Listen to the Trees and Other Curious Tales

A Nice Day

What a wonderful sight was laid out there before me as I crested  the grassy dune to look down on the bay. The sweeping curve of those seaside terrace houses in their pink, white, blue and cream faces running out into the sea were beauty itself.

I couldn’t see behind them as I came over the sandy rise but I felt certain that there must be much more land to their rear. Back yards perhaps and possibly a cobbled track for the fishermen’s carts bringing their catch home. These were certainly fishermen’s cottages and the curving spit running out into the bay terminated in what had to be, to my imagination, the old catch landing point.

I guessed that there was no fishing taking place now and that the cottages must have been sold on, possibly not to locals considering their decorative frontages. As their working owners came to the end of their lives I was guessing that the old cottages had been sold on for holiday lets. I had seen many in the old Cornish fishing villages and these looked very similar.

To their front I could make out a narrow walkway, a promenade perhaps, separated from the sea by a stout sea wall holding back the rollers that I could see coming in to strike its base some ten feet or so below. Perhaps this might be high tide, I didn’t know. If it wasn’t then those pretty cottages would surely have to take the fury of the sea breaking over the wall. I was still guessing. I really didn’t know what the truth was as I just admired the view.

But what a nice day it was. Sea birds were wheeling in a bright blue sky full of wispy curtains of cloud. The warmth of a summer sum was playing upon my face. The smell of the salt and the grass of the dunes I had just wandered over to find this wonderful sight before me, added to the pleasurable experience.

Yet strangely, I had no idea where I was. What was the name of this curving strip of land with the decorative cottages sat upon it? I did not know. What might be the place I had just come from, or indeed just walked over, I didn’t seem to know that either? How strange this all was but, there again, it seemed to be not at all troubling. For some reason names mattered not at all to me, except perhaps my own. Mark; I knew my name, which was some sort of relief and that’s all that seemed to matter.

I found my attention drawn back to these picturesque houses. I felt concern as to how they would cope in a winter storm with explosive waves battering and flying clear of the sea wall. It all looked very nice but somehow I could not see it all being very practical, but there again, what did I know? I was only an outsider looking in on someone else’s world.

Why should I be at all that interested, it was not something I should really be concerned about? But of course, just thinking of this question, I was interested and concerned, wasn’t I? It was a pleasant day, a pleasant view and I had to take it all in with a great sense of personal pleasure and a feeling of satisfaction. I didn’t know how I had come to be here or even why that should matter; so it didn’t.

My attention was brought to a blue fronted house about three quarters the way round the curving point. There was something about it that was directing my attention, something that I should know, someone I should meet, how odd yet not at all disconcerting.

I strolled happy over the last of these sandy dunes, down the last slope onto the stony path. This followed the sandy coast line but was inland from the waves now rolling over where a beach would surely be exposed at low tide. There was still a lot of visible sandy bay, despite the high tide, if that was what it was. This would make sense as the path seemed to be running slightly downwards towards the first of the houses. I strolled with an increasing sense of pleasure along the path, the warm, salty wind against my face and the sun now at my back. I could only think of how wonderful the day was and how lucky I was to be here, of all places.

Reaching the start of the colourful cottages, I paused to absorb what was filling my senses and a realisation that I knew this place, from somewhere. There at the open door of the first house, beautifully finished in a gentle pink, a stout fisherwoman was leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. She gave me a warming smile with a cheery, “Hello my lovely.” I smiled back with a sort of nod in acknowledgement. She said nothing else as my progress along the cobbles continued at its steady slow pace.

Why did I think that she was a fisherman’s wife? I had already come to the conclusion that no fishing would be taking place here. The cottages had been converted perhaps, as I thought, to be holiday lets for tourists. That rang a bell somewhere. I was a tourist, of course I was; no, more accurately, I was just a visitor? That had to be it, a visitor, but who was I visiting? I thought that my visit was simply to this place, not to any one individual, but again another bell rang?

I turned round to reply to the welcome from this lady, not wishing to be rude, with my own, “Hi there,” and then continued my stroll.

A Bit Late

“You’re a bit late, me lovely,” she called after me. I stopped in my tracks and once more turned back to face her.

“We thought you would be visiting more than two days ago,” she said.

We? Had I? Two days go? That was strange thing to say but there again, it did make sense, of sorts; but why? What was I thinking? Let the thoughts come of their accord, I had to, I couldn’t force them.

