Occasionally, you wake up, and don’t know where you are or are confused and disorientated. However, when I wakened on the first morning in my own little cottage home there was a smile on my face.


Changes
Chapter 18
By Susan Brown

People--people who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world,
We're children, needing other children
And yet letting our grown-up pride
Hide all the need inside,
Acting more like children
Than children.

Merrill, Robert; Styne, Jule

Previously…

I shut down my computer and switched off the light. I thought that I would have been more upset than I actually was; I was a bit, but not as much as had I expected. Pondering on it for a few moments I realised why I wasn’t upset. Olivia and Nigel were in my past and I wanted to close the book on my past. I had lived my life through them up to now and I was living my own life now and making my own decisions.

Olivia’s desperation and Nigel’s blatant and biased bribery had left an extremely sour taste in my mouth, and I wanted nothing to do with them anymore. I would take copies of the emails to Katie tomorrow and let her deal with them. I was determined never to speak to Olivia or Nigel again if at all possible and with that happy thought, I turned over and went fast asleep.

And now the story continues…

Occasionally, you wake up, and don’t know where you are or are confused and disorientated. However, when I wakened on the first morning in my own little cottage home there was a smile on my face. I knew exactly where I was and as the sunlight through the chink in the curtains fell directly on my face. I was truly happy.

I yawned and stretched. No after-binge headache today–I had been a good girl last night and was “tea total”; well not strictly tea total more cola, coffee, hot chocolate and tea total. I tittered to myself at that. I was beginning to sound a bit ditzy!

Checking my watch I discovered that it was seven o’clock, all bar a few minutes. That was early for me as I didn’t normally surface until much later when I wasn’t working in that dreadful job.

‘It must be the sea air,’ I thought, ‘that and the seagull’s early morning alarm calls.’

I got out of the warm bed and found it was slightly cool in the bedroom–the heat of the sun not yet working its magic, but I didn’t mind. Padding from the bedroom and into the bathroom, I sat on the loo and did the necessary. After washing my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror.

‘Not a bad face,’ I thought critically. I wouldn’t win a beauty contest, but at least I looked reasonably girlie with my thin face, button nose and eyes that were big and blue. My hair looked like a seagull had nested in it so I gave it a good brushing, glad that I would be going to the salon later with Jocasta. I smiled at the thought of Jocasta and the salon. Despite my slight protests, I was really looking forward to it, but Jo, she didn’t like the idea at all. If she had her hair properly styled and not half covering her face, it would make all the difference. Under that curtain, there was a very pretty face peering out.

I went downstairs and made myself a coffee. Taking the steaming mug back upstairs, I decided to sit on the balcony and look out on the harbour and sea beyond. I was lucky that the position of the balcony meant that I wasn’t overlooked by anyone. It was nice to pull the heavy curtains back, letting the warming sun stream in, allowing me to just stand there and take in the lovely and picturesque scenery. The garden looked particularly lovely this morning and I decided I should get a book about which flower was which–with plenty of pretty pictures and words of one syllable because, as a former city-dweller, anything more complicated than a rose stretched my knowledge of flowers to the extreme.

I hadn’t bothered with my dressing gown as I was quite warm. My thin nylon nightie felt wonderful as it brushed against my smooth skin, catching whispers of the gentle breeze as it wafted gently off sea. I sighed and sat down on the chair and took a sip of my coffee.

It was gorgeous here. I could really get used to waking up early every morning and doing just this–weather permitting of course. It probably wouldn’t be appropriate when there was a force 8 gale or raining cats and dogs; but still, when I could, I would try to get up early and make full use of the day whenever possible.

I finished my coffee and just sat there in my own little world, smiling. I looked lazily to my left where there was a colourful bed of plants. I wasn’t interested in that, but I was interested in the fact that there was a man standing there, ogling me! Here was I, virtually naked in a diaphanous nightie, staring at a man in my garden.

With a small ‘eek,’ I scuttled inside, shut the door and closed the curtains. With my heart pounding nineteen to the dozen, I was all of a quiver.

Then Samantha, the strong, brave, decisive girl took over and–I rang the police.

Maybe a word of explanation is needed here: the police force of Penmarris Cove, according to that fount of all knowledge, Jocasta, is one PC Len Troughton who lives in a cottage that doubles as a police station, down by the quay. Crime wasn’t rife in Penmarris except when dogs fowled the footpaths or young kids ‘borrowed’ sweets from Mrs Pickles Sweet Emporium; not forgetting Billy Bates, of course, the local drunk who always spends Saturday nights locked in one of the bedrooms that serve as the jail, for being drunk and disorderly in charge of a dog.

