Canvey Island

by James Runcie

  I put the essay and the fossils back in the tea chest. An orange crate with MARTIN written in black on the side contained a folder of school reports and I remembered Vi reading the bad comments aloud, never praising me, concentrating only on those areas in which I should do better.

  There was a school photo that must have been taken around the time of my eleven-plus. I saw myself standing with my arms behind my back in the third row, looking abnormally thin, my hair parted to the right. I tried to remember the names of my friends: Terry Osborne, Johnny Milner and Ade, of course, Adrian Burrows, already looking like he might do someone in if ever they crossed him.

  Underneath was a picture of the football team and a beach photograph of me holding hands with Vi and my father and all of us laughing. I couldn’t ever remember being happy in her presence.

  I had hoped to find some memories of Linda but there was nothing; not even a Christmas card. I put the photographs back in the crate and picked out a manila envelope. Inside was a tinted colour studio portrait of my parents’ wedding: Dad with his chest pushed forward, dressed in a three-piece civilian suit; Mum in a white satin dress and veil carrying a bunch of dahlias wrapped in white lace. A silver horseshoe hung from her waist.

  Then there was a photograph of my mother under a parasol with George and a baby. They were arm in arm with the child between them, looking proud as they stood together under a striped awning with the sea behind. The baby must have been me.

  I tried to imagine the lifetime of my parents when they were hopeful and the world was all before them, dancing the Gay Gordons and the Paul Jones.

  I went downstairs and drank a can of lager I found in the kitchen. Then I put on one of my father’s records. Frankie Lane singing ‘That’s My Desire’.

  I thought I should phone Claire, go for a walk, get out of the house.

  I packed the car with the rubbish sacks and drove on to the dump, past the Haystack pub where ‘the fun never stops’, the tattoo studio and chiropody clinic, and took my place in a queue of people listening to the sounds of summer. Nirvana’s ‘Nevermind’. REM’s ‘Nightswimming’. The Lemonheads singing ‘It’s a Shame About Ray’. Fans were phoning in with their stories of Glastonbury or of Guns n’ Roses at the Milton Keynes Bowl.

  At the dump, everything was being thrown away: beer cans and wine bottles from summer barbecues, white plastic patio furniture, branches of trees and stretches of wisteria from garden clearances. A ripped leather three-piece suite waited forlornly for collection. I imagined Claire’s voice: ‘Only men buy white leather sofas.’

  People in shorts, socks and sandals struggled with heavy black bags between saloons and estates, fearful of car alarms or scratching the edge of the nearest Mitsubishi. They lurched up steps and catapulted their past into the compressor as Blur sang about ‘Parklife’ from a radio in the council Portakabin.

  I imagined old computers, dead rechargeable batteries, ordnance and pacemakers, lying under the landfill golf courses of the future.

  When I got back to the house the phone was ringing.

  ‘I thought you wanted to make some money?’

  ‘I do, Dad, I do.’

  ‘Well, hurry up and make it. The bank’s been on to me. Want to work out how much I’m giving away. Wanted to know if I could trust you.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said you were a lying deceitful little bastard. What did you expect me to say?’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘Found anything interesting?’

  ‘Some old photographs …’

  ‘I’d like to have a look at them.’

  The following day Ade came with Nigel, Jason and Al to sort out the house. They began to steam off layers of wallpaper in the hall, some of it sticking and refusing to peel so that faded regency stripes bumped up against the brown and orange roses from the seventies, then a grey and pink skylark design, and finally the original blue thread was revealed. It fell away with the flaking plaster, taking whole sections of wall with it.

  ‘Big job here, mate. Sure you don’t want Anaglypta? Cover all this up?’

  I could smell the paint at the back of my throat and on the front of my tongue. I even began to taste it. I kept brushing the tips of my fingers, rubbing off the thin film of white powder that had fallen like silent snow. Al and Ade, Nigel and Jason were laughing and whistling as they worked, singing fragments of songs while listening to Sports Talk, discussing Tottenham’s chances, the purchase of Klinsmann and Dumitrescu and if Ardiles, the manager, was going to last the season.

  They had found a wasp nest in one of the air bricks and were busy spraying the space before returning to steam off the paper, burning off layers of the past and replacing it with bare white walls and wooden flooring.

  Ade was installing new sockets in the front room. ‘You can never have enough these days, Martin.’ He began to whistle, then stopped and looked up. ‘I forgot to say, I saw that Linda of yours the other day.’

  ‘She’s not my Linda.’

  ‘No, but you know what I mean. Told her I was doing a little job for you.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said to say hello.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘She wasn’t that interested, to tell the truth. Still, I suppose it was a long time ago.’

  ‘What’s she up to?’

