A story

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.

Photopost: Moonlight, Archaeology

I had to pop down to NB on Wednesday night in order to meet an archaeologist for a stroll along the cliffs early on Thursday morning. The archaeologist was lovely, as was her very friendly and intelligent dog. We had fun, and I was able to get lots of good information about volunteering, and what to do to improve my CV.

I was meant to be having an early night, but the moon was stunning - one day off being full. It was an incredibly clear night, full of stars. The moon was so bright that it cast proper shadows on our balcony, and the whole bay was lit up. The light was silvery, very ethereal looking. I can see why it's often described as having a magical quality; certainly seeing everything lit up that way did make things appear somewhat otherworldly. It wasn't as bright or colourful as the daytime, but it was bright enough to see people walking on the beach, to see the rocks, and water, the waves - even some colours could be made out. Normally all you can see is the occasional flash of murky white as a wave breaks. You wouldn't be able to see the sand or the water, let alone people.

I was in my pyjamas, but I couldn't let the chance go to waste, so out I went onto the balcony, in my dressing gown, with my camera. It was bitterly cold. My dressing gown kept me warm, though my ankles were a little too exposed for my liking.

This is what West Bay looked like:


I set the camera on the table, propped it up, and pointed it at the moon. All things considered, the photo came out pretty well. (Trying to get the camera to focus at that angle was fun, and I was shivering a bit much by that point).

I'm so pleased with this - it's come out amazingly well! Look at those stars - you can see Orion's Belt pretty clearly, just above the reflection on the balcony rail, which is what that black thing across the bottom right hand corner is.

Seacliff: More from East Lothian adventures, Part 2.

Given the cuts situation, and the fact I've spent the day on the couch unable to move, I have a post on disability brewing. However, while it percolates gently, I'm going to post the rest of the pictures from our exploration of Seacliff. I'd better get it done before they're a whole year out of date (the pics were taken in March of last year)!
So, when we last left our delightful (ahem) heroine (yours truly) and her parents trusty sidekicks, they'd just discovered a hidden harbour that's only accessible from the mainland at low tide. The harbour comes complete with slipway, channel, and a box for keeping live catch in until they were needed for the table. After exploring the harbour, we headed back to the beach. I said in my last post that Seacliff is like something out of an Enid Blyton book; as well as secret harbours and ruins, there are also stories of wreckers. Just beyond the rocks on which St Baldred's cross sits, there are two rocky outcrops, known as the Scoughall Rocks and the Car Rocks. Stories say that the Pagans of Scoughall used to use lights to lure ships onto the rocks, where they would be wrecked, and the cargo plundered. In bad weather, it would have been easy for people on that part of the coast to show lights pretending to be the lighthouses on Bass Rock and Fidra, which ships heading up the Forth would have been looking out for.
Robert Louis Stevenson was related to the Dale family, descendents of the family who owned Seacliff. Supposedly his book The Wreckers is based on stories he heard about the wreckers in this area.



Standing next to the stream that runs across the beach, looking down the coast and out to the North Sea.


The ruins of Auldhame are very conspicuous at this end of the beach.

There's another mysterious ruin to be explored. Warning; if you're on a slow connection, there are quite a lot of pictures:

Cove, Part 2: More smugglers, Caves and Tunnels.

Ages ago I posted about our visit to Cove, a teeny village on the edge of the cliffs, complete with a harbour, tunnels, and caves; an isolate smugglers paradise. Here's the first part of the visit. And now, for the second part.

When I left off last time, we'd explored the harbour and the abandoned cottages. These days, there are only two left, but there used to be four. The other two have presumably succumbed to the elements. It would be amazing to be here in a storm. This is looking out to sea through what used to be someone's bedroom or kitchen window:


It was time to explore the tunnel! (Not that I'd been looking forward to this bit or anything...) This is the entrance in the cliff. I imagine it probably hasn't changed much.


The tunnel immediately inside the entrance is pretty large, and you can see the bare rock has been reinforced with masonry and probably then covered with lime. A short way in, the roof rises suddenly and abruptly. It looks like probably there was a rockfall at some point. In the photo below you can see the edge of the arched tunnel towards the left of the picture. That's where the roof suddenly rises. The tunnel in this bit becomes basically like a square room, with a much rougher and lower tunnel leading off it into the cliff...


