He kicked off his heavy boots in the bright hallway and stood on the chilly little black-and-white diamond tiles in his thick socks. A toe poked through an extraneous opening, like a creature burrowing toward the light. Darning was another minor job he kept putting off. Sunlight poured through the multicoloured stained-glass porthole in his front door and showered the pale entrance in glorious hues of red, orange, and blue.
He hung up his overcoat on the wrought-iron coat hook affixed to the wall and stomped upstairs past a large oil painting of a stern-faced sailor with a short, wavy beard the colour of freshly cut straw. Dressed in a bulky coat, this seaman wore a flat-topped, navy-coloured peaked cap made from soft, braided cord, pulled low over his bushy blond eyebrows. Sewn to the cap by his father’s own hand was a small anchor pendant with a curious quality—instead of being tied to a ring at the top, the rope emerged from a spindle in the crown. This was the very same cap Robin himself wore.
The round-faced subject stood proudly, with arms crossed, a brass spyglass clasped tight to his chest in one hand. In the pockets of this man’s coat could be seen a journal and a compass. He was standing on the Merryapple headland, and behind him, heavy storm clouds were lavishly painted in thick, gloopy brushstrokes. In the distance, a mighty whaling vessel mastered the white-topped waves. The painting’s ornate gold frame was wound in leaves and fish scales, and a small plaque at the bottom read “Captain Erasmus Shipp.”
In his bathroom on the third floor, Robin turned on the brass taps and stoppered the plughole. The complex angular network of copper pipes snaking throughout his house, from the basement all the way to the top floor, rattled and gurgled and chugged as the piping-hot water came spilling out. This plumbing system was a bold experiment by some of the villagers many years ago and found extensively in Blashy Cove. Whenever he used it, he thought about how he used to have to bathe when he was a lad—in a battered old tin tub by the fireplace. He remembered how his father would carry the kettle from the stove and top up the bath with hot water, all the while humming some sea shanty or other. Sometimes, Robin caught himself singing those same tunes. He kept the old tub in the cupboard under the stairs, just in case these pipes ever stopped working.
The bathroom was white and panelled with long planks of wood. The great round frame housing the room’s only window was painted in the same duck-egg blue he’d used elsewhere in his house. Like the rest of his home, the bathroom was in need of repair, especially around the curved feet of the bath where the regular overspill of water had worn away the paintwork.
He chuckled to himself as he plopped a little wooden toy boat into the water. It was a perfect replica of his own beloved Bucca’s Call—complete with real canvas sails—made by someone very close to him and given to him as a present.
Well, they used to be close, at any rate.
He stripped off his clothes and dropped them into a wicker basket by the door of his bathroom. Now dressed in just his cap, he plodded into his bedroom and picked out an almost identical outfit—a heavy knitted woollen jumper, the same navy as his overcoat, a pair of long, cream-coloured linen trousers and a set of undergarments. Robin found little use for variation in his fashion, preferring instead to stick to what he knew worked for him. While he would occasionally replace an item of clothing if it became damaged or too worn to be of any use, it was usually with a near-identical piece. He would never dream of replacing his cap, however. He’d repaired it many times over the years, and it rarely left his head.
He carefully folded these clothes and neatly placed them onto a chair in his bathroom, beneath the round window with the same deliberate attention he gave even the smallest task. It was as though his every action, no matter how small, required the entirety of his concentration. When he was less than focused, things tended to drop. Or spill. Or break.
He oohed and aahed as he climbed into the steaming hot bath. It was a bit of a tight fit and some water tipped over the rolled edges and splashed onto the wooden floor. He was very tall, burly, and barrel-chested. “Stout” was the way Morwenna Whitewater always described him. She had practically raised him after his father was lost at sea. He had been ten years old then—almost a man, by his own reckoning—and defiantly claimed he didn’t need any help, but every day, she would make her way down the hillside from her little cottage to make sure he was looking after himself. In later years, he had tried many times to convince her to take a room in his house. “You’ve looked after me long enough. Let me repay the kindness,” he had said, but she was as independent as he was and preferred to remain in her cottage.
