Picnic

I can’t run fast enough. Every moment not spent marveling at the view is wasted. Life’s too short to waste a minute. My aunt said that again this morning, as I waited for him by the window, glancing out every now and again, fiddling with the hem of my skirt so as not to appear too excitable.

I run and I run until the sea bursts into view. When it does it’s breathtaking. The unkempt grass tickles my ankles as I head for the cliff, one hand shielding my eyes from the early summer sun, the other in Tom’s. I pull him along. He’s not going as fast because he’s carrying the picnic basket.

“Hey!” he laughs, and he drops it, its lid coming loose. I should worry about the food, about the seagulls that dip and swoop around the rocks ahead, noisy and hungry and alert, but I can’t. I can’t worry about anything. Not while his arms are around me.

I pull my eyes away from the rolling waves beneath us. We’ve ventured off the coastpath, taking up residence in our usual spot, a grassy patch before the land curves and stops at the cliff point. I stood on the edge once, but my stomach did somersaults at the sight of the rocks below. The waves swished and clashed against them, eager and tempting, like a beautiful dare.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you,” I say, stopping to look at Tom, his face golden in the sun, making his eyes look even more blue.

“Me?” he laughs again.

“Of course.”

He pauses. Looks at me. I like the way his eyes seem to drink me in. He touches my hair, swirls it in his fingers, and I like how pretty he makes me feel, as though the world is for me and me alone. Just like this place is just for us.

“Ada, we’re eighteen. What if I get called away?”

“I’d wait for you."

And that’s when he reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out the smallest of boxes, and instantly I know that this will always be our place.

**

The waves crash heavily now. They splutter against the rocks, sending the seagulls soaring higher, but yet the sun is still out, peeking through a looming cloud. I step from the car slowly - I’ve no choice these days - and open Ada’s door. It’s often a struggle to get her out. Sometimes, she remembers. Others, she doesn’t. Today is one of those days.

“Out you come, love,” I say, and soon, gravel crunches beneath her feet, and I reach into the back seat for the picnic basket. Tattered now, but it’s still good. I lead her towards the grass verge, away from the path. I place the picnic basket down on the ground, amongst the dandelions, and lead her to the view.

“Remember this?” I ask.

She’s silent, and I wonder what’s going in her mind. I remember how she’d rush towards the cliff, her voice full of beautiful, tinkling laughter, a sound I could never tire of. Her hair swishing golden, like fire in the afternoon sunlight.

I put down the basket. It contains no food. Just a selection of items. Photographs. A baby’s tarnished silver rattle. Steven's Christening gift, before he passed.

And a note.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s been too long. I remember this place as it was all those years ago, still vivid and bright, and the very thing Ada said to me as I dropped to one knee.

We’ll never be apart.

She’s fading now. She’s been fading for years. Her white hair, still long, sways in the breeze. Then she looks at me. Looks at me. Not like yesterday, when she thought I was her brother, the one who died in ‘71. Or the day before that, when her eyes, glassy and unfamiliar, landed on mine as the nurse brushed her hair.

In this moment she is truly here.

And she turns, and she smiles that smile I knew for so long. I almost choke with the happiness, the realisation. “Our place,” she whispers. Her frail hand takes mine, and she leads me towards the cliff’s edge, and for once the view doesn’t frighten me.

“I love you,” she says, and even though she is gone she remembers. She knows we are here.

And with that, we take a step to our final adventure.

This will forever be our place.