10
If you were going to walk beside the river as the afternoon came to a close, why would you not first pay a visit to the small church above the shipyard, the church called St. Gluvias, with the red bench in the corner and the black gate set into the rear wall?
This summer, the garden and cemetery were most overgrown. I walked the path to the black gate, stooping under branches and spiderwebs. The gate was locked with a little blue padlock. It has always been locked, so far as I can tell. I stood there for some minutes before returning the way I had come.
As I strode past the graves, I noticed a strange flower growing in the long grasses. It resembled a rose, but its petals were silver-grey, and it bore no thorn upon its stem. Moreover, it was less than an inch in diameter, so small, indeed, that I was surprised at myself for having spotted it at all. I knew better than to pick such a flower, of course, but I picked it nonetheless, clutching it softly between the forefinger and thumb of my right hand.
I walked down to the riverside. The sky was weary with clouds, but the air was warm. I felt as if asleep, with the river drifting blindly beside me. The soles of my shoes were thin, so I could feel every pebble on the foreshore. I made my way onto the bar. In a few hours there would be water all around, but at that particular hour the tide was out, and had left only a few shallow pools strewn with seaweed and rotted wood. I crossed the bar and back onto the foreshore. It was at this moment that I heard laughter, faint but persistent, coming from the path behind the trees.
I edged forward, stumbling my drowsy feet occasionally on the uneven floor. The laughter continued to rise and fall, like waves on a calm day, spilling in and then out of hearing. I twirled the grey flower between my thumb and forefinger. It briefly occurred to me that I should put it down, and leave it for someone else to find.
