by Ross Raisin
∨ Gods Own Country ∧
24
A slant of light was glimmering on the entrance pool. Another belting day, with any luck. I craned forward for a look outdoors, and I thought I’d never seen the world looking so gradely, it was that postcard. Past the rocks I could see a vast of bare beach and beyond that the surf, eddies of water gathering, swelling unstoppable forward – crash – gliding racing bubbling then, retreating, drawn under the pull of the next. Mum, Father, the weather’s champion and we’re both doing fine. And the best of all is there’s no other bugger around, we’ve the place to usselves. Wish you were here, love, Nimrod.
She was lain on the sand still, and I whispered her my plans. I’m off to get us some food, I told her. I explained she had to stay put, for the time. I made sure the straps were tied fast, and I left off.
After I’d climbed the path to the cliff top, I stepped toward the edge and stopped a moment to look out over the sea. I was stood above where our house must’ve been, fifty yards beneath. Inching forward until I could see down the face of the cliff, I tried to gleg the entrance pool, but there were too many rocks in the way, overhanging, so I moved off, taking the cliff path toward Whitby.
There were plenty of folk about, most of them groups of tourists tantling through the cobbled streets from shopfront to shopfront, cooing at the windows. I followed behind when they herded off, and looked what they’d been staring at. It was always some feckless trunklement no one would ever buy – a silver plate knife and fork set, or a plastic fish with a clock lodged in its gut. I got bored before long, so I trundled down to the centre of town where the harbour was, huddled round the sides the river as it widened and slurped into the sea. There was a stink of fish, and stacks of empty lobster pots everywhere. A few fishermen were fettling up their boats, but they paid no heed of me. I had a look round to see if there were any cargo or passenger ships, but they must’ve set off from a different port, here was all fishing fleets, save for one small, open-decked affair with a sign aside it. BOAT TRIPS – SEALS – BIRD ISLAND. This is it, love, I’ve found us the perfect place to live. An island, miles away from anybody, fleece-white, plastered in puffin shite. Then I saw what I was looking for. A length of rope, damp and heavy, coiled up by some crates. I checked none of the fishermen were watching before I hung it over my shoulder and went off on a food search.
There were plenty fish and chip shops one side the harbour, doing business already, folk stood scattered along the quayside poking tidgy wooden forks into cartons. I slunk past them to the empty, wind-bassocked pier, studying the situation over. Trouble was, if I ran off without paying, people would look, they’d mark my face, my clothes, someone might snout I was one of the Moors convicts. I had to think a way of doing it quiet, unnoticed. The days of smashing windows were over now, that was sure. Further down the pier, a seagull was perched on the rim of a dustbin, jabbing at the rubbish. After a couple of tries, he stabbed something and yanked it out, flapping down to attack it on the ground. As I came closer, I saw it was a bent-up fish box. He had his head inside, scraffling along the tarmac with his wings half-spread, warning, bugger off, this is my dinner, you get your own. Don’t worry, feller, I told him, that’s just what I’m thinking about. He clocked me when I reached the dustbin, one eye examining me over a piece of cod mushed to his cheek. He watched me a moment before returning to his scran, and I marked, as he chased at a stray chip, that he had a crammocky, hobble-hopping walk. His left leg was gammy, swollen up at the knee, he couldn’t put his full, fat weight on it. You’ve got some gumption, I’ll give you that, I told him, that’s smart thinking, getting your scran out of there. He looked up. Sod off—I’m eating. Right you are, right you are. But when he turned his tail on me, I had a gleg in the dustbin to see what he’d left. It was near full with fish boxes. I looked round, but there was only an old couple staring to sea, so I reached in and pulled one out.
Bloody hell, they’ve not much of an appetite, the tourists, there’s plenty left in these, some of them are hardly touched. But Hobble-Hop wasn’t listening, he was busy slotching down a chip. I found a couple of boxes that weren’t too bent, and I collected up the remains from six or seven others, shaking them into the good boxes, peeling off the batter where it’d clagged on the sides.
