The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘Fuck that,’ he’d said, shortly before packing his bags. ‘I’m not wasting my life on fish.’

  He joined the army, but returned two and a half years later. It was obvious there’d been some sort of dismissal. He wouldn’t talk about it, certainly not with Cam, and if Martin and Sheila knew what happened they didn’t let on. A few weeks after he got back, Martin persuaded Slim to give Davy a chance on The Annamae.

  ‘Cam!’ Geren kicked the table leg again. ‘Did you hear me? I’m sick of us sitting here like useless cunts.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Well?’

  Cam smiled. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I want you to say,’ Geren said pointedly, ‘fuck this too.’

  ‘Fine.’ Cam reached for his drink. ‘Fuck this too.’

  Geren muttered and kicked the table a third time, hard enough to cause the glasses to rattle against each other as they wobbled.

  Cam drained what was left in his glass and looked at his friend. ‘You know you’re being a dick, right?’ Cam put the empty glass back on the table. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be home with Gemma?’

  ‘She sent me here. Told me to get out of the house because I was irritating the shit out of her.’

  ‘Really? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Yup. Her exact words.’ Geren groaned with frustration. ‘I need to get out there. The baby’s coming in March. Have you seen how much their crap costs?’

  Cam laughed. ‘I imagine you’ll be waist-deep in it for free, mate.’

  He glanced at the clock again. It had hardly changed. Three thirty-four. He was meeting her at five and time had never moved so slowly. His head was full of her, her laugh, the softness of her hair, her perfume mixed with the smell of warm bread which hung on her after work, the way she looked at him when he spoke, as if burrowing right into him to make a nest. As he thought about her, his body twitched involuntarily. He didn’t understand what he was feeling. She consumed every part of him. It unnerved him.

  ‘Jesus fuck, Cam. What’s with the clock?’

  Cam reached for his pouch of tobacco from the detritus on the table.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Geren stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t tell me. It’s your bird, isn’t it? You’re waiting to get your end away!’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Geren laughed. ‘Pool?’ He gestured at the table which had just come free.

  Cam checked the time again – an hour to go – and nodded.

  ‘I reckon you don’t give a shit if we don’t get out to sea.’ Geren bent for the triangle and started to fill it with balls from the pockets. ‘I mean, who’d work when you’ve got a new bit of skirt to lift?’

  Davy sniggered.

  Cam took hold of a cue and chalked the end. ‘And when was the last time you got laid, Davy Garnett?’

  Geren laughed.

  Davy shot Cam a glare. ‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Your bird isn’t all that.’

  Cam raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘As if a girl like her would ever look at a little git like you.’

  ‘You reckon? I heard she’ll drop her knickers for any bastard.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Cam said under his breath. He turned his back on him and placed the cue ball on the worn-through spot on the faded baize. Davy could be a proper dickhead when he wanted to be, but Cam didn’t give a shit what he thought, and had learnt to ignore his bleating years ago.

  ‘Sounding a bit jealous there, Davy lad.’ Geren lit a cigarette and squinted as the smoke rose. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. You won’t be a virgin forever.’

  Davy turned puce. ‘I’m not a—’

  But his protestations were drowned out by laughter from Geren, Cam, and a number of men nearby. Davy slouched back on his chair, face cloudy, arms folded like a sulky child.

  Cam signalled for his friend to play first.

  Geren took a drag on his cigarette and placed it on the ashtray before bending and looking down the cue to line up his shot. He drew his arm back and played his shot. ‘Anyway, this little bird only has eyes for our Cameron Stewart. True love for sure.’ He tilted his head and winked at Cam in a rare moment of warmth.

  Geren could be a dick – he wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea – but he was the best friend Cam had. When Cam’s dad drowned, Geren had been there in a way nobody else had and Cam would never forget that. Beneath the bullshit he was loyal and honest, and the best fishermen Cam knew, a natural who lived and breathed for the sea and had no fear of it. Unlike Cam, he fished because he loved it. Cam had never thought to do anything else. Like most of those from local families, fishing was in Cam’s blood so he never questioned it. He always knew he’d be a fisherman like the generations before him. The Stewarts originated from Scotland. It was Cam’s great-grandfather who brought them to Cornwall, when he’d returned from the war-ravaged battlefields of France and found the fishing industry in Peterhead in decline. The Cornish were desperate for crew to keep up with a thriving pilchard industry, so he packed his bags and headed south, found a spot on a boat, met a girl from Penzance, and stayed.

  ‘Did you know she used to go out with that Cardew prick?’ Geren struck the cue ball hard to send the others ricocheting off in all directions, sinking two balls. He grinned.

  ‘Who told you that?’ Cam was taken aback by the violent jealousy which stabbed him in the gut.

  ‘Her mate. Vicky, isn’t it? She was telling Gem all about it. How he took Hannah for a meal at this poncy place up near Truro. Said it cost over a hundred quid.’ He shook his head. ‘A hundred fucking quid? I said to Gem, don’t you get any fucking ideas, girl. Jesus, that guy’s always been a little prick.’ Geren walked around the table, assessing his options, and puffing on his cigarette.

