He'd been frustrated throughout architecture school. You always had to keep up with the architectural fetishes of the professors and bosses. It used to be concrete. Then it was glass and steel. Then it was eco-friendly builds. He'd seen his fair share of fads come and go. He could rarely argue or assert himself because he had to pay for his three sons and he was working for somebody else. But as they were well into their twenties now and his wife had left him, he was at a loose end.
His own firm in town was a tight ship. It ran itself without them needing much of his input. He'd employ the recent graduates down the road, they'd deal with the dull stuff. Kitchen extensions. Loft extensions. Side extensions. Extend extend extend... pretend pretend pretend- he held as a mantra. Pretend that the house is actually nice. When somebody like that came in he'd stroke his creases of balding blonde hair and smile politely as he let one of the dogsbodies deal with these clients.
He walked around the house, perched on the hill overlooking the motorway, getting restless. Nothing was inspiring him. Nothing was interesting him. He would pace and pace and pace. He'd turn on the TV and watch Kirsty and Phil bully couples into mortgaging their intestines. He'd think of some Grand Design he could make but that was all a bit too self-indulgent. It was always about some wealthy couple building some kind of Tellytubby house in a field.
With too much time on his hands, he reflected. He thought over where his brain had been these past thirty years. Somewhere between the mechanics of buildings and the carousel of managing family life. It was a blur of the boys' football matches, glassey offices, long drives, building plots and the odd row with the missus. He'd tried to make it work and so had she. But they'd made so many sacrifices to each other and the boys that they were both spent. They agreed on an amicable divorce with a fair settlement. He had accepted it with grace for it was neither of their fault's.
But that didn't make it any easier. He wasn't used to having so much time and so little to do with it. He thought about burying himself in work, but he'd only get bored in the petty projects they'd become accustomed to doing. Then he'd end up taking his frustrations out on his staff.
He scratched his receding hair line and decided to drive to the beach. He stepped over the sea wall, and the seaside seemed so much more vivid today. The air seemed saltier. The seagulls seemed more raucous and confrontational. The sea was far out in the distance and there was only estuary mud. He pulled his coat tighter and sat down on the pebbles. The sky was overcast and grey and the blustery breeze of the North Sea brushed his hair aside.
He stared at the distant frothing waves and lay down on the shingle, relaxing as best he could on the stony surface. The clouds looked like they were speckled. It was probably just his eyes playing up.
He looked around. The sea defences had a really interesting texture. The wooden posts had been bashed and trashed by the waves, the constant moisture fleshing them apart. The flakes of wood were washed along the beach. Then there was the moss and lichen growing on these posts. Then there were the rusty bolts with their brown stains dribbling down the wood.
He'd lived in the area and visited this beach for thirty years yet he'd not noticed these things recently. He'd always been busy. There were always places to get to, things to pick up from the supermarket on the way back and the kids to manage.
He stood up to pay closer attention to the sea defences. To the side there was a box of oyster shells. He looked around but as it was midweek nobody was around on this part of the beach. He picked up a shell and examined it. It had all kinds of interesting lumps and bumps and yet it was so smooth inside. It had an almost rainbow like sheen to it. He looked around again, nobody was here and he put the shell into his black coat's pocket.
En route back to the car he stopped at the newsagent to pick up some crisps and a local rag. When he got home, he put the kettle on and flicked through the stories. A primary school had done a nativity play, an old lady had been run over and they were going to increase the pay-and-display parking charges soon. Nothing too interesting, but it kept his mind off himself.
He made a cup of tea and flicked onwards. Then there it was. A story that immediately caught his interest. The neighbourhood plan for the town was being redrawn and the town's greenbelt would be moved further out. He licked his lips and put on his glasses to examine the map. It seemed as though a belt of coastal land between the railway line and the sea wall would be rezoned from greenbelt to residential. The cogs in his mind whirred. The dials, wheels and machinery in his brain were well developed but slightly rusty. He was mentally building the estate. A couple of cul-de-sacs, each with in-built car ports. Maximise the sea view. Then he scrapped that idea.
No this required something bigger, better. This could be his life's work. He could leave his mark on the town once and for all. He knew exactly what he needed. He went up to the loft of his echoing house and pulled out a box. It was when he was at art college for his foundation course. His woolen jumper was covered in dust, not to mention his chinos that had turned from a brown shade to fluffy grey. He didn't care though.
He flicked through his old sketchbooks and the typewritten essays that accompanied them. He'd loved drawing fish, he'd dawdle off the aquarium by himself in the afternoons and get enthralled by aquatic shapes and textures - the gills, the scales, the fish face expressions, the tails. He'd take trips on the train to the coast and doodle about all the seaside imagery. This was what this project needed. A piece of architecture that the town could be proud of - this would be the premium property that was more coastal the coast itself.
He retreated from the loft. Maybe this was a bit too ambitious? Maybe this was a bit too much? He had his doubts. The planners would inevitably be troublesome and want some clapped out unremarkable estate crammed in there. Well, that would be his challenge.
He called Emma, his secretary to arrange a meeting and pull everybody off the small projects. He got to the studio and gathered everyone around.
He paused to let the room settle down and looked at them pensively.
"Did you ever get that feeling that there's more to life than adding a bedroom to someone's house? Or planning an office for someone's loft extension?
The young faces staring at him were curious.
