An Uninvited Reader?

—02.09.2000—

I had a strange feeling last night leaving Phillip to use my laptop to print out his address labels. Lying in bed I could feel his eyes rooting through these words and I chided myself for leaving the folder containing them closed but there on the computer’s desktop. Early this morning I woke up to go to the bathroom then poked my head into my office. I tapped the keyboard—the screen blinked to life and the journal folder popped onto the screen, open, as it had been left.

I went back to bed, my head swimming like outer space, my arms chalky and brittle, made of paste. When I awoke later in the dark he was standing at the foot of my bed with another inquiry, another request. All I could do was seethe. When I awoke again it was light and I realized he’d had the gall to wander into my dreams as well.

Breakfast felt like a slow trial over cold oatmeal. He made idle chatter as I pieced together my breakfast. Then I sat picking at it while he read the paper, his face benign. Should I bring it up; should I not? Did I have the courage to confront him? The spoon sinking in the milk, the question rolling over my tongue like a 55-gallon drum. He got up and I followed.

When I pressed the point, he jumped, in the wake of the tremor, to catch one of the many answers cascading down his mental shelves. He grasped one and proffered quickly, “...must’ve accidentally clicked on it...ethics are fairly solid in that regard...” Of course, of course, and what else could he have said? While his lips denied, however, his body seemed to confirm. Later though, alone, I pushed the whole matter aside. What had been spilled, was spilled and no amount of worry would shift a single drop.

Still later, I went for a walk and sat on the shore. The day was gorgeous and clear. A strong northwesterly blew the sea into rollers from out beyond the Western Rocks and raised white-capped mountains out on the horizon. I sat for a while and watched sets explode against the shore while the sun warmed on my back.

——

I’ve just brought my stuff over to Gugh to housesit. There was some doubt whether or not Patricia and Jack would be able to get off the island with the way the weather’s been. The boats have all been canceled for the last couple of days. Today though, the islands’ freight boat, the Lioness Lady, arrived, bobbing like a bathtub toy while waiting to make a dash for the quay between swells. Tension rose for a moment as she whacked the quay’s stonework on her approach, but then her lines were made fast and supplies came flying off. In the next moment, after a hasty shuffling and loading of passengers, she was cast off again. So Patricia and Jack are away and I’m here to man the island of Gugh.

The first thing I did was feed the cats. They’ve been skeptical of me ever since first I showed up. I thought by giving them first attention they might change their opinions. So far they seem unswayed.

I then walked around the house looking at the ships lining the walls and saying hello to the quiet bedrooms. Next, I rounded the property taking in the new road and sealing the poly-tunnel for the night. After that I started off on a small lap of the island to greet it, and all its resident spirits, past and present.

Blooms and petals dot the paths here in dozens as they do on St. Agnes, a pleasant side effect of the island’s once-booming flower industry. (Fertilizers and chemicals are another story but I’ll leave that out for now.) I decided to pick a bunch to put in the rowboat-sized barrow at the top of the island in order to honor who had been laid there in another time.

I also wanted to make a small gesture of amends for Boralaise’s pick-axe disturbance some 250 years ago. So I offered Narcissi (daffodils) and gorse flowers, for beauty and bravery respectively. I say bravery because while the little yellow gorse bud is a darling, the rest of the plant is made up entirely of finger-poking, wrist-scratching spikes. But I felt that little bit of effort was the least I could do for a Viking king.

The sun set as I walked back to the house and the sandbar connecting the two islands closed up behind me. The woman was gone. Today Porth Conga rested its watery, boulder-strewn tongue across the sand instead. I watched for a while as Gugh set off with only me on board. I thought of Beth with a little twinge of melancholy, as I still do sometimes when life hands me an absolute treat and I have no one to share it with. I know there’s no sense in mourning a relationship I spent so much time questioning, but still...

—02.09.2023—

Present-day Nik here again in response to my younger self. Regarding the possibility of Phillip perusing this journal without consent, if that indeed was the case, he could have said, “I’m sorry. I did. I was curious. Please forgive me.” And you could have had a conversation about it (once you’d worked through your totally understandable anger, of course). And I get the upset and regret for leaving the folder there on your computer’s desktop. What can you but learn the lesson for next time?

Also, funny that now I want people to read it. :)