Eden Cove: a Sapphic-themed mini-story

I Sarah could have walked from the caravan to the beach blindfolded. She knew where the cliff path narrowed between the gorse bushes, where the wooden handrail wobbled and where the path dipped sharply enough to catch out unsuspecting grandparents. She knew which machine in the café swallowed ten-pence pieces. She knew the exact point during the weekly talent show when her father would begin singing along. She knew all this because she had spent every August of her seventeen years at Eden Cove. Her mother called it a proper family holiday. Her father called it good value for money. Sarah knew several words for it. Most were unprintable. The sea glittered beyond the caravans exactly as it had the year before and the year before that. Children shrieked around the swimming pool. A radio played somewhere. A gull circled overhead with the determined expression of a professional thief. Her father emerged from the caravan carrying his folding deckchair. The same deckchair. Sarah was beginning to suspect it might outlive them all. "Now this," he said, lowering himself into it, "is living." Sarah looked at the chair. Then at him. "Is it?" Her mother, already unpacking melamine plates, gave her the look reserved for daughters who were determined to spoil everything before teatime. By the second afternoon Sarah had exhausted the campsite"s possibilities. The games room contained two pinball machines and a boy with a do-it-yourself haircut. The swimming pool smelt as though someone had tried to drown a hospital. The shop sold postcards, sherbet fountains, sun cream and magazines featuring women who had apparently lost four stone by Thursday. Sarah was standing by the freezer cabinet, considering whether boredom could be cured by a Zoom lolly, when she heard a voice outside say: "You can"t keep it. It"s probably got a family." She looked through the doorway. A fair-haired girl was crouched on the step, addressing a small boy who held a crab in a yellow bucket. She wore faded denim shorts and a red T-shirt, and her knees were scratched white with dried salt. An ice cream had melted down one wrist without troubling her. "Crabs don"t have families," the boy said. "How do you know?" "They"re horrible." "So"s Uncle Len, but we still take him home after Christmas." The boy considered this. The girl tipped the crab gently back into the bucket and stood, licking vanilla from the side of her thumb. Then she glanced towards the shop. Their eyes met. Sarah pretended to examine the magazine rack. When she looked again, the girl had gone, leaving only a damp half-moon on the step where the bucket had been. That evening, while her parents were bemoaning the absence of National Service with a couple from Wolverhampton, Sarah saw the girl again crossing the field barefoot, the yellow bucket swinging from one hand. The boy trotted after her. "Vicky! Wait!" Vicky turned, laughing. The evening sun caught the fine hairs along her arm. Sarah looked away at once. Then, a moment later, looked back. II The next morning it rained. Not proper rain. Cornish rain. The sort that drifted sideways and seemed less interested in falling than in making itself generally unavoidable. Sarah escaped to the café with a paperback and twenty pence. The windows overlooked the sea, though rain had blurred the horizon into a wash of grey. She had just finished stirring far too much sugar into her tea when somebody pulled out the chair opposite. "Is this seat taken?" Sarah looked up. Vicky. "No." "Good." Vicky sat down and deposited a plate of chips between them. "My mother says rain is character-building." "My father says that too." "Do you think they all attend secret meetings?" "Probably." "And exchange advice." "How to embarrass your children." "Exactly." Vicky laughed. Outside, rain rattled against the windows. Inside, the café smelled of vinegar, frying oil and damp waterproofs. The conversation drifted easily. They discussed the entertainment programme. The weather. The swimming pool. The mysterious appeal of caravans. "My parents have been talking about buying one," Vicky confessed. "You should report them." "To whom?" "The authorities." By the time the rain eased, they had been talking for nearly an hour. After that they seemed to find each other everywhere. On the path to the beach. In the queue for chips. Along the harbour wall. Neither remarked upon the coincidence. One afternoon Vicky appeared outside Sarah's caravan carrying a square plastic case. "Come on." "Where?" "You'll see." She led Sarah to a sheltered patch of grass behind the dunes where the wind was weaker and the sea spread blue and glittering below them. From the case she produced a small battery-powered record player. Sarah stared. "You carried that all the way here?" "Obviously." "Why?" "Because civilisation is fragile." Vicky dropped a record onto the turntable. The cover showed a pale figure with bright red hair standing beneath a streetlamp. Sarah