But yes, I recalled now, well I thought I did. I had been here yesterday, had I not? I was sure I had and now when I really thought about it, the day before that also. But it hadn’t been the day-time when I set off on my journey to come here; it had been night-time, but that definitely did not make any sense.

I smiled and managed a, “Thank you; I’ll try to sort that out now.”

Why did I say that? What a strange reply I had made. I had to move on; something was telling me to move on. I continued my walk but even though I had managed another dozen or so steps I still had not got past this first house. I was walking like I was in treacle, three steps forward but without any progress; frustrating and very odd.

Perhaps this is why I didn’t get very far yesterday, I must have encountered this problem then; if I was here yesterday. Perhaps the walking through treacle before even reaching the start of this row of decorative fishing cottages, perhaps back at the dunes, I didn’t know. I could not bring it to mind for some reason. My memory of previous visits was not sharp and as I tried to focus on them the mental images and any memory of them became even more blurred and indistinct. The more I tried, the worse it became. I had to forget trying to remember or perhaps forgetting would help me remember; that did not make sense and I knew it.

I pushed on, I had to and I do mean push. It was hard work to get past this first house but when I eventually did, the progress became remarkably easy.

The stout lady waved at me again and with a shout, wished me, “Good luck, me lover, you be OK now.”

How did I know she had waved? I was looking in the opposite direction having passed her. I turned my gaze towards her and she waved again calling out once more, “You be all right me lovely.”

What kind of accent was that? I had no idea but again I both knew exactly where I had heard that before, yet I could not recall where. I was thinking through treacle, not merely walking through it.

The odd splash of salt water over the wall brought my attention with a pleasant jolt to the present. It also reminded me that despite its beauty, this row of colourful cottages was at the mercy of the sea if it decided to turn angry.

Passing the next white fronted cottage, my steps were now normal and easy. I was moving towards the blue fronted one, still several cottages away. I had to make the blue fronted one, I had a compulsion to, goodness knew why, but a compulsion it most certainly was.

I seemed to be passing cottage after cottage, head down watching my feet for some reason, perhaps to see if they were still working, yet the progress seemed static and I was rooted to the spot. I must have passed this cream coloured frontage I was alongside at least three times. I had to lift my head up and as I did, I found myself moving swiftly forward to the cottage with the blue front and the open door. There was my lesson, do not look at my feet, because if I did, I simply did not make progress. I looked up and kept my gaze there and strode forward again but could not move the full distance to the start of my objective; that blue house.

She stepped out of the opening in the middle of the intense blueness in her most attractive manner. But of course she did; this was my reason for coming here. I had arrived at last.

Her calf length, light, white, cotton loosely pleated flared skirt, with its lines of red and blue ribbon running round just above the broad, embroidered hem and threaded between the folds, struck a distinct chord of recognition. The way it swung so seductively off her feminine hips as she stepped through the doorway was attraction of the highest order. Her lack of shoes and bare feet did not clash with this vision of femininity but seemed to fit perfectly, especially with where we both were, at fishermen’s cottages. But with her little black waistcoat over a billowing white blouse, she did not give the appearance of a fisherman’s wife nor did this seem to bother me, in fact I rather welcomed the surprise. 

Who was she? Who was this seductress? I knew who she was but I only recognised her in a sort of superficial way; what was her name?

“My name is Caitlyn,” her sweet voice flowed gently from out between her full, ruby-red lips; I was entranced, fixed to the spot. And those eyes, those dark, deep pools of life into which I wished to sink.

I knew her name straight away, even as she was telling me it, but what was she doing here? She was waiting for me of course, now that much I knew; it was obvious, wasn’t it?

With her long, black tresses swirling freely over her shoulders, a single red ribbon tied in a bow in the left side of her hair, she reminded me even more so of someone I really should know, but whom? I knew her but could not now bring her name to mind. She had just told me her name. This was frustrating and seemed most embarrassing.

She advanced towards me, clear of the doorway and the sturdy, white painted curb. Both her feet and mine picked up the pace in a single synchronous motion for us to meet even sooner than if I kept to the steady treacly pace that I had been strolling or struggling with.

We ran the last few steps towards each other, as though in some dramatic film. As we closed the gap between us, I suddenly recognised those deep black eyes that stared intently in my direction, but still her name would not enter my thoughts. She had told me her name, I knew that, so why could I not bring this to mind from a few moments before. She reached out for me and I for her, before we met in some planned soft collision.

At the moment when we should have embraced, those deep black eyes not only caught me such that I could sink straight into them in pure pleasure but they gripped and held my soul in some sort of malevolent way; I was suddenly terrified.

