The End

Ok, milestone passed, now to deal with the parents. (she said with all the self assurance that comes from writing in the future)
I find myself strolling around the beach in no time at all, the journey a wash of pictures I pay no attention to, too absorbed in my own thoughts. I’m now almost certain I love Roger. As I feel the wet sand beneath my feet, and see waves slowly ebbing beside me, I remember when I first came to the island, and how I fell in love with it. But I loved university when I first visited it. I love my parents, and my friends, and I left them... I climb back up to the house, and see light through the frosted windows of the toilet block. Igor and his chicken groupies run towards me, held back by the mesh of their enclosure, before quickly losing interest and running back the other way. I poke my head around the door of the cottage, and find it empty. The camp bed is unmade, but the cottage is otherwise vacant. I stand in the middle of the room, taking in every inch of the building I had worked so hard to make my own. My eyes fall on the beautiful stove, the white walls, my bed, my table... and something on the table. A shoebox with a thick purple ribbon tied around it, and a gaudy gift-shop bow on top. Resting against the box is a piece of paper, folded in half with “Read me, Emma, read me!” written in large biro letters. Curious, I read the paper, and smile.

“Emma.” It reads, “Welcome to Scotland, and you’re welcome to it. Glad to hear you’re not actually dead, and I am very, very sorry for falling out of communication. I will remember to write, as it seems your new, Amish way of life does not support voicemail. I know there’s a lot going on right now but I have to get back to Bath; so far Greg has done about 80% of the wedding preparation and my mother has done about 19. If I’m not careful, I may end up not being in it. However I know you are mid-crisis and I couldn’t leave you stranded, so in the shoe box is something that might help. If not, then it’ll at least provide some anecdotes for small talk. Love, hugs kisses and etc, Vikkie”
I roll my eyes, but smile despite myself. Cautiously, I pull off the ribbon and look inside the shoebox. What I see inside makes me want to laugh and weep simultaneously. Nestled in a tea-towel, its’ shiny black surface dull with smears where it had been wiped clean but not properly dried, is the Magic Eight Ball. I lift it up, smiling as it shone in the sunlight. I walk back outside, and stand by the steps, looking out as the sun glitters on the sea.
“Emma.” My mother walks up behind me, making me jump a little. “We need to talk about this, Emma.” I nod, but say nothing. I look down into the swirling blue liquid inside the ball, my mind oddly clear of the confusion and buzz that it had been filled with.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Mum’s voice sounds distant, far away...
“Emma!” I jump as she barks at me, the shock overriding the realisation that the Magic Eight Ball had slipped through my fingers. It rolls down the steps, thumping and bouncing as it falls. I start down after it, followed by despairing threats from my mum. It bounces off the rock face and rolls around the outcrop, out of sight. I run after it, but come to an abrupt stop as Arthur rounded the outcrop at the same time, almost bumping into me.
“Let me guess...” he smiles, holding up the magic eight ball. “Yours?”
I flush a little, smiling.
“You better not let my parents see you.”
“Why?” He grins, handing me the ball. “Are they going to take you away? Or are you about to give in and go home?”
I look down at the orb, and under a veil of swirling blue water, I see words that make my eyebrows shoot up.
“All signs point to No.”
No. My Parents weren’t going to take me away.
No. My Parents couldn’t make me change my mind.
No. I wasn’t going anywhere and I certainly wasn’t giving up.

