Winterton Blue (11 page)

The rain sits in bright drops on the window of the bus: finding his own eyes staring at him shocks Lewis back into reality. The driver has pulled into a lay-by banked by a clot of dense bushes. She calls out, Diss, anyone for Diss? Against the blackened leaves, Lewis looks at his reflection again, sees himself doubled and slightly out of register, his eyes glittering and untrue.

Thought you were going to the end, she says, as Lewis steps off the coach.

When Anna can no longer bear the sound of the buffeting wind, she switches on the radio. The traffic news cuts in immediately, giving out information on local tailbacks, diversions, and accidents. The announcer warns of gusting rain and gales spreading from the east. Searching for a station, she hits another button at random, and Joni Mitchell resumes her singing. Anna lets the scenery sweep away on either side of her. The sky directly ahead is thunderous black, but in her rear-view mirror, a clear twilight blue. She doesn't recall the last few miles she's travelled, or dusk falling. A lorry bearing down from the opposite direction flashes its beams at her, and Anna puts her headlights on. Round a winding incline, aware of the glare and dip of another set of lights coming towards her, Anna almost doesn't see the figure cutting its way through the landscape. He's too near, walking the cats' eyes at the edge of the road, so she has to pull out into the middle of the carriageway to avoid hitting him.

Tosser! she shouts.

In her rear-view mirror, she glances back: he's carrying a kitbag over his shoulder and holding out his thumb.

Never in a million years, she says.

The last thing Anna wants, with a headache and a bad night's sleep to haunt her, is breakfast with Vernon and his waistcoat. She tiptoes down the stairs and pauses at the dining-room door, listening hard for signs of life: cornflake munching, heavy breathing, anything to warn her of his presence.

Coast is clear, says a voice behind her, which makes her jump. Marta comes through from the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with coffee and toast and boiled eggs.

Hi, says Anna, Am I the last?

Actually, you're the first
and
the last. Mrs Calder and Mr Savoy don't normally take breakfast down here. They have it
in their rooms,
Marta says, with a delighted, whispered emphasis, as if this fact is a great secret.

Who are the eggs for? asks Anna, following Marta into the dining-room.

For you, if you like. Certainly for me.

Marta collects some cutlery from a box near the door and sits down at a window table. Anna pulls up a chair opposite. She watches as Marta shells an egg, dips it into a pile of salt on her side-plate, and bites the top off. Marta has a fresh look, with clear, pale skin and her hair pulled back off her face. Her eyes in the morning light are mineral blue, framed by prominent laugh-lines. Anna sees that her hair isn't blonde, as she first thought, it's the colour of blanched almonds. Her
mother was right about her age; Marta has the vigour of a younger woman, but close up, she could be fifty. Anna decides she likes her, but the sight of the egg disappearing so quickly makes her feel nauseous. Outside, on the road, the trees are bending under the onshore breeze.

I think I had too much of that brandy last night, says Anna, waving away the offer of toast, I'll stick to wine in future.

They are great brandy drinkers, laughs Marta, Every night, chink chink! Down the hatch!

And the odd spritzer for elevenses, continues Anna, like a mantra, A little something in their afternoon tea . . .

Yes, and then it's cocktail hour. They're very—Marta searches for the word—Sociable.

I'm not sure that's the way I'd put it, says Anna, and seeing Marta's quizzical look, changes the subject. She doesn't want to discuss her mother's habits at this hour, and Marta is a stranger still.

How long have you been here?

Marta takes a second egg. This time she slices it, and puts a layer on a piece of toast. She chews and thinks.

Since the summer. My son Kristian is an engineer on the Velsters project? You know, the wind-farm up the way here—Marta nods towards the window—So I decided to take a holiday.

A holiday? In Yarmouth?

Yarmouth is Great, says Marta, shaking her head to acknowledge the old pun, But really, I missed my son, and I've no one back home. So I'm here, for a while.

But you're here, says Anna, tapping her finger on the tablecloth, You're working here, as my mum's skivvy.

Marta considers the word, says it aloud to herself. Her accent is faint, with a slight, yawing resonance that Anna likes the sound of. She gives Anna a puzzled look.

You know, my mother's chief washer-up, cook, cleaner, and cocktail mixer, Anna says, before it occurs to her that she may have made a mistake; Marta would be doing it for
the money, same as anyone. In trying to correct herself, she flounders.

Not that there's anything wrong with the job. I mean, you just don't strike me as a . . .

Skiffy, says Marta, laughing, It's okay, really. I was going to leave, go back to Randers, and then your poor mother—she leans closer to Anna, dropping her voice—Actually, I have been concerned. Before the fall, maybe a month before, I found her in the garden, gone.

Gone? Anna whispers back.

Blank, blanked out. That time I said I would call a doctor, but she said there would be no need, because you would be coming here to look after her.

Anna nods over her coffee, and then, taking in the measure of this, echoes the phrase.

She said what? That I would be coming here?

Sure.

Anna has to clarify what she's just heard. She says the words slowly and deliberately:

A month before she fell down the steps.

Hmm-mm, Marta shrugs, Maybe six weeks. But she
knew
you would come to stay. She was very looking forward to it.

You do know my mother's a scheming bitch? Anna says, half-smiling.

Marta nods her head over her cup and gives Anna a lit-up grin.

Of course! It's a privilege of age, isn't it? To be scheming. And you are her only child, and very far away. I am a mother too, you see. That's how we're like. Sometimes it's essential, to scheme.

The wind is so strong, it almost takes her off her feet. Anna clings to the skinny trunk of a young tree, feeling her coat ballooning at her back. She tries to gauge the best way to avoid being blown off the sea wall and onto the shingle below.

