The Seagulls Laughter

by Holly Bidgood

  For the time being, however, I could almost lose myself in these stolen evening moments. To an outsider they could be mistaken for family life. Occasionally Michael would slope into the kitchen, hands in pockets, the bottom of his wide trousers wet from the rain. Mumbling an incoherent greeting he would sit down heavily and twiddle his thumbs until his evening meal appeared on the table. He would offer a grunt of thanks before wolfing down the contents of his plate as though he had not set eyes on a decent meal for days. Once finished he would disappear upstairs, his departure followed by the muffled, thumping sounds of loud music. Often he would make his exit back the way he had come: through the front door and out into the darkening evenings. I often wondered where he disappeared to. From the cocoon of my blanket tent I would hear him returning in the early hours of the morning, sometimes drunk – so I assumed, given the unevenness of his footfall, the clumsy bumps and crashes and muttered curses. It filled me with dismay to hear these noises, for I felt as though I were a child once more, listening with bated breath and beating heart to the sounds of my mother coming home at night, drunk once more.

  Michael had not spoken to me again since the evening of the beaked man’s visit. There seemed to be a degree of awkwardness in his mannerisms towards me, a steadfast reluctance to make eye contact.

  One evening, however, he approached me uncertainly as I was seasoning the soup. He had spoken to Judith first, in a low voice, stealing snatched glances in my direction through the drapes of his unwashed hair. My stomach had turned a somersault in unfounded fear that he might mean some ill towards me. His mother motioned him to the stove at which I was positioned over the pots. Shuffling towards me in his wide blue jeans and oversized shirt he shoved his hands into his pockets, tossed his head slightly so that his hair was momentarily parted from before his face and muttered to the floor, ‘Got you a job.’

  I stopped stirring the soup. It was difficult to tell if I had in fact heard him correctly, and whether it had been me he had addressed. ‘A job?’ I echoed.

  He shrugged, threw back his hair again. ‘Yeah, you know. Like, working. For money.’

  I nodded, and though bewildered, managed to thank him. Michael, too, gave a vague nod of the head. He briefly made eye contact and upturned the corners of his mouth into something that could have been interpreted as a smile, or perhaps he had frowned, before sloping away and taking up his customary, expectant seat at the table.

  No more was said on the subject until the following morning, when the boy appeared quite unexpectedly – and rather unwelcome given the hour of the morning, for again I had not slept until the early hours – at my bedroom door.

  ‘Job,’ was all he said by way of explanation, as I squinted at him through sand-filled eyes. I struggled hastily, my heart quickening with nerves, into my second-hand clothes, and there was no time for coffee before we were out the door.

  Michael took to the pavement in lolloping strides, his hands still buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, hair swinging from side to side with the rhythm of his steps. I hurried a short distance behind him, led blindly once more through rain-soaked streets, invigorated somewhat by the cold droplets upon my face still swollen with sleep. Despite the comfort of my fisherman’s jumper beneath my anorak, I shivered with the bleak chill of consciousness, and silently we trudged past unassuming facades of grey walls set with gaping, faceless windows down which the rain streamed in gleaming rivets.

  Michael came to an abrupt standstill outside one of the buildings, as though he had only at the last minute become aware of its presence. I, in my absentmindedness, almost ran into the back of him. How easy it seemed, on these streets in which each building ran into the other in featureless monotony, to overlook one’s destination.

  The window and door frames of the shop outside which Michael had stopped were painted a colour that at one time may have been a vivid blue but had since been worn away by the weather into insignificance. A grubby, hand-painted sign above the door proclaimed Tony’s Records. The windows were steamed up. With a nod, his hair plastered wetly to his head, Michael indicated our journey’s end, and apprehensively I followed him inside.

