by R. H. Dixon
At some point sleep fully took him and when he awoke the next morning he couldn’t remember what his dreams had entailed, but he had a feeling of deep unease and unsatisfied rest. His optimism from the previous day now seemed misplaced. Before going downstairs he decided to check in on Seren. Her bed was empty, except for Geller, and the room smelt fresh, a motherly bouquet of roses and talc. The curtains were open and weak sunshine sifted inside, greeting John like a headache. The daylight also showed a mark on the ceiling directly above the bed. A patch of what looked to be mould about the size of a football with tiny individual spore circlets clustered around it. Rubbing his chin, John cast his mind back to the previous day. Had it been there then? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t remember for certain.
Downstairs he found Seren in the lounge. She’d worked out how to use the television and was watching a documentary about meerkats.
‘Why didn’t you wake me, kidda?’ He looked at the carriage clock on the mantel, shocked to see it was almost ten.
Seren, still in her pyjamas, hardly acknowledged him. She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Was your room okay last night?’ he asked.
‘Mmm.’
‘Notice any strange smells at all?’
She shook her head.
‘You sleep okay though, yeah?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And were you warm enough?’
This time she turned round to face him. ‘Dad, I’m trying to watch how they build their bloody homes!’
‘Alright, alright.’ John held up his hands and backed out of the room. ‘Keep your bloody hair on.’ He went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle and while he waited for it to boil rummaged in the cupboards, looking for detergent with which to clean the bedroom ceiling. It was while he was on his hands and knees in front of the sink unit that someone knocked at the back door.
He found a woman in her mid- to late-fifties on the doorstep, her skin American-tan, hair fake-black, and eyes peridot-green. She was wearing too much eye makeup for that time in the morning, he thought, and her chiffon shirt, leather-look skinny jeans and stilettos combination was hardly regular getup for a Sunday morning. She looked nothing but trouble, but on first impressions he found her appealing on some taboo sexual level.
‘Oh hi,’ she said. The huskiness of her voice implied she was, or once had been, a heavy smoker. ‘Are you Jude’s son? John?’ She looked him up and down, slowly.
‘Er, yeah.’ John pulled the robe’s belt tighter at his waist. ‘And you are?’
‘Pam,’ she said, arranging her thick, nylon-shine hair about her shoulders. ‘Pamela Tanner. Five doors up.’
‘Ah. The one with the Jack Russell.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Can I help with something? I mean, was there anything…’
‘No, no. It’s just your mam said you’d be staying here so I thought I’d better introduce myself, especially after seeing you last night…’
‘Oh. That was you?’
Pam nodded and her heavily-kohled cat’s eyes blinked rapidly for half a dozen beats. ‘I’d been to a mate’s birthday do, see.’
‘Okay. Great. Well, er, thanks for the intro…’
‘Hey, why don’t you stick the kettle on? We can have a cuppa, get properly acquainted.’ She stepped up onto the second step and pointed to the kitchen behind him.
‘Er, now’s not a good time actually,’ he said, sidestepping to block her entry, somewhat taken aback by her forwardness.
‘Oh. Right.’ She studied his face for a moment, her eyes intense, unyielding.
After a stretch of awkwardness where neither of them spoke, Pamela Tanner eventually stepped back onto the driveway and said, ‘Another time though, yeah?’
‘Yeah. Uh, whatever.’
‘Great.’ She nodded then, blinking with the same quick-fire sequence as before, said, ‘Oh and now you know who I am and where to find me, don’t be shy. If you need anything, anything at all, just give me a knock.’ She threw him a wink and smiled, her teeth so immaculately white they had to be bleached or porcelain veneers. ‘I’ll see you right. Day or night. Doesn’t matter to me.’
John smiled thinly. I’ll bet, you dirty bitch.
‘So you’ll be staying for four weeks then?’ she asked. Her eyes lingered on the exposed part of John’s chest before moving up to the fullness of his mouth. They eventually settled on the turquoise seriousness of his eyes.
