Winterton Blue

by Trezza Azzopardi

  Anna thinks she’s misheard.

  After what? she says, confused.

  After that time in Cornwall, says her mother emphatically, as if Anna’s a simpleton, When he nearly drowned. He’d got an ant bite on his elbow and went in the sea to cool it off.

  She presses the button again. From far above comes the sound of doors sliding shut, and the steady grumble of a motor.

  I don’t remember it, says Anna, How old was I?

  Her mother inspects herself from all angles in the mirrored walls of the lift.

  You? You weren’t even born, silly, she scoffs, It was on our first anniversary.

  Then how could I remember? says Anna, through gritted teeth.

  I didn’t say you’d remember. I said you’d know. Do keep up.

  Anna follows her down the cool marbled corridor. Now there’ll be a fuss with the key, as there has been every day of the holiday.

  And how would I know? says Anna, staring holes into the back of her mother’s head.

  Because you’ve inherited the same fear, obviously. I’ve been observing you—you sit so far back from the sea, you might as well stay in the hotel. Here, I can’t get this key to work.

  I’ve left it open, says Anna, turning the handle.

  And you a city-dweller, says her mother, disappearing into the darkened room. She opens the shutters at the far window to let in an even pool of light, and turns to her daughter,

  So, if it wasn’t your father swimming in your dream, who was it?

  THIRTY-THREE

  The light over the east coast is soft and grey. There’s no wind, and the stillness of the day is broken only by the liquid trill of a blackbird, and the random cries of the gulls as they fall and rise over the sea.

  Anna’s room is not what Lewis expects: it’s a scene of devastation. The wardrobe doors are hanging open, the clothes spilling out all over the floor; there’s a slump of books across the bed and a nest of dirty cups on the bedside table. The walls are covered with sketches and Polaroids, all showing the same scene: the wind-farm, both imagined and real. Thick rolls of paper have been wedged with a steam iron against the back of the desk, and the desk itself is littered with an assortment of charcoal stubs and scrunches of balled-up paper. He unfurls one, holds it one way, then another, then turns it upside down and takes it to the window. It looks like a seascape, but he can’t be sure. Perhaps it’s a skyscape. He thinks it’s very beautiful. Tempted to flatten it, he considers the iron—whether that would do the trick. There isn’t time. Turning the sketch face down onto the blotter, he presses out the creases as best he can, then rolls the paper into a tube and slips it in his jacket pocket.

  He has a gift he’d like to leave her, but he can’t think of where to put it in all the mess. He doesn’t consider that Anna would know exactly where everything is. Deciding that she’ll find it eventually, he takes the book of poems and leaves it open on the bed, using the box of matches he stole from her to wedge the page. A last look at the room; nestled among the bedclothes and the spilling books, and looking completely at home, is his love-song to her.

  A Woman to a Man

  To own nothing, but to be—

  like the vagrant wind that bears

  faintest fragrance of the sea

  or, in anger, lifts and tears

  yet hoards no property;

  I praise that state of mind:

  wind, music, and you, are such.

  All the visible you find

  (the invisible you touch)

  alter, and leave behind.

  To pure being you devote

  all your days. You are your eyes,

  seemingly near but remote.

  Gone now, the sense of surprise,

  like a dying musical note.

  Like fragrance, you left no trace,

  like anger, you came my way,

  like music, you filled the space

  (by going, the more you stay).

  Departures were in your face.

  Anna reads the poem twice, the little book trembling in her hands. He’s left no note, no sign, nothing except this and an empty match-box. She buries her face between the pages to find the smell of him; leather, cedar, sea-salt. She could wail with the pain in her. Marta said she had heard the front door closing just before lunchtime. Thinking it was Anna and her mother returning home, she’d gone out into the hall to greet them, only to find a heap of notes and small coins on the table. Who else could it be? Marta said, with a sad smile—and not waiting for a reply, added—It could be no one.

  Marta’s calling her now, from the floor above. Anna shouldn’t be angry with her, but she feels it anyway, feels a growing frustration with everyone here—Vernon and her mother, cosying up in the lounge, and Marta, clean, efficient Marta with her bright, artless tones, shouting at her. Anna listens more closely: the tone isn’t bright—there’s an edge of panic there. Anna takes the stairs two at a time, swinging round the door-frame of Lewis’s room. Marta is standing at the window, holding up the net curtain.

