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THIRD PLACE WINNER

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"La Plage en Été"

by Hannah Hess, Cardiff, Wales

Dora leant into the small canvas, brown eyes squinting as she applied swirls of lemon sunlight to the amber sky. Her figure was dwarfed by the sea that stretched from the shore all the way to North Africa, a vast mirror for the summer sky. Determination was etched in every line of her aging body – in the frown of concentration that wrinkled the skin between her eyes; in the angles of her elbows, arms naked to the shoulder; in the posture of her back, bent firmly over the easel.

Feet crunching over the shingle, Grace approached noisily so as not to startle her grandmother. The acrid smell of linseed oil, white spirit and paint drifted towards her, smothering the scent of sea and salt. In all the summers she had spent at her grandparents’ home Grace had never been brought to this beach, yet this morning Dora had been adamant about coming. She had been different this summer, distracted and daydreaming. Grace wondered if Grandpa’s death last year had affected Dora more than the family had realised. For the first time she thought Dora might be better off coming back to live in Dorset.

“How’s the painting coming, Gran?” she asked, dropping onto the rug beside Dora. “I brought you some lunch.”

“Thank you, dear,” Dora wiped lemon from her brush onto a rainbow-stained cloth and popped the brush into a jar of murky turpentine.

Grace glanced up at the canvas. Dora had painted the scene with characteristic accuracy – the rocks tumbling down towards the sea, the water a perfect line across the sand, the outcrop of land intruding upon the sea some miles up the coast. The only notable anomaly was the colour. Instead of the clear blue sky extending above a silver sea Dora had painted an evening sunset reflected in brilliant light across the water. Red, gold, orange, even violet reverberated across the canvas.

“Why did you paint it at sunset, Gran?”

Grace started to remove the picnic lunch from her bag. Crisp French bread, purchased from the bakery in Grace’s stumbling French, slices of ham, a neat triangle of pungent brie, lettuce and fresh herbs from Dora’s garden.

“It just felt that way – did you buy olives?”

Grace lifted the small plastic tub so that Dora could see the olives for herself, plump and gleaming in the noon sun.

“And wine, Gran, from the market.”

Dora eased herself down onto the rug, remarkably supple for her 78 years. She took an olive and held out her wine glass.

“All I’m missing is a cigarette,” she said, giving Grace a mischievous look.

“No, Gran,” Grace replied, smiling.

“I used to smoke like a trooper,” Dora said, “Before it was bad for your health.”

“It was always bad for your health; people just didn’t know it back then.”

Dora took another olive and closed her eyes while Grace sliced the brie and added it to a plate. Dora had felt like a giddy girl that morning as she dressed and gathered her painting gear. She had known exactly what she would put to canvas, could remember every spark of crimson light that had danced on the sea. She remembered how cold the shingle had been against her bare feet, how warm the water, how light her heart as she walked along the shore with him, her head still full of jazz music and wine and laughter.

Since Simon’s death the memories had been more persistent, freed from any weight of guilt to rise from the depths of Dora’s mind. It had been foolish, she realised now, to imagine that this visit could bring any peace to her turbulent heart. Dora had watched Grace run through the shallows into the sea, sending up drops of water like fierce shards of crystal, and a pang of nostalgia made her gasp. A memory caught her off-guard – a childhood holiday; the same hot sun, the same cool sea, the same salt water dashing against her legs and hips, her strong limbs pulling her deeper, deeper.

And him, watching her, his blond hair tousled by the breeze.

“I met my first beau here.”

Dora did not want to speak of it, but knew she must reduce it to mere words before it swelled inside her like a cancer. Describing him as a ‘beau’ left a bitter taste in her mouth; she saw that she could never describe him adequately, that no one would ever see him as she did.

“When was that, Gran?”

“1939. I was fifteen.”

“What was his name?”

Dora hesitated.

“Ray.”

There, it is said. It is done and gone like a final breath.

“How did you meet?” Grace’s interest was casual, amused. The young forget that the old are souls as well, that they have lived. Dora was not always this frail and dull.

“We were both here with our parents on holiday.”

