She yearned for the sea…
Every month, Katherine set aside a portion of her wages for a holiday. For an entire year, she had dreamt of the sea. Long ago, her parents had taken her south, but she scarcely remembered it—she’d been no more than three. After that, summers were spent in the countryside with her grandparents. Instead of the ocean, there was a shallow river, but she could swim for hours, until her lips turned blue and goosebumps dotted her skin.
In fourth year, her parents sent her to a summer camp. She hated it—the rigid schedule, the lack of freedom. They only swam once. The countryside had been far better. Her parents visited every weekend, bringing sweets and treats. After that, she never returned to camp.
In her memories, childhood was the blinding white sun, the shrieks of children splashing in the river, the rainbow shimmer of water droplets. She remembered the scent of damp earth and the sharp, sun-baked grass by the riverbank. And the warm, silken dust underfoot on the country lane.
She often dreamt of running barefoot down that dusty road, her feet sunburned black, sinking ankle-deep. And there, ahead, her mother and father would appear… At this point, she always woke, her heart hammering.
When she was in Year Eight, her father died of a heart attack. Her mother never recovered, fading like a candle left too long in the wind. She often visited the churchyard, returning silent and hollow.
Then her mother fell ill. She shuffled about the house like an old woman, bent beneath an invisible weight. She stopped pinning up her hair, stopped wearing lipstick. Katherine often came home from school to find her still abed.
“Mum—have you eaten?” Katherine would ask anxiously.
Her mother’s thin lips barely moved. “Not hungry. No strength for it.”
So Katherine cooked, shopped, cleaned, urging her mother to take just a bite. Then her mother stopped rising even to wash. Neither coaxing nor tears could lift her. A neighbour watched over her while Katherine was at school. It was she who rang to say her mother had died.
Katherine couldn’t recall whether she sat her exams. Her mother had passed just before the school year ended, her eyes fixed on her husband’s portrait. The neighbour helped arrange the funeral.
Katherine enrolled in evening classes while working at the same college. Round-faced, softly plump, she considered herself plain. She tried every fad diet, lasted two days, then ate twice as much. By graduation, she accepted she’d never resemble the women in glossy magazines. Genetics, she supposed.
Perhaps it was her figure that kept boys at bay—though no one called her fat. “When I go to the sea, I’ll eat only fruit and finally lose weight,” she dreamed.
The office manager at her first job refused her summer holiday request.
“Come now, Katherine—you’re single, no children. Should I let you have July, or Mrs. Thompson, with her two little ones? Exactly. Take September instead. Lovely weather then.”
Katherine agreed. What choice had she? Instead, she browsed hotels online. She’d take a plane—pricier, but quicker. Pray the weather held. She bought a new swimsuit, a light summer dress. At the seaside, she’d buy a wide-brimmed hat, like in the films.
One evening, riding the bus home, she counted the weeks left until her holiday. A man settled beside her.
“Excuse me—how long to Warwick Avenue?”
She turned. He was handsome, warm-eyed.
“Not long. I’ll say when.” She lingered. “Are you visiting?”
“A friend. Near the shopping centre.”
She asked his street. He fumbled in his pocket for a crumpled note. “Green Street, number forty-two.”
“I’m at thirty-eight!” she said brightly.
He smiled. “Then we’ll walk together.”
As they rode, he spoke of his army mate, their long separation, his nerves. Katherine listened, wondering if this was fate.
At her stop, she pointed out her building.
“Perhaps your telephone number? Just in case.”
She gave it, certain he’d never ring. Her mother had said: “Choose an equal.” This man was too striking for her.
Yet that night, her phone trilled—a call from him.
“We met on the bus. You gave me your number.”
“A number, not a phone,” she teased, heart fluttering.
He explained his friend had gone to the cottage. Too late to follow. Hesitant, he admitted he had nowhere to go.
She stiffened. A stranger angling for an invitation? Then—perhaps he liked her?
“Take a cab to a hotel,” she said carefully.
A pause. “Right. I will.”
Yet guilt gnawed at her. A man alone, unfamiliar with the city… She rang back. “Come over.”
He arrived in minutes. Over tea, he spoke of his service, his late father. Laughter came easily. She shared her own loss.
At nightfall, she made up the sofa. Sleep wouldn’t come. She lay listening for any sound from the sitting room.
Morning came. She woke him, brewed tea. They left together.
“Where now?” she asked.
“The station. To see my friend.”
She pointed to his bus. He dashed off, turning only to call, “Thank you!”
She watched the bus disappear. Foolish, to hope.
That evening, she half-expected him at her door. He never came.
Sleep took her on the sofa where he’d lain. She dreamt of the sea, calling for her mother—no sound escaping.
She woke in dread. The room was dark, the silent telly flickering.
Then—her holiday savings were gone.
Panic seized her. No seaside now. No kindness to strangers—especially not ones like him. She dialled his number. Disconnected.
At the station, the young constable was kind. “The SIM was bought under a false name. Used only to call you.”
“Never again,” she vowed.
He blushed suddenly. “You’ll have your sea. And love.”
Not handsome—stocky, ordinary. Unlike the fair-faced thief.
She offered tea. He asked her to the pictures.
Three months later, they married. The seaside waited—for when their son, Arthur, turned two.
As she watched husband and child by the water’s edge, Katherine smiled.
“If not for the sea, the savings, the thief—I’d never have met David. Now there’s Arthur. Happiness, after all, came from the sea.”