frowned. "He looks ridiculous." "That's David Bowie." "He still looks ridiculous." "Just listen." The needle settled. A crackle. Then music. Sarah had never heard anything quite like it. Not because it was louder than the records at home. Or stranger. Though it was both. It simply sounded as though it belonged to a larger world than the one she knew. A world beyond school and Eden Cove and the predictable rhythm of family holidays. Vicky sat cross-legged beside the record player, watching her reaction with obvious amusement. "Well?" "He's odd." "That's not an opinion. Everyone knows that." "And the songs are odd." "Better." "And I think my parents would hate it." "Excellent." Sarah laughed. The breeze lifted a strand of Vicky's hair. For a moment neither spoke. The music played on. Years later, Sarah would struggle to remember exactly what they had talked about that afternoon. But she would remember the sunlight on the sea. The hiss of the record. And the feeling that something, quite without her permission, had begun to change. III Saturday night was Cabaret Night at the clubhouse. Cigarette smoke drifted beneath the coloured lights. Empty glasses accumulated on tables. The air smelled of warm beer, warm bodies and a gas cloud of aftershave. At the front of the room, a local singer named Lance Tremayne was working his way through a repertoire that appeared to consist entirely of Tom Jones songs. He wore an open-necked shirt and sideburns that deserved their own postcode. "He's awful," Sarah murmured. Vicky followed her gaze. "Awful doesn't begin to cover it." Lance launched into another chorus. Half the room joined in. Vicky pointed discreetly across the room. Her mother was swaying beside the dance floor, clutching a Babycham and singing with considerable enthusiasm despite knowing only half the words. Sarah's father had acquired a pint and a volume level that would have alarmed livestock. The adults appeared to be enjoying themselves enormously. This somehow made everything worse. Sarah leaned towards her mother. "We're going to get some air." "Mm?" "Down to the beach." "Fine, darling." A second later her mother threw back her head and shrieked with laughter at a joke she probably wouldn't have laughed at an hour earlier. Sarah and Vicky exchanged a glance. Without a word, they left. Outside, the night felt astonishingly clean. The clubhouse lights glowed behind them. Laughter spilled through the open doors, followed by a burst of applause. As they crossed the field, the sounds softened and then faded, absorbed by the dunes and the sea beyond. For a while they talked about nothing in particular, then gradually the conversation changed. Perhaps because the beach was drawing nearer. Or perhaps because they both knew the holiday was almost over. "I leave on Tuesday," Vicky said. Sarah looked down at the path. "Tuesday?" "Early." "Oh." The single syllable seemed to contain more disappointment than she intended. "When do you go?" "Wednesday." "One whole day longer." "Lucky me." Vicky smiled, but only briefly. Neither spoke for a while. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It simply felt fuller than the others they had shared. "Do you ever think about what happens afterwards?" Vicky asked eventually. "After what?" "School. Everything." Sarah gave a small laugh. "Constantly." "And?" "Mostly I try not to." "That's my strategy too." They walked on. Below them, moonlight shimmered faintly across the sea. "My mother wants me to train as a secretary," Vicky said. "Mine too." "Mine think stability is exciting." "Mine think excitement is dangerous." "Maybe they're right." "Maybe." Neither sounded convinced. A breeze lifted strands of Vicky's hair. She tucked them behind one ear. Sarah found herself watching the familiar gesture. "What do you want to do?" Vicky asked. Sarah hesitated. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Not properly. "Leave." Vicky glanced sideways at her. "Just leave?" "Not forever." "Where, then?" Sarah shrugged. "London. Paris. Anywhere that isn't exactly where everybody expects me to be." To her relief, Vicky didn't laugh. Instead she nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds nice." "What about you?" Vicky was quiet for a moment. "Somewhere people make things." "Things?" "Books. Records. Films. Anything." She smiled. "I haven't worked out the details yet." Sarah glanced at her. "That sounds better than being a secretary." Vicky laughed. "The bar isn't very high." The beach opened before them at last. The tide was low, and the wet sand stretched away beneath the stars, reflecting pale ribbons of moonlight. Neither suggested turning back. They walked down together, carrying their shoes in one hand and letting the cold water curl around their ankles. Far beyond the shallows, the sea was black and immense. For a while they wandered without speaking. The silence no longer felt empty. It felt companionable, as though each had become accustomed to the