  ‘Works at Spar, I think. Married to Dave, you remember, in the band …’

  He returned to his work, adding another socket by the window, and I stood in the centre of the room.

  She wasn’t that interested, to tell the truth.

  That night I cooked a fish pie. I had bought mussels, haddock, bay leaves, parsley and potatoes together with two bottles of white wine. I put the smoked haddock in the saucepan with the bay leaves and added the milk, letting it simmer for a few minutes. I opened the wine and looked out of the window as I had done every night as a child.

  Don’t let the giraffe in, Mummy.

  What do you mean?

  The giraffe. You said close the door to keep out the giraffe.

  A draught. Not a giraffe, silly.

  I began to rinse the mussel pan and melted some butter. I remembered my mother scaling, gutting and filleting fish with her strong hands, cutting off the fins with scissors, running the back of a knife against the scales from the tail to the head, slitting the stomach without sentiment, removing the gall bladder, then sliding the knife under the backbone from the head to the tail so the fillet came neatly off the bone.

  I tried to think what it would be like if I’d had a different life, if my mother had lived, if I’d never met Linda, and if I’d never married. I wondered what it would be like if I rented some other place, told no one and never went home. Perhaps I could even disappear, like Linda’s father. He had walked out when she was eight. The next time she saw him was fifteen years later when she had to identify his body. People did it all the time. Missing. I began to like the sound of the word.

  I wondered what it would mean to go back and begin again, shrinking away from the second half of a life, the unknown approach of age and strain, and return to childhood where I once, despite my memories and misgivings, might well have been happy.

  Linda would tell me, of course. She would know.

  And why, pray? I heard Claire ask in my head. Aren’t I enough for you? What is wrong with what we have?

  Nothing.

  So why return? Why can’t you leave the past alone?

  I want to see her again, I thought. I can’t discard it all as if it never happened, as if Linda was never part of me.

  You can’t?

  No. But this is why we don’t have these conversations, I thought. I can’t describe it to you because if I do then it will hurt you and we will not be as you want us to be.

  I want you to be honest.

  I know you, I thought. I cannot talk about her at all, however much you say you want me to tell you everything. And I need to do this.

  Oh,
you ‘need’ to, do you? And why is that?

  Because I can’t stop thinking about her …

  You can’t stop. Or you don’t want to stop?

  I can’t stop …

  Then you have to make a choice, Martin.

  And it’s because seeing her is forbidden, I thought. Because it is the one thing I must not do. And so I cannot stop wanting to do it.

  Nine

  Martin

  It was a damp evening and mist hovered over the estuary. I could see the steam from the power station in the distance merging into the low rain clouds. I walked through shacks, shanties and allotments, listening for the chiming of ships’ rigging. If clouds be bright, ‘twill clear tonight. If clouds be dark, ‘twill rain – d’ye hark. The outlying waters of Smallgains Creek lay in the distance and with it came the memory of looking for Saxon fish-traps and learning the Battle of Benfleet at school; an heroic defeated nation caught in the fog of war.

  I was wearing my smarter work clothes, a fleece and a white polo shirt, jeans and Timberland’s, but even this felt overdressed as I approached the edge of the island, a ramshackle world of roofing felt piled outside sheds, goose huts and chicken coops. The only businesses left were pubs, bookies and newsagents. I reached the creek where the boats were moored and headed across a narrow walkway, following the loops and swirls of the water as the waves retreated from the banks.

  Linda’s narrowboat was about fifty feet long, and it was decorated in traditional green and red with faded paintings in the picture panels. It was low tide and Dave was waxing the hull of the cockpit.

  ‘Martin …’

  ‘Dave …’

  ‘We heard you might be coming.’

  ‘I didn’t want to trouble you.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  Dave scooped the marine wax from the tin on to his cloth, rubbing in the finish. ‘It’s been so hot I don’t want the paint to blister or the wood to crack. It’s a good day for it.’

  ‘It’s a fine boat.’

  ‘We get by.’

  Dave had the look of a man who had left his hopes in a pub a few winters ago and had forgotten which one. The eyes that had once possessed a bulging, thyroidal energy seemed afraid; the hair that had once been glossy and slicked was grey and cut close to the scalp.

  ‘You all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Can’t complain. It’s a life.’

  He’d never made it in the music business. Ade told me how he’d also been made redundant from the docks. He had tried a bit of chef work and earned money part-time in a friend’s second-hand shop, but now he spent most of his time knocking about with boats: caulking leaks, doing a bit of stripping and repainting, repairing old sextants.

  ‘Is Linda here?’

  ‘She’ll be back soon enough.’

