At home he arrives feeling oddly purged. He expects all to be as usual but the boys are not yet home and only his sister sits scribbling at the kitchen table. He fills the kettle and sets cups and spoons on a tray; normality is a thing which he must hold in place with both hands.
The black car turns into the drive just after six. His wife climbs out and follows the boys to the porch and kisses them while the man stands by the open door of his car looking the house up and down, and into the front hall. Elsa watches him through the window and smiles. Then his wife and the man return to the car and close their doors and go away.
– Dad?
– I’m in here.
– he’s got a great car, Dad it’s got an extra seat in the back and I sat on it. And I did the lights. And the horn. Arrr! Arrr! And I had chocolate cake twice. And ice cream.
– Patrick? You all right?
– yes, Dad.
– don’t suppose you’ll be hungry now?
– no.
– and you didn’t say goodbye and Mummy says you’re rude!
– that’s enough, Dan. Patrick, d’you have homework?
– no.
– so you two feed the hens and collect the eggs. I’m going to evensong; I’ll be back by bathtime.
Peter hasn’t been to vespers for a long time. It’s a short service and there are two hymns and he will stand next to Bob Vauquier and he will sing.
_____
Driving away from Les Puits Brenda lights a cigarette for herself and one for Gerry and considers the last couple of hours. Successful, on the whole, she thinks, even Peter’s sudden departure, which just shows him up for what he is. And look how Gerry spoiled the kids.
– nice clock he’s got there.
– clock?
– in the hall. Le Noury. Good piece. I’ll have that. Like to get a better look.
– the grandfather clock in the hall? He’ll never sell that. You’re joking!
– been in the family long?
– friend of his grandad made it, or something.
– thought so. Nice piece. I’ll have it; you’ll see.
– you’re very sure of yourself.
– that’s right.
– where’re we going?
– just down here.
– you’ll have to take me home – I’ll be late for work.
– you won’t be late. Don’t you trust me?
ten
Elsa Duncan still hasn’t said a word to us. It is tempting to slip into her thoughts, but that’s a dangerous exercise. It is eleven o’clock at night when she folds up her papers and returns them to the chest in the morning room which is now called the back room. She slides her pens into the flat drawer of the escritoire. Upstairs there is no sound; her nephews and her brother are asleep.
He is dreaming of a stampede of horses over a flat plain and three of them have riders. One of them is his woman and he wants to run to a knoll in the distance for safety but his feet will not move, and he tries to call her but his voice will not call.
By the back door Elsa puts on boots and a coat and steps out into the yard. She listens to the night for a moment as a fisherman might listen to the dawn. The moon is up but hidden by cloud. She sets off at a good pace through Long Meadow and down the empty lanes.
At the entrance to the Corbin’s farm the dog lifts its head. Recognising her step he runs up the bank to meet her and trots beside her a little way, pushing his head up into her hand before turning back to his post.
On the corner by old Bash’s house she pauses, hearing a sound. She melts into the hedge as the door scratches open. The old man moves across the step, a wavering light behind him picking up the hairs on his head. He stands and pees into the long grass, then sniffs and sighs and moves back inside, closing the door.
In the lanes bordered by trees there are thick lakes of darkness but she can see her way, even so. In the fields above the south coast the land lies open and blue under the stars and every field has a gap in the hedge which she knows. She skirts the ploughed land and crosses the fallow as the cows shake their tether ropes and the rabbits show their white scuts.
_____
It is hundreds of years since the pillars of the old harbour were sunk into the mud. Slimed and thick they carry the warehouses and customs office and the Yellow Box, all still and shuttered now in the night. Through them seep the tides. The stones of the new breakwater shelter the hulls of yachts in the marina and one day they’ll vibrate to the engines of passenger ferries bringing a thousand tourists from the towns of France. But not yet. Through the stones and the pillars seep the tides and the green ghosts of fish.
Half a dozen fishermen have cast their lines into the dark beyond the lighthouse. The cars come and go on the Victoria Pier. In a station wagon piled with ropes and lobster pots, Johnny, Franklin and Brenda are wedged into the front seats, eating chips.
– what d’yer reckon our Michael’s up to, then?
– Louise, ain’t he.
– she’ll get ’im down the aisle, I reckon.
– yeah. ’E took ’er drivin’ Sunday, round the island all la-di-da, and we’d ’ad that conger in the back all day Sat’dy and Christ did it pong.
– think he’s showed ’er his lunchbox then do yer?
– ah yes. Why not?
– never thought he ’ad it in ’im.
– ’ad it in ’er, more like.
– ugh, Franklin, you’re so crude, I can’t stand it. Leave my chips, you; you’ve had your own.
– I’ve got such an appetite, my luv, me ’ands move by themselves. Least you’re smilin’ again. ’Ad such a long face at the bar I though’ yer chin ’ad got caught in the till.
– well, I’m off home now. Ta for the chips.
– ’ere, we’ll take yer ’ome.
– no fear... you’ll have all the neighbours hanging out of their windows, I know you. It’s only five minutes. See ya, boys.