  I didn’t hear anything, she says, as if to apologize, Not a sound.

  The room is bare, much as Anna remembers it from her first night at the house. But the window is clear in the middle, as if a cloth has been wiped over the glass. Closer, Anna feels the faint waft of sea-wind on her face.

  He smashed it? says Anna.

  And this one, says Marta, holding up the net at the second pane, And look here.

  She turns to the little table; the tray and the tea-things are covered in shattered glass. Hanging lopsided on the wall is the picture of the river, a diamond smash at its centre. Anna lifts it up to the light. There are fragments of glass stuck around the edges of the frame, and on them, on the picture itself, a thousand dots of dried brown blood.

  Is this all the damage? asks Anna, composing her face.

  All I can see, says Marta, There’s nothing in the bathroom.

  Anna closes the door and sits on the edge of the bed. Marta stays at the broken window, as if on watch.

  Did you see him at all yesterday? She asks.

  Marta’s face looks pale blue in the window-light.

  Yes. In fact, he had dinner with us. He was quite sociable. Kristian rather liked him.

  Your son was here? asks Anna

  Yes, and Mr Cabbage—Mr Savoy. It was a merry crowd. We had a pleasant evening.

  And did he mention anything about leaving?

  Anna hears the tone of her own voice, like an inquisitor. Marta shrugs, but her off-hand manner is unconvincing.

  He was interested in a place Kristian mentioned. Along the coast here.

  Where along the coast?

  Marta doesn’t answer at first. She sighs. She looks out of the window; she looks anywhere but directly at Anna. Eventually, she sits down next to her on the bed and stares at the floor.

  Anna, don’t go after this man. He is—look about you—this is a troubled man, a lot of damage inside him. He’s dangerous to love.

  Anna’s heart is banging so loud she’s sure Marta can hear it.

  Don’t tell them two downstairs about this, she says, Just tell them I’ve gone out for a while. Now, Marta. What place on the coast?

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The walking’s not so bad, given that Lewis’s usual mode of transport is a van. And his feet aren’t giving him any trouble, although, as he’s trying to stay mainly out of sight—keeping wherever possible to the beach—he has to stop now and then and tip out the sand accumulating in his boots.

  Within a mile of starting he came across a man sea-fishing, a black-cut figure against the backdrop of the waves. They were the only two people on the sand. As Lewis approached, walking a curve around the umbrella and boxes set up on the tide-line, the man turned his head to greet him, just the briefest of acknowledgements, and then continued his long stare over the north sea.

  Sea on the right and sandy cliff-face on the left is all that greets Lewis after Caister. Occasionally, the cliffs above him have crumb
led like sponge cake onto the beach, leaving big-mouthed gaps which reveal a caravan park, the red-tiled roof of a last house, sometimes just another piece of sky.

  He managed to find out from Kristian how far he has to travel—eight or ten miles, he’d said, depending on the route. He has a fizzing sensation in his chest that is close to happiness. As soon as he was out of sight of the main road, Lewis found a wheelie bin, and opened the lid. He did an inventory one more time, listing under his breath:

  Fleece jeans shirts socks pants washbag book of poems—no, no poems—knife beans pouch—and chain. No chain.

  He took the black pouch out of his kitbag, considered for a moment, then put it in his pocket: that was all he wanted. He threw his kitbag into the bin and walked away. Now, with nothing to carry but himself, he feels light as the light above him. As he walks further north, the sky turns itself inside out, so the bag of cloud hanging over Yarmouth becomes a silver bowl. He has left every penny he had at the guest-house, but he’s hungry and thirsty now. He turns off the beach at the next gap in the dunes, climbing up the rough grass path, and sees the start of a road. At the end of a narrow terrace, just when he’s beginning to think there’s nothing to be had, he sees a sign: the California Inn is open for business.

