Langarrow
By Andy Oldfield
Published by Andy Oldfield at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Andy Oldfield
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotation in a review. The right of Andy Oldfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Langarrow
I AM the sound of shifting shingle banks, she dreams in the stillness between storms, green eyes closed against the sea-damp sand. Beneath the beach, I sleep while gentle winds blow. When the wild winds and waves blast the sand from my nose and mouth, I sit up and wake. My eyes open and I carry on looking for my mother.
Sometimes I think it has been so long since I lost her that I will not recognize her when I see her again. But I will keep on looking until the sun and the moon die, the cliffs are blown away, and the sea and land are no more.
I will find her, Greeneyes sighs in her troubled sleep.
* * *
LAUREN IS sitting in the dunes looking at an almost empty beach. Her hound lopes excitedly across the sand, chasing gulls and crows. Lauren feels empty inside. The seafront hotel’s windows are dark. The holiday-makers have left Perranporth, gone home with happy memories. There is no light in Lauren’s eyes. Her mother has died, leaving many memories and grief.
Far out at sea, a storm is coming. Lauren watches the sky and ocean dance angrily on the horizon. She feels the chilly wind grow stronger on her forehead. Her straight blonde hair flies behind her like so many kite strings. Good, she thinks, hard rain and icy gales will breathe fresh life into lungs and soul.
* * *
Lauren’s name spills from Martin’s lips as he cradles the head of a woman whose name he has temporarily forgotten.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ she mutters, pushing him away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. He pauses an instant too long before recalling her name ‘… Ali.’
‘Jesus,’ she fumes.
‘I don’t know why I called out her name,’ he says.
He hasn’t seen Lauren for years. Not since college. But he has dreamt of her, often. And since the postcard arrived he has been fantasizing about her too, wishing that he and Lauren had done what they did not do five years before.
Martin listens to Ali shouting poison about him. He watches as she slams the door and walks out of his life.
He tells himself that he isn’t bothered. He tells himself that he has already decided to travel hundreds of miles from the sea-marshes of Essex to the granite and sand of the far southwest. He tells himself that Lauren needs him.
He reaches under the bed and pulls out the postcard addressed to him. A white gull flying in a bright blue sky decorates the front of the card. A yellow flag bearing the legend ‘Welcome to Cornwall’ is printed under the bird. He turns the card over. In red lipstick there is a smiley face with a down-turned mouth.
He smiles. Lauren never was one to waste words. Five years ago, when he asked her whether their relationship was Platonic, she answered
