by Bryony Doran
‘What ever am I going to do without you? Since Mr. Ingram died you have been such company for me. You’ll still come for your Sunday lunch, won’t you?’
For a split second Edward thinks to put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
‘No, Mrs Ingram. I’m sorry. I’m going to join an archaeology club. So I’ll be out most Sundays.’
‘Have you met a young lady? Is that what all this is about?’
He turns angrily away, ‘No, Mrs Ingram, I haven’t. I’ll be leaving on Sunday.’
He takes the number off a card in the newsagent’s window: Home removals - cheap rates. When the man answers the phone, Edward asks if he can move him on Sunday. But that is his one day off. He could fit him in on Saturday morning before the match. He accepts his offer. He had wanted to arrive just as the evening was drawing in or, at the very earliest, late afternoon, so that he could wake to a new day in his new flat.
On the Saturday morning as he is moving out, Edward surprises himself by feeling rather sorry for Mrs Ingram. ‘At least you get your house to yourself again, Mrs. Ingram,’ he says.
‘And what if I don’t want it?’ she replies, her bottom lip wobbling.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Ingram.’ He closes the front door firmly behind him. As they drive away he sees her, a lonely figure in a floral pinny standing on her front doorstep.
While they are sitting in traffic on the dual carriageway, the removal man tells Edward that he has five children ranging from six months to twenty years. Edward, curious, asks why.
The man laughs, ‘No idea, mate. Life, ain’t it? As long as I get me fags and a pint on a Saturday night and get to go to home matches, I ain’t really complaining.’
So, Edward thinks, I’m not the only one to be washed along by the tide of life. ‘I’ve never been to a football match,’ he says.
‘Never? You’re kidding me. You don’t know what you’re missing, mate.’
‘Why?’ Edward holds on tight as the van swings onto the roundabout.
‘It’s like being part of a big wave, roaring your team on. Bloody hell, mate, you don’t know what you’re missing. It’s better than sex.’
Could it possibly be, Edward wonders? No. He doesn’t think so. The sun is shining through the windscreen, warming him through.
‘Explain more, I’m curious,’ he prompts.
The removal man thinks for a moment, ‘Belonging,’ he says, ‘It feels like belonging.’
They pull up outside the flat and the man turns to Edward, ‘It’s just as well you haven’t got anything heavy. I usually bring my lad to help but he’s cleaning cars this morning. I don’t suppose you can lift much with that there disability.’
Edward is amused. He’d never heard himself referred to as if he had something extra but he supposed he did, if he thought about it.
When the removal man has left, Edward feels suddenly stranded. Should he go out, get a spot of lunch, see if he can find the courage to go back to the studio? Would she even be there? He shudders. He doesn’t know if he can go back. The late morning light filters through the empty flat and for an instant he is afraid and wonders if he has done the right thing, until he sees a shaft of sunlight catch the stained-glass windows of the church across the valley.
Everything is a new adventure. Even catching a bus with a different number and unfamiliar faces on it. Going to the supermarket and picking carefully through the gleaming rows of strange fruit and veg. Buying soap powder. Choosing through all the peculiar names and then reading the instructions. Putting his books out on the shelves and walking naked around the flat.
He sees a notice in his local newsagents. Good home wanted for cat. She turns out to be an old thing, a tortoiseshell with white paws, and when he comes home from work she greets him on the metal walkway, meowing up at him. She curls her tail around his legs. He lets them both in and when he is seated, she jumps onto his lap.
He smiles to himself, smoothes his hand along the length of her back and thinks, how ironic, if only his mother, like Mrs Ingram, had been sad at his leaving all those years ago, maybe he would have had gone out into the world and made a life for himself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Angela wakes early and lies snuggled up in her bed, listening to the scuttle of pebbles on the beach. The tide must be on its way out. The wind is dancing through the house, rattling the latch on her bedroom door.
