Winterton Blue (26 page)

The evening has already taken flight; a party of lobster-coloured tourists across the aisle talk loudly over each other, posing for pictures and clinking glasses together. Before she's even tasted her drink, Anna is asked to take a group photograph. Her mother is up from her seat immediately. She yells instructions at them, organizing the party into a grinning semi-circle. Above the din, Anna tries to make out what she's shouting. It sounds like ‘say fantastic,' but there's a roar of laughter, which makes Anna think it must be something rude. Her mother slumps back in her seat, steadying herself by gripping the edge of the table.

Okay, David Bailey, here's your raki, says Anna, pushing a sweating glass towards her.

It'll be all a blur, she says, nodding her head over to the group, Never mind. They won't know that 'til they get home.

Well, they look fairly tanked up, agrees Anna.

Her mother bends forward, so the gold chains around her neck swing in the candlelight.

No, no, she whispers, Look at me. Talk about virgin on her wedding night!

She stretches her arms out over the cloth. Her hands quiver like autumn leaves.

Haven't you got tablets for that? asks Anna, staring at the long fingers, at the dress-rings catching the light. Her mother wrinkles her nose.

Can't have both, she says, clasping her tumbler, And I know which one makes me feel better. Chin chin.

Anna raises her glass, and as they drink, they hold each other's gaze. Now is the time, she tells herself, Now is a good time.

Whatever happened to the tourmaline? she asks, stroking her mother's fingers, I used to love that ring when I was little.

Her mother studies her hands.

Oh, now that was the only real one of the lot of them, she says, I've left it safe at home. But the rest were just glass, you know. Funny how if you're told something's true you'll believe it, even when it isn't.

Dad told you?

He was ever so good at putting on a show, she says, smiling, We both were. He always wanted to be an actor, you know.

She leans close, her voice confidential,

But he was never quite good enough. Never
top-drawer.
And he said I held him back.

Anna rushes to her defence.

That's not true! You had a lot to put up with, she says.

Her mother bats a hand in her direction.

Oh. You mean the flirtations. That wasn't anything, dear, believe me. It's all different now, of course. Back then, you
were in it 'til death do us part. Nowadays, people get divorced if they don't like the same brand of coffee.

So you knew? says Anna, shocked by her mother's candour.

Her mother drains her glass, holding it out to Anna for a refill. She gives her a sceptical look.

In those days, they called it ‘free love'. But you see, love is the opposite of freedom. Everyone knows that. We had terrible fights about it; he wanted free love for himself—but I had to pay.

Anna is dumbfounded. She was hoping for a certain intimacy, but she hadn't bargained on this.

You had rows? she says, shaking her head, But I never heard you.

Anna, you never hear anything. You were deaf before you went deaf. You'll find out one day; it's a tricky old thing, love.

But surely it doesn't have to be such a—Anna searches for the word—Such a sacrifice?

Her mother hoots with laughter. When she sees Anna's puzzled face, she leans across the table and grips her fingers. She holds on tight.

Your chap, she says, out of the blue, Now, take him, for example.

Anna stiffens at the change of tack.

What chap? she says.

Your Mr Caine.

His name's Lewis.

Her mother's face lights up, delighted.

Lewis, she says, What a lovely name. So. Do you think your Lewis is going to be easy to love?

Anna fidgets with her drink, sipping the raki, feeling the cool burn of spirit in her throat and the warmth of her mother's grasp. She wants to be sure of her voice before she answers.

We hardly know each other, mum. I wouldn't call it love.

You might not call it that, says her mother, But it's as plain
as Julie Andrews to everyone else. And you don't
need
knowledge to fall in love, my girl. In fact, that's the last thing you need. By the time you'd got to know all about him, you'd be put off for life. That's your trouble, she says, with a satisfied pursing of her lips, You get to know your chaps too well before deciding to fall in love with them, and then, of course, you can't. It's called ‘falling' for a reason, Anna. Not
jumping
in love, or
sliding
in love, or waking up one morning and
deciding
in love. Falling. That's what it is because that's how it feels. You slip off the edge. You fall.

The waiter sets a bowl of bread on the table and takes their orders. Without prompting, he brings Anna a bottle of white wine and pours a measure into a fresh glass.

On the house, tonight, he says, As it's the last time I serve you.

For now, says her mother, with a pantomime wink, Unless you want to come back with us?

The waiter smiles broadly and nods his head.

Of course, he says, moving to clear the next table, It would be an honour.

Anna takes a deep slug of wine. Tonight, her mother can flirt all she likes.

I can't take too much of that stuff, she says, waving at the bottle of spirit, It's like fire.

You can get used to anything, says her mother.

Are you talking about the raki, or dad? asks Anna, only half-serious.

Her mother's face takes on a distant, troubled look.

What's that joke, Anna, about the man banging his head against the wall?

Are you feeling alright, mum? she asks, noticing how wide her mother's eyes look behind her glasses, You're not about to have one of your spells?

They are not spells, Anna; they're just my brain having a rest!

The way she says it makes them both laugh.

Like a little holiday from yourself, Anna says, joining in.

That's right, a respite from the rest of me. God knows where I go, but I don't mind the journey as long as I come back.

She tips the last of the raki into her glass and makes a signal to the waiter to fetch another one.

These little bottles, she says, They don't touch the sides, do they?

Over a thousand miles away, Lewis has showered and shaved, he's wearing a clean white shirt and his best jeans. He stands on the landing, listening: the quick bright chime of glasses, followed by sounds of laughter, drift up from below.

