was home. For him, there were two model kits—a fighter jet and a wooden sailing ship; for Rebecca, a smaller package, carefully wrapped. Gently she had tugged at the paper, only to find another wrapping, not paper this time but a length of light cotton folded around something fragile: a glass jar filled with seashells. The card that came with it had a handmade look about it, embossed cardboard with a photograph pasted onto the front. It was a beautiful photograph, of a rock pool, the water blue-green and sparkling, and underneath the handwritten words Brindle Rock Pool. Turning it over, she found Made by Mel written on the back of the card in the same hand.
Who’s Mel? This was the question that immediately sprang into her head. Who was she, this maker of cards from the other side of the world? Her stomach contracted. Were they friends, Mel andher husband? Was she beautiful, this card-making Mel? Catching her breath, she had opened the card cautiously to find it filled with words in her absent husband’s hand. Cascading relief somersaulted through her body, a rush of warmth at the sight of those lines and curves, so clear, so familiar they might almost be the shape of him beside her.
My love , he had written, I hope you like this small gift of shells I have collected for you, and the wrap I have chosen for you. Here, they call it a sarong and it is worn only to the beach—which, can you believe it, is at the end of the street. If I have chosen well, perhaps, when you arrive, you too will wear it on the little beach they have here in Brindle—although I am told August can be chilly! As always, you fill my thoughts. Emmanuel xx
Brindle Beach is long and narrow, like a small bay. This is what he has told her. On the far side, over by the headland, people fish. The near side has the rock pool. Mel’s rock pool. The university, where Emmanuel is based, is not in Brindle itself, but rather a bus trip away. There, in Brindle, he does not have a driver, nor does he have a car. It is not necessary, he has told her, for the transport is good. There is transport, too, here in Fallondale—but not to have a driver, that would never have occurred to her. Clearly, it doesn’t seem to bother Emmanuel; his main concern has always been for his work, which, in the field of mining engineering, is important work. He has been much lauded for his fellowship at the university there.
Across the seas where he is now, he is often asked where he is from. In answer to the question, he says he is from Africa, no more than that. This, he has told her, seems to satisfy most people. Only the more curious ask for more. To these people, he speaks of the beauty of the country, and especially their part of it. Of thecountry’s politics he says little—partly because he silently despairs of the regime; partly because they themselves have never had any problems.
It is hard to believe that in a day, February will be over and March will have begun. By then Emmanuel will have been gone two months. Long weeks they have been, for this is the first time they have been apart for so long, and she is still becoming accustomed to the emptiness beside her in bed. Rolling over now, she picks up the phone to check the time. It is already seven o’clock and there are noises coming from the kitchen. Laetitia will be preparing breakfast.
She should get up, she thinks. And get Sebastian up, as well. She isn’t due at the studio until eleven—the shoot is a short one today—so she will have time for a walk once Sebastian has left for school. She has taken to walking with her neighbour, Grace, who is new to the area and who, to Rebecca’s surprise, is becoming a friend.
Out of bed now, Rebecca looks for something to wear. A sense of order is one of Laety’s great strengths, and in the robing room each T-shirt is neatly folded, each pair of socks paired and placed in rows, each dress, each skirt arranged by colour. The shorts she chooses are knee-length.
Who’s Mel? This was the question that immediately sprang into her head. Who was she, this maker of cards from the other side of the world? Her stomach contracted. Were they friends, Mel andher husband? Was she beautiful, this card-making Mel? Catching her breath, she had opened the card cautiously to find it filled with words in her absent husband’s hand. Cascading relief somersaulted through her body, a rush of warmth at the sight of those lines and curves, so clear, so familiar they might almost be the shape of him beside her.
My love , he had written, I hope you like this small gift of shells I have collected for you, and the wrap I have chosen for you. Here, they call it a sarong and it is worn only to the beach—which, can you believe it, is at the end of the street. If I have chosen well, perhaps, when you arrive, you too will wear it on the little beach they have here in Brindle—although I am told August can be chilly! As always, you fill my thoughts. Emmanuel xx
Brindle Beach is long and narrow, like a small bay. This is what he has told her. On the far side, over by the headland, people fish. The near side has the rock pool. Mel’s rock pool. The university, where Emmanuel is based, is not in Brindle itself, but rather a bus trip away. There, in Brindle, he does not have a driver, nor does he have a car. It is not necessary, he has told her, for the transport is good. There is transport, too, here in Fallondale—but not to have a driver, that would never have occurred to her. Clearly, it doesn’t seem to bother Emmanuel; his main concern has always been for his work, which, in the field of mining engineering, is important work. He has been much lauded for his fellowship at the university there.
Across the seas where he is now, he is often asked where he is from. In answer to the question, he says he is from Africa, no more than that. This, he has told her, seems to satisfy most people. Only the more curious ask for more. To these people, he speaks of the beauty of the country, and especially their part of it. Of thecountry’s politics he says little—partly because he silently despairs of the regime; partly because they themselves have never had any problems.
It is hard to believe that in a day, February will be over and March will have begun. By then Emmanuel will have been gone two months. Long weeks they have been, for this is the first time they have been apart for so long, and she is still becoming accustomed to the emptiness beside her in bed. Rolling over now, she picks up the phone to check the time. It is already seven o’clock and there are noises coming from the kitchen. Laetitia will be preparing breakfast.
She should get up, she thinks. And get Sebastian up, as well. She isn’t due at the studio until eleven—the shoot is a short one today—so she will have time for a walk once Sebastian has left for school. She has taken to walking with her neighbour, Grace, who is new to the area and who, to Rebecca’s surprise, is becoming a friend.
Out of bed now, Rebecca looks for something to wear. A sense of order is one of Laety’s great strengths, and in the robing room each T-shirt is neatly folded, each pair of socks paired and placed in rows, each dress, each skirt arranged by colour. The shorts she chooses are knee-length.
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