Winterton Blue

by Trezza Azzopardi

  They enter a long back street parallel to the river, lurching up over the pavement and down again, fast and reckless, so Lewis’s nausea is turned to fright. Two children playing at the roadside jump off the kerb and into a hedge. Through the back window, Lewis sees their faces, round and wide-eyed with shock. Carl spins them sideways into a tree-lined lane.

  Here it is: the long, leafy lane and the sunshine, and the trees flashing by, and the river running in a black spill to the right, and the bridge up ahead and the trees going dark and light and dark and light and dark, and in the front seat Wayne stops singing. Only the sound of the engine now as he jerks forward, arches back, throwing his right arm in the air like a stripper flinging off a glove. His body goes stiff as he jerks again, out of the seat this time, his head hitting the sun-roof with a crack. The bridge is speeding towards them. Lewis bends forward to hold him down, shouting at Carl to stop. Wayne’s knuckles hit the dashboard and the windscreen, and the rear-view mirror, whipping the giant gonk from side to side. Carl takes his eyes off the road.

  For a few seconds, they’re airborne, sailing into the sky, until the same sky turns over and becomes the floor. Then it’s night and Wayne’s not singing, and there’s no noise at all now, and no one else. As they sink upside down into the river, a picture comes unbidden to Lewis, of a giant who came to visit, with green eyes and wild hair. The giant must have picked up the car and slipped it in his pocket. That’s all that’s happened. But now the giant is on the move, his body rocking from side to side as his huge hobnailed boots negotiate the river path, and even though the pocket is green and made of wool, the car is rocking too, and it’s slipping further down to the bottom, where there are bits of fluff and tangled threads and shreds of old tobacco. A shoal of coins zigzags past the window, swimming up and out of sight.

  They’re not coins, thinks Lewis, They’re fish.

  He thinks again.

  They’re not fish, they’re bits of glass. We’re in the water.

  He can’t see Wayne; as the car noses the river-bed, bounces, turns sideways, he is thinking of nothing, and hearing nothing but a raucous banging which comes from inside and which he doesn’t know is his heart. Behind him, the hatch cracks open: Lewis is sucked from the back seat like pus from a boil. Up and down looks all the same but his body is drawn one way. He sees nothing, then at once a hand looms into his vision; only when he makes to grab it does he realize it’s his own. The water is black and then dark blue and shapes appear above him; a cloud of grey tortoises with huge flippers, which become ducks, paddling madly away, and a stream of white foam which looks like sick, coating the top of his head and fizzing through his hair.

  When he opens his eyes, he sees shoes and boots with legs sticking out above them, and the wheels of a pushchair with mud in the tracks, and the long bent neck of a swan. Its black eye stares at him. He’s tasting iron and petrol and home brew, and he’s crying out Wayne.

  Here’s the one thing that in all the forgetting he could not fail to remember: at the hospital, there was a dead brother and a living one. His mother would see one of them lying on top of the sheet and the other underneath. And when she came and walked round the curtain into his cubicle, she had thought to find Wayne. It was a simple mistake: the voices belonging to the shoes and boots above him had asked him questions, who was he, who should they fetch? Only Lewis had been calling for his twin. He had been crying out Wayne. It was such a simple, innocent mistake; no one could be blamed for it. And even though he could forget nothing from then on, it was a most particular cruelty that he would remember the look on his mother’s face when she saw which son was spared.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Make the rain fall and the sun not shine, make that bend in a leafy lane a straight, clear road. You can’t. You can’t undo. Lewis was told it would get better in time. Time is a healer, people would say, for want of something more honest, meaning, perhaps, that time equals distance, and things look less significant when they’re further away. But all that time did for Lewis was to amplify the moment. In his dreams, the giant—who lifted the car that day and put it in his pocket—would appear on the bridge, or at the top of the street, or outside the petrol station, or just at the moment when Wayne takes the stolen cigarettes from his back pocket. Lewis would hear the giant’s footsteps on the stairs above them. He never saw his face, but over time, it assumed the thunderous countenance typical of his mother’s boyfriends.

