Sea Change

by Francis Rowan

  Anyway, it was different this time, he reminded himself. Greg wasn't Parker. He wasn't alone. He had his friends. Between the three of them, if they stuck together, they would sort something out. It wasn't like school. That wasn't going to happen again. He was not going to walk away.

  The front door closed, and after a few seconds Laura banged on the door as she went past. He hadn't realised how fast the time had gone, couldn't believe that she had closed the shop, that it was the end of the day already.

  "’Lo," she said as she started to climb the stairs. "You had a good day?"

  "Brilliant," John shouted, and he meant it.

  Chapter Seven

  John pushed the bookshop door open.

  As he did, a distant bell rang, but only just, as if it could barely be bothered. The inside of the shop was dim and smelt of old things, like the last of the autumn leaves crisped by the frost and shattered underfoot. It was divided into half a dozen narrow corridors by rows of shelves that reached to the ceiling. One dim light bulb hung in each corridor, making pools of light amongst the shadows. John couldn't see anybody in there.

  "I'm in the back if you want anything. Feel free to browse if you don't."

  The sudden voice that came from somewhere at the back of the shop made John jump.

  "Thanks," he said. He still couldn't see the speaker. It was as if the books themselves had spoken. John edged down between war and romance, pretended to study natural history, skimmed along cars and transport, and then he was at the back of the shop, and as he walked around to the next shelf he saw that no-one was there either. Then he saw a small desk tucked in one corner that was covered in sheets of paper like mould on the bark of a tree. One bar of a portable electric fire glowed a dull orange dangerously close to all the paper, a mug perched on the only free space on the desk and steamed, but there was still nobody to be seen.

  "With you in a second," the desk said, and John took a step backwards. There was a groan and a man rose from behind the desk clutching yet another sheet of paper. "Hello, sorry about that."

  "Hello," John said.

  The man squinted at him for a moment. "You must be John."

  John must have looked surprised, because the man laughed. "Stand with your sister in front of a mirror, and tell me you don't see it too." He walked over, and held his hand out. "Plus, I'm cheating. Laura's got a picture of you on the wall in her kitchen. I'm Alan, good to meet you, John, heard a lot about you, all good." John shook hands with the man, liking him from the start.

  "Excuse the chaos in here, I really should buy a filing cabinet, one of these days. Bloody letters always come off, float down under the desk and hide there." Alan's explosion of brown hair waved in the air when he moved, like the tentacles of a sea-anemone, slowly drifting in the current. And he moved a lot, nodding his head vigorously at the end of every sentence. "But I know where everything is, see? Been like this for years. Might look a mess but I know where every last thing is. Apart from that last damn water rates bill. Can't find that anywhere. Anyway, what can I do for you, my lad?"

  "Um, sorry," John said, "I was just looking really. Didn't mean to disturb you."

  "You're not disturbing me at all, my lad, place has been like a mortuary all day, nice to see a human face. How's Laura, she okay? And are you enjoying yourself here?"

  "She's fine, thank you. And yes, yes I am, very much."

  "Not surprised. She's good company is Laura. Very good. "

  John smiled, not really sure what to say next, and Alan looked a little embarrassed, as if he had maybe said too much. "You looking for anything in particular?" Alan swept past John and into the aisles, gesturing from side to side. "We've got all sorts in, as you've seen, may look a mess but there is an order to it all, well I can find what I want anyway. Usually."

  "Best thing about a bookshop is just looking, I think," John said. "Having a browse around, not looking for anything in particular, just finding whatever turns up."

  Alan stopped, turned, did an excited little jig on the spot. "Excellent! Excellent! My father would like you, you'll have to come and meet him. He adores Laura, you know, and she's always popping around with little bits and pieces for him, very thoughtful, very kind of her. Have to be another day though, I'm afraid, he's not too chipper today. He has his good days and bad days. All this used to be his, you know, but it got a bit much for him to manage. Couldn't stand the thought of the place closing down, I grew up in here, everything I know—which admittedly, is not a lot—I learnt from the books in here. So I gave up teaching and came back. Wondered if I made the right move. But think, maybe I have." He smiled and looked into the distance for a moment, and John resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. I've got to get you two together, he thought. A perfect match.

