– wake up, darlin’.
– oooh! Me God! Don’t do that; I’ll die of fright.
– ‘an I’ll give yer the kiss o’ life. Three pints, darlin’. Thanking you.An’ crisps.Them vinegar ones.Any news from your lost love, ’ave yer?
– who?
– yer know – yer ancient mariner.
– nope.
– ’e must’ve arrived somewhere by now.Wherever ’e was going.Where was ’e going?
– I’m surprised you don’t know, Franklin; you know everything else, doncha?
– yeah, mostly. I wouldn’t ask, only ’e never did come about that Lister.
– the what?
– that engine, you know. Gone off without one, ’asn’t ’e?
– I don’t know. It’s not my business, nor yours either.
– it’s been running a helluva swell from the north, y’know.
– you want anything else? There’s other people to serve.
– Okay, okay. Only showing an interest, like.
Mid afternoon and the doors are closed, the chairs stacked, the floors mopped. Brenda leans on a bar stool, picking her nails. She tells Henry that she’s in a fix.The neighbours have complained about her boys in the flat; they say that it’s in the lease: no children.The landlord’s given them until the end of the month and then she’ll have to take them back to the house in St Stephen’s. It’ll be too far for her to come into work twice a day from there. She’s in a real fix.
– what about your family, love?Your parents?
– me mum’s dead.
– and your dad?
– we don’t speak.
– ah. Well. Look, you’ve got a couple of weeks; something might turn up; it usually does. I’d hate to lose you, Brend. I’d have to get someone else, you know – ’specially now, in the summer.
– I know.
– go on, then.There might be some good news waiting at home. See you tonight.
When a car drives up alongside, she almost thinks... but then a man in a white shirt opens the door, steps out and proffers his hand.
– Mrs Duncan?
– that’s me.
– I’m Detective Sergeant Mullins.We’ve got a spot of trouble with your youngsters.
– what?
– nothing much to worry about, but if you’ll just come with me... that’s it.They’re at the station.
– what they done?
– seems one of the dockers caught them tampering with some goods on the North Quay. Bit young to be on their own down there, aren’t they?
– little blighters! I’ll give ’em what for.
– they’re with one of our women at the moment. She’ll have a word with you. Here we are.This way, please.
two
Dear Susan,
I arrived in Cork last Friday. I was in Falmouth before that. The boat needs a few repairs. I am staying with my cousinTom and his wife. Can you send me some news of the boys? I’m sure Brenda won’t mind you seeing them sometimes.Tel Danny I’m sorry to miss his birthday and that I’ll see you all soon.
Love,
Peter
Susan holds the letter in her hand. She feels wonder, and annoyance, and then concern. She reads it again. If the boys have a new life, then it can’t be the one that their father imagines. Her mum goes on about nothing else now, on Saturdays. But it’s not up to her to interfere, is it? He’s got a cheek to ask, really. He never said goodbye or anything.
But then he says: I’ll see you all soon. She looks at the envelope where he’s written her name. Miss Susan Pickery. Blue and clear and definite. She can see him, suddenly, in that old pullover he wears.Thank God he’s safe.
She checks her watch. In twenty minutes the night staff will come in. She must remember to let them know that Mr Farthing isn’t to have his drink at eight anymore; he can’t keep it in at night. Was there anything else? Well then, she’ll pop down to her mum and dad. She needn’t actually show them the letter.
But Patrick and Danny – has he written to them? Do they know he’s safe? She’ll make sure that they do.
She parks the minibus at the top of The Steps and makes her way down. Lovely evening. She could take the boys down to the harbour,if they’re al owed to stay up late.
Passing beneath the window of Number 5, she hears voices. Danny’s unmistakable yell. Hurriedly she knocks on her parents’ door.
– there! can you hear that? Listen to them!
– let me in, mum.
