Winterton Blue (33 page)

The caravans are sprawled across a churned-up patch of wasteland; on one side is a municipal park, and on the other, a recycling centre housed in a huge metal warehouse. The greyness of the morning has drained the colour from everything. Despite the early hour, a line of traffic has come to a standstill while a man at the head of the queue leans out of his car window to argue with another man in overalls. Both of them are jabbing their fingers in the space in front of them. Lewis bypasses the argument and heads straight for the travellers' site; he has one more thing to do before he leaves Cardiff. Behind a barred gate at the opening to the field, a child is sitting on an upturned bucket, eating a piece of toast.

I'm looking for a man called Magic Sam, says Lewis, Is he here?

Without a word, the boy takes off to the far end of the field, disappearing into a purple trailer. Lewis waits, listening to the car horns blaring and a stream of expletives as the row at the entrance gathers momentum. He doesn't immediately recognize Sam: when Lewis last saw him, he had dreadlocks and a long wispy beard, but the man standing and waving from the step of the trailer is completely bald, except for a massive quiff at the front of his head. Despite the snow-cold wind, he's naked from the waist up, his dark skin riddled with tattoos. On the left breast, exactly over the heart, are the concentric circles of a shooting target, complete with lines and numbers and an exclamation mark in the centre. This, at least, Lewis remembers.

Bullseye, says Lewis, firing his finger at it. Sam puts out both hands and grips Lewis's arm, which turns into a bear-hug. Lewis breathes in the smell of sweat and hash and hair-oil.

Come in and have a sit, Sam says.

I'm here for a favour, says Lewis, stalling at the step.

I know you are. But come and sit anyway. Must be time for breakfast.

Inside, the walls are covered with mirrors, some plain broken pieces, others decorated with ornate designs. Pots of enamel paint and nail varnish litter the bench seats. Lewis stares at them, not knowing where to put himself.

They're Joanna's, says Sam, lifting aside a small table and hooking it up against the wall, She does the mirrors up and sells them at the craft market in town. Gets them free from the tip. No one likes a broken mirror.

Unlucky, says Lewis, tracing a design with his fingers.

Lucky for us, though, says Sam, She can't do enough of them.

Across the ceiling of the trailer, dangling from lengths of coloured string, a dozen or more mirror mobiles twirl in the draft, scattering sparks of light.

It's weird. Must be like living in a kaleidoscope.

Like a disco ball, I says, laughs Sam, Look at this, now.

The mirror behind the washing-up bowl has been turned to the wall. Sam lifts it over and holds it for Lewis to look at. It has a face etched into the glass, so when Lewis looks into it, he sees himself and someone else, all at the same time.

Freaks me out, it does, says Sam, I can't have it hanging there while I'm doing the pots.

Or shaving, says Lewis.

Fuck me, you'd end up butchering yourself, says Sam, laughing.

He pours an inch of liquid into a tumbler and passes it to Lewis.

Special rum, he says, Now, what can I do for you?

Lewis takes a breath.

I've got a van out there needs to go back to its owner, he says, But I've got to be somewhere else.

Sam gives him a tired smile.

Yeah, I understand. Van to go back. But what I said was, what can I do for
you
?

The snow melts out of London in two days, turning to pock-marked heaps of road slush and flat grey patches of slippery ice. An overnight downpour clears away the last of it, choking the drains and causing localized flooding. There follows two weeks of threatened rain, which the grey mornings promise but never deliver. The city is bone dry, still as a picture, as if it's waiting for permission to come to life again. On the east coast, the snow takes longer to dissolve, clinging to every surface, lying untouched under the hedgerows, glittering in the sunless shade. On Anna's old tape machine, her mother's voice issues a quivery warning:

. . . Sso we'll exp-t you at lu-unch-time, don't f-gt to---cl-thes and your good ssshoes and rem-br to bring a h---H-v a ssafe jour--

Anna and Brendan do relays as they unload and re-load the car. Anna's packing is haphazard and optimistic; some of the boxes are secured with sticky tape, some with string, but mostly they are open, bulging, spilling their contents onto the yard. Brendan's possessions are minimal: a few suit-bags, two cases, and some brightly coloured cartons sealed with gaffer tape. Each one is labelled, and Anna has been given instructions to stack them in the hall. She heaps them up anyhow against the wall.

There's a word for people like you, says Brendan, taking a plastic bin liner full of clothes and squashing it into the boot of Anna's car.