She was awake when I got home. She looked knackered still. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the sand had rubbed a pink patch on her cheek. I untied her from the leashes and put the fish boxes on the sand in front of her. I was something surprised when, after staring at them a moment, she started eating. Not a mighty amount, only a couple of mouthfuls, but enough it’d help get her fettle back up. When we’d done eating, I put the leftovers in a corner, and tied her up again, hands behind her back, and just one leash this time, round her ankle, now I had the rope. It was a gradely job – tighter, firmer, but a longer tether, so she had more room to move about. We sat quiet the rest the day, listening to the waves lash the beach, except for I went out once to fill up the water bottles from a stream, and had a small explore, investigating in rock pools and stalking the limpets.
We lay more snug together that night. I pressed in close against her back and, when I thought she was asleep, I put the arm over, resting my hand on her belly. We stayed like that most the night, warmth breeding between us, the tickle of her hair on my face.
♦
In the morning, before she woke, I took her rucksack outside and opened it up. There wasn’t much in it, just a couple of shirts and no underwear and another pair of jeans. I rooted around a minute until I found the bracelet, then I went back indoors and put the rucksack where it’d been. Her eyes were open. She must’ve seen I’d took it out, but it didn’t seem her brain was switched on yet, she didn’t shift her stare on the wall. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her I was off out again.
It was darker today, a mizzle coming in off the sea, filming my skin with wet. There was a greasing of mud on the cliff path, and I had to mind as I walked along I didn’t slip. For a moment I imagined a crowd of people on the beach, ogling for a sight of my broken body, lying dead on the rocks. A helicopter, blasting a circle of sand as it lowered down, the crowd parting as men in bright-orange jackets jogged out, none of them knowing there was another body not far off, hid in the dark, slowly rotting, the bone beginning to jut through and seagulls squabbling outside the entrance, attracted by the smell. That was enough of them thoughts, though. Today was going to be champion, the best yet.
Whitby wasn’t so busy as the day before, owing to the weather. These tourists here today, walking unsteady along the cobbles, were likely here for the week. They looked bored enough, trudging round in their anoraks. There wasn’t a week’s worth of shops to goggle at, a single afternoon and you were done in, wondering why Dracula ever bothered coming here. Not me, though, not today, I was all attention, marching up and down on the lookout for something better than a fish clock. A jewellery shop, that was what I was after, and it didn’t take much searching until I found one. Abbey Jeweller’s – purveyors of fine Whitby jet. They weren’t glibbing and all. The glishy black stones were set into most the items in the window – rings, earrings, necklaces, they looked proper sightly on the female with no body, her white neck smooth and firm as a birch trunk. How do you fancy a bite of that, Mr Dracula? Oh she’s attractive, there’s no argument, but I prefer something a little fleshier, myself.
I went inside and a bell rung above my head. There was no one in the shop, and I felt sudden I should leave but before I had chance there was a female at the counter. She had a great smile on her, which sagged and wilted as she took me in, looking me up and down.
Can I help you?
I set the bracelet on the counter. She studied it a moment, then she rolled her eyes slow back up to my face, as if I’d just placed a turd before her.
It’s bent, I said. It needs fixing. She was looking at me, the raggy jacket with muck smeared down it, my face black as a miner, clots of cack stuck to my boots that I was likely trea
ding into her carpet.
But when she’d done inspecting me she smiled, proper friendly, and picked up the bracelet.
Who’s it for?
My girlfriend.
Well then, she felt the kink in the metal, I suppose I’d best see what I can do. She put it on a shelf behind her. I stiffened up then, because I knew she was going to tell me a price, and I didn’t want to tell her I’d no money and I’d have to pay her later, she’d been so friendly. She must’ve seen what I was thinking, though, because she smiled again and said, there’s no charge for that, dear. Come back in an hour and I’ll have it ready for you.
I was smiling like a half-brain when I came out that shop. There was a young couple outside, holding hands, looking at the jewellery. See – not all folk are bastards, eh, there’s some of them are proper friendly, if you look hard enough. But they must’ve thought I was one of the bastards, for they sidled away fair sharpish. Not that I gave a stuff. I had an hour, so I went down to the pier – and who was there? My old mate, Hobble-Hop. He had a fat chip sticking out his beak.
Mornin’.
Mornin’.
