The Wheeling Dipping Seagull - Brian Doswell (free e books to read .TXT) 📗

The Wheeling Dipping Seagull

by

Brian Doswell


Maybe this is really two stories, I hope its one seen through two different sets of eyes?

ooooo = hers

and +++++ = his.


ooooo


I woke up at six o’clock to the sound of birdsong outside my open bedroom window. It had been a hot sultry night and even though I had slept on top of the bedclothes I felt sticky and in desperate need of a shower. Even in May, the Côte d’Azur can be oppressively hot. Sunlight dappled my bedroom wall and lit the full length mirror which reflected my naked body as I struggled to my feet. Not bad for forty, I thought, as I headed for the bathroom. I must do something with my hair this week.

Soft warm raindrops falling from the showerhead eased away the sloth of the night and I emerged feeling at least ten years younger than my real age. I have become a bit obsessive about age recently. Turning forty has proved to be more of a milestone than I would have ever imagined.

Firstly - I lost my job. I worked in the local travel agent’s for eleven years. It would be wrong to say that I loved my job and that I miss it terribly. In fact, after eleven years, I was bored to tears with the dreary people who wanted to buy the holiday of their dreams for ten euros each and blame me for not being able to deliver. I got the blame for airline strikes, hurricanes in the West Indies and building works on the Grand Canal in Venice, you name it! Miss it? Not a bit.

Secondly - I inherited a fortune. Well almost. In fact I inherited an apartment and a bit short of fifty thousand euros from my aunt. I suppose I was her favourite but then, as her only niece, that was sort of inevitable. She never married and nor have I, so we often shared a spinster’s view of the world over a cup of tea. She had a variety of boyfriends when she was young and some of her stories made amazing X-rated listening. One thing that we both agreed on was that somewhere after thirty you become past your sell-by date. All the right sort of men are suddenly married. All your best girl-friends are married or in long-term relationships. Your availability becomes a bit of a threat to their stability and invitations to their parties start to fade away, to be replaced by invitations to be their baby-sitter.

On reflection, work . . . sort of took over. I suppose that I let myself drift into a cosy routine running my office, calling in on my aging aunt and pottering around my own rented apartment. It is so easy to let your life slip away when there is no one else around to stop you. Suddenly ten years go by and you have not moved on one iota.


+++++

It was 10:30 on the morning of Wednesday 3rd May. I remember the time and date so precisely because that was when I saw her.

I don’t usually go to the beach much in the height of the summer. It’s far too busy and I’m really not that keen on the tourist crowds that spread themselves over the town like a big fluffy duvet. Very comforting, but you can’t breathe under it. On the other hand, either side of the tourist season, the beach is a great place to be and I try to go each day for a regular dose of physical exercise. I carry an idealistic picture in my mind of a long empty stretch of brilliant white crystalline sand with the water lapping lazily along the narrow ribbon of seaweed that marks the place where the land joins the sea. In my world the sun is always shining and, with the possible exception of the wheeling dipping seagulls, all is quiet and peaceful.

She was sitting in a circle with four or five other women and surrounded by a veritable palisade of bags, towels and inflatable toys. At least a dozen children played around the huddle and, much as I hate crowds, I was drawn to the way the children played together as a group. I smiled inwardly at the image of a besieged wagon train surrounded by whooping wild Indians. The children were really quite well behaved, not loud at all. There were no apparent tantrums nor were there any accidents needing instant doses of tender loving care. My little chicks have long since flown the nest and, as a retired widower, I can sit here on the beach on a Wednesday morning any time I want.

