It was blowing a gale when Chas walked from the bus stop down to the water's edge. He walked quickly over the crest of the dune, and it felt like he was walking into a sandblaster, the wind off the sea forcing the loose sand into his face. A few more steps, and the sand was to heavy with water for the wind to fling at him, he was onto the beach proper now.
The sky was heavy, overcast, with a biting wind and the dark smell of an approaching storm. The waves rose high, six, seven feet, to come crashing down on the sand with a roar, flinging white sea foam far past the high water mark.
Body angled against the wind, he walked along the waterfront, ignoring the water as it ebbed and flowed around the soles of his boots. Behind him a lone duck pecked desultorily at his footprints in the sand, then spread its wings and flew off into the sand dunes.
He came to a rocky outcropping, two fingers of stone pointing out to sea. Trapped inside them was a pile of driftwood, and God knows what else, all washed up after many different storms. He poked and prodded at the pile until her located something that would serve his purpose, a broken branch the length of his arm, as thick as his thumb at its thinnest end.
Chas pulled at it, hard, because it was stuck, well tangled in something. With a wrench, it came half free, bringing with it a tangle of nylon fishing line, and a battered metal oval. Patience and cold fingers got the stick free, luck and shaking caused the oval to fall with a thud onto the sand.
It was about the size of a man's pocket watch, a small example of the type. The metal was tarnished black, any engraving that had been on it had since been scored away by the sand and sea. He turned it over and over in his hands; there was a comforting weight to it. It felt familiar somehow. Brushing it free from accumulated sand, he stuck it in his pocket, then, hefting his stick he turned back to the water's edge.
A duck quacked behind him, but the sound was lost in the wind.
Timing it very carefully, between one wave and the next, he wrote a single word, "April", into the wet sand. It took the sea only two waves to fill it in.
Feeling like he'd accomplished something profound, but also slightly puzzled, Chas broke the stick into smaller pieces. Back in the shelter of the outcroppings he lit a fire, with the aid of a can of lighter fluid. The stick burned brightly and quickly, flames whipped to a frenzy by the wind, dancing yellow and orange and green.
Before he left, he kicked the dying embers of the fire down towards the rising tide. The hiss as they were extinguished was barely audible above the raging of the surf.
Back at home, he took a carving knife to the faint seam he saw in the edge of the oval. With a bit of effort, it split neatly into two halves, like an oyster shell. It wasn't a watch after all, inside was an old black and white photo of a beautiful woman in uniform, with her dark hair in the soft curls of the style typical in World War Two. It was safely sealed in glass, so the water hadn't touched it, the photo looking as if it was new.
The other half of the locket contained a translucent white oval that shimmered like pearl, but had far more colours. It had fallen out onto the table where he sat, too light to be stone. It felt soft, and almost warm.
"Whaddya got there, Chas?"
He looked up from the locket to see Nics, his girlfriend, standing behind him. He jumped a bit; he hadn't heard her come in to the living room.
“Ooh,” she said, teasing. “Guilty conscience?”
"Hey, babes," he said, grinning fondly at her, "I found it, on the seashore."
"I figured that's where you'd been, given the amount of wet sand in the hall."
He looked sheepish, and she grinned at him.
"Don't I get a hug?"
He jumped up, and hugged her, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. A quick kiss as well, and they stepped apart again.
“Phew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Have you been lighting fires again, you pyro? Spud’s been looking for his lighter again, you know.”
Chas shrugged. “I didn’t take it,” he said.
Nics pulled the second chair around beside him and bent over the pieces, tucking her long fair hair behind one ear before it fell into her face.
"She's very pretty," she said, looking at the photo. "I wonder who she was."
"Dunno. Bit of a mystery, innit? Somehow I can't help feeling like I've seen her before though..."
She picked up the white oval, turned it over in her hand.
"What do you think that is?" he asked.
"Mother-of-pearl," she said, matter-of-factly. "My grandmother used to have a whole set of cutlery which had mother-of-pearl handles."
He looked at her, slightly puzzled.
"It's the inside of oyster shells," she explained. "Where the pearls grow."
"Ah."
He'd picked up the empty half of the locket, his sensitive fingers tracing the corroded outside in comparison with the smooth, tarnished inside.
"Hello..."
"What?"
"I've found something, I think. Looks like a hallmark or something... but the tarnish is too bad to be able to see it properly. Don't suppose we've got any silver polish?"
"Nope, but hang on a minute..."
She was back in a minute, armed with some kitchen towel and some toothpaste.
"Trick I learned from Mum. A little bit of toothpaste will take tarnish off silver. But you've got to be gentle, otherwise it'll take a layer off the silver as well."
A few minutes of careful rubbing, and that small patch of the locket shone bright and clean. They could see the hallmarks, indented into the edge of the locket, but they were still black and the details were lost. But at least they could see how many there were, three, and what looked to be the fine etched lines of some engraving.
Chas looked at his watch.
"Better get a move on and get some dinner," he said. "Otherwise I'll be late."
"Oops," she said. "Me too. Tell you what, let's go down the chippie - I've got choir this evening, and by the time we've made food, there won't be enough time to eat it. Besides, I could do with a walk."
"That, Nicsy-babes, sounds like a plan to me."
He carefully fitted the pieces of the locket back together and slipped them into his jeans pocket.
The chip shop stank of grease and frying fish. Walking into it and taking a deep breath meant feeling your arteries practically slam shut in protest.
"Large cod and chips please. And a steak and kidney pie."
Chas looked over at Nics.
"You fat bloater," she said, fondly.
He grinned and patted his very flat and muscular stomach.
"Got to keep up my energy, work's going to be mental tonight. Match night."
"Yeah," Nics said, supremely unimpressed. "Moldavia versus Slovenia. I can hear the riots starting already." She grinned.
The greasy and weary looking middle-aged woman behind the counter coughed, nearly politely, and looked at Nics.
"Oh, small cod and chips please," she said. "And a diet Coke."
Chas opened his mouth, grinning but was silenced by a hefty dig in the ribs.
"Don't you start!" warned Nics, only half serious.
"Do you want salt and vinegar with that?" came the bored voice of the woman behind the counter. They both nodded.
"Four thirty five please loves."
Chas dig into his jeans pocket, pulled out a handful of coins to pay her. The locket went skittering across the tiled and greasy floor, splitting into its component pieces.
Nics rolled her eyes.
"Chas!"
"Sorry!"
She bent down to pick the three pieces up as he paid the chippie.
"You're lucky," Nics said. "Nothing broke."
She held the pieces out to him as he picked up the white paper wrapped parcels of take-away.
"Um... you better mind it for me. Hands kind of full."
"Alright then."
She fitted the pieces back together, and put them carefully in her shoulder bag.
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