Winterton Blue

by Trezza Azzopardi

  Is that your daughter’s voice? he says, holding her close.

  I can’t hear a thing, darling, says Rita, Can you?

  The van is parked on some dirt ground behind Manny’s allotment. The rust on the bonnet and over the wheel arches has been obscured by the respray, but Lewis can still see the many dents in the bodywork, which haven’t been knocked out, and one or two that are new to him. Both men sit in silence up front, staring out of the window. At the back of the allotments where the fields used to be there’s a new estate, the houses lit up with carriage lamps and garden lights. They twinkle across the valley like Brigadoon. Beyond it is the river. Lewis can’t see it from here, but like an old scar, he can feel it. The wind brings in sharp pips of snow, sticking to the windscreen like grit.

  These’ll be gone soon, Manny says, pointing at the regular black oblongs which mark out each allotment, More houses, see. People don’t want to grow their own veg, they want to own their own home.

  Lewis sucks his teeth and says nothing. He’s been sitting with Manny for nearly an hour now, trying to decide. Manny has been more patient than he’d give him credit for, but he can tell his time’s almost up.

  And Barrett won’t be there? he asks again, just to be sure.

  Manny gives him a look, but doesn’t deign to reply.

  And she won’t have some other boyfriend hiding in the pantry or something. Under the bed.

  I just told her you’d pay her a visit, son. I didn’t say when, I didn’t say today, I just said you’d do it. Sometime.

  And she said? he asks.

  And she said, ‘If the lad wants to come and see me, that’s up to him.’

  Very touching, says Lewis, turning his head and staring out of the side window. Manny blows on his hands and buries them under his armpits; he’s fed up and he wants Lewis to know it.

  She was never any good with words, but did she care about you—both of you. Might have struggled to show it sometimes, your mother, but she had a heart of gold.

  As Manny talks, Lewis screws his eyes up; try as he might, he can’t imagine what might be in her heart. And Manny’s speech, about love in the doing, not the saying, only makes Lewis remember her actions at the hospital. He didn’t know, then, what the look on her face meant, only that it wasn’t good. He understood it wasn’t loathing or anger—he could deal with that. Now he’s lived long enough to recognize it for what it was: it was indifference. Lewis makes a decision: he doesn’t want to risk having to see that look again.

  Sorry, he says, Not today.

  What about tomorrow? Manny asks, I could come with you if you like.

  Tomorrow, says Lewis, biting his lip, ‘Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.’

  I’ll take that as a maybe, then, says Manny.

  Lewis pulls up at the corner of the street. He gets out of the van and walks round the back to the passenger side, holding the door open while Manny levers himself out. When he sees that Lewis isn’t following, Manny turns on his heel and trots back.

  Come and get yourself some stuff if you’re planning on leaving me. Clothes and that.

  Lewis tugs at the front of the sweatshirt Manny had given him.

  These’ll do fine, he says, but when Manny reaches in his pocket and passes him a bundle of notes, Lewis doesn’t refuse.

  You’ll get it back, he says.

  The two men embrace briefly, under cover of darkness.

  Mañana, says Manny.

  Or the day after that, says Lewis, I’ll be in touch.

  Manny stands under the streetlight and watches as Lewis drives away.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It’s as cold inside the cottage as it is outside. Anna and Brendan follow the estate agent through the rooms as she talks:

  The water can be put back on, but there’s never been a phone connection here, you are aware of that, aren’t you?

  There are two rooms upstairs: a plain bedroom, which looks out onto the lane, and at the back of the house, an ancient bathroom with a sloping roof. The dormer has been left open, and on the window-sill, there’s a ridge of snow. The bath and the floor are speckled with droppings and feathers. The estate agent tugs at the window-lock, which comes off in her hand.

  Like I said in the office, it’s not really habitable, she says, leading them back down the stairs, And we haven’t been rushing to let it because of the slip.

  The slip? asks Brendan.

  I’ll show you, she says, Please, you must be very careful.

  She opens the back door on to a Siberian wind. All three stand huddled in the doorway. The garden is completely overgrown, moulded by snow into brilliant white banks and dripping trees. On one side, a flint wall bulges and curves, and disappears.