The only major crime in living memory was when there was a fiddle going on involving a tombola/bingo ring several years ago. The perpetrators got away with no less than fifty pounds before being caught and sentenced to one month’s community service. Dark days for Penmarris and the community had only just managed to get over the scandal.

PC Len, was a local who knew almost everyone. His usual form of punishment was of a practical nature, such as a clip round the ears of cheeky kids and a swift kick up the backside to erring male adults. Women who caused problems were dealt with by his wife, Deirdre, who used the village grapevine to broadcast transgressions. Strangely enough the crime rate among the women of Penmarris was virtually zero.

Anyway, I rang the local “police station”.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes’m’

Is that PC Troughton?’

‘Yes’m.’

‘I have an intruder in my garden.’

‘You’m Samantha Smart?’

‘Yes.’

‘That be Arthur then.’

‘Arthur?’

‘Yes’m.’

‘W…Who’s Arthur?’

‘Arthur Pearson.’

‘Oh, Mr Pearson, Mrs Pearson’s husband?’

‘Yes’m.’

‘So he isn’t lurking ready to pounce on me then?’

‘No’m, not with his lumbago, like.’

‘Oh…sorry to call you.’

‘’S’all right’m.’

He put the ’phone down and I could tell by his voice that Mrs PC Troughton would have a lot to tell the ladies at the next Women’s Institute Morning. How was it that everyone knew so much about everyone? I wondered how long it would take for the whole community to know about me and everything that had happened in my complicated life?

Feeling a bit foolish, I rushed to the bathroom, had a quick wash–no time for a shower–then slipping on a t-shirt, Capri pants and sandals, I went downstairs and out into the garden.

Mr Pearson was doing strange things with a hoe, so I tried to avert my eyes from the plant decapitation that he was involved in and just said, ‘Hello.’

He was puffing on a pipe and by the smell of it, he had filled it with seagull droppings. There was a bit of a fog around him, caused by the smoke, but I could just about see his bristled and lined face.

He sort of squinted at me . ‘Miss’m?

‘Erm–I’m Samantha.’

‘Yes’m.’

He was peering at me myopically through the smoke of his pipe. I was glad that the gentle breeze took the smoke away from me; otherwise I might have needed a gas mask. I breathed a bit of a sigh of relief, as I realised that Mr Pearson couldn’t see much further than the end of his nose.

‘Erm–cup of tea?’

‘Yes’m’

‘Another man of few words.’ I thought, as I made him his tea (‘four sugars, ’m’) I wondered what sort of conversations he had with his wife. Short and to the point, I presumed.

‘Sex’m?

‘Allright m’dear.’

I giggled at that rather naughty thought and took the mug of tea and a couple of shortcake biscuits down to him.

‘Thanks’m’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘Ye be er purty li’l maid,’ he said squinting at me.

‘Erm–thanks.’

'Ah be bleaized d'zee ye.'

‘Right, okay, well I have to go out now. Thanks again, byee.’

I went back indoors and wondered if the dirty old sexagenarian was as blind as he seemed.

As I sat eating my cornflakes, I wondered why he had started work so early? I shrugged thinking that it must be a country thing; you know up with the lark–around here the seagull–and in bed at sunset.

‘Anyway, enough wool gathering,’ I thought. I was a girl with a mission. I washed up my breakfast things–nothing as modern as a dish washer here–so I left the crocks to drain, went upstairs to the studio, grabbed a sketchbook and my pencils and went for a walk, taking my cagoule, just in case. The weather here could change from bright sunshine to raging torrent in a blink of an eye and it was wise to be prepared.

I went up the lane to the style, climbed over and followed the signs that led to the West Coast Path.

With a lot of puffing and panting, I eventually arrived at the top and began walking along the path which followed the cliff edge until I reached to side of the cove. There was a bench seat there and on it was a brass plaque that said, ‘To my Darling Rachel, she loved this spot.’

With a lump in my throat I sat down. The seat overlooked the whole cove with the harbour, the quay and the two beaches. I could see why Rachel loved it, I did too!

Soon I was sketching the scene. My pencil flew across the paper as my hand took control of me. It was always like this. I had been worried that I might have forgotten my skills. It had been so long–too long really–since I had flexed my artistic muscles like this.

I took in the scene before me, imprinting it not only on the paper but in my mind. I could picture myself in the depths of winter in my fantastic studio, painting this scene from memory. While it was wild, windy and wet outside, I would recall with my paints the lovely summer’s day when I sat on Rachel’s seat, drinking in the view and putting on canvas what she had seen.

After an hour, I remembered that I had to get a move on. I was going into town with Jocasta and we had things to do and places to go. I put my traps together and hurried down the path. It was easier going downhill and I was soon back at the cottage. Mr Pearson must have finished, as there was no sign of him except the strange smell of his tobacco–or whatever it was.

