A Witch In Winter

by Ruth Warburton

  ‘You could have done worse.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I did, unfortunately.’

  His voice was sombre and he turned away from me again, fiddling with the engine. I felt really bad now. He’d looked so tranquil, so truly happy as I walked down the cliff path. Now his head was bowed and there was a deep unhappiness in his voice. It seemed like I wasn’t able to bring anything but unhappiness to Seth, one way and another.

  ‘Do you want to … ?’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘Talk about it? Not really.’ He looked up and smiled with forced jollity. ‘I’d rather get sailing instead.’ He held out his hand and suddenly the gap between the quay and the boat yawned very wide and constantly shifting. The drop looked about six feet, the boat dancing up and down in a terrifying manner.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Seth said, his smile real now. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, I won’t let you fall.’

  I fought a temptation to shut my eyes and instead grasped his hand and lurched towards the void. The shifting, heaving deck tilted wildly at the first touch of my foot and I felt myself teetering back towards the slice of dark oily water between the concrete quay and the boat – but Seth’s strong hand grasped me firmly, pulling me towards him.

  For a minute there was nothing else – nothing but Seth’s hard grip on my upper arm, his chest inches from mine, his breath warm on my face. But then he let me go, as quickly as if my touch had burned him.

  Suddenly there I was, both feet on the wooden bottom of the boat, crouching and ducking under the flapping boom as it swung in the breeze.

  ‘Do I need to do anything?’ I asked, as Seth stuffed my rucksack into a stowage hole and did busy things with ropes and knots at the quayside. He shook his head, not looking at me.

  ‘Nope. Just keep out of the way – oh, and put this on.’ He flung a life jacket at me.

  ‘You’re not wearing one,’ I said, feeling slightly sulky. The day was getting hotter and the prospect of sweltering in a massive, insulated jacket of yellow plastic wasn’t enticing.

  ‘How far can you swim?’

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty or thirty lengths?’

  ‘In the sea.’

  ‘I’ve never swum in the sea. Well, I mean I’ve paddled around, but not swum far.’

  ‘Then I suggest you put it on. It’s up to you, of course. I wear one if the sea’s anything more than glassy smooth, and I’m a strong swimmer.’

  I looked out at the choppy waves beyond the harbour. If this were Seth’s idea of glassy smooth I’d hate to see a stiff breeze.

  ‘Unless you just fancy another trip to A&E with me?’ He was facing away from me, towards the quay, so I couldn’t see his expression but there was something in his voice that made me suspect he was laughing at me.

  ‘Tosser!’ I aimed a kick at him but the boat shifted, spoiling my aim, and my foot whacked the bulkhead instead. ‘Ow.’

  ‘Serves you right.’ Now he really was laughing and not troubling to hide it. ‘Well, be it on your own head …’

  He cast off and the boom whipped across my head, two inches from my skull. I hastily pulled the jacket over my head.

  The trip was completely magical. Under Seth’s hands the little boat seemed almost to fly across the scudding waves. Above our heads the bright sails billowed out, taut and full, and the air was filled with the ripping sound of the fluttering spinnaker, the slap, slap of waves against the wooden hull, the mew of seagulls and the salty clean smell of the waves.

  Everything was perfect – the deep azure sky, the wind-whipped waves, the crisp cool breeze against my hot skin. But mostly I was entranced by Seth – at school he looked pretty competent but always slightly aloof, a bit too cool to care much. He got OK marks – but somehow gave the impression that this was chance, as much as anything, and that he was permanently thinking of something else, would rather be somewhere else.

  Out on the water he was a totally different person; the craft, guided by his swift, sure hands, seemed almost a part of him. He crouched and stretched, using his strength to counter-balance the pull of the wind, leaning out across the water, his muscles taut against the force of a rope, all the time balancing the forces of the wind and the water with his own body. His face was completely concentrated and yet completely relaxed. He ma [ela…de sense, out here, in a way that he didn’t at school. The phrase ‘fish out of water’ swam through my head and I smiled, thinking of his tattoo.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ Seth called, above the noise of the waves and I blushed – I’d thought he was too absorbed to notice me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I called back, ‘Just thinking about school.’

