Spindrift

by Jonathan Broughton

  An aroma of fresh ground coffee from the clean and well-presented café area wafts across the cavernous space. Such a high ceiling, but light and airy. Yes, full marks! To my left is a small reception desk, a man is on the telephone.

  “Hold on a minute,” he says into the phone and glances up. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to assist with the food bank.”

  He points to his right. “Straight through that room and first on the left.”

  I set sail in the direction of his pointed finger. So far so good, in fact it is all going swimmingly well.

  I straighten up and swing open the door into a basketball hall. A team of pensioners busy themselves setting up tables and chairs. They don’t look up to leaping about. Ah! I spot what might confuse a less able person; this hall is used for multiple purposes.

  A grey haired lady covers the tables with red velveteen cloths. Was this Muriel? She had sounded so young.

  Things appear well organised. Most tables are taken, people chat and a man sits in front of a computer tapping away at the keyboard while conferring with a slim elderly woman who holds a sheet of paper.

  Another grey haired lady picks green plastic boxes, about the size of a can of corned beef, out of a large plastic storage container and delivers four to each table.

  The occupants seize hold of them. How ravenous they must be. But one of those won’t sustain you for long; it hardly contains enough to feed a child.

  Yet another elderly woman hands out contraptions that resemble calculators. Once delivered, people punch the keys, but whatever they want fails to be achieved. They shake their heads, chat and write on white cards.

  I remove my hat and jacket and ask a woman doing the same to point out Muriel.

  The woman glances around the room. “She doesn’t seem to be here. Maybe she’s not in today.”

  I place my jacket on a hanger. “She told me to meet her here.”

  The woman nods towards the woman next to the computer. “Go and see Rose, she’s the director. Tell her what’s happened. Muriel may have spoken to her.”

  “Thank you, I will.” I pick my way through the tables. “Rose?”

  Rose looks up. “Yes.”

  “I’m Augustine Wright. Muriel told me to come along this afternoon and now I understand she isn’t here.”

  “Muriel’s got problems with her boiler. It’s all right. You can team up with our host. I’ll just finish this.” Rose focuses on the computer screen. “No, that won’t work. What about a Howell?”

  I peer into a large metal cupboard that contains what might loosely be described as stationery. Where’s the food?

  Rose calls to a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair. “Karen, this is... I’ve forgotten your name, what was it?”

  “Augustine Wright.”

  “She needs a partner.”

  Karen looks me up and down as if I were some scurvy dog. “You’re over here with me unless someone else turns up at the last minute, in which case you’ll be with them.”

  Karen reeks of stale tobacco and I don’t warm to the idea of spending the afternoon in her company. Anyone, no matter how poor they are, would be put off accepting food from stained yellow fingers.

  “There seem to be a lot of people in charge,” I comment.

  “Rose’s the director, she’s in charge,” Karen retorts.

  “Do you always have partners?” I ask.

  Karen’s mouth falls open. “Yes.”

  I place my bag on the table. “What’s your role here?”

  Karen’s lips purse over her stained teeth. “I’m the host.”

  She picks up a pen and folds a white card in half. “Some people take it very seriously, obsessional, you might say.”

  “How often do you come?” I ask.

  “Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”

  “I’m surprised the food isn’t on display,” I remark.

  “Wait there a moment,” Karen orders.

  She marches over to Rose who is balancing a stack of slim, red, oblong plastic containers on her left arm. She places three containers on the table. I can’t see what’s inside them but the shape suggests chocolate. It doesn’t seem fair; she only gives out three when there are four people sitting there. Rose and Karen engage in a whispered conference with occasional glances thrown in my direction. Both women approach with an air of purpose.

  “Augustine?” asked Rose. “Have you played before?”

  “Mrs Wright. I prefer to be known as Mrs Wright.”

  “We use first names here,” barks Karen.

  “We are ready to start, so I need to be clear if you are able to join in,” says Rose.

  “Of course I can join in, that’s what I’m here for.”

  Rose glances at Karen, shrugs and places three of the chocolate containers on our table. There are only two of us, so why give us three?