  A little bell sounded sweetly above the door as we entered. Released for a moment from anxiety as the sudden warmth of the interior wrapped itself around me, my first and only thought was that it felt wonderful to be out of the chill of the rain; although it had seemed as though it fell only lightly, my anorak was sodden. I pulled back the hood and shivered once more as a stream of dislodged raindrops made its way down the back of my neck. The low-level lighting of the small room gave the impression that the day, comfortingly, had already reached an end, for the clouded light of the morning barely filtered through the fog that had settled upon the window pane. It lent a homely feeling to the otherwise bizarre, cluttered layout of the shop: floor stands and boxes in which could be seen row upon row of record sleeves, the walls adorned similarly with loaded shelves. Where these were absent there had been affixed instead a multitude of posters. Some depicted black and white photographs of sullen young men with long hair; some were garishly colourful jungles of swirling shapes and words, or surreal artwork; one showed simply a picture of a dairy cow.

  I stood captivated and curious, my fingers resting distracted below the hollow of my throat, on the unopened top button of my anorak. I was startled into the moment by the croak of a man’s voice in greeting. Dressed in a bright blue t-shirt with the word Woodstock printed across the front, he stood behind the counter in the opposite corner of the room. His round face creased into a wide smile as he surveyed the shop floor, which was empty of visitors save for Michael and myself.

  ‘All right, man.’ Michael returned the greeting and trailed up to the counter. From the depths of his pocket he removed a hand and slapped it against the man’s own, outstretched, in a strange sort of a handshake. I hung back uncertainly as they exchanged pleasantries – news, thoughts, opinions – it was difficult to follow the flow of conversation, though most of the talking was carried out by the man who I assumed must be the proprietor. Michael listened intently. He continually nodded his greasy head, almost bouncing on the soles of his shoes in apparent enthusiasm as he did so, and repeated ‘Yeah, man, yeah,’ at regular intervals. When he laughed it sounded as a peculiar rasping chuckle, not wholly natural; his partner’s laugh was more of a roar, alarmingly aggressive – increasingly so given the way in which he slapped his large, hairy hand on the counter top – evidently in amusement. The other hand clutched a burning cigarette from which he took a long drag every now and again, expelling clouds of opaque smoke into the heat of the room. My eyes watered; I attempted to stifle a cough, and at this disturbance Michael turned around as though surprised to find me standing a little way behind him. He gestured towards me somewhat awkwardly, eyes averted from my face as usual, and muttered my name to the middle-aged man. ‘Come for the job, yeah?’ he added, by way of introduction.

  The man gave a broad, friendly smile and held out his hand. ‘Tony,’ he said as, after some hesitation, I reached out and shook it in the customary manner, ‘of Tony’s Records.’ I noticed that there hung a grey ponytail down the back of his neck, though the top of his head, while wreathed in smoke, was bald. It shone dully in the electric light.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Tony of Tony’s Records,’ I greeted, as best as I knew how. I thought I heard Michael give a loud snort. Perhaps he, too, was affected by the smoke.

  ‘You like music, Malik?’ the man asked. I chose to ignore the askew pronunciation of my name, foreign to his ears, and simply nodded in response – an honest answer, even if I was not able to elaborate.

  He grinned more broadly. ‘Then you’ve got the job!’ he exclaimed, and slapping his great paw against the counter once more, threw back his round head and roared with laughter. Michael contributed his rasping laugh in accompaniment.

  Eqingaleq, who had been perusing the records nearby, almost leapt out of his skin at this sudden cacophony. He looked at me q
uestioningly, and I, bewildered also, shrugged in response. I was beginning to sweat under the stifling layer of my yellow anorak, perhaps in the heat of the room, or possibly it was the unbearable nervousness of the entire exchange. Still I dared not remove my coat lest this be considered presumptuous, for I did not know the planned length of our visit. I could take no cues from Michael for the boy had, bizarrely and for reasons I could not presume, left the house without a coat of any kind. I wondered whether he was so unaccustomed to the weather that he did not know how to manage its onslaught. Or perhaps it was generally so mild at these latitudes that he simply foresaw no need for cover. His canvas shoes were sodden, the wide hems of his jeans were wet almost up to the knees in rising damp, and the water dripped from his lank hair in streams. He appeared entirely unconcerned by the condition of his attire, and was evidently of the opinion that he would dry out soon enough in the sultry atmosphere of the record shop – indeed, he seemed to steam in the dry heat and the smoke that hung about the ceiling.