Awake

I started awake with a great suddenness and in a terrible sweat, a nightmare sweat. I couldn’t tell which was real, the nightmare perhaps, the darkened bedroom, reality escaped me. I had been dreaming, but even of that I was uncertain, I was shaking. I reached for the light switch, I needed the lights on quick, where were they? Panic, dreadful panic, body trembling, fevered mind in confusion until after the few manic seconds that seemed like my cloying struggle past the cottages, I found the bedside lamp switch. The sudden illumination had me closing my eyes tightly with a wince but it stabilised my mind as I sat there slowly recovering my sanity and hoping I would cool down.

Where had I been in this dream or perhaps a nightmare? I could remember the details as though it were only yesterday; well I thought I could. Who was the lady, where were these cottages? I was sat upright in bed shaking and perspiring greatly. I had experienced this dream on and off for a few weeks, I was sure of it. It had been with me or me within it, most certainly last night. Or was my memory false and clouded by the effects of a dream that was still there, buzzing within my head and which would not let me go.

Falling out of bed, snatching my dressing-gown off the door hook, stumbling across a darkened landing and hitting the light switch with a practised swipe I reached the bathroom. A face rinse with cold water did the trick bringing my attention back more closely to reality so as to wake up properly. I managed to turn the landing and stairs lights on but still stumbled downstairs to where I could make a second mug of cocoa. A mug full with full cream milk, of course, heated quickly in the microwave and with two large teaspoons of drinking chocolate did not take long.

I almost turned to the coffee but I did not want my mind working overtime even if I did manage to return to bed. Into the dimly lit lounge I sort of staggered, still in my almost blurred dream-like state still, to sit down in an easy chair. The cocoa in my hand was there to steady my fevered brow (where did that phrase come from?).

With each mouthful, each successive one being a little cooler, I was settling down. Being easily seated in the lounge seemed to help. I stared at the clock; it was four-thirty a.m. and I had to be up for work in two hours. I wanted sleep but I wanted the hard light of daytime’s reality.

The drink which had been just hot enough to make a reasonable cup of cocoa was quickly finished. Back to bed or stay where I was? I had a decision to make. I swirled the settled cocoa sediment in the bottom of the mug and finished it off with a last gulp. I abandoned the mug on the small coffee table and went back up to bed. I didn’t remember falling asleep but obviously had done so as I woke up with the noisy alarm ringing in my ears at six-thirty. I was still wearing my dressing gown beneath the quilt and I felt dreadful. Perhaps the confusion still lingered.

With a get up and go attitude I managed to muster from somewhere and despite some residual tiredness, I worked through my ablutions to be ready to leave for work. Remnants of the dream persisted in the back of my thoughts even though I tried to concentrate on my regular routine; shower and shave, white shirt with a dark tie, grey slacks and nicely polished shoes (thank goodness I could put them straight on). Now it was time to consider the day’s work ahead while downing a quick breakfast of a small fruit juice, a cup of instant coffee, some microwave porridge and a slice of toast with Marmite; the pots were dumped into the sink for later this evening.

I drove to the office by my normal motorway route, concentrating hard on the busy traffic, with thoughts of the dream all but gone, arriving just before nine and working up a head of steam for the day ahead.

Turn the computer on, grab a cup of the awful instant coffee from the tea-room, and then back to the desk to answer a stack of e-mails. They had either arrived after I left the office for home, late as usual, or before I arrived this morning (don’t these people ever go home or go to bed?). It took an hour to answer most of the messages, including a few with a “will get back to you later today” message and I then got ready to face what ever the day might throw at me, besides my current project load.

A meeting had been arranged for ten. A new project was just getting off the ground with the appointed contractor who, no doubt, would have a plethora of questions. They had just been awarded the new contract and this was to be the first introductory ‘exchange of information’ meeting; I checked that I had booked a meeting room and that it was free.

In the middle of sorting another problem I received an internal phone call from our receptionist to tell me that the Contractor’s people had arrived, a little on the early side.

I went out to the lobby to greet them and was introduced to a Project Manager by the name of Paul and two young engineers, Martin and Steve.

I also received an apology from the PM. to the effect that the Quantity Surveyor, a lady, was not present with them, was running a little late, but would be with us very shortly. Without the quantity surveyor the meeting could not proceed properly as costs would be at the heart of the discussions.

