i. writer’s block | part 2
I had always loved the beach. I loved it so that it felt as though it was my own muse. It was common to carry my trusty notepad about and have it ready for the eminent epiphanies. Most times - I could swear it! - I believed I was the stones of Brindleton Bay, being drowned and damped, and surfaced anew in an endless inspiration stream that crashed onto me like mighty waves.
That morning, however, I did not place my notepad in the pocket tied around my waist, fastened into my petticoat. It made me jittery to leave it at home, on my desk. Yet, I knew no waves would dance at my shore that day, as they had not done so ever since I read the news of Maisie's engagement. My words, I realised, were now widowed. I had drained them, leaving my mind - once overwhelmingly fruitful - stale, and idle, and meaningless. I supposed it was bound to happen, for I had inked all my passion in letters left unanswered.
I only noticed I'd been relentlessly pacing once Matthew called for me. I couldn't tell how long I'd been shuffling, dipping my feet in the sand. All I knew is that, now, I stood - barefoot and unkempt - far from where I had prepared us a spot for an informal picnic. My agitation was but a mere distraction from the memories that swallowed me when in stillness. If I thought I was the gravel covering the beach, Maisie, then, was the whole world entirely. I saw her upon the rocks, swinging her limbs as she bravely jumped into the water. I saw her weeping, wading silently in the mourning gown she had worn at her grandmother's funeral. I saw her chasing seagulls, looking for empty shells, calling for my name, and seizing my hand as she stared in awe at the vastness of the sea… I could not make sense of what we were now. I could not, for it did not make sense at all.
Above all, I was most anxious to meet Matthew's beau. 'What a queer situation', I thought, 'my brother's sweetheart is a boy!' No, not a boy, but a man of my age. A man who had been brave enough to come all the way to meet Matthew's family. It was only I, of course, but still! I could not have imagined myself having tea alongside Maisie's younger sister if she were aware of our natures. But, then again, I was but plain and fearful, and terribly sentimental now. When Matthew cried "Bethany! Over here!" and I turned, and caught a glimpse of the figure walking beside him, it lacked me bravery to look at their faces at first.
I was, oh, so timid that I felt I could weep. Of pride and joy, surely! Or, possibly, of jealousy, for I internally begged that the roles were reversed and it were I who brought Maisie as my sweetheart for Matthew to greet.
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