skin. He had held on. Wilfred enfolded her, unafraid, then pulled her even closer.

They were alive, they were both alive, he thought. And that was all that would ever matter to him again.

‘Come here,’ he said, that’s all, but the words were spoken with such openness that Flora could feel the warmth within them. No, they weren’t married and yes, Wilfred was married to someone else. They lay down on their sides, Flora with her arms folded across her chest. The earth was cool beneath them and the air very slightly chilly in the dusky cottage.

‘There,’ Wilfred said. After a while when they had both relaxed a little, he had pulled her arm away from her front and placed it around his back. ‘There, there, there,’ one simple word which he repeated as he held her, a word full of comfort and solace.



Flora could hear the breeze in the birch trees outside their cottage. She was shaking visibly when she’d come out of the sea and been chilled on their furtive run from the beach to here, but now she was warm. She was wrapped in Wilfred’s arms; his body was much bigger than hers and it was warming her. She placed her hand in the thick hair of his bare chest and felt Wilfred’s heart beating. It was a strong, regular beat, well-paced – the beat of a heart that wanted to beat, wanted her to be alive.

‘There, there, there.’

They slept for the rest of the afternoon. Wilfred woke up, slightly uncomfortable. The flagstones underneath him were hard, and if the day hadn’t been so sweltering he would be chilled, but he had Flora in his arms and they were wrapped in the green tablecloth and he was warm. It was still light because midsummer was approaching and out of the low square window he could see a crescent of pale moon against a whiteish sky. He smoothed Flora’s hair away from her face where it had fallen and she stirred. She snuggled into him and he saw the lattice on her cheek from where she had lain against the linen and he felt her breath against his neck.

After a few minutes, he noticed her eyes open and that she was looking at him. He smiled and pulled her to him. He kissed her neck gently and ruffled her hair. She took the tablecloth and pulled it over them, making sure it covered Wilfred too.

‘Tell me,’ she whispered to him. She hadn’t heard from him over the last few weeks and had started to wonder what was happening. Wilfred raised an eyebrow and smiled in a resigned way. He felt the curve of her breasts against his chest.

‘Well …’ he said, then: ‘Well, it wasn’t …’ Then he added, ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

‘Tell me from the beginning,’ she said, knowing he was lost in the maze of his own life. ‘How did it begin?’

‘Well …’ Where to begin? ‘I am married to Grace Reece, Doctor Reece of Narberth’s daughter.’ He saw Flora’s eyes close in a slow blink, then open again.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Three weeks.’

Wilfred suddenly felt his tongue, which had been tense and swollen in his mouth, begin to say the words that had been locked inside him.

‘I was foolish. So foolish.’ He tried to put into order all that had happened. ‘I was sweet on her and I proposed, out of the blue. Just said it, like that, stupidly. Then she said yes. But I told her, I told her plain as day that I didn’t want to get married. I didn’t mean it when I proposed. And that was that. Then her father came and told me I was marrying her. She’s expecting.’ He felt Flora flinch in his arms.

‘No. No. It’s not like that. I didn’t know. She wasn’t expecting when I proposed – or perhaps she was. But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t anything to do with me. And her father and her mother, ruddy Mrs Reece – everybody thinks it’s me because I was her fiancé, and it isn’t, and the only person who knows it wasn’t me is me. And Grace. And now you.’

As all the words poured out, Wilfred felt his mind and body unwind, as if he had been clockwork, wound up so tightly that he might have popped and unravelled with a ping and a clatter of metal cogs and wheels. Now it was as if he was allowed to uncoil and express himself.

‘I haven’t even seen a woman naked, not a real, live one. I had never even kissed a woman before, never mind had sexual relations. I was once sweet on her at a picnic, that’s all.’ He paused and stroked Flora’s hair. ‘If I told everyone it wasn’t me, no one would believe me because I was her fiancé for a few weeks. It would have to be me, but they would be wrong. It wasn’t me and I don’t know who it was. I’ve racked my brains but it must be someone because Grace is hardly the Virgin Mary and Narberth isn’t Bethlehem.’

Wilfred reached out and leaned over Flora. He could feel she was alert and listening intently, like a deer aware of her surroundings.

‘So I went to the wedding in the register office, and I’ve done so many funerals and buried so many people, and that day felt more like a funeral than any funeral I’ve ever been to. I felt as if I was burying myself alive and no one was noticing.