It's an ice-clear day; the gulls scroll across the sky like rips of paper, the nearest ones dipping and teasing their way through the air currents. Anna crabs down to the sand, the sharp grains peppering her eyes and face, until she is at sea level. With the tide out, the sand is soft and difficult, then firm, then suddenly hard under her feet. She feels a childlike urge to run across it, running and yelling all the way down to the sea. She breaks into a self-conscious jog, slowing up as she reaches the shoreline. The waves are black and grey and rolling indigo.

There's no one on the beach. She walks towards the west by instinct, surveying the stretch of sand ahead of her for signs of human life: a dog-walker, fisherman, kite enthusiast. Perhaps it's too early, still. She considers that it might always be this empty. The wind at her back is hounding her, it whips her hair into her eyes and presses her coat into the back of her legs. For relief, Anna turns about, and with her head down and her body pitched forwards, walks directly into the blow, passing her mother's house on the road above her, passing the thin trees and the concrete wall, and further still, out beyond a bank of grey stone buildings high above her eyeline. The sand glitters silver here, and then gradually rust-coloured, as if it has bled. The groynes rise from the surf like a row of ancient chines. Climbing on the nearest one, Anna sees, for the first time, the wind-farm. She can't believe she hasn't noticed it until now; she would have seen it easily, had she been looking. Standing on the iron ridge of backbone, oblivious to the gale sucking the breath from her mouth, she counts as best she can the tall white turbines, counts the long clean lines of them. She watches as their rotor-blades turn in unison, flashing sunlight over the sky in swift, repeated strikes. Anna hadn't realized that they were actually out there, in the waves, in the middle of the sea. No one said they were in the
sea.
She thinks it's a miracle: how beautiful they are, how massive they must be up close. And they must make a noise, surely. She turns her ear towards them, and hears the water
gurgling through the struts beneath her, and the gulls crying, the wind flailing the sand.

Lewis spent the night in a deserted caravan in a field just outside Ditchingham. The cold didn't bother him, but the wind did: sucking the plastic on the windows, rocking the frame of the van, making an eerie, high-pitched whistle which sounded, in the darkest part of the night, like someone calling his name.

This morning, after a two-mile walk, he's hungry and thirsty and his body twitches with lack of sleep. The first shop he sees is an old-fashioned-looking grocery store. Inside, the air is warm and damp; he senses he is visibly sweating.

Lewis takes a packet of ham slices and a round of cheese triangles from the cold cabinet, and a loaf of bread from a basket below the counter. He puts them on top of the newspapers, gets a bottle of Lucozade from the fridge, and two cans of beer.

Is this bread for you? asks the woman serving, Only if it's for you, we've got fresh bread over there on that shelf.

Isn't this fresh? says Lewis, poking the wrapper with his finger.

It's just past its sell-by, says the woman, We keep it for people who like to feed the swans. It's half-price.

Lewis shrugs, and pays for the food. In need of a shower, he considers asking the woman whether there's a sports centre nearby, or a swimming pool, but then thinks the better of asking; it might seem a strange request. Instead, he buys some Rizlas and a pouch of tobacco, and considers the alternatives: where there are swans, there will be water.

Opposite the shop is a long swathe of green with a walled-in war memorial under some trees. As he gets near, Lewis can see the river running full, and people feeding the birds. It looks organized, the groups separate but intent on doing the same thing, as if they're actors in a silent movie. Couples
stand on the grass bank, children bend too close to the water for Lewis's liking, and one or two individuals have positioned themselves on the benches. A middle-aged man straddles the low wall around the memorial; his hand is full of grain, which he throws down for the pigeons, but his eyes are on Lewis. Finding himself an empty bench towards the far end of the bank, away from the man, Lewis puts together a sandwich, positioning the slippery ham on a slice of bread, then folding it in half. He attempts to peel the foil off one of the cheese triangles and, failing, puts his lips to the torn opening and pushes the contents whole into his mouth. He drinks the Lucozade and takes a bite from the middle of the sandwich; the crusts are too chewy to swallow. He launches them into the water, and a volley of gulls swoops down, screaming and flashing their wings, followed by a parade of swans gliding away from an elderly couple, who have been feeding them at the river's edge.

Cupboard love, cries the old man, and Lewis nods and moves off. As soon as he's vacated the seat, the couple sits on it, making themselves at home. Looking back, Lewis sees they are surrounded by the swans, their long necks bending like hairpins as they snatch at the bread. The sight makes him shudder: he won't be bathing in the river, today or any other day.

The house is deserted when Anna gets back. She feels it in the dead air of the hallway, in the absence of fuss and clamour which has surrounded her since she arrived. Now she stands with her scarf in her hands, listening. Nothing, she can hear nothing. After the battering of the wind outside, Anna is glad of the sensation of blocked silence. She knows it won't last, and sure enough, as soon as the rush of the sea in her head dies away, there is noise again. She removes her coat and hangs it over the newel, angling her head to one side, like a bird detecting a threat. She goes first into the kitchen, where a radio is playing at an irritatingly low volume, and switches it off at the plug. Everything is orderly here; the dishes are stacked, a tea-towel has been hung to dry over the cooker. Two trays sit side by side on the counter, one with teacups on them, the other with three cocktail glasses. She picks one up and holds it to the light. It has a faded transfer of a fawn on it, and
Babycham
written in a blue swirl on the base. She remembers these from her childhood; they were brought out at Christmas, or for guests. They look vulgar now, slightly shabby. They don't belong here, she thinks, they belong there, in the old house. They belong
then.
Continuing the search for other noises, climbing the stairs and stopping to listen, she pauses to sit on the top step, putting her face to the uprights and peeping through them. The hall does
remind her of the house they lived in when she was a child, with its wooden flooring and coloured glass in the door. She takes a deep breath and holds it, as if preparing to dive into the space below. Anna sees herself small and distant, falling through the air.