Oh George, there’s another one of those campervans outside the window again. I know how you hate them. Blocking out the view of the sunrise. Hiding us from the sea. I’ve a good mind to go out and give ’em a piece of my mind. Great hunkering lumps of steel. They have no right to be allowed. Mary finishes opening up the curtains and worries away with a small damp cloth at some debris an insect seems to have left behind. Kettle boiled, cooker on and a short while later she takes out a tray of breakfast and places it on an old cast-iron and terracotta table, midway between front door and garden gate; the centre piece of her seaside patio. She wipes the chairs and arranges the table. A brightly striped seaside linen table cloth and a posy of daisies in a small white vase.
Out again, comes a call from over the fence. – Yes cries Mary, Making the best of it while we can. Summer never seems to last long. And when the weather does come, you are plagued with mosquitoes. While flinging one arm in the direction of the campervan parked just beyond her gate. Mary notices a hold-all and a couple of cardboard cartons. Going away Maureen? – Oh, just to my sister’s place for a couple of days. Mum and dad are coming to visit so we thought we’d all get together for the weekend. – Oh how lovely. It’s aways nice to get together with family. How’s your dad doin’ now, any better? – Oh much Mary, they ‘ave ‘im on a new drug and it seems to be workin’ wonders. – Grand. Give ’em all our best wishes. – Will do Mary. See you in a couple of days.
Mary returns to her breakfast, a brief conversation with George, and opens a book. The chapters glide by, the tide visits, the gleeful shouts of kids on holiday subside, and the evening and night pass by.
It’s morning of the following weekend, and a small spider, comfortable in an upper corner of the window has clearly spent the early hours weaving and casting a delicate web. It scurries to conceal itself in its corner as the tread of Mary’s feet announce her arrival at the window. She opens the curtain. *It’s still there, George. Her shoulders slump. A sharp intake of breath and a long sigh. There are so many of them now, all up and down the strand. The Council should do something about it, it’s not fair. This is our home, our sea. I know how you hate it, George. She drags forcefully at the curtain and fails to notice the spider or its web.
She opens the front door. Better let the day in. Then I’ll get breakfast as usual. – Alexa, give me some music. Modern music spills from a smart speaker on a mantlepiece. No No NO. Alexa stop the music. The music ends abruptly. Mary laughs and shakes her head. Great present George, but you really needed to set it up properly. Alexa play Local FM. – Soothing Sounds from Seaside FM, announces a voice from the speaker. Better. Mary mumbles, and hums and sings. She works seamlessly, as breakfast begins to appear. Tea and toasted tea cakes. I know she says, extravagant, but it’s the weekend. And weekend is cleaning. After a lifetime as a working wife, it’s a habit she just can’t break. Work in the week, housework at the weekend. Afternoon arrives with dusting and vacuuming in the front room. It is rhythmically punctuated by glances through the window and scowls toward the campervan. Damned ugly things. Shouldn’t be allowed. And the litany repeated. I’m gonna have to do something, have to do something Mary declared.
The doorbell rings. Followed by a couple of knocks. She looks up and through the window. Who in the world could that be…. She switches off the vacuum, stows the handle and heads for the door. It’s still open. A stranger. A man, tall, but a little casual. Not exactly a holiday maker, but not a door to door salesman either. He has a kettle in his hand. An ordinary hot water kettle. The council workers working on the sea defences used to come and ask for boiling water for their tea-break, but that was decades ago. Besides, he’s got creases in his trousers, his brogues are highly polished and that’s definitely not a council workman’s shirt. He looks anxious, she thinks. Ah well, if he’s the one that’s anxious, maybe I don’t need to be. – Yes can I help you? – Oh please, he almost coughs it out. Yes, enquires Mary. – I’ve run out of gas. She repeats him, You’ve run out of gas. But this, more as a statement than a query. Well this is not a shop, I don’t sell it here. His face turns pale, she traces the contours, she recognizes the anguish. He begins to turn away. Well what is it you are looking for. She’s surprised by the tone of her own demand. She tries to recover it and offers a smile. It works. He stops his turn and looks towards her. He raises his left arm, kettle in his hand. Water, hot water. – Mary almost laughs, his words sound just like a kettle when it’s full of too much boiling water and it just won’t pour. Oh, give it here to me. I’ll pop it on the stove. She takes it from him and starts to laugh. Sure, you didn’t need to be bringing your own water at all, I would have given you some.
