Open Writing

All morning it had rained. Rivulets ran down the windowpane, and the small boy gazing out sighed heavily. "Will it ever stop do you think, or will it be like Noah's flood?"

His mother looked up from the letter she was writing. "Oh James! Of course it won't. I can see a patch of blue sky from here. Give it another half hour and everywhere will be steaming. Then we'll go down to the beach if you like."

"If we do, I'll take my kite and go up on the dunes." Dad had given it to him as a present when he had left for Iraq a month before. James knew it would fly well up there, or on the headland where there was always a breeze.

Con put down her pen, stretched her arms and stood up. She walked across to the window, putting a hand on his shoulder as she looked out. Mother and son were alike - slightly built, dark haired with bright blue eyes. James knew he favoured his mother, everyone said so.

At that moment the sun came out. "There you are, James, it's stopping, and look there's a rainbow. I think that would please Noah, don't you?"

After lunch they descended the narrow path which ran along the back of the cottage. Alongside the path a drystone wall marked the boundary of High Ridge Farm. James went there every morning to collect the milk.

John and Caro Bennett lived at the farm, but they were away at boarding school until Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. Mr Bennett had told him that yesterday, when he and his mother had arrived. He was looking forward to seeing them both again and helping on the farm. Perhaps Caro would let him ride her pony as she did last summer.

They crossed the coast road and walked down the winding sandy path to the beach. Constance carried a canvas satchel containing her sketchbook, watercolours, a flask of juice and some biscuits. Today was the first time for weeks she had felt relaxed enough to paint.

They had bought the cottage long before James was born. It was small, two bedrooms, a living area and kitchen. They had built the bathroom themselves. The cottage retained the simple qualities that had attracted them in the first place. They had electricity but they still used Tilley lamps, appreciating the soft lighting they gave. The front door came from an old sailing ship - the door of the Captain's cabin.

Mariner's cottage was their bolt-hole. Although Robert loved the Army, he and Constance needed this place as a refuge for the peace and quiet it provided, far removed from the routine of army life. When Robert had left on his second tour in Iraq, Constance had waited impatiently for the end of the school term before packing the car and heading for Cornwall.

Above all she loved the beach, that lonely stretch of sand leading to the promontory and the lighthouse. Being here gives me such a sense of re-birth she thought. She loved the slightly rank primeval smell and damp sticky touch of salt on her skin. Closing her eyes, she listened to the sounds of the wind and sea. It felt great to be back!

Looking around for James, she saw him running up the slope to the sand dunes, the wind blowing the hair back off his face. Discarded trainers lay on the wet sand. Kite in hand he scrambled the last few yards up the bank. The sea shimmered so diamond bright it hurt her eyes; the intense light on this stretch of beach made everything sharp and clear. This was a perfect day for painting.

Con sat sketching the bay and the far end of the beach leading to the lighthouse, where the dunes curved into the headland. From where she sat on the rocks, she could see James clearly. He hadn't managed yet to get his kite off the ground. If he didn't succeed in the next ten minutes, then she would wander up there and offer to help, aware he would probably reject her offer. She was proud of his dogged determination.

Thinking back, Robert's last day had begun so well. They had made love at first light. What began in sleepy tenderness, climaxed in fierce, passionate love-making. Later Con had cried, suddenly fearful, overwhelmed by an unprecedented sense of loss. Robert held her close, whispering, "Don't cry, love. It will be alright. I'll be back soon." He kissed her softly, "Think of us and the nightingale."

And Con remembered the beech tree in the lane at Mariner's cottage and the nightingale. On warm summer evenings, after James was in bed, Robert and she would linger in their garden to hear the small bird singing while they stood in the night-scents of honeysuckle and sweet Jasmine.
Hearing a cry she looked up and saw the kite finally airborne, swaying majestically. James waved wildly with his free hand. Feeling a fierce surge of pride and happiness she returned the wave. It would be alright, it must be!

The colours were coming together well in her painting. She had completed most of the foreground and the lighthouse. The sky would be difficult though. She always had trouble with skies, knowing she could be heavy-handed blending the colours. In one particular painting she had attempted a sunset. The result was dreadful. Robert, when she, bewailing her lack of talent showed it to him, had laughed. "Darling, all it needs are the four horsemen of the Apocalypse and you'd have Armageddon."

Con took the teasing for she realised that when it came to painting she was a novice and Robert was a natural. When he finished his time in the Army they would move here permanently - and he would paint. He had already sold a few pictures; his paintings of the war zone had been highly praised.

Weighing down the corners of the paper with pebbles, Con rose and picked up the flask and biscuits. Making her way across the beach, she noticed James had disappeared and was now on the other side of the ridge, but she could still see the kite. Reaching the top she saw him totally engrossed controlling it in the wind, which was much stronger up here.

"You did well James. Have something to drink and a few biscuits. I’ll hold the line for you."