I told him what’d happened at the jeweller’s, while I pulled boxes out the dustbin, collecting handfuls of wasted food into an unbent one. Do you think that bald sod would’ve said something similar, do you? Don’t worry, Lankenstein, there’s no charge for them beans – they’re on me, they are. I might not’ve thrown it through his window if he’d said that, the glibbing bastard. I tossed a decent piece of fish to Hobble-Hop and he stumbled after, necking it in one. Looks painful, that leg does, feller. He angled a look at me, the gammy leg dangling useless above the ground. It gives me some jip sometimes, you’re right. Any more fish? I fingered through the waste to find him a tasty bite. Someone had thrown away a toy plastic Dracula. He was trying to climb out of a crisp packet. I tell you, the things people will chuck, eh, and I wiped the slutherment off with my sleeve, pocketing him as I threw a bit of battered sausage on to the ground. Anyhow, Hobble-Hop, much as I enjoy our natters, I’ve got to be picking the bracelet up soon, so I’ll see you later. He watched me turn to leave, the head cocked, wondering if I had another piece of fish for him. I laughed. He was certain bone idle, old Hobble-Hop.
She’d done a grand job, the woman in the shop, she hadn’t just straightened out the dent, she’d buffed up the whole thing so it looked better than ever, better than it looked when he got it her. I thanked her, three or four times, and I was about to leave when she said, can I get you something to eat, dear? I’ve some sandwiches left over in the back here. But I told her, no, thank you. She didn’t know I had the box of fish and chips hid under my jacket.
It was a gradely view from the cliff top. All the fishing boats out at sea, small dark clouds following behind them, gull flocks, scavenging after the nets. There were no liners, mind, or cargo ships. Seemed Whitby was all fishing. I wasn’t flowtered, though, because I had a new plan – we’d steal a boat. That way we could go wherever we fancied, we’d sail about and land someplace and move on when we got bored. We could go on day trips, anyplace she wanted, all she had to do was say where. I was coming down the snickleway path from the cliff, shaping my plan, when I heard voices on the beach. I turned round and made back for the cliff top to belly down and peer over the edge at who it was. Ramblers. Four of them, sat lined up with their backs against the cliff, a heap of anoraks piled on the sand aside them as they basked their chops toward the sun. They were close to the house, other side the rock jetty, almost in earshot of her.
I took Dracula out the pocket and propped him up aside me so we could spy down together at them. He looked proper dapper, in his pointed shoes and glishy black coat-tails, a sly grin on him, his mind up to some kind of devilry. One of the females stood up and paraded up down the line of them, something that was clear very funny because I heard the dag-ends of their laughter float up to me. Fucking ramblers, they got everywhere, they’d be pestering at the fishermen next – tell me, is it true, do some fish have feelings, can they fall in love? I marked Dracula had his eye elsewhere – on a scattering of rocks nearby us. I gave him a smile, understanding him, and went over to gather a few of them up, rolling them back to my spot in a collection, huddled together like a group of heads.
The female was still on her feet talking, I bided until she sat back down before I pushed the first rock off the edge. It bounced twice against the cliff face, small explosions of stone and soil busting showers into the air, and it came down with a great clobber on the sand a few yards off. They were rooted to their seats shuffling about in dafflement, what was that, what was that? I aimed another, and this one was better directed, it was dropping right on to them. There was a clump of yellow flowers halfway down growing out the cliff face, I had to smile at that – you could’ve picked a cosier place to live than there, couldn’t you? Well, we could’ve, yes, but, what with house prices round here these days, and anyhow, it’s a princely view. I was lost thinking what sound would it make, but near the bottom the rock hit a juf on the cliff face and bounced forward, over their heads, landing in front of them. They were up sharp enough now, it was an avalanche, run, run for your lives! I rolled another, but I rushed it and it ended in a rock pool. By then it was too late, they were long gone, fleeing down the beach with their anoraks fluttering behind them.
When I got back in the cavern, she was snoozing, laid up against the far wall. I watched her a while, but I didn’t want to disturb her, so I just left the bracelet on the sand by the fish box, so she’d see it when she woke.