  "Anyway, fiction mostly over this side, non-fiction over that, labels on the shelves that tell you your ghost stories from your romances, your local history from your sports. Browse away my boy, and take all the time you want over doing it. I must sort this paperwork, find this bill. I only saw it yesterday. One of the reasons I was glad to pack in being a teacher, paperwork was drowning me, and then I come back here and find out that it's nearly as bad. Give me a shout if you want anything."

  Alan bustled back down the shop and squeezed behind his desk again, setting all the papers astir another time, grabbing at those around the edges so that they did not float away into chaos. The desk reminded John of one of those games he liked in amusement arcades, where you dropped two pence down to see if it would push any of the avalanche of coins off the shelf and into the winner's tray.

  For the next half hour John lost himself in the stacks, pulling out anything that looked interesting, dipping in to some books and putting them straight back onto the shelf, dipping in to others and standing there for the next five minutes, lost in the middle of some interesting trivia. He browsed a how-to book on skiing that had been written in the nineteen-twenties and featured line drawings of men smoking pipes while in the middle of skiing, he flicked through a book called Advice To Captains that dispensed pearls of wisdom to turn of the century merchant ship captains about which foreign ports were not to be trusted—which, as far as John could make out, was just about all of them.

  A few rows down from this, John found the local history section. It was only two shelves, and mostly dull books about the fishing trade in the seventeen-eighties, or rambling accounts of one particular family of some minor celebrity. John was about to move on, but pulled out one last book from the shelf to have a look at it. The spine was tattered and faded, and he could not read the title, so he opened the book. It was a guide to the legends of the area, and wasn't a mass-published book, but rather looked as if it had been put together by some local expert, a few hundred copies printed off to press on to relatives at Christmas or sell to the odd tourist. He flicked idly through it, and was about to put it back, but one last page escaped his thumb and he found himself looking down at the picture of a large black dog. John stared at the picture of the dog. The dog stared back at him. It was rather like the one that he had seen. He thought about putting the book back on the shelf but couldn't resist reading the entry first.

  'The Saltcliff Shuck differs from most of the other spectral dog traditions in the region. The vision of such a black dog brings omens of disaster, premonitions of death, or even the death of those unlucky enough to see it.' Oh terrific, thought John, just what I needed to know. 'The Shuck is rarely seen, and reputedly only then by those that have a certain gift of seeing.' Well, thought John, I'm lucky then. I have a certain gift of seeing—whatever that is, I suppose I've never needed glasses—but apparently I'm special. Beginning to wish I wasn't, given what it says.

  He turned to the end of the book to see if there was an index, but if there was, the pages had long ago fallen out. John's curiosity was piqued though, so he held on to the book while he moved on to local history, where he became absorbed in an account of smugglers who used the narrow coves of the coast to cover them whi
le they ghosted across moonlit seas in small boats. He ended up leaving the bookshop with an armful of books. Alan had carefully totted up the prices in an account book and then applied what he had called "special discount" which ended up making the total price just under what John had expected to pay for one of the books on its own.

  On his way back to the cottage he thought he heard the scuffle of paws on the road, and he turned around, but did not see anything there. Not that special then, he thought to himself. Perhaps I've lost my gift. When he got back to the cottage, he found a note on the doormat addressed to "That Townie". Already smiling he opened it up and found a note from Simon, scrawled in pencil.

  "Half eight tomorrow. Boat trip out with Uncle Davey. Bring a clothes peg for your nose (fish stink) and a carrier bag to throw up in if he lets Sal steer. Will knock for you if you haven't fallen down any holes by then. Si.”

