Nostalgia
Beatrice was walking down the street, clinging her shawl tightly around her arms as protection against the evening breeze. She knew she should have put a jumper on, Stephen had told her to, but she had been in too much of a rush, and therefore hadn’t listened. When she wanted to get out, she wanted to get out, and she’d needed a breath of fresh air.
This had been a common feeling when she was a student in London. Being from a small village, the city had somewhat stunned her, and although she threw herself into her studies, she couldn’t quite soothe the ache for home inside her, no matter how much she tried. Rambling through the city wasn’t the same as wandering around the countryside. She missed the sea, she missed the fields, and she missed the wide expanses of sky. In the parks she could, briefly, pretend that she was not in a metropolis. But then she’d hear the roar of traffic, the growl of an aeroplane overhead, or the rattle of a cyclist whooshing past, and remember where she was.
She had spent many weekends at home, perhaps too many, but it was on the train from her village back into London that she had first talked to Stephen. She recognised him from lectures, and when he saw her, he had frowned, walked passed, and then returned a second later and said, –I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognise you. Beatrice, isn’t it?†before sitting opposite her.
Beatrice was surprised that he knew her name, and nervous that she didn’t know his. He was tall, and had nice, warm brown eyes, and seemed very relaxed, sitting there with someone he barely knew. She was sitting ramrod straight, unable to be comfortable, as she always was with new people. But Stephen had smiled and said, –My name’s Stephen Granger, by the way. The essay’s due on the fifteenth, isn’t it?â€
–Yes,†she’d said, immediately, and he’d smiled. They had talked academics for a short while, but by the time it was dark, and their train slowing down as it entered the city, they were talking about home. He was also from a small village, and had been home that weekend for his grandmother’s eightieth. She laughed and said she’d just come down because she felt homesick. His smile had made her heart clench, as he said, –Don’t tell anyone, but me too.â€
After sitting next to each other in lectures for two weeks, he’d asked her on a date. That was twenty three years ago, she realised. Suddenly she felt very old and very fragile, in the grip not only of the wind, which seemed intent to batter her body before she reached the sea, but of a feeling she couldn’t quite think of the word for.
She was walking fast, but she didn’t feel as if she was getting anywhere. She stopped, realising that she was lost. How? Stopping on the street corner, she looked up and down, searching for anything she might recognise, but she was useless with directions, and had only been there six months. She liked Melbourne though. She watched a tram rattle passed--she liked those. Having a fear of driving, and Stephen having failed his licence three times, the extensive tram network was fantastic. The trams themselves were rather old-fashioned, with beautiful green and yellow carriages, and as it had passed, she’d caught the destination emblazoned on the front.
She knew she was going the wrong way. She still hadn’t got used to the wide streets, and the new buildings. And, as she’d been walking, she had briefly forgotten where she was, so wrapped up in her thoughts and memories that she could have been treading the fields in her village, the streets of London, or the small hill to the corner shop, in the house she’d lived in with Stephen for the past fifteen years.
It had been rather terrifying. Like those days when she woke up, and for a few seconds thought she was in a bed she hadn’t slept in for many years. She hated that feeling. It was so disorientating, and she would spend the rest of the day feeling as though she’d woken up running late, and was not quite able to catch up. The shock was physical, as if a door had suddenly appeared in front of her, and she hadn’t expected it to be there, and could neither go round or through it until she had worked out what the hell it was doing there.
She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing in Australia at all. Yes, she and Stephen had always wanted to live there, at some point, even if neither of them could remember a specific conversation in which they’d agreed this. But what had made them choose to come here now? She felt that there had been something that prompted them to do so, but couldn’t for the life of her think what. They’d certainly been able to afford it for several years.
The sun was low in the sky, and she hated being somewhere strange after dark, but she’d be damned if she didn’t reach the sea before nightfall.
