An Open Swimmer (13 page)

‘Thought it was the smartest thing to do.'

‘Knockin' back the chance?'

‘For what?'

‘To
be
somebody.'

He felt the corrugations in the sides of the cardboard, ribs under his fingers.

‘Nothing to do with it.'

‘So you work 'ere, in a shop that I have to run to be somebody. Al the Ding. He runs the deli down the road. You waste time doing things like this.'

‘Not a waste.'

‘How would you know? You done nothink! Got brains – so you work in a lousy shop.'

Jerra bit. The gristly mince was going cold. He swallowed quickly, trying not to taste duco.

‘
You
work in a lousy shop.'

Al grubbed his smoke out on the grey wall. Small rings crept around the bulb on the ceiling.

‘I got no choice. There's nothink else.'

‘Same. For both of us.'

Al stood and kicked the boxes, planting a hole in a red K.

‘Rosa is right. You
are
stupid. You donna what choice is!'

Jerra took a breath. Al was gone. He finished the pie in the smoky little room.

Rods stuck out stiff from the granite of the mole. The sea outside the harbour was chopped by a sou'westerly. The sun was dropping quickly and, here and there, lamps began to glow. At dark there was no sound but the wind in the rocks and the slow click-click of the reels winding in. A launch passed, lit brightly. Snatches of music stuttered in the wind. Jerra saw his mother's hands in the lamplight, the thick needles moving over the brown wool; she sat in the lee of a coarse boulder, out of the chill. Insects beat themselves on the hot glass. Next to him a reel clicked, the ratchet turning over slowly.

‘Anything?'

‘No,' said his father, hair ruffled by the wind, wisps of grey shining in the periphery of the light.

‘See the paper today?' his mother asked.

‘No.' He reeled in a little.

‘More bad news.'

‘Bloody Russians,' said his father, swinging the gang of hooks up onto the rock. ‘There'll be war soon.'

‘If the Yanks have their way,' said Jerra.

‘Conscription, too, the way the Liberals are.'

‘That'd be awful.'

‘Could do some good. Absorb some of the unemployed, or something.'

‘Send 'em off to the Middle East. Vietnam absorbed a few. Like a bloody Wettex.'

‘Who needs a war?' his mother said. ‘There's kids killing themselves these days. In a phone booth, last week or before.'

‘It wasn't because he needed a bloody war to go to.'

His mother was silent. He could hear the needles clicking between gentle gusts. His father cast out, the mulie spinning out into the darkness. A small white splosh. Jerra reeled in, checked his bait, and cast out languidly, dropping just short of his father's splash.

‘Bit more flick.'

‘Don't worry, Dad, I'll get it one day.' He laughed, glancing over his shoulder. His mother was looking down at her hands. ‘Who's it for?'

‘You.'

‘Oh?'

‘Been knitting it ever since you got back from South.'

‘Vee-neck?'

‘Course. Learnt my lesson.'

‘It itches my throat.'

‘Father's the same. At least he'll wear his.'

Wham! Jerra's rod whipped down, almost into the water. He jerked back and took up the slack, but there was nothing.

‘Strike?'

‘Gone.'

‘What was it?'

‘Big an' fast, whatever it was.'

‘Anything's too fast for you two.'

His father reeled in, chuckling. He turned into the lamplight to bait up. Jerra reeled in as his father cast out. Bait gone. He impaled a frozen mulie on the line of barbs.

‘More flick, this time.'

‘Yes, Dad.' He flicked the bail-arm over and drew the rod back. It bowed and snapped forward, line whistling. A white pock showed, quite a way further out than his father's.

‘Better?'

‘Not bad.'

‘Clowns,' murmured his mother.

‘Haah!'

Line unspooling with a whine, his father braked and dragged the big rod back.

‘What is it?'

‘Big.'

The rod arched, straining to reach the water. His father stepped back and took slack. Jerra could hear his little gasps.

‘Get the gaff!'

Jerra went back to the rocks, still holding his rod, and grabbed the long gaff.

‘Doubling back!' yelled his father, reeling. The rod straightened. As the fish turned again, it went back into the crook.

Jerra watched his father trying to straighten, hair in his eyes. His knees were bent and the baggy trousers were flapping.

‘And again. Gaff.' He was puffing.

‘Yeah.'

‘Lost him again.' Straining.

Jerra reeled in, put his rod down and stood ready with the gaff. Line hummed out again.

‘Wassamatter?'

‘Nothin', jus . . .'

Reel screaming.

‘Hold it!'

‘I —'

Jerra dropped the gaff and grappled the rod away, almost losing it as his father let go and sagged back into his wife's arms. He dragged sideways to break the run, and reeled. The rod was alive, quaking. Jerra heard his mother behind. Water broke and there was a tail-slap. Then the fish ran at the rocks and he could hardly reel in fast enough. He gaffed it, one handed, up onto the dry rock.

‘Bonito!'

The thin, whippy tail hit him in the shin.

‘Give me a hand,' his mother said. ‘Come on, Tom.'

‘Hey, Dad, how's that?'

His father didn't look up.

‘You okay?'

‘Jerra —' his mother hissed.

‘Bit of a turn's all.'

Jerra laughed.

‘He did yer, orright, eh?'

She glared.

‘Fifteen pound of 'im.'

‘Big
enough
.' Jerra laughed.

His father said nothing, grey faced, breathing short and shallow.

‘How've you been?' Judy asked him.

‘Orright.' He could never think of anything to say on the phone.