  I was saved from prolonged discomfort by the attentions of Tony who, as if reading either my mind or my clouded expression, stubbed out his cigarette along with the remaining notes of his laughter.

  ‘Get your coat off, then, Mal, and we’ll show you around the place.’

  Beside the shop counter there was a hook on the wall (framed by postcard-sized pictures of a similar nature to the posters that adorned the walls) on which I was instructed to hang my dripping anorak. Beside this a doorway hung with a red curtain led the way into a cupboard-sized kitchen whose sole occupants, aside from the sink, were a stove-top kettle, a box of tea bags and a carton of milk. The highlight of this brief tour, however, appeared to be the battered-looking record player that sat atop the counter, complete with a pair of worn speakers. Michael approached the thing with a manner akin to reverence, lifting the lid with a careful, respectful hand. Displaying an uncontrollable grin, he opened his arms wide to indicate the entirety of the shop, and for the first time spoke to me directly, as though in the throes of his passion he had forgotten to hide defensively behind the curtain of hair: ‘We can listen to anything, man, anything!’

  He skipped over to one of the racks of records, his sodden shoes slapping the linoleum floor – geometric patterns in yellow and brown – and disappeared momentarily behind a mop of hanging hair as, head bowed, he flicked deftly through the record sleeves with eager fingers. The chosen one having been retrieved, he placed it reverentially on the player.

  ‘Listen to this, man,’ he half-whispered, his eyes gleaming in a way I would not have thought possible given his previous, perpetual sullenness. It was as though he were extending an invitation to share in a guarded secret, some form of beauty revealed only to those few who took the time to look, to listen. With all the gravity of a revered ancient ritual he lowered the needle, adjusted the volume, and as the table began to turn the crackle of empty noise gave way at once to the sound of electric guitars.

  How little I had heard such music, yet how palpable was its effect in this context. It was as though the record shop and its idiosyncrasies suddenly made sense, became real, as though the music had awoken a purpose in this confusing world – just as the trance-inducing drum songs of the shaman would bring forth the spirits. A meaning narrated by the music, by those who played, composed, and those who listened and dreamed. In the guitar’s rhythms and wailings I saw the psychedelic patterns that leaped out from the posters on the walls, the sleeves of the records; colours and sounds intertwined and were made tangible. I saw another dimension to this mundane world; my senses were ignited, and my imagination took flight, its raven wings glinting in the awakening light.

  I looked over to Michael, drawn by the movement of his head bobbing to the rhythm of the music, trance-like, and saw that he was watching me. For a split second it seemed that he was two-headed: Eqingaleq peered curiously over his shoulder, wide black eyes fixed upon the record player with a mixture of disdain and wonder, crooked nose wrinkled in the smoke. It was disconcerting, these two faces in juxtaposition: one of the ancient spirits, one of this new world. I tried to hide the shudder that ran down the length of my spine. Imperceptibly I shook my head at Eqingaleq, for I did not like the truth of what I saw, and strove to ignore the look of warning that weighed heavily in his eyes.

  Don’t let yourself be seduced, he said to me later, in the neutrality of the blanket tent as outside the city lay sunken in darkness.

  Irritated – fearful, perhaps – I reprimanded him in short temper for his reluctance to embrace these things that before had been of little concern. The world advances, I said, we must adapt or we cannot hope to get by.

  Music is a powerful thing, he cautioned, how easy it can be for one who is not on his guard to get caught up in its magic, swept away, to fall into a trance.

