The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. ‘I know what you’re doing.’ It’s hard to keep the waver out of my whispered words. ‘This isn’t my fault. You can’t—’
‘It’s a simple question, Hannah.’ He moves to the sink and fills a glass of water. Heat has crept over my skin. We are only a few inches from each other. The smell of his coal tar shampoo and sickly sweet aftershave catches in my throat.
‘How many times have he and I argued about,’ he pauses and thinks theatrically for a beat, ‘oh, I don’t know, his homework, let’s say. Or the state of his bedroom? His table manners or what he should be studying at university?’ He drinks then places the glass down precisely before looking up at me. ‘How many times, in fact, have we argued about his mobile phone? I mean, in the last month. Roughly?’ He stares at me. ‘What do you think?’
I don’t reply.
‘Hannah?’
I draw in a breath. ‘Lots,’ I whisper.
‘What was that?’ he says. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin with as much defiance as I can muster. ‘Lots,’ I repeat, louder this time. ‘In the last month, you’ve argued lots of times.’ I try and make my words sharp and pointed, but he counters them with a satisfied smile.
‘Exactly. Lots. Alex and I have argued many, many times, and not once has he done anything more dramatic than sulk in his bedroom for few hours. But this time? This time you weighed in. You didn’t need to – I don’t need your help when it comes to discipline – but nonetheless you stood right here, in this kitchen, and shouted at him. Can you imagine what it must have been like for him? How hurt he was? His mother turning on him like that? You lost your cool and tipped him over the edge. You gave him nowhere to turn. No safe harbour.’
A lump forms in my throat and I quickly blot the tears which are streaking my cheeks. I revisit the argument. It’s hard to recall. Did I really shout like he says? All I can remember is being desperate to stop the argument between them, wanting Alex to hand his phone over so Nathan would get off his back. Another two tears fall and I drop my head as I swipe at them.
‘Hey,’ he croons, his voice now soft, free of the vindictive needling of moments before. ‘Parenting is tough. Especially with teenagers. We all get it wrong sometimes. I know you were trying to do the right thing. Alex was being extremely rude and disrespectful and, yes, he was hurt, and, yes, he’s overreacted in a way that endangers him, but Hannah…’ He reaches for my arm and strokes it. ‘You weren’t wrong to reprimand him and even though, in retrospect, I wish you hadn’t, I appreciate you meant well.’
I don’t know what to say. I’m fully aware of what he’s doing, aware of the facts being twisted and contorted and reshaped, but even so, I can hear the truth in it. Guilt and blame flood me. Nathan’s right. If I’d have taken Alex’s side, if I’d fought my son’s corner, he’d never have run away. He’d have been cross with Nathan. He’d have hated him for confiscating his phone. But when I took sides he felt abandoned and had nobody to turn to. All I needed to do was stand up for my son. What’s the worst that could have happened? Nathan would have been angry with me. Right now, I hate myself so intensely it’s a physical pain. I deserve this.
I deserve it all.
Nathan goes back to the chair and picks up his book. ‘I’ve got a bit of work to do before we turn in. I’ll be in my study if you need me. Try to relax. The police are doing all they can. That money won’t last forever and, when it’s gone, he’ll be back.’
I go to Cass’s basket and crouch down and take her head between my hands and press my face against her silken fur. Then something startles her. She pulls away from me. Her head turns and her ears prick up. She gets out of her basket and trots out of the kitchen, her claws tapping on the stone tiles in the hallway as she moves down towards the front door. Then I hear a car. Headlights move across the window. I hold my breath. The engine quietens. I jump up and run down the hallway. I can see headlights stopped beside the gate. They switch off and outside turns black again.
‘Alex?’ I fumble desperately with the lock. ‘Oh, please. Alex…’
I reach up to yank down the bolt Nathan insists on using, but my fingers slip and slide like the damn thing is buttered. I’m aware of Nathan’s voice behind me. I ignore him as I fling open the door and run out on to the path. The gravel grazes my bare feet, but I don’t care at all because there, in front of me, is my son.