Through the passage and into the kitchen Hilda Pickery talks excitedly.Them next door were brought back today by a policewoman, just fancy! Thank goodness it was after closing time andWilf was at home to see.When the policewoman left there’d been all hell let loose, by all accounts. Screeching and crashing about, even worse than now. But they’re still at it – listen!
– I think I’d better go and see if I can do anything to help, mum.
– that’s right – you do that, my girl.You see what’s going on.
_____
– What the hell do you want?
– oh. I’m Susan Pickery. I’m from next door.At least...
– I know who you are.Think I’m stupid? She sent you to poke your nose in too? Well you can fuck off.
– no she didn’t. I came to say... well, I’ve had a letter. From Peter.
– oh, yes? I get it! Oh, that’s very nice! Well you know where you can stuff it. Get out of my way; I’m late for work.
Brenda pushes past, banging the door behind her. Susan blinks, turns to go, then she returns to the door and softly knocks. She tries the handle.
– Patrick? Danny? It’s me, Auntie Susan.
– we’re not allowed to open the door. She’ll murder us if we do.
– just open it a bit. Come on, Patrick. I don’t want to talk too loud. Good lad.Are you okay?
–Yes...
– I’ve heard from your dad! He’s fine. He sends his love. Oh, sweetheart...
The boy’s shoulders pull up; his mouth trembles.
– oh my love, don’t cry. This is just a bad patch; it’ll get better. Honest it will...
– I was... we were... going to be with him – an’ we can’t stay here – an’ me mum... she...
– shh. It’ll come right. Come on, love. Where’s Danny?
– there. Under the bed.
– I’ve got to go. Listen! I’ll write to your dad. It’ll come right, okay?
– Auntie Susan?
– yes, love?
– we’re ever so hungry.
three
Dear Peter,
Thank you for the letter. I have seen the boys and they are well. I’m not sure if you know but they are living with their mother and it’s not my business but I think you should know. There’s a bit of trouble and they must get out of the flat, the boys that is, I’m not sure about your wife. I’m glad you are wel .
Love,
Susan Pickery.
_____
– Miss Pickery? There’s someone on the phone for you.
– thank you, nurse. I’m busy here.Who is it?
– Peter somebody. Duncan I think.
– Lord. I’m coming.Take over will you?
– hello?
– Susan?
– yes – Peter?
– I’m in a phone box; can’t be long. I got your letter. What’s going on? Where are the boys?
– oh Peter; I haven’t seen them.They’re still in the flat in town, I think. My mum says they’re moving out at the weekend, going back to your place...
– where’s my sister? I’ve been ringing and ringing.
– I don’t know.
– who’s going to look after them?
– I don’t know.
– I’m arranging something with the bank. Susan, I’ve had an idea. I know it’s a lot to ask – wait, the money – you still there?
– yes.
– could you bring them here – is there any way? Can you take a holiday? I’ll
send you the money. Susan?
– oh I don’t know. I don’t know what to say.You mean in a plane?
– yes. Susan, will you think about it? Can I ring you tomorrow?
– yes.
– great. I really miss them, you know.
_____
Brenda comes out of the bank manager’s office feeling so relieved that suddenly she has to sit down. At least one thing has been taken care of. She’d been so worried about money it was making her quite dizzy. Now the bank fellow has explained how Peter’s going to release the South Field for sale to the Corbins, like they always wanted, and when the sale goes through she’ll get the money, for the children.
Now she can keep the flat, even if she has to take the boys to St Stephen’s for a while. She’ll move back as soon as she can. There’s no way that she, Brenda Duncan, is going to be stuck out there in St Stephen’s for long with that cow of a sister-in-law. Not a chance.
And after the South Field there’s always the Long Meadow. It’s only a bit of grass, but someone’d buy it. She doesn’t need to worry about money. Peter’ll come back for the boys soon enough, anyway. He’ll come running back.
_____
–You’ll do no such thing.
– I might, mum. It’s not the end of the world.
– Ireland? It might as well be. I never heard of such an idea!
