I want to stop and savour the smell of the ocean, enjoy the feel of the warm afternoon sun on my face and the westerly wind in my hair, but time is a luxury I can no longer afford. I didn’t have very much of it to spend in the first place. So I hurry on, despite the damp sand clinging to the soles of my feet as though trying to stop me in my tracks, and the seagulls that soar and squawk above my head as if trying to warn me away. The sound of their cries translates into words I don’t want to hear inside my head:
Go back. Go back. Go back.
I ignore all these signs that seem to suggest that this visit is a bad idea, and walk a little faster. I want to arrive earlier than the rest of them to see the place as it exists in my memories, before they spoil things. I wonder if other people look forward to seeing their families, but dread it at the same time, the way I always seem to. It will be fine once I’m there. That’s what I tell myself. Though even the thought feels like a lie.
The wind chimes that hang in the decrepit porch try to welcome me home, with a melancholy melody conducted by the breeze. I made them for my nana one Christmas when I was a child – having collected all the smooth, round pieces of blue and green glass I could find on the beach. She pretended to like the gift and the sea glass wind chimes have been here ever since. The lies we tell for love are the lightest shade of white. There is a giant pumpkin on the doorstep, with an elaborate scary face carved into it for Halloween; Nana does always like to decorate the house at this time of year. Before I can reach the large weathered wooden door, it bursts open with the usual welcoming party.
Poppins, an elderly Old English Sheepdog, is my nana’s most trusted companion and best friend. The dog bounds in my direction, a giant bouncing ball of grey and white fur, panting as if she is smiling, and wagging her tail. I say hello, make a fuss of her, and admire the two little plaits and pink bows keeping her long hair out of her big brown eyes. I follow the dog’s stare as she turns back to look at the house. In the doorway stands Nana; five foot nothing and radiating glee. Her halo of wild white curls frames her pretty, petite face, which has been weathered by age and wine. She’s dressed from head to toe in pink and purple – her favourite colours – including pink shoes with purple laces. Some people might see an eccentric old lady, or the famous children’s author: Beatrice Darker. But I just see my nana.
She smiles. ‘Come on inside, before it starts to rain.’
I’m about to correct her about the weather – I remember feeling the sun on my face only a moment ago – but when I look up, I see that the picture-perfect blue sky above Seaglass has now darkened to a palette of muddy grey. I shiver and realize that it’s much colder than I’d noticed before too. It does seem as though a storm is on the way. Nana has a habit of knowing what is coming before everybody else. So I do as she says – like always – and follow her and Poppins inside.
‘Why don’t you just relax for a while, before the rest of the family joins us?’ Nana says, disappearing into the kitchen, leaving me – and the dog – in the hallway. Something smells delicious. ‘Are you hungry?’ she calls. ‘Do you want a snack while we wait?’ I can hear the clattering of ancient pots and pans, but I know Nana hates people bothering her when she’s cooking.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I reply. Poppins gives me a disapproving look – she is never one to turn down food – and trots out to the kitchen, no doubt hoping to find a snack of her own.
I confess that a hug might have been nice, but Nana and I are both a little out of practice when it comes to affection. I expect she is feeling just as anxious as I am about this family reunion, and we all deal with anxiety in different ways. You can see fear on the surface of some people, while others learn to hide their worries inside themselves, out of sight but not out of mind.
The first thing I notice – as always – are the clocks. It’s impossible not to. The hallway is full of eighty of them, all different colours, shapes and sizes, and all ticking. A wall full of time. There is one for every year of Nana’s life, and each one was carefully chosen by her, as a reminder to herself and the world that her time is her own. The clocks scared me as a child. I could hear them from my bedroom – tick tock, tick tock, tick tock – as though relentlessly whispering that my own time was running out.
The bad feeling I have about this weekend returns, but I don’t know why.
I follow my unanswered questions further into Seaglass, hoping to find answers inside, and I’m instantly filled with a curious collection of memories and regrets. Transported back in time by the familiar sights and smells of the place, a delicious mix of nostalgia and salty air. The diffused scent of the ocean loiters in every corner of the old house, as though each brick and beam has been saturated by the sea.