Embracing The Rain

Embracing The Rain

Since childhood, Cara Burgess had a keen eye for spotting details. She grew up on a farm 50 miles outside of London, where she would go on long walks with her mum, Beth. Her mum had moved from Australia to the UK in the sixties after she inherited a farm from a deceased distant relative. Beth’s family, sheep breeders who lived hundreds of kilometres away from other houses, endured the wilderness. When Beth’s mum, Sarah, went into labour four weeks before the due date, the Flying Doctors arrived on time but didn’t expect twins. The baby girl weighed 3.250 kg and screamed on arrival. Her little brother came 5 minutes later, strangled by his own umbilical cord. Her entire life, Beth carried the impossible burden to replace him. She sensed and battled her parents’ never-ending grief at having lost their only son. Leaving Australia with her newlywed husband twenty years later proved to be a relief, a fresh start to a bright future. But England’s winters revealed harsher than she had imagined. The old farmhouse, stable and fences needed constant repair. Problems mounted because money was tight and neighbours far away. Their only child grew up cheerful and sweet to counterbalance the parent’s daily fights. Their little girl never complained about boring potato dishes, feeding the chickens, or lacking friends. A simple decision to homeschool Cara. Isolation would protect her from long bus rides, being bullied, and later being taken away by social services.

On their regular afternoon walks, Beth had taught her daughter to look at simple, common things; the subtle patterns on a wet pebble, the veins etched in a leaf, the fragile lines of a frog’s skeleton. In the meantime, Sarah’s husband, Dan, rested on the kitchen sofa, drunk. Cara and her mum collected natural wonders and listened to their dreams while their border collie, Pete, trotted along and watched their every move. On these peaceful walks, Cara imagined becoming an archaeologist and marry a fine young man who would make her laugh every single day. She treasured these dear memories long after her mum’s suicide.

After selling the farmhouse, buying a one-bedroom apartment and finishing university, she worked at the British Museum in London. She continued to walk every day after work, scouring the banks of the Thames, discovering little objects like Roman hairpins, medieval belt buckles, Tudor shoes and Victorian toys. In the 18th-century, mudlark were scavengers, collecting any material they could sell, desperate to make some earnings. She sympathised with their despair and compared their longings to her own, the need to fill in empty gaps with the bits and pieces she collected. Sunken in her usual thoughts of her late alcoholic father and depressed mother, she advanced through the mud while her boots kept getting heavier. Tired not to find anything, she considered going back to her cosy flat as the sky twisted grey. An object on the ground half the size of her foot caught her attention. Her skinny gracious hands enjoyed getting dirty, so she didn’t hesitate to reach out and pick it up. Slippery and heavy for its size, she weighed it in both her hands. Out of nowhere, a man, taking one enormous step towards her, slipped and fell to the ground, sweeping Cara off her feet and landing her on his lap. She saved the mysterious object, screeching in disbelieve. She looked at the man’s smirky face and how she sat on him and giggled.

Even though it had not been her fault, she apologised.

“It’s my pleasure!” he said. They both tried to figure out what to do next. Dreading to abandon the precious item, Cara tried getting up without the support of her hands and arms. She juggled onto her feet but failed. Moving her two slipping legs, like she was running on a treadmill, she pushed against his torso with her right shoulder. He resisted for thirty seconds. Then he collapsed backwards, making her land with her full body length on top of him. Still saving the treasure in both of her hands, which was hovering over his head now, dripping muddy water into his green eyes, her cold nose touched his lips. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, her necklace got entangled in his coat as the purple-grey sky started unloading its heavy clouds. Under the heavy rain, they rummaged around like children rolling in the snow. When they both stood on their feet again, Cara was pointing a gun at him. The rain had washed off the mud. He was staring in horror at the weapon in her hands. With both arms raised, he yelled, ‘Don’t shoot me! I come in peace!’.

For a few seconds, none of them was moving. Strings of rain continued pouring down as she lowered the gun and burst out laughing. He let out a nervous sigh while both observed the surreal scene.

“I am Pete, by the way.”

“Once I had a dog named Pete, he loved getting muddy, too!” She said, realising that’s a weird thing to say. “Cara, nice to meet you!”

“I was looking for some consoling distraction out here. I guess I got lucky.” He said and grinned, satisfied.

“And I was looking for some strange, valuable piece to add to my collection… I guess I got lucky, too!”

“We better get rid of these wet clothes! I mean, fancy a cup of tea?… I don’t live far…” she said and blushed.

Their smiling eyes agreed without hesitation. Both started walking and chatting like best friends who knew each other for ages.