Look at a map of the West Coast, and if you observe closely, you will see a narrow peninsular running out. It is about four kilometres in length and one kilometre wide. In fact, this peninsular is all but an island. At high tide, it is cut off from the mainland huddle of houses with their combined shop and post office and the rather shabby pub.
A strip of sand called locally "The Strand" connects the island to the mainland at low tide, and it is this semi-isolation that perhaps inspired its name, Forlorn Point.
The peninsular, or as I shall now call it, the island, inclines up from The Strand and thrusting out into the ocean it rises until it terminates in high cliffs against which the ocean rollers come crashing in. The soil on the island is poor and only some coarse grass; bushes and sparse wind blasted trees survive.
Over the decades, there have been some attempts to settle on the island, none of which succeeded. Sheep and goats have been grazed on it, but now only a few feral goats remain.
Until recently there were two inhabitants of the island, Janice and Stuart Walker. There are the remains of three cottages, built long ago by optimistic would-be settlers. Two have fallen into ruins. The one that still retained some semblance of livability was taken over by Janice and Stuart, and after some work was done on the place, it had the appearance at least of being habitable, and although there was no electricity, bottled gas replaced the old kerosene lighting and cooking facilities.
The work was done partly by a professional builder, and partly by Janice. Stuart played no part because he was a wheelchair bound cripple, yet it had been he who had insisted on moving to Forlorn Point.
Eight months after they were married Stuart had been involved in an appalling road accident. Months in hospital were followed by depression that translated itself into bitter hatred. Stuart could think only of escaping from society, and he remembered visiting Forlorn Point as a child. Nothing would do but they should go and live there.
Janice was in despair. A trained nurse, she understood that Stuart would be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. He would always need care, and going to the island would leave that care entirely up to her.
She battled to get Stuart to accept psychiatric help, to no avail. She thought of leaving him, but a tender conscience prevailed, and finally she wearily agreed that they should go to the island.
She was still a young woman, and there were no children and no hope of any, as Stuart was now quite incapable of sexual activity. Among the other causes of despair for Janice, this absence of sexual activity was yet another bitter blow for her.
If Stuart had wanted to choose a place most inconvenient for a wheel chair, he could hardly have done better than Forlorn Point. They included as part of the renovation work, some paving round the cottage, but beyond that the going was rough and Stuart could hardly manipulate his wheelchair unaided. Even with Janice's help it was a struggle.
Once settled on Forlorn Point it became even more difficult for Janice to leave Stuart, since he was now more dependent on her than ever. Janice herself was depressed at the prospect of years on the island.
Relations between Janice and Stuart became increasingly acrimonious, as Janice now became the target of Stuart's bitterness and sarcasm. It was almost as if she was to blame for the accident that had robbed him of his physical powers.
He taunted her about her sexual needs; "Like a good fuck, wouldn't you? Why not go over to the pub and get one of the lad's to screw you, you horny bitch. Or perhaps you prefer a bit of self-abuse? Rub your cunt in bed at night, do you?"
Janice understood that this abuse arose from Stuart's despair at his own sexual impotence, but it was none the less hard to take, especially as there was truth in what Stuart said. Of course, she wanted a healthy sex life, and there was little likelihood of that living on the island, and even if she had wanted one of the men on the mainland, they were all married, and the community too small for anything to be hidden.
From the time they moved to Forlorn Point, Stuart had been island bound. Janice did get away occasionally to shop in the nearest town. She kept a car garaged on the mainland, and would time her trips to coincide with low tide. These trips were not drawn-out, because Stuart could not be left untended for long, and she must not be caught by a rising tide.
So two years dragged by with Janice growing ever more lonely and miserable, and Stuart more verbally violent. Everything requiring physical effort had to be done by Janice. She endevoured to make a vegetable garden in the poor soil, looked after the few chickens they had and mended what needed mending. It was a life of boredom and drudgery, with few visitors to break the monotony.
During the time of the Spring high tides, one unexpected visitor did arrive. The tides were being driven by gale force winds, and just before dark Janice was going round the cottage, the wind howling about her, making sure the shutters were secure. As she struggled with one shutter a voice behind her said, "Excuse me."
Janice whirled round to be confronted by a tall, powerfully built man about forty years of age. He was wearing strong corduroy trousers, a sturdy raincoat and had a rucksack on his back. In his hand, he carried a small canvas bag.
Janice felt her heart thump, and she stammered out, "What do you want?"
"I'm sorry if I startled you," the man said in a pleasant baritone voice, "but I wonder if you could help me? I've misjudged the tide and I won't be able to get back to the mainland for hours. Could you give me somewhere to sleep?"
Janice realised that the Spring tide, driven by the gale, would have covered The Strand joining the island to the mainland sooner than normal. She felt a bit sorry for the man and said, "You'd better come in."
The inside of the cottage, never very bright, was now almost dark as the evening light outside faded. Stuart sat in his wheel chair by the table leafing dismally through a magazine. He looked up as they entered, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Who's this?" he snapped.
"This is Mr.er…I'm sorry, I don't know your name," said Janice as she lit the gaslight.
"Ellis," replied the man, "Kent Ellis."
"I'm Janice Walker, and this is my husband, Stuart," and turning to Stuart she went on, "Mr. Ellis has been cut off from the mainland by the tide, and wonders if we could give him somewhere to sleep for the night."
"Bit bloody careless, aren't you," snapped Stuart.
Kent gave a sheepish grin and said, "Yes, I suppose I am."
With the gaslight lit, Janice was able to observe their visitor more closely. His head seemed to almost touch the low ceiling of the cottage. His shoulders indicated a powerful physique, and his face showed signs of healthy outdoor living. He could not be called handsome, but he had a pleasant, cheerful face, with widely spaced dark brown eyes.
Kent was doing his own observing, and saw a dark haired, scowling figure crouching in his wheelchair. The venom of the man was almost palpable, and caused Kent to wonder what had happened to bring about such acerbity. Looking at Janice, he further wondered how two such people had got together.
In Janice he saw what people describe as, "A fine figure of a woman." She did not seem to him to be either beautiful or pretty, and he chose "handsome" as the best description. She had a heart shaped face with strange grey eyes that seemed to have a look of tired entreaty about them. Her mouth was full lipped and looked as if it would make the sun shine when she smiled. He suspected she had not smiled for some time.
She was tall for a woman, being some five feet ten inches. Apart form this, the "fine figure" description arose mainly from her breasts.
In her teenage years, Janice had been very self-conscious about her breasts. They were large – one could almost say very large, and they were firm. At times she almost hated them and disliked the boys who tried to fondle them during after-school groping sessions on the way home.
