I followed the sight line to where she was pointing and carefully picked my way down through the meadow. It was deep with weeds. Within twenty paces in any direction I counted balsam, ragwort, nipplewort, knotweed, bindweed, chickweed, aster, nettles, brambles, burdock, cleavers, thistles of various sizes – some sprouting to shin height. I recognised other plants too: sedge, valerian, foxglove and harebells as well as the usual abundance of dandelions and all manner of wildflowers such as ox-eye daisy, flax and roseroot. It was remarkable how many different species had made their way to the wild meadow, and all vying for the same small patch of sky.
Sure enough the ground slipped away to a small submerged spring bubbling up into the long grass and gently flooding a lower patch of the land before flowing further down the field to find the shortest way to the sea. It was little more than a trickle.
The dog pushed on, impervious to the burrs that stuck to his fur, or the nettles that brushed his maw, and he flattened a path to a bosky patch where there were gathered dozens of bouquets of wild garlic, sprouting like leafy fountains from the soil.
I crouched down, tore at a leaf and folded it into my mouth. The garlic’s white flowers had not yet blossomed and, unsure as to whether it was the leaves or bulbs I was collecting, I found a short stick and used it to carefully scrape away the soil so that I could lift several whole plants, their thin pale roots hanging from the base of their rounded white edible stems.
Down in this shaded corner I could see neither the sea nor the cottage, which, with the creeper crawling across its facade, already gave the impression of being pulled down into the Yorkshire sandstone. Held in the clutches of this hollow, I had in that moment the impression of the meadow being entirely sealed off from the world.
I felt an enlivening and distorting of the senses, strange but not without pleasure, as if I were experiencing the wildlife around me to a heightened and intense degree. And not only experiencing it, but becoming a part of it, immersed in such a way that I could hear the rustle of every crawling ant or the scratching of each fly’s dry wing, or the chewing of a masticating wasp on a rotten piece of timber hidden from view. Breathing deeply, I smelled the sod, the garlic, herbs and airborne pollen, and the tang of the salted sea air too. A meal of the senses. The tiniest details came into sharp focus: the skeletal architecture of a small dead leaf that had lain untouched since winter, or the quiver of a solitary blade of wild grass where others beside it were still. The gentle panting of the dog too fell into the rhythm of my own heart as it beat a gentle pattern of sweet coursing blood in my eardrums. A single drop of sweat ran down my left temple. I felt alive. Gloriously, deliriously alive.
For what felt like hours, but may in fact have only been a few seconds, time appeared static, the moment frozen, until I finally stood and, with garlic in hand, and the dog pushing past me, felt delirious from sensation, and then took a narrow trail deeper downhill through the thickening grass. It led between some brambles and brought me to a rotten gate that hung from one rusted hinge. I pushed through it and found myself at the edge of a much flatter farmed field that looked right out across the descending land. Here, finally, was the sea, in its full, unobstructed aspect.
At the far end of the field a horse with thick fetlocks raised its head for a moment and then resumed tugging at the cud, the flat shape of its silhouette form framed by the vast body of shimmering water behind it. The horse appeared to be suspended there between the strips of blue and green that were the sky, the sea and the field.
The dog stood alongside, accepting of my presence, and I let time and landscape wash around me, the hum of insects and the coda of nearby birdsong the closing soundtrack to an afternoon reverie of such power and potency that my whole life was, perhaps, imperceptibly nudged in a different direction.
III
Walking back, I saw tucked away in the top corner of Dulcie Piper’s meadow, adjacent to her house and secreted beneath an overhang of branches, a sunken structure which, like the cottage, gave the impression of being pulled under.
I pushed through the grass towards what was a shack, an old summer house perhaps, constructed from creosote-coated wood, now unevenly shaped from decades of sun, salt, fret and neglect, but nevertheless standing soundly on a raised base of solid stone. The steeply arched corrugated roof was stained acidic cobalt in colour from decades of rain and patched with a thick rug of moss. The sheets of lead lining were intact on its apex, and the ornately rendered white window frames, though weathered, had all their glass in place. One old clay drainpipe hung loose, broken, leading to nowhere.
