Us: A Tale of Winters.

We met in winter.

Winter, a time to hunker down, a time to hibernate, they say. Not for me. I have always preferred winter over the other seasons. I would to go to the beach. I walked and walked, always the only one there, my footprints a solitary track in the sand. Surf hammering the shore line, salt stinging my nostrils and tongue, wind slashing my cheeks. The sun low in the sky, soft, disappearing behind skipping clouds and reappearing seconds later.

One day at the water’s edge seafoam curling over my shoes, I turned and looked back at the carpark. There you were, standing tall in a thick mustard tweed jacket with the collar turned up, hands in pockets. Charity shop you told me later. You came towards me, dark hair, long and whipping across your face, obscuring your brown eyes. We smiled. A connection. We met weekly. We walked and walked, our footsteps snaking along the sand. Side by side. Our tracks a mirror image of each other. We laughed. All the time. Intertwined names framed by a heart, drawn haphazardly in the sand, left behind for no one to see. We drank hot coffees from thermoses, sitting on driftwood, dampness seeping through well-worn department store jeans. We were full. Full of each other. We talked about everything, catching up on each other’s lives, aspirations and dreams.

Alone, together.

You proposed in winter.

On the beach.

Marriage, children, one, two, twins. We were all grown up. A house small, colourful in need of renovating. A mortgage. Manageable. But there was still time for winter walks on the beach, with bundles in front packs, matching jackets zipped up tight. Stolen kisses over woolly hatted heads, all groggy from lack of sleep. Contented conversations alternating between adult and baby talk. Our dreams unfurling in real time. Four names in the sand.

Two years later, little figures in layers, crying, little legs struggling in the wet sand, chubby arms reaching up. It was not fun for them. Or us anymore. Winter excursions to the beach abandoned for afternoons in indoor playgrounds, followed by sweet, steamy mini hot chocolates and marshmallows. Lots of tiny bodies, tumbling and jumping. The sound of the rain outside muffled by squealing. Mummies and daddies smiling indulgently, including us, shoulders bumping, arms linked. Every so often you would reach for my hand and give it a gentle squeeze. No need for talk. We knew what the other was thinking. I would watch you out of the corner of my eyes. Hair tied back, generic sports sweat top and trendy chinos, a carbon copy of all the other men. But to me you were not them, you were you.

Then, weekend winter sport. Winter, at the beach a distant memory. Muddy fields, cold seeping through cleated outdoor boots, jacket hoods up, the crowd stamping, coffee infused puffs of breath mingling. Me with one child, you with the other, shouting encouragement Home for soup and toast in a sprawling designer kitchen, new and monochrome like the rest of the house. A washing machine rattling, sports uniforms flailing around inside while debriefs were held and sharing of who scored and analysis of what went well and what didn’t. After lunch, you working at the kitchen bench, me cleaning the dream home and ferrying children to play dates. Quick snatched conversations, when you took a break, the wind howling outside, heating pumped up high inside. Then you back to the computer, shoulders hunched, all that was left of the long hair, a floppy fringe falling across a wrinkled brow.

Suddenly it was teenagers filling the house, gangly limbs draped over chair arms. Winter inside, in front of screens, wet oversize sneakers simmering in the laundry, unsaid words, simmering on the tips of our tongues. The house not so new now, the mortgage spiralling none the less. Back to disturbed nights, not due to crying babies but driving through stormy nights after drunken calls from stranded offspring unwilling to walk home through the elements. Arguments about who was to go. Grey hair tousled, you, almost a stranger to me now, normally went, pulling on designer jeans and padded anorak. We should have gone together. It would have been a good time to catch up.

Then you were gone.

In winter.

The children at university, grief my companion, I went back to winter walks on the beach. Every weekend as before. The same one. Nothing had changed. Surf pounding in my ears, sea spray crusty on my lips, wind whipping my bowed shoulders, the low sun searing my tear-filled eyes. Wrong, everything had changed. Drained, empty, I screamed, I stamped. Then, I walked and walked. One set of foot prints snaking in the sand.

Alone.

I had not seen it coming. The signs were there. The long hours at the office. Trips away to conferences. New suits, fresh coloured shirts in seductive patterns. The furtive phone calls. Unapologetic snapping at me not due to increased pressure at work it turned out, but a double life. On a frigid Friday, I listened to your little speech. The first long conversation you had had with me for some time. Only I wasn’t speaking. I watched stunned as you packed bags and drove away, tyres swishing in the puddles. I stood outside our front door and watched, ice dripping off our portico and forming in my heart.

Now, two months later, phone calls and texts. ‘You are sorry. Biggest mistake of your life.’ I ignore them. They are weekly, then daily, now hourly. I continue to ignore them. Turned the sound off. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Yet again. I wish I had left it in the car.

It is the weekend.

It is still winter.

You should know where I will be.

I turn.

There you are, in the carpark, standing tall, in your old charity shop jacket, collar turned up against the wind.

 

by Wendy Taylor