Winterton Blue (32 page)

You know what you said, Brendan, about people not settling in London?

Hmm-hmm, he says, nodding as if he knows what's coming.

You might be right.

She leans over the wall and wipes at the board with her glove, peering at the numbers on the bottom.

It's no good, I can't make it out, she says, Let's ask at the pub.

Brendan looks about him, up and down the lane, his eyes following the track to the dunes. In the wide space beyond, a thousand stars hang in the sky.

Shall we ask about rooms as well? he says, trudging behind her, 'Cos I can't see us getting to your mum's house tonight.

Vernon is on his knees in the kitchen, reaching into the back of the cupboard. He doesn't notice Rita until he catches sight of her slippered feet on the flags.

Ah, Rita, there you are, he says, burying his head again in the darkness, You gave me a start.

Cabbage, what on earth are you doing in there?

Babychams, he says, muffled, Just a tic.

They were here, Cabbage, she says, tapping a finger on the work surface, They're always here, on a tray. What have you done with them?

Trying to get his attention, she puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

Found them! he cries, lifting a glass out of the cupboard and holding it up for her to take. Without looking, she puts it on the counter, offering her hand for the second glass. Vernon grips her fingers with his own.

As I'm already down here, he says, And as you're here . . . as we're both here . . .

In this kitchen, says Rita, trying to move him on.

. . . I'd like to say something.

Make it quick, Cabbage, I'm very thirsty.

My dear, lovely Rita, he says, his upturned face a deep shade of pink, Will you marry me?

She turns her head away, and for such a long time, he's beginning to think she's smothering a laugh.

I was going to, erm . . . the ring is . . . it's in the glass. I was going to . . .

When Rita turns back, her mouth is set in a tight line.

You were going to put it in a glass of champagne, she says, Just like in the film.

Just like in the film, Rita.

She peers over the counter to check, then gives him a broad, teary smile. In the hall, the answering machine cuts in. They both ignore it.

Did she say ‘yes' in the film, Vernon? asks Rita.

I believe so, he says.

She puts out her other hand and helps him up, his knees cracking as he rises off the floor.

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.

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.