Open Writing

Richard, the landlord at The Marquis of Lome, told Kirsty it was quicker to walk to the beach than drive there. "Cross that field and you're on the Coastal Road. It won't take you more than five minutes."

She had arrived the night before and Michael would be joining her on Friday afternoon when the conference ended. It had seemed an ideal opportunity to revisit Dorset and revive memories of that idyllic summer long ago.

Kirsty recognised the cottage which lay alongside the path down to the beach as the one the family had stayed in over twenty years before. She had been seven at the time. Ian, her brother, nine. The house didn't look as pretty as she remembered it. Kirsty realised it was no longer occupied. The windows were grimy and the paintwork peeling and shabby. Although the thatch looked in good condition, the once-colourful garden was now overgrown. What a pity, she thought as she peered into the empty, dusty dining room.

Then she noticed the 'FOR SALE' notice lying in the grass where it had been blown down by the wind. This charming old house was neglected and if it were left empty would soon become derelict.

Thoughtfully, she closed the gate behind her, and walked down to the sea. Everything here was as she remembered it. Completely unspoiled, the golden sands stretched out before her, and rock pools sparkled in the sunshine as brightly as they had all those years ago.

The little island still looked exciting and mysterious as it had seemed then. She recalled that first morning as if it were yesterday. Waking before anyone else, she had crept out of the cottage and run down to the seashore. The wooded island was shrouded in sea mist that morning, which lay like a hazy drifting curtain shimmering in the breeze over the water. Kirsty thought it resembled a picture in a storybook. It made her think of Long John Silver and Treasure Island.

She wandered contentedly along the beach, picking up shells and examining pebbles. Suddenly she saw a man coming out of the mist towards her from the island, and he appeared to be walking on the water. Watching him, Kirsty felt shivery and scared, because he seemed so strange.

He was a tall man with black curly hair and beard, and he carried a sack slung over his shoulder. He looked like a pirate with his high black boots and dark red shirt. She stood rigid watching him. Then he spotted Kirsty. Looking straight at her, he gave a slow wolfish smile. He had a mouth full of shiny gold teeth. Terrified, Kirsty dropped her sea shells and ran back to the cottage as fast as her little legs would carry her.

She didn't tell Mum or Dad, but she told Ian. He said not to be so daft. Nobody could walk on water, only Jesus. Kirsty agreed he didn't look a bit like Jesus, 'cept for the beard. Later on, she showed Ian the place where the pirate had appeared. They tried to walk out to the island, but the water was deep and the current too strong. He said she had imagined it, like Cousin Sally who said she'd seen a giant sitting at the foot of the bed when she had the flu that time.

Kirsty said, "Yes, well it had been very misty. Maybe he had been a ghost, but the gold teeth had looked very real." She never saw him again in the whole blissful fortnight they were there.

The island stayed with Kirsty. Even now she occasionally dreamt about it. Never frightening dreams. It was like an unfulfilled promise waiting for her. Something lovely, out of reach, near and yet far - as ephemeral as grasping at irridescent bubbles which you can never touch. Somehow over the next few days she must visit it.

That evening, after dinner, she asked Richard about getting over to the island. He told her that a man called Tom Treadgold owned it, and if Cora liked to go into the snug she would find him there. It was a cool evening and there was a log fire burning in the ingle-nook fireplace. A white-haired old man was sitting alone nursing a pint of bitter and eating a Cornish pasty. Kirsty talked to him about his island and asked him if it would be possible to visit it by boat.

He looked at her, his eyes sparkling, "Why bless your heart my dear, I'll take you over at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. No need for any boat. At low tide we can walk over there on the sand bank; it's a causeway when the water is low. You won't get more than your ankles wet, my beauty. I go over every morning to collect my lobsters from the pots on the far side of the island - like I've done ever since I were a lad."

Then he smiled broadly at her and in the firelight she saw the gold teeth she'd seen once before when she was a small girl, but now he looked benign, more like Father Christmas than Long John Silver, with his ruddy cheeks and snow-white hair and beard.

"That will be lovely, Mr Treadgold. I'll see you at seven tomorrow."

When Michael rang at ten o'clock, she told him she was having a wonderful time. She had managed to solve a childhood mystery which she'd tell him about on Friday. Also she had found a cottage which the estate agent assured her, with a little renovation, could be transformed into the country retreat that they had been seeking for so long.

Michel, intrigued, said he was looking forward to coming down and asked what the food at the Marquis was like.

"Marvellous!" Kirsty replied, "Especially the lobster thermadore. It's the best and freshest lobster you'll ever taste!"