  Anna throws her head back and has a scream. When she’s finished screaming, she hammers her fist repeatedly on the steering wheel, as if that would do the trick. All it does is sound the horn, which brings Vernon running down the passageway at the side of the house. He leans his hands on the garden wall, takes a deep breath, and launches: which is how Anna notices him, falling like Humpty Dumpty on the grass verge.

  Go away! she cries, For Christ’s sake!

  Vernon limps over and pulls open the passenger door. He’s smiling but he looks pained.

  Are you having trouble? he asks, Only, I could hear that horn in the lounge.

  Anna gives him a withering glance.

  What do you think? she says.

  Vernon considers.

  Well, if the horn’s working, it’s probably not your battery. Pop her lid open, and I’ll have a little peek.

  It’s the neighbourhood, Vernon, she says, trying to keep her voice level, Or haven’t you noticed?

  She points towards his door. At first, he doesn’t understand, but then he inspects the tyres, walking right round the car, shaking his head and tutting. She winds down her window.

  All flat, he says, The little bastards.

  And they’ve stolen my badge, Anna says, feeling the tears behind her eyes, Brendan got me that not two weeks ago.

  You could always go in my car, says Vernon, If it’s so very urgent.

  Your car? says Anna, stupidly, You’ve got a car?

  Vernon is almost apologetic.

  She doesn’t go out very often so I keep her locked up safe. Should you like to inspect her first?

  Lewis orders a pint of bitter and a cheese baguette. He’s the only customer in the pub, but he stays at the bar. The girl serving him has a child-like, soft look about her: Lewis wonders if she’s even old enough to be serving drinks. While he gulps his beer, she disappears out of sight. From the adjoining room, music starts to play, the unmistakable roll and fanfare of electronic noise. Lewis is thinking of finishing his drink, pocketing his baguette, and walking—what would she do, this teenager, chase him down the road? But instead, he follows the sound round the corner. The girl is playing on a games machine, stabbing her finger at the screen.

  Any good? he asks, leaning against the side of the box.

  Reflected in her face are sharp squares of coloured light. She doesn’t take her eyes off the game, but she shakes her head. Lewis moves behind her to get a better view. It’s a pub quiz machine, one of the ones Lewis is familiar with; has, in fact, been barred from playing.

  Karl Marx, he says, and she hits the screen.

  1939.

  Rome—no, Florence. Quick!

  Her fingers hover over the glass as the seconds tick down to the next round.

  What category? she says, looking up at him.

  He chooses film. In the next category, he chooses pop music. When they get to the £20 question, the screen freezes.

  Aw, she says.

  Lewis wanders back to the bar and finishes his sandwich.

  Has it done that before? he asks, as she sidles round the counter.

  I don’t think it’s ever got that far before, she says, eyeing him with interest.

  It’s probably fixed, he says, pushing the empty plate away, Is there a bank round here?

  The girl puts her head on one side. She looks like she’s heard this story before, but she surprises him with her answer.

  The post office will cash you a cheque, she says, bright with her idea, They’re always doing it for me. Or further up the road there’s a Budgen, you can get cash-back.

  Lewis drains his glass and winks at her.

  See you in ten minutes, he says.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Vernon helps Anna adjust the front seat and the wing mirrors, all the while giving instructions.

  She pulls a bit to the left, he says, handing her the key, And she’s a bit draughty; I’ve been meaning to get that window replaced, but parts are a devil to find.

  I’ll be fine, Vernon, thank you, says Anna, impatient to be gone.

  He fiddles with the blanket on the back seat, then searches in the glove-box.

  I normally keep a nip in here, for emergencies . . . ah, here it is, he says, shaking the flask, Winter warmer!

  Vernon, really, I’ll be alright.

  The engine starts with a shudder, then settles into a coughing rumble. Over the din, Anna thanks him again. Vernon leans through the window and startles her by placing a kiss on top of her head.

  You take care, he says, waving her away.

  From the helicopter, the damage is clear. All along the coastline from north to south, the land is crumbling into the sea. At Happisburgh, the pilot points out the church, the bungalows edging towards destruction, the bed and breakfast house with its garden halfway down the cliff. Sonia leans into her window, shading her eyes from the sun cutting across the cockpit. At this angle, the newly exposed cliff-face looks like a weeping wound, bleeding for miles above the sand. The helicopter rises up and out, over the sea above Horsey, so that the view Sonia has now is like a lost picture of England: the rust and red of the nature reserve rolls away to a wide expanse of green and ochre land. A windmill stands proud above a cut of black water.