“Anyway,” she had laughed, “I’d never manage all them stairs!”
Sometimes, it felt as if he was as wide as he was tall. He could just about lie down in the tub if he threw his broad, powerful legs over the end of it, which he did. His bulky arms and shoulders rested now on the edge of the bath. The model of Bucca’s Call had quickly run aground on the fleshy island that was Robin’s big, round, smooth belly. The water soothed his aching muscles, and as he breathed in the steam, he pulled his cap down over his eyes and lost himself in a daydream.
In the Moth & Moon, Mrs. Greenaway was talking to May Bell’s mother and explained how she’d ushered the girl away from “that awful Mr. Shipp” earlier.
Mrs. Louisa Bell politely nodded along and made all the required frowns and clucks, but without any real conviction. Sensing she was being coddled, Mrs. Greenaway excused herself and ordered a cup of strong tea at the bar. She stood tutting to herself and shaking her head.
“You’re too hard on that man, Mrs. Greenaway,” said Mr. Reed as he handed over a small cup and saucer. Beside these, he placed a small ceramic teapot. Steam rose from its spout in gentle, silken eddies.
Mrs. Greenaway made a noise that sounded like hrumph and looked the little innkeeper in the eye. “He’s a disgrace.”
“He hasn’t done anything,” Mr. Reed replied calmly as he took the cloth from his shoulder and began drying some glasses.
“Not yet,” said Mrs. Greenway, “but he already takes after his father in so many other ways; what’s one more?”
She retired to a booth populated with other mothers, pushing her way onto a cramped bench.
“Remind me again—does your niece favour the cockerel or the hen?” inquired one of the women as politely as she could manage.
“She’s not picky either way,” replied Mrs. Greenaway, sipping on her tea.
“Well, that complicates things a little. Although the Undertons have a daughter who would be perfect for her.”
“Oh no, she’d be far too old,” said another. “What about the Trescothicks’ son?”
Of all the tasks essential to village life that took place in the Moth & Moon, matchmaking was perhaps the most rewarding for women such as these. Unions with those from beyond the shores of Merryapple were begrudgingly accepted as a necessary evil at times, but on the whole, they preferred pairings were kept within their own community. For a brief time in the previous millennium, a peculiar restriction had been in place on the mainland insisting only couplings between men and women were to be allowed, and that anything else was immoral. Marriage was for the production of offspring, it was said. The people quickly rejected the notion, saying it reduced them to mere livestock. The decree had never taken root in Merryapple, nor on any of the other islands thereabouts, and it hadn’t lasted long on the mainland either.
After his bath, Robin stood at the glass-panelled door to his bedroom balcony with a mug of hot tea in his hand and gazed out across the sea. His room was sparsely decorated with a dilapidated wardrobe that had seen better days, a chair sturdy enough to support his considerable bulk, a full-length framed mirror leaning against a wall, and a furry, white woollen rug. His hefty wooden bed had a little hook affixed to the side to hold his cap at night. The bed faced the balcony, allowing him to lie there and watch the sea, which he often did. A pile of books was stacked on the floor, each one with a tongue of paper sticking out near the beginn
ing of the work, creating an angular totem pole of thirsty novels. A painting of a whaling ship at sea hung above his bed, the same ship as the one in the portrait of his father. The room was painted in his preferred scheme of simple white and blue, and it too needed some maintenance. The floorboards creaked and the paint had become distressed. Robin knew he needed to spend some time fixing it all up but kept putting it off.
Outside, the rolling grey clouds drew closer and closer. Setting the mug on a nearby shelf, he lifted a battered copper spyglass, opened the white door, and stepped out onto his little balcony. Through the tarnished and pitted glass, he spied the oncoming storm. Rain fell in hazy ribbons, and he thought he glimpsed the occasional flare of lightning. Muttering under his breath, he began closing all the storm shutters on his tall, thin house. A lifetime at sea had given him a keen understanding of the weather, and he felt in his bones this advancing tempest would be fierce. He grabbed his overcoat and cap and headed outside, and after quickly advising his neighbours to prepare for bad weather, he hurried along the cobbled road towards the inn.
