Winterton Blue

by Trezza Azzopardi

  How long have you been here?

  Marta takes a second egg. This time she slices it, and puts a layer on a piece of toast. She chews and thinks.

  Since the summer. My son Kristian is an engineer on the Velsters project? You know, the wind-farm up the way here—Marta nods towards the window—So I decided to take a holiday.

  A holiday? In Yarmouth?

  Yarmouth is Great, says Marta, shaking her head to acknowledge the old pun, But really, I missed my son, and I’ve no one back home. So I’m here, for a while.

  But you’re here, says Anna, tapping her finger on the tablecloth, You’re working here, as my mum’s skivvy.

  Marta considers the word, says it aloud to herself. Her accent is faint, with a slight, yawing resonance that Anna likes the sound of. She gives Anna a puzzled look.

  You know, my mother’s chief washer-up, cook, cleaner, and cocktail mixer, Anna says, before it occurs to her that she may have made a mistake; Marta would be doing it for the money, same as anyone. In trying to correct herself, she flounders.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with the job. I mean, you just don’t strike me as a . . .

  Skiffy, says Marta, laughing, It’s okay, really. I was going to leave, go back to Randers, and then your poor mother—she leans closer to Anna, dropping her voice—Actually, I have been concerned. Before the fall, maybe a month before, I found her in the garden, gone.

  Gone? Anna whispers back.

  Blank, blanked out. That time I said I would call a doctor, but she said there would be no need, because you would be coming here to look after her.

  Anna nods over her coffee, and then, taking in the measure of this, echoes the phrase.

  She said what? That I would be coming here?

  Sure.

  Anna has to clarify what she’s just heard. She says the words slowly and deliberately:

  A month before she fell down the steps.

  Hmm-mm, Marta shrugs, Maybe six weeks. But she knew you would come to stay. She was very looking forward to it.

  You do know my mother’s a scheming bitch? Anna says, half-smiling.

  Marta nods her head over her cup and gives Anna a lit-up grin.

  Of course! It’s a privilege of age, isn’t it? To be scheming. And you are her only child, and very far away. I am a mother too, you see. That’s how we’re like. Sometimes it’s essential, to scheme.

  The wind is so strong, it almost takes her off her feet. Anna clings to the skinny trunk of a young tree, feeling her coat ballooning at her back. She tries to gauge the best way to avoid being blown off the sea wall and onto the shingle below.

  It’s an ice-clear day; the gulls scroll across the sky like rips of paper, the nearest ones dipping and teasing their way through the air currents. Anna crabs down to the sand, the sharp grains peppering her eyes and face, until she is at sea level. With the tide out, the sand is soft and difficult, then firm, then suddenly hard under her feet. She feels a childlike urge to run across it, running and yelling all the way down to the sea. She breaks into a self-conscious jog, slowing up as she reaches the shoreline. The waves are black and grey and rolling indigo.

  There’s no one on the beach. She walks towards the west by instinct, surveying the stretch of sand ahead of her for signs of human life: a dog-walker, fisherman, kite enthusiast. Perhaps it’s too early, still. She considers that it might always be this empty. The wind at her back is hounding her, it whips her hair into her eyes and presses her coat into the back of her legs. For relief, Anna turns about, and with her head down and her body pitched forwards, walks directly into the blow, passing her mother’s house on the road above her, passing the thin trees and the concrete wall, and further still, out beyond a bank of grey stone buildings high above her eyeline. The sand glitters silver here, and then gradually rust-coloured, as if it has bled. The groynes rise from the surf like a row of ancient chines. Climbing on the nearest one, Anna sees, for the first time, the wind-farm. She can’t believe she hasn’t noticed it until now; she would have seen it easily, had she been looking. Standing on the iron ridge of backbone, oblivious to the gale sucking the breath from her mouth, she counts as best she can the tall white turbines, counts the long clean lines of them. She watches as their rotor-blades turn in unison, flashing sunlight over the sky in swift, repeated strikes. Anna hadn’t realized that they were actually out there, in the waves, in the middle of the sea. No one said they were in the sea. She thinks it’s a miracle: how beautiful they are, how massive they must be up close. And they must make a noise, surely. She turns her ear towards them, and hears the water gurgling through the struts beneath her, and the gulls crying, the wind flailing the sand.