The "proper" tunnel. This is looking down the tunnel, with the room with the high roof just behind me. The tunnel is pretty long, and curves in the middle, following the line of the headland so you can't see daylight all the way through unless you stand in just the right place. Most of the way through the tunnel is this rough sandstone; this was all carved by hand.

Photo Post: Adventures on the east coast - smugglers, caves and tunnels!

My explorations and adventures along the east coast continue. This time, we explored Cove, which is a teeny tiny hamlet of about ten or fifteen houses perched on the cliff edge. This part of the coast consists of very high sandstone and mudstone cliffs which drop sheer down to the rocks and sea below. In places, rivers have cut down through the sandstone, creating a valley which opens up to the sea. Pease Bay is one such place, with a beautiful strip of white sand. Once a small village, it's now overrun with caravans, and is frightfully Butlins-esque, complete with the "Recreation Hall", where they have shows, songs and dances every night, with a disco for the kids and karaoke for the teenagers. I admit, I was a bit intimidated when we stopped there for a bathroom break before heading home.

In contrast to places like Pease Bay (which is still very beautiful and you should still visit it), there are places like Cove. At Cove, there's no river to cut down through the sandstone. Instead, part of the cliff has slumped down, leaving a half-moon bay, bounded on one side by the continuing line of cliffs, while on the other a line of harder sandstone extends into the sea, parallel with the cliffs. The whole bay has been enclosed by walls, creating a very secluded harbour:



Cove is not the sort of place one could possibly find caravans.

Picture post: More from East Lothian in May

While I was in North Berwick, some people I am in chaoots with came down for a visit and a picnic. We stopped off at the butcher for Serious Sausage Rolls (they're HUGE and taste good and are very filling. Just what's needed when going exploring), and then went to explore Dirleton Castle, stopping off at the very pleasingly round doocot first:


We then walked round to the castle entrance, which is still very imposing:


The castle was attacked by cannon; the damage wasn't ever repaired:


The entrance reminded us all of the castle in Knightmare:


We had a good poke about round the castle. This is the passage to my favourite room:

(The doors are as small as they look - people were shorter then.)

In which my father has a sense of humour.

There's a major dinghy sailing competition in North Berwick* this week, with sailors from all over the UK. Most of them are adults, and many of them usually sail on lakes.

One bloke (an adult) wandered up to my dad, who is performing cat-herding duties on the beach. He looked across the beach - where the tide was half way out, and said, "Is this place tidal?"

My father replied, "Oh, only twice a day."

This bloke had driven himself and his boat up from England. Apparently he managed to do so without looking at a map.


*North Berwick is a seaside town, which - if you look at a map - is very obviously next to the North Sea.

Picture post: North Berwick at the end of May.

At the end of May, I went down to North Berwick a few times, taking lots of pictures of course. All of the pictures below link back to my flickr album, where you'll find more pics that I haven't posted here.



The apple trees had bloomed with lovely delicate pink flowers since I was there last (nice weather has been a long time coming this year). We've got two apple trees: one that produces enormous cooking apples, and once that produces lovely crunchy cox's pippin type apples. The sort that make wonderful apple pie.


We went for a walk down to the harbour, where I had a pang of jealousy:

My boat is in storage at the moment, and I have to get club membership before I can borrow their boats. Hopefully I'll get dinghy sailing soon: there's nothing so exhilarating as the feeling when you catch the wind and take off, flying over the waves.

We wandered back along the beach, where we met a rather friendly collie and his owner, who was someone my father knew in the sailing club. The collie sized us all up, then deposited his stick at my feet. After having me throw it along the beach numerous times, he decided he wanted a swim. I tried to resist his attempts to take me paddling with him:


But ultimately, who can resist an enthusiastic (if somewhat damp) collie bouncing about and grinning at you? Certainly not I. He was successful:


More pictures under the cut:

Ghost Story II

Part Two

... Anne stared at the rock for a long time, as the beam from the lighthouse swept repeatedly over the bay, and the waves made gentle swooshing noises against the beach. Although the moonlight cast the side of the rock into shadow, no figure seemed to appear. The rock sat there innocently, in the manner of rocks everywhere. It had been a dream. Anne sighed, and rubbed her eyes.