  It’s fantastic, she says, and Alec nods.

  It’s pretty good, he says, You never get tired of it.

  They head inland, flying a wide circle around the wind-farm. On the road into Winterton there’s a queue of traffic, tailing half a mile back and disappearing round a sharp bend. At the front is a pale blue convertible. Sonia can’t hear the car horns, but she can see the driver making gestures with her arm, instructing the vehicles to overtake. Closer, the wind turbines on Blood Hill form a sleek avenue. Sonia takes photographs from various angles before they arc back out over the village, the painted cottages as small and square as dolly mixtures. Passing directly above Winterton Lodge, Sonia picks out the roof of her Suzuki and that of a dirty white van, before the pilot resumes his course and heads out over the sea. In the distance, the rotors at Scroby wind-farm flicker like candles on a cake.

  Fancy a drink back at base? asks Alec.

  Sonia puts her thumbs up, grinning with glee. They don’t speak again until the landing pad is directly below them and they’re touching down. Sonia feels so elated, and so deaf, the tune her mobile plays is like a distant song.

  Inside the van, a conversation is taking place. Amongst the empty beer cans, crisp packets, sandwich cartons, Rizla papers, and rolls of cling-film that litter the passenger side, Manny tries to find a place to put his feet. He’s had to take a coach, two trains, and then another agonizing bus crawl to get this far, and now Sonia’s giving him earache. He passes the mobile back to Carl, who is mak
ing a cigarette. He jams the phone under his chin.

  Okay, girl, see you later, he says, Yeah, I will. I said I will—

  Carl glances over to his father,

  —No, he’s alright. I’ll bring him over. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Haha, you n’all.

  As soon as he ends the call, the phone rings again. Carl says two words which are lost on Manny, and hits the button. The phone rings again.

  Will you switch that bugger off, for Christ’s sake! shouts Manny, trying to grab it, We’ve got a problem here, in case you’d forgotten.

  I don’t see a problem, says Carl, licking the paper edge of his roll-up, We’ll go and meet Sonia and then you can take the shitting van, I’m done with it anyway. Give us your return ticket and we’ll call it swaps.

  You can buy your own bloody ticket! And what d’you think I’m going to do with this? says Manny, banging his hand on the dashboard. The glove-box falls open, causing a sheaf of polythene bags to spill out into his lap.

  Give it to back to your friend, says Carl, scooping up the bags and shoving them down the side pocket, Wondered where they’d got to.

  He doesn’t want it. He wants his brother’s bracelet, Manny says. And, oh yeah, I nearly forgot: he wants to kill you.

  He’ll have to join the queue, says Carl, filling the van with thick, sweet smoke, And dad, let me tell you, it’s one hell of a queue.

  Manny puts his feet down in the debris and springs open the passenger door.

  Come on, I’m not sitting here waiting.

  Carl jumps out beside him, trying to keep pace as Manny heads towards the lodge.

  What you gonna do? Book yourself in for the night?

  I’m going to keep one step ahead, laddo. That’s what I’m going to do.

  Lewis is sitting on the sand, his back against a rusted jag of sea defence. From far off, the groyne looked like a medieval pew—he can’t remember the name for the thing he’s thinking of—but he knows it’ll come back, as everything, eventually, comes back. He’s been staring at the ocean for hours now. He’s watched the sun, casting a wide net of sparks on the sea, watched it slide across the sky, over his head, and behind him. He’s watched the dog walkers, and the birds, but mainly he’s kept his eyes on the horizon. The sky now has gone the colour of ice; the sea is tinfoil. When he met the man fishing a few hours earlier, Lewis wondered how he could possibly spend the day staring out like this and not go mad. Now he’s beginning to understand: it’s the opposite of mad. His hand is sore; the knuckles are busted and there’s a star-shaped gash in the centre of his palm. He licks at it, tasting salt, longing for Anna.