  Lewis spent the night in a deserted caravan in a field just outside Ditchingham. The cold didn’t bother him, but the wind did: sucking the plastic on the windows, rocking the frame of the van, making an eerie, high-pitched whistle which sounded, in the darkest part of the night, like someone calling his name.

  This morning, after a two-mile walk, he’s hungry and thirsty and his body twitches with lack of sleep. The first shop he sees is an old-fashioned-looking grocery store. Inside, the air is warm and damp; he senses he is visibly sweating.

  Lewis takes a packet of ham slices and a round of cheese triangles from the cold cabinet, and a loaf of bread from a basket below the counter. He puts them on top of the newspapers, gets a bottle of Lucozade from the fridge, and two cans of beer.

  Is this bread for you? asks the woman serving, Only if it’s for you, we’ve got fresh bread over there on that shelf.

  Isn’t this fresh? says Lewis, poking the wrapper with his finger.

  It’s just past its sell-by, says the woman, We keep it for people who like to feed the swans. It’s half-price.

  Lewis shrugs, and pays for the food. In need of a shower, he considers asking the woman whether there’s a sports centre nearby, or a swimming pool, but then thinks the better of asking; it might seem a strange request. Instead, he buys some Rizlas and a pouch of tobacco, and considers the alternatives: where there are swans, there will be water.

  Opposite the shop is a long swathe of green with a walled-in war memorial under some trees. As he gets near, Lewis can see the river running full, and people feeding the birds. It looks organized, the groups separate but intent on doing the same thing, as if they’re actors in a silent movie. Couples stand on the grass bank, children bend too close to the water for Lewis’s liking, and one or two individuals have positioned themselves on the benches. A middle-aged man straddles the low wall around the memorial; his hand is full of grain, which he throws down for the pigeons, but his eyes are on Lewis. Finding himself an empty bench towards the far end of the bank, away from the man, Lewis puts together a sandwich, positioning the slippery ham on a slice of bread, then folding it in half. He attempts to peel the foil off one of the cheese triangles and, failing, puts his lips to the torn opening and pushes the contents whole into his mouth. He drinks the Lucozade and takes a bite from the middle of the sandwich; the crusts are too chewy to swallow. He launches them into the water, and a volley of gulls swoops down, screaming and flashing their wings, followed by a parade of swans gliding away from an elderly couple, who have been feeding them at the river’s edge.

  Cupboard love, cries the old man, and Lewis nods and moves off. As soon as he’s vacated the seat, the couple sits on it, making themselves at home. Looking back, Lewis sees they are surrounded by the swans, their long necks bending like hairpins as they snatch at the bread. The sight makes him shudder: he won’t be bathing in the river, today or any other day.

  THIRTEEN

  The house is deserted when Anna gets back. She feels it in the dead air of the hallway, in the absence of fuss and clamour which has surrounded her since she arrived. Now she stands with her scarf in her hands, listening. Nothing, she can hear nothing. After the battering of the wind outside, Anna is glad of the sensation of blocked silence. She knows it won’t last, and sure enough, as soon as the rush of th
e sea in her head dies away, there is noise again. She removes her coat and hangs it over the newel, angling her head to one side, like a bird detecting a threat. She goes first into the kitchen, where a radio is playing at an irritatingly low volume, and switches it off at the plug. Everything is orderly here; the dishes are stacked, a tea-towel has been hung to dry over the cooker. Two trays sit side by side on the counter, one with teacups on them, the other with three cocktail glasses. She picks one up and holds it to the light. It has a faded transfer of a fawn on it, and Babycham written in a blue swirl on the base. She remembers these from her childhood; they were brought out at Christmas, or for guests. They look vulgar now, slightly shabby. They don’t belong here, she thinks, they belong there, in the old house. They belong then. Continuing the search for other noises, climbing the stairs and stopping to listen, she pauses to sit on the top step, putting her face to the uprights and peeping through them. The hall does remind her of the house they lived in when she was a child, with its wooden flooring and coloured glass in the door. She takes a deep breath and holds it, as if preparing to dive into the space below. Anna sees herself small and distant, falling through the air.

