Here is the first part of another of my award winning short stories, published in May 2020 by Stringybark, in the collection entitled ‘Close to Heaven.’ There was no theme required but the story had to be set in Australia, hence the Akubra and the Arnott’s Monte Carlo biscuits. I enjoyed writing this piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy reading it. Your comments are always very welcome
REACHING OUT
‘Isabel.’ He taps her lightly on the shoulder. ‘I think we should head back now.’
Beyond the bay, the water of the Southern Ocean is grey, blending with storm clouds that cover the horizon.
She stands with her arms folded across her stomach. Her frown, when she turns to face him, could mean disapproval, or confusion, or something else which he does not understand.
‘Do you mind?’ he asks. ‘I’m just concerned about that cough of yours.’ He pats his chest and pulls his Akubra further down on his head.
What more can he say without sounding interfering, or worse, like he’s fussing over her? Back when he was in the game last time, forty years ago, men were supposed to be protective of women; to take charge; be the knight in shining armour. He’s been told that modern women hate that.
‘What are the rules?’ he’d asked his twenty-four year old son.
The answer wasn’t encouraging.
‘Gees, Dad. What am I supposed to say? It was always you and Mum telling me what to do. Not that I took much notice. Now you’re asking me to tell you, my father, how to pull the chicks. What would Mum think? Not that she can hear of course, but . . . Dad.’
He fiddles with the buttons of his jacket and considers putting an arm around her. Is it too soon? Will he frighten her away? He only met her last weekend, in the final session of the retreat. Even then she seemed controlled, or shut off, but everyone was grieving and he didn’t give much away either.
He decides to risk it. Perhaps she just needs a nudge in the right direction. It’s his idea of the right direction and it might not be hers, but life’s too short to muck around. Look what happened to Jess. Happily married, both retired, ready for the big trip to Europe, then that bloody idiot went through a red light.
That’s in the past. Now, he’s on this beach with a nice woman. He’ll give it a go.
‘Isabel, let me show you something.’ Stepping closer, he puts his arm loosely around the back of her waist.
She holds firmly to her crossed arms, hesitates, then allows him to lead her away from the water.
What can he show her that she might find interesting? He’s worried that she’ll think him stupid.
Seagulls swoop over the ocean and scamper along the beach, screeching their claims for dominance and territory.
‘I found a nest up here the other day,’ he says, recalling the tiny woven basket and the grey-feathered parents taking turns to guard their eggs.
She tilts her head to look at him. He is reminded of a scene from an old romantic movie; the sort he went to in his teens when he was dating Jess.
‘Do you want to have a peep?’ Without waiting for a reply, he leads her up the path.
When they reach the nest, he presses a finger to his lips. She nods her head and waits. He lifts out shattered eggshells and broken twigs and leaves. Isabel takes his hand and holds it between her warm, smooth-skinned palms. Her mouth turns up a little at the corners, but her eyes are unable to participate in the smile she gives him.
He wants to ask her what happened to make her so sad; why she can’t smile with her eyes. It’s too soon for that.
‘Perhaps they just flew away,’ she says.
Reluctantly, he removes his hand from hers. ‘Will you come and have a coffee with me?’
Back at his house, Isabel appears far more relaxed than he feels.
‘You make good coffee.’ She breathes in the warm aroma. ‘Pretty china, too.’ She takes a sip and holds the mug with both hands. ‘I love your view.’
Still clasping the mug, she walks to the window. ‘It makes you feel good, doesn’t it, that shimmer on the water?’
The lump in his throat stifles his reply. That’s what Jess had said when she first saw the place. He goes to the pantry, fumbles with sauce bottles, waiting for the fluttering in his belly to cease.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’ He waves a packet at her. ‘They’re only Arnott’s Monte Carlos; my daughter must have left them here.’
Isabel turns to face him. ‘I’m sure they’ll be lovely, but I’m not hungry. You have some, though.’
He takes his coffee to the table, puts two biscuits on a plate and sits down, indicating for her to join him. ‘Come and tell me about yourself,’ he says.
To be continued: