The Kite Maker – Part 1: Ripstop

"You've let go," said Elsie.

"It pulled," said Joel.

"It's a kite. It's supposed to pull."

They watched the great red diamond rise and rise above the shingle, trailing a long tail of ribbons, dwindling in the grey-gold sky over the sea. Gulls wheeled in alarm. A dog barked. On the end of the beach, a dozen people turned to look. It was a blustery Saturday morning in Brighton, with white horses on the waves and the wind whipping the spray off the pier.

Elsie, twenty-nine, a kite maker, small and weathered, in a bright orange windcheater and a bobble hat, folded her arms and sighed. Her stall stood behind her on the promenade, a rack of kites in every colour, fluttering like flags. Joel, thirty-three, a software developer new to the city, tall, floppy-haired, in an expensive coat, held an empty reel and a look of deep apology.

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It's gone to find the Netherlands."

"I'll pay for it."

"You can't pay for the wind." She grinned. "Come on. You can try again."

She put a smaller, blue kite in his hands and stood behind him on the shingle. Her arms came round his, steady and light, her hands over his on the bar. "Don't pull. Don't fight. Feel what it wants. Now give a little. Now let it go. Now."

The blue kite leaped from his hands. It climbed in a swift clean arc, steady against the wind, fluttering its tail. Joel gasped. The string thrummed through the reel.

"Oh," he said.

"Yes."

"It's flying."

"You're flying it."

He laughed, a startled boyish sound, and she laughed with him. They flew it for an hour, until his fingers were red and his coat was damp with spray. When they reeled it in, they were both breathless.

"I haven't done anything like that in years," said Joel.

"Done what?"

"Played."

"Can I ask you something?" said Elsie.

"Yes."

"Do you want to learn to make one?"

"Green?" said Joel, a string, a sky.

"Green," said Elsie, smiling. "Very green. Come to the workshop on Monday."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Windy Day.