It was cheesy. God knows it was cheesy, but I look up at Arthur, his lopsided smile waiting a response. Grinning, I leap at him, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. After a brief, shocked pause, I can feel his hands on my waist as he kisses back. I pull away from him, before grabbing his hand, and I lead him with determination back up the steps. My mum stands still, glaring at me with suspicion.
“Mother!” I call up to her from the bottom of the steps, my voice straining against the sea wind but filled with ecstasy all the same. “I’m eighteen years old. I’m an adult. I have my own house, I am in charge of my own campsite. I can’t bake bread but I can live on pie. I dropped out of an English literature course but I can read and write as much as I like out here. I’m not spending time in student clubs but I’m in a relationship with a man... a wonderful man, eleven years older than me. You may not like it but this is my life now, and I’m not going back and I’m not changing.” I find myself brimming with pride, a million passions boiling in my chest as my heart knocks against my ribcage. I look up at her, eyes wide and expectant. I meet her gaze and, for a moment, even the wind seems to hold its breath. After an agonising, intense pause, she raises an eyebrow, and draws her lips into a thin line.
“You’re really happy out here?”
“Yes.” I’m oddly breathless, and I quietly grip Arthur’s hand tighter. It sends a tingle through me when he squeezes back.
“Well.” Mum looks around, breathing deeply, and wipes her eyes. “I suppose I can’t ask for anything other than that.” At that point, we both start sniffing and sobbing, and I take the steps two at a time to hug her. We hug forever, almost as if it was a goodbye hug. A hug saying goodbye to my student life, and to all the trappings and problems that came with it. Halfway through the hug, I become aware of Dad standing beside us, having an awkward conversation with Arthur. Sniffing and laughing at the same time, Mum lets go of me, and we both smile as we look out over the sea. In the distance, I see the small boat chugging out to see us, with a small group of people wearing backpacks and with camping equipment. I’m still holding hands with Mum as we look out over the beautiful mid-morning vista. Arthur moves closer beside me, resting one hand on my waist. He bows his head closer to my ear, his dark eyebrows drawn together, and a crooked smile on his face as he watches the little boat chug nearer to the island.
“You did remember to fix the slogan on the website, didn’t you?”
Dun Dun Dun daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. And that’s the end, cheesed up because I’m in the mood for a happy ending to my long long tale of woe.

Relationshipshape

Ok, it’s awkward.

