That’s just water, said her mother, It’ll be gone by tomorrow.
Anna woke in the dark, with a fierce pain in her left ear, as if someone had pushed a knitting needle through to her brain, and was jabbing it back and fore. Her cries woke her mother, who went straight across to Nonna Farrugia. While her mother stood waiting at the gate for the doctor to arrive, Nonna sat with Anna, who was holding a hot water bottle against the side of her head and screaming with delirious abandon. She wanted her father, but she didn’t know where he’d gone.
He’s gone to heaven to be with the angels, darling, said Nonna, when Anna cried for him. The old woman pulled Anna towards her, held her tight, and cried with her.
Anna cannot recall any more of that night, not the doctor or the trip in his car to the hospital, nor the nurses or the cool pillow, nor her mother, sitting at her side in the half-light. Even though she has been told this story over and again, fever had wiped the memory. But Anna can recall Nonna, her arms around her, the skin on them warm and soft and loose-fitting. And Nonna’s extraordinary wailing, as if she could blot out all the pain simply by being that much louder.
Wake up, Anna! Wake up!
It’s jet black in the room. Anna turns over on her hearing side to find out what the fuss is about.
Anna! Anna, quick!
Her mother is swaying on her bed; but no, now her eyes are growing accustomed to the darkness, Anna sees that the bed is swaying, and above it the chandelier is chattering its glass.
We’re having an earthquake, you deaf moo! shouts her mother. She staggers across the floor towards the shutters and hangs on to the hasp like a man at sea. And then it’s over. In the distance, a siren goes off.
Right. That’s me, her mother says, grappling her way towards the light-switch; the room is filled with sudden, swinging light.
It was only a tremor, mum, says Anna, They have them here, sometimes. I should’ve mentioned it.
She watches as her mother zips herself into her skirt, and puts her handbag over her shoulder. There’s a finality to her actions which makes Anna’s bones ache.
What are you doing? she says.
Well, I won’t sleep now, will I? What if there’s another one? I’m getting my stuff together.
Anna can’t argue with this logic. She swings herself over the edge of the bed, and watches as her mother goes into the bathroom. She waits, not quite knowing what to do next. Her mother’s voice comes echoing over the partition.
I knew something wasn’t right down at the harbour, Anna. I could feel the ground wobbling. I must be psychic, mustn’t I?
Anna stares at the ceiling.
What am I thinking, then? she says, to herself.
In America they have them bags you know, her mother continues, With chocolate in them. For emergencies. They’re called . . . emergency bags.
The dog has started barking again. Anna considers the bone in her mother’s handbag, but before she can suggest this diversion, there’s another shout from the bathroom.
Anna! Come and see this!
Her mother is on her hands and knees on the floor, with her head cocked low. It looks as if she’s listening for another tremor. She’s staring at the space under the basin.
Well, I never, she says, her face full of wonder.
Anna crouches down next to her, and follows her finger to a line, a large diagonal crack running from the floor tiles to the top edge of the wash-stand.
That wasn’t there before, her mother says.
It might have been. We might not have noticed it, mum.
Might not have noticed? It’s like Cheddar Gorge. We’ll have cockroaches any minute, you’ll see. Pass me down that toothpaste.
Anna watches as her mother squirts a steady wodge of Colgate into the crack, smoothing it out with her finger.
What do you think that’s going to do? Poison them?
Anna’s mother looks up at her and starts to laugh. On her hands and knees, with her head hanging down and her bag half off her shoulder, she laughs until she’s winded.
At least if they bite us, they’ll have nice fresh breath!
TWENTY-SIX
The woman at the Information Centre eyes Lewis with suspicion. He has circled the exhibits twice, picked up a stash of leaflets only to discard them again, and he’s been scrutinizing the scale models for ten minutes or more. Usually it’s local lads who give her trouble, seeing if they can get the blades on the models to move faster, or flicking their chewing gum at them. She watches as Lewis puts his hand up to the blades before she speaks.
