Mymble Cottage

I awoke, my heart pounding and sweat on my brow. Darkness enveloped me. Fear. The windows rattled and shook, and I heard a smash. Was it the storm or was it an intruder? If an intruder, then could I defend myself if I needed to? It was most unlikely to be an intruder of course. Deep down, rationally, I knew that. But it could be, and of late the coulds had started to become probables in my mind. And even though it was most probably not, that crash had been real, as too was the storm beyond those fragile panes. What untold damage would it cause? The cost. The hassle. What if those windows did not hold? What if the cliff did not hold? What if a chunk slipped down into the waves in the night?

For the first time since buying Mymble Cottage I felt afraid of my most beloved companion.

The sea became enveloped by the darkness.

I switched on the light and the darkness lessened somewhat. Lessened but did not disappear. I got up and walked into the kitchen. I put on the kettle and made a cup of tea. Still the wind blew, and still the house shook. There were more crashes beyond the vulnerable panes. Part of me wanted to open the door, the confront the storm like I had done so many times in the past. To roar at the top of my voice into the howling night, whilst gale and rain lashed at my cheeks. To come face-to-face with Mother Nature in all her howling glory. But unlike in the past, something stopped me now. The darkness stopped me. The exhilaration of standing up to those furious elements somehow no longer seemed worth it. And the threat of catching pneumonia or being blown over or hit by flying debris loomed like shadows in my mind. The darkness deepened.

The kettle boiled and I made the tea. With the warm mug in my hands, the darkness rescinded further, but it still did not disappear completely. Caffeine is a drug which numbs but does not cure.

---

The following morning was bright and clear. The garden was a mess but there was no major damage save for a couple of smashed gnomes and some loosened roof tiles. I had been lucky and yet I did not feel it. The thought of climbing up a ladder to replace the tiles, or even of getting someone else in to do it worried me.

I sat in the garden and looked out at the now placid sea. All this darkness angered me. It was a new emotion, an unwelcome guest in the house of my life. My whole existence had been one of seeking, finding, and basking in the light. The things I had done, the places I had been. I did not know fear and went where others dared not tread. I cleared mines in countries that you would struggle to find on a map and reported on conflicts that no one cared about. I comforted refugees and shared cigarettes with warlords; gazed at bombarded cities and talked with terrorists. People wondered at me; the girl who knows no fear.

And yet here I was, sitting in my own garden, staring out at a sea that now scared me, worrying about my possessions, my health, my property. I tried the meditation and mindfulness techniques that had served me well for so long, but still the darkness returned. So, after all else failed, I opened up a musty hardback novel that had been sitting on the shelves for years and lost myself in Regency high society.

---

I am a child. I am a child, and I am in the forest. Alone in the forest. Where is mum? Where is dad? I call for them but they do not reply. All around me the trees bend in, dark and forbidding. I think of Hansel and Gretel and the birds that eat the crumbs, and of the wolf that happily devours Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother. I start to run, blindly, stupidly, on and on. I run through the trees, tripping, grazing my legs on stones, stinging them on nettles. And then the trees part and the forest ends. There is a short expanse of grass before the world stops. Well, the land stops. The drop to the sea is huge. I stare down at the waves crashing against the jagged rocks and a lump forms in my stomach and rises up to my throat. I stand there panting.

Then I hear a noise. To my left. I look and see mum and dad, hand-in-hand. They wave at me and shout. Behind them is the house. That fantastical cottage that we pass every time we drive to the caravan where we take our holidays. It is one of the things that my brother and I always look out for. The funny little dwelling on the clifftop near to the forest, made of wood, not stone, and painted bright red. The first time that I saw it, for some reason it reminded me of my favourite cartoon and so I asked dad if that is the place where the Moomins live and he said yes, or to be more precise, it is where the Mymbles dwell, for everyone knows that the Moomins themselves live in the sky-blue circular tower in Moomin Valley which is, after all, nearby. So, from then on, that funny little red house on the clifftop was Mymble Cottage and it was what I looked for every time we went to the seaside.

I was glad to see it now. And glad to see mum and dad. I ran towards them, but when I got there, they were gone, the house too. I started to scream, long and loud, and then I woke up.

---

I went into town. I’d always tried to keep my visits to the town to a minimum as it reminded me of the reality that I so longed to avoid with all its mundane routineyness and everyday banality. But I’d found myself going there more and more over the past year or more. There seemed to be a direct correlation between the darkness and the town, as if the two were somehow linked. In the town I bought the weapons that fought the darkness: a burglar alarm, communication devices, practical things that made cooking, washing and cleaning easier. Yet they never seemed to solve the problem. It was as if the town were a drug pusher, promising release from your demons, and yet with each purchase they returned all the stronger. Yet still I returned, for what else could I do?

This time I went to buy some rooftiles and new gnomes. I would not get someone in; I was an independent woman after all. I always had been. And independent women do things for themselves.

I got the tiles easily enough, but I didn’t buy any gnomes. The prices were ridiculous and besides, why did I even want gnomes in my garden? This was Mymble Cottage, not Gnome House. They would only get broken in the next storm anyway.

After buying the tiles, I cut back through the park to the car park and, of course, passed the church. And – for some reason that I cannot quite explain – I felt the urge to enter, so I did.

Inside it was quiet. I am not religious, but I do think that a place of stillness in the midst of a frantic world is a healthy thing for society to have. Mymble Cottage I had once thought of as my still place, but the crashing of the waves and roar of the wind made it seem loud and relentless these days. This was an old church, which I liked, the idea of stones witnessing humanity for century after century, but there was little inside beyond whitewashed walls. I did not pray because it would be hypocritical, but on a wall to the left of the altar there was an icon, like those the Russians have, with an image of Mary holding the Christ Child. Again, for some unknown reason, I felt drawn to it. Her expression, the eternal female, from Astarte to Juno, Kwan Yin to Lakshmi. And the child, both young and old as the artist had depicted him, seemingly saying to me “Lay your burdens on me.” I felt comforted and then, a wave passed through me. Be careful! ‘Lay your burdens’, is not so far from ‘depend’. It starts with that; getting people when they are vulnerable, and it ends with them being unable to function without you.