"You’re looking for her, aren’t you?" A girl’s voice said softly next to her. Anne’s eyes flew open. Sitting next to her on the window seat was a girl, about Anne’s age, dressed in ragged blue cut-off jeans, a scruffy red t-shirt, and bare feet. The face looked like the face from Anne’s dream, but it was a little older, a little rounder, and the hair was dry and fluffy, not hanging wet and lank.
"You dreamed about her, didn’t you?" Repeated the girl. "Someone who looked like me?" she prompted.
Anne nodded.
The girl sighed, and looked sadly down to the beach.
"How do you know about her?" Anne asked, "And who are you? For that matter, what are you? What’s happening, why am I seeing ghosts, if that’s what you are?"

The girl settled back against the cushions, tucking her legs up under her. "We are ghosts, if that’s what you want to call us. I’m Ruth, and the girl in your dream, that’s my sister Mary. We used to live here, with our parents. The bedroom you’re sleeping in is my old room." She smiled, "You’ll like it when the sun comes in during the day. It smells good, and you can hear the waves, and the day seems full of promise..."

The smile faded, and she looked sad again. "Mary and I loved sailing. Our father had taught us. We had a little dinghy called Havoc, that we sailed together, although we could both sail it on our own. One summer holiday, I caught chickenpox, and was stuck inside. It was a beautiful sunny day, and Mary wanted to take Havoc out. My father said she’d better not, it was due to get windy later on, but Mary said she’d be back long before the storm came in.
"She would have been back on the beach, but the kicking strap broke, so she moored out in the bay while she tried to fix it. It got windier and windier, Havoc was bouncing about on the mooring. She gave up trying to fix it, and instead cast off, meaning to sail back to the beach. My parents were down on the beach by this time, I was watching from the window here. We’d sailed in windy weather before, as long as Mary was careful, she’d be fine. But she was halfway back to the beach when a strong gust came in round the harbour wall, and flipped Havoc over. Mary didn’t have a chance to react, she was thrown into the water. We think she must have hit her head, or maybe been trapped under the sail… but she didn’t come back up."

A tear rolled down Ruth’s cheek, as she looked at the beach and saw the scene played out again. Anne too could see it in her mind, as she looked at the water, so calm and innocent now.

"We waited for so long. Too long. Havoc tossed on her side in the waves, but there was no sign of Mary. They got the lifeboat out, but it was too late.
"They found the body next day, and brought her in. She looked so peaceful… You’d never know she’d been battered about by the storm.

"My father never forgave himself. He felt he should have forbidden her to go sailing that day. This house, which had been full of laughter and sunlight, cozy winter evenings round the fire, high adventure and fun… it was all gone with Mary. I’d never been so alone.
"And then they wanted to leave. My parents couldn’t stand to look out every day, to where it happened. They’d see it playing before their eyes… But I didn’t want to leave. I loved this house, this town, this place. The sky, the sea… And Mary was still here. She’d come to me about two weeks after she drowned, her hair was still wet, and she was wearing the clothes she’d gone sailing in that hot day. She said she was lonely, and she asked me to convince them not to leave. Even though they couldn’t see her, she could see them. She said sometimes she’d come in and kiss my mother on the forehead, and hold my father’s hand. He had big, worn hands, that always made us feel safe. She said she felt safe when she held his hand, and not alone. I promised her that we’d stay, that I’d stay. I promised I’d never leave her...

"But I couldn’t tell my parents why we shouldn’t go. And they couldn’t live with the hurt. So one day, one awful day, we left. I promised Mary that I’d come back for her. I promised myself, too. I loved this place. It was home."

"I did eventually come back, but it was too late. Too long. My parents have moved on, they’re happy now, I think. There was a car crash, you see, seven years after we left. It was fatal. They went on, but I came back. I had to see this place again, I had to see Mary. We could be together again, play on the beach, wander the streets, swim in the pool, laugh at the day-trippers. An eternal childhood.

"But Mary had changed. She never forgave me for letting them leave. She said she had found other ways of preventing herself from feeling lonely in the seven long years that we were away.

"So I sit up here, and look out over the bay, and think of the nights that she and I used to sit here and talk. We’d imagine walking out along the moon’s silver path to a land of enchantment and adventure. We’d plan our holidays here, camping on the island, sailing, exploring. I try and stop Mary taking more people away with her, when I can. That’s why I sent you that dream. One day, I hope she’ll change back to the Mary I knew.

"They say, in the town, that if you stay here at night, you can see a little girl sitting on that rock on the beach. And they say, that if you walk along the beach at night, and look up at this window, you’ll see a little girl looking out to sea. Even if the house is empty.”

Ruth turned to look at Anne.

