by Priya Sharma
John takes off his cap and twists it around in his hands.
“Not here. Let’s take a walk.”
I can’t recall ever seeing him so uncertain of himself so I relent. “All right then, but not for long.”
I match John’s stride although it hurts. The town’s quietening down. Shutters close and rocking chairs creak. There’s a hushed chorus of voices behind a door. A boy kicks a ball against a wall until he’s called to go in.
“Is Marianne well?”
It’s the same tentative tone that all my family use when they talk about her. Her health’s always been in question. Marianne’s not right.
When we found her on the beach that day she couldn’t speak. She clutched my arm and wouldn’t let go. She only ate raw fish. It took all my mother’s bullying to make her put on clothes.
“She’s well enough.” I don’t want to hear what John has to say.
“Don’t you still wonder where Marianne came from?”
Word was sent out with ships. Notices were posted in newspapers. No one came to claim her. She had no native tongue and no memory of herself. She didn’t even have a name.
“She’s my wife. That’s all that matters now.”
“Of course it is.” John talks in the soothing tones, which only makes it worse.
“You can’t stand that she chose a cripple like me over you, so she can’t be right in her mind.”
There. I’ve said it aloud.
“No one wants to take Marianne from you.” John shakes his head, like he does when he thinks someone’s being stupid. “Marianne only has eyes for you.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
We’re above the town now, approaching the cliff. I feel like we’re climbing into the sun.
“You wanted her yourself.” You still do.
John’s lips are stretched so thin that they’re colourless.
“It seems so long ago. We were all in love with her but she wanted you.”
Me, a landlocked fisherman with a limp.
“And you hate that.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” he throws his hands up, “Pete, I swear there are times when I could knock you down.”
“Big man. Come on then. Or are you worried what people will think if you do?”
“You know what? I’m sick of your self-pity. I’m sick of being sorry for my mistake, every day. You saved my life and I’m grateful. Don’t you think I’m glad that you and Marianne are happy?”
“It doesn’t matter now. We’re not. She doesn’t love me anymore.” I’m as surprised at this admission as John is.
“Rubbish.”
“I don’t know what’s happening to us. We used to be so close.”
“That’s just how it is. You can’t be like young lovers all your lives. Love has to survive the mundane. You have to console each other with kindness when things get difficult. Let me tell you something. If Marianne had picked me, I’d treat her like a queen.”
John, the wise one.
We’ve left the path and are crossing the green of the cliff tops. The sea’s out there, the one certainty when everything else is unsure.
“Where are we going?”
“There’s something you need to see.”
“What?”
“I saw Marianne from the boat.”
“So?”
“Trust me, you need to see.”
We’re at the cliff’s curve, overlooking the cove. John squeezes my arm.
“I’m not doing this to make trouble. I’m doing this because I’m worried about her. About both of you.”
Then he leaves me there.
Marianne’s down below, lying on a bed of rocks. She’s stunning, even though her hair’s streaked with grey. She combs it as it streams over her breasts in waves. Pale skinned, as she doesn’t weather like the rest of us. I can see the gentle curve of her stomach. The light catches the coating of sand on her arms.
Her legs are wrapped in a garment stitched from fish skins. A false tail begins at her hips and tapers to her ankles, then spreads out in a fin that flaps about as she moves her feet, concealed within.
Marianne sings her harsh song as she pretends to be a mermaid.
*
My wife loves being in water although I’ve never seen her swim. She pours sea salt into her bathwater and sings.
Sometimes she submerges herself, carrying on her song for a few seconds. The harsh quality in her voice is lost. Her waterlogged voicebox makes a glorious sound. She’s a drowned angel, her hair spread out around her like drifting kelp.
Then Marianne sits up, spluttering and gasping, looking wounded and betrayed.
*
I don’t go to sea anymore but my fingers are still skilled. All fishermen are dextrous with knots and nets.
The ocean’s given me everything I have. I’ve enjoyed its gifts and witnessed its aquatic aberrations. Things caught in the nets that look too strange to live. I’ve heard the collective myths and memories of sailors, their tales of monsters large enough to swallow ships.
The ocean keeps secrets.
Worthy of pearls and all Marianne got was me. Just a boy when she deserved some God of the Sea.
I climb down the twisted steps to the cove. The receding tide’s a foaming line in the distance. The basking seals see me and flee. I watch their bronzed heads bob about in the swell and then disappear. I strip off in the cold shadow of the cliffs. The shingle hurts my feet and I’m glad when it gives way to sand. There’s a breeze on my bare skin.
I took what I needed from the stall and borrowed more from the others, who looked at me like I was addled. I use the finest needle I can thread. Sewing my legs into my fish skin tail is delicate work.
Marianne’s made so many sacrifices for me. Her pale limbs reached for me from the gloom. She put her mouth to mine to help me breathe. She guided me to safety.
She left everything to follow me.
If I’m all she has then I must be everything I can be. For her. And I’ll show her I’m thankful every day. I’ll treat her like a queen.
I lie back, decked out in my merman’s finery and wait for my wife to come.
