by Sheila Kinsella
Matcha
The twitching flare of the lighthouse lamp flashes against
the walls. Every ten seconds, a quick white flash illuminates the windows. I
sit in the darkness listening to the wind howl across the barren shingle. The
chimney rattles like a tin can rolling down an empty street. The windows
whistle. Rain clatters on the corrugated iron roof.
After a
sleepless night, morning brings a stark winter light peppered by watery
sunshine.
The milk has turned. Toast for one.
The cat hogs the wood-burning stove. She glares at me with her little
pansy-like face, miaowing indignantly when I shift her.
Through my
hall window, I see the stark, angular outline of the power station in the
distance. The old lighthouse, a few hundred yards away appears miniature in
comparison.
My home is
a converted 1880s railway carriage embedded in the pebbles in the unique
landscape of Dungeness nature reserve. There are no boundaries, the panorama is
desolate but beautiful, with wooden houses and expansive gravel pits.
As I wash
up, I look out over the flat pebbled landscape towards the sea. The view is
punctuated by odd cabbage-like Sea Kale and Blackthorns and the odd fishing
tackle shed. Winding wooden pathways criss-cross the beach. If you follow the
route it's as if there's nothing beyond but a mass of sea and sky until
suddenly the path ends, and the shingle drops abruptly down to the sea. The
light is spectacular.
I added a
small outhouse to the south-facing side of the carriage to work and display my
artwork in the summer months. In winter, I work in my living room, spreading my
paints out over my desk. It’s a solitary existence, but I never much liked
people anyway. The cold of the winter months makes my knuckles swell, but as
long as I can paint, I’m happy.
My daughter
worries about me. She telephones every day. Why don’t I get one of those
sheltered flats they have in town? Not bloody likely.
‘Hello!’
I’m not
expecting anyone. Then I remember, it’s the supermarket delivery man.
‘Come in,
it’s open!’ I shout back.
‘Hi, how
are you?’ He comes in and sets the bags on the kitchen table.
‘I’m fine
thanks. On your way out can you just pop the milk and tins in the outhouse for
me please?’ I reply.
‘Sure,’
Ivan separates them from the other shopping.
‘There you
go, no replacements,’ Ivan says.
‘There you
go love,’ I give him a couple of pounds.
‘Thanks.’
Well, he’s
only a kid, after all.
‘Oh, by the
way, the coast guard told me there’s been a sighting of migrant boats off the shoreline.
‘You might want to lock your doors,’ his young face is etched with concern.
‘Ok,
thanks. See you next week.’
I check his
story on the internet. The government has planes ready to fly immigrants who cross
the channel in small boats back to France.
The nearest
neighbour is two-hundred yards away in another railway carriage. We don’t
socialise much, but we keep an eye out for each other. Dungeness is a remote,
but safe place. We don’t need to secure our doors here.
It’s a damp
start to the day and I’m grateful for my thermal underwear. Living alone you
can wear what you like. My choice is layers that I peel off according to the
weather. The scenery around here comes into its own when the weather is grim. I
pull on my puffer coat and straight away feel like Michelin Man, gloves scarf,
the lot, pull the door to and walk to the beach.
The
rain-laden clouds are grey as a dove’s belly. The wind rips the hair from my
head. There’s not a soul about. The wooden pathway creaks underfoot as I walk. It
stops abruptly and my feet sink into the clattering pebbles for the final drag
to the sea. In the distance to the east,
I see the white chalk cliffs near Folkestone and to the west Beachy Head. Straight
ahead is France. A strong south-westerly blows. White-crested waves crash their
foam on the shore. Seagulls hover on the thermals, dipping up and down. Their
squawking is carried away on the wind. Nature’s elements surround me, I feel
alive.
The climb
back up to the path takes longer than the descent. Back at the house, I lay my
beach finds on the table. A strange flat chalkstone with two holes like eyes. A
battered cuttlefish and some seaweed with bubbles. The woodstove is burning a
treat, its powerful throw of heat warms the room.
As I hang
my coat and scarf on the back of the kitchen door, I notice muddy footprints on
the floor. I mop them up, I must have forgotten to wipe my boots on the mat
outside. The fear of becoming forgetful is ever-present.
I rub my
hands together in front of the fire, stretching my fingers out and making
fists, again and again, to loosen them up before beginning to paint. I love
painting the sea, trying to bring it to life on the canvas. Sometimes I stand
for hours swaying back and forth to inject energy into the work to capture the
movement of the waves. Hours pass unnoticed. Using a large brush, I pick up
some white and stipple it into the blue/grey while it's still wet, blending the
edges softly.
The sudden
noise of the door slamming shut startles me.
‘Is anybody
there?’ I pause mid-stroke, put the
brush down and go to investigate.
A trail of
cereal leads from the kitchen cupboard to the door, but the box is nowhere to
be seen. Footprints. Again. Small footprints.
It’s not a
fox.
I ease open
the door and tiptoe outside. The outhouse door is ajar, but a sudden gust of
wind hurls it shut. I grab an old walking stick I was gifted but refuse to use
and grasp it raised with both hands.
‘Come out
whoever you are!’
Nothing.
With one
hand I fling the door wide, ready to strike with the stick in the other.
Sobbing.
A wretched
tiny figure rises from behind the canvases, hands raised.
A boy.
‘Come out
where I can see you,’ I say, armed with my cane.
A boy
wearing a hat and tattered rags emerges from the hut. Streaks of dirty tears
trickle down his face.
I feel an
outpouring of empathy for this human being. I remember Mother making me watch a
film of the torrent of displaced persons traipsing across Europe after the
Second World War. ‘Maria, we were all escaping something,’ she used to say.
‘Are you
hungry?’
No reply.
Just sobs.
When I
realise that he is no threat to me, I lower the cane. He flinches at the sudden
movement.
‘Speak
English?’
He is
trembling. Cold. Fear. Both?
‘Come,’ I
gesture for him to follow me into the house. ‘I’ll fix you some food.’
He huddles
outside against the wall of the house, waiting. He must be hungry, otherwise
he’d run. Although there’s nowhere to run to.
I give him
a chicken and salad sandwich on a plate. Dark eyes stare gratitude at me.
‘Thank
you,’ he says before attacking the food.
‘Water?’ I
fill a large glass at the tap and give it to him. He hands me the empty plate.
He drinks
the water and hands me the glass.
Once he realises
that I will not hurt him, his shoulders drop, and he wipes his tears with the
sleeve of his jacket.
His
features are delicate, a neat nose, high cheekbones, little flesh and huge eyes
like pools of tar. Pretty.
We begin
this ritual, he and I. Morning, noon and night. Feeding times. He sleeps in the
outhouse where I fashioned an airbed and a sleeping bag to keep him warm. He
asks to read my books. I give him my emergency torch to read by.
Day after
day, he unwinds and his story slowly spills forth, drip by drip.
On day
four, he enters the house.
‘Beautiful
painting,’ he says when he sees the canvas.
His voice is
high pitched and unbroken.
I watch as
he stands in front of the painting and wonder if I have some of my husband’s
old clothes that might fit, for he was a skinny man.
It is at
that point that I notice a dark wine-coloured stain seeping through the back of
his trousers.
He is a
girl.
She is
Hiba. Her family was killed by a bomb that hit their home in Aleppo. She
disguised herself as a boy to escape.
About the author
Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw inspiration from her Irish upbringing. Blessed with abundant natural curiosity, Sheila lures the reader into a shrewdly observed world via imagery and comedy.
Sheila graduated with an MA in Creative Writing (Distance Learning) from Lancaster University in the United Kingdom in 2017.