"And they’re right," said Anne softly. "And that’s why my father was able to get this house for so little. No-one wants to stay here."

Ruth nodded.

"What can I do?" said Anne suddenly. "Isn’t there something we can do? Something to help Mary, so you and she can be friends again, so you can both walk out along the Moon’s path together, and find your land of adventure?"

"I can go any time," said Ruth, "But I won’t go without Mary. And she won’t talk to me."

Both girls stared down at the beach. As they did so, a cloud passed over the moon. When it had gone, they saw Mary, the girl from Anne’s dream sitting on the rock, her arms around her knees, her pale face, expressionless, looking up at them.

Anne woke late the next morning. The sun was streaming in through the open curtains, and as Ruth had promised, the room smelt good, a combination of sunlight, warmth, the smell of the sea, and… breakfast.

Over breakfast, plans for the day were discussed. As her family debated the merits of the open-air pool versus the beach, Anne tucked into toast, and tried to put the events of the night from her mind, at least for now. When questioned, she put her vote in for a day spent at the pool. She wasn’t too keen on spending more time near that rock, even though – a cursory glance through the window showed – it was sitting there rather innocently.

A day spent at the pool soon put the night’s story from Anne’s mind. She and Philip went on the slides, tried out the blow-up obstacle course (and succeeded in completing it on about their twentieth try; there was a certain trick to getting round the palm trees without falling off), and when they had commandeered a float each, they played pirates. By the end of the day they were tired, happy, and had even turned slightly brown from all the sun. They met their Aunt Jane on the way back from the pool. She was invited back to the house for tea, and the all walked back along the road together, Philip (his computer games forgotten), talking excitedly about plans for tomorrow.

"Oh," said Aunt Jane, as Anne’s father unlocked the front door, "You’re staying in the Haunted House." She smiled.
"Haunted house?" Anne’s father laughed, "Well, that would explain why it was so cheap to rent it. You must tell us the story over tea. I’m sure the children would love to hear it."

After tea, they settled in the sitting room overlooking the bay, and Aunt Jane started her story.

"The family that used to live here had two little girls, only a year apart in age. The father taught at the school, and the mother kept a sweetshop in the town. The girls seem to have been very popular here, they were active at the sailing club, and had their own little boat, they could often be seen sailing in the bay there. One day, the father punished a rather rowdy boy from a difficult family; he made the boy stay in school and miss a sailing race that was on that evening. It seems that in revenge, the boy came and vandalised the family’s dinghy. He boasted about it to his friends, and various people at school. Until, two days later, the youngest girl of the family drowned. It seems she’d taken the boat out, a storm had come up, and the damage caused by the boy made the boat unsafe. When it capsized, the little girl, Mary, was hit on the head and drowned."

"How awful!" Philip exclaimed. "Did they catch the boy?"

"No," Aunt Jane said. "Although it was common knowledge that he had damaged the boat, causing the accident, his father lied to protect him. There was not enough proof, so the police could do nothing. Mary’s father had to go to school, and teach the class, and see that boy grinning at him, every day. Of course, he couldn’t stand it.
"At the time of the accident, their older daughter, Ruth, had chickenpox. She was infectious, so hadn’t been to the school, and didn’t know about the boy who had vandalised the boat. In order to protect her, and so that the father shouldn’t go mad from grief and anger, the family moved away. It was terribly sad; they were all killed in a car crash seven years later. They say that the older girl, Ruth, never got over the loss of her sister."

"My goodness, Anne, are you alright?" Anne’s mother looked at her in concern. "You’ve gone very white."
"Oh, I’m fine Mummy, I think I’m just very tired."

Anne sat on the windowseat, her mind going over what her aunt had said, joining the details with those of Ruth’s story. She’d said she would go to bed, but her mind was too busy for her to sleep. If Ruth didn’t know about the other reasons her parents had left, then she couldn’t have told Mary. Perhaps if Mary knew, she would understand that all the blame for her loneliness couldn’t lie with her sister, or with her parents.

Once the house was quiet, Anne put on her shoes and a jacket, and crept down the stairs. She left the latch off on the front door, and closed it quietly behind her. Once over the wall and on the beach, she headed for the rock. Close to, it was about half her height, and she could see the foot and handholds that would let one clamber up and sit on top. She did so, the rock under her fingers still feeling warm from the sun although it was nearly midnight. She sat with her legs drawn up under her, the way she had seen Mary sitting.