She slips on her jogging bottoms and jumper. Downstairs, the house is waiting for its occupants to rise and draw back the curtains to let in the world. Angela shivers and looks for the radiators. There are none. Just the warmth of the Rayburn, its damper clank-clanking to the singing of the wind in the chimney. She leans her bottom against the stove’s rail and surveys the kitchen. There is a small window cut out of the wall. Outside, the grass bank rises steeply.
Angela walks up the hill through the narrow street of fishermen’s cottages, long since turned into holiday lets; some still shuttered and closed against the gales of winter. She comes to the end of the houses and sees the road continue on up the hill through high, narrow hedges. Looking back down the valley, Angela can see the cut-out of the black cove; the sea flat and glistening in the distance, and nearer, a collection of crooked chimneys, all sleeping, except for one.
She follows the smoke, taking a small path that leads her down towards a stream, then along beside the clear water, slipping over wet stones and through green cress. Boat sheds with slate roofs and walls of slatted grey wood lie empty, except for one rotting dinghy.
An old woman holding a cat stands outside the cottage with the smoking chimney and watches her approach, ‘Mornin’.’
‘Good morning,’ Angela shades her eyes from the sun. ‘Could you tell me where the nearest shop is please? I want to get a paper and some milk.’
‘You’re not from round these parts, are you? Near on three miles. You’ll need to go into Port Isaac, my dear. It’s a fair old walk.’ The old woman looks at Angela over her glasses. ‘Staying down on the front with Hilda, aren’t you?’
‘How did you know that?’
The old woman laughs, ‘I could tell you it’s because I’m the local healer, but since Hilda’s is the only other occupied cottage, don’t you think it’s a pretty fair bet? And speak of the devil.’
They watch as Alex’s Aunt Hilda strides up the hill towards them.
Hilda stares straight at Angela, ignoring the faith healer, ‘What are you doing up here?’
The healer nods at Angela. ‘We was just talking, Hilda. She was asking me where she could get a newspaper. This young maid staying with you, then?’
‘Yes.’ Hilda puts her hands on her hips. ‘She’s a friend of Alex’s.’
‘I was just coming down to see you. Not so good this morning, is she?’
‘No.’ Hilda shakes her head. ‘Alex is with her at the moment.’
‘Well, ‘Maid here,’ the old woman nods at Angela, ‘wants a paper and some milk. So happen he can take her into Port Isaac then I’ll come down.’
‘It’s true then, Alex’s mother has come down here for a cure?’ Angela asks, looking from one old woman to the other. Hilda gives her a cold stare. The woman’s whole demeanour reminds her of stone; the grey sculpted hair, the angular features, and now this look that says in no uncertain terms, mind your own business. The faith healer cocks her head at Angela and winks.
Angela and Hilda walk back down the hill in silence. The sun, still low in the sky, slants up the valley making them shield their eyes. As they near the house, scrunching along the pebble path, Hilda says, ‘I’d be very much obliged if you’d not mention any of this to Alex.’
Angela stops. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘He would start going on at his mother if he knew, and at the moment that’s the last thing she needs. So please, I’d be grateful if you kept it to yourself.’
‘Do you believe in healing?’
Hilda shrugs, ‘I have an open mind. My sister believes in it and that’s what’s im
portant.’
Alex is stirring tea in a large brown teapot. ‘Want some black tea?’
‘No, thanks.’ Angela shakes her head. ‘How’s your mother?’
He wrinkles his nose. His aunt speaks from the doorway, ‘Will you take Angela into Port Isaac for some milk and a paper? I found her out searching for a shop.’
Alex puts the teapot on top of the Rayburn to keep warm. ‘I’m a bit tired this morning. This afternoon maybe.’
‘Oh, come on, Alex. Don’t be so miserable. It’s a lovely morning. The least you can do is show me the sights.’ Angela winks at Hilda. The woman turns and leaves the room.
The car groans its way up the winding hill. The lane is so narrow that the grass from the uncut hedgerow sweeps against the side of the car.
‘It almost feels as if you’re on rails, doesn’t it?’ Angela says, perching forward in her seat.