Is there anything I can help you with, sir? she says, trying to make her voice at once commanding and friendly, Only, visitors are not allowed to touch the interactives.
Lewis draws his hand back and slides it into his jeans pocket. He turns around, smiling.
No, he says, There’s nothing I want.
She waits, unsure of what to say next.
You can take a trip out, you know, to see them close up, she says.
Lewis approaches the desk and leans on the glass counter. He smiles again, showing his teeth as he bends near.
In a boat? he whispers.
That’s right. We’ve got a leaflet somewhere.
No don’t bother, he says, But now you mention it, there is something you could do for me.
The woman smiles back. Behind him, a school group is being led round the exhibits by a young man who looks barely old enough to be their teacher: she will have to keep an eye on them, too.
I have a friend who works there—on the project. Only I’ve lost her number. I wonder, do you know where the employees are billeted?
The woman laughs lightly. She gets all sorts of requests, but this one is new.
I imagine they’re billeted all over Norfolk, she says, aping his tone, It’s quite a large workforce. Have you tried calling their main office?
They don’t give out addresses, says Lewis flatly.
The woman shoots him a narrow-eyed look.
Quite so, she says, Well, I’ve got a leaflet here somewhere listing all the current Velsters projects. That might help. Bear with me.
She turns to fetch him a leaflet off the stand. By the time she’s found it, he’s gone.
It’s the last day of October. Despite the constant onshore wind, the temperature outside is mild compared to the air-conditioned chill of the Information Centre. The whiteness of the sun makes everything look fresh. Lewis is growing to like it: the regular buffeting action of the breeze makes him feel as though he is being cleansed, as if it’s searching out the dust inside him and blowing it into space. In fact, the whole place is growing on him, so far is it from the cram of London, or the bad taste in his mouth that has become the memory of Wales. He could never understand why people ran away to remote places when the easiest way to lose yourself is in a city. But now, he knows why. It’s the feeling of being remote, inside, in the bones, that makes it so alluring. He misses Anna: it’s been four days since she left, and another three until she’s back. He knows his inactivity is linked to her: whatever else he plans—and the plan is only to find Carl—he would like to see her, just once more. He fantasizes about the things he would tell her and how he would hold her, and this detaches him from the other feeling he has, as though he’s lost a skin, as though he’s been flayed. There’s a sharp keyhole of blackness when he tries to remember the last night he spent in Cardiff, and the recce of the house. Even thinking about it makes the blood beat behind his eyes. He walks along the beach wall, still looking all the while at the thirty wind turbines on the horizon, spinning air into heat. He stops to look again: now there are twenty-eight, now twenty-five. He shuts one eye—the one that’s throbbing, and counts again: thirty. He feels a dark bloom growing at his temple. He opens his hand and stares into it, seeing the lines blur and merge into one. Lewis can sense, rather than see, a shadow growing over the vision in his left eye, as if someone beside him has put up their own hand to block the light. He feels the panic rising and t
ries to breathe through it, expanding his chest and ignoring the catch inside, like a crochet needle hooked between his ribs. A prickle of sweat at his hairline, heat in his armpits. He knows if he looks upwards, he’ll see a cloud of black water, the bubbles hissing past him to the surface, a snake of oil smearing his vision.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The man delivering the hire car is Anna’s age, with a neat moustache and delicate hands. Despite the heat of the morning, he’s wearing a suit and tie.
Where are you taking us, then? asks Anna’s mother, smiling up at him. Her lipstick is perfect today.
He’s not taking us anywhere, I’ll be driving. Mr—erm—sorry, I didn’t catch your name, says Anna, This gentleman’s just dropping the car off, mum.
It’s Nick, isn’t it? her mother says. She gives Anna a quick, disgusted look, Nice to meet you, Nick. You’d be very welcome to come too. I won’t object. We’re going to the beach.
