Читать книгу Sea Music - Sara MacDonald, Sara MacDonald - Страница 6

It is not cold here in this land of blue sea, but shafts of ice reach out to pierce my skin with memory of coldness. Sometimes I dream of snow and the muffled silence it brings. I dream of snow with the sun glistening on its smooth surface, catching tiny particles of blue ice, incandescent and blinding.

I wake in the dark in a strange place of fierce storms and I remember what horror can lie beneath the silent beauty of snow.

I listen to Fred breathing beside me, his body warm. He is far away in sleep and the faces swoop down at me in the dark, their voices hover in the air, like distant whispers I cannot capture.

I get out of bed, go downstairs and wander about the little cottage, afraid that this life is only a dream and I am about to wake. I sit in the corner chair by the window and wait for the sun to rise out of the black water.

I will hear Fred wake, I will hear the bed creak, then his bare footsteps coming down the stairs. He will come to where I sit and he will reach out gently to stop me rocking. He will fold me in his arms, then he will pick me up as if I weigh nothing, throwing his hair out of his eyes, as he carries me back up the stairs to bed.

He will hold me tight to him and I will breathe him into me. This is my life. I have this life now, here with him. I can feel him smiling into my hair as he tells me about the plans for our new house across the garden.

How can this beautiful man love me? But he does. He does.

I will not always be this in-between person who walks on the sand dunes above the glittering sea, watching my dark shadow move ahead of me as we walk together, the girl I was, the woman I am now.

The house is almost finished. We live here in the cottage all the time now. No more long journeys at weekends. The house is wonderful. Light is everywhere; it fills every corner, it slides across the floor and colours the rooms in buttery sun. Great windows open up and let the untamed garden into the house.

I am so happy I tremble. I kiss Fred’s hands because I cannot speak. I run through the empty rooms laughing and Fred leans in the doorway, his long legs crossed, pushing tobacco into his pipe, watching me with those dark eyes that hold love and amusement.

I make myself walk into the village. I am afraid at first. People stare because I am foreign. Sometimes, in the shop, they stop talking. When I am nervous I forget my English. Then, slowly, people begin to talk to me and I learn their names.

The farm workers in the fields behind the house bring me vegetables and creamy milk from the farm. Fred laughs at me – he says I flirt atrociously – but it is not, as he teases me, because I am floosy, it is only because I am so thin.

The builders’ rubble has been taken away. At last we move in. I can plan the garden. It is going to be perfect. One day Fred comes home with a little mixed dog and we call him Puck. I love him. When we walk on the beach, people come up to me and they ask, ‘How is Puck? How are you?’

Summer is here, the fierce winds are warmer, but I am ill and cannot bear to go out. Fred is pale with worry. Suddenly the doctor tells me I am having a baby. I cannot believe this, I have to keep saying it over and over. After all we have been told, Fred and I are having a baby.

Fred says I must not hope too much, it is early days, I must be careful. But I know. I know this child will be born.

When Fred goes back to London to work for his finals and he cannot see to worry, I dance round the garden and sing because of the happiness of this incredible miracle.

Christmas comes and then the New Year. I lie in my bed, or in a chair that Fred places by the window in the sun. I am careful, waiting. Waiting for spring and my baby.

Our child, a boy, arrives safely on 18 March 1951. He weighs 6lbs 2oz. We call him Barnaby, after one of Fred’s favourite uncles. Barnaby. Such an English name.

Small shoots spring from my feet and take hold in this light, sandy soil and root me here in this extraordinary foreign place filled with blue sea and sky. The past is gone. Marta is gone. My future is here. Is now. I am Martha Tremain, the doctor’s wife. This is who I am.