Page 6 of Love from Pretty Beach

T he next morning, with a mug of tea in her hand, Darby stood looking out at the small patch of garden at the front of her house.

As little sparkles of frost caught the light, the Pretty Beach ferry horn honked in the distance and she further pondered the channel thing.

Wondering if she would actually be able to muster up the courage to broadcast herself, she shook her head.

Probably not. She wasn’t sure she could be vulnerable, exposed and honest for all the world to see.

Could she talk to a camera about the nights when loneliness had strangled her?

Would she be taken away in a van if she admitted to the world that sometimes she actually had a back-and-forth conversation with the kitchen wall?

Sipping her tea and thinking about the looming fresh new year, she thought about the practical aspects of a channel.

She'd watched thousands of hours of content but had never considered the mechanics behind it for a second. Why would she ever have needed to? Making a face, she realised she hadn’t the foggiest about filming, editing, uploading, or the mysterious algorithms she’d heard about over the years.

Heck, she could just about take a video on her phone; she certainly had no idea what algorithms did or didn’t do.

Inhaling and then sighing out a long exhale, she pursed her lips in determination.

Stuff it, she was going to have a go. She’d worry about the technical parts later. How hard could it be?

‘Morning.’

Darby swallowed. Hello, very handsome man in canvas trousers with patch pockets. How do you do? ‘Morning.’

The man pointed in the direction of the end of the lane. ‘We’re scoping a job down this way.’

‘Oh, yes, right. I wondered what you were doing.’

‘New year, new job. We’ve a long contract up at the farmhouse that starts soon.’ The man didn’t really smile. He didn’t need to. He dazzled, anyway.

Darby about picked herself up from the floor. The swooning was off the scales. She wouldn’t mind seeing him arrive for work every day. ‘Ahh, okay, makes sense.’

‘We’re just checking access and suchlike for the vans.’

‘Okay.’

The man carried on walking. ‘Have a good day.’

My day has vastly improved. ‘Same to you.’

After watching the three men stride down the lane, Darby finished her tea and went inside.

Making herself a round of toast, she then started to unload the dishwasher and all thoughts moved from men in lanes to a conversation she'd had with her daughter, Molly, just before Christmas. Molly, ever her savvy one, had picked up on Darby’s cues swiftly.

Probing about all sorts and clearly worried about her mum’s isolation, Molly had questioned lots of things.

Darby had glossed over everything, pretending that she did loads with the women at work and that she was loving her life in Pretty Beach.

Molly had asked if she was happy and Darby had had to stop herself from guffawing.

Happy? Pah! What had happened to that? That word and emotion had slowly but surely removed themselves from her life.

Darby had laughed and reassured, soothed and patted.

She was fine. Of course, she was fine. More than fine.

So very fine. Molly's expression had suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. She’d said that Darby had seemed a bit stuck, as if she was waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen.

Chuckling, Darby had dismissed the concern as inside the words had stung with a big old slap of truth.

Oh yes, she was stuck and had been waiting for five years.

For the right moment to start decorating, for someone else to help, for inspiration to strike, for life to feel less overwhelming, to not bother with getting on with herself.

The right moment had remained elusive and she’d remained in limbo.

Waiting in some sort of weird suspended animation, watching other people live on the screen of her laptop as her own existence had shrivelled away into a shell.

Looking at her notebook, there were now pages filled with ideas and possibilities about a channel.

Darby raised her eyebrows. Molly was right.

It was time to stop waiting. No one was going to be riding in on a white horse or any colour horse to save her.

Darby Lovell was going to take action. She would start making things happen.

Chuckling as she pushed the chairs under the kitchen table and put away a cake tin, she thought about what she might be like in six months if she acted on her notes.

Who would she be if she actually followed through on the mad channel idea?

The more she thought, the more she concluded that perhaps she would find her voice.

Continuing with her thoughts and her cleaning, Darby realised that something had shifted.

It had started on the night under three layers of blankets in a very chilly house deep in the Old Town of Pretty Beach.

She still didn't know if she'd actually have the courage to point a camera at herself and press record or if anyone would watch, or care.

Yet, something somewhere or someone was telling her to perhaps give it a go.

For the first time in months, Darby felt something that might have been hope stirring in her chest. As she tidied the dresser on the far side of the kitchen, she tucked a load of Christmas cards into a drawer and read the top of an envelope, addressed simply with “Darby, Pretty Beach.”

Nodding to herself, Darby ran her finger over the letters on the envelope. Love from Pretty Beach had just been born.