Page 70 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
As dawn broke, Atticus lay awake.
He felt concern about the scars and would ask her again when the time was right. But now, as Britta slept in his arms, her breath a peaceful rise and fall on his chest, she instilled a calmness he hadn’t felt in years. Life, with all its twists and turns, had brought him to this moment, and the warmth of her body reminded him of the comfort of closeness with another being.
As he watched her sleep, he noticed small details: the way her hair fell across the pillow, the softness of her features, and the smile that hinted at a happy dream. Atticus felt the need to protect this woman, and the prospect of spending time with Britta filledhim with a newfound sense of joy.
On Saturday mornings, they explored the bustling local market together and, after stocking up on provisions, sat with Cheryl and Ruby in the sunshine, enjoying tapas and sangria. The two women had welcomed Britta into their circle immediately, with the same warmth they had shown Atticus on his arrival at Solma Vacaciones, and Atticus treasured Cheryl and Ruby’s friendship and support.
When Britta wasn’t working, she walked with him along serene beaches, and they loved exploring, especially with Ness happily trotting alongside. Britta had rediscovered her mojo for art, making sketches of their discoveries. Later, with Atticus’s encouragement, she used these sketches to inspire many paintings, which were now stacked heavily against a wall in the cottage.
One afternoon, Britta asked Atticus if she could sketch him beside Winnie. Taking a charcoal pencil, she sat in the sunshine with her drawing pad on her knee. Britta’s gaze flickered between her work and Atticus, who now stood with Ness by his side. With her sleeves rolled to her elbows and her hair pinned messily, a few loose strands escaped, and Atticus longed to reach out and tuck them back.
‘Keep still,’ Britta laughed, tilting her head to study him with her artist’s eye.
Winnie’s door was open, revealing the cosy interior, and Atticus leaned casually against the side, one hand resting on his hip, the other absently ruffling Ness’s soft fur.
‘Can I see?’ Atticus asked.
‘Not until it's finished, and who knows when that might be?’ Britta smiled, her fingers smudging a shadow ontothe paper.
It was a simple moment, one filled with the quiet happiness found in each other’s company.
Atticus had become obsessed with his Instagram account and enjoyed making videos to share his travels. Now that he understood the power of social media, he wanted others to be inspired and enjoy their later years, too. Judging by the reaction he received, his posts were doing their job. Each image or video received hundreds of comments and likes, and Britta laughingly told him that he was encouraging an influx of nomadic pensioners to make their way to Spain.
In Guardamar, Atticus was recognised as they strolled along the scenic promenade where soft sand gently sloped into the Mediterranean. They observed sun worshippers, toasting under the winter sun, wearing little more than a hat perched jauntily over thinning hair, a colourful swimsuit and sarong, or brightly patterned shorts.
Atticus had his photo taken with @BrightonBornBrian78, who’d rented an apartment for the winter after reading Atticus’s posts. @EssexErnie insisted on a selfie and told The Travelling Grandad he was enjoying his newfound freedom after being inspired by Atticus and Winnie and that he had spent his life savings on a motorhome. Sue and Jill from Surrey, the @CamperVanCousins69, linked arms with Atticus and beamed at their selfie-stick camera, excited to say that they were thrilled to meet him and couldn’t wait to share their post.
Atticus still couldn’t believe how he’d come out of his shell.
His confidence surprised him, and never in a million years would he have expected to be doing the things he did. But his time with Britta was unhurried and he savoured each moment, storing the memories carefully for the days when he might not be so able. In quiet moments, relaxing on Britta’s terrace and staring out to sea while she sat at her easel, he realised that he hadn’t just found love but had rekindled a zest for life. He knew that Clara would be smiling down, delighted that Atticus no longer let the old man in. Each day felt like a new adventure, and each night spent in Britta’s arms was a reminder that it was never too late to experience the magic of love. Even holding hands felt like all the riches in the world as they sat silently on the terrace swing and watched the ever-changing scene on the beach.
One afternoon, Atticus and Britta sat in quiet companionship, sipping wine as the sun dipped toward the horizon and the waves whispered to the shore.
Placing his glass down, Atticus turned to Britta.
‘There’s something I need to do,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Before Clara died, we talked endlessly about coming here together,’ he paused, ‘but the trip never happened.’
‘Go on,’ Britta encouraged, reaching out to take his hand.
‘I… I brought some of her ashes with me to Spain.’ Atticus swallowed. ‘Because I never finished letting her go.’
Lacing her fingers through his own, Britta smiled. ‘Then let’s do ittogether,’ she said.
Retrieving the old wooden box from Winnie, they both stepped onto the beach, the sand warm beneath their feet. The tide lapped as they reached the water’s edge, and Atticus took a deep breath. With a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, Britta nodded.
Holding the box, Atticus opened it, and with a gentle shake, the ashes swirled upwards as if carried by unseen hands. They both watched in silence until, suddenly, a light gust blew, shaping the ashes into a delicate heart that rose in the fading light.
‘God bless you, Clara,’ Atticus whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He stared in awe as the heart lingered above their heads before slowly dissolving on the dying breath of air.
Britta’s eyes were wide as she moved towards him, their arms instinctively entwining. ‘Now you’ve let her go,’ she whispered. ‘The sea will carry her home.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Atticus often spoke of his children and grandchildren, telling Britta about each one, and as he talked, he realised how special they all were.
‘I have no children and would love to get to know yours,’ Britta said. ‘Children are a gift to be cherished.’
‘I’d like you to meet them.’