The car swerves slightly as Alex fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette. ‘That’s how the locals get home after a night in the pub you know. The car just bounces between the hedges.’
The early morning sun drains the natural colour from the landscape, making the fields look sad and neglected until, cresting the brow of a hill they see, far below them, dancing with colour and sunlight, the fishing village of Port Isaac.
Alex brings the car to a halt and they stare in silence at the random clusters of grey roofs, the smoke rising in twists from tall, crooked chimneys, the stranded fishing boats lying skewed on the pebbled beach and further out, the glimmering blue of the sea turning to white where it crashes against the high black cliffs.
‘Wow.’
‘Glad you came now?’ Alex asks as he starts to let the car roll slowly forwards down the hill.
The gulls are circling above the quay. The cottages, many with sides hung in grey slate, huddle together in the bottom of the valley. Double yellow lines on both sides of the tarmac define the downward weave of the road.
‘We’ll have to park up on the top and walk down,’ Alex says. ‘Unless you want to just jump out when we get to the shop, and I’ll keep the engine running.’
She thinks of the women back at the cottage and relishes her secret. ‘Let’s have a walk down shall we?’
He groans, ‘I knew you’d say that. I had a long drive yesterday you know? I was hoping to get a bit of a rest today.’
‘Don’t be so feeble,’ she laughs, ‘Old man.’
They park the car on the other side of the valley, where the port has spread into a holiday resort of crouched bungalows for retired people and tall rendered houses with peaked gables and bed and breakfast signs swinging in the breeze.
‘Look,’ says Alex. “You can follow the line of the cliffs right up to Tintagel. What a clear day, shall we stay in the car and enjoy the view in comfort?’
She opens the car door. ‘You can if you like. I’m going for a walk.’
They make their way along the cliff path. Alex links his arm through hers. She looks at him sideways.
‘Just making sure you don’t fall over the edge,’ he laughs.
She pulls away and looks down at the gulls screaming around the deserted fishing boats, searching for scraps. ‘I’m going for a walk along the quay.’
He stops to light a cigarette, cupping his hand around his lighter. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, it’s okay, you get the paper,’ she calls out, skipping off down the narrow street. She makes her way carefully along a concrete ridge to the quay, breathing in the smell of salt, fish, and something else that is either putrid seaweed or sewage.
The slate steps up the side are still wet from the outgoing tide. She holds on to the rusty handrail and splashes her way to the top. The walls of the quay are hung with strands of bright green seaweed and studded with horn-coloured winkles. Leaning over the wall, she can see the mouth of the cove and the sea-spray as it crashes against the rocks at the entrance.
‘Mornin’.’
She jumps. Sitting amongst the lobster pots further up the quay is a man, a youth, of about her own age.
‘Morning.’
‘’Tis a bit brisk for it, in’it?’
‘For what?’ Angela wishes she didn’t sound quite so posh.
‘Anything you like!’ He smirks.
His tone annoys her.
‘What, like a good fuck, or something?’
He laughs, surprised, and slaps his thigh in delight. Angela likes the weathered blue of his jeans. He wipes his eyes, ‘Where in the bloody hell did you come from?’
‘Mind your own business.’ Again she sounds too posh.
He smiles at her. ‘I like you. You can stay.’
She laughs in spite of herself, ‘Thought I was an Emmet, didn’t you?’
‘You are.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe! There’s no maybe about it, you are.’
‘So, is being a tourist a problem?’
‘Most Emmets are, but I like you.’
‘Well thank you, how gracious.’
‘I could show you the night life, if you like.’
‘Night life!’ she laughs.
‘You’d be surprised, we can have a bloody good time.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Like I said, I’ll show you.’
‘You don’t waste any time do you?’
He pulls off his woolly hat. His hair gleams crow black, ‘Can’t afford to. You’re only here for a couple of days, I suppose.’
Angela perches cautiously on the rim of a lobster pot. ‘What about your girlfriend?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s up at Cardiff University.’
‘A clever woman. What’s she doing with you?’
