– will you stay and have a spot of dinner? Only we can’t wait; he only has the hour.You sure? Cup of tea then; come on, sit down. She’s asking after our Simon.
– not Simon really... It’s Gerald I want to get hold of. You know Gerald.
– oh aye. Aye. Spent a bit of time together, they have, on and off.
– Gerald’s gone back to London, didn’t he say? Our Simon’s helping us now – I was telling the young lady – since Peter left.
– and he left mighty suddenly, y’know. Not like him at all, was it? Not at all. One day he says he wants a long leave and can Simon take over for a while and I says yes, he’s not settled into anything over here yet. And he asks how soon can Simon start and I say anytime, and the next thing we know he’s gone.
The gravy running over the potatoes is making Brenda feel sick. She holds on to the tablecloth.
– we can’t keep his job open indefinitely. Our Simon’s applied for a position in the bank.We need a permanent man; the potatoes keep growing.You all right, are you?
– yes; it’s hot in here. I have to go now. It’s okay. You needn’t come to the door.
– it’s polite. So you’re back in St Stephen’s, is it? We’ll be seeing you in church, then.
Brenda walks away rapidly. That Biddy Vine looks at me as if she knows. She’s a right nosy so-and-so.
_____
Dear Brenda,
I heard you’re back in the house. I phoned every day and the phone people say its out of order, is the bil paid? Mr Carmichael at the bank says you’re getting the money all right, so please pay the phone. John and Deborah say they don’t see you. I’m working withTom, that’s my cousin, in his boatyard for now. It’s good work but if you and the boys need anything you just say.
I’ll wait to hear from you then,
Love,
Peter
_____
In the soft early morning of September Patrick wakes up and turns over in his bed. Danny stays over at the Corbins’ some nights now and it’s an unexpected wonder to have a room to himself; something that has never happened before.
He watches a spider edge along the top of the wall. Dad said they come into the house in September to lay their eggs. It’s nice when that happens – when you know something, and its true. He’s never seen spider eggs.
Three days left of the holidays. He could stay in bed; his mum probably will. She’s getting like Aunt Elsa; he hears her in the kitchen in the middle of the night. Maybe all women get like that. It’s a phase.When Danny kept wetting his pants last year they said it was a phase.
He’ll get up, though. He’s found a great place for crabs. It’s down by the moorings at the end of the Piqûre – you can only get to it on a big low tide. Like in about an hour. He pads across the room, finding his clothes, half aware of the breeze stirring the elms outside, happy to be home.
_____
In the mid morning, Danny Duncan walks in at the back door, which is open.The house is still; he hears the clock clicking quietly to itself. On the hall table there is a square white envelope. He picks it up; the handwriting looks familiar. He pushes it into the little slit between the table and the wall, tucking down the last white corner until it can’t be seen at all.
five
– Danny! get back in ’ere.
– why?
– do as you’re told. Quick. Get in. I don’t want that lot coming out of church looking at us over the wall.Who were you talking to?
– Auntie Debs.
– what was she saying now?
– she says not to go to her place ’cos of the surprise she was makin’ yesterday and she’s bringin’ it now when she’s got the dinner in.
– bringing what?
– the surprise.
– hang. Patrick! Get those dishes off the table. I’m going upstairs.
Deborah Corbin is a sensible woman. She is still dressed in her church clothes, a cotton two-piece and good brown shoes. She carries something carefully balanced on a plate. Behind her comes her daughter, wearing a pretty dress, stopping to pluck a handful of grass for the horse as they pass the field. Brenda watches as they approach.
– let them in, then.
– hello? Ah, you’re here. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Danny, happy birthday to you!
They stare at her. Brenda looks at Patrick and they both look at Danny, who keeps his eyes fixed on the plate. Under a lace cloth is a chocolate cake.
– it’s just a little something. Five years old, eh? Don’t they grow up quick? Our Lissa’ll be seven just before Christmas. Shall I put it over here?
– yeah.
– starting school Tuesday, too! My, my. They can all walk along together. That’s nice. Where are you off to, Melissa?
– just going out with Danny.
– oh no, not in that nice dress. Can you go upstairs a minute? All of you. I’d like a word, Brenda, if you don’t mind. Peter’s phoned, and he’s a bit worried, you know. What’s the matter with your phone?
– we don’t have a phone.
– what do you mean?
– look, it’s nice of you to bring a cake, I’m sure, but I’m not needing visitors, thank you. If Danny’s a nuisance at your place you just send him back sharp.
– he’s no trouble. He and Lissa are company for each other. Can’t we arrange a time for Peter to speak to the boys at our place then?
– leave it alone,wil you? Hey,you lot! Auntie Deborah’s just leaving. Say thank you, Danny.
– thank you.
– all right.We’ll see you soon. Bye, Patrick. Come on, Melissa.
_____
She doesn’t need visitors. It is more than that; she’s withdrawing into her skin. Fishermen on the coast sleep lightly and attribute it to their cottages, built on sand. You might think that up on the broad back of Port Victoria, over the island’s heart, the sleepers burrow into its soft inner core in their dreams. But Brenda plies into veins of metal. She opens her eyes with the taste of it in her mouth.