The beach was quiet. Anne could hear a lone seagull somewhere out at sea, and the gentle rhythmic whispering of the waves. It was another clear night, and from where she was sitting, there was a moonlit path going across the wet sand, and out over the waves, out to sea, beyond the point of the bay. She turned, and looked up to her bedroom window. A pale face, filled with longing, looked down at her. She looked away, turning to look back at the moon.

Mary stood between the rock and the sea, in the middle of the moon’s reflection. Dressed as she had been in Anne’s dream, she looked small and forlorn. She held out her hand to Anne.

Slipping down off the rock, Anne took Mary’s hand, and followed her. The moonlight on the waves seemed to create a glittering, magical path. Mary said nothing, her eyes dark in her face, her wet hair hanging down her back. When they reached the entrance to the bay, Anne stopped. "Mary."
"What?" Despite being a menacing ghost, she sounded like a petulant small girl.
"I have something to tell you."
Mary turned to face Anne, stepping between her and the moon, so all that Anne could see was the dark eyes in a pale face, expressionless.
"Well?"

"Ruth told me about what happened..." Anne began. She hurried on as she saw Mary’s features begin to twist in hatred at the mention of her sister’s name. "But Ruth was ill with chickenpox at the time. Your parents didn’t tell her everything."

For a long time, the two girls stood in the moonlight. Anne talked, telling Mary the whole story, everything her Aunt Jane had told her. As Mary listened, the hate drained out of her features. As Anne talked about Mary visiting her parents, a tear rolled down Mary’s cheek. "Mummy..." she whispered. "Daddy..."

"You can see them again." Anne said gently. "Don’t stay here. Go with Ruth. Go to the enchanted land of adventure, at the end of moon’s path, out at sea. Your parents will be waiting for you. They’ve waited a long, long time. Why don’t you go to them, tell them you love them? Your mother has waited a long time to hold you again."

Two tears rolled down Mary’s cheeks. She looked at Anne, then at last, turned and led the way back to the beach. When they reached the rock, Ruth was waiting for them, sitting on top of it. She slid down to join them, landing softly on the sand.

Mary said nothing, but held her arms out. Ruth went to her, and put her arms round her. The sisters said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. Then, holding hands, with Ruth leading the way, they walked down the beach and out to sea, along the glittering silver path. Ruth looked back, just once. Anne waved.

As they approached the mouth of the bay, Anne thought she saw two figures, a man and a woman, standing on the path, holding out their arms to the children. Ruth and Mary seemed to see them too, as they ran forward, still holding hands. The little family was complete. As they faded from view Ruth seemed to look round at Anne once more. "Thank you..." The waves seemed to say.

