The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  Mortified and angry with herself, Lucy flew into the cottage, picked up her youngest daughter from where she was kneeling with the cats pretending to lap their milk, plonked her on a chair and grabbed the discarded comb from among the cereal dishes. It all looked such a mess. Lucy had been pretending everything was well under control when none of it was. Egg was caught up with some awful girl from Birmingham and they were going to America, the weather was about to smash the bean patch to smithereens, Denny was trying to become a cat again, the breakfast table was downright unhygienic and she herself had forgotten it was library morning.

  ‘If you go on like this,’ she scolded, dragging the comb through tangled hair, ‘one of they cats will give you such a scratch your eye will hang right out on your face!’ Denny bawled loudly and Ellie and Barbara retreated into the garden.

  By the time Lucy returned from delivering them to the library steps, she had lost twenty minutes of her precious picking time. She had also lost the rhythm of the day. She settled outside the kitchen door on one of the ladderback chairs Egg had repaired, not entirely successfully, and began to cut the six trugs of beans into matching slivers. Gradually the day settled around her again and she had started to pack the plastic bags when the front gate squeaked and Chippy Penberthy appeared around the side of the house.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Pardoe I’ll be bound!’ he exclaimed, as if he had expected someone quite different to be sitting outside the cottage door. She did not blame Egg one little bit for not wanting to spend his days with Chippy Penberthy.

  ‘Ah, Mr Penberthy,’ she said in exactly the same tone. She forced a smile. ‘And what can I do for you?’

  He looked faintly surprised. Mrs Pardoe never forgot the second Tuesday in the month. He said bluntly, ‘’Tis rent day, missis. Tuesday, innit?’

  She almost spilled the beans as she jumped up. ‘Sit down – sit down, Mr Penberthy. It is indeed Tuesday. And I ’as to admit I forgot that it were the second Tuesday in August! The rent is ready, of course. And while I fetch it, shall I put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea?’

  He made his usual joke. ‘What if I said I wanted a nasty cup of tea then, Mrs Pardoe?’

  She forced another smile and went into the kitchen. Whatever next? Was she going to forget to make pasties for supper? Had she combed her hair?

  She fetched the envelope containing the rent book and money, then poured boiling water into the teapot and almost sobbed when she realized she had not put tea in first. She broke every rule in the book and added a spoonful of leaves to the water and carried everything out on a tray.

  ‘Whatever are you doing, Mr Penberthy?’

  He was sitting in her wobbly chair, leaning over the trug.

  ‘I’m a-packing these ’ere beans. Saw the van down the towans. You’m a bit late today, missis.’

  He was doing it all wrong but he was her landlord and though she longed to snatch the bags from him she did not.

  ‘Why don’t you pour the tea for me? I’ll soon catch up. I’m glad to have the chance of a word with you . . .’ They changed places and he began to stir the pot. ‘I’d appreciate your advice on a plan I have.’

  He was flattered. She told him about running a pig in the orchard and renting a bit more land on the sheltered side for strawberries. ‘Daniel and Egg used the byre to make the bathroom, as you know. But I reckon Egg could knock up another sty if we did decide to . . . What do you think, Mr Penberthy?’

  ‘Pigs and strawberries. Always go together.’ He was still stirring. She pushed the mugs towards him with her elbow. He put the lid on the pot and lifted it. ‘I reckon ’tis a good thing to do, missis. Funny. I were going to put off young Egg’s serve-time till Christmas. Not much work on till I start on the repairs to the village hall. Looks like you will need him till then anyways.’

  She felt a weight drop from her shoulders. She had not wanted to offend Chippy Penberthy in any way but Egg was not the sort of lad to take on a long apprenticeship. By Christmas he would be well established on their smallholding. They could think then about what he wanted to do.

  He began to pour tea. It was very strong. ‘Just like I like it,’ he said, smiling because he had not wanted to upset Mrs Pardoe and here were things working themselves out for once. He drank deeply. If only Mrs Penberthy knew how to make tea properly; how to organize her life so that everything went according to plan; how to manage to make herself look cool in a working frock with her hair in wild curls . . . Of course Mrs Penberthy was not pretty like Mrs Pardoe.