  ‘I try not to,’ he said, and grinned. ‘But I’m glad someone’s got the project on their mind. Actually that reminds me, just to warn you, I didn’t manage to tell my grandad that we were coming. So I’m not sure if he knows or not.’

  ‘What does that mean – he might be out?’

  ‘No! He never leaves the island. But he might not be, er, very prepared. Very welcoming, I mean. It might be a false alarm,’ he hastened as he saw me looking worried. ‘I did leave quite a few messages, but he didn’t return my calls, so I’m not sure if he got them.’

  ‘Oh.’ I digested this as the boat sped along. I wasn’t sure what to make of Seth’s grandfather. He wasn’t painting a very reassuring portrait. ‘If he never goes to the mainland how does he survive?’ I asked at last.

  ‘My mum drives over twice a week.’

  ‘She drives over?’ I was surprised. Seth nodded.

  ‘Yes, in fine weather you can make it over in a four-by-four if you know the best route and pick your times. And he’s got a lot of supplies – tins and stuff – so he can survive quite a while without a visit. In fact if civilization ever comes to an end, you’ll probably find my grandad still out there ten years after they’ve dropped the bomb, living off tinned curry and irritably wondering where my mum is. Watch your head – I’m going about.’

  He pushed the tiller. There was a moment of flapping, whipping sails, and the wind suddenly dropped. I turned, and was surprised to see we were in the lee of the island – we seemed to have covered the distance from the harbour in no time at all, and were gliding towards a small jetty. There was a slight bump and a scrape, then Seth was out of the boat, tying the painter to a rusty iron ring.

  ‘Welcome to Castle Spit,’ he said, holding out his hand towards me. I grabbed it, he heaved me out of the boat, and there I was, on Seth’s grandfather’s island.

  The overwhelming impression was of land barely holding out against the sea. It wasn’t quite as barren as it looked from the mainland – a few stunted shrubs survived in pockets between the rocks – but they were twisted by the winds and crusted with salt. Huge rocks, like granite teeth, jutted up against the sky, and gulls crouched on top, crapping on everything, cawing in a way that sounded very much like mocking laughter.

  Only here and there was a note of cheer – a pale purple flower blowing in the wind caught my eye. It seem [ eyoloed impossibly fragile to be growing in such a hostile environment.

  I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself against the wind. One look back at Winter, bathed in sunshine and chocolate-box pretty, then I followed Seth up the path.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  As openings go it wasn’t encouraging. There’d been no answer to Seth’s knock at the small granite cottage. We’d spent some ten minutes rapping our knuckles sore on the painted wood, until eventually Seth said, ‘Well he can’t be out,’ and tried the door. It seemed to be locked. Seth rolled his eyes. ‘Oh for crying out loud. Who’s going to burgle him out here?’

  The cottage only squatted, small and defiant beneath the shadow of the lighthouse tower. Then from behind us came a croaky, unused voice.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  We turned around with a jump and behind us, on the path that led up from the rocks, was an old man in a yellow sou’wester, holding a rod in one hand and a brace of dead mackerel in the other. He had a grizzl
ed white beard, pitch-black eyebrows, and eyes of the same slate grey as Seth, with deep-set wrinkles that spoke of years spent squinting against the sun and sea wind. As he stumped down the path towards us I saw his cruel limp and the battered crutch clamped under his right armpit.

  ‘Oh hi, Grandad. This is Anna.’

  ‘Huh.’ He elbowed past us and gave the door a hefty kick. It opened with a screech of damp wood and he pushed through, kicking it shut in our faces. Seth, seemingly unperturbed by this welcome, caught the door with his foot and held it open for me, and we passed through into a low, beamed room that seemed to be everything: kitchen, living room, bedroom. There was even a chamber pot beneath the unmade bed in the corner of the room, so it looked like it might be a toilet as well, some of the time. The whole place stank of smoke, fish and paraffin. Oh, and unwashed old man. It made Wicker House look like a palace.