I laugh and cry simultaneously as I run to him. My boy is walking through the gate. When he sees me he drops his bag and sprints to me, arms wide, like he used to do across the playground after nursery. I throw my arms around him and squeeze him, kiss him all over, knowing I will never let go of him and we will stand like this on the path, his body held tight to mine, forever. I breathe him in as if I’ve been starved of oxygen. His hair needs a wash and his clothes hold the scent of two days’ continuous wear and unfamiliar smells. I want to rub the smells off him and make him smell like mine again.
I stroke his cheek and kiss him again and whisper in his ear, ‘Don’t ever do that again. Christ, please, I couldn’t live without you.’ I stand back from him, hold his face in my hands, and allow the tears of relief and love stream my cheeks. ‘Jesus. I thought I might die from worry.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘I told you not to.’
Cass barks and jumps up around us, so manic in her joy, I worry she might explode. I laugh and Alex drops down to kiss her, pushes his face into her ruff of fur, and whispers words I can’t hear. He smiles up at me, but then his attention is taken, and his happiness melts away. His body stiffens and he stands slowly.
I glance back to see Nathan who is lit from behind by the light from the hallway. His fists are clenched at his sides. It’s hard to make out his expression in the shadow cast across his face, but I can tell from his body language he’s filled up with rage.
‘Don’t be angry, Nathan,’ I say. ‘We have time for that. Let’s go inside. Have a cup of tea. All that matters is he’s home.’
But Nathan doesn’t respond.
Then I realise he isn’t looking at Alex. He’s fixed on something behind him. I turn and follow the line of his gaze then inhale sharply.
There’s a man standing at the gate. In the light from the house I can see he is dressed in jeans and some sort of Parka jacket, hair unkempt. The eyes staring out of his face are as familiar as my own.
‘Oh my god,’ I breathe. ‘Cam?’
Chapter Sixteen
Cam, 1998
Cam drew up beside The Annamae and squinted through the driving rain. He could see Slim’s shadowy figure through the window of the wheelhouse and took his hand out of his pocket, put his fingers in his mouth, and gave a loud whistle. Slim looked up from what he was doing and when he saw Cam he raised a hand in solemn greeting. Even through the rain-obscured window, Cam could tell he was in a grim mood and considered turning on his heel.
Cam climbed up on to the side of the boat and jumped nimbly over the gunwale and on to the deck. Slim kept a tidy ship and everything was in its rightful place, tight coils of rope, heavy rusted chains wound carefully, washed down stacks of yellow plastic boxes ready and waiting to be filled with fresh fish and ice.
As Cam walked into the wheelhouse Slim greeted with him with a nod of the head.
Cam leant against the doorframe. ‘The boys,’ he said. ‘They’re keen to get out.’
Slim raised his eyebrows in mild amusement. ‘And they’ve sent you to convince me?’
Cam didn’t reply.
Slim’s real name was Jim Baker, but everyone knew him as Slim, a nickname he’d been given because of the many things Baker was, slim wasn’t one of them. He was a big man, six foot two or three, and heavy-set with a stomach that strained against his clothes. He dressed well, in white collared shirts and neatly pressed trousers. His wife, Betty, had standards, and would send him on every trip with a holdall of perfectly ironed clothes, with a fresh shirt for each day.
The rest of them wore the same clothes for days at a time, some not even changing to sleep. Slim never set foot on any boat without his scrimshaw knife, a bone-handled penknife engraved with a simple drawing of a clipper ship. The crew of The Annamae, like all fishermen, were slaves to superstition. Slim’s knife had become their talisman. Who knew what bad luck they’d be hit with if he ever came aboard without it? The knife had belonged to Slim’s great, great grandfather who was famed for causing the only recorded injury in the Newlyn fishing riots of 1896 when he clocked a policeman on the head with a fish box. According to Baker family lore, after knocking the man to the ground, he kissed the handle of the knife, disappeared into the melee and escaped.