The summer sun beats down on Dora’s head and she is fifteen again, awkward and shy, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin, acutely aware that her newly developed breasts and curves are on display in her bathing suit. She sits while her brother sprints towards the sea and dives in.

“Why don’t you have a swim, Dora?”

Dora’s mother has forgotten what it is like to be fifteen and shy, or perhaps she never experienced the excruciating, tear-jerking embarrassment that overcomes Dora in public. Dora plunges her hand into the shingle and makes a fist so that the coarse sand bites into her palm. She glances round, observing the other occupants of the small beach. There are no more than five families, but it might as well be one of the crammed beaches of St Tropez for there are still eyes watching her, minds sniggering at her long, angular limbs and awkward, child-adult figure.

Making sure that everyone is distracted, Dora gets up and walks towards the water. The shallows are warm, trickling up her shins, but the deeper she goes the colder it becomes until she must force herself on. She takes a deep breath and plunges under, comes up gasping and awakened. Pushing salt water and hair from her face, Dora has a tingling sense of being watched.

She turns, searching for eyes, and finds him, crouched on an outcrop of rock twenty feet away. Caught, he shows no embarrassment, only grins, stands, and performs a perfect half-pike into the water.

Later, as her mother is setting out the picnic lunch, Dora sees him crossing the sand towards them. She feels her face burning crimson, and looks down at her book, but she can hear his every step crunching into the shingle, feels his shadow fall over her like a touch.

“Sir,” he addresses Dora’s father. “My name is Raymond Ellis; my father is Captain Ellis of HMS Trent.”

Dora hides her face as her father goes through the formalities of introductions. Raymond asks if she may go with him that evening to a party at his parents’ hotel. His parents will be there, he reassures them, and they will drop Dora back to the hotel by half past ten. Dora’s father says yes.

“You can say no. I won’t mind – I’ll take you straight back.”

Ray glances anxiously at her before returning his attention to the road. There is no party at his parents’ hotel; Ray is driving Dora to a café in the nearest town. The coast flashes past them on his left washed with evening sunlight, the water a dazzling pattern of light and deep blue shade.

“I’d like to go,” Dora says, and Ray smiles broadly, his face so handsome that Dora wants to die.

They speed along the coast; the name of the town they enter is lost to Dora in the excitement of going to her first dance. A proper dance too, with jazz music, cigarettes and cheap wine; not the kind her parents attend where people glide across polished floors with martini and polite voices. Ray pulls up outside a café with an open front so that people and light and music spill out onto the pavement. Dora can hear the liquid scales of a saxophone climbing over the staccato of a piano’s hammers, and her spine shivers with pleasure.

Ray finds a table against the wall, and Dora watches him weave through the people to the bar. He returns with two drinks and a lit cigarette, which he offers her.

“Do you smoke?” he asks.

“No.”

“Try it!”

And she does, taking the roll of tobacco between unpractised fingers, drawing in a tentative breath of smoke which scorches her lungs and makes her cough.

“It’ll get better,” Ray winks at her, and lights a cigarette for himself, leaving Dora feeling uncouth and innocent.

They talk: his father is a captain in the navy, so Ray’s time is divided between following his mother from port to port and studying at boarding school in England. He plays rugby and runs, and his parents want him to be a lawyer. Ray wants to be a marine scientist, something his parents have never heard of.

Dora feels her life is tame and dull compared to his, but she tells him about it anyway – the girls’ school where she never fit in, how her parents are sending her to secretarial school in September and expect her to marry soon afterwards and never use the skills she gains. She tells him about her painting, the secret no one knows about, how the feel of oil sweeping canvas beneath her brush makes her feel like a sculptor, a creator, and capable of anything. And he understands, because he feels the same way about the fish and plants that swarm beneath the mirrored surface of the ocean, how naming and identifying each one gives him power over them, just as Dora has power over the sky and the earth when she puts them to canvas.

