The Cape to Brisons, by Gillian Silverthorn, beer on the beach

It's always the same the day they arrive. Once they get over the shock of the view, the sheer beauty of the ocean either completely calm and turquoise, sun shining or contrastingly, the vast expansion of crashing waves over the rocks throwing foam hundreds of feet up into the air.

            The questions and statements are carbon copies: "Do you live here, wow, you're so lucky, it must be so beautiful","Have you always lived here?", "Is it really lonely? Is it isolated in the winter?". Year in, year out they come and the questions never alter. They are in love with the idea of living here, with the sea, the sky, yes the dark sky and the stars. They'd look out across the sea towards the Cape, gasping at it's sheer beauty, the sky and the water becoming one.

            Tonight nature is at her best. Lightning darts downwards and splits the sea, the tourists sit looking out of their windows with delight as they drink their champagne,I can hear one saying, "This has to be better than the fireworks at Land's End."

 

My father and grandparents and many generations before were born here, grew up here, worked the sea, told stories of older relatives working in the mines - two contrasts; a great expansion of light or darkness depending what family you were born into.

            My father told me to just take the rough with the smooth, the beauty, the harshness, there is a community and they will look out for you, you'll always belong, and as long as you make a living that's all you can ask for and be satisfied. Now, you will hear the sea is over fished and the mines shut down, you can't make a living any more. If you want to stay you have to either get a holiday let or take the tourists out on a boat.

            I can see why they're bitter, they look around and everyone's an outsider. I hear them say "They know nothing of the heritage, no Cornish blood". But I still love to see the holiday makers arrive - it brightens up my day, though I can't be part of their lives for long, they don't want an old woman in her late eighties hanging around. I always make sure to watch out my shutters for their cars to arrive at 2pm when they are allowed in their holiday cottages and I'll go outside pretending to be sweeping the yard and they can't help but say hi and ask their questions. I'll act surprised when I see them, "Oh, hello, are you on holiday?" I'll say.

            They see an old woman, an old woman who knows the land and that's it. They know nothing of her youth and I don't imagine they think she had one but I could tell them a story or two. They'll be inside now saying how sweet I am, they will say "Ah, bless her, isn't she lovely, do you think she has a husband? Maybe he's died, she is really old."

 

Jon was the closest I came to commitment, and when I felt myself getting too comfortable I scarpered, disappeared for a few weeks, I couldn't breathe if he got too close. I don't want to be alone, now I'm old, in this deserted place, but I don't want to be with someone either, tied down, someone interfering, organising, finishing my sentences. I didn't want to grow old and senile with him. But, on this occasion, this is all I want.

            It's that couple that just arrived, they look like us. I got my albums out and flicked back through photos when we were twenty, taken on a the pinhole camera Jon made from some ash wood. I couldn't bear it – it made my chest pull tight and my breathing shallow - just like when I was young and felt trapped.

            There's not a damn thing I can do about it now, it's too late, I'll console myself by saying "It's going to happen to us all, so maybe it's better that it happens when we're alone so things aren't so hard at the end." It might feel comfortable settling down in a warm house at night, sharing those years with a special person, but one day you wake up alone anyway. I have the ocean and the the call of the gulls to wake to and my memories.

            He said it was my hormones, my age, apparently you can lose your mind in your forties. But he couldn't blame my wandering on hormones, he didn't like me being independent, he wanted me to commit to him. We would have eventually started to think as one, we wouldn't have had our own thoughts at all, it happens all the time, I've read about it. No, I'm happy I've managed to escape that.

            He loved taking the tourists out on his little boat, just like the younger ones do today, telling the same stories like an old worn out record, "You may be lucky enough to see dolphins today, you'll see seals around Longships Lighthouse but we won't get too close. They may lose their pups if we come in too close. Look there's a shag." Or did Jon say a cormorant, I could never remember the difference no matter how many times he told me to concentrate and listen to the description, I still don't know to this day. He never got bored, I think I managed to go out with him about two dozen times before I couldn't bear it any more, hearing the same guided tour, the same response from the tourists. He couldn't understand why I wasn't satisfied with this life but it became no different than a nine to five job, saying the same thing, doing the same thing, day in day out. We tried to make it more fun by telling stories of mermaids and drinking beer but that got tedious too.

            We weren't a couple, I'd made this clear from the beginning, you can't be tied down in your thirties. He accepted it while telling me that one day he would change it, trying to make light of it, watching for my reaction. He didn't like that there were others, sometimes tourists, sometimes locals. He always looked more hurt if it was a local, he found it easier if it was a tourist knowing it wouldn't last long. I'd say "What's so bad if you won't see me for a week or two?" When I turned back up he would sing out "One day, one day, yes one day you'll be mine, I will be the only one", we'd laugh and let it go.

            One night after a few ciders on the beach he took my banjo and added lines to his song, "It's deep rooted, you won't commit, you're scared of being left..." I told him to stop and he knew not to bother with that kind of talk again.

            Those that are still alive and stayed in this place know me as that zany woman who sat on the sands playing her banjo, smelling fragrant, drinking with anyone that was around, lighting fires, swimming naked in the ocean, waiting for full moons.

 

He's still alive, if he outlives me he will take my ashes out on the boat and scatter them just past The Brisons, also known as the big friendly giant by a family of holiday makers. They say that they see in the rock a giant lying on his back, there's his head see, then the dip is his neck, his stomach's poking up towards the sky. That's where we swam on my birthday every year, from the Cape to The Brisons, gasping for air, clinging on to the rocks until we got our breath again, then the swim back. Yes, that's where he'll scatter me. And I'll be gone, far away from the tourists and their versions of what used to be my home.

About the author

Gillian Silverthorn grew up in a village in Hampshire before moving later in life to

Cornwall where she lives with her husband Kevin. In the last few years she has taken up writing short stories and poems.

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