– the boys aren’t old enough to travel on their own – Peter thinks they should be with him.
– Peter, is it, now? It was Mr Duncan last week.You’re playing with fire, mark my words.
– oh, mum! He’s not like that.
– he’s a man, ain’t he? He wants you to take his kids to him, does he? And do a bit of cooking. And The Other Thing. You’re not to go.
– I’m not asking you, mum. I’ll make up my own mind.
Mrs Pickery looks at her daughter very hard.
– you’ll rue the day, my miss. Pass me that other bag. I can manage now, thank you.
Susan drives away with her heart thudding. She’s never spoken back to her mother like that before. Usually she helps with the shopping and then stays for tea, and she might have seen Patrick and Danny – they could be moving out today, this very minute. Now she’s driving away and missed her chance.
She’ll have no news to tell Peter. She’ll just tell him yes, she’d love to come if he needs her. He does need her. It’s a bit sudden, though. He wasn’t a man to rush anything, before all this.Things never seem to work out if they’re done in a rush. Maybe her mum’s got a point. It doesn’t feel right, somehow, going to him. He’d come to her, wouldn’t he, if it was right? Perhaps she won’t get any time off work. That’s what she’ll say. She’ll just tell him no.
_____
It’s Sunday morning and the old station wagon is bowling along past the airport. Franklin, Johnny and Brenda are once again wedged in the front, with the boys in the back between bags and coils of rope, leaning out of the windows and screwing up their eyes into the wind.
Brenda turns her head as they pass the crossroads, looking down the road towards Le Clef du Ferme, but there is only a blur of trees. They leave the main road where it curves towards the west coast, following the narrow lane. Brenda shouts directions into Johnny’s ear. At last they rattle down the drive of Les Puits, skidding to a halt outside the porch and raising a little puff of dust.
– there you are, madam; right to yer own front door.
Don’t say I never do nothin’ for yer.
– ’ell! Take a look at it, will yer? ’S enormous! Coo! The ’eavenly choir an’ all!
– blast. I forgot it was Sunday.That’s morning service. The whole bloody parish’ll know I’m here. Come on you lot, get out then. Oi! Daniel Duncan, come and help with them bags! Where’s he gone?
– give ’em ere. We’ll ’ave a squint inside. It’s locked. You got a key, you?
– yeah, somewhere. Here. I’ll do it. Patrick, bring that box. Don’t stand there gawping.
The air inside reminds her of the church, cold and still as stone. She lights a cigarette.
– give us one. Reckon we deserve a cup of tea, don’t you?
– jeez. Hang on a minute. Let me catch my breath. The Aga’s out.
– don’t look as if anyone’s been ’ere fer a while, do it? Where’s yer, y’know – yer mad sister-in-law?
– hush your big mouth. There’s kids about. How should I know?
– nothin’ in the fridge, any’ow.Want a lift to the shop? Got plenty time; pubs shut today, ain’t they?
– an’ the shop. Patrick’ll go round the Corbins’ later. It’s okay.We’re okay now.
– sure you’ll be aw’right then, is it?
– yeah.Thanks, eh? I’ll see you.
In the silence when they are gone, the stone cold fingers seem to circle her neck. She’s going as nuts as Elsa, right enough. She crushes the cigarette into the floor and calls for Patrick.
– what?
– don’t you what me. Come ’ere.
– yes, mum?
– where’s Danny?
– he’s gone off.
– well, take these up. And go and have a look in your aunt’s room.
– must I?
– yes, whyever not? I’m not feeling so good; I’ll come up later.
Patrick goes into the bedroom which he has always shared with Danny. It is as they left it – the books under the bed, the crayons on the floor. He inhales the familiar smell. Then he drops the bags and continues down the passage.
Nobody ever goes into Aunt Elsa’s room. It is surrounded by privacy and he can almost feel the fabric of its veil. Now in the emptiness of the house the little landing outside her door is fairly humming. The hair prickles on his scalp.There might be a body in there. She might have fallen across the bed with a dagger in her and one arm dangling over the side, like that man in the picture, only he was in the bath.