In the car, they don’t speak. Anna’s mother grips the seatbelt every time a vehicle approaches from the opposite direction. Anna can feel the silence like a current in the air: her mother would like to give a running commentary about the state of the roads and the other drivers, and Anna’s own struggles with the unfamiliar gearbox. She says nothing until Anna negotiates a tight bend, taking them over the white line in the centre of the carriageway.
You’ve got to get in more, she snaps, You’ll get me killed.
Good, says Anna.
Don’t be horrible to your mother.
Well, stop showing me up. Why do you have to flirt with everything in trousers? ‘Nice to meet you, Nick! Coming to the beach, Nick?’ For God’s sake.
Exasperated, her mother shakes her head.
His name was Nick, I tell you. I heard him say it. You don’t listen, that’s your problem. And he was such a pet. If you’d have shown him some encouragement, we’d have a proper driver.
I am a proper driver, says Anna.
Her mother stares through the windscreen.
I mean one that can drive, she says.
Anna almost misses the sign for the coast. She turns too quickly, the map and water bottle flying off her mother’s lap into the footwell. Her mother bends to retrieve them, still talking.
Just because you don’t take an interest—doesn’t mean I have to be rude as well. One ignoramus in the family is quite enough, thank you.
Can’t hear you, mum, says Anna, through clenched teeth.
You’ll have that on your tombstone, I reckon. Can’t hear you! Can’t hear you!
Even though they’ve made an early start, the beach is busier than Anna would like. A large gathering—a mixture of old and young and male and female—has claimed a space near the rocks. They look like a family group. Further over between the trees and the shoreline is a long row of gleaming bodies lying in the open. Her mother makes to approach them, but Anna doesn’t want to get too near, and puts her bag down on the first patch of rough sand they come to. There’s a smell of thyme, and roasting meat from the café halfway up the beach. Anna rolls out a beach towel for her mother, and one for herself, and then pauses.
We could go up to the café, mum, if you like, she says, trying to make peace, You could have a cold beer.
Why don’t we sit up there, says her mother, pointing to where the family group is, And make camp first.
Seeing Anna’s face set, she tries another tack.
There’ll be a bit more shade for you.
I’ll be all right, here, mum. I just thought it would be nice to get a drink, maybe a sandwich.
They won’t mind. We won’t be invading their space, her mother says, moving towards them.
Anna pulls up the towels and trudges after her. They pass the family, Anna’s mother waving and shouting out a cheery kalimera! and Anna follows behind, crushed with shame as the group stop what they’re doing to stare at them. They settle in the shade. The boulders below them are huge and foam-flecked, with small spits of sand in between. Two rock pools, deep and clear, stare up at the sky. The waves cut a churning path through the rocks, and the tide washing in and out is a noise that’s familiar to Anna: it’s the sound she hears in her head at night, in the darkness.
Didn’t know you could speak the language, Anna mutters, moving their bags slightly further away from the family.
The hotel lady taught it to me this morning. At breakfast. Which was very nice. You wouldn’t want a sandwich now if you’d had some breakfast. It was boiled egg, and toast and honey. I can still learn things, you know. I’m not senile.
Her mother unbuttons her blouse, exposing her camisole and the crêpey skin of her throat. Underneath, she wears a one-piece swimsuit in royal blue. Her hair stands on end, feathery in the dappled light. She doesn’t stop chattering as she pulls the camisole up over her head.
The honey’s lovely, isn’t it? I think it must be local. Now, Cabbage, he loves his honey. Bran, and sliced apple, and sultanas, and yoghurt, all with honey on the top. I don’t know where you put it all, I tell him, Mr Hollow Legs! We’ll get some to take back.
Anna flips the lid on the sun-cream and sniffs it, passing it to her mother, who is smoothing her hair down with her hands.
We’ve only just got here, she says, trying not to look at her mother’s head, at the pinkness of her scalp.
I know. I’m not senile.
You’ve already said that, says Anna, in a spiteful tone, The care homes are full of old people, dribbling and chanting, I’m not senile, I’m not senile!