The Rising Tide
Everything’s wide at Newgale; the beach, the sky, but it’s water that draws me. The sea goes on for miles.
The rising tide comes in, chasing and baiting. I scream at it, but it doesn’t help. I still feel dead. The crash of the waves swallows up the sound.
I wander. Further up the beach are surfers who look as sleek as seals, dressed in neoprene as they brave the breakers. How free they must feel.
A figure walks towards me. A girl, with a dog that turns in circles around her. The animal crouches, belly to the ground, waiting for her to hurl the ball she’s carrying. When she does the dog’s off like a shot, making ripples and splashes on the water glistening on the sand.
Closer, and I see the girl more clearly. The sight of her shocks me to a stop. Her black hair streams out behind her in the wind. The girl’s mouthing something. I think it’s my name. Her dog bounds up to me, sniffing and licking, keen to be acquainted.
“Get down, you brute.” She catches the dog’s collar and hauls him back. “I’m so sorry.”
I try to speak but my throat is tight. I’m choking on emotions that I can’t swallow.
“Jessica?” The word comes out, faint and strangled.
It’s not Jessica. There’s no way it could be her. Not here. Not now. This isn’t a teenager but a woman with straight, brunette hair, not Jessica’s lively black curls.
“Are you okay?” The woman puts the dog on its leash. “Can I do anything to help you?”
I shake my head, tear stricken and mute. She lingers for a moment, looking awkward and uncertain, and I have to turn my back on her to make her go away.
*
“Have a seat.”
My GP ushered me in. Pictures of children that I presumed were hers hung ov
er her desk. There was the overwhelming odour of air freshener as if she’d sprayed away her last patient.
I explained why I’d come. She passed me a box of tissues when I started to cry.
“It sounds like a terrible situation for everyone.” Her vague tone made me think that, having listened to my tale, that she’d already apportioned blame. “What’s your mood like?”
She asked me the standard questions relating to my malady; poor sleep, inability to eat, mounting anxiety and loss of pleasure.
“Any thoughts of suicide?” She clutched the string of bright beads around her neck.
“No,” I lied.
That wasn’t true. I’d thought about getting on a train and running away. I’d thought about throwing myself under one.
“Could you fill this in for me?” It was a formal depression questionnaire. The modern NHS requires that everything be quantified, even misery.
She totted up my score.
“Right, I think we should start antidepressants.” She was brisk. The use of we gave the process an illusion of democracy.
“Yes.”
“Citalopram, twenty milligrams a day,” she said.
Citalopram, a drug to keep my serotonin circulating. To bathe my brain in this happy chemical and make me well again. Or functional, at least.
“Do you need to see a counsellor?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll write you a sick note.”
“I can’t go off sick.”
“Nonsense. You’re not well enough to work.”
“I can manage.”
“It’s not just about you.” She uncapped her pen. “It’s about patient safety too. You need a clear head.”
Patient safety. That stung, as it revealed what she, and everyone else, must have really thought of me.
*
Arosfa’s the name of the hut that stands on the top of Treffgarne hill, near Lion’s Rock, within sight of a cluster of houses and church that comprise the village.
Arosfa. An apt name given by my father. It means “remain here”. That’s all I want. To stay here and never have to face the world again. It’s all I have left of Dad. We’d come here at weekends. He’d shrug off his overalls and roam as if set free. We’d walk and talk all day. I’d go with Dad while he went about his real vocation; a cleansing or a healing ritual.
Now Arosfa’s windows are dirty and the floor unswept. Dad would be upset to see it so neglected.
When I get back from Newgale, the door’s ajar. I stand, listening, sure that I’d locked it before I left. There are no signs that it’s been forced. I push the door open. No one’s there but I have the feeling of being only seconds too late to see who was standing there.
Nothing. Nothing but the stained and faded curtains, made in exchange for Dad’s shingle cure, that hang in the window. Dad’s empty whisky bottles, thick with dust, line the shelves. Each one was payment for a divination or a charm. His books are swollen with damp but look undisturbed. Piles of my clothes are left where I dropped them. Dirty cups and plates are all over the place. I should clean up.
Then I see the wet patches that stain the floorboards, making them darker. Footprints. Not the outline of shoes but heels and toes, fainter along the arches where the curve lifts away. I put my foot alongside them. The intruder’s feet are smaller than mine.
*
My mobile’s flashing at me. I’ve got a missed call.
“Cariad? It’s Tom.” There’s a pause. There’s a hard edge to his voice, like he’s daring me to be furious at him for his defiance. “I know you said not to call but we need to talk. About the girl. About us.”
The last thing I want to do is talk.
“Let me know you’re okay, even if you don’t want to see me.”
More silence.
“Let me help you. You don’t have to go through this alone.” His anger rises. “The thing is, I love you. And I think you love me.”
I wish he’d said it before Jessica. I wish I’d said it back. Not just because I’m too ashamed to face him now but because depression’s a dark hole where no light goes. Your dearest wish becomes as inconsequential as crumbs.
I don’t deserve Tom.
“Cariad, please…”
I turn off the phone, cutting him off mid-sentence.