  While she went to the van with her trugs of shining plastic bags, he counted out her rent money. There was sixpence too much. Feeling honest and generous at the same time, he handed it to her and then went on his way.

  ‘Good luck with the pig!’ he called. He had been bitten by a sow when he was three years old and tried to pick up one of her feeding piglets. He had been terrified of them since.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Penberthy.’ She smiled properly. Things were all working out rather well after all. ‘Thank you so much.’

  And he wished Mrs Penberthy could be more grateful to him.

  Lucy washed her hands, combed her hair, took off her pinafore and set out for the library immediately. She felt the air hardening and moving around her bare arms. It was coming from the south, which meant it would blow straight on to the dunes and carry the sand all over the lettuces and radishes in the garden. The beans would be scorched, hanging and brown, tomorrow morning. The apples would be on the orchard floor but some would still be usable. She hoped Egg would get home before the worst of it. His bike would be blown off the causeway else.

  The girls sensed the weather through their mother but they also sensed her changed mood. Ellie asked immediately, ‘Was Mr Penberthy all right about the pig, Mum?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘Grand ’e were. There were sixpence too much in the rent book and he gave it me back!’ Even Denny laughed at that. She might be only six years old but she understood Mr Penberthy just as she had understood Black Beauty when it was read to her by her sister.

  ‘Can we have a horse as well as a pig, Mum?’

  ‘No, lovey. The cats wouldn’t like a horse.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was all. If Ellie or Egg or Barbara had not liked a horse, Denny would have still gone on and on about it. But the cats’ wishes were paramount.

  They came to meet them in the orchard, yowling like a pair of Siamese. Their names were Matthew and Mark; they were both ginger toms but Mark had a white mark on his neck. Denny cast herself at them.

  Lucy called back, ‘Don’t be long, Denny. It’s going to rain and you know how they hate getting wet.’

  Ellie was telling her about two little girls in the library group who were on holiday further down the coast and were staying with a witch. ‘She won’t let them have any food but there’s a good fairy staying in the same house and she gives them her food and makes jokes and talks to them. An’ they go paddling in the cove where it’s calm and there’s a shop there . . .’ She paused for effect, then babbled, ‘Mum, it’s Egg’s shop and they love him and so does the good fairy!’

  Lucy barely heard her because a sudden gust of wind came up from the dunes and flung hard sand into their faces. The kitchen door was open and banging against the dresser. The cats got in first; Matthew went to the saucer and tried to rinse off the sand from his whiskers with milk. Mark leaped into the shallow sink and pushed his face against the tap. A dribble of water did the trick.

  ‘Clever boy . . . clever Mark . . .’ Denny turned on the tap and tried to do the same; water spurted everywhere. Barbara spluttered and spat a scream; Lucy closed the door and latched it then passed the roller towel around.

  ‘This is just a little warning. When things settle again, we’ll tie hankies over our mouths like burglars and we’ll pick as much lettuce and pull as many radishes as we can. Then we’ll have hard-boiled eggs and salad for dinner.’ They all nodded. ‘Then we’ll sort out the hens.’ She looked around at her dishevelled family. ‘Who wants
ginger beer and who wants tea?’

  ‘Is it Egg’s ginger beer?’ Ellie asked.

  That was what was at the back of Lucy’s mind. Egg. ‘It’s Egg’s ginger beer. And there’s enough for all of us. He’ll make us some more soon.’ She fetched it from the larder and unscrewed the top very carefully indeed, wrapping the whole bottle in a tea towel. ‘And two of your group know Egg, do they?’

  Barbara nodded importantly. ‘The girl called Rosalie is the same age as me and she wanted me to cut my wrist.’

  Lucy looked at Ellie. Ellie said, ‘They do it at school, Mum. You know, blood sisters.’

  ‘Did you do it?’ Lucy transferred her gaze to Barbara’s face and thought for a moment it looked yellow then realized it was still sprinkled with sand.