  On the opposite side of the room from the fusty bed was a Rayburn. The old man hobbled across to it, threw open one of the covers, and banged an empty cast-iron skillet on the hot plate. Then he flung the fish down with a slap on the stone sink by the window and, taking up a knife that was lying on the counter, began to sharpen it on a whetstone.

  ‘Anna, this is my grandfather, Bran Fisher.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said. My voice sounded ridiculously faint and squeaky. I felt profoundly uncomfortable, but Seth was already kicking off his boots and opening the window to let some air into the room.

  ‘Don’t do that, you young oik, d’you want me to freeze?’ Bran grumbled. He stumped over and slammed the window shut, flipping the catch with the point of his knife. ‘What are you doing here anyway? And her.’ He stabbed with his knife in my direction before turning back to the fish.

  ‘Didn’t you get my message?’ Seth flopped on to a threadbare armchair, setting the springs squeaking in protest.

  ‘Message? What’s wrong with speaking to a body, like a civilized human being?’

  ‘Oh for Pete’s sake, Grandad, what do you expect if you never check your phone? I asked if Anna and I could talk to you about the fishing industry.’

  Bran didn’t reply at first. Instead he set his knife to the fishes’ gills and severed their heads with a sickening crunch. Dark blood trickled onto the stone drainer.

  ‘Why?’ he said at last.

  ‘For a History project. We’re doing an essay about the local fishing industry. It was Anna’s idea,’ he added. Bran snorted.

  ‘What industry,’ he said, rather bitterly. It was a statement, rather than a question. Seth shrugged.

  ‘Well, I did say it was for History.’

  The remark seemed to tickle Bran’s sense of humour and he laughed; a rusty, creaking laugh that ended on a wheezing coughing fit, leaving him red-eyed and spluttering.

  ‘History is about right, eh young Seth,’ he said, and with a swift, barely discernible movement of his knife he whipped up and down the backbone of the two mackerel, and flung four neat fillets on the sink. There was a sudden spitting crackle as he threw a knob of butter into the smoking skillet, then the mackerel fillets. The room filled with a deeply savoury smell that drove away the stench and made my mouth water. I suddenly realized I’d had no breakfast, and licked my lips involuntarily. Bran snorted again.

  ‘Well, she likes fish anyway. And you.’ He jerked his head at Seth. ‘I never yet knew you to turn down a meal – you’re a young streak of skin and bone like I was at your age.’

  ‘If you’re offering.’ Seth grinned from the depths of the armchair. He seemed totally unfazed by his grandfather’s hospitality, or rather lack of it.

  ‘Oh, aye. Not come to see me for a month and then turn up when there’s food on the table. That’s the young for you.’ He ground salt and pepper into the pan and then slapped the fish on to two chipped plates, setting them on the table with a crack.

  ‘You must fight over this one.’ He indicated one plate with a nod as he started shovelling fish from the other into his mouth with a fork. ‘I’ve no more clean plates to waste.’

  ‘Clean’ was pushing it. Both plates had visible traces of other meals, and oily thumbprints on the rim. But the fish smelled good and Seth jumped out of the armchair and pulled up a stool for each of us. Bran didn’t offer us any cutlery, so we ate with our fingers, picking at the hot but [t td ptery fish and juggling it from hand to hand until it was cool enough to eat. Finally Bran wiped his mouth, rinsed his plate under the cold tap, and said, ‘So it’s fishing you want, is it?’

  I nodded and Seth added, ‘Whatever you can remember really, we can get the basic stuff from the library and the museum but anything you can tell us would be great.’

  Bran made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort of disgust.

  ‘Remember? There’s precious few left that do remember. It’s all pleasure boats and fiddling line-caught scor-lops now.’ His gruff voice took on a mincing London twang. ‘When I was a lad it was man’s work, real man’s work. There were plenty killed on the trawlers, and plenty more maimed, and it was a hard life with fish widows in most towns. But you could be rich in three days if you happened on the right shoal. That was before all these quotas and fishing limits.’ He spat into the fireplace.

  ‘What about your grandad’s day?’ Seth asked.