And there's a word for you, she shouts, grappling with a box marked Atlases, It's—

Don't say it, he says, I am merely a neat person, that's all.

But why have you got so many of these? she says, dropping the box of atlases on the step, I mean, there's only one world, isn't there?

Brendan gives up on the bin liner and slams the boot, trapping the foot of a pair of tights in the door. He says nothing, but gives her a pitying look. When they've finished, they stand in the kitchen, drinking tea from Brendan's mugs and studying the paint squares on the wall.

I like this one, he says, pointing at a patch of dusty blue, What's it called?

Borrowed Light, she reads.

That's grand, he says, Very apposite. Maybe for your bedroom.

It's your bedroom, now, B, says Anna.

Until you wake up one morning and find yourself floating off to Holland. Then I'll expect you straight back here. Deal?

Deal, she says.

She takes a last look round the flat and down the path to the garden, taking in the brambles and weeds and the rooftops beyond it. There's a thrill in her blood when she thinks about the view at her new home: the sky, the sea, the sky and the sea.

Ready to brave the morning rush? Brendan asks, and mimicking her mother's voice, Have you pecked your good ssshoes?

Anna laughs.

You sound just like her, she says, You two are definitely going to get on.

In the doorway of the dining-room, Marta stands guard, a tea-towel in one hand and a silver tray in the other: if that
woman so much as goes near the table again, she'll bang her on the head with it. Rita glides past, giving her a beatific smile, and surveys the arrangement. She moves the vase of flowers slightly to the left. She pauses, chin down, considers the move, and shifts the vase back to its original place.

Mrs Calder, says Marta, trying not to raise her voice, It's all perfection in here. Why not wait in the lounge and I'll bring you a drink?

Rita ignores her, picking up a knife and breathing on it, rubbing it on her sleeve, carefully placing it back on the tablecloth. She finds a wrinkle to smoothe out, a fleck of lint to brush away. Marta can't bear to watch.

Mr Savoy, she says, catching Vernon coming down the stairs, She is making me insane. I have spent hours to do all the preparing. Please, tell her to go away.

Vernon is wearing full morning dress. He pokes at the cravat stuffed into the top of his waistcoat.

How's that? he asks, standing in front of the hall mirror, That's good, Vernon, he says, through shuttered lips, That's very good.

He catches Marta's fierce stare in the glass.

We're so excited, he cries, The big day!

Seeing her face unchanged, he tries a diversion.

I do hope your Kristian will be here on time, he says, Only, he's the designated driver, you know.

Marta looks at her watch. Noting the change in her expression, Vernon happily waves her away.

Go on, go and get your glad rags on. We'll hold the fort down here.

In the dining-room, Rita is re-arranging the candles. The sky through the picture window is ice blue. Vernon watches as she moves from one candlestick to another, her hands trembling as she tries to line them up in a neat row.

That Marta, she says, She does her best, you know, but look—they weren't right. How's that now? she asks.

It's perfect, and you're perfect, he says, But it isn't like you to fuss. You're not worrying about Anna, are you?

Rita ducks her head, turning away so he can't read her face.

You did tell her, didn't you, Rita?

The sound of the doorbell saves her.

I'm just about to, she says, straightening up and moving slowly to the door.

Lewis is lying belly-down on the sand, his eyes fixed on the rolling waves.

You got to get deep, Sam had said, You got to get under, under that top layer. The top layer always renews itself, see, always comes back the same. You got to get deep enough to leave a trace—but too deep, and you're in trouble.

Sam wasn't talking about water in any form; not ocean, nor river, nor lake. He wasn't talking about drowning. They were in Sam's caravan, drinking his special rum, eating cornflakes from the packet, and he was showing Lewis his latest tattoo.

Too deep, and it all goes wrong. The pain's really bad, for starters, and then the dye drifts inside you and everything on the outside comes up blurred.

Sam was lounging on the bed, his face dappled with refracted light from the mirrors hanging from the ceiling.

This one, look, he said, pulling back a square of dressing on his inner arm to reveal a livid circular scab, This one's a nautical star. Red and black—the red pigment's difficult, see, cos it itches and burns. You can't scratch it. You've got to understand why it hurts; only then can you leave it alone. The pain goes in the end.

Sounds like a lot of aggro just for a tattoo, said Lewis, smiling.

We've all got them, man, said Sam, Even you. Some of them are invisible, that's all. Some too deep to be read.