Winterton Blue

by Trezza Azzopardi

  You look great, he says, That sea air’s doing you good.

  Whether it’s his jovial tone, or the fact of seeing him, Anna can’t tell: it’s too late to stop the tears. He wraps an arm round her and guides her towards the entrance. His pace matches hers exactly.

  Nice raincoat, he says, as they take a window-seat, Is that what passes for fashion, then, in Yarmouth?

  A man in a suit on the opposite table turns his head from the television screen to examine Anna. When she stares back at him, he smiles and looks away.

  It’s my mum’s, she says, feeling the tears falling again.

  If I’d known I was going to get this sort of reception, I wouldn’t have bothered coming, says Brendan, I usually make women laugh. Not cry.

  I’m sorry to drag you up here, she says, pulling a paper napkin from the dispenser and blowing into it, But I couldn’t face the whole trip down there and then the whole trip back again.

  That’s plain enough, he says, keeping his eyes on her, I’m surprised you got this far. What’s happened?

  Anna tilts her face to the window, thinking of an answer. It’s fogged with steam, and someone has wiped a circle in the centre, which is re-misting; the cars on the forecourt look as if they’re melting. She would like to give Brendan an explanation, a dramatic tale, but she can find nothing.

  Is it your mother? he asks, Is she worse?

  No. She’s fine. She’s fit as a fucking flea, actually, she says, so loudly that the waitress approaching them with the menus turns on her heel and walks quickly away again. Anna and Brendan look at each other, shamefaced.

  That’s it, y’know, B, it’s so tedious being with them, with their singing and cavorting and the way they

  Finish each other’s sentences.

  Exactly, she says, smiling with relief.

  Brendan holds his hand up to stop her, leaves the table, and finds the waitress. Anna can’t hear what he’s saying, but she lip-reads an apology, and some extensive flirting behaviour that she’s seen many times before.

  It’s what parents are for, though. To drive you mad, he says, carrying on exactly where they left off, You can’t stand being with them for a minute, but you love them to bits from afar.

  I don’t love Cabbage to bits, she says.

  You what? asks Brendan, giving her his full attention.

  That’s what my mother calls him, says Anna, Your famous Vernon Savoy. She calls him Cabbage.

  Brendan mock-swoons.

  She is actually perfect, your mother. So how come she’s let you out? I don’t see any ball and chain.

  She’s a sweetie, really, says Anna, Bad-tempered, foulmouthed, scheming—but still my mother. But she has her ways, Brendan. These chains are invisible.

  Anna crosses her wrists on the table to show Brendan her imaginary shackles. He wraps his hands around hers and pulls her close.

  I brought your stuff. Well, most of it. What I could track down.

  He rummages on the floor beneath him and pulls up the bag, lifting it for Anna to take.

  All there, I think. I had a hell of a job finding your passport. Under that bed, he says, pointing a warning finger at Anna, Are unknown terrors.

  Did you pack my bathers?

  Bathers! What are you like? Your swimsuit and flip-flops and beach towel and that rag you describe as a sun-dress—Brendan closes his eyes in distaste—Are all there.

  Anna opens the bag and looks through it, pulling out a length of tie-dyed silk.

  This isn’t mine, she says.

  It is now. It’s a present. Call me psychic, but I thought you might just be going on a beach holiday. And that’s a sarong. It’s what normal people wear on the beach. Not a fleece.

  Well, here, she says, rummaging in her pocket and drawing out the pack of cigarettes, I didn’t get you anything. But you could have these?

  Ahh, nearly new, says Brendan, And my second favourite brand. Thank you. So, what’s the destination?

  We’re going, she says, To Crete. But what if it’s cold? I’ll need my fleece.

  Does it get very cold, then, in Crete? In October? And who’s we?

  Me and my mother. And unless I can stop him, Vernon frigging Cabbage.

  At the mention of his name, her mouth turns down again. She hangs her head, staring into the depths of her bag.

  I can’t go if Vernon goes, Brendan. I swear, I’ll do something . . . irrational.