  They follow her as she negotiates the long path, treading in her footprints. At the far end of the property, a red tape has been wound around a line of rusted poles sunk into the earth; beyond it is a sheer drop: they can go no further.

  The rest of the garden is down there on the beach, she says, And in a few years, this house will probably go the same way. So you see, it’s not really a viable let any more. It’s an awful shame for the owner, but our hands are tied.

  Brendan looks meaningfully at Anna, but can see he’s already lost her; she’s standing at the edge of the tape, staring out at the sky and sea.

  We’ve got another property in the village if you’re looking for a holiday place, says the estate agent, That one’s quite safe.

  No, this is perfect, says Anna, I suppose there’s no harm in asking the owner, is there?

  Rita is in her room, sitting sideways on the recliner. She has the mirrored box open on her lap; it doesn’t play a tune any more, but still holds the dried hay scent of cigarettes. She hesitates, her hand hovering over the box, breathing in the smell of years ago. They had parties all the time, in those days; dinners for his colleagues, cocktails with the boss and his wife—what was her name? Maureen, or Margaret, or Marjorie—and then the golf club evenings and the functions . . .

  Functions, she says, snapping the word out like a curse.

  She liked her cigarettes, then. She liked the colours of the Sobranies; and in her fingers, how slim they were. How slim she was. Rita looks down at herself, at the mottled veins on her legs, and the slippers with the ridge of wool running around the foot. Marta had bought them for her, from the market, after the first time she fell. They were supposed to be more practical than the mules Vernon gave her for her birthday, which were covered in sequins and pink fur and had kitten heels. She eases one slipper off with her foot, then the other, and boots them under the bed. She feels better, until she sees the state of her toenails.

  You know, Len, Vernon won’t be doing with all this stuff in here, Rita says, looking about her, I’ll have to find somewhere else for it.

  She pokes about amongst the trinkets and rings, finds the tourmaline one, and threads it on her middle finger. The joint is so swollen now, she can’t get it over the knuckle. The diamond Vernon gave her is, if anything, a little loose; the stone hangs sideways, resting heavy on her skin. She stares at the tourmaline ring for a long while before wrapping it in a tissue and putting it in her handbag. She removes the diamond ring and takes it to the window, where she holds it to the light. As if in danger of being observed, she glances back into the room; first she breathes on it, then she scratches the stone along the pane, three times, gratified to see a clear scoring on the glass.

  It’s the real thing, she says, with a little laugh, But I already knew that. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Len? Not as if I haven’t taken my time. Not as if I’m rushing into anything.

  She stands still and vacant for a minute or two more. When she finally rouses herself, she wonders at the box open on the chair, as she’ll wonder one day about the scores on the glass, as if a cat has scratched at the window.

  The caravans are sprawled across a churned-up patch of wasteland; on one side is a municipal park, and on the other, a recycling centre housed i
n a huge metal warehouse. The greyness of the morning has drained the colour from everything. Despite the early hour, a line of traffic has come to a standstill while a man at the head of the queue leans out of his car window to argue with another man in overalls. Both of them are jabbing their fingers in the space in front of them. Lewis bypasses the argument and heads straight for the travellers’ site; he has one more thing to do before he leaves Cardiff. Behind a barred gate at the opening to the field, a child is sitting on an upturned bucket, eating a piece of toast.

  I’m looking for a man called Magic Sam, says Lewis, Is he here?

  Without a word, the boy takes off to the far end of the field, disappearing into a purple trailer. Lewis waits, listening to the car horns blaring and a stream of expletives as the row at the entrance gathers momentum. He doesn’t immediately recognize Sam: when Lewis last saw him, he had dreadlocks and a long wispy beard, but the man standing and waving from the step of the trailer is completely bald, except for a massive quiff at the front of his head. Despite the snow-cold wind, he’s naked from the waist up, his dark skin riddled with tattoos. On the left breast, exactly over the heart, are the concentric circles of a shooting target, complete with lines and numbers and an exclamation mark in the centre. This, at least, Lewis remembers.

  Bullseye, says Lewis, firing his finger at it. Sam puts out both hands and grips Lewis’s arm, which turns into a bear-hug. Lewis breathes in the smell of sweat and hash and hair-oil.

  Come in and have a sit, Sam says.

  I’m here for a favour, says Lewis, stalling at the step.

