He lived by himself in a cottage in the dunes but had often wished he didn't. He'd spent so much time alone over the years that he had almost forgotten how to feel, so each day when he arose, he never knew whether he should be sad or happy. He hadn't laughed in a century, and it had been at least twenty years since he'd spoken to another human being. He had even stopped wondering if he could still remember how to talk.
Benjamin spent his days and nights walking on the beach when no one else was there. He had grown accustomed to the solitude and the rhythmic wash of the sea. Benjamin liked collecting the flotsam and jetsam strewn upon the shore and, over the years, he had filled every available space in his tiny cottage with his 'possessions'. In the dark of the night and the silence of loneliness, he could collect things without being questioned or observed.
Then, one day, a young lady called Lizabeth turned up on his doorstep. She was distraught and crying.
"Please, Sir, have you seen my dog? She's small and white and very friendly."
Benjamin, bending low to enable him to peer out of the small doorway, stretched his mouth in a wide, thin smile. He had never seen such a vision of prettiness before. The girl's long blonde hair was being swished and swirled around her face by the wind, and her large blue eyes stared up at him. His heart, long hardened by lack of feeling, clunked against his chest wall in a vane attempt at a small leap for joy. He tried to speak but was unsure of what to say. Then he frowned as he carefully framed his answer.
"Umm, no."
"But you must have seen her. I was on the beach not that long ago, and I only let her off the lead for a moment, and she ran into these dunes. She must have run right past your house," said Lizabeth. She held out a picture. "Look, that's my dog, Daisy," she said, her eyes brimming with tears.
Benjamin peered at the photograph, unsure of how to react, but his conscience told him to be kind.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I haven't seen your dog." Withdrawing his head with the intention of closing the door on the unsettling disturbance, he paused for a moment and conjured up some more words that he had not used for almost five decades. "You look cold," he said. "Come in and warm yourself by the fire while I put the kettle on." He held the door open for her and at first, Lizabeth hesitated, but then stepped inside.
The cottage had been built for someone half of Benjamin's height. As he moved from the door to the small sitting room, he lolloped up and down to miss the old wooden beams above.
"Come in," he beckoned with one long, thin finger crooked, his coal-black eyes staring into hers and mesmerising her. "Come and sit by the fire," he said, ushering her into the tiny dark room.
The fire in the grate was barely flickering and provided the only light. The mantelpiece was dusty and covered with all kinds of items: a child's bracelet, a sandy brown pebble, a faded yellow hair slide, a small red ball, a bottle top, a handkerchief with an initial at one corner and a piece of driftwood. Benjamin watched as his guest scrutinised his finds.
"Little presents," he said. "Small reminders of all my other guests. My things." He grinned at her as he folded himself down into the low and worn armchair by the almost spent fire.
Lizabeth stepped forward. "But what about Daisy? Shouldn't we be looking for Daisy? She could be anywhere by now."
"Calm yourself," said Benjamin as he steepled his long fingers together and rested his elbows in well-used depressions on the arms of the chair. "I'm sure Daisy is safe," he said. "But you are cold, and you need to be looked after. Bring that chair closer to the fire. The kettle will be boiling in a minute, and we can have some tea, and then we can look for your dog." His face slowly framed another long, thin smile.
Lizabeth frowned and looked again at the grate. A large black kettle was hanging just above the coals, and she was sure it hadn't been there when she first came into the room. And the glow from the coals seemed so much more inviting as she listened to the slow hiss of the boiling water.
She watched as Benjamin reached into a cupboard and presented her with a cup and saucer. Retrieving the kettle from the fire, he poured ready-made tea into her cup. Lizabeth stared at him and then took a sip. The tea was warming and milky and sweet.
"How did you know I have sugar?"
"I know many things," said Benjamin as he took a sip from his cup.
Lizabeth thought for a moment. "But if you know many things, then you really can help me find Daisy."