"It's fabulous, isn't it Mum. It was difficult at first, but Dad told me how to do it."

Con stayed a few minutes, surprised at the strength of the wind along the ridge. James was happy and he required no help from her. Wandering back along the beach she blessed Robert's thoughtfulness. It was typical of him to tell James how to handle the kite before he left. Sitting down, she contemplated the unfinished picture and sighed: 'Now for the sky.'

Sheltered in her small escarpment of rocks, Constance saw the clouds scudding above the bay. Even the gulls were having a hard time of it against the sharp flurries of wind.

Painting in the first wash of blue she clearly heard Robert's voice, "What next Con? No, not grey, love. Look, above the promontory, that shading is almost lilac. Yes, that's right."

She found herself confidently blending and applying colours she had never noticed before in the sky. As if in a dream she realised that for the first time she was seeing with a true artist's eye. Across the centre of the painting the clouds warmed from beige to peach. There were touches of pale yellow - No, quite a large amount of yellow on the horizon, as a backdrop to a small, swiftly-moving sailing yacht. Behind the lighthouse and in the upper right hand corner the cloud was now dove grey faintly streaked with magenta.

At last it was finished. All the while she had painted, Robert's voice had spoken to her. Not once had this seemed strange, but encouraging and comforting.

Washing her brushes and drying them, the realisation of what had occurred suddenly hit her. It was as if she had repossessed herself. Her heart thumping painfully in her chest and feeling panic-stricken, she sprang to her feet. Something had happened to Robert. Why on earth should she have heard his voice as clearly as if he had been standing beside her? Was she mad? Robert was dead, was that it?

She was no Saint Joan hearing voices, neither was she schizoid. Sensible, pragmatic Constance, the woman half the girls on the base came to for advice. Heavens! She didn't believe in ghosts! Lately she hardly believed in God anymore.

Looking up Con saw James plodding tiredly across the beach. She must be calm and get things into perspective. Above all, she must not frighten James.

"Hello, you're just in time."

James, smiling, raised his head, "Wasn't it great Mum. I've had a smashing time." Hair tousled, cheeks flushed by the wind and eyes shining with health and happiness, he sat down and pulled on his trainers. "Did you finish your picture?"

When she handed him the sketchpad, he looked carefully at it. "You are clever, and the sky looks wonderful. Just like that picture in Grandpa's study."

Con remembered the print hung above her father's desk and flushed with pleasure. How perceptive of James to remember the Corot. Con laughed. She wasn't going crazy, just suffering from an over-active imagination after weeks of worry. Putting her arms around James she hugged him hard. He giggled, "I say, steady the Buffs, Mum," and they both laughed.

Later as she was preparing dinner her mobile rang. It was an official speaking from the Ministry of Defence, informing her that Major Robert Tyzak had been injured that morning in an incident while returning to headquarters. Robert was in the Military Hospital where, having undergone surgery, he was now out of danger, and as comfortable as could be expected. The caller sounded very kind, but could give no more information beyond leaving Con a telephone number to contact first thing in the morning.

Thank God Robert was alive and out of danger. Better not tell James. I'll tell him tomorrow after I phone. Feeling calmer, she carried on making dinner. After they had eaten and once James was asleep, she called her parents. Robert's parents were dead, but she called Kate, his sister, to let her know what had happened.

Next morning, after a restless night's sleep, she rang the hospital. The British liaison officer was very helpful. Major Tyzak had received a shrapnel wound in his right leg the previous morning. Although not life-threatening, the injury had involved extensive surgery as there had been considerable muscle and tendon damage. But Mrs Tyzak must not worry as the operation had been successful. Major Tyzak would be flown home at the weekend to an orthopedic hospital, where he would be able to receive visitors.

Shaking with relief, she now knew all would be well and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. Then going to the open door she called James.

On the following Saturday afternoon, arriving at the hospital, James took Con's hand as they entered the small ward. There were four beds. Robert's was in the corner by a window. He lay propped up with pillows and there was a cage over his legs. He must be feeling much better though, for he beamed as soon as he saw them. "Hello - you're both a sight for sore eyes."

James rushed forward into his father's embrace. Robert fussed over his excited young son. "Did they give you the shrapnel Dad? Can I see it?"

"Yes, you little monster. Have a look in the drawer in my locker. It's in a white plastic box."

While James gloated over the grim souvenir and ate his father's grapes, Robert looked at his wife. "Come here Con." He put his arms around her. "It's going to be great you know. Maybe I'll have a limp, and I'm never going to win a lovely legs competition. But, Con, there will be no more Iraq and no more Army - and I can't say I'm sorry."

Eyes shining Con looked at him, "I think eighteen years is plenty long enough, don't you."

"When I came round from the anaesthetic I felt pretty groggy, but I'd had the most amazing dream all about us on our beach. And I knew then there would be no more Army. It was so real - like an out-of-body experience."

"I know, Robert," said Constance. Then she showed him her painting.