Night's End

It’s dusk, there’s no traffic and the small Welsh fishing village feels empty. Pedestrians and even children are absent. On the horizon, the sun begins retreating behind an approaching cold front. What feeble daylight remains filters through the storm clouds, shimmering over the waves like the rusty dregs from some discarded teacup. In the decades since I’ve been here, it seems nothing and everything has changed.

A solitary beachcomber, looking small and lost against a vast sea, underscores both the towns and my sense of desolation. Driving slowly, looking for a suitable place to park, I pass a row of Victorian buildings. Inside their gloomy bay windows people are sitting alone, gazing silently out to sea. Like inhabitants of some grotesque Amsterdam whorehouse window, they ignore me – and in the gray colours of the sunset, reflected in old, glistening eyes, I see no joy.

By the time I park, a mist is rolling inland over a half-repaired seawall. It’s almost dark as I step from the car’s warmth, the cold air chilling my mood further. Locking the car for the last time, I throw the keys towards the sea and walk with leaden feet along the esplanade towards the hotel where we had shared that first night. The mist increases, its tendrils of ice penetrating my coat and making me shiver. Thickening into a fog, it dampens even the sounds of the gulls. Only an undulating moan from the waves washing the shore remains as a background lament. My world, appropriately, has turned dark, gray and somber. The gloom is punctuated by startling bursts of yellow from the sodium street lights or the sudden flare of a passing car’s headlights creeping by in the murk.

The past seemed to be repeating itself – if it were not for the modern sodium lighting it could be 1939 again. But back then, the fog had held warmth, the glow of expectation and delight. This night and this fog, held neither. My mind returned, as it always did, back to that first time with Jenny.

‘That can’t be the place!’ I’d said, peering at a low wall and the broken gate. Visibility had dropped then, as now, to mere feet.

‘I hope not, because that’s a real dump,’ she’d said, before adding hopefully, ‘it might be a little further along the road …’

So we’d stumbled further along, nervously holding hands, looking for our hotel.

‘That’s it! That’s the place!’

‘You sure?’ I said, half-convinced the run-down wreck we’d just seen might have been our real hotel.

‘Yup, look …’

Barely visible, a faded sign told us we’d arrived at our proper destination. I took Jenny in my arms and kissed her. She responded with long repressed passion, pulling me so tight to her, I could hardly breathe.

‘Let’s get warm… inside.’ I managed to croak

‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘I want you inside …’

More a guest house than a hotel, it nevertheless felt warm and welcoming as we dropped our strikingly different bags at the reception desk. The middle-aged woman behind the desk, the landlady we assumed, smiled professionally.

‘Just the one night, is it, then?’ She asked, in a soft Welsh accent.

‘Sadly, yes, just the one.’ I said, glancing at Jenny.

‘If you could both just sign the guest-register, here, then… Mr. & Mrs. Jones.’ Her tone held just the right amount of disbelief – with a touch of irritation thrown in for our lack of originality in our choice of names, considering where we were staying.

‘Room 23, top of the stairs on your right,’ she said casually, holding out a small key attached to a very large wooden key-fob. ‘Many guests lose their keys, you see.’

‘Ah, yes, I see …’

‘And in war time, we can’t afford that. If you lose it, there’s a five-pound replacement fee, you see,’ she said, sternly.

I shrugged. ‘The war will be all over by Christmas, so they say.’

‘Not if you listen to that Mr. Churchill, it won’t.’

‘No, true, but let’s hope he’s wrong.’

‘Well, enjoy your stay; breakfast is at 8am sharp in the dining room, over there,’ she announced, waving her arm towards the dinning room. We’d been dismissed.

Our room was comfortable and reasonably spacious, but neither of us noticed this as we fell upon the bed, aware only that we were together at last. I cast away my clothes, desire overriding any romantic seduction technique previously planned. We made love, eagerly taking each other far too quickly, but knowing we had all night. By midnight, the fog had been blown away, replaced by a storm with a ferocity that matched our passion. In the darkness, lightening flashed and the wind added its keening wail to our consummation.

The landlady, of course, was right. We didn’t see each other again for five years, not until the war ended, in 1945. Then, when we could, we would meet, perhaps once a month, at the same hotel. My marriage by this time had ended, yet Jenny would not leave her husband. She was trapped and bound by duty and loyalty to one, while preferring another. I bought a small house, not far from the hotel, and this became our home – when she could find herself free. The strain though, told, and eventually it became too much – and she told me it was over.Her mind made up, no arguments could dissuade her. That terrible night I held her close, holding her tight – tighter than I dreamed possible – unable to let her go.

I left the house that should have been ours and never returned to the area. Until now. The house, dilapidated and now compulsory purchased by the Council for a new bypass, is not too far away. But the bulldozers are even closer. Tomorrow they move.

The fog is as cold as that first night and the memory as fresh. The hotel is newly painted but is recognizably the same. The effeminate young man at the reception desk doesn’t even bother to smile professionally. I’m an old man, like so many other old men, and hardly worth the effort. I’ve become invisible. No wooden key-fob this time, just a card-swipe. No breakfast either.

In the bedroom – our bedroom – I move the chair close to the bay window. My reflection stares balefully back at me from the black, water-streaked glass. How many secrets do all the other watchers guard as they too, gaze out to sea?

Night’s end, the dawn is building and the growing daylight is overwhelming my reflection. I’m fading away. They will find her body when they find mine.

It’s time to go – and to be reunited.

• Favorite
• Report Concern
• Share This
  • Facebook
  • Twitter

Add your comment

You need to login or signup to add your comment to this work.