Damned. The word sounded strange in her thoughts, Her mother had hated her saying it, telling her to mind her language, and she had minded for the past eighteen years or so. Maybe more. She used to swear all the time, as a student, but since she’d been with Stephen, really, she had stopped. When they first moved in together, in a poky flat in Highgate, and a profanity left her lips, he used to say, jokily, –Don’t, Bea, think of the baby.â€
When they moved from Highgate to their village in Oxfordshire, he’d stopped saying that. Why had they moved? She couldn’t really remember. People usually moved out of the city when they wanted to have a family, but for some reason, she and Stephen had never got round to that. It wasn’t too late, she thought, not quite yet. But it would be soon.
She didn’t like thinking about what might have been, so she walked on determinedly, in what she thought was the direction of the sea. The sea was different here. The beaches were bigger, more golden, lacking in the craggy cliffs which made her love England, or more specifically, Cornwall, so much.
As she turned the street corner, and saw the sea, glistening in the last rays of the falling sun, it hit her like a wave. Homesickness. It was so powerful that she felt as though part of herself was still in England, screaming to be returned to the rest. She thought she was about to fall over, and crossed the road to the railing which separated the street from the beach. Holding onto it tight, she tried to regain her breath.
There were so many people on the beach. Couples and families and children and so many people enjoying the feel of the sun on their skin. When she and Stephen had arrived in the Australian winter, they had expected it to be cold, but it had been about the same as an English summer. The day they left England had been beautiful. She remembered it so clearly, the way the light was shining through the rails in the staircase, and that she’d walked up the stairs to find Stephen staring at the spare bedroom. Then he’d started to cry. She had asked him if he was all right, and he had said he was, he was happy, going to Australia had been their life’s dream, but he couldn’t stop the tears rolling down his face, no matter how tightly she embraced him. And then she had looked at the bed. It was a large room, with a nice view of the garden, and bookshelves filled to the nines. Where had they got all those books? Neither of them were big readers, and it was a strange selection, ranging from classics to children’s picture books, and suddenly she’d started to cry as well.
They’d only stopped when they heard the taxi outside.
Beatrice suddenly realised that she was crying now, and angrily rubbed her fist into her eye. You shouldn’t cry in public, she knew that.
–Bea!†She couldn’t turn around, not yet. She needed to stop crying first, but then she felt Stephen’s hand on her shoulder, as he joined her.
–I thought you’d be on the front. I was worried about you.â€
–I just needed some fresh air,†she said. –There’s quite a wind up this evening--â€
–You’re shivering,†Stephen interrupted her, and placed a coat around her. She was grateful, for the warmth and for the extra seconds it gave her to hide the fact she’d been crying, She wiped her eyes and pretended to sneeze, but they had been married too long, and when she turned to smile as strongly as she could at Stephen, he immediately said, –What’s the matter?â€
–I don’t know,†she said, voice shaking. She felt somewhat grounded, at least, by Stephen’s presence, by the reassuring crash of the waves upon the beach. But she still felt very far away from home. It wasn’t a longing for England, though, but something less tangible. The only time she had felt this exact feeling before, had been after she had graduated from Dental School. By then, she had been with Stephen for four years, and both were unsure where they wanted to go. A trial separation, with Stephen wanting to work in America, and her wanting to do volunteer work in Africa, had seemed like the sensible option.
They had written letters to each other, made calls once a week, shared their experiences. But soon this hadn’t been enough. She’d agreed to stay for six months, but after three, she told the hospital manager that she needed to go home. That night, she had phoned Stephen to find his hotel saying he had left New York that afternoon, and they’d been told to pass on the message that he would be in Nairobi in two days.
Beatrice smiled, remembering the look of joy on his face when she’d met him at the airport. As soon as he’d arrived, she was happy. She hadn’t been homesick at all, or if she had, it was because being home meant being with Stephen, rather than being in Britain. And he’d felt the same about her.
So why, looking out to the sun glimmering on the ocean, arm around the husband she loved, feeling the beautiful warmth on her face, did she feel an ache inside her, like the pain from an old wound that refused to heal?
–Are you all right?†he asked, his voice also shaking.