I tried the door. It was held shut by the encroachment of wildlife from the meadow. I attempted to shoulder it open but the warped wood had jammed it in the frame so instead I cupped my hands around my eyes and saw inside a place of dust and darkness.
Though the bespoke joinery and ornate finishings suggested something more than a mere tool shed, it was now nothing but a neglected storage space for items never needed. There was an old bedspring frame in there, and a dresser. On the floor were some wadded rags, cardboard boxes matted damp with age, an old suitcase, a tin can containing an assortment of screws, nails and wing nuts. I saw a rattan chair with oversized holes picked through it, as if gnawed at by rodents. There was a standing lamp with neither shade nor bulb and many stubbed thumbs of melted candles were stuck to the interior windowsills, their wax drippings hanging pendulously, or hardened into phlegmy globules on the stained floorboards below them. There were curled sheets of paper, discarded in the corner. A couple of empty wine bottles. And dust. Dust everywhere.
Dulcie called me then and, true to his name, the dog reappeared a moment later by my side to guide me like a discreet but attentive valet. Mindful of disturbing an established hierarchy, I let him lead the way.
She was gesturing from the kitchen, a veil of steam billowing up from the pot that was noisily roiling away. She pushed the window open wider. ‘Come in and look at these beautiful beasts,’ she said.
I walked around to the side door and stepped into the kitchen. It was small, like the galley of a ship, with pots and pans and utensils hanging everywhere from hooks, and was dominated by an old scorched range that featured several circular hotplates, a main oven and two side ovens. It seemed like something from another age, a roaring fire pit emitting more heat than the warm day needed.
All around there were unlit candles placed on saucers and in old sardine tins, and from the ceiling hung a paraffin lamp on which Dulcie, a good three inches taller than me, almost certainly must have hit her head with regularity.
‘Have you been down to the bay and back already?’ I asked. ‘Sorry, I mean down bay.’
‘Not likely. Barton brings them up. Twice a week he leaves a couple in the water trough out on the lane. Fish too. Haddock, plaice, skate. Whatever the catch can spare. A jar of whelks. Even the odd eel sometimes. I live off the stuff. It puts pep in your step. Good for the brain too. Look – ’
I bent over the boiling pot and saw two lobsters like craggy creatures lifted from prehistoric times turning a darkening umber colour in the bubbling pan.
‘They’re huge,’ I said.
‘Actually they’re small. But the smaller ones have the sweeter meat. The bigger ones are older and don’t always taste as pure. Their flesh has turned cynical.’
‘Their claws are mismatched.’
‘Yes, you see that one is the pincer for holding and the other is the crusher for – well, that’s self-explanatory.’
‘Do they nip?’
‘Wouldn’t you if manhandled out of your bed in the midst of a bloody good sleep?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, I reckon I would. In fact, it has happened once or twice recently thanks to one or two unfriendly landowners.’
‘Cretins.’
Dulcie crouched and opened the range door and threw in two logs, which she prodded into place with a poker, then closed it again.
‘Who’s Barton?’ I asked.
‘A fisherman.
Shadrach Barton III, to give him his full name. He lives up the hill. A nice chap. He gives the impression of being taciturn but I think he’s just more at ease on the water than he is on the land. He has a permanent squint from perennially scouring the water for fishing grounds. A good singing voice too, by all accounts. Shanties mainly, but Christ, the songs go on and on. Now: garlic.’
Dulcie put out her hand and I passed the garlic to her. She quickly trimmed away the leaves and sliced the roots down to the bare bulbs. These she skinned and diced, and then she placed a small pan on the hob.
‘Does he bring you the logs too?’
‘Heavens, no.’ She nodded out across the back garden to where I noticed for the first time a sawhorse and chopping block. ‘It keeps me trimble,’ she said. ‘Trim and nimble. They always say logs warm you up three times: chopping them, carrying them and burning them.’
