Alone

“The Incredible Machines of Thinkery” and “Sails on the Horizon” are written here on Substack by Linnhe - a writer, a film photographer, a ukulele player and a lover of all things sailing. As Linnhe’s writing is all fictional, so is “Alone” - our collaboration. Needless to say that Linnhe provided the text and I provided the photos. To complete the picture, we added a song at the end. Enjoy!

The advert read “Vintage wedding dress/gown.1930’s. Small size 10. Offers.”

I asked her to count out 200 in twenties. Hesitated.

”Offers” stinks of skanky-old-dress-we-just-want-rid-of.

”Be sensible, ok? If it’s a motheaten ball of sh...”

She cut me off with a kiss on the cheek. “Jesus, dad. I’m not ten.”

***

My fisherman’s cottage – number two in an isolated row of three and the only one lacking trite nautical decor and a key safe - is now ridiculously unsuited to my needs. But it does have the most wonderful location, squatting under a bowl of pewter sky, set before vanilla rolls of sandbanks peppered with spiky green seagrass.

Today, the twee anchor curtains bookending free-styling No.2 remain drawn. The blandly maintained driveways remain empty. All of the beauty belongs to me.

And Carys.

Her Mini pulls into my weed-happy excuse for a parking spot.

“Any luck?” I shout across at her in an uncouth fashion because it’s easier than moving.

She almost skips over to me, holding up an Aldi ‘Bag for Life’. The squealing garden gate echoes her excitement.

“Oh my God dad, just look at this. It’s gorgeous!”

She lifts up a fountain of ivory cream silk. It spills and ripples and dances in the light sea breeze. It is timeless and elegant and Carys.
I can feel myself tearing up a bit.
”Shit. Yes. That’s lovely!”

I glance down. And frown and point. “What’s that stain there?”
”Oh yeah, I saw that. I don’t mind, it is really old after all. I think it’s a water mark.”

She lifts the dress for me to see. It is a water mark, about four inches high around the entire circumference of the hem. But if she’s happy, I’m the most fulfilled being on the planet. I smile and repeat my opinion of its loveliness.

“Thanks, dad. It’s perfect. I’ll put it on to show you.”

Carys scoops up the fabric with one hand and hands me a sheaf of twenties with the other. I flick through the notes. Bloody hell.

“Twenty? For a wedding dress?”
”House clearance.” She disappears inside the cottage with a giggle.

A few minutes later I hear “Close your eyes, dad” so I do. Her footsteps rustle in the grass. Lawn would be the wrong word. Lawn would imply upkeep and flowery borders.

Then she says “Ok, you can open them now” so I do. Before me I see my beautiful barefoot daughter wearing the beautiful buttercream dress. The lowering sun deepens the folds that float through the fabric. Reddening rays play with flyaway strands of her brunette hair.

“Bloody hell!”

I can feel myself tearing up again.

She angles herself away from me, to face the shimmering lightshow of a perfect sunset.

“We should go down to the sea, dad. I’ll help you.”

“What, now? Kieran will be here soon, won’t he?”

Carys doesn’t respond. Her head dips as her body sways, a subconscious hand tucks a lock of rebellious hair behind her right ear.

I shuffle forwards a little, my better hand gripping at the edge of the bench. I manage to brush her fingers with my own.

“Kieran? Isn’t it bad luck or whatever if he sees the dress?”

The physical contact, although short-lived, brings Carys back to the here and now. She shakes her head as if to release whatever thoughts had taken her away, turns, her big brown eyes locking with mine. They look as teary as I’m sure mine do.
I try again, with an added extra effort of a smile. ‘Kieran?’

She takes a sudden step backwards, her hands full of silken folds. “Shit! He can’t see me in this!”

I laugh to get rid of those difficult few seconds that had traversed our world. Carys manages a bashful grin and makes for the cottage, her palm resting briefly on my shoulder.

“Do you need me to get you anything?”
”No no, go get changed before your fella gets here.”

I struggle to my feet, grab at my walker, begin the epic 30ft journey back to my kitchen. I do need to start saying yes to her thoughtfulness every once in a while.

She may well conclude that I don’t need her at all.

***

That sweaty, speculative no man’s land between sleep and awake.

That place where you can’t trust your senses.
Was that the squealing clang of the garden gate.

I glimpse a flare of moonlit fabric even before my stronger left hand makes the daring move from bedframe to windowsill. The small hours are cloaked in deep shades of indigo, the light from a full moon is reflected in white crests, bare feet.

Vintage wedding gowns.

Carys.

She is crossing the crumbly tarmac that separates my home from the blurring curves of blue tinted dunes.

I shout out of the window.

She cannot hear me.

A glance to either side confirms the previously enjoyed absence of AirBnb-ers. Shit. The bedroom’s emergency cord is yanked on my sluggish rush to the stairlift. I’ve never had to use these skinny red strings of indignity before. Do they even work?

Outside, the grass smudges purple under a velveteen sky. The air is heavy with salt. I’m halfway across the garden before I remember that my phone is still by my bed. Fucking hell.

I push onwards towards the sea, shouting for help whenever I can find gaps in my ragged breathing. No-one can hear me. The walker stutters over the tiniest pieces of grit, the belt from my dressing gown and my right leg drags behind me.

I abandon the aid and its stupid little wheels when I reach the sandy hummocks. I throw myself at the soft slopes, clawing, shuffling, swearing myself forward. Weak fumbling grasps at tufts of tough seagrass.

I must have been harbouring the idea that this deteriorating body would actually fucking work in an emergency. You hear stories of mothers lifting mangled cars off trapped children and the like. I think I thought that kind of thing might happen to me.

It doesn’t. I’m still 58 going on 92. I’m fighting gravity and the sand is sucking me backwards.

It takes all I have left within me, but what feels like many hours later my line of sight finally clears the top of the dunes.

Lethargic swooshes of a calm low tide nibble at the shore, where a slight female figure stands pale against a black blue sky. The dress is getting wet. About four inches around the hem wet.

She starts to walk forward.

Knee deep.

Waist deep.
She doesn’t stop.

***
That sweaty, speculative no man’s land between sleep and awake.

That place where futures haunt you.

Am I alone now.

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