"Perhaps," said Benjamin. "We'll finish our tea, and then we'll search the dunes for your little Daisy."
Lizabeth nodded, drank the remainder of her tea and set the cup and saucer on the arm of her chair. In the next moment, it had disappeared. When she looked around, Benjamin stooped beside her in his long black coat and large black hat.
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Photo courtesy of
Giuseppe1402, Pixabay |
"Come," he said. "We have work to do and a little dog to find."
Lizabeth's beautiful smile lit up her face. She rose and followed Benjamin out into the dunes. The wind was whining through the marram grass. The sand was shifting and creating new shapes in response to the encouragement that could never be denied. As the late afternoon darkness deepened into the black of night, Benjamin strode out in silence. Lizabeth followed calling for Daisy, but her voice was lost on the wind and drowned by the waves as they crept further up the shore. Benjamin kept walking on and on, his long feet lapped by the tide, the wind becoming icy as the hours drew closer to midnight.
"Please Sir," shouted Lizabeth. "Please, Sir stop! I'm tired, and I'm cold, and my voice is hoarse from shouting. Please, Sir, stop!"
Benjamin came to a halt and turned to look at her. In the moonlight, her hair looked silver, and her blue eyes glistened with tears. As he stared at her, a small space in his heart softened a little.
"I think we should just look over there," he said, pointing towards the ruined castle. "If you are too tired, I can go alone."
Lizabeth nodded and settled herself on a large flat boulder. "I'll sit here and wait."
Benjamin strode out and, within a few steps, disappeared into a tall, distant shadow as he moved across the sand towards the ruin. With half a dozen strides, he had climbed the steep steps to the top of the cliff and stood at the perimeter fence. The warning sign to deter human visitors because the ruins were not safe challenged him as he carefully read the words. In one deft movement, he had vaulted the wooden barrier and then moved through what had once been the great door. In the central courtyard, he stopped and gazed around and wondered just how long he needed to remain there to give the impression that he had undertaken a thorough search. A tiny fracture crept into his heart as he thought of Lizabeth sitting alone on the beech.
Striding out again, he was back with his new friend in moments.
"She wasn't there," he said. "I think someone else must have taken her home."
Lizabeth began to cry, and Benjamin felt the fracture striate in response.
"Come," he said. "Come home with me, and we shall have supper, and I will take care of you until you are feeling better." Lizabeth dried her tears and nodded. She followed on behind, half trotting, half walking to keep up.
The cottage seemed much more welcoming the second time she entered, and Lizabeth left her coat, scarf and hat in the entrance hall. In the living room, she sat in the chair she had previously occupied and warmed her hands by the fire. She breathed in the faint smell of cooking.
Benjamin appeared suddenly at her side. "I have a nice pie in the oven. We can share it and then you will feel better." As his long smile began to cross his face, he disappeared.
Lizabeth was tired, and settling back, she let her eyelids droop for a second or two. Or maybe longer, she wasn't sure. But when she opened them again, Benjamin was sat at a tiny table set for two. He beckoned her, and without question and seemingly without volition, she took her place.
"Eat," said Benjamin as he placed a large slice of pie on her plate. Feeling hungry for the first
time since the loss of her dog, Lizabeth grabbed her fork and took a large mouthful. The pastry was golden and flaky, the meat tender and spicy, and the gravy tasted of wine. Benjamin watched as she devoured the food.
"You wear a chain," he said. "A pretty golden chain for a pretty girl with golden hair." His black eyes smiled across the table. "All my guests leave me a present," he said as he looked around the room at his vast accumulation of objects. Lizabeth followed his gaze.
"But you haven't found my dog."
Benjamin baulked at the ungrateful petulance in her voice, and his heart began to repair itself and harden again.
"You have never been closer to your dog than you are at this moment," he said. His long, thin smile traversed his face, and a long, thin arm reached out and placed a small dog collar on the nearby mantelpiece.
