Alice still feels awed by the sea, by its vast proximity. To the left there is a slipway where small fishing boats form a colorful spine down to a concrete jetty and where the great, dreadful froth of the North Sea hits the rocky shoreline. It’s enough, just about.īeyond her window, between Victorian streetlights, a string of sun-faded bunting swings back and forth in the boisterous April wind. Silly money for a piece of art made from old maps, perhaps, but not silly money for a single mother of three. She makes art from old maps which she sells on the Internet for silly money. She hadn’t imagined that they’d ever outgrow this place.Īlice sits in her tiny room at the top of her tiny house. She hadn’t imagined that one day she’d have a gangling child of almost six foot. And Romaine, the baby, was just four months old. They were all so little when she moved them here from London six years ago. The ceilings slope and bulge and her fourteen-year-old son needs to bow his head to get through the front door. It is a tiny house, a coast guard’s cottage, built more than three hundred years ago for people much smaller than her.
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