Where The Gulls Cry (A Contemporary Love Story) Read online

  Where The Gulls Cry

  G I Tulloch

  Copyright 2012

  The right of G I Tulloch to be identified as the author of this work is asserted.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  All rights reserved.(XV) No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior consent of the author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  Chapter 1

  The first time she saw him was on a Monday, in Chetsea High Street, as she shepherded the family towards the harbour, dodging the dog walkers and out of season tourists, trying to avoid snagging anyone on the crabbing lines and buckets that the children were carrying. He was standing outside the pub talking to George Grayson the postmaster. For some reason she did a double take, as if she recognised him from some previous occasion. Good looking? Yes in a nondescript sort of way. Elegant? No, she decided. Down to earth? Probably. Where had she seen him? Or was it her over-active imagination? She watched him furtively for no particular reason, but not wanting to obviously stare. He laughed at something George said, and then smiled. Nice smile, she decided, but the thought was snatched from her as the children demanded her attention. Her usual 'marks out of ten' got lost in the moment and when she next looked around he had gone.

  The first time he saw her was on the quayside, crabbing with her three children. It was late Spring with a cold breeze blowing and there were not many people around. One or two waited for the ferryboat across to the Ness to see the old military research base. Boat shrouds flapped in the breeze.

  He took out his camera and started to look for background shots, scenery fills and items of note for further reference. Beyond the girl was the radio transmitter station, Long wave, he decided, going by the height of the towers. Actually he wasn't sure girl would be an accurate description. Thirty to thirty-five he decided, although he could only see her back, legs clad in grey cords and the dark blue tee-shirt flapping around her waist. She was lying on her stomach leaning over the edge of the quay trying to untangle a crabbing line, her dark shoulder-length wavy hair hanging down, getting in her eyes. The three children looked on, offering words of encouragement. Eight, six and four for a guess. Boy, the eldest, followed by two sisters. She had her hands full, but from what he had seen she had a lot of patience with them.

  He disconnected his thoughts and focussed once again on the camera. He turned and took a wide-angle shot of the Ness, concrete bunkers scarring the flat dunes of the Second World War installations. Then he set up a shot of the radio masts, debated briefly whether he wanted the woman and her three children in shot or not. Yes, why not. He took a couple, wide angle and then various zooms. He lined up a final shot but was interrupted by a firm voice.

  "Excuse me?"

  He lowered the camera and found the woman facing him, frowning. Even with a frown the face was worth looking at.

  "Sorry?" he replied.

  "I don't normally like my photo being taken without my permission," she continued, the frown remaining.

  Cripes, he thought, and mentally tiptoed away.

  Then her eyes relaxed and her face broke into a brilliant smile, startling him.

  "But on this occasion you can make it up to us by buying me a coffee, and the kids an ice-cream," she declared.

  He was so nonplussed, without thinking, he agreed. "Sure, okay. No problem."

  Fishing lines collected, they adjourned to the tearoom that stood to one side of the quay, and coffee and ice-creams were duly dispensed in the right directions.

  After the first sip of coffee she put her hand to her mouth and giggled quietly.

  "I'm sorry. I'm evil, I really am." She put out her hand. "Emma Brierley."

  He was still slightly bemused but shook the offered hand. "Geoff. Geoff Gordon."

  Emma pointed to the three ice-cream coated children. "Tom, Lizzie and Maxine." He received a brief nod from the first two. Maxine was too engrossed in her ice-cream, as four-year-olds tend to be.

  "Do you live in Chetsea, or are you visiting like me?" he asked.

  "Resident, ten years. Applying for parole next Autumn," replied Emma, warming her hands on the coffee cup. "What brings you to Chetsea, Geoff?" Before he could respond, she continued, looking closely at him. "Geoff. Yes, Geoff suits you."

  "Do I take that as compliment or a point of correction?"

  "Yeah. Compliment, I like Geoff. So, what brings you to Chetsea, Geoff?"

  "Research."

  Her face fell, and he couldn't help but notice it.

  "Oh yes, the Radar experiments in the war, they all come to research that, etcetera, etcetera."

  He wasn't sure whether she was winding him up or not.

  "No actually, entirely different research. Location research. Looking for places, people, things like that."

  She raised her eyebrows slightly, very nice eyebrows. "I'm sorry, I'm a terrible tease," she apologised. "Put it down to lack of adult conversation." She pulled out a tissue and started mopping up ice-cream spillage with one hand whilst drinking coffee with the other and tucking loose hair behind her ear with her wrist. This was obviously a woman of considerable talents.

  Ten minutes later however the children were getting restive.

  She turned to look at him and rested her chin on one hand. "We'd better go before they start to demolish the place. Geoff, thank you for the injection of sanity into my afternoon."

  "My pleasure, I assure you," he replied quickly.

  Something in his tone of voice stopped her as they walked back to the quay. She turned to him.

  "How long are you staying in Chetsea?"