  John had a bath, and then foraged in the fridge and put together spaghetti bolognaise as a surprise for when Laura got in from closing the shop. When she did, she first sniffed the air appreciatively and said, "Wonderful, I could eat a scabby horse," and then she said, "What are you grinning so widely for then?" and John just shrugged, and said, "I'm happy," and he meant it.

  Chapter Eight

  John hit the button as soon as the alarm went off, and crept out of his bedroom and down the stairs, clothes and trainers clutched in his hand. He got dressed in the front room, and made himself a slice of toast and a cup of tea. He ate the toast looking out of the cottage window, keeping an eye out for Simon, not wanting him the doorbell to wake Laura up early. She had told him that she wouldn't be back until late that evening; she had promised a friend in the next village that she would baby sit, so the friend and her husband could go out for an anniversary meal. John had told her that he was a big boy now, and he would look after himself, and probably be in bed by the time she got back.

  The sky was blue in that way that said that it was going to stay blue the whole day, and John paced up and down by the window. Finally he saw Simon ambling down the street, as if he were in no hurry to get anywhere, and John had dumped his cup in the sink and was out of the door before Simon got two steps closer to the house.

  "You're keen. Mind, Sal's down there already, she's getting the boat all set. Loves messing round with it, she's desperate to learn to do it all herself. I've had a go, mind. It's all right, nothing special. Not like driving a car, that's what I can't wait to do. You ever driven a car?"

  "Nah." John laughed, embarrassed. "I've sat in the seat of my dad's car, pretending, when I was a kid. Hands on the steering wheel, going vrrrm, vrrrm, that's about it. You?"

  "Once. Uncle Davey's van, but just on a bit of driveway, not on the roads. He said when I'm a few years older, he'll take me out properly, some of the back lanes, get loads of experience in so when I'm old enough to take my test it'll be a doddle. Sal's welcome to the boat, it doesn't go fast enough for me."

  "Boy racer," John said, and Simon laughed and said, "One day," and they walked on together down to the harbour. Two or three boats were heading through the breakwater and out into the open sea, and one was tied up next to the harbour wall, its engine idling. An elderly man sat on a bollard on the harbour, smoking a cigarette and leafing through a newspaper.

  "There's Davey," Simon said. "Checking the racing pages." Then the boat engine revved loudly, a cloud of black smoke shot out from behind it, and John and Simon laughed as Davey dropped his paper and hurried down into the boat. "See, told you Sal liked to play around with it."

  They reached the harbour wall just as Davey came back out of the small cabin. He looked as if he had spent his entire life outside, and made John think of a standing stone, tilted to one side, weathered until it looked as old as forever, but possessed of great strength to have lasted all those years. Davey wore faded cord trousers, and a thick, padded checked shirt worn like a jacket over a thin jumper that was so faded it was hard to tell what colour it had once been. His head was bare, and this disappointed John, because Davey struck him as the sort of man who should never ever be without a battered old cap, that he would probably wear to bed.

  "Mornin'," he said. "You must be John. Good to meet you son, I'm Davey. You—" this now to Simon, "—thought you were never comin'. Sister's been here for ages, what you been doing, falling asleep on a park bench on the way to pick your friend up?"

  "We're not all used to getting up at the crack of dawn, you know."

  "Dawn? Nearly bloody midday. Anyway, let's have you on board, because I've got to drive over to Pickering this afternoon, see a man about a new engine for the van. And weather's going to turn this afternoon, I reckon."

  Simon climbed over the harbour wall and down the iron ladder that clung to the weathered stone until it disappeared into the dark swell of the water. When he was three rungs above the boat he waited for a moment, until the gentle swell moved the boat closer, and then jumped, landing on the deck.

  "Need a hand down, lad?" Davey said to John, but in a way that was helpful rather than patronising. John grinned, liking the man already. His jumper smelt of pipe smoke, and it reminded John of being little, of his granddad.