After a while Ray pulls Dora onto the dance floor where the rhythm removes the need for words, and the music, wine and smoke intoxicate her. She feels excited, fearful, happy and lost all at once. Ray is a good dancer, and Dora is able to forget herself as he pushes her away and draws her back again, his hands simultaneously strong and delicate, sliding over the small of her back, the palms of her hands, the curve of her shoulder.

“The war started eight days later,” Dora sighed, fingering some shells she held in her lap so that they clink and scrape. “Holidays were cut short and there was a mad scramble for transport home. Ray’s father was recalled instantly; we had no chance to say goodbye.”

Grace was silent, sensing that Dora still felt loss for that brief connection of souls.

“I thought of him every day. I found his name on the roster of men called up to serve. Then my brother was killed, and the war dragged on …

“Afterwards I looked once more. I had met your grandfather by then, and I knew he wanted to marry me. I also knew I could never marry him if I thought Ray was still alive. The thought of meeting Ray one day, and being unable …”

Dora paused.

“I found his name. He was listed as ‘missing, presumed dead’ … in other words there was no body left to find.”

Tears sprang to Dora’s eyes.

“I never even had a photograph of him!”

“I’m sorry, Gran,” Grace said, resting a hand on Dora’s arm. Dora forced a smile, and wiped her eyes.

“I’m being silly,” she said, pulling herself together with characteristic toughness. “It was sixty years ago! I loved your Grandfather, you know,” she added earnestly. “It was different to Ray, less passionate, but still love. I never regretted marrying him.”

“Of course, Gran.”

The day had faded, and Grace led Dora back to the beach, began to pack up to leave. This new revelation of passion, hidden behind her grandmother’s sensible shoes and floral-patterned aprons made Grace reflect on her own relentlessly ticking clock.

“Ready?”

Dora smiled wearily. She had hoped talking would ease her burden but the memories lay heavier on her heart than ever. For the first time in years she felt very alone as she folded her chair and followed Grace up the shingle towards the car.

* * *

The boulangerie was crowded, women and children queuing for the day’s bread. Croissants and pains aux chocolats sat crisply in baskets on the counter; pains aux raisins swirled stickily on crisp paper napkins. It was already warm though the day’s first order was only just out of the ovens, and flies buzzed and hovered over the fresh bread.

“I’m here for Mrs Willis’ order.”

Collecting the parcels and putting them into her basket, Dora’s neighbour turned to leave the shop.

“Excuse me, madame – did you say, ‘Mrs Willis’?”

The gentleman who stopped her was tall and slender, and neatly dressed.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Forgive me … is that Mrs Dora Willis?”

“Yes, an English lady.” The neighbour’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you?”

The man’s eyes had glazed over and he stared, unseeing, at the bag of the lady in front.

“Are you well, monsieur? Would you like a glass of water?”

Seated outside the boulangerie, with a glass of water in his hand and the awning blocking the sun from his eyes, Raymond managed to reengage his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the neighbour. “I knew Mrs Willis many years ago. I thought … I had no idea she was here.”

“She moved here, oh … ten years ago now, with her husband. When he died last year we thought she would go back to her family in England, but she stayed. She lives out of town, overlooking the sea.”

Raymond sat for a long time, struggling to believe that she could be here, of all places. It must mean that she remembered … it must …. He fingered the napkin where the neighbour had scribbled the address.

Grace relaxed into the recliner, the late afternoon sun pleasantly warming her skin. Crickets and bees provided a background melody to the plot of Persuasion, and the smell of frying garlic drifted from the back of the house, overpowering the scent of blossom and late summer grass and making Grace’s mouth water.

Absorbed in the book, Grace did not hear the visitor’s approach until he tapped on the gate with the tip of his ash-wood cane.

“Bonsoir,” he greeted, his voice resonant and deep, not the voice of an old man. But he was old, seventy-five at least, with dry, washed-out skin that looked too large for his frame, and slender hands that curled gracefully around the head of his cane. He wore a light summer suit of indeterminate colour and an old fashioned straw hat, which gave him a pleasing air of eccentricity.

“Bonsoir,” Grace replied, laying down her book, and trying to recall the words for ‘can I help you’. Aidez …something?