At the corner of Main Street the light is on in the telephone box. Brenda opens the door and props it open with her foot, diluting the smell of urine and cigarettes with the outside scent of the harbour. She dials the number of Le Clef du Ferme. It rings and the receiver is lifted at the other end.
– hello? Gerry?
The receiver is replaced and the telephone shrills a continual dull note into her ear. As it did last night. She looks at her watch. Ten to midnight. She kicks the door. Perhaps Gerry called at the flat while she was out. Well, she was out, wasn’t she.
_____
On Saturday morning Susan Pickery drives the Morningside Retirement Village minibus along the narrow road which joins the top of The Steps, where her mother is waiting.
In the back sit five elderly ladies and Mr Farthing, the most able and sprightly residents of Morningside. Every Saturday the minibus is used for their outing and Mrs Pickery has managed to overcome her reluctance to travel in their company. It’s not that they aren’t nice people; very nice. It’s just that she, Hilda Pickery, is a working woman, and much younger. However, having a lift home with the groceries is much better than the bus, saving some money, and there’s always the chance of information to be gleaned from the dusty old brains sitting in the back.
For instance, that one with the thin, pinkish curls, Mrs Aileen Vine, née le Cras. Mrs Pickery already knows her to be the stepmother of her employer, Jack, and mother of Jack’s half-brother, Lucas. Now this Lucas has a son called Gerald, who’d be in his thirties. Mrs Pickery has reason to believe that the man with the long black hair who comes next door to visit the estranged wife of her colleague, Peter, is one and the same person – Gerald. She dwells upon this extraordinary connection, voicing the fact that if they should ever marry then Jack and Peter would be related, and for the second time, so to speak.
– shhh, Mum. Mr Duncan’s not even divorced, and listen to you.
– young folks divorce at the drop of a hat these days. Sooner he’s shot of her the better. You should hear her next door
sometimes. That one Gerald isn’t the only one, you know.
– yes, Mum. Let me concentrate a minute. Traffic’s terrible and I’ve got to park near the door.
In the supermarket there is a difficult moment as Mrs Avery tries to negotiate the turnstile with her walking frame. Mr Farthing wants to be chivalrous and gets in the way until Susan separates the entangled chrome, sending Mrs Avery one way and Mr Farthing another, and losing sight of her mother.
Mrs Pickery has sped off on her usual route anti-clock-wise, beginning at the cereals and finishing at the toilet paper. There is a reason for this. The dairy section flanks the household goods and if the butter comes last then it has less time to melt before she gets it home. At the open fridge she spies Aileen Vine by the frozen peas.
– look at these petit poys then, eh.
– terrible price, see that. You keeping well, Mrs Vine?
– they looks just like peas.
– and your Lucas, mm?
– ah, he’s a good boy, that one.
– and his Gerald, doing all right?
– you not buying any then?
– they give me wind. And you?
– ooh no. They feeds us at the Home.
– everyone’s all right, then?
– oh they do us lovely. Custard’s what I like.
On the way home Mrs Pickery considers that Gerald Vine can’t have come into any money through his family, and therefore probably did so by less than honest means. Which proved again the kind of company her next door was in the habit of keeping. Didn’t Susan agree, Peter was well out of it?
– poor man, with those boys and all. I’ll look after them more often for him. Tell him, Mum.
– oh yes and we know where that’ll lead, my girl. You don’t fool me. And him not divorced yet and all.
eleven
It’s hard to say now, with time tucking up into itself as it does, whether a week has gone by or a day. It is the same for them, for the man in the field, the man on the road and the man fishing at the harbour with half a bottle of rum resting against a bollard. And for the one in the arm-chair and in the cradle and in the pub it is the same. A change will come and the difference between happy and sad is whole age and one or the other may last for years and be no time at all.
For Brenda a coat of blankness has been lifted from her shoulders. She lives in hours and days of love and anxiety. If she expects to see her lover that night he will not appear for a week, and if she doesn’t expect him for a week he’ll be there in ten minutes. She has never been so alive – though she doesn’t always like it, and won’t let it go until she gets it right.
For Peter a contentment has slipped and revealed the seed of sorrow underneath. Just as she took his seed and threw it out and left him with the nourishing of it. Now the vague belief that it will all work out for the best is shaken into pieces he cannot gather up.
____
On Sunday after church the boys stand about awkwardly and say no to every suggestion and then quietly announce that they are going out with their mother. Through a smile which pains him, Peter notes that the man, Gerry, is not mentioned and the shadow of him is cast deeper and longer because of this. Then he wonders when the arrangement was made, and the chill of unmentioned things creeps into the house and into the telephone, a miasma drifting through all the safe corners.
_____
He rows out to the Nan with no purpose in mind and spends the afternoon feeling the breath of the new god, jealousy. He strips off his shirt in the June sun and empties the lazarette of its fenders and ropes, finding a scraper and a stiff brush and stepping again into the dinghy. Beginning at the stern he cleans the belly of the boat at her waterline, holding her gunwales with stiff fingers and eyes half closed in the glare. Back in the cockpit he sits for a while with his hand on the tiller and looks over the stern with a measuring eye and taps the planking with his feet.