  "Nah, thanks." Not to be outdone, he swung himself over the harbour wall just as fast as Simon, and climbed down the ladder, being careful not to look down into the water. The back of the boat seemed a long way away, and John waited for the swell to bring it in closer, but then it started to move even further away and he realised that this was as close as it got. Rather than make himself look stupid by hanging on the ladder like a monkey, waiting for the boat to drift back in, he jumped anyway, his body moving through the air with nothing beneath it for a moment other than the water. Then he landed on the wooden decking with a clatter, but kept his balance, and straightened up nonchalantly, sticking his hands into his pockets.

  "Morning Sal," he shouted in to the cabin. She had her back to him, looking down at the instruments, and she raised her hand in greeting but did not turn around. He wondered if Greg had come calling for her the day before.

  "So lad, you been out on a boat before?"

  "Not really," John said. "Not like this one. Been on a ferry across to France, but I don't suppose it's really the same."

  "No restaurant on this one," Davey said, "but the crew's a damn sight more pleasant." Davey grinned, and his whole face wrinkled up like a crumpled piece of paper. "Right," he shouted, "you going to start her up again Sally? But remember what I said this time."

  Down under John's feet the engine shook and growled into life.

  "You can take her for a bit son, if you like, when we're out. If you can prise Sally away from the wheel, that is. We'll just go out, give you a taste of what it's like being out of sight of land, potter along the coast a little bit and then it's back, I'm afraid. Sorry it can't be longer, it's a beautiful morning for it, but like I said, I've got to see a man through Pickering. If what he says on the phone is true, with a bit of luck I'm coming back with a new engine for the van."

  "No problem," John said, "it's just nice to get the chance to go out."

  "Aye well, we'll get us out then, rather than stand here nattering. I want a lifejacket on you, same as the other two. Simon can show you how. I better get meself in there. She's a good learner, is Sal, and can steer a steady course in clear water, but it's a while before I'll be letting her take the boat out through the breakwater, I tell you that for nothing, doesn't matter how good she thinks she is."

  He stomped away into the cabin, and Simon grinned at John, reaching for a lifejacket. "He's all right, is Uncle Davey, but he doesn't half go on a bit. On his own, you see, since Auntie Jean died, reckon he gets a bit lonely. Then again, he always went on a bit when she was still around. He's lived in the village since there were dinosaurs roaming the lanes, remembers everything and everyone who ever lived here, likes to tell stories about each and every last one of them. Makes most of it up, I reckon."

  John saw Sal reluctantly move to the side in the cabin
, but she still hovered close to Davey, while he bent himself over the controls of the boat. The sound of the engine rose, the water behind them frothed white and choppy, and then they were moving out through the harbour, the sun shining bright on the water, the wind ruffling John's hair. The gap in the breakwater looked impossibly narrow to John. They slipped through it, close to one of the towering wet walls of stone. As they passed, the boat rose, and then fell again, and rose further still, and then the walls were behind them and they were into the open sea, the swell much heavier than it had been in the harbour. John wondered with a sudden panic whether he would be seasick, the potential humiliation in front of the others unfolding in his mind like a horror film. He sent his thoughts down gingerly towards his stomach. It seemed to be all right for now. How long did seasickness take to start?

  "Do you want to go see the controls and that?" Simon said.

  John would have been quite happy just to stay in the back of the boat, feeling wild and alive as the salt spray from the endless sea broke over his face, and the wind tugged at him, and he thought I'm not going to be seasick, and he knew beyond doubt that he was right.

  The air was calmer inside the cabin, the noise of the engine and the wind and the water dropping down as Simon closed the door behind them. John felt as if he had lost something that he had only just discovered. Davey was standing squinting out of the window as Sal stood directly in front of the wheel, feet planted firmly apart on the deck, fingers wrapped tight around the wheel.

  "That'll do," Davey said. "Now shift yourself, girl."