‘The deli?'

‘A ball. Make it a career.'

‘Hmm.'

‘And what've you been doing?'

‘Nothing much.'

‘Mm-hm.'

‘Dinner?'

‘Orright, sure.'

Bitten fragments of talk. He hung up, wondering. He shivered. Winter would be a long one this year.

It was so cold in the morning that Jerra wore gloves to drive to work. But he had to take them off at the shop. Hygiene, Al said. Jerra's fmgers were bluer in a few minutes than they had ever been. They ached from working the ovens and fridges at the same time.

Al came in off the dyke, sullen.

‘Move your arse today, boy. Friday they spend big.'

The morning ached slowly on. Near lunch time, the kids and the mothers with prams, and the overalled men from the factory, began to straggle in, buying extra chips and cigs to last the weekend. The chips crackled, pies were slapped on the counter, bottle-tops jangled in the bin, and milkshakes were snorted up through straws by grimy children, arguing colour and length and three-for-one.

At the peak, the counter was writhing with heads and hands, calling for a thousand different things, and rattling change and lollies in bags. A big man from the factory shoved kids aside, forcing his way to the counter. A boy, short and dark, complained, glancing up at the man.

‘Boofhead,' said the little face.

The man took him by the collar and flicked him under the ear. Spilling his coppers on the floor in a shower, the boy fled. Laughing, the man scooped up a few coins, held them in his hand for the other children to see, and pocketed them. The children murmured. A lady walked out, muttering ‘Bloody oaf' over and over. Rosa was busy at the other end of the counter. Jerra went over to the pie oven where Al tapped impatiently on the glass door.

‘You see that? What a bastard. Shall I serve him?'

‘Has he got money?'

Jerra looked away. If he didn't before, he has now, he thought.

‘Yeah.'

‘He's a customer.'

‘You can't let a prick like that get away with it. What about the bloody kids!'

Al opened the oven door.

‘Serve him.'

‘An' you think I'm weak as piss,' he muttered, going back.

The big man was at the counter, leaning heavily on the Laminex in his greasy overalls, twiddling the straws in their chrome canister. Jerra avoided him, serving kids on either side. The factory worker tapped hard on the Laminex with a coin, that irritating, pecking sound.

‘Arr, carm on. Serve some bloody customers!'

Jerra ignored him. Coaxing the little heads to speak and lingering over their orders, he fussed unnecessarily on their behalf. He was itching for something. From the corner of his eye he saw a blue arm reaching into the Coke fridge. Jerra knew now what he was itching for. He dropped his whole weight on the heavy lid, jamming the man's arm up to the elbow. He roared. Jerra saw the corned beef in his teeth and leant heavier on the lid.

‘Getchafuckenandoff!'

‘What's it doin' in the fridge?' he yelled back, smiling at the children who were more terrified than impressed.

The face brightened in its reds and whites as Jerra pressed harder, then the other hand, out of reach, smacked the straw canister to the floor, spraying straws and children in all directions. Then, despite Jerra's weight, the man dragged his arm out of the fridge, taking off a flap of skin, and threw a tall jar of penny-sticks onto the floor. It shattered, glass skittering on the linoleum. Jerra was no longer smiling.

‘You little barsted!'

Rosa screamed. As he backed away, Jerra knew that Al was not there; he had an idea where he would be. He groped along the side bench for a weapon. Anything. As the big man straddled the counter, Jerra fumbled up a cold bottle of Coke, feeling the teeth of the bottle-top in his palm as he slammed it down onto the overalled shin. Another scream. Not Rosa. The man purpling. Blood from the arm. Jerra pounded him frantically on the buttocks as he continued dragging himself over. Very scared now, Jerra retreated behind the chocolate shelves where he caught a glimpse of Al, scuttling and locking.

Something shattered. Rosa screaming again.

‘He's got a bottle!' she wailed.

As the bloody sleeve appeared, the teeth of glass held like a knife with many blades, Jerra moved back further, wanting to be sick and ready at the same time, backing into the dimness of a corner with a thirty-cent Coke chilling his palms. Overalls. He sprang out, rammed the bottle hard and high between the man's legs, and kicked wildly in the same place and others as the legs bent like paper straws. A hand went around his throat but opened as the man fell. Grunting and gargling, the body pumped on the linoleum, twitching, sucking in air.

‘Rosa,' he called, very quiet, shaking.

‘Is he dead? Where's Dad?'

Jerra kicked the broken bottle-neck from the writhing man's fingers. It slithered into a corner.

‘Dad orright?' Rosa came.

‘He's just locking the strongbox.' That bubbling noise sickened him.

Al appeared.

‘Got a smart-arse, eh?'

‘Oh, shit, Al.'

‘Watcher make trouble for?'

‘Oh, come on!'

Al went back behind the shelves. Jerra leant against the counter, staring around the empty shop, keeping an eye on the stricken factory man. Al came back with the strongbox, unlocking it again.

‘See you were lookin' after things,' Jerra sneered.

‘Rosa was right. You're
real
stupid!' He flung the box open and snatched out a few twenties and some smaller notes. ‘Here.' He dropped them on the counter. Jerra saw the sweat coming out of him. ‘That's your pay, thassall!'

‘Just like that.'

‘Silly bastard,' muttered Rosa. ‘Yer crazy.'

He snatched up the money and went carefully round the back, past the sweaty, vomitty thing. Near the back door, he stopped and peeled off a two-dollar note.

‘Hey, Al!'

Al's head showed.