Greyhound for Breakfast

A History

When from out of the evening the quiet reached such a pitch I had to unlock the door and wander abroad. At this time the waves ceased pounding the rocks and the wind entered its period of abeyance. Along the shore I travelled very casually indeed, examining this, that and the other, frequently stooping to raise a boulder. That absurd and unrealized dream from childhood, that beneath certain boulders. .

I was going south to south east, towards the third promontory. It was where I could take my ease at times such as this. A fine huddle of rocks and stone. There were three little caverns and one larger one, a cave; this cave would presently be dry. It always afforded a good shelter. From it I could gaze out on the sea. I withdrew my articles from my coat pocket, a collection of shells. Even now I retained the habit, as though some among them would prove of value eventually. I leaned close to the entrance of the cave and chipped them out in a handful, not hearing any splash due to the roaring of the waves. Yet there too had been a striped crab shell of a sort I was unfamiliar with, about five inches in diameter. I kept an assortment of items at home to which this crab shell might have proved a fair addition. In all probability, however, the stripes had simply been a result of the sea’s turmoil. Or perhaps it had been wedged in between two rocks for several centuries. I doubted my motives for having thrown it away. But I had no history to consider. None whatsoever. I had that small collection of things and too the cottage itself, its furnishings and fittings, certain obvious domestic objects. But be that as it may not one of these goods was a history of mine. My own history was not in that cottage. If it could be trapped anywhere it would not be there. I felt that the existence of a dead body would alter things. Previous to this I had come upon a dead body so I did have some knowledge. It had been a poor thing, a drowned man of middle age, a seaman or fisherman. I made the trip to the village to convey the information then returned to the cottage to await their arrival. I had carried the body into there and placed it on the floor to safeguard against its being carried back out on the tide. The face was bearded, no boots on the feet though a sock remained on the left foot. A man in the sea with his wits about him, ridding himself of the boots to assist the possibility of survival. He would have had a family and everyday responsibilities whether to them or to his shipmates; that amazing urge to survive which is itself doomed. He would have been dead in twenty minutes, maybe less. If I had been God I would have allowed him to survive for twenty hours.

But now here I was. And could it be described as good, this lack of damp, not being chilled to the bone; even a sensation of warmth. All in all I was wishing I had kept a hold of the shells and that striped one of a crab, and I would then have been very content indeed, simply to remain there in the cave, knowing I would only have to travel such and such a distance back to the cottage.