  Nathan Cardew had been at primary school with them, same year, before his parents decided mixing with the likes of Geren and Cam wasn’t good enough for their precious boy. He had a tough time because of his habit of telling tales. Cam never understood why kids like Nathan made life so hard for themselves. Who wants to be a grass? Why choose to give the name of the boy who’d drawn cocks on the toilet walls rather than just keep your mouth shut? Was it worth the grief? But Cam didn’t care then and he didn’t care now. Geren was right, he was a prick. Cam should ignore him, but the thought of him with Hannah was enough to drive him insane. He needed to get out and fish. Needed money to take her out, somewhere nice, somewhere the waiters wore ties and lit candles and called them sir and madam when they brought out their steaks.

  Geren potted the black and celebrated his win by giving Cam a dead arm. There was too much pent-up energy there. He needed a vent. Geren lived for the moment and was single-minded in his hunt for adrenalin, whether that was at sea or driving his bike too fast, filling his body with drugs and drink, or squaring up for a scat at the slightest provocation. At school he’d been in and out of the headmaster’s office for anything and everything, from smoking on the roof to swearing in class to drawing cocks on the toilet walls. Geren was finally expelled a few months before CSEs and left with an insolent shrug and a fist through a window. Predictable unpredictability ran through Geren like a vein of quartz.

  They played another game of pool and at ten to five Cam finally said his goodbyes amid a barrage of good-natured jeering. He smothered a grin and nodded, before zipping his jacket and thrusting his hands into his pockets and pushing out of the door.

  The rain had stopped but the wind still whipped the streets as he walked down towards the bakery. He thought of his father and the night he died. Weather like this. Stormy and dark. What must it have been like for him out there? He’d been in the engine room below deck when the trawler capsized. No way out. Martin had been on deck and was thrown into the sea and had somehow managed to claw his way onto the exposed hull where he’d lain in the pitch black, exhausted and shivering, listening to Scotty calling for help and banging on the metal which separated them. Martin once told him, after too many drinks, how the sound of his father’s desperate
banging would haunt him for the rest of his life. There wasn’t a man or woman in Newlyn who hadn’t lost a loved one to the sea. And all for a bit of haddock? It was a mug’s game, but then again, what else was he good for?

  Cam arrived at the bakery and pressed his nose against the window. He was a few minutes early. With previous girlfriends he would never have wanted to appear too keen, but with Hannah he no longer cared. He wanted her to know how serious he was. He wanted her to know that he’d never been keener on, or more serious about, anything before in his life. He had developed a ravenous appetite for her. The more of her he consumed, the less full he felt. Sometimes he wanted to swallow her whole so she’d be there inside him forever.

  Despite the biting chill a warmth spread through his body from the pit of his stomach as he looked in on the brightly lit shop and watched her stacking empty crates and chattering nineteen to the dozen to someone unseen out back. He thought about the softness of her and the feel of her breath on the skin of his neck. He tapped on the glass. She looked up and beamed at him. Then she turned and leaned through the door which led through to the back of the shop, saying goodbye, Cam presumed, to her dad. She smiled at Cam again, then lifted her apron over her head, hung it up and buttoned her coat. She burst out of the shop and jumped into his arms, kissing him over and over as if she might never stop.

  ‘I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you,’ she said between kisses, her breath smelling faintly of mint.

  Her joy enveloped him and his whole body stirred. ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  They walked down to the harbour hand in hand and she told him all about her day. Every now and then she’d skip as she walked, her fingers stroking his, looking up at him with that smile of hers, something akin to wonder in her eyes. Hannah was made of goodness. She was uncontaminated, as if nothing bad had ever happened to her and this stroke of good fortune had rendered her pure, and her pureness was a salve which made him stronger.

  They walked down the jetty to where his boat was docked. The boat was where they went when they wanted to be alone to kiss and talk and enjoy each other’s company away from the Garnetts. He’d bought it a few years ago, when he was drunk, for a hundred pounds from a guy in the pub who was drunker. It took him eighteen months to get it seaworthy, and there was still much to do – a repaint, a cracked window to replace, some brand new seat covers would be nice – and he loved it. The boat was his own space to retreat to when he needed to be alone. Or when he needed to be with Hannah.

  He’d been down that morning and hosed the deck down, washing the dirt and fish bits out of the scuppers and making it all as clean as he could. He’d put some beers in the cool box, and grabbed a couple of blankets and a sleeping bag, and packed them all in the chest on board.

  When they reached the boat, he climbed on and held out his hand.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, ‘the rain’s made it slippery.’

  They kissed as soon as they were both on board. Sheltering in the tiny wheelhouse and leaning back against its flimsy wall.

  ‘You know,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. All day. I was wrapping saffron buns earlier and all I could think about was sex!’

