The year I turned seven, my parents bought the beach house, and my world changed. Instead of the city centre garden, we had a whole beach! There were islands, and a cave, and the paddling pool. Then, as we got older, there was the swimming pool proper, with slides, and diving boards, and floats; endless games of pirates, capture the float, or diving down to see who could sit on the bottom for longest, watching the legs of tourists above us. They looked like frogs.
Later on, we learned to sail. Havoc took us to explore the islands out in the bay, and beyond. She gave us freedom from the land, and when the wind was strong, and the sails trimmed just right, we felt like we were flying.
At night, once everyone had fallen asleep, I'd creep through to the family room, and watch the moon across the water. In the distance the lighthouse flashed, the yellow beam splashing across rocks and sand and grass, then on, out of sight towards Fife. I'd have conversations with the Older Me, telling myself that no matter what happened, I would always be able to come back here. However bad things were during term time, however bad things were in the future, the beach would always be waiting, silently, the water silvered by the moon as the waves whispered against the sand.
The winters, too, were wonderful, filled with wind and thundering waves, spray flying high over the empty swimming pool, flooding it so that the water spilled over, and we had to jump onto the steps over the rocks, out of the way. Where the tourists' legs had looked like frogs, now seaweed floated serenely. Beyond, the water was churned up, a seething mass of white that would draw back then roar in again, thundering against the wall and sending the spray soaring over our heads so that it would seem as though it was raining. We would laugh into the teeth of the gale, marvelling at the wildness of it all.
Later on, we'd sit by the fire and listen at the wind howling round the house and down the chimney, sending the sparks up in clouds. At night, I'd watch the bay as the lighthouse flashed, the foam on the waves ghostly in the moonlight.
Eventually, we grew up, and the beach house was closed. We moved on, studied, worked, but always in the back of my mind was the image of the beach, first thing in the morning, the sand fresh from the outgoing tide. The air would be cool, but with the promise of heat as soon as the sun was fully up. We would be the only ones out, except for a man walking his dog over on the far side. Plenty of time to build forts and play pirates, imagining the marauders coming into the bay, their sails gleaming in the sun. I always promised myself that I could go back, and one day, it happened; the beach house was opened again, the rooms aired out and painted, the old things restored or replaced. I'd be able to walk on the beach - can adults build forts and play pirates? - or go sailing, or watch the waves.
Then there was the accident, and everything changed. The darkness had arrived, and with it, the sleepless nights, and the pain that dulled everything else. And now, as I lie here sobbing, my legs so full of pain that I can't feel my toes, I imagine that somewhere, somehow, a little girl and her brother run side by side down to the beach. Slipping off their shoes, they wriggle their toes in the warm sand. As I watch, they gather up the flag on the old iron post, and climb up the side of the dune to where the diggings of the previous day show the beginnings of a proper fort. The girl digs a hole and plants the flag securely. As she stands beside it, surveying her domain, her eyes meet mine. For a long moment we look at each other, and then she smiles, and turns to her brother. "Let's finish the fort; the pirates will be coming round into the bay any moment. Then this afternoon, we can go and play in the swimming pool. They might have the blow-up slide ready by then."
As the image fades, my heart feels full, as though it will break. This world may not be what I dreamed, but at least I know that somewhere in a perpetual summer, part of me will always be playing, down on the beach, or in the pool, or on the island. Part of me will always be happy. And maybe, if I close my eyes and concentrate very hard, just maybe I can go back there, and join them, if only for a moment.