  In waking life, everything sets him off. A knock on the door becomes the rap of knuckles on the windscreen; the sight of a swan gliding on the water makes his bones jar; the smell of petrol becomes the gag of suffocation. And at the end of the earth, in a ramshackle guest-house where he knows no one and owns nothing and wants nothing, and where he is less than nothing, an innocent painting of a river and a leafy lane becomes a scene of death.

  Lewis pulls the painting off the hook and turns it over on his lap. He fights the urge to smash his fist through it. He takes a deep breath, tells himself it’s a scene that was painted a century or more ago. It’s not even the real thing; it’s a reproduction of someone’s idea of a river and a bridge. Maybe the place doesn’t even exist. So he tells himself: it’s a reproduction of a reproduction of an invention, it’s entirely blameless, and it’s not even real. Another deep breath, and he’s counting again: one, Anna, two, Anna.

  He must consider her: she is blameless too, in all of this, and his feelings for her are real. Lewis is ashamed at this crack that’s appeared inside him, this fissure which feels wide enough to put his fist in and which feels like love. He won’t gamble with Anna; he will leave her alone.

  After Wayne’s death, the families had kept Carl and Lewis apart: it was a requirement of the court that the boys would not be allowed to associate—as if Lewis had ever wanted to associate with Carl. And as soon as the inquest was over, Lewis, out on licence, was sent to live with an aunt in Monmouth. Out of trouble’s way, his mother had said, meaning out of her sight.

  It took twenty years before he felt ready to face her again, although at the time, he couldn’t really say why he felt ready. He’d thought it was to help him confront his problem; now, after Anna, he understands: it’s because she would never come looking for him. You can’t make peace with Christmas cards, and more than anything, he wanted peace. Peace, and presence, and what was left of his family; he wanted his history back. All he’d found was another of her boyfriends. But he’d found Manny too, and finally, even though he wasn’t consciously looking, he’d found Carl. A sharp taste fills his mouth. He knew it, as soon as he saw the wind-farm; pressing Anna close to him on the sand and seeing the faint pinpricks in the distance. Lewis closes his eyes and sees again the photograph of Sonia on the beach, her arms outstretched and her head thrown back, her dark hair in jagged spikes. He only has to move his thumb away from the edge of the photo to find what was missing: a line of white turbines on the horizon.

  Lewis feels Carl near, so near, he can almost smell him: it’s not about things anymore, if it ever was. Carl can steal a van, he can steal a bracelet, but he can’t steal Lewis’s past. He replaces the picture of the river on its hook, and slowly puts on his clothes.

  lagan: n. goods or wreckage lying on the bed of the sea, sometimes marked with a buoy for later retrieval.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Anna and her mother had never been abroad together before, but they had been to the seaside. Anna’s memory of it is vivid, how they made sandwiches in the kitchen in the early morning, whispering to each other so as not to wake her father, and how they had to take a train to get there. The station was crowded with families carrying heavy bags of food; the children swinging along with their buckets and spades; one little girl even had an inflatable dolphin. Inflatables were rare in those days. A whole gang of them was going from their street: the Cleys at number six, Ronnie and Tim from next door, and the entire Farrugia family, including their ancient grandmother, whom everyone called Nonna. The Farrugias had brought a suitcase packed w
ith food, and when they weren’t all taking turns to carry it, one of them would break away from the main group and run to hold Anna’s hand. It was a month before her father died, but Anna wouldn’t have known it then. She was very little: six—seven, nearly. She can’t recall exactly, but she remembers it was before she had learned to swim. Her mother had given her a rubber ring with yellow stripes, but she still wouldn’t let Anna go in the sea. She said it’d be no use in the current, or if a shark came in. Of course, a shark on Brighton Beach would have been her mother’s idea of a joke.

  Now they sit squashed in their airline seats, and her mother can’t stop fussing with the safety belt.

  You were eight, I’m telling you, her mother says, How is this supposed to go?

  Anna leans over and shows her mother how it clips and unclips, how she can pull it to the desired width.

  And when do we get a drink?