I don’t know why you’re so nasty to me. You’ve been in a bad mood since we left England.
Yes. And d’you know why? It’s been Cabbage this, Cabbage that, even before we got on the plane. If you miss him so much, why don’t you send him a postcard?
Her mother rummages about in her handbag, peering into the depths and banging the sides together. Specks of dust glitter the air.
Ah, she cries, finding the phone, which she tosses onto the towel spread out between them. Anna stares at it. It’s thick as an ingot, covered in plastic leopardskin print. She pulls a face.
Whose is that?
It’s mine, says her mother, Well, no, it’s Cabb— . . . it belongs to a friend.
I thought you said no phones, says Anna, the words coming hard from her mouth, In fact, I distinctly heard you say you didn’t want me to bring my phone. No phones, you said, no phones, no sketchbooks, no worries: we’re going to have a proper holiday.
It’s for emergencies. Anyway, I can’t get the bugger to work. International roaming, she adds.
So? says Anna.
Doesn’t roam.
Anna picks it up and presses the buttons. She puts it to her ear.
Hi, Brendan, she says, after a pause, Just letting you know we got here safely and we’re having a lovely time. Wish you were here, et cetera. I’ll call you when we get back. From my mobile.
She throws the phone down, staring hard at her mother.
Now, would you like me to call anyone for you?
Her mother sniffs the air.
If you show me how, I might do it later.
Suit yourself, says Anna, But you’ll only forget.
Anna’s mother shoots her a hurt look. She turns to stare at the view, whistling to herself, while Anna straightens out the towels again, arranging the bags behind her. She leans against the rock, opening her paperback and breaking the spine with a swift crack. She’s on page five when her mother bends across, gesturing with her arm for her handbag, which she finally grabs by the strap, lifting it across Anna’s body. A cascade of sand sprays Anna’s shoulder. She stares in fury over the top of her book as her mother rummages again, mumbling to herself. Out of the bag, she takes a compact. With a trembling hand, she reapplies her lipstick.
What are you doing that for? cries Anna, Who are you hoping to impress? The fish?
I’ve worn it all my life, says her mother, Why should I stop now?
Because no one’s looking.
I’m looking,
she says, too quietly for Anna, who has turned over onto her side.
They stay like this all morning, under the overhanging rock, the woman in her blue swimsuit and pink lipstick, gazing at the sea, and her daughter, long and narrow beside her, reading her book with one arm crooked over her head.
When Anna wakes, her mother’s gone. She sits up straight, shading her hand over her eyes, and searches the sand, and the boulders, and the sea below. She climbs up onto a jutting slab of rock, just in time to catch sight of a slip of colour moving between the boulders and into one of the rock pools beyond. She yells, then runs, scrabbling down the steep slope until she’s on the sand and shouting.
What the hell are you doing?
I’m having a stroll, says her mother, What does it look like?
How did you get down?
Her mother wades back into the shallows, her face creased and sweaty.
One of those young boys gave me a hand. They’re not Greek, you know. They’re German. But they’re ever so nice.
She bends slightly to one side, bouncing on her left leg, and then does the same with the other side, as if she’s warming up for a sprint.
My hip’s much better, she says, Feels easier. Must be the weather.
Coiled over her shoulder is a length of pale green rope. She pats it fondly.
I saw this, and I thought, that’s a very unusual colour for seaweed, but look—it’s fisherman’s rope! I followed it all the way out. It must be twenty foot long.
Anna can’t trust herself to speak. She looks at the rope, and her mother’s hands, turning it over as she admires her find.
Can we take it back as a souvenir, Anna? she asks, It’s such a pretty colour.
Let’s go back up, Anna says quietly.
Her mother looks out over the pool, her eyes following the marks in the sand where she has dragged her find.
I wouldn’t mind a dip. I’m feeling a bit hot.
But you can’t swim, mum.
No, but you can, nearly. You could float me.
Winterton Blue Page 16