“Est-ce-que Mme Willis habite ici?”

“Ah … oui,” Grace hazarded a guess at the correct response, but as soon as the word left her mouth his eyes lightened with comprehension.

“You are English,” he smiled.

“Yes!” Grace laughed with relief. “Your accent is very good,” she complemented him.

“Thank you,” the man inclined his head politely. “Is this the property of Mrs Willis? Mrs Dora Willis?”

“Yes – she’s in the kitchen. Come in; I’ll go and get her for you.”

Grace offered the man the spare folding chair under the lemon tree. He accepted and removed his hat, and Grace slipped around the side of the house to the kitchen.

Dora slices carrots methodically, at an angle so that they fall in elongated ovals on the chopping board. She is swathed in steam and the aromas of fresh garlic, locally fermented white wine, and hand-torn basil and thyme. As she adds ingredients to the casserole simmering on the hob she sips a glass of wine, dips an olive into ground black pepper and eats, leans over the pot to breathe in the heavy steam.

“Gran!” Grace’s head appears around the open door. “There’s someone to see you.”

“Who is it, dear?”

“I don’t know, I forgot to ask. He’s quite old. His accent was so good I thought he was French, but he’s English.”

“That’s odd; I wasn’t expecting any one.” Dora rinses her hands and wipes them on a tea towel. “He’s probably one of Grandpa’s old friends here on holiday.”

“Shall I take him a glass of lemonade?”

“Yes please, dear. Tell him I’ll be out in a moment.”

Dora checks the potatoes and adds the carrots to the casserole before leaving the kitchen. As she steps out into sunlight she has the peculiar feeling of time slowing down. She walks along the side of the house, past the roses, fading now but still laden with scent, past the chrysanthemums she planted the year Simon died, past the crack in the wall that must be fixed before winter. She can hear the guest’s voice as he makes polite conversation with Grace, and it is familiar yet strange, an elusive memory that slips through the mind like a shadow.

The voices cease as Dora rounds the corner of the house. He is a gentleman – he rises from his seat and stands there, turning his hat nervously between his hands … his hands. Oh, those hands. Dora feels her heart stop.

There is an eternity of waiting, a pause longer and fuller than all the years between their parting and now. Grace has the sense of watching stars, but as Dora’s face twists with emotion, Grace knows she must leave. She slips past Raymond and out of the gate, walking down the lane away from the garden where sixty years are melting softly out of sight.

JUDGES' COMMENTS:

Jo Holloway: "I loved the slightly ethereal feel to this entry. I found it a gentle, sweet story, prettily written - though not unusual as such. The writer manages to work with constantly changing tenses, but does so expertly, without interference to the flow and using the style as a highlighter. Not usually recommended, as it's difficult to carry off well! Although there is no twist in the tail, and the end becomes fairly predictable, the story has a tender nostalgia to it that doesn't require a surprise - just a happy ending. The writing is simple yet effective, drawing pictures in the mind and splashing them with colour here and there - just enough to tantalise, and bring joy. All in all a pleasurable, relaxing experience."

Lucy McCarraher: "La Plage was a little hackneyed, though evocative, especially the memories. Nice enough style, but I suppose I thought the ending was somewhat predictable and I felt the summer romance lacked substance - all we got was one dance, not a sense of soulmates meeting fleetingly."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Hannah Hess: "I was amazed to be listed as a prize-winner for this competition as it is the first I have entered. I have always lacked the courage before to submit my work for scrutiny, and I am encouraged now to keep on writing through self-doubt. I can't remember a time when I didn't invent stories; I used to draw them out like a comic strip before I could write properly. I wrote my first book when I was seven or eight, a drawing-pad turned into an illustrated story. I'm creative and have many hobbies, but I feel most myself when I'm writing and can lose myself in the lives of my characters. I hope one day to write something worthy of publication so that I can take readers on an adventure as so many writers have taken me. My favourite writer is C.S. Lewis, but Shakespeare, the Bronte sisters, Elizabeth Gaskell, and a little known Canadian author, Sigmund Brouwer, have all inspired and influenced me."

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