He knocks. That’s silly; dead people can’t answer. He turns the handle, pushes the door. Nothing. His eyes take a quick look, nothing.
four
Now that they’re home, there’s nothing much to do. A thousand things, but nothing. Patrick, on that first day, feels some of the weight of those cold fingers.
He tells his mother that his aunt’s room is empty, and then she shooes him outside. He walks listlessly around the yard and finds the hens gone. He goes to the Corbins’ for bread and milk and is told that the hens escaped into the Long Meadow and a dog killed two. They put the others in a run behind their sheds. Danny is at the Corbins’; Auntie Debs says he can stay for tea but Patrick had better go home and tell his mother not to worry.
At the table in the kitchen Patrick silently wolfs down bread and jam and tinned peas. He told Auntie Debs that there was food in the cupboard but there was only jam and peas and custard powder. It’s nice to hear the doves wobbling their throats up there on the roof.
He looks up quickly at his mother. She’s ever so different all of a sudden. She always dressed sharp, like a series of boxes all magically balanced together. Now she’s gone blurry. She’s just sitting there looking at the old newspapers, lighting one cigarette off the end of the last one.
– what are you staring at?
– nothing.
– when you go back to school?
– next week.
Slowly through the week, he finds his way back into the feel of the house. The stones of the walls shift and settle into place, adjusting to the absence of his father and the fresh air blowing through the broken window into the empty room of his aunt. His mother said to leave the glass where it is. She sleeps in his father’s bed. She sleeps and sleeps and sleeps.
Walking through the country lanes gives him back a rhythm and arranges his thoughts. First: who broke that window? Burglars took Aunt Elsa away or an alien force. Either way it is just as well, as his mother says she could never bear the bitch.Auntie Deb’s dog is also a bitch.
His mum is a problem. Last night when the pho
ne rang she screamed at it and pulled it right out of the wall. He’d best keep out of her way.
Then, his dad. Auntie Susan said he’d sent his love and his dad meant it. He meant love. So he’ll come back. He’d come and find mum in his bed and wake her up with a kiss like she was a princess. If it was a question of waiting, then Patrick thought he could manage that. Meanwhile he was walking to the shops and he could fill up the kitchen shelves again and make things come right.
_____
Les Puits affects Brenda like a sickness, like vertigo. She can’t stand it.The bloody birds in the roof stink. She can’t pin her mind on anything.At least the kids are out of her hair; they’re out getting up to no good, dawn till dusk.
In her dreams she leaves the house quietly, squeezing the front door behind her without a sound. She hurries down the lane hearing footsteps behind her. It’s Gerry. She dodges and turns, but he is always there; he won’t be shaken off.
She decides to go to his house. He’s put the bad eye on her, and that’s not all. She takes the number eleven bus as far as the crossroads, and then walks. She senses, before she reaches Le Clef, that he is not there. Sure enough, there’s no sign of life.The lawns are parched and yellow and the flower beds powder dry.
Sitting on the bus on the way back to Les Puits, she changes her mind. She stays in her seat for two more stops and gets off at the Vine Farm. They’ll know. She’ll find out today, if it kills her.
At the farmhouse door, Jack’s wife Biddy wipes her hands on a dishcloth and eyes Brenda carefully. Ah yes, she knows about this one.
– my husband will be in just now. He’s always in for his dinner, twelve sharp. It’s him you’re wanting?
– yes. Or Simon.
– our Simon’s taking a tractor to Deborah’s place and he’ll take his dinner there. He took over your husband’s job, temporarily, like. He’s college educated, not a farm worker. ’Ere comes Jack now. Look who we’ve got here, mon vieux.
– oh aye. Just wait ’til these boots is off. Our Peter’s wife, isn’t it? Let me wash my hands.
Big Low Tide Page 8