Chapter 29 – Downtime

Friday was my off day. It was the day I went shopping, ran other errands, and started laundry, and so on. I also tried to work on the book – the writing of which seemed to be getting further and further away with every passing day.

The temperature had gone up by noon to 75 F* with a warm breeze coming in off the sea, so after hanging bed linens out to dry, I slipped into my bathing suit, added shorts and a t-shirt, then packed a small rucksack, with water, sandwich, carrot sticks, an apple, and sun screen. I threw in a book and my flip-flops, draped a towel over my shoulder, put my straw sunhat on my head and sunglasses on my face, and I set off to the beach.****

The pathway through the fields intersected with the SW Coastal Path, which I followed to a rock-strewn path which meandered to the edge of the sea cliff. Hereabouts most of the coastline was a nearly sheer drop-off from land down to the water. Many of the bluffs were very dangerous, but here the path zigged down the slope to a rocky trail which, if one was nimble, you could negotiate to the water. Andrea Saunders had pointed it out to me when she went with me on an evening ramble.

At the foot of the one hundred foot tall cliff was a triangular sandy spit. The beach wasn't very large, about as long as a football pitch, and half as wide, but it was sandy, unlike the rocky shingle most British beaches were made of.

I looked below and saw no one down there, which suited me. I didn't want company, only solitude, sand, sun, and my book. I made my way down the steep path, strolled to the widest part of the beach, to pick a good spot for my towel. I put sunscreen on my fair skin, then kicked off my trainers and waded into the water. There were boulders in the surf so I stayed well away to keep from stumbling over them. The water was cold but bearable. I stared out to sea long enough for my feet to cramp then retreating to the warm sand and fluffy blanket, I got glimpses of local trawlers far out to sea, making their daily catches.

The sun was just past zenith, and except for a narrow strip of shade cast by the cliff, the beach was in full sun. I sprawled on my back, letting the sun bake me for a while. God, it felt good; the sun heating my bones, a breeze from the west, and only the gentle lapping of the waves, and the cries of gulls to disturb me. Not disturb really, only lull me into laziness.

The world went away, mostly, but he was there, Martin Ellingham, in my brain all the same. I doubted he'd ever been to a beach, and if he had gone he'd probably worn a suit. Such a formal, stuck up sort he was. I wondered what his wife was like? She was a Head Teacher so she had to be smart, and able to deal with people. Lord knew that with dealing with picky school parents, and what must be challenges of running a rural school, she ought to have a few things going for her.

Martin had confirmed what Ruth had said about her; that she was both capable and beautiful. Not a bad combination, I thought. And she was a mother as well which added another dimension to her. Motherhood would make her… I stopped that thought. Might make her a better teacher, and a more empathic person.

I sat up, drew the water bottle from my bag, and took a long drink. "Rachel, are you empathic enough?" I said aloud. A gull dropped down, looking for a handout. "Shoo," I told it, and it flew away.

"Empathy with the patient can be both a benefit and a detriment," I repeated the words of a lecturer in psychotherapy. "Identifying too strongly with the patient will put you at a disadvantage. Don't get too close," I repeated what I'd been taught. "Or too cozy."

A vision of Martin and his wife getting cozy and cuddly crept into my head. "The man is so stuffy and wary," I told myself. "And he is so closed in - so scared down deep. Maybe his wife can see through his layers of protection? She must see something there, or why else marry him?" Well as he told me, 'we do have a child,' so he must have let his guard down at least once.

I recalled a client, a barrister, who had a number of odd habits, such as pornography and sexual addiction. It was the finding out of those questionable activities which put into him trouble with the authorities, his spouse, and thence into my care. On the outside the man was calm and controlled – a pillar of the community as they say – but he was a piece of work far back in his head. It was only by diagnosing and treating his fears of inadequacy could I shift him into some state of grace and thereby into meaningful treatment. At the core that man was afraid; afraid to fail with his wife, so he sought meaningless solace in other partners.

I unwrapped my sandwich (cheese and tomato)*** and took a bite. Chewing, I mumbled, "You my girl ought to know about layers of fear. Like an onion, you know that." For instance the thought of Martin's wife as a mother had sent a pang of pain through me. An image of a blond girl on the banks of the Thames appeared in my mental vision. "Hello friend," I said to the image. "Come to check on me? I'm still here, love. Still getting along." She faded as I said that.

I finished my lunch, then took out the book. I was about halfway through it and it was essentially a fanfiction** novel of a latter-day Sherlock Holmes. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth was one of the great fictional detective's well-known sayings as he prowled England to move criminals to justice. Great words to live by, at least for Sherlock.

A mystery; we do love a mystery – a mystery to wrack our brains over in the solving.

"The Ellingham Mystery," I said aloud. "That's it; what I must do! Solve that one! What I have to do is eliminate the impossible. Peel away the layers of the onion to the core. What might lay inside?" I looked at the sea where the fishing boats were distant gray smudges. "Martin says he is afraid of losing her. Hm. So what might Louisa Ellingham fear? Eliminate the impossible Rachel."

There were things to be found, depths to be plumbed, and answers to be dug out. That was my job. Perhaps the impossible is the crack I can force a wedge into to force a door open?

Hm, not impossible. I must determine what is possible. Sorry Sherlock. What are the things that I can get Martin and Louisa Ellingham to do to change their relationship? What things can I help them to make possible? That might actually work. Having come to this conclusion, I peeled out of shorts and shirt and dashed into the water for a refreshing swim.

Author's notes:

* 75 F = 24 C

** Every Sherlock Holmes story, film, or TV production NOT written by Arthur Conan Doyle is fanfiction.

*** I once ate a cheese and tomato sandwich in Birmingham, England. :)

**** This beach is Tregardock Beach. Look it up.