The Vanishing Point

It was not my idea to walk along the beach. I had suggested a stroll around the garden after dinner; it was not a good idea to walk near the coast this time of year. But Eleanor was insistent that a long walk was good for the digestion and anyway we all needed healthy exercise after being "bottled-up" indoors, hiding from the driving rain, reading novels, doing crosswords and idling our time away.

"Charles?", Eleanor said, looking over her shoulder. "Charles! Marie has forgotten her shawl, could you get it for me?", Eleanor smiled and raised her eyebrows.

"Of course", I said, "it has turned a little cool."

"You are right, it is a little fresh," Eleanor said. She turned to Marie and placed a comforting arm over her tense shoulders.

Taking my leave silently I walked back the way we had come, the low evening sun suddenly dazzling me. Looking down I saw our footprints in the dry sand. Besides the trail of small footprints were my own larger footprints but to one side, as if I had been stalking them.

I tried to walk over my footprints, but abandoned this, finding it easier to walk on the hard wet sand smoothed by the ebbing tide. My new footprints collapsed to wetness behind me.

No matter how I held it, I felt awkward carrying Marie's shawl. If I held it one hand the ends trailed in the sand. If I draped it over my arm it slipped off, unless I trapped it against my chest. This left my dark suit covered in fine white fibres. Yet the shawl was soft and delicate; comforting and warm over my arm. I marvelled at how something so insubstantial could be so warm.

They had not seen me, though I was so close I could hear their voices but not their words. They stopped suddenly. I stood there with the shawl clutched against my chest, not daring to be noticed, not wanting to be noticed.

Marie stood bareheaded, her bonnet held by its chin-strap, dangling unnoticed from her hand. She was staring at the undisturbed sand stretching out before her.

Eleanor turned elegantly towards Marie, to console, to listen, or to entreat? She gently touched Marie's arm and spoke to her - encouraging, comforting, or perhaps guiding. Eleanor's usual controlled elegance was betrayed by her other hand, formed into a tight fist resting on her hip.

A few raindrops started to fall; large, cold and wet. The wind picked up, blowing in from the sea, promising yet more rain. We all raised our faces and looked out to sea, towards the darkening squall. The curving line of the golden beach disappeared into a murky blueness.

Nick Luft

19 November 2005