The nights and days run into each other; for her the world of awake and asleep are merged at their edge. She looks across the room towards the window where the darkness outside presses against the house. She listens to a car driving slowly past; the headlights arching a pattern of light up the walls and across the ceiling.The car turns at the end of the lane, and passes again.
She hurries downstairs, pulling on a gown. Out of the door she runs and along the drive to the gateposts, where the moon gleams on the black tarmac road.
Of course – they’ve lured her out of the house and now they are inside, waiting for her. She runs back and locks the door, rushing from room to room, flinging open doors and cupboards, checking every corner, turning on every light. No one.
She leaves by the back and tugs at the gate by the hen house. It resists her where the weeds have grown through the bars; it takes a minute to free the rope that ties it to the fence. She loops the rope over again, loosely, so that it still seems secure. She can escape that way now.
In the hall she sits down, her heart thumping. Behind her, the letter from Peter... ‘if you need anything...’ nestles against the wall. She turns off the light so that she can’t be seen through the keyhole. Oh God. Oh God, she prays, don’t let them come for me.
six
In September the blackberries have not fulfilled their promise. The harvest in the hedges dries up before it grows plump.The rains are late, and the wind blows dust over the hard red fruit.
The children walk to school. Patrick makes no attempt to walk with the others, but he worries when he hears them quarrel. It makes Danny drag behind, and he’s too small to be by himself.What if a lorry comes round the corner and Danny should step out in front of it? Patrick paces his distance carefully, making it look as if he’s just walking, as if he doesn’t care.
At school nobody’s said anything, and they don’t need to. He knows Melissa’s tongue. He hasn’t even said anything to
himself.A fact is a fact. He can’t be sure.
The best thing in the world has happened, anyway. A letter from his dad. He knows it off by heart. Dear Patrick / How are you, son / I hope you’re fine and Danny too / I heard you’re all back home / that’s good / I think of you often / work hard at school / take care of your mother / I’ll see you soon / I love you / Dad.
It’s great because it arrived on Saturday when he was alone in the kitchen. He took it right from the postman’s hand. He keeps it in his inside pocket all day and under his pillow at night. Danny hasn’t seen it; not even his mother. It’s the best thing in the world.
_____
As October becomes November, Deborah Corbin also wonders if a fact is a fact after all, and if they ought to tell Peter. It’s hard to repeat what other people are saying when you want to keep out of that sort of thing. But the sale of the South Field has gone through, and he did say something about the Meadow; he’ll phone again, most likely, this week or next. She mentions it to her husband.
– you can’t say anything to him.
– you don’t think it’s true.
– I can’t say, can I? I never see the woman, and if I did... well, I don’t know, you can’t go spreading talk. What’s Peter to do?
– he could come back. He’s fretting to see those boys. He’s anxious not to upset things, I think. Maybe I should tell him that the coast is clear.
– you do as you think fit, my love. I don’t have a mind for these things.
_____
The rain has come; the evenings draw in, fast and dark. Patrick keeps the Aga going; he’s learned its little ways. Turn the dial down at night, up in the morning, riddle the ash into the pan.Take the ash out when the wind’s not blowing; cover the ash pit with a bit of soil.
He’s out there with a spade when the Hamons’ station wagon turns into the drive.The soil is wet and leafy on the spade, the rooks are cawing in the elms. Once, he would have run inside to find his mother and say; someone’s coming! Not now. He likes it out here with the wet leaves and the rooks; he’s finding his own place. Let her find hers.
It’s not Franklin and Johnny but Michael and Louise who step out of the wagon and look around. Michael blows a stream of smoke into the air. Come on, he says to Louise.
Brenda is upstairs, lying down. She eases herself slowly off the bed and looks out of the window. Bugger them, she thinks. She’ll have to go down.That lot will never go away until she does.What do they want now?
– oh, it’s you.
– yeah, ’s only us. Cor, you live far, hey, Brend? We ’ad a right time finding it. Brought you some mack’rel. Present from the lads.
Brenda looks at Louise. Louise, whom she’s only seen once or twice last summer, a young whip of a girl. Now she comes in here all bursting out of her coat.
– ’lo, Brend. We come to invite you to the weddin’, didn’t we, Michael? It’s Sat’day next.
- yeah, well. I’ll leave you ladies to it. Gonna check the oil.
Louise looks at Brenda just as carefully. She isn’t asked to sit down, but she does.
– you ain’t showin’ much.
– who told you?
Louise lets out a little sigh.
– come on, Brend.You know what this island’s like. I ain’t come to have a ding-dong with you. When you expectin’?
– February.
– thought so. Same as me, see. We could be in the Nursing Home together. Only it’s my first, so I might be late. Blimey, you’d never know you’re nearly seven months gone.You don’t look no different. Look at me – I’m blown up like a whale.You been sick much?
– yeah.
– and me. Only at first, though.Want a fag?
– yeah, go on.
– shouldn’t really, but I can’t stop. Don’t it feel peculiar when it moves about?
There is a long silence.
– pity you don’t live in town no more.We could see each other a bit.What are you going to do, then? After, like.
