The White Tissue

His brow furrowed as he thought of the irritating prattle that went on in the
staff room and corridors of the secondary school where he taught history.
The eternally repeated new jokes of the students and the constant
busyness of young teachers with too much energy buzzed around him like
flies. He preferred the silence of the night, his clean kitchen and his
escapes to the countryside. It was his deep fascination with other life forms
that constantly invigorated his spirit. The sight of a flock of birds feeding on
winter berries and the vulnerability of a flower were the things that filled
his heart with wonder. He was brought to tears by the sight of a valley in
the soft light of dawn and the mystery of the workings of a wasps nest. This
was life that didnt need the self-importance of people and their overheated, over-important, over-rated lives. Nature was above and beyond our
trivial cares and it was only in nature where he felt whole.
As often as he could he left suburbia with its concrete and order and went
to the countryside. He had a list of walks that always supplied the joy he
was seeking. The walk he had chosen today was a long held favourite that
was varied and unfailingly interesting. After a strained week of exams,
tension and working late he was counting on it to lead him to calmer
waters.
The car parking area was empty when he arrived, which was surprising.
Normally there would be at least half a dozen other walkers putting on
boots and allowing their dogs to run around and pester others. He inspected
the fresh mud but it was clear of any footprints or impressions of car tyres.
No one had been and gone today and the track leading to the car park was
clear for as far as he could see. In fact he had noticed that the roads
leading out of town were quiet too. How unusual! "Must be a big football
match," he thought. Normally this would have cheered him greatly but
today he was surprised to find he was a little disappointed. Not that he
wanted to walk with anyone, or even have a conversation, but he would
have liked to have heard a cheery greeting from a fellow appreciator of the
outdoors.
He picked up his small rucksack that contained his sandwiches. His work
colleagues often commented on his routines that never changed. No,
commented was not the right word, made fun of was more like it; not that
it worried him any longer. Cheese sandwiches ah! Must be Monday! With
little human influence in his life outside the challenges of teaching history,
it was difficult to be adventurous with food. People with wives or those who
spent too much time watching cooking on the television could have the
luxury of an exciting lunch box. But that is not what life is about.
This favourite walk took most of the day and wound through woodland,
coast path, a beach and some fields. It starts with a long stroll through
beech woodland. He climbed over the stile and set off. Even on overcast
days these beautiful and airy woods evoked a sense of well being which is
hard to experience anywhere else. He remembered reading somewhere in a

magazine that the Japanese have a phrase for the sense of peace and
harmony found in woodlands, shinrin-yoku or wood-air bathing, strange
the things you remember. The article described the sensation of wallowing
in the chemicals given out by ancient trees, allowing them to wash over and
through your body bringing forth peaceful thoughts and a calm disposition.
He was sure that the explanation about chemicals was modern, New Age
hocus-pocus, but the essence of those words was real, whatever the reason.
Ancient wisdom rarely faltered. It was exactly how he felt about this place.
But today those chemicals, if they were exuding at all, hardly dampened the
growing feelings of irritation and disquiet.
A dull, heavy sky and a clammy heat combined to make him feel
uncomfortable. Sweat pricked through his skin and his clothes cloyed. He
thought about turning back but decided to press on, no doubt it would get
better.
No dancing, dappled light lit the path, no shadows teased his eyes; not even
a bird trilled in delight somewhere far away; this was not a day for play. A
sudden scurrying in the undergrowth momentarily distracted him, but
whatever it was fled into the shadows and was gone, leaving him alone.
He knew the path ended at a fence where a wooden stile led onto a stretch
of coast. He yearned to get there and to a vista across the sea; to feel the
fresh sea breeze on his face. The trees had become menacingly oppressive
with each step. He could barely bring himself to admit it but a growing
sense of panic was beginning to take hold as he imagined the branches
reaching down, their hard twigs scratching his face and the saw-toothed
leaves covering his mouth. Stupid, childish thoughts! He hurried on,
occasionally glancing rapidly behind him, and anger at his inability to lift
himself from this deepening mood grew stronger.
The woodland ended abruptly at the fence and for a few seconds he rested
at the wooden stile before climbing over, his hands held onto the upright
posts as though their man-made nature was vital to restoring his balance.
The rounded ends were polished through years of use. He gently stroked the
smooth surface, reassured by their message of solidity and the continuity of
human endeavour. Calmer, he climbed over and the menace of the
woodland began to fade, even so he was left with a slight feeling of nausea
and his heart was beating a little too strongly.
He looked up to the path ahead and his shoulders drooped as he realised he
would not see the sea for another half a mile. How could he have forgotten
the high, dense hedge that hemmed in the narrow path, blocking the view
of the sea? On other days he loved this short stretch of the track. The
tangled vegetation is usually an endless source of treasures waiting to be
found. A darting butterfly here, a focused bumblebee there and a
tantalising song of an unidentified bird that was difficult to glimpse. Often
this section could take two hours of watching, searching, listening,
sketching. But today it was a resolute and impenetrable wall. No life stirred
in its depths, or at least nothing that he was capable of finding. He pressed