He would like to still be sitting at sunset but instead he rows back to the shore and leaves the dinghy upended above the tideline. He cycles home with sunburned shoulders and a more peaceful heart. As he turns down the lane he’s surprised to hear a droning noise he can’t identify and a little less surprised to see the black car like a cockroach at the door. The illusion of a great insect increases with the droning sound as he leaves the bicycle in the shed and approaches the house. The teapot stands on the kitchen table, warm to the back of his hand. Through the open window he sees Brenda, Elsa, Patrick and Danny standing in the Long Meadow, all looking up at a model aeroplane which putters through the air with a tiny engine guided by Gerry Vine.
Peter is drawn to the window and he too, watches the machine spinning on a thin wire. First he will march out and order his wife to leave with the man and the car, and then he imagines her laugh and perhaps the laughter of his sister. Then he imagines the eyes of the children and he checks himself. Next it seems that he himself should be the one to leave and cycle away and throw himself into a pit. Then he balls his hands into his pockets, takes a breath, and walks outside.
The other man is absorbed in the flight of the plane, which dives and coughs and finally plummets nose first into the grass. The boys cheer and rush over to carry it back as he stands coiling in the wire. Brenda joins them and they stand in a cluster as Peter approaches and hears them speak.
– that was a flippin’ great one ! It must’ve gone round a hundred times.
– wheee! Wheee!
– what’s the damage – let’s have a look. Only the propeller, we can straighten that out; it’s not broken.
– what about this – is this part of it?
– looks like part of a fuselage.
– ... it’s got a fuselage...
– get me an elastic band.
– anyone got an elastic band? Oh. Hi, Dad.
– hi, Patrick.
– your nose is all red. Look at his nose.
– hi, Dan. Hello.
– he’s got a great plane, Dad, and it’s for us; it runs on real plane fuel, you should see it go!
– I saw. Yes, I saw it. I’m just going to... make a sandwich. Can I... sandwich anyone?
– we’ve been eating ALL day. We had marshmallows in the car. We ate ’til we were SICK!
Peter turns to the kitchen again and Elsa turns with him and he is grateful. His woman and the man skirt the house as Danny rushes past and rummages in the kitchen drawer for something. By the black car the man and Danny fiddle with the plane while Brenda speaks to Patrick and then she slips into the car with a graceful movement and they are gone.
_____
Seven days a week from six until nine, including Christmas, Chandra’s is open. To the islander, the ways of the east are strange. There was an ominous murmuring from the shopkeepers of Port Victoria when Mr Chandramohan first threw open his shutters, nearly twelve years ago. Yet the goods move fast on the shelves and have no time for gathering dust. Never mind that the prices are a little high; Chandra’s is always open.
It’s open on Sunday and Gerry stops here for cigarettes. In the car he throws a magazine onto Brenda’s lap and she looks in surprise at the fleshy expanse of the cover girl.
– what am I supposed to do with this?
– anything you like.
– I don’t want it.
– chuck it out then.
– you’re a screwball.
– that’s me. You’re learning. You can make me a cup of tea.
In Flat 5 Gerry gets into Brenda’s bed with all his clothes on while she busies herself in the kitchen. She throws the magazine into the bin and cups her own small breasts for a moment in her hands. The road of love seems a little more circuitous than she’d expected, but then, she thinks, it’s like that, isn’t it? One person’s straight is another person’s crooked. She sugars his tea and carries it to the bed, noticing how thin and scrappy he looks, waiting for her, like a little boy.
twelve
Peter unpegs the dry clothes from the washing line. He folds t
hem into the wash-basket and silently blesses Susan Pickery as he carries them indoors. She comes once a week to do the ironing – just the boy’s shirts really; his own work clothes don’t need it, if he hangs them out carefully. He irons his own for Sunday; it only seems right. This week Susan offered to cook a meal before she left, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
– Patrick! Patrick!
He listens in the doorway. The house is quiet, and the yard. The hens peck disinterestedly in the dust.
– Patrick!
– coming... yes, Dad?
– fetch Danny, will you, and we’ll do the hen-house. Change the straw.
– Danny’s off.
– where now?
– I don’t know. I looked, earlier.
– never mind, we’ll do it. Will you help me?
– sure.
– Okay. Let’s fill the buckets.
The water gushes noisily into the tin pails.
– coming out on the boat this weekend? Tide’s good.
– yes, I guess so.
– anything wrong?
– no.
– you worried about something, eh?
– no.
– worried about Danny going to school next year?
– I guess so. A bit, maybe.
– he’ll be okay.
– yes.
– he’ll come out of himself; make friends.
– Dad?
– mm?
– mum wants us to live with her. She said. She said not yet but soon.
– ah well. Well. She is your mother. But I can’t see that happening. No. It just can’t be. There’s not room for the two of you with her. And it’s too far from school. Maybe she’ll come back here one day; that’s what she means.
Big Low Tide Page 4