  We haven’t taken off yet, Anna says, And I was definitely younger, because I’d just started those swimming lessons at school. Remember?

  You were eight, says her mother, finally. Nodding to the bag at Anna’s feet, she adds, Give me one of those sweets, love, I’ve got heartburn bent double like this.

  The flight is going to Crete, and it’s full. The pilot tells them they are waiting for a couple of people, a last call has gone out, and if they don’t appear there’ll be a short delay while their bags are removed. He announces this in a reassuring, almost bored tone, but her mother seizes on this fact.

  They have to do that, she says, Just in case they’ve put a bomb on board.

  The man in the seat next to Anna gives them a quick glance. She whispers to her mother.

  Mum, I’ve told you. Don’t say those things. Don’t say bomb on here. They’ll throw you off.

  You just said it, she says, fumbling with the packet of indigestion tablets, Maybe they’ll throw you off. When do we get a drink?

  As the plane travels through the air, Anna shuts her eyes and pretends to sleep. She isn’t tired, but the sunlight outside the window is too intense, and she’s weary of her mother’s constant exclamations.

  That’ll be the Alps, her mother says, wiping her breath from the porthole with her handkerchief.

  Anna looks for the hundredth time. It’s a cloud.

  That’ll be them, all right, she says, closing her eyes again. She would like to look at the clouds properly, without her mother wittering at her: she wants to imagine Lewis, sitting cross-legged and smiling in at her, his roll-up dangling from the side of his mouth and his green eyes shining. She finds it frustrating that she can’t remember his face, just details: the flecks of hazel in his eyes, the long white scar under his bottom lip; his smell. She’s near to it now, there’s something about the scent of him, a familiar, long-ago . . .

  They say if you look hard enough, exclaims her mother, breaking the spell, You can see all the dead climbers. They just leave them there, you know, in the snow. They’re preserved, she adds, in a whisper.

  You’re confusing it with Everest, sighs Anna.

  Don’t be ridiculous, we won’t be crossing Everest! Your geography’s rotten!

  The man next to Anna presses the bell above his head. Her mother gives her a nudge.

  He’s pressed that bell, she says.

  When the steward comes, he orders a second drink.

  Would you like one? the man asks, in a friendly tone, and Anna accepts for both of them. Her mother looks suspicious, but when the whisky arrives, she smiles and waggles the miniature at him.

  Down the hatch! she cries.

  The man nods, and gives a wink only Anna can see.

  Maybe that’ll shut her up, he mutters, leaning back into his seat and smiling in a way that Anna finds extremely offensive. She closes her eyes again, careful not to take up too much of the arm-rests on either side. She dreams of deep water.

  Anna found it extraordinary that the swimming teacher was also the dinner lady. Her name was Mrs Chambers. She had an old face, and dyed orange hair which looked like fuzzy felt. As Anna and the other children shivered in the shallow end, Mrs Chambers stood at the edge of the pool. She’d still got on the checked overall she wore when she dished out the mash.

  Hands on heads, now bend at the knees! All the way down, don’t think I can’t see you at the back, Philip Cross. All the way down!

  Anna’s first plunge into the water was shocking. It went straight up her nose, with a stinging black pain, which made her forget not to breathe in, and when she surfaced again, choking, everything was blurred. But she could hear Mrs Chambers’s shouts echoing in the vast pool.

  Anna Calder, you’ll go straight back down! Straight back down!

  And Anna went straight back down, but with her hands on her head she still couldn’t stop the water from shooting up her nose and swirling in her ears.

  Afterwards, in the changing room, she felt blind and sick and partially deaf. Her friend Yvonne was standing on tiptoe, trying to comb her hair in the mirror. Yvonne had managed to get dressed quite easily, but Anna was still struggling with her woollen tights. They didn’t seem to fit any more; it was as if her legs had got longer and fatter. She pulled them up as far as they’d go, which left the gusset stretched taut between her knees.

  Look at you, said Yvonne, peering at her, Oooh, Count Dracula!