‘And there’s my da … My ma died four days after I was born and my da brought me up. And if I hadn’t married Grace I would have had to leave Narberth, because no one would have let me bury their next-of-kin if they thought I’d left Grace in the lurch and abandoned a baby. And for how many years would they remember what I’d done? I’d have no work and I wouldn’t be able to care for my da. It’s because of my da. I am his world and we are everything to each other, and if I left Narberth, what would happen to him? Who would look after him? He needs me and I need him.’ He looked into Flora’s brown eyes. ‘And where would I go? I thought of the Army but I don’t want to fight or kill. I don’t want to kill people; I only want to bury them. And I couldn’t leave Narberth because my da is here and my da will never leave Narberth because my ma is here, buried in the graveyard. And my da sits with my ma every day. No, I couldn’t leave, not after all my da is to me. Not ever.’

He pulled Flora to him and rubbed her along the length of her back.

‘And if I didn’t marry her and I stayed in Narberth, no woman would ever marry me. What woman would marry a man who they thought had left their child? What woman would love a man who had been so cruel?’ Wilfred buried his face into the thickness of Flora’s hair.

Wilfred, saying it all for the first time, realized that he had thought his life was his own, but it wasn’t; he knew now that it belonged as well to his da and to the people of Narberth, and by loving his father and by living in Narberth, his life belonged, in part, to them.

Wilfred could feel the sweat trickling from his forehead as he spoke, seeping out from under his arms and damp on the hair on his chest. Flora was absolutely still in his arms; it was as if she was absorbing Wilfred’s words, and he could feel she was utterly attentive.

‘So it was because I was bullied and panicked, and because I love my da and because I fancied a woman once at a picnic. And because she was expecting, and because I was stupid and unlucky. And then I met you.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then your da … your da … it was your father and he’d passed away and I buried him and I liked you from those first few moments, when you were beautiful and sad and elegant, and I thought you looked like a deer, a graceful, vulnerable, startled deer and I wanted you, this, here, for ever.’ Wilfred heard Flora breathe in.

‘I planned to take you for tea, and when your mam said no, I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to think. Then I got your postcard – only I didn’t know it was from you, and I came here and it was you.’

There. It was said. He was spent. The truth was between them like a cloth laid out – she would do with it as she would. He had spoken the truth and he could do no other. Suddenly a gasp escaped from him and the muscles of his face crumpled. Wilfred cried – loud, jerky sobs that wrenched the silence of the cottage. He cried in an unpractised way, as if he didn’t know how to cry, and Flora held him in his gaucheness.

When Wilfred’s crying had subsided, Flora pulled back.

‘Shall I tell you?’ she asked.

‘About yourself?’

She nodded.

‘Yes,’ Wilfred said. This was what he wanted, the truth of her.

‘Well, there was Albert and we were engaged and I loved him like it’s possible to love when your heart hasn’t been broken. But it was the war and he went … and he never came back. When I saw the telegram, it felt as if a bomb had exploded in my heart. Sometimes I think I died with him at the Battle of the Sambre as he went over the trench. And for a long while, I wanted to die with him. But there were years of life without Albert, numb, flat years where all I wanted was the life I’d thought I was going to have with him. Other men came along but I couldn’t love them because my heart was too fractured; there wasn’t enough of it left to love. Then my father, like that, gone. Nothing is as sudden as death.

‘At the funeral it seemed that you knew what to do in the face of death, knew almost how to organize and command it, how to cope with it and still breathe and walk and talk. I had only known how to die when death came near. But you were businesslike about mortality and it was an answer.’

She covered herself in the tablecloth.

‘At the funeral I felt your warmth for me and it melted something deep inside me that had frozen, and when my mam said I couldn’t have tea with you, I knew that was my life now and that it belonged to me, and that I want to live it before I die, not spend it grieving.

‘And there was something else.’ She smoothed her hair away from her eyes. ‘When I saw my father laid out in his coffin, he looked perfect and dead. His skin was cool and even, his face set peacefully, not strained. And he was lying so still in an immaculate white shroud. He was perfect: perfectly still, perfectly composed, and perfectly serene. I realized then, that the only thing in the world that is perfect is death. Life is like this, here, now – not perfect, not still, not calm, not over. Like us. So I opened up, I reached out, I sent the postcard, and you came and you’re married. And I …’

She didn’t finish the sentence but Wilfred sensed she wanted to say something else.

‘And I want to be here with you,’ she added. Wilfred put his hand to Flora’s face, stroked her cheek and took a piece of grass from her hair.

There was a peace between them born of release, a silence without secrets. The moon was reflecting its pure light on to the cove. Wilfred looked over Flora’s shoulder and out of the window, and saw that the sky had darkened somewhat and the stars were emerging, bright and far away, peppering the night with their beads of light. The wind moved in the trees and bats swished across the sky. The tablecloth they were wrapped in was muddy, stained with earth, damp from tears and warmed by their sunburned skin. Wilfred put a hand to Flora’s narrow shoulder.