on.
The coast path gradually led down to the beach and, mercifully, the hedge
lowered and petered out. At last he could see the sea. It was calm and
because of the heaviness of the weather the sea bled into the sky on the
horizon. The lack of refreshing breeze was frustrating, but at least he could
see into the distance and for a long while he stared at the vastness of the
dark grey-green water that swayed gently to and fro, but lacking its normal
energy. Occasionally, white gulls soared in the distance on their way to
unknown places; otherwise it was an empty scene. He turned back to the
path to look at the short stretch of beach ahead, only 200 metres in length
at most and dissected by a small stream that trickled onto the sand and
stones from the fields behind. The stream marked the point where the path
left the beach again and headed inland towards the meadows and farm
buildings perhaps a mile away. It was then he saw her for the first time.
A woman was walking parallel to the sea, picking her way across the
flattened pebbles. Two things struck him immediately as odd, the way she
was dressed and the direction in which she was heading. Her clothes seemed
to him to be more suited to the deck of a classy yacht, not a rather lonely
beach far from any moorings, and certainly a long way from what he
thought would be the right kind of setting. She was dressed in tight, white
jeans with a gold belt and a tight, white t-shirt that clung to her slim but
aging body. Her gold pumps were not designed for serious walking, they
were meant to be seen on clean wooden decks or polished stone floors.
What was she doing here? To be honest this beach wasnt attractive, it was
smelly because of the rotting seaweed that fringed the shoreline; a
wonderful habitat for sand hoppers, but a surprising choice for an
expensively dressed, middle-aged woman. Her dyed blonde hair fell around
her shoulders, but it was brittle and thin. He felt over-critical but couldnt
help thinking she had the look of someone who couldnt accept that the
glossiness of youth had passed. All this was summarised in a few seconds
and without seeing her face because she was walking away from him beyond
the stream and the coast path towards the far end of the beach where no
one ever seemed to go.
The sight of another person on this surprisingly gloomy walk immediately
cheered his spirits. On other days he would have actively avoided contact
but today he wanted to walk up to her, chat about the oppressive weather
and the lack of activity all around, which was highly unusual. Where was she
from? Did she know this area well? If she didnt mind him asking, was she
lost? Perhaps he could help show her the way? His pace quickened and his
mood began to lift. He watched her walking slowly away from him, in a
short time she would reach the cliffs at the far end of the beach and then
she would realise she had missed the footpath onto the fields. He knew the
cliffs were sandy and unstable, certainly too dangerous to climb, and so she
would have to walk back this way to the stream and perhaps they could
share the journey for while?
The track he was on led to a stile to climb over and onto the beach. He

often stood on the raised platform to look around. Many times he had seen
cormorants fishing just off shore and loved their snake-like necks and
dagger beaks and always marvelled at their dark bodies held low in the
water and how they dived from view in an instant; mini monsters fishing the
deep. For a few seconds he glanced out to sea, perhaps he could point them
out to the woman in white and tell her how throwing stones into the water
could draw them closer, but today they were hunting elsewhere. He
climbed over the stile and headed out across the beach, but suddenly he
stopped in total confusion. The woman had disappeared. How ridiculous! He
couldnt have imagined her, she was right there in front of him only a short
while ago. She couldnt have run back to the path, he would certainly have
noticed, and he knew the distant cliffs were un-scalable. So where was she?
There was absolutely no sign.
He walked quickly along the waters edge to where she had been only
moments before. Wet impressions of the soles of her shoes were still on
some of the flatter stones, but they stopped after a while and were rapidly
evaporating. He looked around for any sign but she had gone, simply
disappeared into thin air. In the distance something small and white stood
out against the grey stones, a fragment of hope.
He ran to the spot where the snowy paper handkerchief grew heavy and
formless on the wet, dark slabs of rock. It was quickly losing its structure
and submitting to the destructive power of water. The clawing hands of the
waves repeatedly tried to grasp it and take it out to sea, in a few moments
they would succeed and all traces of her would be gone. Despair swept over
him and he felt unbearably tired.
As the sea claimed the tissue and dragged it away he sank to the ground. All
he could do was wait for her to return, as she must. Nothing so real could go
forever, that wasnt the way of things. Yes, she would certainly come back,
he knew she would, it was just a matter of time. As the grasping waves
came closer he sank lower onto the beach. Time is all it would take, and
just like the sea and sky, time and anticipation merged, heavy and damp as
the air.