‘Er, yeah, that’s the plan,’ he said.
‘Good, it’s always nice to have a new face in the street.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Hey, you should drop by mine one night. We can have a drink. It’s no fun living alone, I know.’
John’s eyes narrowed, but he managed a wan smile. Sure, I’ll pop round. If nothing else we can say we have alcohol and loneliness in common, then after some pointless conversation where we bore the pants off each other, I’ll let you suck my dick. He shook his head and thumbed over his shoulder. ‘Sorry, I’ll have to pass. Got my six-year-old with me. She’s always in bed by eight.’
Pamela Tanner’s lips curved into a satisfied smile and she did that thing with her eyes again where she blinked too fast. ‘Excellent. In that case I’ll swing round here with a bottle of red one night around nine-ish. Merlot or shiraz?’
Fuck!
__
10
_
Natasha Graham sat with her chin resting against her fist, elbow propped on the counter, watching rain outside the window. It was a miserable day, to match her mood, and the sky was the colour of old bruises. There’d been a constant trail of customers coming and going all morning, it was the first weekend of the school break and things were only likely to get busier from here on in. During summer Whitby was always awash with tourists, British and foreign alike, and the fickle weather front made her shop a good base for shelter on days like today, perhaps spurring more impulse buys than she’d care to admit.
One Hundred & Ninety-Nine owed its name to the Whitby steps nearby, the very ones renowned for featuring in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The shop specialised in knickknacks and gifts that were compliant with day-trippers’ and holiday-makers’ desire for homemade and exclusive souvenirs that stood apart from the usual tat. Natasha had been running the shop for close to twelve years. When her dad had passed away, a heart attack on his way home from the pub, she’d moved to Whitby, using her inheritance to set up the business and to get onto the property ladder. Not once had she looked back. She endeavoured to source quirky and individual wares, anything not redolent of the souvenir shop of bygone years. No one wanted things like ashtrays, fridge magnets and thimbles anymore, well, not ones with Whitby emblazoned across them in gaudy primary colours. One Hundred & Ninety-Nine was boutique chic, decked out with a whole array of specialised goods, including stationery, fashion accessories, homewares and tasteful retro paraphernalia. Metal plaques with pictures and inscriptions that referred to anything from wine and beer to friendship and home life were a particularly popular choice. People, it seemed, liked to inject small doses of wit and wisdom into their homes these days. One Hundred & Ninety-Nine’s walls were adorned with such plaques, Natasha’s personal favourite being: WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, MAKE LEMONADE. And yet here she was now, nibbling on the broken, inflamed skin of her fingers.
Tonight was meant to be date night with Lee. He’d called the previous evening to say he’d booked a table at the Italian restaurant on Church Street and that afterwards he was taking her for drinks around town. But she couldn’t say she was looking forward to it with any sense of joy. She was in no mood to be gallivanting around town in her fineries. Sometimes Lee failed to understand what it was she needed, even when she told him outright. And right now what she needed was time and space. Alone.
Fiddling with her mobile phone, she deliberated, indecision unsettling her to the point of frustration till, finally, she keyed in Lee’s number. She listened to the dialling tone. It r
ang about a dozen times before his voice mail kicked in: ‘Lee Riddell. Sorry, can’t take your call right now. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.’ After the beep she said, ‘Hi, just me. Listen, I’m not feeling too good, can you cancel tonight’s reservation? You should go for a few beers with Tris at The Granby instead. You’ve been meaning to catch up for a while, haven’t you? Anyway, I’ll speak to you later. Bye.’
It was around five-thirty when she pulled the shop’s shutters down and headed home, a spate of blustery northerlies prompting her to speed-walk. As soon she got into the warmth of her apartment she poured a large glass of chardonnay and tried Lee’s number again. Her Siamese cat, Maverick, slinked around her legs while she listened to the answerphone kick in.