–No, I’m not,†she said, knowing he would hear the lie in her voice if she even tried to. The fact that she was not all right, however, was not what most worried her. It was the fact that she didn’t know why. She told Stephen this, adding, –You must think I’m mad.â€
–No,†he said, fiercely, shaking his head. –You’re not mad. I feel--the same. Not wounded, but--more like something’s been cut out of me. That sounds melodramatic, I know, but it’s the only way I can think about how I feel.â€
–It doesn’t sound melodramatic,†she reassured him, just as a particularly large wave broke, causing screams from those on the beach who hadn’t expected it.
Stephen and Beatrice were both no-nonsense people, which was partly why his romantic gesture of coming to Africa had made such an impression. And he’d have been lying had he said he was fine. Neither of them were fine. It was part of the reason why she’d left the house. He hadn’t been sharp with her, he rarely was, but he hadn’t been listening, his replies dull and his mind clearly somewhere else. As if he regretted something.
And so she asked him, –Do you think we made a mistake in coming here?â€
–Of course not,†he said, disliking thinking about choices they could not reverse as much as she did. –We’ve wanted it for so long. I just--I keep on feeling we’re missing something.†He frowned, before then saying, –What made us decide, to finally leave?â€
Beatrice also frowned. He wrapped his arms around her and she inhaled the warmth and strength of his arms, though they were getting weaker. They both were. Age was creeping up on them, as well as something else, which she could not define.
–I get the fleeting feeling that we were running away from something,†she said, quickly, in case he thought she was mad.
But she should have trusted Stephen more, because he just joked, –Many’s the time I’ve wanted to run away from your mother.â€
She grinned, even as she protested, –She’s not that bad!â€
–She’s pretty close,†and they both laughed, the cheerful sound joining the beat of wave on shore, wind on wave.
It had been a while since they’d laughed together. Why should that be? They had a lovely, if rather modern, house, both had jobs they enjoyed, the neighbours were welcoming and friendly, and they were living their life’s dream in Australia.
–I was trying to lighten the tone,†he said, brushing a curl of her hair behind her ear. –I don’t know what to do. But I’m glad you think the same way. At least we still have each other.â€
–Yes,†she said, kissing him lightly, before turning to look at the sun touch the ocean. She knew that the earth had really already turned away from the sun, and it was actually below the horizon, that what she could see was a mirage. It didn’t stop it being beautiful, though. This feeling inside her was not beautiful, partially because she had no idea why it was there.
–I don’t know how to define it. It’s too sad and yet also happy, as if--imagine if we’d had children. Or even a child--do you think this is how you’d feel when they left home?â€
–Yes,†Beatrice said suddenly. –Nostalgia.â€
–But--for what? This isn’t homesickness, I’ve felt homesickness, when I was stuck in New York, with the rain coming down and not being with you. It’s different. What can we be missing?â€
–I’m not sure. I think, perhaps, the life we almost had, or might have had, or the child we wanted but never had.â€
–Did we want a child?†Then, realising that thinking about what they could have done was a pointless endeavour, he said, –We’ve got each other.â€
–Yes, but sometimes--sometimes I feel as if we used to have more.â€
She looked up at Stephen’s brown eyes, and was desperate for him to say something but he looked equally desperate for something from her. It felt as though they were falling, and she didn’t know why she should feel like that, and neither did he, but all they could do, as the sun fell over the horizon, and the waves beat against the shore, was to hold onto each other very, very tightly, and hope that that would be enough to save them from drowning beneath the pain of a very old wound they did not know the cause of.
Nostalgia by welshdevondragon
Story Notes:
A huge thank you to my speedy and excellent beta Maple. Thanks also to Carole and Hannah/Bob who let me ask them questions about Melbourne. Thank you also to Soraya/babewithbrains for pointing out that in canon, Hermione changes her parents' names to Monica and Wendell Wilkins. I considered changing their 'real' (in my opinion) names, but I don't like those and it was rather complicated concerning memory, and their memory of those names. I'm just going to say that when they got to Australia, they remembered their original names/ the spell Hermione presumably cast on their passports to change their names, had worn off, so they became Beatrice and Stephen again. That's my excuse anyway :)
Chapter Endnotes: Thanks for reading, and reviews are greatly appreciated and always responded to. Alex