The Playhouse

She was asked once how it all began, where it started. It started on a beach in South West France. The Côte d’Argent, 250km of uninterrupted silver sand. She has come down to sunbathe in the late afternoon to avoid the hottest part of the day and positioned herself so that the bottom half of her legs are just within reach of the waves. It was still incredibly hot and the scorch of the heat pinned her body to the sand. The cool sea water was a perfect combination of sensations. The tide was going out and each lap and lick of the water was slightly lower down her legs, at first insinuating itself between her knees, but gradually pulling back. She must have dozed off. The sea tickling between her toes woke her at the same time as the wind started. The winds along that piece of coast can be fierce, blowing in across the Bay of Biscay. She knows if she doesn’t move soon, she will be covered in sand which will glue itself to her damp body.

As she sits up, a bit of sand blows in to her eye and starts to irritate almost immediately. It is sharp and grazing, she is trying desperately not to rub it which will only make it worse. She has water in a bottle and is trying to get the lid off so she can wash her eye out. As she is doing this, she catches a scent of something amongst the fragrance of the sea, the pines that back the beach, the slightly oily aroma of Factor 50 suntan lotion; the sun here is strong and burns. It is an odd musty smell, like an old waxed coat impregnated with cigarette smoke. It is so strong, she turns to look and see if there is someone near her wearing something that would explain it. It is a naturist part of the beach and very little is ever worn. No-one. The nearest person is three, four hundred metres away. Perhaps it is something in her bag. Nothing in there really explains it. A book, her phone, purse, a half-eaten cheese baguette, an orange which she will find when it has become shrunken and mouldy, a dozen or more supermarché receipts. Her search to locate the smell, has distracted her from the grain of sand which is now making her eye water. She tips her head back and pours water in to it. As she does that, her hair, which is long, brushes between her shoulder blades. The feel of it excites the nerve endings and combined with the musky, waxy, smoky odour creates a sensation which is so powerful she jerks in response to it. It isn’t just the sun burning her. Beneath her skin an old heat reignites, flickers and dances round her veins, and with it, a circus troupe of memories somersaults in to her head. High wire, stomach dropping, bareback-riding thrills, exclamations of delight and pleasure at the magic; vibrancy and lushness and sweaty excess, all that is contained in that perfume and the touch of hair against her skin.

A strange rhythm, somewhere in her chest behind her heart which is beating rapidly and erratically, is pulsing and her body is priming itself in expectation of something. And, there, there in that moment is where it began. The grain of sand, like the sliver from the broken mirror in the Ice Queen, lodges itself and, suddenly, the world is transformed. The peace of the day, of all the days that have gone before it, is shattered and finding the cause of this transformative moment, becomes all there is.