  Anna hauled herself up on the ledge and stared into the mirror. Her eyes were full of blood. She’ll definitely go blind, she thought. She might even die. In those days, in Anna’s world, it was possible for anyone to die, without warning.

  Anna’s mother is delighted with the room and the view over the harbour, but is most impressed by the barking dog. It’s chained to a stake in a building plot just beyond the hotel wall, and has been straining at the end of its leash for the last ten minutes, letting out hoarse yelps. Anna had spent hours on the Internet searching for the right hotel: air-conditioned, a room with a view of the harbour, no all-night club below. The one she found looked perfect; a faded, colonial-type place, with a cool garden surrounded by trees. She didn’t anticipate barking dogs.

  I can ask them for another room, she says, I’m sure they’d be happy to oblige.

  Oh you, don’t fuss. It’s only a dog. Even a dog has to sleep, says her mother.

  Anna puts her suitcase on the bed near the window, just the same, and before they go out for dinner, she pulls in the shutters and locks them. It’s suddenly quiet enough to hear piped music.

  Fancy that! her mother cries, opening the window at the other end of the room and peering over the gardens, They’ve got a band. Cabbage would’ve loved that!

  They’re sitting under a café umbrella, looking out at the sunset. Their plan—Anna’s plan—is to have a light supper and a good night’s sleep. She has the car-hire people coming early in the morning, and is finding the conversation wearing: her mother has remarked fully and loudly on other people’s idea of holiday clothes, has listed the various kinds of vessel on the water, and the numerous types of fish lined up along the quayside in their crates of ice, and now she’s turned her attention to the menu, which she reads out to Anna, item by item. She pauses just long enough to suck on her drinking straw.

  This cocktail tastes a bit odd, she says, taking another experimental sip, It’s sort of . . . minty. I said, it’s very minty, Anna, she says, louder.

  That’ll be the crème de menthe, mum, I told you you wouldn’t like it.

  I didn’t say I didn’t like it, only that it tastes minty. Like Bisodol. And don’t call me mum.

  Sorry. Rita. Have you decided what you want to eat—Rita? Anna smiles up at the waiter hovering at the edge of the table.

  I’ll have him, says her mother, On toast.

  Anna feels a crimson flush on her face, but the waiter grins.

  I’m afraid I’m off the menu tonight, madam. But maybe tomorrow?

  It’s a date, says her mother, So tonight I’ll settle for the lamb. As long as it’s got a bone in it. I’ve got a little friend, you see.r />
  The waiter nods.

  With chips, madam?

  Go on then, as it’s you. Give me some chips as well.

  Her mother leans on her arm. They’re staring at the water, and at the sky, which has turned from pale blue to a damp, drizzled grey. A wind blows up from nowhere, gusting around the harbour and shivering the lights strung along the waterfront.

  I don’t feel right, Anna.

  How not right? Is it your hip?

  Not that. I think that plane has done something funny to my ears. It’s like the ground’s not steady. Like when you come out of that lift in the shopping centre. You know—wonky.

  Anna feels the weight of her mother against her.

  Maybe it was that second cocktail, she says, Or the lamb.

  Maybe! says her mother, and patting her handbag where she has stashed the bone, No. The lamb was lovely. Didn’t that plane make you feel ill?

  A bit, says Anna, But you know me—any excuse. What did you always say to me? Hypochondria is a real illness?

  This makes her mother smile. She shifts her weight, looking about her for a bench to sit on.

  Why don’t we go back to the hotel? says Anna, And relax in the garden?

  Good idea, says her mother, A brandy would settle all that food. Cures all known ailments, she says, Even hypochondria.

  When Anna got home from the swimming lesson, she showed her mother what had happened to her eyes. She’d been off school too much since her father died, with various ailments that had no specific source. Her mother said they were just worries, but the redness was plain enough to be real, and Anna felt sore when she blinked, as if someone had blown sand in her face.

  It’s the chlorine they put in the pool, her mother said, tipping Anna’s chin up to the light to see better, You must be allergic to it.

  I’ve got something in my ear too, said Anna, trying not to cry, It’s all stuffy.