I found myself watching the women in the group. They were just out of earshot but I imagined a conversation, exchanging gossip the way we all do in such small friendly gatherings. She struck me as being especially animated and appeared to command the attention of her friends with extravagant gestures and occasional tossing of her long chestnut brown hair. I settled myself on the sand with my head angled so that while I might appear to be dozing, I could keep watching her.


ooooo

It was the middle of last week when I phoned an old friend to see what she was up to. The kids were off school and, with the sun shining, we decided on a trip to the beach. We met up with a couple of other mums on the way and ended up as half a dozen, surrounded by at least a dozen kids. I gather that if you get enough kids together in one pile they amuse each other and you can spend the morning nattering. It seemed to work although the nattering was solely about babies, wet wipes and the price of washing powder. I worked as hard as I know how to get their intellectual juices flowing but to no avail. These were my old friends who used to be ready to slay dragons and smash glass ceilings, now they barely managed to cope with recycling used plastic bags.

My eyes searched the beach for anything more interesting than a wet wipe, and that’s when I saw him. He was on his own. I guessed that he was a bit older than me but in pretty good shape, good tan, nice bum. Stretched out on a towel about ten meters away, he appeared to be snoozing. However, as I began to watch more closely, I became convinced that he was pretending to sleep but actually watching us. The more I looked, the more I became convinced that he was particularly watching me. One of auntie’s favourite lines came to mind, ‘Teeth and tits dear’, she used to say, ‘that’s what men like.’ I smiled a little more broadly and straightened my back in the hope that he would notice. None of my girl-friends did.

Something inside me wanted to go over and introduce myself to him. I had no idea what to say, but the idea lingered. Twice I almost did it. Twice my courage let me down. I almost got to my feet when he was up and running into the sea, as though he knew I was coming. Within minutes he was pounding up and down in the surf like a man possessed. If I could swim I might have gone in after him and contrived to literally bump into him, but I can’t, so I didn’t.

He was still thrashing up and down in the water when the girls called time and started to pack up the truck-load of toys and towels that appear to be mandatory with kids on the beach. It took ages to gather everything while I stood idly by with my one towel and tube of sun cream. Eventually there was nothing left but sand and the troop headed for their cars. It was then that I noticed his towel carefully anchored with a large pebble at each corner. I’ve no idea why I casually picked up his towel and tossed it over my shoulder as I left the beach. There was no great master plan, no cunning plot, merely a silly impulse.


+++++

I have a pretty good suntan, but I know that lying still on the sand with the sun on my back for too long is daft; it was time for my swim. I had left everything save my towel in the car; there was nothing of value to guard. I swam, as I almost always do, for about ten minutes before turning back to the spot where my towel lay on the sand. When my wife was alive we would often stay in the water for ages, just enjoying the freedom of moving together in three dimensions. That was three, no, nearer four years ago. Since then, swimming has become a solo activity. Now my partners are the fluttering silver fish that scuttle to and fro in the shallow water and the seagulls. To be more precise, there is one large white seagull that I’m sure I recognise. It has a small black streak just above its left eye, a bit like a raised admonishing eyebrow, especially when it tilts its head towards me, a bit like my wife used to when she thought that I had over-stepped the mark. It’s probably just a coincidence but I aim for the same place on the beach each day and so, I’m sure, does the seagull. I sometimes think that being alone on the beach has made me more alert to the little things around me, things I never noticed when my wife was with me. Sometimes I talk to the seagull. The seagull just watches.

I swam back into the shallows and hauled myself up out of the water into the warm sunshine, keen to indulge myself with an invigorating scrub with my towel. Warm sandy towelling is almost as good as having your best friend scratch your back and I relish the moment as part of a long established ritual, but on that Wednesday morning, when I reached my spot, my towel had gone.


ooooo

That afternoon was agony. I sat on my kitchen stool looking at his towel neatly folded on the kitchen table. I felt really stupid. The only possibility was to return to the beach and apologise for being a complete idiot.

The next morning I was on the beach a little after nine, hair up nice and tidy and wearing my favourite floral bikini. I have had it for years but I only wear it on special occasions because it is a bit skimpier than I would normally like, especially at my age. I could not be sure if he would come or if I was anywhere close to where we had been yesterday. I could only wait. I settled down to read my book.

An hour or so