Creative Non Fiction
Delirium
The true story of Lilian Loosemore
27th November, 1906. Late Evening. St Ives
Lilian Loosemore stands on the shore just above the seaweed strewn tide-line. The sun is low on the horizon. Unsure what to do, she does nothing. If someone were to observe me now, she wonders, what would they see?
What would they see? Those, whose cruel tongues have driven her to the edge of madness, to these wild and ragged boundaries of her narrow world.
Lilian has her umbrella, the ivory handle is as cold to her touch as the tangy late autumn air is to her throat. She remembers taking the umbrella from the stand as she left the house, but she can’t think why. As always in November, an impish westerly whips the waves from the Atlantic onto the swathe of golden sand that is Porthminster beach, but there is no rain, none was forecast. The seaweed hanging outside the boathouse this morning remained dry and brittle. The fishing boats went out on the tide and came safely home, baskets overflowing with mackerel, whiting and cod. Lilian had waited on the jetty for the boats to dock, fish for supper tonight. A fleeting smile softens her face as she remembers dark-eyed Jacob Dunn doffing his cap and remarking on the weather as he chose her the best cod from the catch.