  He made the fastest decision of his life. "Until the end of the week, which reminds me, I'm only booked into the Crown and Castle for tonight. I need to extend it or I'm homeless."

  They looked at each other, searching each other's faces, trying to delve deep. Her hair blowing across her face made it difficult. She tucked it behind an ear again. It was a gesture he could get used to.

  She watched him. "We've got a room available if you want to use it. If you want to muck in." She hesitated. "Listen to me, it sounds like I'm prostituting us. Put it down to needing adult conversation. Anyway the offer's there if you want it."

  "It sounds a good offer to me. You need adult conversation? Doesn't Mr Brierley give you that?" He realised it wasn't tactfully put but it was out before he could put his thoughts in order.

  As the children pulled her away, she looked over her shoulder at him and smiled rather wistfully. "Harry died three years ago, we're just a foursome now. Ask anyone where the Old Rectory is if you want to join us."

  He sat down on the quayside somewhat out of breath. The whole episode had all happened so quickly and he wasn't sure what it all meant. He watched her back as the children dragged her away up the road. He registered a feeling of shell-shock, as if he had been hit by a whirlwind. Well perhaps he had.

  He stood up and pulled up the collar on his jacket before strolling away in the direction of the pub. This was stranger than fiction.


  The children were in bed. Emma was tidying away the bath toys and rinsing the soap away. Her jeans were damp from the knees down and her shirtsleeves were wringing wet. She turned to the washbasin and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She leaned forward and looked more closely. Were those wrinkles or laughter lines? She looked at her reflection more sternly.

  "You are one crazy woman, you know that? You invite a total stranger into your home that you've only known for five minutes. What are the thinking about?"

  Her focus blurred slightly.

  "So what would you have me do, Harry?" She still talked to her dead husband when she struggled with her own thoughts. "You told me that I would have to move on, that I couldn't stop our lives just because you weren't going to be here. But God it's difficult you know. I don't know if I make the right decisions, I don't know if I'm bringing the children up right. I need you here."

  She sighed, wiped a tear away and carried on. "Yes I know. 'Buck up'. It's alright for you to say but you didn't have to clear up after the cat brought in two dead mice this morning at breakfast."

  She looked again in the mirror and shook her head. She hadn't bothered with make-up that morning, and framed by her dishevelled hair she felt like an old hag. "You are going completely off your head Emma Brierley. It wouldn't surprise me if they cart you off to the mad house any time soon."

  "Where's the mad house Mummy?" asked a small voice, "and why are you talking to yourself?"

  She turned to find Tom standing in the doorway.

  "Because I'm the only one who gives me sensible answers in this house. Now off to bed." She shooed him along the corridor into his bedroom and tucked him in. Then off downstairs with a bottle and a book, tonight, and every night.

  Chapter 2

  The Old Rectory was as you might imagine an old rectory to look like. Extensive and old. Grounds that went with it. Six bedrooms perhaps, he thought as he looked across the façade. Holdall in one hand and bottle of wine in the other. He hesitated. This was complete madness. How did he manage to talk himself into it? Was he too polite to turn down an invitation? Was he scared of hurting this stranger's feelings? The lurking suspicion that he actually liked this woman he tried to suppress. Don't do this Geoff. How often had he said that just before getting himself into real trouble. He half turned away, hesitated and then turned back. "I never learn," he said under his breath.

  He pressed the electric bell, which rang out a familiar Disney tune.

  An eight-year-old hand opened the door, closely followed by Emma. The cords and tee-shirt had changed into jeans and shirt but she looked every bit as good in them.

  She looked at him, nodded and smiled. "Good decision. Welcome aboard." She spotted the wine. "And you're on my wavelength. I like the way you think."

  He didn't move for a moment and a quizzical look crossed his face. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

  Her smile intensified to radiant and she shook her head. "No, but life is far too short so come on in anyway."

  He dropped his bag in the hallway and they all trooped into the house, the children heading off to a television showing Disney whilst Emma and Geoff headed into what turned out to be the kitchen, big kitchen, farmhouse size with refectory table.

  "Tea?" she said.

  Tea, the thing to cover all potentially embarrassing moments. If in doubt have tea.

  "Sure, yes please." A pause. "Emma? Can I call you Emma? Mrs Brierley sounds too much like the landlady." He realised what he'd said and they laughed.

  "Emma, very definitely. If you behave yourself you can get promoted to 'Hey You', but only if you play your cards right. All right Geoff?"

  "Fine. Emma?"

  "Yes Geoff?"

  "You're not an axe murderer by any chance are you?"

  She shook her head vehemently. "Never owned an axe, never want to. And before you ask, no I don't normally pick up men off the street. There aren't that many in Chetsea anyway, being such a small village."

  The kettle chose that moment to boil, to the relief of both of them. Tea was brewed. Small talk was made. Geoff was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, beginning to wonder if this was really a good idea.

  A momentary flashback came to his mind, an old film, 'Arsenic and Old Lace'. He choked on his tea. She went to help him but he gestured that he was fine and the fit passed. She looked at him strangely and he felt that he owed her an explanation.