  The party hadn’t begun, but Anna’s mother told her that she had to go to bed. Anna was set to reason with her: it wasn’t bedtime. It was far too early. It wasn’t even dark. None of these logical arguments had any effect on her mother. She was wearing heavy perfume, a tight black dress and high heels; she was wearing her rings. Anna took her mother’s hand as she was led upstairs, imagining the weight of those jewels on her own fingers.

  It must be a very special party, said Anna, rolling her thumb over the surface of the rings, Is it Christmas?

  No, said her mother, It’s dad’s work. His colleagues, she said, with a derisive catch in her voice, And yes, it’s quite special for grown-ups—turning Anna at the bedroom door—But boring for little ones. Sleep is much more exciting.

  Her mother wrinkled her nose as she said it. Anna knew the lie for what it was. She would have to strike a deal.

  I’m sure I’ll sleep better, she said, eyeing her mother from the pillow, If I could be Modom.

  This made her mother smile. She sat at the side of the bed.

  Okay. But only for a bit. I’ve got the drinks to do, she said, splaying her hands flat so that the rings glittered against the pale eiderdown.

  Anna pondered the gemstones: her mother wore an assortment of large dress rings on her hands, two square ones on the left and an oblong and oval on the right. The oval looked pure and brilliant against her mother’s olive skin, but Anna already knew it wasn’t a real diamond, and discarded it. She didn’t care for the square-cut rings, either, which were spoilt, in her eyes, by the fussiness of the settings.

  I think I’ll try . . . that one, she said, pointing at the one she always chose.

  Ah, said her mother, The tourmaline. What a surprise.

  Remembering her role in this game, she removed the large oblong from her finger and presented it to Anna.

  An excellent choice. Would Modom care to try it for size?

  Anna loved the whiteness of the metal, thick and flat as a belt, but she loved the stone more. The tourmaline was heavy, blue-green, and so clear, she could see her skin through it. She squeezed her fingers together to hold the ring in place.

  I’d like to think about it, she said, in her madam voice, Leave it with me.

  Her mother gave her a look; no messing around, it said, but just as she put her palm out to demand it back, the sound of the doorbell stopped her.

  I’ll be up in a minute. You can wear it ’til then.

  But her mother didn’t come up in a minute. Anna put the tourmaline to her eye and looked at how green the world was. She held it to her cheek and felt the cold stone grow warm. She pressed the imprint of a square into the back of her wrist. She licked it, tasting perfume, and ice, and what she imagined was the sea.

  When she woke, hours later, the ring had slipped off her finger and down into the folds of the bedsheets. She had forgotten all about it by then: there was another thing, strange sounds—voices—that made her get out of bed and go onto the landing. It was dark and cold, but it would be alright: she could see her mother and father in the hall below. Framed in the leaded lights of the front door, they looked like figures in a stained-glass window. They chinked glasses softly, they kissed. Anna held her breath; she would like a drink too. She wanted to call out, but watching made her throat feel tight. At a sound from the dining-room, they pulled apart, her father’s head jerking sideways so she could see his profile in a square of emerald-shine. As they bent towards each other again, her mother began to laugh. But it wasn’t her mother’s laugh; it was low, and jittery, and the woman, in a long floating dress, didn’t look like her mother; she was the wrong shape, she had the wrong hair. As if she had broken a spell, Anna found her voice, and called out, once: Mum. Her father jumped forward just as Anna pitched into the air, catching her as she tumbled down the final flight of stairs. She heard a smash as he dropped his glass, and her own small scream of shock. He carried her back up to her room, pulled the blankets over her. He put his fingers to his lips, laid them on her head.

  In the morning, there was no sign of the broken glass, even though Anna remembered to look for it: just her mother on her knees in the hallway, polishing the wooden floor, polishing and whistling a tuneless air.