– I’m going to drop it down the well.
– oh Christ almighty! Oh don’t say such things – it’s bad luck.You are funny, Brend. My sister gets a bit like that.You’ll love it when you see it, though. She always does.
– you ready, Louise?
– coming.
– sorry we can’t stay, like, Brend. Got the tackle in the back.We’re doing a run off the Point after tea.
– it’s all right, Michael.Thanks for the fish. Say hi to the boys.
– yeah. We miss yer in the pub an’ all. New barmaid’s a bit of a sourpuss. Are yer comin’ Saturday?
– I don’t know.
– ah well. See you then.
– see you, Michael. Bye, Louise.
Brenda sits down. Don’t those fish look funny, with their tails hanging off the draining board. Don’t they look funny up here in this tomb, instead of moving about, busy in the sea.
seven
Waiting his turn to step down from the plane, Peter Duncan is reluctant to plant his feet on the island again. Who would have thought it? He has been so hungry to see his children that he hasn’t paused to examine his own returning self.The outer self has changed – he’s thinner, he has grown a beard.The sides of it are grey.
It’s his legs that feel reluctant to propel him forward now, down the steps. Come on legs; we’re going home.
A thin east wind nips his ankles as he waits for a taxi. Weather’s the same, anyway. Deborah said – well, she said a lot, and hinted at more, and it was true, the bit about Les Puits being his home. He’s been six months away, and he’ll see.
It is all just the same. The main road still slides away down to the coast – the sky is black on the horizon. He’d be checking the mooring now, if the Nan were here, but she’s safe in her berth in Cork harbour. So he is not slipping back in time; there’s a real live boat rocking gently on the water somewhere else and she is his home, too.
It is only the lanes rolling back, not the months. He’s a free man. He’s going to sort out a few things.
There is the shop.There’s the sign that says open when it’s closed. There are Andy Gavey’s cows. There are the pine trees.There’s the church and the gateposts.
There’s...
He opens the taxi door and his arms and his heart wider than wide and his great grown son hugs him high up his chest almost at his shoulders. Patrick’s face is red and bright and he can’t speak; they stand there grinning and laughing, and after a while he notices the taxi driver waiting and blowing on his hands.
It smells the same, the house. Couldn’t say of what, but the smell shafts into his being. In the kitchen she is standing awkwardly by the table. She moves towards him. It’s true, then.
_____
– Danny said he’d be here. He’ll be on his way.
– ah, one at a time, is it? Gives me a chance to see you properly.You look so... you’ve grown up somehow, lad. Brenda.You all right?
– I’ve grown an’ all.As you can see.
– yes.
– Dad, can I make tea? Look,kettle’s on the hob already.
– grand.That’s grand.A real treat.Where’s Danny, you say?
– he’ll be to Deborah’s. He’s there more often than not.
– Patrick, you great giant – while that tea’s drawing, won’t you nip over and fetch him for me? And tell your Aunt Debs I’ll be calling soon. In a day or two, tell her.
– yes, Dad. Dad?
– yes?
– it’s wonderful.Your beard – and everything.
_____
– Brenda.
– go on, say it.
– no. Nothing, really. Takes a bit of getting used to, coming back and seeing you here.
– I had to. I couldn’t stay in the flat with the kids.
– Deborah said.
_____
At teatime they sit together at the kitchen table. Last time they all did so, Danny wasn’t even big enough for a high chair, Peter recalls. He used
to feed him sops on his knee after Brenda went, and leave him with Elsa when he went to work.There was a pram and a playpen. He must have been all right. Doesn’t seem to have done him any harm. Look at him now, bright as a button, tucking into those chocolates. Kids don’t seem to be affected by anything much.
Danny’s quick eyes dart from person to person, working it out.When he’s bigger, no one will get the better of him, no one.
– best leave a few of those, eh, Danny?
– you said they were mine.
– so they are. Isn’t it best to leave some for tomorrow? Ah, well.What time do you boys go to bed nowadays?
– anytime.
– Ah. Saturday tomorrow.Tell you what.You go to bed early tonight, and tomorrow we’ll fix up the kite first thing, and fly it if there’s still a wind, okay?
– I want to fly it first. It’s mine.
– you shall.
– come on, Dan.Thanks for the book, Dad.
– you having baths? Right. I’ll come up and say goodnight later. And Patrick – you make a bloomin’
marvellous cup of tea.
_____
In the dark, Patrick’s bed is a boat. On it he is sailing with the wind of this new turn of events. His dad is back in the house; he may go or he may stay, but for now they are gathered under one roof. Prayers work.
Downstairs Peter sits in his chair. Here is the chair and the washing hanging above the Aga and the balls of fluff in the corner.The distances between one thing and another have subtly altered; as an artist he could perhaps close one eye and extend his thumb and see the shifting of perspective. Something is bigger, or smaller, around the chair and the corners of the room and himself.
He is warm from Patrick’s embrace. The guilt of leaving him – ah, now he sees it. He sighs.That was the reluctance he felt; had he done a great wrong, or hadn’t he? From Patrick at least, he has been granted absolution. Danny is probably too young to understand.
Big Low Tide Page 9
