When The World Was Still Small [Melantha Hastings - History Pt 1]

Posted on Tue Jun 23rd, 2026 @ 10:48am by Ensign Melantha Hastings
Edited on on Tue Jun 23rd, 2026 @ 10:37pm

1,185 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: USS Tokyo Summer Writing Event 2026
Location: Cornwall, England, 1982

Summer, 1982

The Hastings family always arrived in Cornwall too late in the day. At least, that was how nine-year-old Melantha saw it. The drive from Berkshire had seemed endless, the family Range Rover packed with luggage, books, blankets, hampers, and three increasingly irritable boys who had spent most of the journey arguing over leg room and why did Melantha get to sit where she sat, in the third row with books around her, all by herself? It was not fair that they, her elder brothers, had to sit in the second row, squished together after all. Her mother had insisted on stopping twice, for food and to ‘stretch legs’. Her father had insisted they were “making excellent time,” despite all evidence to the contrary. By the time they reached the cottage, which had been opened up by the servants days before, the sun had already begun to lower over the Atlantic. But the sea was still there. It always was.

From the moment Mel stepped out of the car, climbing over the second row seat, narrowly missing Oliver’s jacket with her shoes, ignoring his comment about clumsy sisters, she could smell it: salt, damp stone, warm grass, and something sharp and green from the cliffs below. The family ‘cottage’ sat above the Cornish coast as if it had grown from the land itself, all pale stone walls, slate roof, weathered windows, and climbing roses twisting stubbornly around the door. Her father always said the cottage had belonged to the family longer than anyone could properly remember. Her eldest brother James always said that meant no one had bothered keeping decent records. Her mother always told him not to be difficult.

There was 6 bedrooms,3 bathrooms, a large living space with comfortable couches and chairs, a large kitchen with dining area where her mother often pretended to cook. and around the side was the add-on in the mid 1920's for staff, which allowed for 3 staff rooms and bathrooms. There would be the inevitable argument between her siblings over which room. And she would simply take the back bedroom as she always did. It was her room. The boys could fight over the prime rooms at the front of the house and maybe even bargain with each other. She preferred her quiet room. As she headed into the cottage and climbed the stairs, she was glad the school year was over and she could have a great summer. Their family vacation, on the 3rd week of the School break was traditional and normal. Perfect for the 9 year old girl.

By the next morning, summer had properly begun. The windows stood open. BBC radio murmured faintly from the kitchen. Somewhere inside, her mother was speaking with the housekeeper about lunch, sun cream, and whether any of the boys had remembered to bring proper shoes. Outside, her brothers had already begun a cricket match on the grass with rules so fluid Mel suspected they were inventing them as they went. Melantha avoided the game entirely. Instead, she climbed onto the old stone wall overlooking the beach, tucked one bare foot beneath her, and opened her book. It was her perfect spot. Anne of Green Gables. It was her second time reading it that summer. The world around her was loud and golden and alive. Gulls wheeled overhead. Waves crashed against the rocks below. Her brothers shouted accusations of cheating. Her father shouted back that all great sports required negotiation. And alone, listening, Mel smiled into her book. For almost three hours, no one bothered her. Then a shadow fell across the page. Her father stood beside the wall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair ruffled by the wind, holding two ice creams that were already beginning to melt.

“You are meant to be on holiday,” he said.

Mel looked up at him. “I am on holiday.”

“You have been reading since breakfast.”

“Yes.”

“That is not what children do at the seaside.”

She glanced down toward the beach where Oliver had just fallen dramatically into the sand while James shouted something about a foul. “They appear to be doing enough seaside for all of us.”

Her father laughed and handed her the vanilla cone. Then, with less grace than he would ever admit, he climbed onto the wall beside her. They sat shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the water. For a while, he said nothing.

That was one of the things Mel loved most about her father. He did not always require conversation. Her mother filled silence because she thought silence meant something was wrong. Her brothers filled silence because they were incapable of leaving it alone. Her father simply sat with it. Below them, the tide moved around the rocks. At last he said, “You watch people.”

Mel frowned. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I was reading.”

“You were reading and watching.”

She considered denying it, then decided there was little point. Her father had an annoying habit of being right. “I was only looking.”

“No,” he said gently. “You were noticing.”

Mel looked down at the beach again. Robert was pretending not to be upset because James had taken the batting position from him. Oliver was laughing too loudly because he wanted everyone to think he did not care who won. Her mother had come out onto the patio and was smiling, but one hand kept smoothing the same fold of her skirt, which meant she was worried about something. Mel looked back at her father.

He smiled faintly. “There. You see?”

She was quiet for a moment. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No, darling,” he said. “Not everyone.” He studied her as he spoke. She was so like his sister, in many ways. A watcher, a listener, and yet more than her aunt Christina who had retreated to a Tibetan Monastery at age 23.

The answer unsettled her. The wind lifted strands of red hair across her face. She pushed them away with sticky fingers and frowned toward the sea. “What does it mean?”

Her father looked out across the Atlantic, thoughtful now. “It means you listen, even when people are not speaking.”

Mel did not know what to say to that. So she ate her ice cream before it melted entirely over her hand. Behind them, the cottage remained full of ordinary summer noises. Plates in the kitchen. Her mother called for someone to fetch towels. James protesting innocence. Robert demanded justice. Oliver laughed so hard he could barely breathe. No one knew what was coming. Not then. The wars that would tear at Earth were still distant things, names on news bulletins adults lowered their voices to discuss. The world still felt large and safe and permanent. Britain was still Britain. The Hastings estate was still home. Her family was still whole. Nine-year-old Melantha Hastings sat on a stone wall above the sea with vanilla ice cream dripping down her wrist and a book open in her lap. And for that one golden summer morning, the world was small enough to hold. And nothing had been lost yet.

==

Ensign Melantha Hastings
Counselor
USS Toyko

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