She would arrive later after having visited another office en-route, where some documents, for a different project apparently, would be collected before coming to this meeting. A little slack I thought, but for this first meeting I could live with it although punctuality was always an item on my agenda.

I took my guests into the available meeting room and poured them all some coffee (the real stuff for guests). We exchanged a little social chat for nearly twenty minutes which was eating into the planned one hour allotted for the meeting.

Paul took a call on his mobile phone and exclaimed with some relief that the lady QS. had arrived in the car park and in two minutes would be with us. I let our receptionist know, managed to increase the room booking by another half hour and asked her to direct the late arrival straight into the meeting room.

A little longer than the announced two minutes, there came the awaited knock on the door. I opened it to let enter a bundle of paperwork, files and drawings in the arms of their QS. She stopped in her tracks and just about dropped the files onto the table and herself into the seat that, thankfully, was the first to be encountered as she came through the door.

I stood in shock as the dream of last night came to hit me square in the eyes. She was sat there captivating my attention totally with her long black hair, red ribbon tied on the left side and with those deep alluring eyes.

My reaction had been well noticed by the other guys and Paul came to the rescue to break the impasse.

“Let me introduce you Mark. This is Caitlyn, our Quantity Surveyor.”

She continued to stare at me from her now seated position and the feeling of being drawn into her dark eyes gripped me; I did not want to resist.

“Mark,” she managed staring straight at me, “it’s you.”

“Do you two know each other?” Paul interjected. “What good news, that will make life a lot easier for all of us.”

“No,” she managed and to which I added, “Not exactly.”

“I don’t know why I was at the blue house,” she started to explain. “Oh sorry, my apologies Paul,” she said directing her words towards her senior. “I’m making a fool of myself. You don’t know what on earth I’m talking about.”

Clearly he most certainly did not understand what she was talking about, as he stood there looking perplexed and wondering what on earth was going on.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” I replied, shocked at what was now taking place between us.

“Do you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Look gents,” I offered, “can we make a fresh start in another five minutes or so, I need to speak to Caitlyn privately for a few minutes.”

I received some rather bemused smiles but as these people were here at my behest and there was a lot of money riding in a project of this sort, I received a simple “Of course,” from Paul with a further, “We’ll help ourselves to more coffee.”

Please do and grab a seat,” I replied as I held out my hand in politeness to assist Caitlyn to her feet. We did not let go when we walked out of the room into the corridor outside. Thankfully the closed door hid the view of us holding hands and just staring at each other like dumbstruck lovers.

“For weeks, on and off, I have been having a dream of meeting you Mark’, she said. “At some small fishing village on the edge of the sea but you never turn up. You only appeared for the first time last night,” she said.

“And then, we didn’t actually meet, did we?” I asked rhetorically.

“No,” she said. “Just as our fingers were about to touch each others, I woke up as though I was having a nightmare.”

“Me too,” I ventured.

“Well here we are now, no more having to meet in secret in our dreams,” I tried with a little light humour.

“Do you know who the stout lady at the first cottage is, Mark?” she asked.

I didn’t and nodded my head negatively.

“I do,” she offered but now with a slight tremble in her voice. “That lady is my great-grandmother who I met just the once as a child. She has been coming into my dreams for a long time now, not all the time, just every so often over the years. She told me a long time ago that you were coming and that I just had to be patient. Within this particular dream of a pleasant sea-side place, she never told me where it was, but she has been persistent in telling me about you. I have always thought it was just a very realistic dream, and lately that feeling really intensified.”

“It’s not though is it,” I ventured.

“You mean a dream, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Not any more,” she responded with a mischievous smile creeping over her face. “Not any more.”

How we managed to return to the meeting room and get through the business, I don’t know, but we did and all the others that followed.

That was all over a year ago now and the dreams ended that same day.

We now have dreams of an entirely different sort and still living together very nicely, I manage most regularly to get myself lost in those deep dark eyes of hers.

~ o ~

Author’s Notes.   

While this is written in the first person, the main character is not me, but someone I had the pleasure of working with for quite a few years, at the same company where we were both engineers.

He only told me this story, not long before he decided that a move to another company was imminent, and swore to me that it was the truth and to keep it to myself. I didn’t wish to not believe him especially when I was introduced, during one working lunch in the week that he was leaving, to his wife. My description of her fits the reality perfectly; what a lady!

Now think about this.

How many times have you, the reader, experienced a recurring dream where you find yourself meeting the same person again and again?

How many of you have actually come across that person of your dreams, in real life?

Think carefully before you answer.

~ o ~