  That’ll be a first, he says, Not like you to do something irrational. Remember Joseph? Did he have two wives, or three? Now he was a bad choice. And that one with the piercings and all the cats?

  Anna shudders.

  Don’t remind me. And my mother keeps banging on about me not having a boyfriend. If she only knew.

  Brendan straightens an imaginary tie.

  I could be your boyfriend, he says, Just say the word.

  Anna isn’t listening. She’s gone back to a year ago, to a flat stinking of antiseptic and a bedful of cat hair. There was more cat hair on the furniture and on her clothes; slippery boluses of grey matter on the worktops or behind the curtains, and wherever she trod, sharp granules of cat litter. Roman, as he called himself, was tattooed and idle, and stuck all over with ornate pieces of bright metal. A new piercing every week.

  That particular choice, she says, not wanting to say his name, Had more holes than a pin cushion.

  Brendan grins.

  But you weren’t to know, Anna. Well, not at first. And lots of people actually like body art. And let’s face it, you’re not the tidiest person in the world, he says.

  He’s about to launch into another anecdote when he sees her face creasing up. Anna pulls another napkin from the dispenser.

  You said it, B: I make bad choices.

  Don’t start that again. You just need to get out more, he says, And I mean that in the nicest possible way. Any man would be lucky to have you. Even in that flasher’s mac.

  The compliment is fleeting: Brendan smiles broadly over the top of her head, to the waitress bringing coffee and pancakes.

  Go back and tell your mother you’ll only go if Vernon stays, he says, holding up a sliver of pancake to her mouth, That’s what you need to do. Tell her you want some quality time with her alone. Two girls together and all that claptrap. She’ll buy it, he says, Trust me.

  He takes another forkful, feeding himself this time. Still chewing, he says,

  And as you’re never going to have me, can I suggest that I’m allowed to vet the next man you decide to fall in love with. Are we agreed?

  Agreed, she says, But there’s not going to be any next man, Brendan. I’m done with them for good. I’m going to take up a hobby; something safe. Something really dull.

  Fly fishing? He offers

  Too many men about.

  Macramé?

  Anna puts her head on one side as if considering the suggestion.

  I quite like the sound of macramé.

  Bell ringing?

  Bell ringing, she says, Now what could be duller than that?

  Lewis rests his head against the side of the fruit machine, his hand poised over the slot; he’s listening for backing. If he can hear the coin drop, then the hopper will be full. He knows this can be a good sign—he’s been watching this machine for a while, and it hasn’t paid out—but the music is so loud, and the other machines are making so much noise, he knows he hasn’t got a hope. He loses the pound in three swift hits of the button. Not a single hold.

  Pulling another ten-pound note from his wallet, he queues at the booth for more change. It’s not the winning that matters, it’s the taking apart. It became Wayne’s catchphrase. After they’d lost their paper round money, Wayne would look for something to vent his rage on; bus shelters were good, for the tremendous shock wave of noise the glass made before it shattered into a million tiny squares, or kicking off wing-mirrors in the car park behind the supermarket, or dropping bottles off the cliff edge and watching them explode like bombs onto the concrete path below. Chang
ing his mind, Lewis pockets the money and turns away from the booth.

  Outside the Fun Palace, the sky has darkened and the wind has come up, not as cold now, but carrying a threat of rain. Lewis sits in a shelter facing the sea and returns the note to his wallet. As he does every time, he sees the top edge of the photograph he keeps at the back, just the sharp white rebate, and a hint of a head. He doesn’t need to look at it. The picture is of himself and Wayne as pageboys.

  You can run away to the end of the earth, his mother said, But you can’t run away from love.

  Errol moved back in with them a week after the fight (which his mother would always insist was an accident), and they were engaged the following month. They got married on Bonfire Night. By Christmas, Wayne had had his first grand mal.