I had a quick shower, changed into a white top and black skirt and then had a slice of toast and marmalade and a cup of coffee. Just as I finished, there was a knock on the door.

‘Hi, Jo,’

‘Hello, yourself. Are you ready for the torture?’

‘What shopping?’

‘Wash your mouth out, girl, we’ll have no such blasphemy here; whatever would David think. No, the hairdresser, where sane people fear tread.’

‘It sounds like you have a phobia.’

‘I have, it’s known in medical circles as salon phobia.’

‘You really are scared.’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you care to elaborate?’

‘Not on your carpet.’

‘Don’t joke about it, tell Auntie Samantha.’

We sat at the kitchen table, with the inevitable cups of tea. It took her a few moments to collect her thoughts. I could see she was upset. It was strange; I hadn’t seen Jo like this before.

‘I was a young girl and was taken to the hairdresser's by Mummy. I was quite excited because, previously, she she had always cut my hair; but as I was getting older, she said that I needed to get my hair cut professionally. I thought that it was great and very grown up to have my hair styled like an adult. Anyway, we went to the salon that Mummy always used. As soon as I walked in, the smell hit me–ammonia or something; anyway, as we sat waiting, I looked through some magazines and chose the style I wanted. Mummy poo-pooed a few as being far too old and unsuitable for an eleven-year-old girl, but eventually we found a style we both liked.’

She paused for a moment to have another sip of tea. I noticed that her hand was shaking slightly.

‘Well anyway, the time came for me to have my hair done. I had it washed by a junior: that was good, as my hair smelt rather nice after the conditioner had been put on. Mummy had gone off to have her hair styled and I was led over to a chair and sat down.

As I listened to Jocasta, I had thought at first that she was joking, perhaps pulling my leg, but this wasn’t the case and she seemed to find it hard to continue.

‘Go on,’ I encouraged.

‘Well, this young girl came over and I showed her the picture of the style I wanted. She seemed a bit nervous for some reason but I was caught up with the “salon experience” and didn’t take much notice at the time. Anyway, she began cutting my wet hair and kept glancing at the picture in the magazine. I was looking at myself in the mirror imagining how glamorous and grown up I would look when my hair was done and whether I could persuade Mummy to let me have some makeup–to complete the picture, when across the other side of the salon, there was a huge crash. Someone had dropped something.’

She stopped and gulped down some more tea, almost like it was a whisky to give her strength to continue.

‘The stylist’s hand holding the scissors jumped at the noise and I felt a stabbing pain in my ear. I screamed, the girl screamed and when I put my hand to my ear, I discovered I was bleeding badly. I fainted and didn’t know any more until I woke up in hospital.’

‘W…what?’

Jocasta lifted her hair away from the left side of her face and I saw her ear lobe was jagged and torn.

‘Oh, Jo.’

‘Yes, she had done this to me and I had fainted with shock. It turns out that she was newly qualified and had only worked there for three months. I was the second person that she had been allowed to work on unsupervised.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Well, she got the sack, we got an out of court settlement and I have dreaded going anywhere near a salon ever since.’

She had tears in the corner of her eyes and I knew that this had affected her a great deal. It might sound silly to someone without feelings but I could see that she was still suffering and would do every time she looked in the mirror.

‘Why are you coming with me then?’

She sniffed and smiled.

‘Because I must get over this and exorcise the demon; just like you are getting over painful things by being positive. I need someone who can help me with this and I feel you fit the bill admirably, don’t you think?’

‘I’m not special.’

‘Yes you are, girl, but you don’t realise it yet. Why do you think everyone is falling over backwards to help you?’

‘My happy smiling and willing personality?’ I joked.

‘Exactly…’

‘I was only joking.’

‘That’s it. You don’t realise that when people see you, they see someone determined to get over their problems and overcome obstacles like your wife and father-in-law trying to ruin your life. If you can do it then so can I. Shall we go?’

‘Yes, but I want you to promise me something?’

‘What?’

‘That you go and see the doctor and he refers you to a plastic surgeon. I cannot believe that your parents didn’t insist on it when the accident happened or why it has not occurred to you since.’

‘It happened a long time ago and plastic surgery wasn’t even considered by me or my parents. I have always had long hair and you couldn’t see my ears anyway.’

‘That’s a feeble excuse, Jo. Now, are you going to be a good girl and do what Samantha says?’

She smiled doubtfully and just said, ‘Okay,’ in a small voice.

‘Don’t sulk, Jo, or you won’t have any lunch.’

We looked at each other and giggled.

---

To Be Continued...

The Cove By Liz Wright

Please leave comments...thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing and pulling the story into shape.