Beyond That, the Sea

by Laura Spence-Ash

She was struck, whenever she saw the island from the mainland, by how different it was when seen from afar. It was beautiful, a blurry patch of green, caught up between the ocean and the sky. It was also so small that she could hold it in the palm of her hand. When they were on the island, though, she was the one who was small; it was her whole world. It was as though nowhere else existed.

Better that she go to America, he thought, where the fingers of war were less likely to touch her. But he never told her that he’d forced Millie’s hand. He let her believe it was Millie’s choice.

Everything here is enormous. How far is it, she wonders, to the sea? Which direction is home?

That is what’s worrying Millie. How small life would seem when Beatrix got back. There would be no fancy parties or baseball game outings or trips to the symphony. She’s happy, of course, that she seems so well cared for. She seems to have a nice group of friends. But that will make the return more difficult. She will no longer be a little girl. She no longer is a little girl. They sent her away so she could have a childhood. They hadn’t realized, though, that their decision meant that her childhood would, instead, be taken away from them. Millie feels as though something has been stolen from her, never to be returned.

Bea knows the boys are behind her and the Gs are in town, a line connecting them all, with Bea in the middle.

What would Mummy say if she saw this? Dad would be proud, she thinks, but Mummy, she’s not so sure. This ocean that she’s swimming in right now, the ocean that separates her from them, has grown wider over the past year. That life, that girl has begun to evaporate. She still writes home each Sunday but now she struggles to fill a sheet with words.

That’s a dream, a moment out of time.

“Safe travels, Mr. G,” she said. “You’re heading for the North Sea. I thought you might like to see it. Then you can choose where you want to go: France or Belgium. Holland. Or go north and visit Scotland, if you like. You always said you wanted to visit, to see where your ancestors came from.” She stood and brushed out her dress as she lit a cigarette and watched the little boat meander through the water, utterly at the whim of the current. “Be safe,” she called. “I will miss knowing you’re in the world.”

We love people for all sorts of different reasons and in all sorts of different ways, she says. Remember that. And it only gets better, the older you get. Young love isn’t necessarily the best love.