‘Well, that’s the point, in’it? She’s not with me.’
‘Like I said, a clever woman.’
He snaps shut his penknife. ‘Cornwall is somewhere you either never want to leave or somewhere you can’t get away from fast enough. I could have gone to Uni, but I like it here too much. Where else could I sit, in winter, in my shirt sleeves, admiring your lovely arse bent over the quay wall?’
She tries to stop her face turning to red, but she can already feel the heat creeping up her neck, ‘Oh, and I thought it was my intellect that attracted you.’
‘It wasn’t your intellect I first saw bent over the wall.’
‘ANGELA!’
She looks back up the Harbour; Alex is waving at her.
‘That your boyfriend?’
She twists her mouth. ‘No.’
‘Looks a bit old for you.’
‘Do I get a lobster for entertaining you with my arse?’ She says, inspecting the lobster pots.
‘I haven’t got any. Little buggers was hidin’ last night.’
Angela grasps the handrail at the top of the steps, ‘See you, then.’
‘I’ll pick you up tonight. It’ll have to be about half eleven, ‘cos I’ll be going out tonight.’ He nods in the direction of the sea.
‘There won’t be anywhere open.’ She puts a foot on the first step.
‘Where you staying?’ he asks, standing up.
‘Port Gent.’
‘That cottage on the front?’ She half nods.
‘I’ll park outside. Listen for me.’
‘ANGELA!’
‘I’ll have to go.’
‘See you tonight, then.’
She pauses, ‘Maybe,’ she shouts, splashing down the steps. Until tonight then, Angela?’
She halts, ‘How in the …’ then she laughs, and makes her way carefully back along the concrete ridge. Alex is propped against a wall reading the paper.
‘About bloody time,’ he says, folding up the paper. ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’
‘A local lad. A fisherman, I was trying to get us some fresh lobster.’
‘Where is it then?’
‘Little buggers was hidin’ last night,’ she mimics, ‘He hadn’t got any.’
‘Is that all you were talking about?’
/> ‘No, he said he’d been sat there admiring my arse.’
‘Bloody cheek, didn’t you slap him?’
‘He was rather nice actually.’
‘Come on, we’d better get back.’
‘I thought we could go in the pub.’ Angela says nodding up the alley. Suddenly she feels in a holiday mood.
‘If you remember, I came down to Cornwall because my mother was ill, not to entertain you.’ His words crush her. She feels a lump rising in her throat. Bastard.
‘I’ll stay here then shall I?’ She retaliates, ‘Make my own entertainment. I’m sure he’ll,’ she nods towards the quay, ‘take me for a drink.’
She watches as Alex attempts to light a cigarette. He turns his back against the wind to shield the flame. ‘I was hoping you’d sit for me when we got back?’
‘Alex? Fuck off.’ She strides out ahead, choked by her anger and the wind whipping in from the sea. She looks down into the harbour. He is still there among the lobster pots.
‘Oh please, don’t sound so bloody enthusiastic.’ She hears Alex’s voice on the wind.
She sits on the wall of the car park, waiting, tracing the coastline with her eye. She shouldn’t have come. She should have gone to the studio, confronted Edward. But what would she have said? She shivers, clasping her arms around her body. Trust her to fuck it up. How in the bloody hell was she going to complete now? She’d had something so unique, and now she’s been and spoilt it. All her dreams wiped out with one action. What had possessed her to make love to an old man? Edward, of all people. She shudders, thinking back to the sittings, building week by week, them growing inexplicably closer. She can’t face him, not ever. She’ll just have to see if she’s got enough work to pull it off.
Alex stands next to her. ‘Penny for them.’
‘Worrying about my work, I shouldn’t have come.’
‘Would you like to go for a walk along the coastal path later?’
‘How could we possibly? We are here because your mother is ill, remember?’ She jumps off the wall. ‘Mind, I could always go for a walk on my own,’ she mutters, striding over to the car. Inside the car they wait for the windows to demist. He leans over and ruffles her hair; tries to look into her eyes.