  ‘No.’ Barbara looked disgusted. ‘She’s eight and she doesn’t know what sterilization means. She can’t even say it! Even Denny knows about sterilization. Don’t you, Denny?’ She poked her sister with a sharp elbow, not wanting too much attention from her mother.

  Denny nodded. ‘Soakingteef,’ she said.

  Ellie, always so serious, bent double with a gale of laughter. ‘Egg told her about Chippy’s teeth,’ she gasped at her mother. ‘He leaves them soaking in a glass when he works. With some stuff to make them white.’

  Lucy nodded and shook her head at the three of them.

  ‘Never mind the handkerchiefs. The wind has dropped right away. Let’s get our dinner stuff in. Barbara, take Denny and see if there are any eggs. Ellie, we’ll pick the lettuce. Ease them out the earth gently. Leave the ones what is hearting. We’ll manage with the thinnings.’

  The two of them bent over the lettuce rows, plucking the small shoots and leaving space for the stronger plants to grow. Behind them the sea glittered, still and waiting. The sky above seemed to be pressing on their backs.

  ‘Now the radish, my girl. Shake ’em gently. That’s it.’ Lucy turned her head slightly and smiled. ‘You did all right this morning, by the sound of things.’

  Ellie was surprised. ‘I just read, Mum. It’s the little ones who do all right. They either listen or they don’t. Barbara and Denny are used to me reading to them so they set a good sample. Example.’

  Lucy’s smile widened. Daniel had said once, ‘Dun’t c’rreck our Ellie, my maid. Wait for a bit and see if she does it for ’erself.’

  It seemed that Ellie shared part of the memory. She said, ‘The two holiday girls . . . they’re what Dad would call a coupla tinkers!’ And they both laughed, perfectly in tune. And Ellie for a moment stemmed the terrible fear of her new school where she would be one of only three girls awarded a full scholarship. And Lucy, just for the same moment, stopped worrying around the thought of Egg, who seemed to be surrounded by people from Birmingham with no understanding of him whatsoever.

  As if they had rehearsed it they spoke in unison. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we?’ They laughed and hugged. And the two of them felt the earth tremor and heard Barbara and Denny screaming.

  Three

  CONNIE GOT DOWN to the cove before Philip arrived the next day. She did not unlock the beach hut. The weather was brassily hot. She kicked off her espadrilles from Brittany and paddled in the lapping sea. Far out, a pod of dolphins took it in turns to leap out of the water as they streamed along the coast looking for breakfast. She watched them without her usual enthusiasm and wondered why she was here. Did she intend to burden the beautiful straw-haired boy with more of her petty problems, carefully avoiding the one big problem that only she could see was a problem.

  She shook her head. She must not do it. He was sixteen, just done with school, the whole world waiting for him. Perhaps he was even now planning a trip to America to find his father’s family. Life was exciting but also simple. He saw things simply; either yes or no. Yet that was not true either because yes-and-no people rarely listened. And he listened. And she could not ask him to listen . . . not again.

  The last of the dolphins leaped laughingly into the air and the pod disappeared around the headland. She trailed her toes through the sandy sea floor and tried not to think. There were shells in little clusters here and there. She picked up the purple and black mussels, rough on the back, shiningly lacquered inside. She kept two that might well have made a single whole at one time; she dried them on the skirt of her sundress and put them in one of the big patch pockets. She could talk to Phil about the shells. Perhaps. Or just go back to Blue Seas and pretend nothing had happened. The trouble was, if she waited for Phil and tried to talk about mussels she would probably blurt out the whole sorry tale of last evening and there he would be, burdened again. And only sixteen.

  She blinked hard just in case she might have been about to cry and looked down at her feet. They were rippling in time to the sea. Encased in the clear medium that people called water they waved to her. And just beyond them was a small jellyfish, like an uncooked poached egg, lifting its skirt coyly as it waved to her big toe. She blinked again and then laughed. She could actually tell Phil about this; it was truly funny. And it was apt too, because he had said his name was Egbert and it was always shortened to Egg. And the little creature even now edging towards her big toe was very definitely an uncooked egg.