From her pantry in the corner she brought out an enormous butter dish from which she cut a knob the size of a small bar of soap and dropped it into the pan. That piece alone constituted more than the two ounces per week that I knew the rationing book allowed.
‘We’ll have white. Can you get me a bottle?’ Dulcie nodded towards the pantry.
It was cool in there, and I saw stacked in a rack at least two, perhaps three, dozen bottles of wine, both red and white. There were other bottles too, containing spirits I had never tasted. Whisky, cognac, gin, plus cherry brandy and ones labelled with words I had never seen: GRAPPA, SCHNAPPS and METAXA.
From floor to ceiling the shelves were packed with tins of meat and fish and beans and soup, and different bags of flour – buckwheat and rye – plus sugar and rice, and packets of biscuits and bars of chocolate. There were two large dried sausages and jars featuring various seasonings, chutneys, pickles and preserves. Some of the labels appeared to be in German. There were boxes too, containing exotic-looking delicacies such as figs and dates and Turkish delight, and bottles of cooking oil and fruit cordial. As well as the large bowl of butter, there was also a tray of twenty or more eggs and two small wheels of cheese wrapped in green leaves. On the floor in a wooden crate there were fruits and vegetables. I saw apples, carrots, potatoes, kale, celery, spring onions.
An imposter in a stranger’s house, and surrounded by all this produce, I felt overwhelmed, disjointed somehow, as if I had once again stepped into a picture or a painting.
‘Most of the wine is pre-war,’ Dulcie said, quite oblivious to these odd and conflicting sensations I was experiencing. ‘I stocked up. Forward-thinking. I’m down to the vinegary dregs now and the entire rack is in need of purgation. I even have a bottle of Lindisfarne Mead that is probably as old as Cuthbert’s corpse. Most of the wine is passable, though too much will tend to sour the stomach.’
I lingered in the pantry a moment longer. I had never seen such variety of food and drink in one place. Back at home there was the butcher, the greengrocer and so on but even the general store had the same unchanging supply of ration food: tinned English hams, baked beans, loose tea, sweaty government cheese, patties of lard that looked like engine grease and jars of jam that was rumoured to be made from discarded root vegetables.
Dulcie saw me marvelling at all that food. ‘I have friends in places both high and low, and several in foreign climes,’ she said by way of an explanation. ‘Until they let us buy what we want again, I shall continue to call upon their generosity.’
Having never tasted wine, I had no idea which to select so picked a bottle of white at random.
‘Do you think it’ll go on much longer?’
She shrugged. ‘The war may be won, but the battle against bland food continues apace. And I, for one, shall not be defeated.’
I passed the bottle to Dulcie but she only glanced at the label as she stirred the liquefying butter and scraped the garlic in.
‘Good choice. Will you open it? The corkscrew’s in the drawer.’
I found the implement and fumbled with it. Wedging it between my knees, I managed to uncork my first bottle of wine without breaking the cork or spilling it down myself. Dulcie took it from me, splashed a dash into the butter and then took a larger swig directly from the bottle.
She smacked her lips.
‘You know, Robert, I’ve got so used to dining with just Butler watching on that I’ve forgotten my manners. Forgive me. Glasses – two, please.’
She poured the wine and then we clinked drinks. I took a large mouthful and swallowed it down quickly. There was a sharpness followed by a warm sensation that spread through my gullet and chest and deep down into my stomach. It was the first liquid I had tasted that appeared dry, though the feeling was not completely disagreeable. I took another swig and felt the wine in my veins as a pleasant ache. The stove was kicking out a lot of heat.
Dulcie lifted the large pot and poured away the water. ‘These lobs are done,’ she said. With tongs she lifted them onto plates and passed them to me. ‘We’ll eat al fresco.’
‘Great,’ I said, not moving. ‘Lovely.’
‘Outside?’
‘Oh, right.’
Dulcie followed me with a small bowl of the garlic butter and another containing the chopped leaves. There was a board with half a loaf on it already there, two flies atop it.
As I sat stiff and straight at the table she passed me a nutcracker. ‘I’ll show you how,’ she said, pushing up her sleeves. ‘Some people eat the legs, but claw, knuckle and tail is where you’ll find the best meat. Now, watch.’
