Selma
Kent, UK
28 July 1991
Mike was standing outside the cave wearing jeans and a T-shirt, sweating in the growing heat. Behind him, a fisherman looped a line out into the waves, his dog running in and out of the froth, barking as it wagged its tail.
‘So you did come here,’ Mike said, shaking his head in disbelief as I walked towards him.
‘You’re the one who told me to leave,’ I reminded him.
‘Yeah, maybe to go stay with a friend or in a hotel. But here,’ he said, looking at the cave. ‘With him?’ he added, flinging his hand towards Idris who was showing a teenage girl one of his paintings at the front of the cave. ‘You’re thirty-eight, Selma, not eighteen.’
‘Why does it matter how old I am?’
‘It’s embarrassing. They’ll all be talking about you, your little school-gate friends.’
‘They’re not my friends.’
‘No, not any more after your little outburst last night.’
I clenched my jaw. I didn’t want to think about that.
‘Where’s Becky?’ I asked Mike.
‘At Greg and Julie’s. You should have seen Greg’s face when I told him you’d left.’
‘You told me to leave!’ I said again.
‘Then come back. It was an argument.’
I frowned. Should I go back? Was this completely and utterly crazy, living in a cave with a bunch of strangers?
But then I thought of all I’d written.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Not now. I just need some space. Think of it like a writing retreat or something.’
Mike laughed. ‘A holiday a mile from your home? In a fucking cave with a man who thinks he’s Christ?’
‘I need this, Mike!’
Idris looked up at the sound of my voice.
Mike shook his head bitterly. ‘Me me me. It’s always about you. What about what I need? What Becky needs?’
I raked my hands through my hair, feeling grains of sand on my fingertips. ‘I know this looks selfish to you, but I promise you it isn’t. If anything, I’m doing this for Becky. For us as a family. Because if I don’t …’ I paused.
Mike crossed his arms. ‘Go on, say it. What will happen?’
‘You know what will happen,’ I said softly.
He looked me up and down in disgust. ‘You call yourself a mother but you’re not. You can’t handle it, Selma. You’ve never been able to. You’re too bloody selfish to be a parent.’
I pursed my lips together. ‘That’s so unfair. It’s just a couple of days. I’m on leave anyway for the next two weeks.’
‘Yes, to look after Becky while she’s on her summer holidays!’ Mike retorted. He pointed his finger at me. ‘I won’t have you coming back, messing with our kid’s emotions. Use these next two days to make some hard decisions, Selma. When I see you again, I want a hundred per cent or nothing, all right?’
I sighed. He was acting like a child. ‘Fine.’
Mike peered over at Idris, curling his lip. Then he stormed off.
As he left the beach, all the fight went out of me. I sank down onto the sand and wrapped my arms around my knees as I looked out to sea. Had I made a terrible mistake coming here? Seeing Mike, hearing the anger in his voice, brought it home to me. Maybe this did make me a terrible mum.
After a while, I heard the soft pad of bare feet on sand. Idris sat beside me, adopting my pose as well: arms around his knees, face out to sea. We sat together silently, watching the waves until eventually our breathing matched.
In out, in out, in out.
It somehow drove the torment away, made me calm. He turned towards me, softly touching my arm.
‘It will figure itself out,’ he said. ‘For now, stay, be you. The answers will come in their time.’
Then he got up and walked away.
‘What if they don’t?’ I called after him.
‘They will,’ he said without turning.
For the rest of the day, I wrote. By the time dinner was served, I’d filled half my notepad.
‘You were right about the cave,’ I said as I fell into step with Donna. ‘I’ve written loads.’
‘What did I tell you? So, did you enter the current?’
I shot her a cynical look. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
We sat at the table and I took in the feast Donna had created: pesto pasta and chunks of brown bread, slices of chicken and beef to stir in. I had barely noticed my hunger as I’d written but now my tummy rumbled, my mouth watering at the sight of the food. Everyone started piling it onto their plates, buzzing from their day’s work.