  Karen pulls out a chair and plonks her bottom on it. “You had better sit down.”

  I manoeuvre the chair opposite hers and descend into it, place my bag on the floor, straighten my back and glare at Karen. If her intentions are to intimidate, then two can play at that game.

  Karen points at a sign saying NORTH stuck on the back of a cupboard door. “That’s north.”

  I wait for more information.

  “You’ll have to operate the Bridgemate.”

  Really what was this woman on about?

  Karen springs to her feet and pushes her chair away. “You had better play south.”

  It was like some sort of adult version of musical chairs. Very childish. I resolve to stay put.

  Rose’s benign tones float across the hubbub. “We are playing a nine and a half table Mitchel, east west move down, boards move up.”

  What on earth is going on? What have these antics to do with food?

  Karen seizes the device that looks like a calculator and hovers above me. “You’ll have to move.”

  I take my time, rise to my feet; side step to the adjacent chair and lower myself into it.

  Karen sits in my vacated chair and raises her eyes. “You’ll have to be south. I can’t play with you unless you sit opposite me.”

  I glare at her. “I wish you’d make up your mind.”

  She glares back. I make the concession and take the chair opposite her.

  Karen taps the calculator’s keys. “This table is the ghost. We can use the time to decide on tactics.”

  Ghost table? Ridiculous to try and conduct a séance in this atmosphere.

  “What’s your number?” demands Karen.

  Now she’s after my telephone number! Well, she can whistle for it.

  “Your union number?”

  Union! This is outrageous. Words fail me.

  “So you don’t have a number?” she taunts.

  “Certainly not,” I splutter.

  She thumps the calculator on the table and seizes a white card and a pen. “Weak twos or strong?”

  At last, she has said something that makes sense, even if her vowel sounds are somewhat array. “Strong, I can’t abide weak tea.”

  The drone from the heating moans above an orchestral jumble of staccato orders. “Top. Low. Ruff.”

  Rough? Are these pensioners stipulating a sexual preference? I can see I have my work cut out.

  “Let’s try a few practice hands,” gibes Karen.

  I don’t move.

  “Take your cards then,” she orders.

  That’s it. That’s what they’re up to. This is a form of gambling. It’s a racket, exploiting people who don’t have enough money for food.

  Karen places a card showing five black short-handled shovels on the table. “If I was to play this, what would you play?”

  I want to vacate this den of iniquity but someone needs to ensure a sense of morality is maintained. It seems that that has fallen on to my shoulders. This may well be a matter for the police. I play it cool, that’s the modern expression I believe. I need to think quickly. I examine my cards; s
pot one with the same number of emblems, but instead of shovels, blackberries. I slam the card down on the table. “Snap.”

  Karen’s face resembles a disgruntled camel. “Have you got a spade?”

  The random way this woman chops from one enquiry to the next.

  “Yes, I’ve got a spade,” I retort.

  “You have to play it then,” demands Karen.

  “It’s not here. It’s at home, in my shed.”

  “Have you got a spade in your hand?” persists Karen.

  “No, I’ve already informed you, it’s in my shed.”

  “You’ve not played this game before, have you?” tuts Karen.

  “Helping out at a food bank is not a game.”

  “The food bank is through there. You’re in the wrong place.”

  Karen sucks in her cheeks, shakes her head and bustles over to Rose. She’s rumbled me, though I can’t think how. Now she’s making out that I’m mistaken. I grab my bag, set my back to regimental style and march out. This place needs a thorough investigation. I shall go straight to the press. The Hastings and St Leonards Observer will hear about this.

  Fresh Whelks and Winkles

  by Rayne Hall

  Steampunk is a genre about a world that never was but might have been. Inspired by historical culture and Victorian society, it imagines sophisticated technologies using clockwork mechanisms, gas and steam. I often imagined what Hastings pier, in the UK, was like in its heyday during the Victorian and Edwardian eras. From there, my imagination leapt to a steampunk pier where paddle steamers dock and airships land.