For a long time, Anne sat on the rock, and looked out at the horizon. When she went back to her room, she sat on the windowseat, and looked out at the bay. The lighthouse beam flashed over the bay, a long path of yellow light in brief, bright competition to the moonlight. Somewhere over the bay, a seagull called. Anne fell asleep, listening to sound of the waves.


~~~~Fin~~~~

I think it will need some editing, but that's for another night. I hope you enjoy it, anyway.

Ghost Story

Part One

The journey down in the car had been long, hot and cramped, and was not improved by Anne’s younger brother Philip periodically asking whether they had reached their destination yet. The destination in question was the town to which Anne’s aunt had recently moved. It was a typical sleepy sea-side village, with old Victorian sandstone buildings overlooking the promenade and the beach. Anne’s parents had managed to rent one of these for, as her father had observed, "a ridiculously cheap price", for the duration of the holidays. Philip had been vocal about his doubts as to whether the place would be any good for a holiday, but Anne was less certain. There were two beaches, and a park, and plenty of countryside, and even a swimming pool. She thought that she might get a chance to do some writing and painting, and plenty of reading, and maybe a little walking. Philip, a true child of the technological age, had bemoaned the apparent lack of internet access (her parents refused to set up an account for just a couple of months, and Philip thought this quite unfair), and had instead brought his games machine and entire collection of games.

They had arrived, finally, and were standing outside the house. It appeared a little foreboding, Anne thought, with its dark empty windows. Anne’s mother was cooing over it, however, and Anne had to concede that she did have a point. Windows aside, it was a typical Victorian three story house, in red sandstone, looking somewhat the worse for wear, mostly thanks to the salt in the sea wind. It was, as the advert had said, almost right on the beach; separated only by a one way street and the promenade bounded by a short little sea-wall.

Inside, the house was cold and dark, the heating having been turned off for a while. Anne’s father, following the directions that came with the lease, soon had the heating turned on, and the gas-fired boiler started with a roar. While the house heated up, they had a look around, Philip eagerly running on ahead, despite his earlier protestations that he should "thoroughly hate the place." The lowest floor was not much but a glorified cellar and storage space; there was a large drying-room next to the boiler room, and another room that was locked.

"Probably has the landlord’s personal goods in it." Anne’s father observed.

At the front of the house there was a small sitting room, and small room lined with bookshelves full of books.

"A library for you, Anne." Her father smiled.

Upstairs were the lived-on floors. There was a master bedroom, a bathroom, and the dining room at the back, and at the front there was a formal sitting room, and a large kitchen. The top floor was reserved for the children – two bedrooms, one at the front and a larger one at the back (which was immediately claimed by Philip), and a big playroom which ran the length of the house. Philip was overjoyed to find that it had a large television.

Much later on, after they had unpacked, and had had tea (fish and chips as a treat, since neither of Anne’s parents felt like cooking after the drive), Anne excused herself from the family gathering in the sitting room, and went upstairs to unpack her room. Her feelings for the house had changed from her first impression; inside, with the heating on, the house was warm and homely. Her room was lovely; she was rather glad that Philip had claimed the larger one. This room had yellow-painted walls, with a few paintings on them. Being an attic room, it had a sloping ceiling on either side of the large dormer window. Best of all, however, in Anne’s opinion, was the windowseat. She could sit with her legs drawn up and look out over the beach, over the water, to where the sea and the sky met; no land in sight, except for the lighthouse island at the far end of the bay.

Anne made her bed, and unpacked her things, thinking about how bare the little bookshelf looked with her few books propped up untidily on it. Perhaps she’d retrieve a few books from the "library", to make it look better. She’d even read them, if there were any good books down there. As she pottered about, it got dark outside, and the room felt very comfortable, with the light on, and the sound of the waves on the beach. She thought it must be lovely in winter, when the storms came, and the wind howled round the house, salt in the air misting the windows. She noticed that the lighthouse light actually shone into her room, making a triangular patch on one wall. She sighed. This would be a good holiday, she thought.

Later that night, she woke up. The lighthouse light was still shining in through the open curtains, four flashes and then a break, four flashes and then a break. She got up, and went to sit on the window seat. There was no sound except for the endless waves, murmuring against the sand. The tide was out, and the lower part of the beach was wet, reflecting the track of the full moon, just rising, a silver-gold road leading out to sea. There was a big rock, in the middle of the beach, and Anne reflected that had they been younger, she and Philip would probably have played on and around it, making it into a fort, or an island as the tide came in.