Slim rubbed his jaw and sighed heavily. ‘There’s a break coming in the next day or two. But it’s short. Maybe not even half a day. Enough to get out but with more gales forecast …’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘The other skippers are staying in. Say it’s not worth it.’ Slim hesitated. The truth was it could well be worth it. Trawlers had been tied up throughout the country for over two weeks and prices were soaring. There was money to be made for the first boat to take a chance on the forecasts. When he next spoke, Cam was surprised to hear uncertainty in his voice. ‘But then again, we’re all skint as monks. Christmas is coming. Betty’s worrying about presents. Jesus, she’s ordered a turkey the size of a car. I owe money on The Annamae. The repairs last month cost a small fortune.’ He glanced at Cam with an expectant expression.
‘You want my opinion?’ Cam stifled a laugh.
Slim didn’t reply. He never asked for advice. It was his job to make the decisions, Cam’s to haul the fish in.
Cam thought of Hannah’s arms looped around his neck, her fingers lightly stroking his back as her tongue explored his mouth. The thought of leaving to battle freezing waters, haul nets until his bones ached, and sleep in the bunk room, stacked like sardines next to unwashed fishermen, while she was lying warm in bed, hair fanning the pillow, soft and sweet-smelling, was agonising. But he needed to get paid. Just thinking about that Cardew prick turning her head with fancy meals was enough to make him breathless with jealousy.
‘I vote to go,’ he said. ‘The lads are climbing the walls. Geren’s like a caged dog.’
Slim laughed. ‘He a madman, that’s why.’
‘We’re all madmen. Have to be to do this job. Look, it’s your call, Slim, but you’d not get any argument from us.’
The Annamae set off from Newlyn a shade before two in the morning. There were no stars or moon to soften the darkness, and as she chugged through the ebony water towards the opening in the harbour wall, they could hear the sea raging like a ferocious beast in the dark. The fishing gear was stowed on deck, the heavy chains and nets tucked in beneath the overhanging gunwales, and the cupboards were stacked with supplies for two weeks. There was a palpable sense of excitement in the galley as the crew sat and nursed mugs of thick coffee. The group of men included a youngster – seventeen years old – called Lawrence Mould, or Lawrie, he said, for short. Lawrie Mould had shown up a few days before and begged Slim for a place on his next trip. He arrived on the pier that morning holding a rucksack and looking exactly like a kid on his first day of school. He hadn’t spoken a word as they’d loaded the boat with provisions, and all the crew knew about him was what Slim had told them: that the lad came from a nowhere town in the Midlands with a string of jobs he’d stuck at for no more than a day or two behind him.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ scoffed Geren, in a loud enough whisper for the boy to hear, ‘just what this trip needs, a lazy kid with no balls.’
Lawrie’s cheeks pinked up and he pulled at his sleeve, looking, worryingly, as if he might start crying.
Cam watched Geren and Davy exchange conspiratorial looks. Lawrie would have to take it. It was the way things were. Teasing deckie learners was tradition and there was no way this wet-behind-the-ears lad would escape it.
‘I’m not lazy,’ Lawrie said, unable to meet anybody’s eyes. ‘I want to work.’
‘Well, you see lad, there’s work and there’s fishing.’ Geren was unable to keep the smirk from his voice. ‘You might want to work, but I can tell already, there’s no way you’ve got what it takes to fish.’
Lawrie’s face grew pinker still.
Davy laughed and muttered ‘dickhead’ under his breath.
‘Right.’ Slim interrupted them with a sharp, teacher-like clap. ‘When we get to the fishing grounds I want you lot pulling in like crazy men. We’re looking for big hauls. The market is dead and people are desperate. We’re one of the only boats out and if we fish large we’ll rake it in.’
The men started to jest and joke, but he quietened them with a raised hand.
‘Like you know, there’s weather on the way. I’m going to do all I can to skirt it, but there’s a chance it might catch us.’
Cam noticed the knuckles on Slim’s calloused hands were white with clenching.
‘They said it could hit a force ten.’
Geren whistled through his teeth. ‘When?’
‘Two days. Thursday evening. Could be Friday.’
‘Right, so we haul from when we reach the grounds and don’t stop,’ Geren said. ‘Who needs sleep anyway, right?’ Lawrie started to speak. His lips were stretched thin and pale as milk. ‘Should we be out there?’
