The Bright Side

Chapter 10- Part 2

TRISTAN

The only way to effectively keep the cold and the wet from seeping through my clothes before they merge into a freezing coating on my skin, are layers. Layers, layers, layers. I've discovered that on the first day I came here, Saturday after the funeral, desperate to find some peace of mind on the chunky rocks below the lighthouse. The never-ending fight of determined waves against steadfast rocks, day after day, year after year, it tells me something about perseverance and consistency. And even though the effect of waves against rocks is unnoticeable by the end of a day, it sometimes reveals itself by a rock giving up and tumbling into the sea. It's all about going on and on.

As I said, my first escape here turned out to be a rather short one. I lasted about two hours until my teeth started clattering like the shutters in front of my window during a storm and I had to go back home. Home is not a good place right now. It has turned into a haunted house, Dad's ghost is everywhere. It lingers in the corner by the front door where his sports bag used to always be in the way. It waves at me when I walk upstairs and pass the family pictures that used to show four faces instead of three ages ago. Its scent gets caught in my nose when Rory smears Marmite onto a slice of bread and it snuggles up to me whenever the vicious fur ball, that was the cutest little kitten when he brought it into our family, climbs on my lap. And the anger that bubbles up and threatens to burst out of me then is too hard to bear.

So today, day four, Tuesday, my outfit consists not only of a tee under my favourite grey hoodie with the happy neon birds on it, but also my army jacket, a shawl and a beanie and a raincoat stored safely in my backpack, just in case. I'm still warm and dry although I've been here all day and it's only my fingers that are a bit clammy; I can't seem to put my pack of cigarettes aside – I'm dying for a fag.

Tourists disturb my quiet time every now and then, standing a few feet above me at the end of the pier, enjoying the view until they're sick of hair whipping into their faces and spray moistening their skin and then they disappear again. Other than that, there's only solitude and peace and I try to imagine that the wind blowing through me takes the hatred away with it.

The sun leaves a light stain on the otherwise perfectly grey sky, alarmingly close to the horizon, promising to collide with it soon and to hide my view behind a curtain of black. I get on my feet. Time to go back to the ghost house. Well, at least there's no tune.

The wind hits my front with full force, trying to find a gap in my clothes to bite my perfectly warm skin. I carefully climb back up to the pier, my numb fingers like rusty pliers against the rocks.

I take my time on my way home. I stroll down the pier and along the esplanade and can't resist to peek through the window of our reception area when I pass the hotel. Our night manager Joseph is talking to some guests, smiling distantly but friendly, and I feel kind of bad that he's clearly doing overtime to compensate for the days off I've allowed myself. I should probably go back to work soon. I walk past the windows of the restaurant and see Rory shoving some plates through the service hatch before he disappears back into the kitchen.

Some twenty steps later I'm around the corner and it takes another one hundred and twenty-three more until I'm bathed in warm light from the small milky diamond that adorns the green wooden panels of our front door.

"I'm home, Mum," I shout, and try to unwrap the shawl before I stuff it into one of the arms of my jacket.

"Hey, pumpkin." Mum's sturdy frame appears in the kitchen door, her arms crossed in front of her chest, which usually isn't a good sign, but she's smiling warmly.

"I'm going upstairs." I set one foot on the bottom step and grab the banister.

"Don't you want to eat?"