"I can't answer for you but I do." He shook his head and looked to the ceiling.
"When I was your age my parents said to me, get a good job. Play nicely. Don't break the rules. And for many many years I didn't. I was afraid to. But you know when I look back and spend my days at home by myself getting fed up - I regret that. I really wish I'd argued for what I believed in."
The team were in stunned silence. They'd always known the director to be a fairly emotionless professional man who would sometimes shout at them. Today though his tune had changed. He was almost electric.
"I want to put that right and I need your help." He pulled the newspaper out of his mottled leather briefcase, turned the page and placed the oyster shell on the table as well.
"I want to transform this plot into the Oyster Way estate and I want this to be our absolute best work. I want you to forget tradition, forget most of what they taught you at college and I want you to make these houses ooze the sea. They should be colourful, interesting, individual. I want you to be like the Victorians and put clam shells above the door. I want a little statue in the middle. I want old ship masts used for beams, porthole windows. Maybe make one of the houses like a boat. Whatever really sparks your imagination. It's going to be a tough sell to the council but Freya - I know you can use your feminine charms on them."
"If you're stuck here's some of old sketchbooks. Use this imagery - take elements of these things and throw convention out the window and make some practical artistic houses. The kind that people are proud to actually live in."
"But what about the rest of the work we do?" asked one of the young men.
"Put that on the back burner. Those nouveau riche dipshits with their hair extensions, range rovers and pink tracksuits can wait. I want all of you to spend two weeks on this and drop everything else. We need a rough proposal that will get people talking about it."
His peptalk had infused the room with energy. They were all aflame and energised. They started doing rough sketches and playing on the computers to bring up possibilities.
The following weeks were full of late nights, fish and chips in the office. There were a few angry calls from clients, but the lies flew out. Many of the staff had supposedly had nasty bouts of food poisoning and a couple had gone on maternity leave. Finally when the proposal had finished the director took them out for a big meal in the harbour. A large platter of oysters was brought by a young waitress with threaded eyebrows. This was followed by a stainless steel tray of champagne glasses.
"To Oyster Way!" the glasses clinked, the oysters were gulped down and they made their small talk - although they didn't have much to say as they'd already spent too much time among themselves recently.
The next day one of the young female associates was sent to the council offices through the automatic doors. She gave an oyster shell containing a USB stick in it. She asked the receptionist to give it to the planning committee. However, Derek Green, the head of planning was in fact in, so she could deliver it herself.
She was escorted down the corridor to his office where the receptionist opened the man's office.
Mr Green had aged prematurely. After a very painful divorce many years ago he had become like rotting driftwood. He arrived early. He left late. He'd notice when anyone else arrived 2 minutes late or left 1 minute early - and he was sure to make them aware of their transgression. His only times of comfort were football and pints at the weekend, but even that was hard this season as his team looked like it would be relegated. He'd pick holes in planning applications and find the most minute of minutiae to reject applications.
But when this young lady walked into the room, his chunky palms became sweaty. His throat choked up and he wasn't himself at all. She introduced herself as Freya and started telling him in great detail about her great plans for the patch of land.
Mr Green had received a couple of applications already from major developers. He knew he'd probably have to side with them instead of what the woman was saying... but he stared into her eyes and he totally forgot everything. She was young and enthusiastic and she had so much energy. He took a sneaky peak at her cleavage as she bent down to pick up something she had dropped on the floor. He bit his lip and pretended to keep listening.
"Can I show you what we're proposing?"
There was a pause. Crap. Words were about to come out but his brain wasn't functioning. He shook his head and gasped a "yes".
She handed him the drive and he fumbled around putting it in the slot. He brought up the files and she talked him through all the pictures and diagrams. It was absurd and proposterous. But... his mind was transfixed on the female attention and not the fishy houses he was clicking through.
"When will we find out then, if we've got permission?"
Again, a question that filled him with dread as he had to move his brain away from his sadness and depraved fantasies and to the practical realities of his job. He coughed to buy himself some time.
"In due course." That was a vague answer that would keep them both eager.
She stared at him and pushed for something concrete. "And what does that mean?" Oh dear, she was raising her eyebrows and making him squirm.
"Probably in the next 3 weeks" he said before he could even think about it.
With that she wrapped her scarf around her and strutted out. The underlings who shared the office with Mr Green were laughing and gossiping among themselves. But their boss didn't mind. He was feeling all sorts of things he hadn't felt in a long time.
Over the following week Mr Green made repeated phone calls asking for some adaptations to the plan, which Freya was more than willing to accommodate. Surprisingly quickly, permission was granted.
The JCBs and mini diggers were circling around the muddy site as trains whistled behind them. The oyster shell sculpture was the centrepiece of the new housing estate. All sorts of pipework and services were wired underneath, holes were dug, concrete was poured in and up rose the houses.
The houses faced onto the shell and seafront. They all had a sense of place and purpose. This was the pearl of the bay. One looked like a old ship. One looked like a fishing vessel. One looked like a yacht. One looked like a submarine. One was an oversized beach hut. And another was constructed from crinkled sea defence pilings.
At the rear of the estate was the most prominent of these houses. A lighthouse, 1 Oyster Way. The presales on the other houses had done well, but this one was too narrow and tall for families. It was unsold for 6 months and then it finally found an owner.
The architect moved in and could admire his proudest achievement for the rest of his days.