  "Arsenic and Old Lace," he chuckled.

  She frowned for a moment and he wondered if he'd made a faux pas, before her face cleared in understanding.

  "Cary Grant, Peter Lorre." He nodded and she continued. "I promise that I don't have a brother who digs the Panama canal in the cellar where we bury the bodies."

  It broke the tension, at which point Disney finished and three hungry children came looking for instant sustenance.

  "I'll show you to your room," Emma declared and they wound their way up the staircase towards the guest bedroom, where she left him to sort himself out. "Make yourself at home," she said. There was something in the way she said it, the look on her face that confused him. He was well into unknown territory here, or was it just his over-active imagination?

  The next three hours were fully occupied by feeding, bathing and bedding the three exhausted children and it was gone eight by the time Emma emerged, sweaty, hair tousled and covered in bits of four-year-old tea.

  She showed Geoff the living room, which thankfully didn't double as the kids' playroom. He settled on an enormous sofa.

  "I'm going for a shower then I'm going to get us some Pizza and then we'll open that bottle you brought." And with that she disappeared.

  Geoff, as always in other peoples' houses, used the time to peruse the bookshelves and music collections. He always maintained you could tell more about people that way than through therapy.

  Emma was a quick shower-er because it only took fifteen minutes for her to return. Geoff did a double take as she entered the room. She had changed the shirt for a silk blouse, the jeans for a midi skirt. Even without make-up she looked radiant. She noticed the look on Geoff's face and smiled. "I don't get to dress up very often," with which she left the room to return twenty minutes later, this time pulling a trolley containing two pizzas on plates, two glasses and the bottle of red, already opened.

  She collapsed onto the sofa, a respectable distance from Geoff, and dished out food and drink. Nothing further was said until the pizza had gone.

  "Comfort food," Emma declared, tucking one foot under her. "but just what was needed. I'm afraid you won't get cordon bleu whilst you're here. I'm capable of it but not whilst those three are around." She took a gulp of wine and sighed appreciatively. "I'll say this. You know your wine."

  There was an appreciative pause before she continued.

  "So what is all this location, background stuff all about anyway. I'm sure you're not just on the lookout for lonely old women needing someone to ear-bash."

  Geoff ignored the self-deprecating speech.

  "I write screenplays."

  "What. For films?"

  "Films, television. If they'll pay for it I'll do it," he confessed.

  "So we're back to prostituting then are we?" Emma snorted into her glass as they laughed.

  "Absolutely. I'll take a book, play, idea, turn it into something for the screen, but in order to do it I need background, locations to visualise and write around, all that sort of thing."

  "Sounds glamorous."

  He shook his head. "Just hard graft I'm afraid, like any work." A pause. "What did you do before the children?"

  Emma mind seemed to go to a faraway place judging by the look on her face. "Graphics designer, fashion world, prints, fabrics."

  "You haven't gone back to it then."

  "No. Don't need to at the moment. We aren't short, Harry made sure of that, and those three keep me busy enough."

  There was one of those uncomfortable silences when conversation
doesn't know whether to go to the next level or bumble along as it is. Geoff broke the silence.

  "And tomorrow. How is your knowledge of Chetsea? I need to walk around it and get some history."

  Emma raised her glass. "I'm your man, I mean woman, tour guide, whatever."

  "Good, that would be very kind." There was another uncomfortable pause. "Well I'm going to turn in."

  Let me know if you need anything." She smiled a tight and tired smile. "Good night."

  She followed him out the room, turning out lights as she went.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning he deliberately stayed out of the way until the children were up, dressed and breakfasted. He came down just as they were getting coats on and Emma was clearing the table.

  She spotted him in the doorway and a genuine smile overtook the droopy eyelids.

  "Good. You haven't died in your sleep; that's a relief. Have whatever you can find for breakfast but don't touch the Frosties, we're short and Lizzie won't eat anything else. Drink tea, there's plenty of tea." And with that they left through the back door into weak sunshine.

  He helped himself to some Coco Pops and she returned twenty minutes later, dropping a jacket in the hall before subsiding into a chair.

  "You did leave me some tea didn't you?" she demanded.

  Geoff smiled. "I did but I guess it'll need nuked," he replied, nodding to the microwave.

  "Standard procedure," she responded, pouring a cup and setting the microwave.

  He helped clear up, stacked the dishwasher, dried the remaining dishes. As he finished off he realised she was standing in the doorway watching him, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded.

  "You keep that up and I'll cut the rent, you're a useful man to have around."

  The day looked as if it might deteriorate so they went out straight away, strolling down to the quay and then meandering along the sea wall towards the Ness. The wind had died, and the sun had some warmth in it. It was not unpleasant at all. In fact Geoff was finding it extremely enjoyable. They stopped and leant on the railings, watching the boats in the harbour and on the estuary, while Emma described how busy the place became in the high season. They listened to the gulls screaming overhead and the yacht rigging flapping in the breeze.