‘Good day?’ Idris asked me.
‘Great,’ I replied. ‘Wrote more than I have in a while.’
His face lit up. ‘You don’t know how happy that makes me. This calls for a celebration.’ He pulled out a bottle of gin with a flourish.
‘You got gin!’ I said.
He smiled and everyone cheered. ‘To Selma,’ he declared.
‘To Selma!’ they all shouted.
He opened the bottle and sloshed some into a cup. ‘In honour of Selma, tonight we will all be her.’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a ritual we do for each new person who joins us,’ Oceane said.
‘That means we will drink nothing but gin tonight, Selma’s favourite drink,’ Idris said as he walked around the table, pouring gin into everyone’s cups, ‘and we will all paint our lips red,’ he added, gesturing towards Oceane who was holding a red lipstick up in the air triumphantly.
‘That’s my lipstick!’ I said.
‘You left it in the bathroom. Finders keepers!’ Oceane replied with a cheeky grin.
She slathered some on her lips and I tried to hide my irritation. I hated other people using my lipstick. I took an urgent sip of gin.
Just relax, I told myself.
My lipstick was passed around and, by the time it got to Caden and Julien, I was actually laughing as they applied it. Then it got to Idris, and everyone grew silent as they watched him slick it onto his full lips before he pouted.
‘Beautiful,’ Anita said, biting her lip. ‘I’ve always loved a pretty boy.’
Caden put his hand to his heart, fluttering his eyelashes. ‘Me too. I think I’m in love.’
Everyone laughed.
After we had finished our food, we went out onto the beach. My head felt dizzy from all the drink I’d had, full to the brim with this new experience too. It was like a writing retreat. With a strange bunch, granted, but fun nonetheless.
‘It’s amazing here, isn’t it?’ Anita said as we sat down by the fire.
‘It’s certainly interesting. I’m beginning to see why so many people are drawn here.’
‘Like moths to a flame,’ Anita said. ‘Helps that Idris is easy on the eye too,’ she added, her eyes boring into mine. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘It’s undeniable.’
‘So you’re attracted to him?’
I laughed. ‘I didn’t say that! It’s like looking at a beautiful painting, purely aesthetic. What about you, what’s your story?’ I asked, desperate to change the subject. Truth was, I was finding myself drawn to Idris. It was impossible not to be. He was so gorgeous to look at, the glances he gave me every now and again turning my belly to fire.
‘Oh it’s not that exciting,’ Anita replied. ‘I still teach yoga, still rent a flat. I guess I was just getting fed up with how depressing things are. I’ve lost half the class with the recession – people just can’t afford luxuries like yoga. Gym membership is down. Each day I go into work, everyone’s looking miserable, worried they’ll lose their job. And then this,’ she said, looking around her with a smile. ‘No talk of numbers, of money. Just fun and creativity. It makes a refreshing change, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does.’ I took another sip of gin. It was so nice to drink without having to worry about the pain of dealing with the early wake-up call from Becky the next morning while nursing a hangover.
I felt that guilt again. Maybe I should have gone back to see her today, to explain things? But I just couldn’t bring myself to. Tomorrow. I’d go tomorrow.
‘You only moved to Queensbay last year, right?’ I said.
‘Yep,’ Anita said, taking a sip of her drink too. ‘I had to apply for a new job, had a sleazy boss to deal with.’
‘Ergh, I hate that. One of my husband’s work friends is like that. Very touchy feely, always staring at my tits, even tried to ask me out. And that’s after his wife just had a baby.’
‘Scumbag,’ Anita said, nostrils flared. ‘Men, hey?’ Her face lightened as she noticed Idris strolling over. ‘Not all of them are bad though,’ she murmured.
‘Mind if I talk to Selma?’ he asked her when he got to us.
Anita smiled and stood up. ‘Sure, no problem.’
‘Your husband seemed angry earlier,’ Idris said with a frown when she left.
I laughed bitterly. ‘Ironic considering he threw me out.’