*
I had met Tom on the first day of my new job in the Casualty department of Bronglais General Hospital, Aberystwyth. It was a new speciality to me, a new hospital and a new town. My orientation session had been curtailed after half an hour due to the department being busier than normal so I had no idea where anything was or who to ask for what. The staff were a hard, sardonic lot.
“Maria, would you mind looking at this X-ray? This bloke hurt his shoulder. I’m not sure if there’s a hairline break of his …”
Dr Maria Callaghan, registrar, was our supervisor.
“Posterior or anterior?”
“Sorry?”
“What did they teach you at medical school? The force of injury,” she enunciated each word, “was it posteriorly or anteriorly?”
“Oh, anterior. Head-on tackle.”
She slapped the film onto a light box.
“No fracture. No dislocation.”
Then she walked off.
I could feel the blotchy flush breaking out on my chest and face, the redness a beacon of upset, anger or embarrassment.
“Hey, don’t let her get to you. I’m Ellen.” Her badge said Nurse Practitioner. “Or, don’t let her see when she does. If you need help, come and ask me.”
If Maria was bad, the paramedics were worse. It takes a certain sort to survive the forefront of the frontline.
“We need you in our ambulance, now.” A paramedic stopped me in the corridor. “I can’t tell whether this guy’s dead or not.”
He ran out to his domain, parked in the ambulance bay. I followed thinking How badly hurt is this man, that they’re not bringing him inside? Were they expecting me to perform heroics, such a chest drain or tracheostomy?
We got into the back of the ambulance.
“What do you think, love? Will he make it?” The paramedic roared with laughter.
The man on the trolley stared at me with a blank eye. The other side of his head was a nebulous hole full of crushed eye, shards of skull and macerated brain.
The door opened and a second paramedic addressed us.
“Piss off, Glynn. Let her alone.”
I should’ve told Glynn to piss off myself but my mouth was too dry. Not that I was squeamish but it was surreal. I’d never seen a human head so decimated.
Glynn got out, still giggling, and the other man climbed in and closed the door.
“Sorry about him. I’m Tom.” I must have looked particularly stupid because he asked if I knew how to verify a death. “I mean, you might as well do it now that you’re here.”
I nodded. Of course I did, but before Casualty I’d worked on a ward for the elderly where death occurred in bed or on the toilet.
“What happened to him?”
“Tyre blew out and he hit a tree at high speed. Poor lad didn’t stand a chance.”
Tom was tall. He stood back, not crowding me like Glynn had.
I checked the body, a pointless exercise to formalise the obvious. No heartbeat, no breath sounds, no pain response, the lone pupil fixed and dilated. Rest in peace.
“What’s the C stand for Dr Evans?” Tom asked when I handed the form back to him.
“Cariad.” Meaning darling, dearest.
“And are you?”
“What?”
“Beloved.”
I scowled at him. It was only later that I realised he was flirting with me.
*
I reinforce Arosfa’s door with bolts from a shop in Haverfordwest. When I wake the next morning the light’s mean and thin, unable to reach the corners of the room. The crows caw from the trees.
I get up and brush my teeth at the sink, not bothering to clear it of dirty d
ishes. I use bottled water as what’s coming from the tap is brackish. I should get the electricity reconnected. It would be better than camping lanterns and torches.
I sit outside on the stone bench, wearing a jumper and coat over my pyjamas. The foil strip crackles as I pop out an antidepressant. I wonder what Dad would say about it as I swallow the pill.
Physician, heal thyself.
I remember lying on the camp bed in the dark. I was sixteen. Across Arosfa there was silence instead of Dad’s breathing from the depth of dreaming. I looked at my watch. The luminous hands told me it was two in the morning.
“Dad?”
He was outside. There was no light pollution to nullify the night and hide the stars.
“Why are you up Cariad?” Dad took off his jacket and put it around me. He took a slug from his bottle of whisky. “Are you okay, chick?”
“Yes.”
He touched the curve of my cheek where there was a bruise.
“Are you going to tell me then?”
“You’ve heard it all already.”
“Yes, I’ve heard it from everyone. Just not you. Cariad, you’re not one for scrapping. What made you go at that girl like that?”
“I hate her.”
“I don’t recall bringing you up to hate people. It’s bad to wish ill on others. The universe will send it back to you, ten-fold.”
I scowled.
“What did she say to get you so riled?”
“She said…” I struggled to say it. “She said that you were a piss artist that sold crap and empty promises.”
“I’ve had worse said about me.” I shot an angry look at him as he laughed. “I’m sorry.” He nudged me. “Think about it. She didn’t say that, Cariad. Emily Appleton’s never had an original thought in her life. That’s her dad talking. We’ve always agreed to ignore stuff like this. Why did you get so upset?”
“I just did.”
He took a deep breath. I’d never spoken to him in that tone before.
“Cariad,” he said slowly, “I think that you got so upset because you think she’s right.” Dad was wily. “It’s okay, you know. Don’t cry. This is how life works. You’ve got to find your own way.”
“I’m not rejecting you.” I wiped my face.
“When did you get so wise?” He laughed. “Will you promise me something?”