  I know you are. But come and sit anyway. Must be time for breakfast.

  Inside, the walls are covered with mirrors, some plain broken pieces, others decorated with ornate designs. Pots of enamel paint and nail varnish litter the bench seats. Lewis stares at them, not knowing where to put himself.

  They’re Joanna’s, says Sam, lifting aside a small table and hooking it up against the wall, She does the mirrors up and sells them at the craft market in town. Gets them free from the tip. No one likes a broken mirror.

  Unlucky, says Lewis, tracing a design with his fingers.

  Lucky for us, though, says Sam, She can’t do enough of them.

  Across the ceiling of the trailer, dangling from lengths of coloured string, a dozen or more mirror mobiles twirl in the draft, scattering sparks of light.

  It’s weird. Must be like living in a kaleidoscope.

  Like a disco ball, I says, laughs Sam, Look at this, now.

  The mirror behind the washing-up bowl has been turned to the wall. Sam lifts it over and holds it for Lewis to look at. It has a face etched into the glass, so when Lewis looks into it, he sees himself and someone else, all at the same time.

  Freaks me out, it does, says Sam, I can’t have it hanging there while I’m doing the pots.

  Or shaving, says Lewis.

  Fuck me, you’d end up butchering yourself, says Sam, laughing.

  He pours an inch of liquid into a tumbler and passes it to Lewis.

  Special rum, he says, Now, what can I do for you?

  Lewis takes a breath.

  I’ve got a van out there needs to go back to its owner, he says, But I’ve got to be somewhere else.

  Sam gives him a tired smile.

  Yeah, I understand. Van to go back. But what I said was, what can I do for you?

  THIRTY-NINE

  The snow melts out of London in two days, turning to pock-marked heaps of road slush and flat grey patches of slippery ice. An overnight downpour clears away the last of it, choking the drains and causing localized flooding. There follows two weeks of threatened rain, which the grey mornings promise but never deliver. The city is bone dry, still as a picture, as if it’s waiting for permission to come to life again. On the east coast, the snow takes longer to dissolve, clinging to every surface, lying untouched under the hedgerows, glittering in the sunless shade. On Anna’s old tape machine, her mother’s voice issues a quivery warning:

  . . . Sso we’ll exp-t you at lu-unch-time, don’t f-gt to---cl-thes and your good ssshoes and rem-br to bring a h---H-v a ssafe jour--

  Anna and Brendan do relays as they unload and re-load the car. Anna’s packing is haphazard and optimistic; some of the boxes are secured with sticky tape, some with string, but mostly they are open, bulging, spilling their contents onto the yard. Brendan’s possessions are minimal: a few suit-bags, two cases, and some brightly coloured cartons sealed with gaffer tape. Each one is labelled, and Anna has been given instructions to stack them in the hall. She heaps them up anyhow against the wall.

  There’s a word for people like you, says Brendan, taking a plastic bin liner full of clothes and squashing it into the boot of Anna’s car.

  And there’s a word for you, she shouts, grappling with a box marked Atlases, It’s—

  Don’t say it, he says, I am merely a neat person, that’s all.

  But why have you got so many of these? she says, dropping the box of atlases on the step, I mean, there’s only one world, isn’t there?

  Brendan gives up on the bin liner and slams the boot, trapping the foot of a pair of tights in the door. He says nothing, but gives her a pitying look. When they’ve finished, they stand in the kitchen, drinking tea from Brendan’s mugs and studying the paint squares on the wall.

  I like this one, he says, pointing at a patch of dusty blue, What’s it called?

  Borrowed Light, she reads.

  That’s grand, he says, Very apposite. Maybe for your bedroom.

  It’s your bedroom, now, B, says Anna.

  Until you wake up one morning and find yourself floating off to Holland. Then I’ll expect you straight back here. Deal?

  Deal, she says.

  She takes a last look round the flat and down the path to the garden, taking in the brambles and weeds and the rooftops beyond it. There’s a thrill in her blood when she thinks about the view at her new home: the sky, the sea, the sky and the sea.

  Ready to brave the morning rush? Brendan asks, and mimicking her mother’s voice, Have you pecked your good ssshoes?

  Anna laughs.

  You sound just like her, she says, You two are definitely going to get on.