  “Fresh whelks and winkles,” I sing, wooden spoon in hand, curtseying to the grown-up passers-by. “Freshly caught, freshly cooked, tuppence a bag. Fresh whelks and winkles.”

  A shrill hoot comes from the pier's control tower. Arms point and necks crane as people look for the airship arriving from London. All I see are bowlers and bonnets, and the sun drooping behind the copper-green roofs of the western pavilions.

  “There she comes!” a woman cries. Lads whistle, and ladies clap their gloved hands in applause. Now I see her, a big purple sausage in the sky, the gondola glinting red in the light of the sinking sun.

  She's three hours late. Normally, the Princess Alice arrives here in the afternoon and flies on to Dieppe. The people waiting for the paddle steamer watch, and locals pay a penny at the turnstile to enter the pier and get a close view. Waiting people get hungry, and I've sold a lot of whelks and winkles today.

  Now food is forgotten, and everyone jostles for a good view. She hovers above the pier, and the engine hum mingles with the whistles from the control tower, the excited chatter of the onlookers, the whirring tic-toc of the pier's big clock and the splashing of the waves. The grounding crew dart around and yell. As she gets into position, the droning of her engines drowns out all other sound.

  Now she drops her landing lines. Although the lines look like string, they're arm-thick cables, and they drag her down to the docking tower.

  The pot on my stove hisses loud enough to hear it over the engine noise. Duty calls. I hurry to lift the lid and stir, lest the winkles stick to the bottom or overcook and become rubbery. The shells rattle as I stir them in the simmering brine.

  The wrought-iron gate of the arrival lounge creaks open, and the first passengers spill out in a flurry of rustling silk and clanking brass.

  These people have money. I curtsey to every one of them. “Fresh whelks and winkles. Freshly caught, freshly cooked. Fresh whelks and winkles.”

  They promenade past me, the ladies with their hands on gentlemen's arms, their noses in the air. Having dined in London, and anticipating a fine meal in France, they have no need to buy fare from barefooted whelk girls like me. They come out of the gondola merely to stretch their legs, get an evening paper, or perhaps buy an ice-cream from the hokey-pokey man.

  The air smells of algae, sea salt, sugar and frying dough.

  At last, a couple approaches my stove, he in a brown suit and cap, she in a rust-coloured dress and beribboned bonnet—paddle steamer passengers, I judge.

  “I love winkles,” she purrs.

  Her young man laughs. “Then you shall have some.” He tosses me tuppence.

  I ladle the shellfish right from the pot and fill a ready-folded cone of old newspaper. As I hand it to her, together with a toothpick to pull the snail flesh from the shells, our fingers touch.

  A jolt runs through me. Like icy fire, it surges through my arm into my stomach. My vision blurs. Sickness rises and ebbs in rapid waves.

  I struggle for balance. Then my sight clears—but I see two pictures. One is what I expect—the man stands next to the rust-clad lady. The other is the same man, but he bends his knee before her, cap in hand.

  I blink, but the double image doesn't go away. The man with the bent knee reaches into his pocket...

  Heat rises into my chest, sears my throat and shapes into words that bubble from my mouth. “He'll ask you to marry him,” I hear myself say, while my heart pounds in my ears.

  The words burst from my lips like water from a geyser. “He is going down on his knee and he wants you to be his wife.”

  She gives an embarrassed laugh. “Silly child.”

  “He will. He really will.” I don't know where the knowledge comes from, or the image, or what compels me to speak. “He'll give you a ring from his pocket.”

  The young man steps forward. “She's right, Winifred. I had planned to do it later today, but seeing that my surprise is spoiled...” With a nervous chuckle, he takes off his cap, goes down on one knee, and draws a little box from his jacket pocket. “Dearest Winifred, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

  She gasps, and then she opens the box and gasps again. They hold hands, and dance in a spin like happy children, whelks forgotten.

  Their happiness makes my heart flutter. What has just happened? Can I really see what people will do next?

  Then she stops and stares at me. “How did you know, child?”

  He picks up his cap where he dropped it, and puts it back on. “Yes, how did you know?”