  And you who said we must learn to see the beauty in things! I scoffed. Even where it may not be obvious. Especially here, so well-hidden. Beauty is more than what the eye can see. It has to be, in a place like this.

  I felt that I could cry with the elation, the confusion of this new discovery, this music. There has to be something more.

  Just make sure that you look in the right place, were Eqingaleq’s final words upon the subject. Off-handedly, I dismissed him – though how I wish, now, that I had listened.

  15

  Rasmus

  Snorri and Birdie had both chosen to accompany Qallu to the annual summer camp in a nearby fjord. Rasmus was reluctant to join them; there were still plenty of preparations to be made in the town before their journey across the ice cap, he told them, though when he thought about it he could not see what more needed to be done. Still, there were bound to be some last minute details that required his attention.

  The season had changed noticeably. The pack ice that had choked the fjord had broken up bit by bit, until all that remained were the looming castles of icebergs that cracked and shifted like awakening giants. The snow that had blanketed the town had all but melted, leaving trails of grey slush on the earthen roads and exposing multitudes of discarded tin cans and broken glass bottles.

  Qallu’s little boat sat low in the still water of the harbour, loaded up with clothes, cooking equipment and the components of a heavy canvas tent in which he, Snorri and Birdie would be sleeping at the communal camp. The harbour buzzed with activity: other families loaded up their boats to make the same journey, a nod to their ancestors’ nomadic way of life when the whole village would relocate, following the change in the seasons and the chance of better hunting grounds. The children shrieked with uncontrollable excitement; the women passed around strips of dried seal meat. The atmosphere hummed with anticipation.

  Qallu kissed his wife and sister goodbye. He ran his hands over the enormous swell of Avaaraq’s belly and spoke softly to her in his own tongue as she sobbed into his shoulder. He had promised her he would return from the camp before her time was upon her: he did not want to miss the birth of his first child. Rasmus felt a pull in his stomach and a rush of warmth through his veins as he watched the tender scene between the young couple. For the first time in days he thought of his wife back in England. He tried to recall the details of their own parting before he had left for the arctic. He was sure it had been much different from this couple’s affectionate display.

  Ketty slid a comforting arm around her sister-in-law’s shoulder as Qallu released her from his embrace.

  ‘Make sure you look after the explorer,’ he heard Qallu say to them, in Danish for the benefit of Rasmus. He glanced over to Rasmus, grinning mischievously. ‘There are still many things that he does not know.’

  Rasmus watched the boat’s passage away from the town and down the fjord with a pang of regret. To think of the things he could have learnt if he had accompanied Qallu and the other hunters and their families to the camp! As his gaze wandered his eyes met those of Ketty. Her eyes sparkled, creasing at the corners as she smiled softly. And he knew, then, why he had chosen to stay.

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sp; Rasmus enjoyed his many evenings spent with Avaaraq and Ketty in the cosy atmosphere of their family home. It was a home filled with simple pleasures: the all-enveloping smell of the blubber lamp and the heartiness of Ketty’s seal-meat stews. Once they had eaten, Ketty would tell him stories, folk tales that took place in the harsh arctic landscape. About strange demons that crept through winter darkness and snatched away lone hunters; bears that could take human form. Ketty’s voice was low. Rasmus’s skin prickled.

  He would watch as the two women prepared new skins, in the same way that their ancestors had done for thousands of years before them, and sewed them into garments for Rasmus and his companions. They chewed the leather with their teeth, for hours at a time, to make it supple, and threaded bone knives though the hide with remarkable strength and dexterity.

  Avaaraq would never accept his offers of help. This was women’s work, she said; it was a man’s job to hunt for their sustenance. Ketty turned her dark eyes up towards him, a piece of hide clamped in her teeth, and giggled. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the blubber lamp which warmed the room to an almost stifling temperature, despite the evening chill outside. Beads of sweat glistened on her collarbone, her bare shoulders…