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Authors: Doug Johnstone
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peaceful evening, it was hard to accept a life being snuffed out in this place. The sandstone of the cliffs seemed to glow in the late evening sunlight, as if the rock was resonating with the sun’s wavelengths, giving off its own light and heat in response. The North Sea seemed a different creature to the notorious icy beast that had claimed so many lives through the years, more like a gently purring cat at the heels of the land, ingratiating itself with little friendly lapping sounds. Nicola and David gazed out at the enormity of the sea, hypnotized by the white noise shush of the green-brown water.
‘Next stop Norway,’ said Nicola. David didn’t seem to hear, or was lost in his thoughts. Eventually he emerged from the trance he was in.
‘What?’
‘It’s something my dad always says looking out to sea. “Next stop Norway”, as if it was swimmable or something. As if you could just wander in like Reggie Perrin, and by teatime you’d be ensconced in a cottage on the banks of a fjord, feasting on a smorgasbord with some Nordic family decked out in big woolly jumpers. I really like that idea, making the massive, faceless sea seem small and personal.’
Nicola wondered why she’d brought David here – to the cliffs, to Arbroath at all. He’d looked a little shocked as they’d driven around town for a while, as if every corner they turned was unveiling new, horrific memories for him. Of course she knew that those memories weren’t horrific, he wasn’t a traumatized man for Christ’s sake, it’s just that the memories hadn’t been visited in a long, long time, without the visceral presence of the actual places to unearth them. For her the town was an organic entity, changing and developing, for better or worse, but for him it was maybe a place trapped in amber, buried in time, locked instantaneously in a moment, like Pompeii. It was a ridiculous way to look at a town, she thought, and he needed to stop looking at Arbroath, and his past, that way.
She turned her back on the sea and looked again at the small memorial stone. ‘In memory of Colin Anderson, who died here July 31st, 1988.’ It was a simple enough inscription on a three-foot, rough-hewn stone, the grey granite grain of it somehow out of place amongst all this sandstone. The rock under their feet seemed alive with possibilities, while the memorial stone reminded Nicola only of pallid death. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here, she thought. What was to be gained? She looked out over the fields inland from the cliffs, the low potato plants still green in the ground, a couple of months yet before they could be picked. The rows of fields seemed to go on for miles, somehow further than the sea she had been looking at, because of the parallel lines drawing her eye to infinity.
‘Whose are the flowers, do you think?’ David was looking at the stone. A bunch of wilted carnations, dirty white and jaundiced yellow, lay at the foot of the stone, kept in place by a rock.
‘Probably his mum and dad’s,’ said Nicola. ‘Can’t imagine anyone else coming up here to place flowers after all this time. Although you’d think they would’ve done that at his tombstone, rather than here. I can’t imagine being here would be too comfortable for them.’
‘What about us?’ said David. ‘What are we doing here?’ He didn’t sound angry, just a little sad.
‘I thought it would be good for you,’ said Nicola. ‘I don’t think I was right, was I?’
‘It’s fine, really,’ said David. He looked across at Nicola and her face showed lines of worry – caused by him, he realized with a start, and he felt briefly ashamed. This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. Without thinking he put his arm around her and pulled her closer to him, the pair of them still facing the stone, which seemed dwarfed by its awesome natural surroundings, an insignificant token.
David could feel the shape of Nicola’s hip against his, and the gentle warmth of
‘Next stop Norway,’ said Nicola. David didn’t seem to hear, or was lost in his thoughts. Eventually he emerged from the trance he was in.
‘What?’
‘It’s something my dad always says looking out to sea. “Next stop Norway”, as if it was swimmable or something. As if you could just wander in like Reggie Perrin, and by teatime you’d be ensconced in a cottage on the banks of a fjord, feasting on a smorgasbord with some Nordic family decked out in big woolly jumpers. I really like that idea, making the massive, faceless sea seem small and personal.’
Nicola wondered why she’d brought David here – to the cliffs, to Arbroath at all. He’d looked a little shocked as they’d driven around town for a while, as if every corner they turned was unveiling new, horrific memories for him. Of course she knew that those memories weren’t horrific, he wasn’t a traumatized man for Christ’s sake, it’s just that the memories hadn’t been visited in a long, long time, without the visceral presence of the actual places to unearth them. For her the town was an organic entity, changing and developing, for better or worse, but for him it was maybe a place trapped in amber, buried in time, locked instantaneously in a moment, like Pompeii. It was a ridiculous way to look at a town, she thought, and he needed to stop looking at Arbroath, and his past, that way.
She turned her back on the sea and looked again at the small memorial stone. ‘In memory of Colin Anderson, who died here July 31st, 1988.’ It was a simple enough inscription on a three-foot, rough-hewn stone, the grey granite grain of it somehow out of place amongst all this sandstone. The rock under their feet seemed alive with possibilities, while the memorial stone reminded Nicola only of pallid death. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here, she thought. What was to be gained? She looked out over the fields inland from the cliffs, the low potato plants still green in the ground, a couple of months yet before they could be picked. The rows of fields seemed to go on for miles, somehow further than the sea she had been looking at, because of the parallel lines drawing her eye to infinity.
‘Whose are the flowers, do you think?’ David was looking at the stone. A bunch of wilted carnations, dirty white and jaundiced yellow, lay at the foot of the stone, kept in place by a rock.
‘Probably his mum and dad’s,’ said Nicola. ‘Can’t imagine anyone else coming up here to place flowers after all this time. Although you’d think they would’ve done that at his tombstone, rather than here. I can’t imagine being here would be too comfortable for them.’
‘What about us?’ said David. ‘What are we doing here?’ He didn’t sound angry, just a little sad.
‘I thought it would be good for you,’ said Nicola. ‘I don’t think I was right, was I?’
‘It’s fine, really,’ said David. He looked across at Nicola and her face showed lines of worry – caused by him, he realized with a start, and he felt briefly ashamed. This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. Without thinking he put his arm around her and pulled her closer to him, the pair of them still facing the stone, which seemed dwarfed by its awesome natural surroundings, an insignificant token.
David could feel the shape of Nicola’s hip against his, and the gentle warmth of
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