  ‘When you were wrapping saffron buns?’ He bent to kiss the curve of her neck.

  She tilted her head to let him. ‘It’s true! And once I’d thought it I couldn’t unthink it. So basically I’ve been thinking about sex all day. Literally. Didn’t matter what I was doing, I was thinking about sex.’ She drew back and looked at him seriously for a moment. ‘Is that what they mean when they say men think about it twenty-four seven? Like you actually do? I never really believed them.’

  He laughed. ‘Who’s them?’

  ‘You know. Them. People who say things.’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, though, it must be knackering for you all. Poor sods. I had to have a sit down with an emergency doughnut at two just to get through the afternoon.’

  ‘It is exactly that,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Knackering.’

  ‘And to think we let you operate heavy machinery and fly planes.’

  Her attention was grabbed by something behind him. She reached over his shoulder, the soft skin of her upper arm brushing his cheek. He turned his head to kiss it.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I keep looking at this and wondering what it is.’

  He looked at what had caught her eye and saw she was holding the screw top jar that he kept on a small shelf to the side of the wheel. It was filled with clear liquid in which opaque crystals hung suspended in a gently shifting amorphous mass.

  ‘It’s a storm glass. My dad gave it to me.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘It predicts the weather.’

  She stared at it, tipping it upside down and watching the crystals tumble like snowflakes.

  ‘It’s got a mix of different chemicals in it, ethanol and others I don’t know. Some guy a hundred years ago made them for the fishing folk who kept being lost in storms they didn’t know were coming. There was a fancy one, made of wood and brass, in the pub until about ten years ago when someone nicked it. My dad made this one when I was lad. It’s old but I keep it with me because it reminds me of him.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t think so. If it’s clear it means it’ll be fine, if the crystals hang in threads there’ll be a gale. These,’ he said, gesturing at the jar, ‘all clumped together like that, mean a storm’s coming. But they don’t ever change that much, if I’m honest. Seems there’s always been a storm coming, right from when he gave it to me.’

  Hannah placed the storm glass back on the ledge.

  ‘They were like that the night my dad drowned.’ Cam thought about that night. Recalled sitting on his bed staring at the crystals thick in the jar, the wind and rain lashing against his bedroom window, his stomach turning over and over as he thought of his dad out at sea.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘That must have been awful.’

  He shrugged. ‘Fishermen drown.’

  She stood up on tiptoes and kissed him, wrapping her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and pulling him to her. He felt tears on her cheeks and drew back and saw silver tracks glinting in the harbour light.

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing can happen to you, OK? You have to stay safe. Promise me.’

  He gently dried her tears then kissed her again, but this time harder, as if it was the most important thing he would ever do. His father, the storm glass, the biting cold, the lads going stir-crazy in the pub, all of it was forgotten. She took hold of his hand and placed it on her breast. He moaned and leant close until their faces were only millimetres apart, their breathing in time, her breath hot and sweet on his skin.

  ‘We’re going to freeze,’ she whispered.

  He grinned and walked over to the back of the boat where he lifted the lid on the built-in chest. He pulled out two life jackets and passed them to her. ‘Pillows,’ he said, as he grabbed the blanket and tarpaulin, two cans of lager, and a heavy musty-smelling sleeping bag.

  The air hummed with distant sounds of people arriving at the pub after work, and as he spread out the tarpaulin on the deck and laid the blanket on top, she unzipped the sleeping bag.

  ‘We’re going to die of actual hypothermia,’ she said, as she shimmied out of her jeans and slipped beneath the sleeping bag. ‘We should have got together in the summer.’

  He lay beside her and pulled up the sleeping bag so everything was covered but their heads. ‘If I die of hypothermia tonight, I’ll die a happy man.’

  They kissed, losing themselves in it, bodies warm where they touched. Cam concentrated on every detail, committing it all to memory, stored with perfect clarity so it would be there like an easily accessible photograph for the lonely hours back at sea. He wanted it all, the sweat, his bristling body, the sound of the waves, the smell of musty sleeping bag mixed with the unique smell of her – p
ungent body spray, her shampoo, a hint of the bakery – which tunnelled into him.

  ‘My a’th kar,’ she said softly, her voice breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t speak Cornish?’

  He laughed. ‘Do you?’

  ‘A few words. Mum taught me.’

  ‘Say what you said again.’

  ‘My a’th kar.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  She smiled. ‘I love you.’

  The words shot through him like an electric shock and he stiffened.

  She flushed pink and began to chew on her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No, no. It’s…’ His chest had tightened so much he couldn’t breathe. ‘God. I mean… Really? You feel that?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. But if it’s going to mean you won’t have sex with me I can unsay it.’

  ‘No. Don’t unsay it,’ he whispered. ‘I love you too. I do, Hannah. I mean it. I love you so much.’

  Then she kissed him. He slipped his hand beneath her sweater and stroked her skin which was peppered with goosebumps. She lifted his sweater and pressed her warm lips against his aching body. He groaned softly.