She was mighty lagged out. She slept into the afternoon, and I started getting stalled waiting so I took off on a walk. Further down the beach, after I’d been going a while, there were two sprogs playing in the surf, splashing each other and running away from the waterline as it chased toward them. It was hard to believe there were so many bastards in the world, looking at them sprogs. Their father looked like one, mind. He chided them as they scuttled back to him, sod knows why, they were only larking about. I watched the three of them as they walked away toward Whitby, the sprogs staying obedient at heel a long time, until finally one of them made a bolt for it and the other ran after, ignoring the father waving his arms calling them back.
She was awake, sat up, the bracelet still on the floor where I’d left it. She hardly marked me crouch up to her, she hadn’t touched her food, neither, far as I could tell. I held the bracelet up in front of her. Just for a second, her eyes fixed on it, then she went blank again. It’s buffed up and all, look, she put a shine on it for you; Good as new. Better. She was away with the clouds, though, I didn’t know what was the problem with her. Someone come in and stole your brain while I was gone, have they? I know who it was. It was bloody Greengrass, wasn’t it? Up to his old tricks. Greengrass! Greengrass! But she didn’t think old Greengrass was so funny these days, she didn’t even tweak a smile. I tilted her forward, unsnecking the cord off her wrists. Now, let’s have a see if it looks bonny on you, shall we? I twisted the bracelet on to her good wrist, pressing her fingers together so I could squeeze it past the bunched flesh of her hand. She sparked up then, wriggling in my grasp, oh, so you’ve still a bit of buck about you, then, good, I was starting to worry you’d turned into a gawby while I was out. I had to tie her hands behind her again, mind, and she quieted straight away when I’d done, the eyes blank again, you wouldn’t guess anything had happened except for she was breathing heavy after the effort. I knew I had to try getting her talking quick before her mind drufted away. Do you like it, then? It’s better than new now. She looked straight at me, no expression on her. Thank you so much. And that moment, never mind it was half-dark, never mind her sobbing, never mind she was mucky and scratched all over, I’d never seen anything so beautiful as her face looking at me. It was no bother, I said, it was no bother at all. I felt like I was going to gip, she was that beautiful. I bent forward and we kissed. My body clocked off then, all parts of me stopped aflunters like the blood had forgot which way to flow
. It didn’t matter we’d waited so long, it was all worth it now, her soft hair flooding through my fingers as I pressed her toward me. I’d never leave her, she wouldn’t always need the rope, that was just for the time, we’d move out of the boggle-hole soon, we’d go to bleeding Europe.
I didn’t know how she did it, she bust out of the wrist cord somehow. I’must’ve put it on aslew when I retied it, she was sudden a hubbleshoo of thrashing arms and shrieks echoing round the cavern near deafening us both. I held her down and fastened her tight. She wouldn’t stop crying. Her face was covered in sand glued on with tears, and I didn’t feel angry at her, I felt my gizzern tighten looking at her like that. I’d never leave her, she knew I’d never do that. We pressed us mouths together, hot and slubbery, the four eyes streaming tears, and it was queer but the first thing I thought was, she must’ve ate something, for I could taste vinegar on her mouth. The thin slice of pale flesh widened as her jeans pulled down, baring her thighs and her knees and the muscles on her calves straining taut. She wouldn’t do it again, she promised me, as I untied her hands again so she could take off her shirt, stretching her arms above her head, a tang of sweat coming off her body as I held into her, careful I didn’t press against the bracelet – I couldn’t likely go back to the shop tomorrow as well, you should tell that girlfriend of yours to be more careful, Lankenstein, I can’t keep doing this for free, you know. She had to keep still, I told her, but she wouldn’t listen, she never listened. You’re stubborn as a sheep to dip, you are, and I laughed, come here, give me your hands again. It was getting daft, all this tying, untying, tying, untying. She lay writhing on her back with her arms under her, rigwelted, struggling to get up. I had to smile then, for there was a picture of Popeye’s wife on her underwear. She had these giant eyelashes and a ringlet of hair curled on her forehead, and she was giving the wink with one big eye – I know what’s under here, she was saying. I had a fair idea, myself, but I wasn’t going to find that out yet, it wasn’t time, so we just laid down listening to the waves and I held her tight, I told her I’d find out tomorrow where we’d steal the boat, we wouldn’t have to stay there much longer, I’d have everything fettled up soon enough.