Lewis appreciates now that the giant would have been his father. He doesn’t know whether he has ever seen a photograph, or whether it was some buried image—a child’s fantasy—of how a father might look. He feels sorry about it, but not as sorry as forgetting Wayne. You’ve got to understand why it hurts, Sam had said; only then can you leave it alone.
He doesn’t know how he got the cut under his lip; from breaking out of the window, perhaps, or when he was being dragged onto the bank. He didn’t feel any pain, just the taste of blood in his mouth, like molten iron.
He has been living on the coast now for two weeks, camped in the dunes: that’s fourteen sunrises and fourteen sunsets; fourteen mornings of waking to the cries of the gulls and fourteen nights of falling asleep to screeching owls and squeaking bats. But he shouldn’t count; counting is too much like control. That was another thing Sam had said, later, when it was approaching dusk. Lewis had instinctively reached over to pull on the light-switch dangling above his head.
Let the dark come in, Sam had said, What’s the point in trying to stop it? You know it’s out there.
Lewis smiles at the memory. He would’ve said, Because I’d rather let the light in, my friend, but he was happy enough to sit and listen to Sam, spinning his cracked philosophy in the gloom.
Lewis had thought then that all Sam had given him was an day of peace and some dubious alcohol. Now he realizes that, just like his famous tattoos, Sam’s words—however rationally Lewis might dispute them—had got under his skin. He rises from the sand, brushing the stuck grains off his clothes, and heads up onto the dunes. Out at Scroby, he can see the turbines turning on the horizon. The sky beyond is pale pink; the sea, the colour of a pigeon’s wing. Lewis sings under his breath: It’s a nice day to start again. It’s a nice day for a white wedding.
FORTY
The bride wears apricot; she has a tiara on her head and a mink stole round her shoulders. A crowd has gathered outside the Hollywood Cinema, watching the arrival of a silver Bentley. Marta backs out of the car and holds out her hand to Rita: she’s struggling with her stole, which has got away from her, but as she sees the onlookers, she forgets everything. She throws her arm up in the air and poses like a beauty queen. The groom and best man arrive in Vernon’s convertible. After Kristian makes several attempts at reverse parking, the chauffeur of the Bentley intervenes and puts it on a bay across the road, earning him a round of applause from the crowd. All four wait on the pavement, squinting in the afternoon sunlight.
Where is he? says Rita, looking up and down the street.
Vernon takes her hand.
He’s walking with Anna, darling. She wanted to get changed, remember? They won’t be a minute.
Who’s walking with Anna? she asks.
Brendan, he says, It was Brendan, wasn’t it?
Rita gives him a crazed look.
What on earth are you talking about?
Brendan and Anna are marching along the golden mile, having a row. They can see the wedding party directly ahead, her mother’s tiara twinkling like a beacon. Vernon has his back to her, entertaining the crowd. It can’t be possible at such a distance, but Anna is convinced she can hear him laughing. Brendan is half-running, trying to keep up with her.
Just don’t worry about it, he’s saying, It’s no big deal.
She’s gone stark bollocking mad, Anna says, Why didn’t she just say she was getting married? Eh? Eh?
Catching up, Brendan clutches at Anna’s arm and swings her to a halt.
Because she didn’t want you to put the mockers on it, he says, panting, Now be a grown-up for once. It’s her day. C’mon.
He leads her towards the group, who all turn to wave at them.
Spare me the cliché, B, says Anna, It’s always her day. Did you see the way she looked at me when we arrived?
Brendan runs a critical eye over her; she’s wearing a creased floral dress she dug out of the bin liner in the car, and her desert boots.
No, I didn’t notice, actually. I was preoccupied with other matters, he says, Anyway, you look alright now.
What was that lecture for, then? she asks, About making myself presentable. She always says that! Presentable. As if I’m some sort of frump who can’t be expected to do any better.
She did have a point, he says, That poncho was horrible.
I was dressed for a car journey, Brendan, not a frigging wedding in a frigging . . . multiscreen.
That’s right, he says, suddenly looking down at his shoes.
Kristian is the first to greet them. He bows gallantly to Brendan, and offers Anna his arm. Her mother stands still on the pavement, her eyes searching the street. When she catches sight of Anna, she hooks onto her free arm.
This is my daughter, she shouts at the onlookers, who let out an ironic cheer.
That’s my girl, she says, You look quite—
Presentable, says Brendan, winking at Anna.
I was going to say beautiful, says Rita.
In the foyer, the manager directs them past the popcorn counter and through a side door in a carpeted wall.
They’re putting on a special screening after the service, says Rita, Just for us. Aren’t they, Vernon?
The most romantic film in history, so she tells me, he says, pawing at his cravat.
Now, Voyager? asks Brendan.
Casablanca? offers Kristian.
Rita glances from one man to the other.
Random Harvest, she says, You boys will just love it!
Lewis stands outside the cinema and lights a cigarette. There are four films being shown: two action movies and two children’s films which look like action movies, only animated. Inside, the foyer is disappointingly modern: Lewis was hoping for stucco, for gold leaf and velvet, but there’s a long marble-effect counter for processing tickets and numerous food concessions competing for space.
Just like everywhere else, he says, under his breath: and just like everywhere else, a boy in a porter’s uniform comes across to tell him it’s a completely non-smoking complex. The boy looks him up and down, hesitating; he can’t believe that this man who looks like a savage has come to watch a matinee.
Sorry, says Lewis, clipping the lit stub in his fingers, But there’s supposed to be a wedding here today.
That’ll be in the private function room, says the boy, They’ve started, I think, but I can go and check for you?
Don’t bother, says Lewis, I’ve come this far, another hour or two won’t make any odds.
FORTY-ONE
He takes the passageway down the side of the guest-house and finds himself in the car park at the back. His courage has sunk away with the sun. He just wanted to look at her again. He’d waited all afternoon, sitting on the steps of the memorial, for a glimpse of the returning party. Now, noticing Vernon’s car parked askew in front of the garage, Lewis realizes that they must have come round the back road and through the garden. Peering over the wall, he sees the path has been strung with fairy lights and silver balloons, bobbing in the dusk. The sound of voices and laughter blow in and out on the breeze. He would just like to look at her, just once. He brushes the front of his jacket, wipes his hands over his head and down the stubble on his face, sniffs under his armpits. His fingers find a roll of weathered paper in the inside pocket. He passes his hand over it, trying to straighten it out, and creates instead a long dirty smear across the paper. Under the streetlight, Lewis unfurls Anna’s seascape sketch, now creased and battered with wear.
Inside, someone is playing the piano: a rousing chorus of Here Comes the Bride, followed by I’m Getting Married in the Morning, with much halting and restarting and bursts of laughter. He pulls himself over the wall and creeps alongside the bushes, up the path, until he’s at the side of the house. In the picture window, they are lit up like a stage-play. A man with curly hair is sitting at the piano, with Kristian bending across him, turning the sheet music over; at the head of the table, Rita is half-sitting on Vernon’s lap, so close, that if s
he turned her head, she would see him staring in. She’s shouting encouragement to Kristian, yelling at him to sing up. Lewis can see Marta beyond them, but Anna isn’t in view. Just as he cranes his neck to get a glimpse further into the room, Anna walks across the frame. She bends into Vernon’s shoulder and whispers in his ear, making him wobble with laughter. Lewis watches, his chest heaving, as she moves over to the piano, putting her hand on the man’s shoulder and kissing the top of his head. Rita gets up from Vernon’s lap and comes across to look out over the garden. She looks directly into Lewis’s eyes.
Rita is admiring, in her reflection, the locket at her throat. It’s a wedding present from Marta and Kristian, a vintage Danish design in pearl and amethyst. It glitters brightly back at her, but not so brightly as Lewis’s eyes, wild as a cat, as he senses discovery. Rita lifts her handbag off the chair and directs Vernon to fetch more champagne.
I’m just going to check on the birds, she says, sliding the door open and stepping into the garden. Lewis is almost at the wall.
Mr Lewis, she calls, You’ve forgotten something.
She points to the roll of paper on the grass. He turns about and meets her halfway.
Can’t be skulking out here, she says, When there’s a party going on.
Congratulations, he says, And I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. Like I said when I rang, I only wanted to see Anna.
Rita waggles a finger in her ear, gives him a knowing look.
Unless I’m as deaf as my daughter, you said: you’ve sorted your life out and now you’re ready to say something. I believe you were quoting me.
Lewis smiles despite himself.
Show me your hands, she says, waiting as he splays them out. She turns them over, then holds them.
Come inside, she says, It’s not too late, you know. Come inside.
