Melancholy of the Heart - Echoes on the Wind

By Anna Mills

From an early age Ruth had always struggled to fit in. Her only solace was provided by the abundance of nature she enjoyed living by the beautiful North Cornwall coast. She took pleasure in seeing the resilience of sea pinks, small pink flowers clinging to the cliffs and the warm coconut aroma of vivid orange gorse. As an only child she felt lost and isolated until her gift made itself known to her. This gift gave her a reason to live in a world she barely understood. She was not prepared however for the toll on her emotional and physical self her gift would exact from her, never knowing when she would be called upon to help those no longer of this time find forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398487864

Anna Mills

Anna Mills was born in South Africa and moved to live in Australia with her husband and two daughters in 1997. Anna has worked in early childhood education guiding and supporting educators and families as they partner together to provide the best possible early years’ experience for children under the age of five. She is a passionate advocate for the rights of young children, and always promotes the importance of secure and safe relationships, where each child’s voice is heard. Anna sees children as competent, capable, and curious, and will use opportunities to understand the world around them and their place within it.

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Melancholy Of The Heart - Echoes On The Wind

Anna Mills

Austin Macauley Publishers

Melancholy of the Heart - Echoes on the Wind

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

About the Author

Anna began to write poetry and stories at an early age taking inspiration from nature living in the Yorkshire Dales. Now she is fortunate to live and write in the beautiful North Cornwall coast. The wonderful beaches, cliffs, sunsets and boiling seas provide her with a rich vein of lived experiences to draw on. Cornwall, her adopted home is a county for all seasons. Myths and legends litter the Cornish heritage from Camelot to Pixies and smuggling. Anna is truly beguiled by all things Cornish.

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my wonderful husband Ian and my beautiful daughters Nicky and Debbie who always help me to stay grounded in the present.

Copyright Information ©

Anna Mills 2023

The right of Anna Mills to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398487468 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398487864 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thanks go to my daughters Nicky and Debbie who read my work prior to submission. They provided constructive criticism at every stage.

Damn, I mutter as the heel of my shoe breaks on the uneven driveway. Luckily, I have a pair of slip on pumps in the boot and hop back to the car. Unfortunately, my expensive tights are ruined as they snag on the gravel. In a fit of peak, I shred them until the scraps are jostled out of sight by the worsening wind. Come on Ruth, get a grip, I say and stand up with renewed purpose.

I approach the house with trepidation, How long has it been? As I turn the key in the lock, I feel the familiar resistance before the house deigns to allow me to enter. The house, my family home bears witness to the reluctance with which I step across the threshold.

The stench of decay assails my nostrils as I move down the dust laden hallway disturbed by my visit. Old spider’s webs quiver in the air as I exhale slowly; their exoskeletons litter the floor. Even the spiders have abandoned this mausoleum. I knew this would be difficult. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed by the stifling atmosphere. I cut my initial return to the family home short given how my body is cringing in the fetid air. I close the door behind me with relief and fill my lungs with the ozone rich air.

Once I have regained my composure, I notice how shabby the windows and door look. Many layers of peeling paint have allowed the ingress of water. I push my finger into the rotting wood as it falls apart. I jump as several woodlice start scurrying away to find a better home.

Feeling overcome by all the emotional upheaval, I rest against the front door to catch my breath and slow my heart down. The wind has increased making me feel even more unsettled; plus, the sky had a look about it of impending thunder. Billowing clouds were dark and heavy threatening rain. As a child, I would hide under blankets or in a cupboard during thunder storms. The noise was deafening. The house would shake and my body was so tense it felt like tennis balls were hitting me with every crack of lightning. I notice how cold I have become; cold is not my friend. Still, I am reluctant to move as my feet feel like lumps of lead. But move I must.

I decided to take a last look at the sea before heading back to the city. Still, shaky from visiting my old home, I move cautiously to find a better view point. Standing on the cliff edge my thoughts tumble over rocks in their haste to greet the incoming tide. Fragments of an ill remembered childhood flit in and out of my consciousness prompting me to pull my jacket tighter against the worsening elements.

As I remove my glasses to clean away the salt spray, I feel an all too familiar tug and, in a moment, I am transported to a much earlier time. I, along with other women, stand on the shore of Holywell Bay looking out to sea. Waiting anxiously for our men folk to return; pain and fear etched on each frown line and sallow pock marked skin of my fellow fish wives. They are overdue. We move in unison pulling our worn and threadbare shawls around us against the descending bone chilling mizzle further obscuring our view. I strain to hear the slightest splash of an oar or the sound of my lover’s voice; the absence of which leaves my heart heavy and my chest tight and sore. All is silent. There is nothing to ease our collective fear.

We cling to hope, that unkindest of emotions, offers no comfort and mine is fading fast. Still, I do not avert my gaze even though in my heart I know. I know he is lost. I look to my right and then left and note how my realisation is felt by others as their heads are bowed. But none of us are willing to leave. Not yet. The wind whips around our skirts damp with the encroaching sea. Eerie sounds wailing on the wind surround us. One by one we leave the shoreline, our hearts heavy with sadness and despair. We are united in our grief bearing the burden of loss. Very few of us live a life without misery. The sea is a cruel mistress.

With a jolt, I am back in the present. Only my wits prevent me from falling over