I, however, am independent. I rose and left.

That afternoon I proved my independence by replacing those broken tiles with the new ones. Mymble Cottage was as good as ever. I made myself a cup of tea and swelled with pride.

---

I am a child again, a little girl in a yellow dress. I am playing on the beach and mum and dad are close by. I am building a sandcastle all by myself without any help. I’m proud of my sandcastle; it is better than the ones that the other children make. Bigger and stronger. Up above on the top of the cliffs, I can just about see the eaves of the cottage where the Mymbles live. I would love to see one of them and I asked dad to introduce me to them, but he told me that, unfortunately, this week they are on holiday just like we are. They are visiting the Moomins in their sky-blue circular tower in Moomin Valley. That makes sense, but it is still disappointing. Maybe next year, he says. In my mind, I decide that I would like to live in the Mymble Cottage. Maybe, when I am grown up like mum and dad, I will see if they will let me buy it off them. That would be lovely! To live in a little red cottage overlooking the sea with gulls as friends and a forest to play in at my back. Could life be any happier than that?

But then I think about it again and clouds seem to pass over the beach making it dark. Unlike our house on New Avenue, there are no neighbours here; there isn’t another house for miles. Who would I play with? Who would read me a story at bedtime? I would be lonely. I go to mum and sit on her knee. I look up at her and her face changes into the face of Mary in that icon I saw this afternoon. “I will look after you,” she says. But I do not want to be looked after! I realise that I will need to learn to live without neighbours. Without anyone to read me a bedtime story. Drops of rain start to fall from the black clouds above us and I wake up.

---

There has been another storm. The damage is worse that last time. The new tiles that I fitted so carefully lie smashed on the paving slabs. One of the windows is smashed too and a cruel breeze chills the kitchen. The darkness has had its revenge. It laughs at me from across the wild waves. I sit and weep, my head in my hands.

---

The roof is fixed, and the tiles are as new. So too the window, which again keeps out the cold and in the warmth. I smile when I see them, my mug of tea cradled in my hands, but this time I feel no satisfaction, nor do I swell with pride.

I called Jack. He is the grandson of Elaine in the town who sometimes comes over to Mymble Cottage for wine and chess. I may not have neighbours, but I do have friends. Elaine has told me countless times about how her grandson has recently set up his own business doing gardening and odd jobs. “He’s doing really well,” she says. And he has done a good job. I survey it all like new and think, ‘Gale where thy sting; storm where thy victory?’ Yet the darkness lurks in the background. Good today, but what about tomorrow? How secure are those cliffs? Is that wall rotten? I turn around and face the now-gentle waves lapping the sand below and shudder as if I am no longer facing a friend but instead the school bully.

I hurry inside and blot it out by making lunch.

That afternoon I return to the town. No reason, except that I do not wish to either see or hear those waves, harbingers of darkness that they are.

Not that I admit this to myself of course. Instead I make an excuse about garden ornaments and buy a ceramic Moomin from the garden centre to replace the vanquished gnomes.

Inside the church again it is still and silent. I gaze at the icon and feel like I felt as a child in my dream. I need someone to keep away the darkness like I did then. I hate the feeling.

The priest comes up to me and asks if I am ok. She has seen the tears. I tell her about the storm and the tiles. She asks if I want to pray with her and I say no, but then talk about my dreams and the darkness. She nods compassionately and gets out her Bible. I want to leave but I know it would be rude and she has been kind. “To every thing,” she says, reading slowly and carefully, “there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up.”

She closes her book and looks at me. “Wasn’t that a song once?” I say, trying to lighten the mood, change the subject.

“Yes, it was,” she replies with a smile.

She leaves but the words stay.

---

I am standing on the clifftop gazing down at the sea below. The sea that had once been such a dear friend, comforting and liberating, embracing and exhilarating, yet now which threatens and rumbles.

“Why? I ask, now a child and an adult at the same time. “Why do you do this to me?”

At first it seems as if I shall receive no answer, but then I listen carefully, and in the ebb and flow of the breakers I discern a still, small voice.

“I do what I do,” the sea seems to reply.

I realise that this is a challenge. I am an independent woman. I do things on my terms, no one else’s. “As do I!” I reply pointedly, before waking up.

---

I have left Mymble Cottage. Jack paid a good price for it. He is a nice lad and they have just had a little daughter. It will be a magical place for a child to grow up in, with gulls as friends and a forest to play in at her back. I chose to sell it and I chose who to sell it to. I am an independent woman. I left the sea on my terms, no one else’s. I chose the time and the season in which to plant, and to pluck up that which is planted.

And here in Hemulen Cottage in the middle of the town the darkness is banished behind double-glazing, CCTV, and central heating.

---

I wake from an empty dream and find myself in a strange room, silent and alien. Where am I? Where are the waves and the creaks of the timber? Then I realise; I no longer live at Mymble Cottage, but instead here, in this new house in the centre of the town.

As I adjust my eyes, I realise that there is no darkness any longer. Here in Hemulen Cottage it has been banished behind double-glazing, insulation and central heating.

I get up and walk to the window. Beyond lies the street with its cars and concrete.

An unimaginable sadness engulfs my soul and I weep for long-lost friends.

Written 14-20/04/2021, Smallthorne, UK

Copyright © 2021, Matthew E. Pointon