  She put her hand carefully in front of it, wondering whether she could catch it to show Phil, wondering if it would die out of water, concluding that it was going to be beached anyway as the tide was full and would leave it behind very soon.

  She wiggled her fingers enticingly and the unpoached egg twirled itself into a shuttlecock, zoomed on to her little finger and clamped its skirt tightly around the first knuckle. And then the pain started.

  She straightened, exclaiming, ‘Ouch!’, trying to dislodge the creature with a vigorous shake. She put her hand under the shallow water again and pushed at its skirt with her other hand, trying not to damage it. The clamp grew tighter. How on earth could such a tiny thing have such a fierce grip? Her eyes were watering very freely now. It was hurting badly. Really badly.

  From the cliff path came a ‘halloo’ and there was Phil on his bicycle, racketing along over the tufty sand with no regard for safety. She hallooed back and held up her throbbing hand. There was a pause. He was free-wheeling towards the steps where he would dismount and hopefully run down to her.

  She yelled, ‘Can’t get it off! Stinging like mad!’

  He understood. He yelled back, ‘Stay where you are!’ and took the steps on his bicycle at full tilt. The sight of it almost took her mind off the clamp on her finger. His bicycle appeared to leap from one long shallow step to the next. It made a horrible noise. He stood on the pedals as if they were stirrups on a horse and held the bike together somehow. It ploughed into the sand, he stepped out of the tangle of bars and pedals and ran to her. She told him afterwards, ‘I could not even count two, and there you were! Philip Marlowe to the rescue!’

  He started to propel her onwards towards the headland, one arm behind her back urging her forward, the other clamped on her hand just below the tiny unpoached egg. They half ran, half stumbled through the shallows. He was saying something about water. Needing water. Which did not make sense when they were actually wading through the ocean. And then she understood. Cascading down the cliff was the waterfall where, at low tide, the swimmers would swill themselves free of the salt.

  Philip pulled her whole arm beneath the weight of the fall. For perhaps two seconds, the tiny jellyfish clung tenaciously to her finger. And then it was gone, hurtling down into the sea, disappearing instantly. Connie looked and looked and could see nothing past the foam of fresh water meeting salt water. Philip still held her arm, pulling it right under the little waterfall so that her dress was soaked. Unexpectedly an enormous sob racked her whole body. She blurted wetly, ‘I killed it – oh Phil, it did not understand – I killed it!’

  He guffawed. ‘Naw! You en’t killed that little blighter. Let’s get his spit out of your finger and we’ll go looking for ’e.’ He held her arm above the elbow so that her
hand fell at a right angle. ‘You dun’t need to worry about the creatures from the deep. They got the sea on their side and in the end the sea do always win.’

  She stopped blubbing and looked over her shoulder into his face. The morning sun caught the lobe of his ear and the line of his cheek, highlighting the tiny hairs into golden fur. His full mouth was tight.

  She said, ‘That was a strange thing to say.’

  ‘Creatures from the deep? It’s in a hymn. It just means fish and the like.’

  ‘I know. But the idea of the sea being so powerful. Like an enemy almost.’

  ‘Not an enemy. It can be a friend. ’Tis always the master.’

  ‘Oh Phil, you sound . . . sombre. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right. Doubt the bike is though.’ His mouth curved upwards and he became a boy again. A boastful boy. ‘Did you see me coming down the steps? It were like riding a bucking bronco. When I go to America I might get a job on a ranch.’

  ‘I reckon you could.’ She laughed, relieved. She could bear all this peculiar business back at the boarding house; it would be too dreadful if Phil was unhappy. It was as if he had been born to be happy. She said, ‘D’you know, Phil, you are my golden boy.’

  He looked at her, his eyes changing, becoming wary yet not wary. He said in a low voice, ‘What do you mean?’

  She was aghast, knowing in that instant that he thought he was in love with her. She made herself laugh. ‘The sun is turning your face to gold, Phil. It’s really amazing.’ He blinked. She said, ‘Have you started shaving, Phil?’

  He looked at her hand drooping under the waterfall. He cleared his throat. ‘Naw. Mum says I’m a late starter. I just got the bum fluff.’