All the Hopeful Lovers (34 page)

It’s Jack’s idea. Alice doesn’t question it.

‘Come and look at the sea.’

He hardly knows himself why he wants to do this in such a cold season, but it comes upon him as a plain need. He wants to be somewhere wide and empty and bleak, somewhere stripped of all pretension, somewhere elemental. He thinks at first he wants to be there alone, but then he thinks he’d like to be there with Alice.

‘Come where?’ says Alice on the phone.

‘Seaford,’ he says. ‘Seaford beach.’

Not the picturesque meanders of Cuckmere Haven, nor the grand drum-roll of the Seven Sisters, but unlovely little-visited Seaford. Out of season in a seaside town that is forever out of season.

‘It’s special,’ he says. ‘You’ll see.’

He drives her there in the early afternoon and they park close to the Martello tower and walk together along the concrete broadwalk between the road and the beach. A blustery wind blows clouds across a grey sky and makes their eyes water. Gulls wheel and bank overhead, screaming their harsh screams. There are others out on the beach, lone figures walking their dogs, but few and far apart. Behind them the high cliff of Seaford Head. Before them, far off, the dark line of Newhaven pier reaching into the sea.

They walk briskly, their coats wrapped tight, scarves muffling their necks to the chins. Jack says they must walk the length of the crescent beach without talking, so they can empty out. Alice obeys as if this is a religious requirement, at first amused, but after a while she feels herself emptying out. Because of the cold wind and the wide space and the not talking.

Then they come to a stop, and turn about.

‘We can talk now,’ Jack says.

‘What are we to talk about?’ says Alice.

This is Jack’s game and only he knows the rules.

‘Real things,’ says Jack. ‘Not fluff.’

‘I’ve got no fluff left,’ says Alice. ‘It’s all blown away.’

As they walk back, warmer now, moving more slowly, they look out over the immense sweep of beach, over the unbounded grey sea, to the racing sky. Here and there through breaks in the cloud shafts of cool white sunlight pour down onto the water.

‘That’s the light of heaven,’ says Jack. ‘When we came here when we were little the sky often did that. My dad said, “Look, there’s the light of heaven shining down on earth.”’

‘Why did you come here?’

‘My father loved Seaford. He said somebody had to. So I started loving it. And now I think it’s beautiful.’

Alice is pleased.

‘I said that.’

‘I remember.’

They go onto the pebbles, crunching down the slopes and terraces of the beach to where the waves come hissing in to shore. Here they stand still for a while, feeling the world roll beneath their feet. Alice feels giddy and takes Jack’s arm. Her arm lightly looped through his, they walk on over the shiny sea-washed pebbles, over the many colours, grey and cream, amber and ochre, blue and indigo and black. The pebbles give beneath their tread, making the walking strenuous. Jack feels Alice’s wind-blown hair flick against his cheek.

There are two ships on the horizon, long low shapes against the white sky.

‘Why is it that ships are always on the horizon?’ Jack says. ‘Why aren’t they ever between the horizon and the shore?’

‘I expect they are.’

‘No. Look.’

She looks and it’s true. They find a third, smaller, ship, also on the horizon.

‘Horizons are odd,’ says Alice. ‘They’re an end that isn’t really an end at all. You never get to the horizon.’

‘I don’t want to get to the horizon. I don’t want it to be any kind of an end. I want it to be infinity.’

‘It is infinity.’

‘Does that make you feel small?’

‘Maybe. But I like to feel part of something much bigger than myself.’

‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ says Jack. ‘Exactly.’

‘This is somewhere to come when you’re feeling down, isn’t it?’ Alice says.

‘Definitely.’

‘No pushy happiness to make you feel worse.’

They crunch back up the beach, skidding down a little with each upwards step. There are benches all along the concrete broadwalk, each one donated in memory of someone or other. They sit down on a bench dedicated to the memory of Walter Clapham, 1916–2005, Writer and Bomber Command Veteran. Now they are no longer in motion the wind feels colder. They press against each other.

‘No pushy happiness,’ says Jack. ‘That’s good. I like it that you get it.’

‘Takes two,’ she says.

He glances at her. He sees her pale cheeks, the bold line of her nose. Dark hair blowing across white skin. Asking nothing, claiming nothing.

She’s beautiful in her own way. He sees it now. Maybe everyone’s beautiful if you can only find their beauty.

She looks back at him, grey eyes saying, So here we are.

‘So here we are,’ he says.

She leans in closer to him and he puts his arm round her. Now they’re both looking out to sea. Out at the light of heaven shining down on earth.

‘Jack,’ she says. ‘Tell me to be careful.’

‘Be careful, Alice.’

He holds her tight, following the flight of the gulls.

‘So what changed?’ she says.

‘I don’t know,’ he says.

‘It was Cas running away to London. That’s what I think.’

‘And you saying Haywards Heath, and crying in my arms.’

‘Was it?’ Her eyes bright with happiness. ‘Was it Haywards Heath? That is so stupid.’

‘It’s not like we don’t know each other,’ he says. ‘I feel like I’ve known you for ever.’

‘Since we were four.’

They sit contentedly side by side, there on the Bomber Command Veteran’s bench, huddled close together, watching the immense sky.

‘I’m glad we came here,’ says Alice.

‘You don’t think it’s too bleak?’

‘I like it being bleak. It leaves room for us.’

This is exactly what Jack thinks.

‘You say the things I think, only better.’

‘So now I’ll always love Seaford too, like your dad. Even though it’s so unromantic. We should be sitting under swaying palms on a tropical island. Or in a café in Paris.’

‘We can do that too.’

‘But let’s always come back to Seaford.’

So this is how it begins, thinks Jack. Out there over the sea is infinity. There doesn’t have to be an end. What’s begun can go on for ever.

She turns her face to smile at him and he’s looking at her. He kisses her lightly on her cold cheek. She moves her face against his and kisses his mouth. They kiss until their lips are warm.

Neither of them has used the word love. Too soon for that. Still shy in each other’s company. But he’s saying it to himself, practising for when he says it aloud.

I could love you, Alice.

And she’s saying it to herself, being careful, because it’s only just beginning.

I could love you, Jack.

All the Hopeful Lovers
picks up some of the characters of my earlier novel,
The Secret Intensity of Everyday Life
, which was set in 2000, eight years earlier. Like the first novel, the action unfolds in real time, in real places; though the village of Edenfield is invented. For those who are interested to track the geography of my world, Edenfield is just east of Lewes on the A27, in the position occupied in reality by the hamlet of Beddingham.

All the characters are fictional, with one exception: Victor Elsey, the proprietor of the café on Lewes station, has kindly given me permission to feature him in a walk-on part. For the painter Anthony Armitage I have borrowed a little from the career of the late Michael Reynolds. For the details of plastic surgery I am indebted to Nick Parkhouse FRCS, who gave me generous amounts of his time, access to his clinic, and the benefits of his insights into his profession.