Dulcie took a claw and twisted it away from the body of the lobster, which was now a deep burnt orange in colour, steam plumes rising from the fissures where its limbs joined its body. It looked almost like a toy, a macabre stage prop.
Here she paused and looked me up and down. She shook her head. ‘You’re going to have to loosen up, you know. Look at you: you’re stiff as a lighthouse keeper’s prick. At ease, soldier.’
She then gently but deftly pulled back the smaller jaw of the pincer until it broke away, revealing a cuticle-shaped crescent of pure white flesh. She dipped this twice in the garlic butter and then tipped it to her mouth, pulling the meat from the shell. Then she folded a piece of bread into her mouth after it, chased it with a gulp of wine, and took the nutcracker back from me and used it to crack the main claw, carefully picking off two or three tiny flecks of the broken shell. A hunk of flesh fell onto the plate. She skewered some garlic leaves then split the claw meat with the edge of her fork and twice dipped the whole lot into the butter again, and then ate it, chewing noisily and making a sound of satisfaction: mmm-hmmn.
‘Food of the gods,’ she said through a mouthful, as a stray fleck of green garlic leaf worked its way out of her mouth, hung there for a moment and then fell to the table.
Dulcie smacked her lips, smiled and picked up more bread.
‘Dig in, Robert, before it makes a break for it.’
I followed her lead and managed to extract the warm flesh from the lobster that just that morning, as I was waking and stretching in the shadow of hedgerow, damp and stiff and cursing the dawn chorus, had been ambling along the seabed somewhere out there, where the rising sun refracted in the upper reaches and all life danced in its warming rays.
I dipped it into melted butter that was the colour of egg yolk and just as creamy, and then held the piece of lobster there in my mouth. I didn’t even have to chew: it collapsed into a soft paste, with only the faintest hint of the sea behind it. Never had I tasted anything fresher; the kippers that my mam reluctantly fried for my dad on a Friday were old leathery things in comparison, like the inner sole of a pitman’s boot, the scent of the smokehouse lingering all weekend long.
Next we ate the meat from the knuckles on hunks of bread topped with garlic leaves and double-dipped again.
‘The wine,’ she said. ‘You haven’t touched your wine.’
I took another sip and let it wash around my mouth. It was still too tart for my liking, but the salted aftertaste of the butter seemed to take the sick
le-sharp edge off it.
‘We save the best bit for last.’
Dulcie took the lobster from her plate in both hands and in one move she bent the tail up from the body and separated it. A large thick thumb of meat extended, shucked from the curved shell like a creature peeking from a hole.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘See that greenish paste inside? That’s the liver. Good in soups or sauces. We can eat that too. Those that have a red coral-like matter inside are female; that’s the roe. Also edible. But this is a male. We just need to remove this thing.’
Here she pulled out a long stringy vein, which she cast aside into the garden.
‘For the birds or beasts. Or Butler.’
I followed suit and discovered the meat from the tail to be even sweeter. We ate more bread and garlic butter and finished off a rough salad. Dulcie poured more wine and we sat in silence.
‘So,’ said Dulcie, ‘you’re here to see the sea.’
‘Yes. Back at home it turns grey with dust and people pick the coal that washes in on the tide straight from the beach, great sacks of it that they stack on their carts, but down here it is different and the sand looks so much cleaner too. We live too far inland to visit much, though close enough to hear the seagulls. It feels nice to be nearer the water for a while.’
The meadow and the wine had loosened my tongue somewhat and I found myself talking more than I was accustomed to in the company of strangers, or anyone.
‘That is very true,’ said Dulcie. ‘Though if you keep going you’ll hit Hull and the Humber and, beyond that, Grimsby. They might change your mind.’
‘I thought I would see Scarborough first. Maybe get some work there.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Doing anything. Perhaps some busking.’
‘Music, you mean? Do you play?’
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Jew’s harp. I put it to my lips and started plucking a tuneless melody.
The Offing Page 4