He tracks the noise as he takes the stairs. They are sitting at the table, three of them reflected into six by the picture window; and the glow coming off their bodies, the heat they generate in the small corner, makes his chest feel tight. Vernon Savoy is wearing a purple waistcoat and a polka-dot bow tie, and what appears to be a pair of Oxford bags; a bucket of champagne is perched at his elbow. Marta looks like summer in a pale yellow dress. She has made an effort; the table is laid formally, with a white cloth and silverware, giving the municipal dining-room an atmosphere of intimacy. Despite this, Lewis knows it will be difficult to be civil; the clutter of the group, huddled together in one corner as if under siege, makes Lewis long for emptiness. Marta stands up when she sees him, to make her introductions. Her son looks younger than Lewis imagined, and when he in turn gets up to shake his hand, Lewis notes the slightness of his build. Kristian's collarless shirt and the bangle on his wrist make him look girlish. But he has Marta's tough, open features, and her accent.

Pleased to meet you, he says to Lewis, As you can see, we're having a small celebration.

Lewis sits in the vacant place opposite Vernon and Kristian, stretching over to take the champagne from the bucket and
then pushing his chair back from the table-edge to give himself more space. He fills his glass, and seeing Vernon's eyebrows rise at the near-empty flutes on the table, tops them up.

Sorry, he says, I'm forgetting my manners. What's the occasion?

Vernon lets out a titter,

It's a wonderful toast, he says, catching Lewis's eye, Highly unusual. To Scrooby-Doo!

He raises his glass and drains it, as does Lewis. The champagne is arid on the back of his throat. He resists the urge to cough. Marta and Kristian exchange a meaningful look over the rims of their glasses, before Kristian interrupts.

Actually, Vernon, it's Scroby, he says, and turning to explain to Lewis, As in Scroby Sands.

Sorry, man, I'm no wiser. Maybe another one of these will make it clear.

This time, he hands his glass to Vernon, who pours in the last of the champagne.

It doesn't go far, sighs Vernon, heaving himself up from his seat, I'll just pop and get another one.

Kristian hunches his shoulders, as if he's about to reveal a secret. His words are slow and precise.

We have completed the project, he says, The systems are up and running.

Marta joins in, unable to keep the boast from her voice,

Kristian is one of the project engineers, she says, So it's a good day for him. A good day for the planet!

I'll drink to that, says Lewis, just as Vernon returns with a fresh bottle of champagne.

So will I, he says, I'll drink to that! What is it we're toasting again?

Ecology, says Lewis, looking steadily at Kristian, Tell me more about Velsters. What sort of team have you got there?

Kristian talks while Marta goes to check on the food. Already bored by the topic, Vernon makes his excuses and trundles out behind her. Lewis can hear his plummy tones,
punctuated by quick snorts of laughter, echoing in the kitchen. Marta's voice is too low to carry. Kristian is glad to be asked about his work; he has an evangelical fervor about wind technology that Lewis finds charming, but ultimately dull. He's not interested in renewable energy, alternative power. If anything, he's slightly averse to thinking about it; he's reminded of Miss Hepple and her hippie clothes, of her 2CV. On the back window was a peeling sticker; a sunshine face with Nuclear Power? No Thanks! written round it in a circle. Half-listening to Kristian's descriptions, he sees the turbines now not as beautiful sea creatures, but as brutish things, like the chimneys of a power station. But he lets the young man talk, grateful for the breathing space it allows him. He is waiting for a window.

So the work is finished now? says Lewis, when Kristian finally pauses.

Well, really, it has only just begun. Although—here he lowers his voice, eyes sideways at the door—It may be that, personally,
my
work here is done. I will be needed on another project. Just don't tell my mother.

And the rest of the team, says Lewis, moving forward an inch, What about them?

Kristian shrugs, turns down the corners of his mouth. Lewis wills him to say a name.

The analysts, the operations people—all the people who maintain the site—they will have work to do, of course.

He isn't just going to say a name out of the blue. Kristian won't say Sonia's name. Lewis slumps back in his seat, just as Marta and Vernon arrive with the food. He feels exhausted. He has learned more about wind-farms than he has ever expected or wanted to, and nothing about Sonia. The hopelessness of it overwhelms him. While the others spear their forks into potatoes, pour sauce, pass each other salt and pepper, Lewis bends his head and shovels in the food. He's almost filtered out the conversation when Kristian leans in across the table.

I'm saying, Mr Caine, you can take a boat out to the site,
if you'd like to see the turbines up close. I could accompany you.

Lewis shrugs.

Boats aren't my thing, he says, sucking his teeth. Realizing how abrupt this sounds, he softens, Thanks, I would like to see them up close. I'm just not keen on the water.

Kristian grins.

So many people who don't like the water are living here! It's amazing, yeah? My friend Sonia, she won't take a boat trip, but she'll fly in a helicopter, for sure. I prefer to take my chance on the sea. The other day—

Where does she take a helicopter, interrupts Lewis, feeling a burn in his throat, At Scroby?

No, she's at Winterton, at the lodge there. There is a base, you know, for sea rescue, and some private charters. But she wants to take some souvenirs—some pictures—of the wind installation at Somerton, says Kristian, It has a great name: Blood Hill!

Everyone laughs at this except Lewis, who shoots Kristian a puzzled look. He can't tell if it's the way he talks or the champagne, but he's struggling to follow him.

Your friend's working at the helicopter base? he asks, trying to keep the intent out of his voice.

Ah! You'd like a helicopter ride, says Kristian, Perhaps I could arrange it.

Lewis turns the heat of his gaze onto his plate. He'll just have to be direct.

So Sonia, he says, She's there now, at this Winter place?

Winterton, yes, for a few days, I think, to look at Blood Hill. It is the first installation we make; smaller, but very effective. They use a system—