I mean the whole evening was great, don’t get me wrong. He’d made steak and chips and we ate it in front of the film that I’d picked, “Batman Begins”. (Which as it turned out we both hated, some things just bridge the generation gap nicely). It was quite comfy, sitting on the sofa with my feet on the coffee table next to his, watching him frown at the screen every now and again and catching his eye during a particularly crap part. Afterwards he went through his DVD collection and found one of the older Batman films. We actually didn’t make it through to the end of that one, what started as a chat about which comic adaptation was the best quickly devolved into cushion throwing and movie bashing.
At about eleven he yawned loudly (for over a minute - it was quite impressive) and we both went upstairs. My guest room was at the opposite end of the landing to his and we paused awkwardly in the no-man’s-land between. After a second or two of watching his feet he kissed me lightly, a dry brush of lips. He went to his room, and I went to mine.
It had clearly been shut up for a long time, there were no pictures on the wall and it felt cold and unlived in. But there were clean sheets on the bed and the carpet had clearly been vacuumed recently. I took the sight in without really focusing on it. I felt restless, like there was something I was supposed to be doing, but couldn’t quite set my mind on. I imagine this must be how people in films felt when the people watching them are shouting “Kiss him!” or “He’s got an axe”, vaguely unsettled and indecisive. (hopefully those lines aren’t in the same film....at least not in the same scene)
I stop my train of thought with an effort and yank on my pyjamas. I remember that I put a book in my bag, so I climb into the freshly made up bed and start reading. Twenty minutes later I have failed to take in anything and my ears are straining to hear anything from the rest of the house. Nothing. I decide Arthur must already be asleep. But just as I’m about to turn off the lamp and try to get to sleep, I hear his voice from a room at the other side of the house.
“Go to bloody sleep”
I suppress a smile. “But I’m really bored” I call back petulantly. There’s another slight pause in which I can feel him weighing up the conversation, then he calls out again.
“I’m watching The Sweeny in here”
I get out of bed and pad across the landing. Arthur’s lying in the middle of his bed, still fully dressed, minus socks. I sit down on the creased blue duvet and listen as he patiently explains the show to me. I’m just starting to consider returning to my own room to get some sleep, when my eyes drift shut.
When I wake up, sunlight is filtering through the blue curtains. I start to move, stretching out of my cramped position, then I encounter a warm shape and freeze. Arthur is lying next to me, still asleep, snoring. I’m tucked under his arm with my head resting on his chest. The arm that I’m under rests across my waist and tightens a little as I shift. The television is still on, now showing the news, but it’s muted. “Arthur?” I whisper, gently, if a little awkwardly, resting my hand on his chest. He doesn’t respond, so I let my head rest against him. I’m still in my pyjamas, he’s still as I found him; nothing happened. But I feel so sublimely happy that the thought of anything happening is redundant. I look at my hand, small and dainty against his broad chest, and close my eyes again. It was all a bad dream, all of it. Parents moaning at me, Vikkie being interviewed by a news station because everyone thought I was dead, Daniel and me... Daniel in general... this was the only thing that had ever been real, this was the only thing that mattered. I sigh happily, and wriggle my shoulders as I snuggle into the pillows.
“Don’t start sighing and being all girly. I don’t want you going soft on me.” Arthur mutters without opening his eyes. “Sorry.” I smile, but I can’t help fixing on that word. Girly. I look down at my pyjamas, blue with little white pandas dancing over them. I came here to get away from a life I thought I was too mature for. But now I’m here, and I realise that maturity and experience are two very different things. “What time is it?” Arthur mumbles, his arm flexing around my waist, briefly pulling me closer to him. I look at the clock on the morning news, but it takes a few minutes for me to actually focus on it long enough to answer him. “Nine thirty.” I clear my throat, trying to sound bright and breezy. “I should go and get changed, I have to go back to my parents...” I sit up, but he holds the back of my pyjama top. “But I was comfy.” “Arthur.” I roll my eyes and walk back to my room. I can hear his voice echoing in my head. Girly. Girly? No. I’ve done more in the past few months than some people do in ten years. I’ve set up my own business, I’ve got my own property, I’ve completely renovated my own house... I’ve got a working farm that isn’t necessarily going to survive the winter, I’ve got a huge debt to the student loan company, I’m in a relationship with a guy twice my age, I’ve drunkenly slept with his son, I’m a university drop-out... I drag myself back to my senses as I realise that I’ve been trying to get my head through a sleeve for the past five minutes. Sighing, I throw the offending T-shirt to the floor, and throw myself on the bed. What am I going to do? I struggle into my clothes, and ram my pyjamas back into my bag. The door creaks open a little, accompanied by a brisk knocking.
“Emma?” Arthur clears his throat, sounding awkward. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. No. Yes.” I blather as I cross to the door, catching him off guard as I pull it open. He stumbles a little, before regaining his balance and giving me a stern look.
“I meant to do that.”
“Sure.” I chuckle, but I find myself holding back tears of confusion. It must have been obvious, because he wordlessly opened his arms, hugging me.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Mmf.” I mumble, my face buried in his shoulder.
“I see.” He presses his lips to my forehead, before looking up again. “And how does that make you feel?”
I hit him on the shoulder, but make no attempt to move away from the hug. We stand there, in the middle of the doorway, me still holding my bag, and neither of us speaking. Eventually, he steps back, leaning against the wall.
“Well go on then.”
“What?” I sniff, a little confused.
“Go for a walk, go back to your island. You’ll find a way to figure it out. Be at one with nature, pray to the Pagan gods. Just... get happy.”
“How did you know I pray to Pagan gods?” I smile, only half joking.
“You ran away to Glastonbury and there are pentagrams on the majority of your possessions.” He tapped his nose, with a wry smile. “You can’t fool me, I’ve been watching The Sweeney for twenty odd years.”
Gratefully, I chuckle, and go to walk past him, but stop. I look up at him, and firmly plant a kiss on his lips. He looks down at me, smiling, before rolling his eyes.
“Go on, before I have to throw you out.”