  In the doorway of the dining-room, Marta stands guard, a tea-towel in one hand and a silver tray in the other: if that woman so much as goes near the table again, she’ll bang her on the head with it. Rita glides past, giving her a beatific smile, and surveys the arrangement. She moves the vase of flowers slightly to the left. She pauses, chin down, considers the move, and shifts the vase back to its original place.

  Mrs Calder, says Marta, trying not to raise her voice, It’s all perfection in here. Why not wait in the lounge and I’ll bring you a drink?

  Rita ignores her, picking up a knife and breathing on it, rubbing it on her sleeve, carefully placing it back on the tablecloth. She finds a wrinkle to smoothe out, a fleck of lint to brush away. Marta can’t bear to watch.

  Mr Savoy, she says, catching Vernon coming down the stairs, She is making me insane. I have spent hours to do all the preparing. Please, tell her to go away.

  Vernon is wearing full morning dress. He pokes at the cravat stuffed into the top of his waistcoat.

  How’s that? he asks, standing in front of the hall mirror, That’s good, Vernon, he says, through shuttered lips, That’s very good.

  He catches Marta’s fierce stare in the glass.

  We’re so excited, he cries, The big day!

  Seeing her face unchanged, he tries a diversion.

  I do hope your Kristian will be here on time, he says, Only, he’s the designated driver, you know.

  Marta looks at her watch. Noting the change in her expression, Vernon happily waves her away.

  Go on, go and get your glad rags on. We’ll hold the fort down here.

  In the dining-room, Rita is re-arranging the candles. The sky through the picture window is ice blue. Vernon watches as she moves from one candlestick to another, her hands trembli
ng as she tries to line them up in a neat row.

  That Marta, she says, She does her best, you know, but look—they weren’t right. How’s that now? she asks.

  It’s perfect, and you’re perfect, he says, But it isn’t like you to fuss. You’re not worrying about Anna, are you?

  Rita ducks her head, turning away so he can’t read her face.

  You did tell her, didn’t you, Rita?

  The sound of the doorbell saves her.

  I’m just about to, she says, straightening up and moving slowly to the door.

  Lewis is lying belly-down on the sand, his eyes fixed on the rolling waves.

  You got to get deep, Sam had said, You got to get under, under that top layer. The top layer always renews itself, see, always comes back the same. You got to get deep enough to leave a trace—but too deep, and you’re in trouble.

  Sam wasn’t talking about water in any form; not ocean, nor river, nor lake. He wasn’t talking about drowning. They were in Sam’s caravan, drinking his special rum, eating cornflakes from the packet, and he was showing Lewis his latest tattoo.

  Too deep, and it all goes wrong. The pain’s really bad, for starters, and then the dye drifts inside you and everything on the outside comes up blurred.

  Sam was lounging on the bed, his face dappled with refracted light from the mirrors hanging from the ceiling.

  This one, look, he said, pulling back a square of dressing on his inner arm to reveal a livid circular scab, This one’s a nautical star. Red and black—the red pigment’s difficult, see, cos it itches and burns. You can’t scratch it. You’ve got to understand why it hurts; only then can you leave it alone. The pain goes in the end.

  Sounds like a lot of aggro just for a tattoo, said Lewis, smiling.

  We’ve all got them, man, said Sam, Even you. Some of them are invisible, that’s all. Some too deep to be read.

  Lewis has been awake since dawn, watching the night slip away behind the dunes; now, a pale sun hangs over the sea. He reaches up to feel the place where his bottom lip was opened, reaches into his mouth, where he counts his teeth, running his finger over them. The scar is almost imperceptible to the casual gaze: a straight line of lighter skin below his lip, like a ghost mouth that never opens. Lewis feels again the airless sensation of sinking. It’s like a dream, the clarity of it, the water pouring in through the half-open window on Wayne’s side, the slow tilt sideways of the car. Carl is screaming, slapping his hands on the driver’s window, and Lewis sees himself, banging on the back window, and now he sees his hand, moving freely through the black pane, feeling the rush of cold water. A million tiny squares of glass swim around him and away. He goes after them, chasing the lights to the surface, forgetting Wayne, wanting just to feel the air on his skin. When he opens his eyes on the muddy bank, he’s disappointed not to the see the giant standing over him.