He walked past the forge where the blacksmith’s hammer clanged. Past the market filled with people haggling and gossiping. Past the little bay with boats rocking from side to side. Past the noisy gulls, still fighting over scraps. The wind was picking up now and the sky was growing darker. He hugged the huge lapels of his overcoat and drew it closer around himself. Inside the Moth & Moon, he spoke to the landlord and the customers.
“There’s a storm comin’, Mr. Reed. A bad one. Everyone should make preparations.”
“You sure? Didn’t look so bad earlier,” George Reed replied, not even bothering to look up from the glass he was polishing.
“Well, go an’ ’ave a look outside now,” Robin said. “I think anyone who doesn’t want to weather it at ’ome should come and gather ’ere.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary…” Mr. Reed began.
He wrinkled his small, flat nose and rubbed his closely cropped beard. Everything about George Reed was short and compact. He had to have the floor behind the bar raised so he could comfortably work there. His hair was a mixed palate of colours, mostly shades of silver, blond and white, but tapering into a surprising near-black at the nape of his neck. His beard was silvery too, with a moustache the colour of the champagne he kept in stock but nobody ever ordered.
He mumbled something unpleasant about having his tavern filled with the whole village at once. Sometimes, the locals wondered why he’d ever agreed to run the Moth & Moon when he seemed to dislike being around people so much. He once told Robin how he didn’t really have much of a choice, how his parents had run it since he was a boy, and his grandparents before them. After they passed away, he had taken over, though he could have sold it. Mr. Reed had mentioned he felt obliged to keep it in the family.
“Some of the older ’ouses might be damaged. And better safe than sorry,” said Robin.
His accent had always been thicker than most, with a heavy emphasis on certain vowels. He put it down to the way his father spoke. Having been at sea most of his life and exposed to languages from all around the world, Captain Erasmus Shipp had fought hard not to lose his Blashy Cove timbre, and this had rubbed off on his son.
Mr. Reed sighed heavily. “I’ll put the word round, Mr. Shipp, but I think you’re worrying about nothing.”
Robin walked outside, shaking his head. He stood facing the sea. The thin grey line had expanded into a churning, murky band on the horizon. He pulled his cap lower, as the wind blew harder.
“I’ll get the rooms ready, just in case,” Mr. Reed conceded.
Robin hadn’t heard the short innkeeper approach, and started a little. They both returned indoors where Mr. Reed gave orders to his staff. Robin noticed Mr. Reed occasionally pausing midsentence and glancing sharply upward towards the darkest corners of the ceiling joists as if he’d spotted something untoward before carrying on with his instructions. These included asking the newest bar girl to tighten the laces of her generously filled blouse. The Moth & Moon had over two dozen rooms for rent, spread out across its many floors. The guests were usually sailors who revelled in the opportunity to spend a night away from the cramped confines of their ships. Robin spotted May Bell and asked her to go to Mrs. Whitewater’s cottage and make sure it was closed up as much as it could be.
“Then bring ’er back ’ere. She’ll argue and kick up a fuss, but don’t you listen. Tell ’er I said I wanted ’er ’ere.”
The girl turned to her mother, who thought for a moment, looking outside. Then she reluctantly nodded, and May went running at full pelt along the roadside. He dispatched another couple of lads to other elderly residents’ homes with similar instructions and suggested to an attractive, well-dressed young man who had been leaning at the bar that he take his horse to the north of the island and warn the houses there. Archibald Kind was well known for his love of galloping around on his glorious steed, usually for the purpose of wooing some girl.
“Very well, Mr. Shipp,” he said in his grandest tone of voice. “I shall convey word to those remote souls and return before the first drop of rain touches the cobbled stones of fair Blashy Cove.”
