​Hello

Take the marsh road from the village and you’ll find the old sewer pipe that stretches out towards the sea across an open, liminal landscape of blue lavender and samphire. In the far distance the waves pound the shore, and beyond, the wind turbines turn in a sleepy silent manner. He walks carefully along the pipe as befits a man of caution and of an indeterminate age somewhere between old and elderly. Occasionally he stops and watches his wife Helen who walks on ahead. Nimbler than he, her light-blue jacket makes her almost indistinguishable from the pale, azure sky. Above, a skein of brent geese fly in close formation towards their nesting grounds in the west. He continues to walk along the pipe, unconcerned by the high-pitched shriek of a red shank or the startled cry of a pair of curlews soaring up from the marsh.

     Since her illness she’s told him it can’t wait - their favourite walk- a walk in homage to a life well-lived. She waves briefly in his direction, and then jumps down off the pipe, and heads towards the old cockle grounds on Blakeney Point. He stops and watches her for a moment wondering if she’ll walk on or return by the path that winds its way up past the campsite to the pub. He laughs. Such a free spirit. Whatever, he’ll find her sitting at their table in the lounge bar, his pint awaiting his return. ‘Not all return, though’, he says to himself.

     One dark November evening, years ago, a young village woman disregarded the warning shouts from her fellow cocklers and remained on the sands, her cries mingling amidst the sound of the in-coming tide. They found her the next day, her cockle knife still in her hand, her half-full sack nearby. She was lying face up, her long hair entangled in seaweed, her eyes open, glaring at the injustice of it all.

     At the end of the pipe, he jumps down, and turns in the direction of the church by way of a series of narrow wooden bridges once used to bring sheep in at high tide. Near the last

bridge, he bends down and picks a small bunch of light-blue sea lavender. He’ll give them to Sarah when he sees her.

     Beyond the trees is the church with its well-tended graveyard. He looks out across the saltmarsh. The tide has turned, hastening his step. Grey rain clouds are now scudding in, darkening the way ahead. He enters the churchyard and makes his way to its furthest corner. There beneath an old oak he sees the grave of the old cockle woman caught out by the incoming tide. He walks over and lays a single blue flower on the headstone.

     He then turns and moves slowly towards one of the newer graves bearing a simple inscription, Helen, ever present, unadorned, except for a granite headstone and a small crystal vase. Into this he carefully places the bunch of light-blue sea lavender.

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David Stephens