Gradually she became aware of a small figure, sitting on top of the rock, with it’s legs drawn up. As she watched, the figure looked up, straight at her window. It seemed to be a small girl, with long dark hair hanging in strands about her face. As Anne watched, the girl beckoned to her eagerly, almost pleadingly. Anne nodded, and without thinking about it, she slipped on her shoes, and pulled a jacket on, on top of her pyjamas. She was aware only of a sense of urgency, a need to go and walk on the beach, a need to go and talk to the girl who was sitting on the rock. She hurried out of the house, not stopping to pick up the keys which were lying on the hall table. She crossed the road and stepped up onto the sea wall. She jumped off, feeling the soft dry sand filling her trainers, and crossed over to the harder part of the beach below the tideline, to where the girl was still sitting on the rock.

Now Anne could see that the girl was about her own age, but so pale that she almost seemed luminous in the moonlight. She stood in front of the rock, as the girl held out her hand. Anne took it. It was cold, very cold, and Anne realised that the girl wasn’t wearing a jacket; only a skirt and a vest, and her feet were bare. The girl slid off the rock, still holding Anne’s hand, and led her down the beach, following the gleaming path where the moon was reflected in the wet sand, that dried out around their feet as the stood on it.

At the edge of the water they stopped, looking out to sea.
"Don’t you wish you could walk out there, following the moon’s path?" The girl said, her voice soft and melodic.
Anne nodded.
The girl tugged her hand, and led her forward.
"We’ll get wet." Anne said, her own voice sounding flat and dull in comparison.
"No..." whispered the girl. "Not tonight... tonight it’s a full moon."

Anne didn’t have time to say anything, as the girl tugged her forward. She expected her foot to feel the cold water as it seeped into her shoe, but.. there was nothing. She looked down, and found that they were standing on the reflection of the moon’s light, a few inches above the water. The girl ran forward, laughing, pulling the astonished Anne after her. As they ran, a sense of delight filled Anne, and she laughed out loud too.

Suddenly the girl stopped. "We can’t go any further."

Anne looked around. They had come to the end of the bay; they were even with the headlands of two arms of land that formed the bay. Beyond lay the open sea. She looked at the girl, a sense of unease filling her.

"Perhaps we should go back now." She said.

The girl just looked at her, and shook her head. The big dark eyes in the pale face, that had looked so innocent and lost before, now seemed to be menacing. The smile too, made Anne uneasy.

Suddenly she was falling, being sucked downwards, the cold of the water shocking her as it closed over her. She tried to move her arms to propel herself up again, towards the surface, but her arms seemed to be stuck to her sides. Her legs seemed to be held together, and still she was being sucked down. The water around her seemed to be filled with light, as if it was daytime, and she could see the sand below her, rippled from the motion of the waves as they rolled in. There were rocks below as well, and it was to those that she seemed to be being pulled.

Panic was filling her mind, as she felt the rocks beneath her. She tried to kick herself up again, to the surface, her breath was beginning to run out, and her lungs felt as though they were burning. As she bent her knees to push off, a hand grabbed her wrist, and suddenly she felt she could move again. The grip was strong. It was the girl again, her hair floating around her head, the big eyes dark and bottomless.

"Join me..." The words seemed to be breathed straight into Anne’s mind, as the girl moved towards her. She came closer, until she was close enough to stroke Anne’s cheek with a finger. The girl leaned in, sucking the last of Anne’s breath away. The water was pushing in on her, and the grip on her wrist was like steel. She gasped, and sea water filled her lungs. Choking, she breathed in more sea water...


...Anne woke up, gasping for breath. She was in bed, the covers tangled round her legs. She lay still for a moment, watching the lighthouse light shining in through the open curtains, four flashes and then a break, four flashes and then a break. She got up, and went to sit at the open window, trying to push the dream from her mind. Down on the beach there was a big rock, just beyond the tideline...

Moonlight II

Later on, the moon has moved round enough that its full light is shining through the window. This time, it seems that the footstool has picked up the occasional table's bad habits, with the added cunning (on its part, at least) that it is low enough to remain unseen in any light coming through the window.

I sit on the windowseat, and look out, and it seems that for a little while, my body is stopped by the beauty of the scene. The moon's light is now hard, and vibrant, lighting up the wet sand where the tide has gone out, and picking out the little white wavelets that are coming in from the sea. The water itself reflects the sky; a dark greyish-navy colour. The islands - little more than jumbles of rocks with an iron post on top to warn daytime sea-farers - stand out black against the water, as does Cave Point. In reality, it's Point Garry, but to a child, Adult Names have no real significance. Far better to describe things as they really are; but these names seem to stick even into adulthood.

There appear to be no clouds in the sky at all, but there are no stars either. The moon is far too bright. Sheilding my eyes with my hand, the stars eventually begin to appear. Orion has moved round, and now a small, bright star, twinkling red, has taken his place.

Opening the window again, the smell of woodsmoke has gone; everyone else is in bed at this hour. I'm the only one up, the only one awake to feel and see the beauty of the scene. I like it that way. I can be at peace with the world. There is only the noise of the waves, an occasional insomniac sea-bird, and nothing else. No cars speeding past, no groups of youths shouting to outdo each other, or girls with high-pitched neighing laughs. At this time of night, there's just me, and the beach, and Time, marked every minute by the lighthouse's neverending turn. The light doesn't seem to flash on an off; the beam picks up the moisture in the air, and you can see it, like a searchlight, as it plays over the rocks, and sand, and putting green.

