She longed for the sea…
Catherine had been setting aside a bit of her wages each month for a holiday. For an entire year, she had dreamed of the coast. Once, long ago, she had gone south with her parents, but she hardly remembered it—she couldn’t have been more than three. After that, her parents sent her to the countryside each summer to stay with her grandparents. There was no sea there, just a shallow river where she could splash about as much as she liked, until her lips turned blue and goosebumps prickled her skin.
In year four, her parents sent her to a summer camp. She hated it—too many rules, no freedom. They only swam once. The countryside had been far better. Weekends meant visits from her parents, bringing sweets and treats. After that, she refused to go back.
Her childhood memories were painted in the blinding white sun, the shrieks of children in the river, the shimmer of droplets catching the light. She remembered the scent of pondweed and the sharp, sun-dried grass by the riverbank. And the warm dust on the road, soft as silk under her feet.
She often dreamed of running barefoot down that road, her tanned feet sinking into the dust. And then, coming toward her, her mum and dad… That was always when she woke, her heart pounding.
In year eight, her father died of a heart attack. Her mother never recovered. She visited his grave often, returning silent and sad.
Then, her mother fell ill. She shuffled around the house like an old woman, hunched and weak. She stopped styling her hair, stopped leaving her bed. Catherine would come home from school to find her still there.
“Mum, have you eaten?” Catherine would ask, anxious.
“Not hungry,” her mother would murmur, her lips pale and dry.
Catherine took over—cooking, shopping, cleaning. She begged her mother to eat, but soon even that became impossible. A neighbour looked in while she was at school. It was that same neighbour who called to say her mother had died.
Catherine barely remembered her exams, if she even sat them. Her mother had passed just before the school year ended, her eyes fixed on the portrait of her husband. The neighbour helped arrange the funeral.
Catherine enrolled in an open university and found work at the same place. She had round cheeks, a fuller figure, and thought herself plain. She tried every fad diet, lasted two days, then ate twice as much. By graduation, she accepted she’d never look like the models in glossy magazines—some things were just genetics.
Perhaps it was her curves that kept lads at bay, though no one ever called her fat. “When I finally go to the seaside,” she thought, “I’ll live on fruit and finally lose weight.”
The manager at her first job refused her summer leave.
“Think about it, Catherine,” he said. “You’re single, no kids. Who deserves the summer holiday more—you, or someone like Natalie, who’s got two little ones?”
She relented. What choice did she have? September it was. The “velvet season,” he called it. So she browsed hotels online, deciding to fly—costlier but quicker. She bought a new swimsuit and a light summer dress. She’d buy a wide-brimmed hat when she got there, just like in the films. The sea was all she dreamt of, even at night—visions of running along the shore replacing the dusty road of her childhood.
One evening on the bus home, counting the weeks until her holiday, a man sat beside her.
“Excuse me, how long to Babylon?” he asked.
She turned to see a pleasant-faced stranger. “Not far. I’ll tell you when to get off. Visiting someone?”
“A mate. Said he lives near the shopping centre,” he replied, studying her.
“Which street?”
He fished a crumpled note from his pocket. “Green Street, number forty-two.”
“I’m at thirty-eight,” she said, inexplicably pleased.
“Then I’ll walk with you—you can point it out. First time in this city.”
She nodded, turning back to the window.
“Haven’t seen him since the army. Nervous, honestly,” he mused.
“If he gave you the address, he’s expecting you,” she offered.
“He did, but I lost his number. Didn’t tell him I was coming. What if he’s away?” He sighed.
They chatted until their stop. Crossing the road, she pointed to her building.
“I live here. Yours is just past the next one.”
“Mind giving me your number? Just in case?” He smiled, faintly sheepish.
She recited it. It meant nothing, obliged her to nothing. She was sure he wouldn’t call. Her mother had always said to choose someone on her level—he was far too handsome for her. He thanked her and walked on.
Later, yawning in front of the telly, her phone buzzed with an unknown number. Half eight. Then she remembered—the man from the bus.
“Earlier on the bus—you gave me your number,” came the warm voice.
“The number, not the phone,” she corrected, her heart skipping.
“Well, my mate’s at his holiday home. I reached him, but it’s too late to head there now.” A pause. “I don’t know what to do. Hate to trouble you…”
She froze. Was this sheer cheek? A stranger angling for an invite? Or… did he like her?
“Call a cab. There’s a hotel nearby,” she said carefully.
“Right. I’ll do that.” He sounded deflated. A rustling noise.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Just—thanks.” The line went dead.
Unease prickled. A stranger, alone in the city—what if he had no money? Not her problem. Yet… She dialled him back.
“Fine. Come over,” she said, giving her flat number.
He arrived in five minutes. She barely had time to swap her tatty robe for a decent dress. Over tea, he introduced himself—George—and shared army stories about his mate. Catherine laughed, then confided about being alone. George understood—his father had passed too. They turned in near one. She made up the sofa for him, taking the smaller room where her mother had died.
Sleep wouldn’t come. She replayed his steady gaze, his stories. Not a sound from the other room.
The alarm jolted her awake. She reached for her robe, then remembered—George was here. She dressed, freshened up, put the kettle on, then woke him. After breakfast, they left together.
“Where to now?” she asked.
“The station. Off to see my mate.”
“That’s your bus. Run—you’ll make it.”
And run he did. At the door, he turned. “Cheers!”
She watched the bus go. She hadn’t expected him to bolt like that. What had she hoped for? She didn’t know. The sadness settled—she’d never see him again.
That evening, approaching her building, she scanned for George. Nothing. After dinner, she dozed on the sofa where he’d slept. Her dreams were of the sea, calling for her mother, her voice lost in the waves…
She woke in a cold sweat. The room was dark, the telly flickering silently.
She washed her face, drank water, but unease clung. Checking her stash—her holiday money was gone. She tore the cupboard apart. Five hundred quid, vanished.
Panic crushed her. No seaside now. All that scrimping for nothing. And she’d pitied him. Had it even been his real name? She should’ve made him get a hotel. He’d planned this from the start—not a sound all night. She dialled his number. Disconnected.
She wept till dawn.
“Stop crying,” a colleague said later. “He could’ve killed you. Be glad it was just money. Report it.”
At the station, a young constable listened patiently, handed her water. Her teeth clinked against the glass.
“Calm down. The SIM’s long gone—so’s the money.”
“Funny, a bloke like that with such a cheap phone,” she sniffed. “A whole year saving…”
“Foolish, trusting fool,” she thought on the way home. For a second, she thought she saw George outside—just the bus speeding by.
Days later, the constable visited.
“Did you catch him?”
“No. The SIM was bought under a fake name. Only called you. Be careful next time.”
“I’ll never trust anyone again,” she muttered.
He flushed. “You’ll have your seaside. And someone who loves you. You’re… lovely.”
Not a looker himself, stocky, ordinary. But handsome men brought trouble, she knew now. She offered tea. On his way out, Dave asked her to the pictures. She said yes.
Three months later, they married. The seaside trip waited—by summer, she was expecting.
They finally made it when their son, Arthur, was two. On the sand, watching her husband and little boy hand-in-hand by the water, Catherine smiled.
“If I hadn’t dreamed of the seaThe waves lapped at the shore, whispering that sometimes the hardest roads lead to the brightest shores.
