Short story:

The locals had become accustomed to seeing her sitting or standing on the rock, the woman in grey silhouetted against the horizon. She was there at early light and still at dusk. At these times she merged into the background and almost seemed invisible, especially when she was hunched up, crouched on the rock, with her grey woollen shawl covering her hair. Most of the day though you could see her, silhouetted, watch her gazing out across the sea, staring at the point where the vast sky and the sea met.

They shook there heads and muttered when they first saw her there but gradually it became a normal part of the routine of village life. No one had the time to persuade her to change her ritual and if they had tried to it is doubtful that she would have listened to them.

 A bird is singing in the pine woods, the song is piercing the still evening air. 

There is a beautiful sadness to the tune as the notes rise and fall. At first it seems as if there is no one to witness this performance but a lone figure is walking through the wood along the well trodden path that leads to the sea-shore. Laurel pauses to look up at the small bird perched in the branches of a nearby tree. Seeing her it takes flight and soars high into the fading blue of the early evening sky.

It is late summer and although the day has been hot there is now none of it’s warmth left. The heat of the day has intensified the fragrant scent of pine oil and it lingers on as the evening air grows cooler. Occasionally the hem of Laurel's dress brushes against a clump of wild garlic and the smell of it is added to that of the pines. Shadows are beginning to darken in the wood as the light slowly begins to fade. Now at the edge of the wood she pauses, looks back, then almost immediately she turns to face the sea and walks forward to the place where the rickety wooden steps lead down to the beach.

In front of her the scene is dominated by the vast expanse of sea and sky, the colours are those of a watercolour picture its shades almost washed away in places. Dusk creeps into the scene and the darker patches of colour are beginning to merge with one another blending sea and sky. The air grows damper and tiny moisture droplets begin to form on the tips of the grasses that fringe the beach. The dunes and beach are deserted apart from this lone woman in a white muslin gown.

Laurel gathers the hem of her dress into her left hand and clenches the fabric to her side as she begins to descend. The steps to the beach are irregular and some are worn or set at odd angles so with her right hand she grasps the hand rail. She is moving as quickly as the dress and the uneven wooden treads will allow her.

A mist is beginning to roll in from the sea and the air has a definite chill to it now. Laurel stops to lift the shawl from her shoulders to cover her hair, a couple of wispy damp curls escape and her cling to her face. She now looks almost biblical; with the white muslin gown and the pale blue shawl now resting over her head and shoulders. For a moment, as she reaches the last tread of the steps it looks as if she will sink to her knees on the sand in a gesture of prayer. But she is just bending forward to slip off her shoes and then she places them on the last step as if they are not needed and are no longer her responsibility.

A sea mist is creeping up the shore line as she begins to walk across the sand. It envelopes her and she becomes almost invisible to anyone looking down from the top of the steps. The call of a fog horn startles her; but as with anyone who lives close to the sea she soon becomes accustomed to it’s sound. Undeterred by the reduced visibility or the dampness of the fog she walks slowly but purposefully forward.

It has taken her a year to arrive at this place and she does not know if she has been planning to come here forever or if it has just happened to her. She has dreamt of this moment so many times but now the reality of being here is blurred and the early clarity of her intention is as lost as the horizon. Wet sand is clinging to the hem of the thin muslin dress and it is weighing it down and dragging the section of hem that she is holding from her grasp. Laurel's feet are being sucked into the sand with each step she takes. In front of her the waves are growing more powerful and are pounding closer. Sea water is beginning to trickle between her toes and now around her ankles and then a stronger more powerful wave pounds against her shins before retreating.

The muslin dress is soaked and heavy with water, she tries to wringing the moisture from the hem but is defeated, she too is cold and her hands do not have the strength to try again. She lets go of the hem and the dress swirls around her ankles in the sea.

Laurel looks down at the ruined dress ahe remembers the dress being made for her. How proud she felt at the final fitting, how she had felt beautiful and like a lady when she tried it on. Jack had promised to bring a pair of satin shoes back from his travels for her to waer on their wedding day. She recalls the softness of the gauze veil that had frothed around her shoulders as she had waited for him in borrowed shoes. She had picked a posy of flowers and make a garland of blossom for her hair rested it over the veil. Then she had gone to meet him at the altar of the grey flint village church.

Now frozen and numb but not afraid, this must be the place was where she would find him. The sea was his first love he had told her. Being here makes more sense to her than much that has gone before. The fog horns mournful tone is relentlessly now; and she can also hear the sound of a rowing boat’s oars on the water.

Her voice silenced and trapped within her for months breaks free and calls aloud his name “Jack I’m here”

A light flickers and then it sweeps across the water reflecting off the white fabric of her dress,

"Get out of the water woman. Go back, you have to turn back!” a man in in the boat is yelling frantically at her.

She calls again “Jack I’m over here”     

Laurel walks forward stumbling towards the light, repeatedly calling his name.

In the boat someone is reaching forward to lift her out of the water his face is illuminated by the single light in the boat. Laurel she stares at him and then steps back, away from the boat. She calls the name again. He is not there and these men in the boat to her are just a diversion from her quest. Once again the man reaches forward and tries to catch hold of her but she wriggles and shakes herself free of his grasp.

Cursing, he climbs out over the side of the boat and follows her. They are now both waist deep in the water, and she continues to walk against the waves away from the boat. The boatman strides forward and gaining on her moves to take hold of her elbow but as he does so she slips and they both fall backwards and go under. Quickly he surfaces and realises he has been left clutching her shawl and that he can see no trace of her. He continues to duck under the water searching for her, but his attempts to locate her is unsuccessful. He calls to the other two men to bring the boat over. They row the boat back and forth sweeping the light in an arc from side to side. The search is unsuccessful and there is no trace of her to be found that night.

The village church was full of people and flowers on the day of her funeral. Very few of the villages knew that the coffin was empty except for her shoes, shawl and the sand and stones that they had added to weight it. Her body would probably be washed up in a place where no one knew of her, most likely on a spring flood tide. Oddly at certain times of day a shadow on the rock appeared to be looking out to sea.

The villagers never forgot the tragedy of it. Laurel's family and friends would tend the empty grave never knowing the truth. The villages would scatter flower petals on her grave on the anniversary of her death which was also the date she should have celebrated her wedding anniversary. The boatmen never forgot the night they lost young Laurel.

Strangers visiting the area would often wonder why there are posies of flowers placed on a large grey rock that juts out into the sea and who they saw siting there.

Neither of the two people who knew a further truth would dare to share it for they had no wish to add anger to the existing sadness. The knowledge that she had been died for the love of a man who had been unworthy of her love. Who had not as she thought been lost at sea on the eve of her wedding. The man who had left Laurel at the alter on their wedding day, while he caught a ship out of Portsmouth. It was probably the villages best kept a secret.

The copyright to these words/this short story and the photo are mine and may not be copied without my consent.

Some parts of this story come from the place I live or areas near to it. The flight of wooden steps and the pine wood are real and are along the coast at a holiday beach. My first house was near the coast and I could hear the mournful sound of the fog horn on days when there was a fog at sea and we knew when the lifeboat went out because we could hear the 'flares'. In the past, both of my parents had grandfathers who were fishermen .