other's presence. Somewhere behind them, applause drifted faintly from the clubhouse. Perhaps another joke. Perhaps another song. Neither girl turned around. Eventually they settled on the sheltered slope of a dune. The grass whispered softly in the breeze. Above them, stars crowded the sky, and the Milky Way stretched overhead like a pale river. Sarah found herself wondering how many people had sat beneath this same sky and believed their own lives were only just beginning. She turned to say something. She never discovered what it was. Because Vicky was already looking at her. IV The wind moved softly through the grass behind them. Far below, the tide was beginning to creep back across the sand, erasing footprints neither of them had noticed making. The sea seemed larger now than it had earlier in the evening. Or perhaps everything did. For a few moments neither spoke. The conversation that had carried them down from the clubhouse had somehow run out, leaving them alone with something neither quite knew how to name. Vicky smiled first. Not confidently. Almost nervously. As though she were waiting for Sarah to laugh at a joke she hadn't yet told. Instead Sarah found herself smiling back. The kiss, when it came, was clumsy enough to make them both laugh. Sarah's aim was off; their noses bumped; somebody's hair ended up in the wrong place. For a few seconds they sat there laughing helplessly beneath the stars. The laughter mattered. It made everything real. When Vicky kissed her again, neither of them was laughing. The second kiss lingered. Sarah became aware of Vicky's hand against her cheek, of the warmth of her fingers, of the fact that she seemed incapable of concentrating on more than one thought at a time. The thought, repeatedly, was Vicky. When they drew apart, it was only by inches. 'That was nice,' Vicky said softly. The understatement was so ridiculous that Sarah laughed. 'Nice?' 'Very nice.' 'Good.' 'Exceptionally good.' The smile faded from neither face. The space between them disappeared again. Afterwards Sarah would struggle to remember exactly when holding hands became holding each other. She would remember fragments instead: the scent of salt on Vicky's skin, the coolness of the night air, the feeling of her own pulse racing for reasons that no longer seemed entirely under her control. Everything felt new. Because she had never felt anything like this before. The discovery unsettled her in the best possible way. At some point Vicky rested her forehead against Sarah's shoulder and began laughing again. 'What?' 'Nothing.' 'That's not true.' 'We're supposed to be sensible people.' 'Says who?' 'Everyone.' 'Then everyone is wrong.' Vicky lifted her head. The expression on her face made Sarah's chest ache. It was happiness, certainly. But there was wonder in it too, and relief, and something that looked very much like fear. The same fear Sarah could feel in herself. Because Tuesday still existed. Because trains still left stations. Because summer holidays ended. Because life, infuriatingly, intended to continue. For a while neither mentioned any of that. Instead they remained where they were, talking, laughing, falling silent, drawing close again, reluctant to waste a single minute of the night they had been given. The intimacy deepened naturally, neither of them quite certain where confidence ended and curiosity began. There was awkwardness and hesitation, moments of uncertainty followed by moments of unexpected boldness. More than once they dissolved into laughter before finding their way back to one another. What astonished Sarah most was not desire itself. It was trust. The sense that something hidden had been placed gently in her hands. The knowledge that she was doing the same. Much later, when tears unexpectedly filled her eyes, she couldn't have explained exactly why. Vicky brushed them away with her thumb. 'Hey.' Sarah shook her head. 'I'm all right.' 'You're crying.' 'I know.' 'Why?' Sarah laughed through the tears. The answer sounded absurd even to her. 'Because I don't want this night to end.' For a moment neither spoke. The words settled between them. Simple. Hopeless. True. Vicky took her hand. 'Neither do I.' Below them the tide continued its slow advance across the beach. Somewhere beyond the dunes, applause drifted from the clubhouse. Neither girl turned towards it. Sarah thought of the following morning. The same caravans would be there. The same cliff path. Her father would unfold the same deckchair and declare it living. Children would shriek around the swimming pool. Lance Tremayne's posters would still be hanging in the clubhouse. Everything would look exactly as it had looked the day before. Yet for the first time in her life, Sarah understood that repetition and sameness were not the same thing. Tomorrow would arrive dressed as every other day she had spent at Eden Cove. Only now it would contain Vicky. And nothing, she realised, would ever be quite as predictable again.