Geren snapped his head around and scoffed loudly. ‘We don’t need to hear from you. Shut your mouth and do what you’re told.’
Lawrie looked down at the floor and swallowed.
‘Get some sleep.’ Slim ignored both men. ‘We’ll be sixteen hours before we shoot away.’
Cam trusted him to avoid the brunt of the storms. It would be rough out there in the freezing Atlantic seas, but nothing they hadn’t coped with a hundred times before. The men headed down the hatch into the bunk room. These hours were precious, an opportunity to rest; once they got hauling there’d be little time for sleep and it was gruelling work.
An all too familiar anxiety thrummed in the pit of Cam’s stomach. Heading out to sea always gave him a sense of vulnerability and, when they lost the lights of Newlyn and were surrounded on all sides by blackness and endless water, isolation. Six men, no more than specks of dust on an ocean so powerful and unpredictable, so savage, they could be swallowed up in the blink of a mermaid’s eye. Thoughts of his father were never far from his mind. He was fourteen when his dad was lost. Memories of him were murky and undefined. However hard he concentrated, any image of him was no more than a vague shape. But he remembered how excited he used to be whilst waiting for his father to return from sea, and though he had trouble picturing his face, the smell of him was easy, thick with salt and fish, oil and old sweat. There were the stories he used to tell him as well, sitting on his lap beside the wood burner, tales of the sea he recalled word for word. His father would have loved Hannah, Cam was certain of that, and he ached when he thought about the two of them remaining strangers.
‘Try and get some shut-eye, lad,’ Cam said to Lawrie who hovered at the hatch to the bunk room. ‘You’ll need your strength.’
Lawrie reluctantly climbed down the ladder, but Cam didn’t follow. There was no point trying to sleep. His mind was buzzing. Instead he went up to find Slim in the wheelhouse.
Slim was at the wheel, mouth set, eyes hooded with grim concentration as he looked out of the window into the blackness, then down at the screen, at the green illuminated lines and flickering dots which gave him the information he needed to get where he was taking them.
‘Can you smell where the fish are at?’ Cam pulled his tobacco pouch from his back pocket.
‘Of course.’ Slim cast him a fleeting smile. ‘But I don’t think we’ll escape the weather. Like I said, I’ll try, but it’s not looking great.’
Cam rolled a cigarette and licked the edge to seal it. ‘We’ve done storms before and we’ll do them again. You’ve got your lucky knife. We’ll be fine. And, anyway,’ he said, grinning, ‘a good storm’ll sort the dec
kie learner out, for sure. Lad looked pretty green just now. I sent him to his bunk, but I reckon we’ve got some puking to look forward to.’
Young Lawrence Mould – as Cam predicted – started throwing up around four in the morning and didn’t stop for six solid hours. The others sat around the table in the galley clasping mugs of tea and smoking cigarettes. Each time the boy vomited into the stinking latrine behind the apology for a door, Davy and Geren sniggered. If there was one thing to sort out a cocky lad who thought fishing was an easy wage, it was a dose of seasickness. Even Cam couldn’t hold back his smile. Martin was too old to waste energy teasing kids and was seemingly oblivious to the gut-wrenching as he sat reading his paper and eating toast and jam.
Cam was thankful for the distraction, even if that distraction was the sound of Lawrie Mould heaving his guts up. He couldn’t get that prick Cardew out of his head. Images of him and Hannah sitting opposite each other – all dressed up, drinking wine, her eyes flickering in the candlelight – bombarded him. Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Was she playing around behind his back? Just thinking about that made his body rage. He thought back to their last few hours together. His lips on hers. Moving inside her. The conversation they’d had as she lay in his arms, her thigh resting on his, her fingers toying with the hair on his chest. No. It wasn’t possible. There was no way she was sleeping around. And definitely not with that dickhead. Cam would have given everything to be with her rather than stuck on a boat with a puking deckie learner and the prospect of hauling nets for the next thirty-six hours without sleep.
Another bout of violent retching interrupted Cam’s thoughts.
‘Don’t worry, Lawrie,’ Geren called through his laughter. ‘Only ten days to go!’
The Storm Page 11