‘Lee, call me when you get this please.’
She took her wine through to the lounge and flopped down in front of the television, reclining the sofa to its furthest stretch. Two hours passed by in a marathon of pointless gameshows and talkshows before the doorbell chimed. Her heart lurched.
Oh please don’t let that be you Lee.
It was.
He was standing outside her door, clean shaven and wearing a fitted white shirt that emphasised his trim body and made his tanned skin look healthy and appealing. His dirty-blonde hair had been trimmed since the last time she’d seen him and his designer aftershave suggested he was going somewhere nice. In one hand he was holding a bouquet of pink roses and in the other a silver bottle bag with ribbons around its handles.
‘Oh.’ Natasha winced. ‘Didn’t you get my messages?’
‘Yeah.’ He brushed past her, stepping into the apartment. ‘I knew you’d argue about me coming round insisting that you come out, so I came anyway.’
Smiling weakly, she took the flowers from him. ‘So kind of you, but I’m really not in the mood. How about frozen pizza? I can put the oven on. There’s a Mark Wahlberg film about to start…’
Lee shook his head and put his free hand on her waist. Pulling her close, he said, ‘Come on, Tasha, you’ll feel much better once we’re out. Promise. I want to cheer you up, so let me.’
She fiddled with one of the buttons on his shirt, deflecting her own attention away from his persuasive eyes, and shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘But why?’
‘For a start, look at the state of me.’ Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail and the make-up she’d put on earlier that day was stale, any illuminating effects now completely lacklustre.
‘So?’ Lee shrugged. ‘It’ll take you what? An hour to get dressed, if that? I’ll wait.’
‘No, seriously, I don’t want to go out,’ she insisted, her tone firm. ‘But you’re more than welcome to stay.’
His smile dissipated and his grey eyes dimmed a little, but he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Okay, if that’s what you really want.’
‘Yes. It is.’ She led him through to the kitchen and took a second wine glass from the cupboard. ‘White or red?’
Dipping his hand into the gift bag he’d brought, he pulled out a bottle of champagne. ‘Actually, I brought this for us.’
Natasha stared at the bottle, her eyes narrowing. ‘Am I missing something? Are we supposed to be celebrating?’
‘Hopefully.’ He fiddled in his trouser pocket and produced a small burgundy box. Popping the velveteen lid open with his thumb, he revealed a diamond solitaire propped on a bed of black satin.
Natasha’s mouth opened but no words formed. For a while she couldn’t blink or swallow. ‘I, er…what is this? I don’t know what to say…’
‘Well, yes would be good.’ Lee’s face brightened with a smile of bravado.
‘Yes? But…are you asking me…I mean, is it…?’
‘Yes, Tasha, I’m asking you to marry me. After everything we’ve been through these past two weeks I thought it might cheer you up.’
‘Cheer me up?’ Natasha was incredulous, her reaction critical, not exactly friendly. ‘Do you have any idea what’s going on inside my head right now? Why would you think this would cheer me up?’
‘I dunno.’ Lee shrugged, his smile instantly diminished. ‘You said before you’d like to get married.’
‘Yes, but not like this. And besides, you were pretty clear that you didn’t want to. Why the change of heart?’
‘This whole thing has given me reason to think, to look to the future and realise what we could be, what we could have.’
‘What we could have? No. Oh no.’ Natasha waved her hands out in front of her and sat down at the breakfast bar. Her face was ashen. ‘What happened was an accident…’
‘Yes, but there’s nothing to say we can’t do it again. For real. It’s made me realise what I want.’
‘And what’s that, Lee? You’ve got my head in bits here. For years you were dead set against the idea of marriage and kids, but now suddenly you’re laying it on thick and telling me that actually you want the whole shebang.’
‘What I want is for us to be together properly. Enough of this seeing each other a few times a week bullshit. It’s like we’re teenagers or something. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want us to be together.’ He walked around the breakfast bar and pulled up a stool next to her. Sitting down, he took hold of her hand. ‘And I want us to have a family.’