Lewis can feel nausea rising in him; he hasn’t eaten for days; he’s filthy; he’s bone-tired and he’s sick now, of everything; he’s sick and he’s frightened. He would like to go and lie down on the sand and let the sea wash him away.
I’m not ready, he says, telling the truth.
Neither is she, she says, with a nod to the house, But when you are—
She opens her handbag, and as she does so, Lewis puts his hand up: he thinks she’s about to offer him money. She takes out a wrap of tissue paper and puts it in his palm.
For when you are ready, she says, closing his fingers round it.
Winterton
A late afternoon in early spring; Anna is at work on the garden. She spent a whole week hacking at brambles, tugging up weeds and turning the soil, until she was barely able to stand up straight. Today, she’ll put some plants in the ground. She thought she’d be systematic, lining up the pots of seedlings she’s bought from the garden centre in a neat row next to the path. But by dusk, the plants are still waiting in their pots and the mess is mightier than ever. She follows the path she has made beyond the safety tape to the edge of the plot. The remains of a military bunker lie directly on the beach below, dashed into pieces by the sea: they look like massive dice, rolled by a giant hand. Her way down to the sand is easy from here; the concrete blocks act as perfect stepping stones. She won’t go down tonight; it’s enough, after a full day’s work, just to stand and look out over the ocean. The days get longer inch by inch, and inch by inch she is reclaiming this land, as inch by inch the sea will take it away. Nothing lasts forever, Lewis had told her, but all Anna wants is to borrow a small piece of it, for a while.
A fishing boat passes on the horizon, heading towards port. Anna can see the lights in gold and rose, flecking the water, and the gulls, like shreds of silver in the sky around it. Sometimes, she sees dog walkers on the beach, or a warden from the nature reserve, patrolling the sand; but there are days when she sees no one. When she’s ready, she’ll have visitors. Her mother and Vernon are eager to come, as is Brendan, whose texts are full of spelling mistakes and a sudden enthusiasm to visit Norfolk.
At the back door, a tree she doesn’t know the name of has burst into flower: tiny white clusters with a heady scent. Anna upturns a wooden crate and sits under the tree, nursing her beer, listening to the last birdsong. The night falls so soft that at first, she doesn’t notice she has company; a shadow rising up from the cliff, as if he has walked straight from the sea. She knows this shadow as well as her own: it’s Lewis, coming out of the darkness. Anna smiles; she can’t see how it looks to him, the pain and hope all mixed.
It’s me, he says, taking a breath, I’ve got something to give you. From your mother.
It’s a long way to come, she says, Just to deliver a message.
Lewis opens his fist. The tourmaline ring, like a solid piece of ocean, gleams in his palm.
I think she’d want you to wear it, he says, watching as she puts the ring in her pocket.
And what do you want? she asks.
He leans against the wall and fetches out his tobacco. He looks as if he’s considering his answer, but he’s not. He’s searching for a word.
You, he says, finding it.
Anna spends a long minute with her face turned away, staring into the night.
How are your problems, she says, Still cubed?
Maybe only squared, he says.
Anna holds her hand out flat, looks directly up at him.
Give me one of them, she says, but instead, he places a roll-up in her palm.
You can smoke inside, you know, says Lewis, almost smiling.
Yeah, we could, says Anna, But I’ve given up, nearly.
Me too, he says, cupping his hands over hers while she lights it.
Out at sea, the fishing boat moves closer to the shore. If anyone on board was looking, they would see a necklace of luminous stones at the water’s edge, the cliffs crumbling onto the sand, and above them, a small red circle of light, burning a hole in the darkness.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am grateful to Dannie Abse for permission to use his poem “A Woman to a Man,” included in Jazz Poems (Pocket Poets series, Vista Books, London).
Lewis’s first encounter with his nightmarish Wandsworth flat can be found in the short story “Shorthold,” featured in the anthology Wales Half Welsh (ed. John Williams), published by Bloomsbury.
The song that Wayne so loves and with which he drives Lewis insane is a sample from “White Wedding” by Billy Idol, although Wayne was a total Generation X fan and could have irritated his brother with any number of their hits.
For their support and assistance, I’m indebted to Derek Johns at AP Watt, to Elisabeth Schmitz and the whole team at Grove/Atlantic, Inc., and to Ursula Doyle at Picador, without whom the tights, stockings, pop socks debate may never have taken place. The jury’s still out . . .
To my family and friends, and once again, to Steve, for putting up with everything, love and many thanks.
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