This one has been a work in progress for a while, buried behind other projects.
I wasn't sure I would ever finish it, and perhaps I haven't as well as I could have. But I hate starting things and not finishing them, and Heather needed to tell her story.
W. ---
The mournful cries of the passing gulls seemed strangely out of place in the morning sunlight, silver on the distant waves. I sat on the weathered boulder I now thought of as mine, watching the stately waltz of the ferries as they rounded the headland and eased into the harbour below. The breeze carried the faint sound of the bells of Saint Margaret's up to my perch, and I sighed out the breath I'd been holding.
A gull glided past on the updraft, wings flicking in and out as he evaluated the chances I'd feed him. He banked and came back, then tucked his wings slightly and soared off downslope towards the distant beach, dismissing me.
I brushed a strand of hair back from my face, and the movement brought me back into the present.
Ten am. Another Tuesday, passing like all the others before it.
I pulled my jacket closed, then zipped it up. I took a last deep breath, then climbed down from my boulder and walked slowly back up to the parking lot.
Bonnie squatted where I'd left her; black and weathered silver, smelling slightly of petrol and chain lubricant. I ran my fingers lightly along the tank, remembering.
I pulled on my helmet, clinched the strap under my chin, and swung my right leg over the saddle. One or two attempts and she coughed to life. I let her idle as I settled myself. Then I kicked her into gear, gave her a small bit of throttle, and arced back out to reality.
--
Traffic was light, and I eased Bonnie gently down the winding road into town. Past the big traffic circle, past the hardware store. Past the new office park, then onto the B road back towards the hill; towards home. But first, my ritual called for one more stop.
I turned off into the Beachcomber's gravel driveway, and pulled up close to the door. No need to lock Bonnie here; not like down south where an unattended motorcycle would disappear before you could blink. I hung my helmet over a mirror and slipped inside. Janice had heard me coming, and was already brewing my cafe latte for me.
"Morning, Heather," she smiled.
"Hi, Janice."
"You been up at the overlook again, sweetie?"
"Yeah."
"Lovely morning for it. Feeling better?"
"I'm still breathing."
She reached out to gently squeeze my hand; I snatched it back, startled by the touch.
"Sorry," we both said, and I fumbled the pound and shrapnel onto the countertop. "Sorry," I repeated, softer. "I can't talk today." I couldn't meet her eyes; too scared of what I'd see there.
"You go ride some more, my girl. Go blow those shadows out your head. Just be careful, ok?"
"I will. Jan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
--
I sat on Bonnie's saddle, staring at my front door from the shade of the ash tree. Every minute I spent outside was a minute more I was behind on my contracts. But it was also a minute more away from my demons. If I had the choice I'd probably shutter the place and just leave. Leave here, leave the United Kingdom... go somewhere new, somewhere... free.
But I couldn't. Deadlines. Rent. Debt. Obligations weighing me down like a rock. Anchoring me to my life in some ways, perhaps. Such as it was.
I sighed, climbed down and pulled the cover over the Bonneville. Last night's dew still glittered on the grass; I drew unheeding brush-strokes through it as I slouched the middling distance to my door.
As always, the silence inside settled like fog around me. I hung the keys behind the door and turned on the radio to try to banish it. Then I lit a fresh candle beside the two photos and reflected quietly for a few moments.
For once I managed to work productively for a couple of hours, and I'd finished two small sets of documentation before I took my first break.
I made a cup of coffee and took it out back. I sat on the section of log he'd found; the one he'd planned to turn into a child's table and chairs. I sipped slowly, watching small breaths of wind gathering the wheat into undulating waves that slanted across the field.
Two crows gamed and circled above the distant treeline, and I watched them till they disappeared.
I went back inside to try to work some more.
--
Grief is the silent killer. Grief, that gaunt, sunken-eyed hag, squatting on your heart, day in and day out, never ceasing, without pity.
I knew the bitch all too well.
Our beautiful daughter, Kirsty, stillborn at seven months following a nightmare two-in-the-morning dash to the A&E when I realised she hadn't kicked in hours. A statistic, Ms McNaught. One in two hundred chance in the modern United Kingdom. Ten times more frequent than cot death. And her number had come up.
Weeks, then months had passed in dazed greyness. Peter had held us together; had kept me eating and talking and seeing a therapist despite my rage. And in time I'd started to heal; had been able to look at the ultrasound of her. I'd still cry, of course, but I'd still be standing afterwards.
Then the call. The call that had ended Heather McNaught and created me, this ghost drifting through the days. Waiting till it was my turn, too, to die.
It was sunny when we'd scattered Kirsty, and it had been sunny when I'd scattered Peter with her, up there, with the bay beneath us. I'd had no more tears to cry, and since that day I'd existed but no longer really lived.
So now I moved through this shuttered, dusty monument to the life and dreams I'd had, keeping it for the day they found me, took me, and scattered me up in the hills where my heart already was.
--
Twilight. I rubbed at my eyes and turned on the desk lamp. I'd managed to finish a large review, and rolled my shoulders as I leaned back into Peter's battered leather chair. A bowl of half-eaten salad pushed into the corner of the desk stood mute tribute to my lack of appetite. I'd gone from what Peter had once drunkenly labeled "voluptuous" to what I'd have called "famine victim" in earlier times - but food had no real savour for me any more. So I ate sparingly and drank mechanically - mostly wine, often something harder when it was darkest. Fuel for my body, not for my soul.
An owl hooted and I stood to refill my coffee mug.
I leaned against the worn kitchen counter, staring out at the Triumph under its cover. Peter had loved the bike, and I'd loved riding pillion behind him; my arms wrapped around him. When I'd emerged from my chrysalis following his death, I'd considered selling it. But instead I'd done my basic training and my license and had taken to riding it as a way to remember him. And little by little I'd found what peace there was that remained to me. Riding brought me closer to him and made the horror of the last years seem somehow less present, less important.
I heard the sound of a motorcycle - the roar of a large bike at full song, winding its way through the bends. Building to a scream as the rider exited each corner, then easing back down for the entry to the next.
I raised my coffee in silent benediction and wished him or her well.
--
Dappled sunlight woke me, and for a few blessed moments I lay there, feeling warm and safe. Then I remembered, breathed once, twice, and stood up. The smell of last night's vodka nauseated me, and I carried the tumbler to the kitchen to throw the dregs away.
I dealt with some emails from clients while I nursed a coffee. Then I watered my small herb garden and topped up the bird feeder. I pulled out some weeds, then stretched the kinks out of my back. I felt old; far older than my true age of twenty nine. I looked up, checking the weather, then stepped back inside. I stripped out of my pyjamas and pulled on some of my tattered underwear. My jeans, a long-sleeve cotton vest and my riding boots followed. I reached down, adjusting the chain so that Peter's ring wouldn't pinch my breasts. Then I grabbed my jacket, helmet and gloves, locked my door, and walked over to Bonnie.
Slowly, the wind and the road blew away the cobwebs. I amused myself by pushing the Bonneville through the curves; thinking of the biker I'd heard the previous night. It was fun for a while, and I felt myself grinning despite everything.
Eventually, of course, I found my way back to my lookout point. I parked, left my helmet and gloves on the bike, and wandered down to my boulder where I stood watching the wind dappling the surface of the ocean. Flecks of white showed here and there; the wind was building and it looked like a front was moving through.