  ‘That was different again. Small boats mostly, more channel fishing and day fishing. Lobster, as well as fish, of course, then as well as now. My grandad was a great one for his lobster pots. Shellfish, too. The Victorians dearly loved a whelk.’ He gave a crackling laugh and slapped his thigh. ‘But Winter was a fishing port long before my grandad’s day. They’ve been landing catches here since 1066 and before. There was even fishing families on Castle Spit, time was.’

  ‘Here?’ I said in surprise.

  ‘Oh aye. I know the Spit isn’t much to look at but it supported people for all that. There were three families here once. You can still see the ruins of their cottages.’ He heaved himself out of his chair, clutching at his leg with a groan. But he shook off Seth’s arm and hobbled over to the mantelpiece, where he took up a foul-smelling pipe and knocked out the ashes into the fire. ‘But the Spit was a different animal then, before the sea levels rose. Time was, you could walk out most days and the causeway only submerged at the highest tides. Now it’s under water twenty hours out of the twenty-four, and damn near impassable in winter.’

  ‘What’s causing the sea levels to rise?’ I asked timidly. ‘Is it global warming?’

  ‘Some say. I’ve got my own notions.’ He gave a derisive sniff and lit the pipe, puffing until the smoke filled the little room. Seth coughed.

  ‘D’you know what, Grandad, I’m opening the window no matter what you say.’

  ‘You can go outside if you don’t like my pipe,’ the old man said. ‘Fresh air do you good, at your age. At mine it’s as like to kill me as not.’

  Seth snorted.

  ‘If anything kills you it’ll be that pipe, not an open window. I don’t think a bit of a breeze is going to harm someone who spends ei [whon. Bught hours a day fishing off the rocks. But I’m sure Anna would like to get some sunshine anyway.’

  He led me outside and we sat in the sun on a little stone bench at the front of the cottage. The air was wonderfully crisp and fresh after the stench of the cottage and I breathed in great lungfuls as though I could store up a supply for our return. Seth saw me and smiled.

  ‘Sorry, it is a bit close in there, isn’t it? It’s Grandad’s disgusting pipe and his diet of fish, mainly. I don’t mind the fish so much, but the smoke makes me want to retch.’

  ‘I thought you smoked?’

  ‘I do. Well, I did. I’m trying to give up, which makes it all the harder to have Grandad puffing away in my face. I gave up before, but then Caroline smokes like a chimney so I started again when I was going out with her. Now I’m trying to give up again.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  Seth shrugged. ‘Possibly. Probably not. I doubt he cares much either way. You
don’t smoke, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked. Was it some good-girl stamp on my face? To my surprise Seth blushed and looked down at his bitten nails.

  ‘What?’ I prodded.

  ‘Your hair,’ he said, looking a little sheepish.

  ‘My hair?’ I said in surprise, flicking a lock of it forward over my shoulder for examination. It looked just like everyone else’s – dark and ordinary in comparison to Caroline’s spectacular blonde tresses.

  ‘Not how it looks, you fool. The smell – it doesn’t smell of smoke.’ He gave my shoulder a friendly shove, but something in the movement, in our closeness, made me shiver and he looked away.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I keep telling myself not to—’ He stopped and there was a moment’s tense silence. To break it I blurted out the first thing that came into my head.

  ‘I was warned off you, you know. When I first came to Winter.’

  ‘What!’ It succeeded in changing the subject, that was for sure. Seth’s incredulous expression hovered between annoyance and laughter. ‘By who?’

  ‘By …’ It probably wasn’t fair to drop June in it. ‘By some girl, I forget her name. She told me you drank, smoked and had a tattoo, and …’ I stumbled over the last. I’d been going to mention June’s final comment, but then I remembered what she’d said, and Seth’s reluctance to discuss his past this morning, and thought better of it. Seth r [of ify">

  ‘Oh, I see, that’s why you noticed my tat! What was the other thing you were going to say?’

  ‘Oh, just, some other thing … I can’t quite remember.’ I ended lamely. His face hardened.

  ‘Let me guess; I got in trouble with the police for beating someone up, right?’

  ‘Um.’ I curled inside at his grim expression but there was no way out. ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, you do one stupid thing …’ His face was bleak, defeated. ‘I’m never going to live that down. Was that really the first thing they said about me?’