Selma
Kent, UK
27 July 1991
Idris was wearing just shorts, holding a fishing line in his hands. His golden hair fell to his tanned shoulders, and his green eyes were so vivid they didn’t seem real. His bare chest was bathed in moonlight and, in that light, I saw scars tapering down his chest.
‘You can,’ he said again, stepping towards me. ‘Whatever the question in your mind is, you must answer yes.’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘How did you know I even had a question?’
‘You’re on a precipice. I can sense it.’ He placed his rod down and sat beside me, looking out to sea. He smelt of the sea, salty and luxurious. ‘Your body screams it,’ he said. ‘Your posture, the expression on your face, everything.’
I crunched my hands into fists, watching as the sand squeezed out between my fingers. I wasn’t sitting on this beach to be preached to by someone like him, no matter how much he fascinated me.
‘I came here to be alone,’ I said.
‘Then I’ll leave.’ He went to get up.
‘Wait!’ I couldn’t let him go before asking something. ‘How do you know so much about me? My name? The fact I’m an author?’
He gestured towards the small bookshop in town. ‘You did a signing there.’
‘Ages ago.’
‘They still have a poster up at the back.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘We’re all reading your book. It’s wonderful.’
‘The Queensbay Cave Dwellers’ Bookclub, is it now?’
He laughed. ‘Something like that. I’ll leave you to it then.’
He went to walk away but something inside me wanted him back. I was so curious about him. Why was I sending him away?
‘Wait. Stay. It’s fine. Now I know you have good reading taste anyway.’
He smiled, walking over and sitting next to me again. ‘Is that how you judge people, by what they read?’
‘Why not?’
We sat in silence for a few moments more, then I turned to him. ‘You said I should say yes to the question in my mind. What if yes means losing everything?’
He thought about it, brow creasing. ‘What is everything to you?’
‘My family. My husband and daughter.’
He explored my face. ‘No. I don’t think that’s everything.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If that’s the case, that your family is everything, that it makes you whole, why are you looking so empty right now?’
I took in a deep breath then let it out.
‘Society tells you family is everything,’ he said, drawing a circle in the sand with his finger beneath the moonlight. ‘But for some, it’s not enough. For some, there needs to be more.’ He drew an oval around the circle, turning it into an eye.
‘What kind of more?’ I asked, feeling my heart thump against my chest, the hair on my arms stand on end. I did feel I was on the precipice of something. Idris was right.
‘You’re a writer,’ he stated. ‘How do you feel when you’re writing?’
I paused a few moments. ‘Right,’ I said eventually. ‘It just feels … right.’
‘It makes you feel whole?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘We have callings in life.’ I couldn’t help but scoff and Idris smiled. ‘I know how clichéd that sounds, but it’s the truth. We each have a role to play. Our true callings. Anything that takes us away from that makes us unhappy.’
‘That’s too simplistic a view! Idealistic too. Real life means we can’t dedicate all of our time to one thing.’
He looked me in the eye. ‘Whose version of real life?’
‘Everybody’s!’
‘No, it’s society’s view. It stifles us.’
‘So you recommend we all go live in a cave and write, paint, do whatever it is you and the others in your cave do?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
I sighed. ‘Family. It comes back to my family.’
‘Bring them.’
I laughed. ‘I’m not sure my husband would really be up for that.’
‘Your daughter would. She’d love it.’
‘I’m sure she would until it rained and her dolls got wet.’
He smiled as he peered out to sea. ‘Children love a bit of rain.’
I took a moment to explore his face, to take in the golden bristles on his cheeks, the way his beard glowed white beneath the moonlight. ‘I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you.’
‘What’s wrong with discussing it? In fact, take it a step further. Come and meet everyone.’ He jutted his chin towards the direction of the cave. ‘The cave is larger than it looks from the outside. We’re making quite a home of it.’
‘You’re seriously trying to recruit me?’
He tilted his head, examining my face. ‘Recruit. That’s an interesting word choice.’ There was an earnestness in his green eyes, a kindness in his expression. He didn’t seem deranged or weird like some said.
‘Who are you?’ I asked him.
He shrugged. ‘A painter. A sculptor.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Ah, I see, you’re a politician answering questions with more questions.’
He laughed. ‘Very far from it.’ His face grew serious. ‘It is an interesting question though. Who are you, Selma Rhys? Close your eyes, really think about it. Block out the light. Clarity comes with darkness. Who are you?’
I tried to grapple with the question. I saw Becky, Mike … then my mother. Her beautiful face. Those cold, cold eyes.
‘Who do you think you are, Selma?’ I remembered my mother once asking. ‘Just who do you think you are?’
Fast-forward twenty years, feeling the weight of my first novel in my hands after it arrived in the post. ‘A writer, Mother. I’m a fucking writer,’ I remembered saying out loud.
‘A writer,’ I said, snapping my eyes open. I realised tears were streaming down my face. I wiped them away, embarrassed. ‘Warm wine always makes me emotional,’ I said with a small laugh.
Idris stood up, putting his hand out to me. ‘Come on, come meet the others.’
I looked at his hand, hesitating. Then I found myself taking it and standing with him in the darkness.