‘Whoa, I’ve been suggesting we buy a house for two years now…’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘And kids? You hate kids.’
Lee’s eyes dulled and he looked genuinely hurt. ‘No I don’t, I just never wanted any of my own. Till now. I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Well, I haven’t. You’re with the wrong woman if that’s what you want.’
‘Ah come on, Tasha, we’d make great parents.’
‘No we wouldn’t.’
‘Yes we would.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m too old.’
‘You’ve just gone thirty-seven for goodness sake, don’t be ridiculous.’ He grasped the sides of her stool and swivelled it round so that she was directly facing him. ‘Plenty of women start having kids when they’re well into their forties these days.’
‘No they don’t.’
‘Yes they do.’
‘Not this one.’
‘But why?’
‘Because.’
‘For crying out loud, you need to let it go, Tasha. It was over before it’d begun. It’s a common occurrence, happens to lots of women. Most of the time they don’t even realise it. We can try again. It won’t happen next time, I promise.’
‘Damn right it won’t because there won’t be a next time.’
Lee’s shoulders sagged, he looked crestfallen.
‘Look,’ she said, miserably, twirling her glass stalk round in her fingers. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but the answer’s definitely no. In fact, I’ve already made an appointment to see the doctor next week about getting the injection.’
‘Seriously? But…can’t we even talk about this? Give it some time at least?’
‘No, I’ve made up my mind. And I think it’s probably best if you leave, I can’t do this right now.’
_
11
_
The day was overcast and the wind had a spiteful nip that was more mid-autumn than early summer. John and Seren wore thin fleeces over t-shirts. They walked down the beach road, John holding Otis’s lead and Seren Mindy’s. Birds chirruped above them, flittering unseen between the line of sycamore trees to their right, and cabbage white butterflies beat lazy trails along the sweeping grass verge. Eventually the tarmac road sloped down into a rubbled car parking area. Beyond that a narrow footpath led onto the beach. Grassy banks rose to the left of the path and the entrance to the beach was marginally obstructed by a row of four large, graffitied stone cubes.
‘What are those?’ Seren asked, pointing.
‘Tank bloc
ks.’ John stopped walking to take in the vista. Being there was like stepping back in time, back to the eighties when the beach had been his playground. ‘They were put there during the Second World War to make sure that if any German tanks invaded the beach they couldn’t get past. Not easily anyway.’
‘You mean so they wouldn’t be able to get close enough to blow the village up?’
‘Er, yeah, I suppose.’
‘And they’re the actual ones?’ Seren’s voice had risen in pitch. To her the Second World War was an impossibly long time ago.
‘Yep.’
She ran her hand along the rough concrete side of the nearest block as they passed; she’d always felt the strong urge to touch historically interesting things whenever the chance arose, as though she might absorb the past into her fingertips and channel it into her mind like some form of psychic replay, to see what it had seen. And she loved the idea of contributing to an object’s historic footprint, of becoming a part of it in turn.
‘See up there?’ John pointed to the end section of cliff to their left. ‘Used to be a machine gun turret from the Second World War up there too. Might still be.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Can we go up and see?’
‘On the way back. Let’s go down to the sea first.’
The North Sea was only a short stroll away, directly ahead. John had never found it a thing of obvious beauty, and still didn’t. Its appeal, to him, was that it was there, always there, and the landscape it commanded was captivating, subtly changing hues with the seasons. The sea itself ran the gamut from plain grey to white-tipped-grey, blue-grey to ink-grey; he wasn’t sure if it knew how to be cyan or turquoise. But then, Horden wasn’t some Mediterranean jewel, it was a village of mostly dismal weather fronts and had been founded upon the harsh industry of fossil fuel mining. The North Sea complemented Horden well. Horden wouldn’t be Horden without it.