I have the desire to slip outside and down onto the beach. First I'd feel the hard, chilly wood of the steps, then the colder dry sand at the top of the beach. I'd walk down below the tide-line, watching as the moonlight glistened on the water seeping into my footprints. Before going home, I'd sit for a while on the Marooned Rock, a boulder that sits some way below the high tide mark, alone on a sandy beach. It's a good rock for climbing up on as the tide comes in, rushing around it, higher and higher, until eventually it's deep enough that you can claim to be properly marooned. Then you can jump off, splashing water up inside your skirt - I, the girl who hated skirts, always wore one on the beach. It was good for carrying sand.

I'm beginning to get cold, and sleepy. I avoid stubbing my toe on the footstool again, but bump into the occasional table, which has somehow moved round to the other side of the chair since my last visit. I quietly promise vengeance upon it, then, limping slightly, I head back to bed.

Moonlight

Slipping into the darkened room, I skirted the chair and coffee table, and managed to outsmart the small, engraved occasional table that lately had developed a habit of lying in wait for me, in the shadow of the windowseat, just exactly where I would trip over it, sending the table and surface contents crashing to the floor.
There was a parallelogram of moonlight draped over the far end of the windowseat as I sat down, plumping the cushions. I always thought paralellogram was such an odd word; I would forever think of that shape as a squished rectangle, which is what I'd named it when I first met it, a long time before paralellograms entered my world.

I looked up and to the left, through the window behind my head. The moon, although bright, wasn't quite full. Tonight, it seemed to be alone in the sky. There were no stars near; only two could be seen over the bay. I knew from their positions that they were the bow and feet of Orion the Hunter, although his distinctive belt was hidden behind a loincloth of cloud. There was a breeze coming through the crack in the window, and I wrestled with the ungainly, willful locking mechanism (installed, no doubt, to keep The Tenant's Sprogs from trying to throw each other out the window). Holding it with one hand, I turned the old metal handle and swung the window open. It was very cold outside, and the scent of woodsmoke from the cottage below-and-across-the-garden (my childhood name) tickled my nose. Walking home from the station, you know you're nearly there when you can smell the woodsmoke on the breeze. If it's an easterly wind, you can smell the smoke all the way from the church at the bottom of the road, which is a bit of a cheat, I feel. Although the waves that come with an Easterly more than make up for it; they are tall, and foamy, and dangerous. I've seen them take a yacht from its moorings in the bay, and deposit the remainders - foam, woodchip, pieces of fiberglass, and one lone red plastic cup - on the beach. I've even crouched under one when it broke over the harbour wall, feeling the unexpected weight of water on the back of my neck. If you stand up, you'll be swept over the wall and back out to sea, they used to tell us, though we knew that was a lie. You only got swept out if you were fool enough to stand on the wall.

Tonight there is a westerly wind. The tide is almost fully in; the streetlights light up the water as it breaks at the foot of the wall beyond the cottage. In the dark, it can look like there are people walking back and forth on the beach, in front of the lights, as the successive breakers don't reflect the light. The bay is lit up with the moonlight; I can see the land perfectly black, outlined by the water which is ever so slightly grey-silver. The lighthouse beam turns placidly, lighting up a path that seems to go from the slates on the roof outside the window all the way to Fidra. When I was little I always wondered what it would be like to walk along that path, how fast you'd have to run to get there before the light went out. If you went at the right time of year, the puffins would greet you with their raucous calls.

The moonlight didn't just light up the bay. There were streaks of cloud coming into view, silver against the rest of the sky. There was a ribbon of cloud that went right across the bay; an airoplane was flying into it. Above my head were three short, fattish sticks of cloud. As I watched, they were thinned out by the wind, two of them falling behind, until I could quite clearly see the Enterprise. I wondered how geeky that made me. I'd heard somewhere that no matter where you look, the Enterprise will always be somewhere in the sky. It's the natural state of clouds, apparently. I wasn't so sure about that latter bit; as for the former, I didn't have a habit of seeing Enterprises, so I couldn't comment. As I thought about the Enterprises, I heard the church clock on the highstreet beginning to strike ten.

The sound of the waves was beginning to make me thirsty. I realised I had left my bottle of water on the kitchen table, and thought idly about going downstairs to get it. I ought to be going to bed. I was preparing to close the window, when I heard the church bells again. This time they were much closer: evidently Blackadder's church had a bell too, although I hadn't heard it since I was a child, despite it being nextdoor-but-one. It stuck ten, fully two minutes behind the other one. Very like Blackadder, I thought. I did know (had had it explained to me when I was little) that Blackadder's kirk didn't belong to one Edmund Blackadder, but the association made in childhood had stuck irrevocably.

I got up to fetch my waterbottle, and tripped over the occasional table. This added to my theory that it did actually move around to trip me up when I wasn't looking. Idly plotting the table's demise, I left the room, closing the door behind me. Out in the bay, the light continued to turn, and the waves continued to break, while around the outskirts little people got on with their little lives.