He finished this response with a slight bow, a flick of his wrist and a flourish of his expensive-looking silk handkerchief, which he’d pulled unseen from his sleeve. Robin stared blankly at him for a moment, wondering who was supposed to benefit from this little performance. Then he noticed Mr. Kind hadn’t really been addressing him at all, but rather the busty new bar girl who was standing behind him.
Robin set about helping the landlord close the inn’s storm shutters. He grabbed one and heaved it shut, but true to form, he used entirely too much force and wrenched the heavy slated screen right off the wall. Mr. Reed stood and looked up at the fisherman with resigned disappointment in his eyes. Robin looked at the shutter, then at the hole left in the wooden window frame.
He smiled a big, doltish smile and said, “Sorry, Mr. Reed.”
The innkeeper just sighed and walked off to find a hammer and some nails.
Once the shutter had been repaired, they and some other villagers present carefully removed the huge, ancient sign hanging above the main entrance and stored it in one of the rooms at the back of the inn. Extra blankets and bedding were tucked into corners for people to use on the benches and floors, in case the storm lasted a long while.
Robin then headed back outside to see what more he could do to help. He shifted plant pots and seating into the sheds at the rear of the inn, as well as anything else that might fly about in the winds and cause damage. When they were satisfied the Moth & Moon was ready, he set off to check Bucca’s Call was safely moored and then went back towards his house, intending to make sure his neighbours were prepared. Word had spread, and he could see people hurrying about, locking horses up in stables and tying down carts. The market had been almost completely packed up already, and the stalls were being stored in a row of nearby sheds. The wind was really picking up now. Grey clouds were racing across the sea, bearing down like a giant wave threatening to swallow the village whole.
He didn’t get very far before he saw a familiar face. A short, squat man with thick, wavy black hair and bushy sideburns. A pair of curious little, round, gold spectacles were perched on his snub nose. They had some extra, smaller lenses folded at the sides, each one connected to an individual arm and a series of miniscule joints. He was trudging along, hiding behind the collar of his sumptuous overcoat. Robin stopped in his tracks.
“Duncan. You’ve seen what’s comin’,” he said, nodding to the sea.
“I have,” Duncan replied, keeping his eyes to the ground.
“Most of us are going to the Moth & Moon to wait it out. Do you…need any ’elp with your ’ouse? To get it ready?”
“No. It’s fine. I’m on my way to close up the shop; then I’ll head back home to get it sorted.” He started walking again.
“Well, if you want to come to the inn, y
ou—”
“I don’t. I’m staying home.”
“But—” Robin extended his hand.
“It’ll be fine, Robin. I don’t need… Just leave it,” he called over his shoulder.
And with that Duncan Hunger trudged on towards the village’s main street, leaving Robin to sigh and carry on back towards his own house.
Chapter Three
AFTER DUNCAN HAD walked away from Robin, he shook his head to clear it. Robin always seemed to bring out the worst in him. Duncan was quick to anger at the best of times, and conversations with that man, brief though they always were these days, had an edge to them that got Duncan’s back up and made him defensive. He wished it weren’t the case.
He scooted up towards his toyshop on Hill Road—the main thoroughfare of the village. Lined with timber-framed buildings, it was wide enough for a horse and cart, and not much else. Here and there, the upper storeys of some premises on both sides of the road jettied out at rude angles, almost touching at the bend where it turned into Ridge Street.
Every building on Hill Road was unique, but one stood out more than the rest. The Painted Mermaid Museum & Tea Room could be found on the corner and was a testament to the village’s vision and commitment to art. The only gallery in the village, it was sea green in colour, drizzled—both inside and out—with fishing nets and seashells, and stuffed with paintings and sculptures and beadwork and crafts of all kinds. The windows were sculpted like portholes, and instead of curtains, long, twisted glass rods had been hung, each one a different thickness and different shape. These were slowly turned by the clockwork apparatus hidden in their pelmets, catching the daylight and reflecting it around the rooms, convincingly mimicking the patterns created by real waves and completing the illusion that one was in some fantastical museum at the bottom of the sea.
The Moth and Moon Page 2