  In the photograph, Errol and his mother are wearing matching beige outfits, with the boys on either side of them, awkward in their suits. Wayne’s got the sleeves of his jacket rolled up like Don Johnson; the bracelet on his left wrist catches the sunlight. Errol’s sweating and grinning: his moustache has gone and his head is shaved, so he looks for all the world like a buttered new potato. Lewis’s mother is holding her hand up to show off her ring—a thick gold hoop jammed solid with a row of gemstones: an eternity ring, bought instead of an engagement ring because they were in it for eternity, she said, and eternity means Forever. Her little finger is smaller than it used to be, and cocked a bit to the left. Apart from that, and the missing nail, no one would ever know. Manny was wrong about them sewing it back on; they said it wasn’t worth it, just the tip. And Lewis realized that his mother was wrong about eternity: it doesn’t last forever, it only seems that way. Errol was gone by Easter.

  Lewis doesn’t need to look at the photograph, because he knows every minute detail of it. And he doesn’t keep it out of fond memories, nor as a souvenir of how things used to be. He keeps it because it’s the only picture he has of Wayne. By the summer, his brother was dead.

  EIGHTEEN

  Anna finds her mother at the back of the house. Despite the chill in the air and the drizzle, the French windows are open. Standing quite still in the fading light, her mother appears not to notice her. Every now and then she’ll say something to herself, soft cooing noises that have no meaning. They remind Anna of long ago; the sounds are comforting, warm.

  My little dove, says her mother, without moving, Have you flown back in?

  She turns to smile at Anna.

  So you have, she says.

  Anna would stay in the doorway, but her mother beckons her over.

  I don’t want to disturb you, she whispers.

  Not disturbing, her mother says, But watch, now—they’re stocking up for night-time. Listen to that!

  At the far end of the garden, beyond the long wooden bench and the jumble of terracotta pots, are two large bird-tables. Black shapes arrow on the dusk, shadows dip and weave in and out of the trees. Anna turns her head to hear a flurry of twittering and chirping, almost an angry sound.

  Are they fighting? she asks.

  Her mother gives a silent laugh.

  Trust you to think that. They’re telling each other, I’m going to bed!—and, I live here!—and, This is my branch, this is!

  So they are fighting.

  Her mother catches hold of Anna’s coat and leans into her.

  How’s your friend? she asks.

  He’s fine, says Anna, He said to say hello.

  They stand and watch in silence for a moment.

  You should invite him up, her mother says, It would be nice to meet him.

  He’s not really that sort of friend, mum.

  Who says so? You? Or him?

  It’s complicated.

  Her mother sighs, and Anna waits, expecting her to say, It always is, with you. Instead, she says nothing for a moment, so Anna becomes more aware of the fingers gripping her coat, and her own hand on her mother’s arm, and the fine rain blowing in around them. She looks at the side of her mother’s face; at her eyes, bright against the darkness. This would be a good time to take Brendan’s advice.

  He’s heard of Cabb- Vernon, says Anna, easing her way into the subject, You didn’t tell me he was famous. Or that he had a dummy for a partner.

  Walter, says her mother, That’s what he called it. They were quite big at one time. Walter had a stutter; it was so funny. You couldn’t get away with it now, of course. But to be honest, he wasn’t very good in the end. His mouth went a bit funny.

  Who? asks Anna, not quite following, Vernon, or the dummy?

  Vernon, you daft girl! That’s why he grew that moustache. He’d go mad if he heard you calling Walter a dummy. He was his partner. Ventriloquism, she says, through pressed lips, Is an art form.

  They both laugh out loud, making the birds flitter off the tables into the trees.

  Aren’t you cold? Anna asks.

  Not for long, eh? Soon be on the beach. Soon be getting a tan.

  She turns at last to look at Anna.

  I’ve told Cabbage he can’t come, by the way.

  The relief is so immense, Anna feels as though she could kiss her. She puts a hand up to waft away a stray hair on her mother’s head. She would like to kiss her, to hug her; she almost does.

  Don’t get silly, her mother says, turning back into the room, I’ve not given in to you. It’s just that he’s got to stay here and look after our guest.

  You’ve got a guest? says Anna, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice, A proper, staying guest?