  Anna pauses outside her mother’s room, feeling again the taste of tourmaline on her tongue. She can’t recall how old she was, or if that was the first time she’d seen her father do such a thing. All the doors on this floor look the same, the woodwork painted in old cream, brass fittings in need of a polish. Only the china name-plates are different, which her mother had made up in deference to her favourite actresses: the Grable Suite, the de Havilland Room, and her mother’s own room—her little joke—the Hayworth. On the second floor, the names are of actors; Anna’s room is Bogart, and across the hall, Vernon inhabits the Cagney Suite. She finds this allocation strangely appropriate. There are two more rooms up a final flight of stairs; a twin-bedded room, and the tiny one she slept in on her first night. Both are vacant and unnamed, their doors wide open to the world.

  Anna can hear noises inside her mother’s room, sounds of a certain cadence, an electrical flatness, which tells her it’s a television left on. She knocks on the door and tries the handle immediately. She has not been inside since her mother first moved to Yarmouth, nearly ten years ago. Anna remembers the wallpaper, although it wasn’t on the wall, then. Her mother had got a catalogue from Laura Ashley and had been advised that Antique French was the style to go for: she loved things that sounded foreign and looked expensive, especially if they were half-price. This particular pattern, cod–Louis Quinze in prickly flock, was remnant stock.

  Anna angles past the bed and turns the television off. There’s hardly any space to move, the room’s so crammed with furniture. Much of it she remembers: in the corner, there’s a battered leather recliner which her father used to stretch out on after his day at work, stained on the arm-rest with pale, repeated circles. Anna traces them with her finger, feels a breathless pain at the proximity of him. She bends close to the head-rest, to find his smell, close enough to see the thin layer of dust. It’s all in here, as if her mother couldn’t bear to share it with anyone else: pictures and plates crowding the walls, china figures carrying a pitcher, or cuddling a dog. There’s the heavy wardrobe with the ornate keys still in the locks; she’s even kept the matted sheepskin rug which used to lie in front of the hearth. Now she’s inside, Anna can’t resist the temptation to pry. She would like to see her mother’s rings again. Blocking the light from the window is the dressing-table, a mess of toiletries scattered around a mirrored box. This too she remembers from childhood. Everyone thought it was a great joke that when you lifted the lid, it played the tune from The Godfather. Anna’s mother kept cigarettes in it, long thin sticks in rainbow colours, which she’d put in a holder and angle away from
her body, blowing white plumes up to the ceiling. This is how Rita wanted to be seen, as the Hollywood actress she might have been.

  Standing at the window with her fingers on the lid of the box, Anna looks down on to the street, and catches sight, now, of her mother. She is sitting in a wheelchair, with Vernon at her back; they’re waiting to cross the road. She’s wearing a beige overcoat and a Burberry scarf, a green tartan blanket over her legs, and brown lace-up bootees. Her hair is blowing straight up from her head. She and Vernon are squinting up at the house.

  While Vernon stows the wheelchair under the stairs, Anna helps her mother into an armchair near the fire.

  Are you cold, mum? she asks, Shall I light this fire?

  Don’t worry, Cabbage’ll do it in a minute. Got myself some new glasses, says her mother, Look! We went to the mall. Eighteen pounds. What a bargain.

  Did you get your eyes tested? asks Anna, trying to adjust the cushions, ignoring the way her mother jerks like a child away from her, Only you can’t be too careful . . .

  At my age. I’m only seventy, you know. No, we got them off the counter in Boots. They’re only for seeing with. Will you stop fussing there? I’m quite comfortable.

  Seventy-six, mother, says Anna, And you have to take more care of yourself. Get your doctor to give you a check-up.

  Vernon stands in front of the mantelpiece and rubs his hands together, as if in anticipation of some delight. He’s grinning at the pair of them. His waistcoat is yellow today, with a maroon fleur-de-lys motif running through it.

  Shall I spark it up? he says, bending over the fire and pressing an ignition switch.

  Oh, says Anna, I did wonder.

  Just like the real thing, says her mother,

  But without the mess, finishes Vernon.

  He takes his place in a chair on the other side of the hearth, then jumps up immediately.