  How did I know? “I just saw it.”

  “Every pier has a fortune teller,” the young woman says. “But you seem a little young. How old are you? Seven, eight?”

  “Nine. My mama is the fortune teller. That's her booth.” I point to the end of the pavilion where Mama has her window, with the signboard World-Famous Gypsy Palmist, Urania Rose.

  Her glance follows my pointed finger, and her laughter trills. “You have inherited her gift.”

  People flock, curious to find out what the commotion is about. The young lady's voice chirps like a thrush's as she shows them her sparkly ring and repeats, “And this is the young gypsy who foretold it.”

  Another woman pushes forward. She wears a green hat with black bird wings. “Oh, Herman, I simply must have my fortune told,” she gushes.

  “Mama is the fortune teller, over there,” I say. “I just sell whelks and winkles.”

  She waves this off. “I want a real prophecy, not rehearsed fare.”

  Her man smiles. “We'll have to buy some whelks and winkles then, won't we?” He produces a leather portmonnaie from his pocket and drops a coin into my palm.

  When I've filled the newspaper cone and passed it to him, the lady gives me her hand. It's slim, white and cool. “How do you do it? Read my palm?”

  “I don't know how to read palms. Mama says...” My hand tingles where it touches hers, and heat surges through me. A wave of nausea rises from my stomach and settles. Dizziness clouds my mind, then vanishes, like fog clearing to leave a clear view.

  I see a Christmas tree, sparkling with baubles and candles, and there is the woman with...

  Words bubble from my mouth. “You'll have a baby on Christmas morning.”

  She yanks her hand away. “Nonsense.”

  “Christmas?” the man asks in a strangled voice.

  “Of course not.” The woman laughs, but her fa
ce is fiery red.

  He looks at her belly. His face is white, and his fist clutches the cone so tightly that I hear the shells break.

  “She's just a little whelk seller. A little liar.” She takes his arm. “Let's go.”

  I never tell lies. “It's true, it's true!” I yell after them. “You will have a baby at Christmas, I've seen it.”

  Mama comes dashing across the pier, skirts flouncing, bangles jingling, scarves aflutter. She grabs my elbow. Her fingers dig painfully into my flesh. “Dora! What are you doing?” she scolds. “You must not say such things.”

  “But they are true!” I cry. “The lady with the bird hat will have a baby at Christmas. I've seen it. The other man did propose marriage to the other lady, just like I saw.”

  “Oh, dear. So it's starting for you already.” Mama's grip loosens, and the bangles on her arm jingle. “I didn't get it until I was thirteen.” She tugs my bonnet straight. Her black-rimmed eyes look unhappy. “Listen, Dora. Telling fortunes is a skill. It needs learning. I will teach you how to read fortunes properly, from the palm and from the crystal ball and the cards, and what to say and what to keep to yourself.” She sighs. “Until I've trained you, you must keep quiet about what you see. It doesn't matter if it's true. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She rushes back to the pavilion because airship passengers are approaching and they may have money to get their fortunes told.

  I lift the lid and stir my pot. “Fresh whelks and fresh winkles...”

  *

  Jemmy has brought another bucket of shellfish he's scraped off the low-tide rocks. He never sorts them, just tosses everything into the same bucket, whelks, winkles, sometimes mussels, oysters, or even razor shell clams which I can sell for a penny each.

  Kneeling on the pier's wooden floor, I sift through his crop. The water's biting chill numbs my fingers. Frigid air seeps through the wooden slats, through my skirts and into my flesh. I draw my cape tighter around me, huddle against my charcoal stove and press my fingers against the hot cast iron, but my feet and legs stay numb. Mama promised that if we earn enough, she'll buy Jemmy and me boots so we don't have to go barefoot this winter.

  “Fresh whelks and fresh winkles,” I sing, to keep myself awake. I'm so tired and so cold.

  The whelks go into a different bucket, because they need to cook longer than the winkles. I must guard the buckets against attacks from seagulls. The birds sometimes swoop down to snatch a snack.