‘It’s hard for some people to understand what we do here. Half the time it’s shame that they’re not brave enough to do the same. It highlights what’s missing in their lives, holds a mirror up to them.’
‘That’s interesting,’ I said, watching as a cloud passed over the moon. ‘It’s something I’m writing about actually. A man who escapes to the winter woods to find peace. But in the end, society can’t help but infringe.’
Idris nodded thoughtfully. ‘I like the sound of that.’ He paused a moment then scooped up some sand, letting it fall between his fingers. ‘My mother liked to write.’
‘She did?’
He nodded. ‘You remind me of her. She had dark hair like you, was beautiful, so very talented. She knew it too. I mean that in a good way,’ he added quickly. ‘You need to recognise your talent to pursue a career in writing, otherwise why do it?’
‘True. Was she published?’
I wanted to ask him more: where he came from, what he did before this. But something in his eyes told me not to. He picked up a stick and drew a circle in the sand.
‘As a boy, I’d escape to the beach. I would go to the sand and draw with my fingers. Early mornings were the best, the sand damp enough from the high tide for me to make distinctive indents. I’d spend hours doing it. Sometimes, people would walk by. Many would do their best to avoid ruining my creations. But others didn’t even notice them there, they were so caught up in themselves. They’d trample all over them, ruining them all.’
‘Some people! How did that make you feel?’
He smiled. ‘I’d just start over again. I’ve never been one to get angry, or upset even.’ His brow creased as he continued drawing a pattern in the sand. ‘But then one day, a boy came along. He was a few years older than me, a teenager. And I sensed from a long way off he was a very angry boy. He stopped to watch what I was doing. I remained calm, just continued tracing patterns in the sand. Then he started kicking at the sand, scrubbing away all my drawings, every last one.’
I shook my head. ‘Little shit. What did you do?’
‘I thanked him – said I’d been planning to do that before going home for lunch anyway and he’d saved me a job.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘I would have been a lot less polite.’
Idris smiled to himself, swirling his finger in the sand, drawing an eye, a nose.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Saying that to him angered him even more. He jumped up and down on my hand, broke my fingers, told me I’d never draw again.’
‘Jesus. That is one messed-up kid.’
Idris shrugged. ‘Maybe. There will always be people who try to stop us. But we continue. We thrive, regardless.’ He continued drawing in the sand in silence as I watched him. When he finally stopped, he’d created a detailed sand drawing of a young boy. ‘But you know who the worst culprits are?’
‘Let me guess. Ourselves?’
He swept the boy’s face away and nodded. ‘That’s the thing with you, Selma. You know.’ He tapped his head. ‘You’re not like the others. I don’t feel like you’re learning from me. I feel like I’m learning from you.’
‘You keep saying that. It makes me feel old!’
‘You should take yourself more seriously. Have more confidence in your actions. You’re brave, Selma, you just don’t know it.’ Then he got up and walked away.
I peered up in the direction of my house and suddenly felt a soaring clarity. Idris was right, I needed to have more confidence in my actions. I kept saying Mike threw me out but, the truth was, I wanted to leave. I didn’t want to leave Becky, of course, but I did want to leave the marriage. I was sure of it in that moment. The life and vitality I felt there, at that cave, was shining a light on the darkness of my normal life. Becky and my writing were the only bright spots. But everything else – Mike, my job, my so-called friends – they were all grey to me. This cave, these people, Idris … it felt like an explosion of colour.
And the writing! I’d done so much of it. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving that behind.
If I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving, what did that mean? Could I really stay here, in this cave?
I looked at the others, most of them so naive, idealistic. But they were creating, they were happy. Wasn’t that what counted? Not the rituals or the current, but the smiles on their faces and the work they produced. It was simple.
And that was what I craved: a simple life.
I caught Idris’s eye as he watched me from the cave.
Was I brave enough to leave my old life behind?
I looked down at the drawing Idris had scrubbed away. All that remained was one eye that seemed to stare right into my soul.