  Yes, proper and staying. And paying too, I hope. He’s in the dining-room now if you want to go and say hello. His name’s Mr Caine, she says, delighted with the fact, But he’s much more handsome than the real one.

  Her mother twinkles at her, then frowns, flicks an invisible speck from Anna’s lapel, and finally takes a step back in order to look her up and down. It’s a ritual Anna dreads.

  Sight of them, says her mother, Your father would’ve hated that.

  Anna follows her gaze down to her shoes; the leather is scuffed and dull and the edges are caked with mud.

  Why don’t you go upstairs and make yourself a bit more presentable first, she says, Comb your hair and that?

  It’s always the bloody same. Nothing’s changed, nothing ever will.

  Anna talks to herself in the mirror as she drags the comb across her head,

  She has to go and spoil it. Every single time.

  Anna keeps her memories of her father under water. She doesn’t know how long after he died that she started to do this, or if it’s normal, even, but she understands and in some way approves of the simplicity of the connection; her father died at the age when she began to learn to swim.

  On Saturday mornings, he’d sit at the turn of the stairs in his socks, and polish all the shoes. Under the sink he kept an old orange-crate, filled with Kiwi and Cherry Blossom, outgrown clothes cut into neat squares, yellow dusters with huge black finger dints, and two kissing brushes for the final shine. He’d start big and end small, the same every time, which meant that Anna would have to wait, one leg snaked around the other, for the moment when she could slip her feet into her red sandals. He’d bend over to do the buckles for her; he always sounded out of breath.

  Years later, when her mother decided to move to Yarmouth, Anna helped her pack up. She found his relics buried beneath another, newer, box under the sink. She sat where he had sat, and examined the rusted Kiwi tin with the polish cracked and dry, a fragment of a dress she wore as a child, a piece of her mother’s apron, the remnants of his old striped shirt. Holding a yellow duster to the light, she found his fingermarks. She put her own finger against the smudges, and saw him again, on Saturday mornings, sitting at the turn of the stairs, in his socks.

  Her mother wanted all that thrown out. She liked the convenience of the new products. She didn’t like the dusters and the smell of polish and perhaps she didn’t like the memory. So Anna did as she was asked, stamping on the edge of the box until it broke into splinters,
throwing the kissing brushes on top of it, and the tins, and the cloth with his fingermarks; tipping it all in the bin for the dustmen to take away.

  With her hair combed and a change of shoes, Anna stands in the doorway of the dining-room, rubbing her palms down the sides of her jeans. Vernon’s broad tartan back is the first thing she sees, his hands gripping the edge of the far table, his body swaying over it like a drunk in a bar. She can’t see round him, but she can tell he’s trying to be amusing, relating some anecdote he thinks is funny. Her mother plays a flourish at the piano, craning her neck at the assembled group like a Salvation Army band leader summoning the troops. On cue, Vernon throws his arms wide and claps his hands together.

  A song, Rita, that would be marvellous!

  Marta comes into the frame now, budging Anna out of the way. She moves towards the group with a tray full with food: soup, mounds of cut bread, and cheese. The man will be expected to eat surrounded by these watchful eyes, amid the singing and piano playing and general clamour. Anna can hardly bear to look. She hangs back at the edge of the frame, dead still, mouth open, feeling a deep burn of embarrassment creeping up her neck. It’s just like being a child again, called on to perform. Marta is no better: smiling and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, as if to say, It was a huge effort, this heating up of soup and slicing bread, but worthwhile, because, look, we have a guest! As Vernon edges past, Anna sees the man sitting at the table, catches his eyes and the look he gives her—a desperate appeal, frightened, almost—and she turns away.

  She spent the evening in her room, lying on the bed. She tried to tell herself that her sense of embarrassment was out of proportion; all she had to do was go in and shake his hand, make an effort to disperse the crowd. It would have been an easy, sociable act, and a kindness: if it were not for the man himself, the sight of him there. He wore an expression on his face which stopped her breath. From the first glance, Anna saw it: a look of desolation which couldn’t be combed out or polished off. She understood in that second how they shared this quality. So she ran away. It seemed the only option, but it mortified her still.