‘What will you do?’ Flora asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

Wilfred and Flora walked silently from the cove through fields of green wheat, Wilfred carrying his bike, to the low hedge at the back of White Hook. At the bottom of the garden Wilfred picked Flora up in his arms and lifted her over the hawthorn. They parted silently. Wilfred went to kiss her on the lips but Flora turned her face away.



There was a light on in the house, Flora saw – her mam was still up and waiting for her. It was past midnight and her mam must have feared the worst. For the last few weeks Flora had told her she was going for a bicycle ride when she had been cycling to the cove most days to take photographs but then she hadn’t returned. Night had come. It was dark and silent by the time Flora pushed open the door and walked through the porch into the kitchen.

Her mam was at the round kitchen table, a lamp burning intensely beside her, sitting mutely, waiting modestly. The fire was low and a breeze was disturbing the green curtains hanging at the kitchen window. Flora stayed still for a few seconds and then she walked across the floor, sat down on the slate tiles, put her head on her mam’s knees and cried.

Her mam sat upright, as she had been taught to do in her childhood, and put her now weathered hand on her daughter’s head while Flora wept. Mrs Edwards was mature enough to say nothing. She didn’t ask where her daughter’s clothes were, or why she was in her undergarments, nor why she was wearing the old green tablecloth across her shoulders – the one from her own wedding day almost thirty years ago. She saw the sizeable bruise on Flora’s wrist, which must surely be hurting. It looked like fingerprints, but how had she come to get a bruise like that? Her daughter had been somewhere – she didn’t know where – and had returned bruised, almost naked and alone in the early hours. Her daughter had returned, her mam acknowledged, but it was as if she had left for good. A moth flew into the lamp, beating its wings against the glass, threatening to burn itself.

Flora’s mam knew that something had happened – something profound, perhaps even violent – but she sensed it was best not to ask; sensed that one question, just one, would make her daughter get up and walk away, not merely upstairs to her bed, but to walk away inside herself and never open up to her again.

Earlier tonight, sitting at the pine table, Mrs Melbourne Edwards had felt utter terror that she had lost her daughter as well as her husband, both within the tiny span of a few days. She had sat alone in the family home without her family and felt as if winter had come for ever. Her daughter had gone into the day and she had thought she would never return. Something had happened: her daughter was different, that was plain. Her daughter held something new, unsaid, something unsayable within her, something she would never tell her mam, and something her mam knew she must never ask about. So they sat there until Flora, spent with crying, took her head from her mam’s lap, lay down on the slate floor by her mam’s feet, curled up and fell into an exhausted sleep.



It was well past midnight when Wilfred left Flora and began cycling back down the silent lanes towards Narberth. When he was just past the turning at Peter’s Finger he heard a car engine approaching so he pushed through the hedge beside the road, disturbing a sett of bustling badgers, and lay low in a muddy cornfield until the car passed. It was nearing one o’clock when he arrived at Narberth. Instead of cycling down the High Street he trundled his bike through the cow fields encircling the town and then sprinted down Church Street, into Water Street and straight through the back door. That way he had been able to get home, a near-naked cyclist in only his underwear, without anyone seeing him.

His da was in bed, wouldn’t have waited up for Wilfred, thinking he would be staying at Dr Reece’s, where he was supposed to live now. But no. Wilfred was back in his bedroom and there was his bed. It was with a sense of relief and exhaustion that he took off his tattered underpants, got in between the crumpled sheets and found the worn, almost threadbare, patch where his feet rested on the flannelette. This was Wilfred’s own bed where he slept on his back and spread himself out. He hadn’t extended his limbs in bed like this, flexed his feet, tossed or turned for many nights. It is good to feel free in bed, Wilfred thought: this is my bed and this is my home.

He could hear his da harrumphing from next door. His da always snored easily and mightily, often waking Wilfred up.

‘Shut up, Da!’ he’d shout, banging on the stone wall between the two rooms. ‘Stop snoring!’

‘Eh?’ his father would grunt. ‘I’m not snoring. I don’t snore,’ he’d retort, seemingly awake but still wrapped in sleep.

As much as his da’s constant snoring had woken him through the nights when Wilfred was young, it had also reassured him and, until he got married, it was all he knew of the presence of another in the night. Lying awake in the nights of his childhood and youth, frustrated by the snoring, a pillow over his head to muffle the noise, he was also reassured, thinking, It is the night, but my da is here.