All rights reserved.
Smeaton's Tower
Clare Glennon
Clare Glennon
Smeaton's Tower is situated on Plymouth Hoe, overlooking Plymouth Sound. The National Grid Reference is SX 477 538. The lighthouse seemed out of place, perched on neat grass, surrounded by picnickers, like a wild creature, domesticated. It did not, in fact, belong here, but had been transported stone by stone from the crumbling cliff edge of Eddystone. She felt foolish, sharing her sense of awkwardness with a granite tower, but comforted, nonetheless. He might not come. He probably wouldn’t. The tower had looked cheerful on postcards, candy-striped in red and white. Up close the colours were blurred and faded, dull pink and yellow, running into each other. Strangely disappointing. It was completed in August 1759 and the 24 candles were first lit on the evening of October 16th that year. It would still be on the cliff today but for the fact that the rock on which it stood was undermined by the sea. The guidebook was a mine of information. She held the pages open with her right hand, with difficulty. With the left she attempted to hold back her hair, which the wind was whipping into her eyes with irritating persistence. The day was sunny and deceiving. Up here on the Hoe, the chill was wintry. The abrasiveness of the weather seemed to her an ill omen. She moved to another bench, the new one placing her back to the sea. She looked down the length of her jeans, her gaze resting on her white trainers. They were slightly scuffed, the laces almost grey. Perhaps she should have dressed up, been a little smarter. She hadn’t wanted to seem too eager to please. Or desperate. There ought to be a dress code for these occasions. ‘Smart casual preferred’ perhaps. On the morning of April 3rd 1913 Plymothians awoke to find Smeaton's Tower had become during the night a target for the suffragette movement. Painted in large white letters around the base were the words: 'To Churchill: no security until you give women votes, no matter how big the Navy.' She didn’t know if she would recognise him. She had enlarged the tiny photograph on her computer screen until it became a meaningless pattern of coloured dots, searching for some kind of answer to her questions. What was he like? Kind, funny, arrogant or cruel? The stilted emails had told her little. People could be anyone they wanted to be on the internet. She herself had neither lied nor been truthful. Her carefully crafted responses were a rendered down version of herself. Simmer for an hour, boil away the insecurity, the awkwardness, the shame. Keeping her back to the blue expanse of the harbour suddenly felt like cowardice, undermined by the sea. She moved again. She picked one of a set of four iron benches linked and under their own shelter. Hidden from the sun, it was cold and a faint smell of urine lingered. Their first sight of each other could not be here. She jumped up and began to pace, circling the lighthouse. The new base of the Tower consists of 215 tons of Dartmoor granite rising in 19 courses to a height of 20ft 6ins. The height of the original portion, from the top of the new base to the top of the lantern, is 59ft 2ins, giving a total height of 87ft 8ins. He had not mentioned how tall he was. Surely at least six feet. She tried to imagine looking down to talk to him. It felt wrong. More likely, he would be taller than her. The man was in front of her before she noticed him. His chin was buried in the collar of his waterproof jacket, his dark hair, unsettled by the wind, obscured his face. He stopped, abruptly. With a flash of relief, she thought he was going to walk past. ‘Christine?’ He raised one eyebrow in a questioning gesture so unexpectedly familiar that her stomach turned over. She couldn’t speak, nodding wordlessly in reply. Her hand caught in her pocket. Would it be ridiculous to shake hands? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she wanted to touch him, with a sudden fierceness that left her breathless. ‘Give me some skin,’ that’s what the cool black guys used to say on those cop shows from the seventies. She understood those words now. Give me the gift of the touch of your skin. ‘I’m James…’ He said, his voice trailing off. It seemed he didn’t know what to say either. Then giving a little embarrassed shrug of the shoulders, he smiled broadly. She sensed recklessness in him, a willingness to jump into the unknown. ‘Hello mum,’ he said. © Clare Glennon All Rights Reserved Millionstories.net |
| We like this story because: It has that universal sense of love leaking out of life only to be saved in the most remarkable way! |
www.millionstories.net
www.millionstories.net
| The One Million Stories Creative Writing Project One Million Stories... One Million Dreams... |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| Call For Submissions! |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| STORIES |