Lily

27th March 2017

David (my driver) was a delight. As we rolled out of the smoke of London and out into the country, a flow of chatter became easier with each mile he drove. In the hour and a half that we were in each other’s company, he had learned more about me than any man had in the past five years, and he listened. Just listened to me, ramble on and on, with a few interjectory questions to fully comprehend my blabber. It wasn’t until we reached my destination, that he truly spoke to me, he grabbed at my wrists, considered my eyes - so intensely I felt as though he was examining my soul - and all he uttered was, ‘look after yourself girly, those monsters that you carry will only grow if you allow them to.’ and with that he dropped my wrists.

Fumbling for the handle, I grabbed at my case, and lowered myself out of the taxi. I went to thank him but all that came out was garble, incomprehensible gibberish, and so I just stood there, attached with a pathetic waving hand. Even after he drove away, I stood staring at the spot where he’d been parked, stunned silent. A man who probably knew the inside of a pub urinal better than he knew his own home, had understood me better than any love interest that had sparked my fancy in the past five years. It really is true what they say – never judge a book, by their blue-collar cover.

Finally, able to shake myself from my trance, I inhaled the salty air of home. For the first time in years, I truly felt at ease for the minutest of seconds, the wind pierced my lungs and strangled the remaining heat of the taxi from my core. The mixture of salt and lingering tobacco, invaded my senses, drying my lips, and burning my nostrils. Until now, I had believed my attire to have been a slight comfort, in the blistering heat of the taxi, but stood looking out at the bitter stiffness of the shore, I realized that I was beyond unequipped to deal with the callus terrain of springtime on the British coast. Although Victorianesque romance cliché books would have you believe that the British springtime was only filled with light breezes that cooled the suns heat, whilst new-born farmlife hung at your feet, the reality was far too bitter to stomach. Winds so harsh and cool, that it felt like a steel knife slicing across your face, and burning your lungs to the point of nearly losing consciousness. Countless seabirds, swarming, poised for the attack upon unsuspecting chip shop patrons, whom after a busy week were beyond excited for their lukewarm delicase. Alas it was a futile attempt once the birds descended - if you managed to salvage your grub it would be ice cold after the long battle from the shop to your front door - and that was only if you managed to salvage them, often was the case that Hitchcock had been right to fear the birds.

So, as I stood in knee high flesh tone suspenders, a leather skirt that barely grazed the knee and a distressed Motley Crue T-shirt that clung to me, enhancing the on the larger scale breasts that I regrettably possessed, slit to below what normal people would have considered as acceptable cleavage, it became painstakingly transparent that I was a tourist in my own village. Although curvy, I was on the thinner side, and the afternoon air chilled the hollows of my bones. My naval length chocolate hair, wrapped around me like a scarf, the only occasion I was thankful upon my own indecisiveness when it came to its length. Comforted by its warmth, and the smell of vanilla that lingered from the taxi, I took my time to observe my surroundings. Glad for the lack of patrons, as I became consumed in my ever-narrowing world.

Bridgewater Bay was one of those summer tourist marvels. Brits young and old would travel to its shores, lay on towels in nothing but their under-garments; even though the sky was heavily clouded, and rain always loomed. They’d eat ice cream in below zero temperatures, and reminisce about countless repetitive summers of doing this time and again. There were those odd days that the sun would peek out and wash over you a glimmer of heat, which just managed to warm your toes. But, that was the beauty of it, people didn’t care whether the sun shined or not, they would have their summer holiday, regardless of the sun. Its rays weren’t necessary to create memories, they only needed each other, which is why it truly was a tourist marvel.

But now, with spring in bloom, and April showers on the horizon, the beach was dormant. Void of life and laughter, only the purr of the sea as its waves lolled up the sand, could be heard. The sky was as grey and lifeless as a corpse, with no hint of wavering. It was hypnotising. A sharp drop in temperature shook me out of my trance, grabbing once again for my suitcase, I knew where I needed to go. To my left the hill towered above me and swept in a sinister spiral, although it would take but twenty minutes to reach my destination, my hesitation came not at the trek before me, but what lay waiting when I arrived.