She beckons him to follow her into the kitchen and she places the kettle on the stove. Take the weight off your legs. She points at an unpolished beach chair. You should be comfortable in that, my George made it. Would you like a cuppa whilst you wait. – No, I shouldn’t trouble… – Well you are going to get one, I’m ready for my afternoon cuppa anyway. Mary busies herself tidying away the cleaning tools, arranging the table and making the tea. The man sits quietly in the unpolished beach chair. He seems to be a man practiced at waiting, like something has silenced him without warning, and the shock is slowly settling; so now all he can do is wait. In contrast Mary’s cycling back and forth between the small domestic tasks echoes a train building up a head of steam. And I suppose that’s your monstrosity out there is it? She points through the open door down the hallway, out through the front door, directly at the campervan. He half raises himself from the chair to lean and peer toward the van. Yes, yes I’m afraid it is. My wife and I bought it just under a couple of years ago. It’s our retirement treat.
She looks directly at him. It’s a damned monstrosity, is what it is. A huge hunkering piece of metal spoiling the morning sun and blocking the view of the sea. You have no right to be allowed. What were you thinking? Did you think we were a factory and the view didn’t matter? Ah, you weren’t thinking at all… thoughtless. It has the whole week spoiled on us.
Still staring at him, she blinked. He was struggling to speak. Dazed, he couldn’t articulate. I, I. He began. Well you should think more. Softly this time, and passes him a mug for his tea, as she interogates herself. What’s wrong with him, he’s dazed – I wasn’t that nasty. –So you bought the campervan when you retired? Where have you been with it? There’s lots of gorgeous spots along this coast. George and I were avid cyclists when we were younger. Avid. Cycled all up and down this area. Sunday picnics and what not, you know the kind of thing. – Yes, yes, we would do the same. We had a tandem and a bit of picnic basket. It was great, sometimes on our own, sometimes with the club. Sundays were great back then. – Yes, they were echoed Mary, adding If we weren’t cycling, we all used to play cricket or rounders on the beach. Great times.
So where’s your wife now? Do you want to fetch her, I’ll get another cuppa and some biscuits and we can chat. She watched the colour drain from his face and the contours of anguish return. She, she’s not travelling with me now. His hands work their way around the mug. Mary watches, caught up in his demeanour; grip intense, knuckles white. He lifts the mug towards his mouth. And rotates the handle away from him, slowly as he gazes into the drink, looking, for something. We only ever came here. This spot was our first holiday in the van, last year. Oh we had a fabulous time. Revisiting all those old cycling haunts, and finding new ones, restaurants, café’s, coastline walks. It was really really great.
Mary presses her question. So where is she now then, if you had such a good time? The contours grew deeper, the skin grew paler, the twinkle left his eyes as drops began easing slowly from them. It was. it was just after. Another stall, a splutter, a stutter and then. She died. Silence. A moment passed. Neither moved, neither spoke. So I thought I’d sell the van, but one, one last trip here, just to remember. Mary, without moving, without breathing, watched him grind to a halt. The tears and the shaking in full flow now.
I’m sorry about the view… She put her arms around him in the chair. Hush now, hush she whispered, there is no need to be bothered about such things now. Slowly recovered. I must be going, I have promises to keep. – Are you alright to drive? Do you know where it is you are going? – Yes, Yes I’ll be fine… Thankyou so much for your hospitality and again my sincere apologies. – Forget it, sure I mean it. She ushered him gently through the door and watched as he packed away and regained his composure until he was sitting ready to drive. Mary waived him away. She stood at the gate as the tide made its visit. Eventually she returned into the house and closed the front door.
Crossing the front room to the mantle piece, her hand extended forwards past the smart speaker which had now fallen silent, and took hold of a leather frame with the photo of a man, Oh George.
___
Further reading
A a note from The Essayists Notebook https://esy.ie/the-shared-landscape-of-grief
including Temporal Friction and the Lived Experience of Governance