  I looked at his smoker’s fingers, yellowed like my father’s. His eyes carried a faint air of accusation: if I’d had your privileges I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  I didn’t notice Linda arrive with the shopping. I only heard her soft voice and its cigarette rasp.

  ‘Hello, love, I’m home.’

  It could have been me, I thought, it could have been me that she was calling.

  ‘We’ve got a visitor. A surprise. Like Ade said.’

  At first I thought I had made a mistake, that Linda was somebody who had come to collect something. Her hair was longer and thicker, shoulder-length with grey curls. The shadows were deeper in the cheeks and her eyes weren’t as vibrant as I had remembered. She was wearing a sky-blue cotton dress and espadrilles which made her shuffle slightly as she walked.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you.’

  ‘He popped round,’ Dave explained. ‘Been seeing his dad.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘That’s good then.’

  ‘I’m sorry, if it’s a bad time …’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dave, ‘you’re all right.’ He picked up a T-shirt. ‘I’ll have a quick wash and change.’

  ‘What brings you here?’ Linda asked.

  ‘I just thought …’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘If you’re having some.’

  I followed her through a pair of doors in the rear deck and down through the boatman’s cabin. The walls had been decorated with roses and castles and the floor and coal box were painted with diamonds, hearts and circles. Deep pelmets of white crocheted lace hung from each shelf; pierced-edge china plates had been stuck to the walls.

  ‘You’ll have to take us as you find us, I’m afraid.’

  I noticed how small the double bed was.

  I watched as she packed away her shopping. Linda had never worn jewellery. Now there was a silver bangle and a wedding ring. Her lipstick was raised above her lips, and she wore pale-blue eye shadow that didn’t quite match her dress.

  She put the kettle on the stove. ‘Here we go again, I suppose.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not like the last time.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were interested in me any more …’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I thought you made your position pretty clear.’

  ‘I wanted to see how you were.’

  ‘If I was alive, you mean.’

  ‘I wanted to explain.’

  ‘After ten years? Bit late for that, don’t you think? A postcard would have done.’

  ‘I sent one.’

  ‘Oh yes. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. Things are difficult.” Very good. Nice and concise, that. And then the end, “All my love, M xxx.” All my love? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I meant it.’

  ‘All my love. Well, let’s see: there’s the love for your daughter, the love for your wife, and the love for your father, your friends and your job. I’d have been lucky with five per cent. Come to think of it, that’s about what I got.’

  ‘It’s a means of expression.’

  Dave emerged from the shower and changed back into his jeans. ‘I’d better be going …’ he said.

  ‘No, no, you don’t have to …’ I almost wanted him to stay.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m off.’

  ‘You got money?’ Linda asked.

  ‘Enough …’

  As soon as Dave left Linda turned to me and said, ‘Do you want this cup of tea then?’

  ‘Do you have anything stronger?’

  ‘I’ve got vodka.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘We can drink it upstairs. It’s too hot and cramped down here. I’ll get a tray.’

  We went back up on deck and on to the roof. There were people in the other boats getting ready for Saturday night: young couples without children, miming telephone calls after they had turned to part, smiling and laughing, confident their love had a future and that nothing bad would ever happen to them. A passing dog-walker called out: ‘You’ve got the right idea.’

  Linda mixed the vodka with orange. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought it would be nice.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Well, I suppose that isn’t the right word.’

  ‘I don’t know why I let you stay so long the last time. I told myself I wouldn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry it got so out of hand.’

  ‘Out of hand? For God’s sake, Martin. You can’t come into a woman’s life and say that you have never loved anyone as much as her and think that it will have no impact.’

  ‘It was true.’

  ‘But did you mean what you said?’

  ‘It was the truth.’

  ‘Sometimes the memory of you fills my head and there’s nothing else. It’s you and only you and I feel this pain behind my eyes like I’m about to cry but there are no tears left.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. I don’t think that. You said that. To me.’

  ‘I can’t remember everything.’

  ‘Oh, very good …’<
br />
  ‘I just tried to tell you the truth.’

  ‘The problem is, Martin, that a man’s truth changes all the time. Women go over and over what you say even when it’s ridiculous. I was once with a friend in the toilets as she was crying her eyes out because her boyfriend had chucked her. He had told her, “I never want to see you again,” and she asked me, “What do you think he means by that?”’

  ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘I’m not. That’s what women are like. We listen. We call our friends. Men say what the hell they like. They get it out of their system, move on and watch the football.’

  ‘I hadn’t expected you to be angry.’

  ‘Oh. And what had you expected?’

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t imagine the conversation. I just wanted to remember us being together.’

  ‘Oh please, Martin. Don’t give me that crap.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing. It was selfish of me. But I missed you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’

  ‘You couldn’t stop thinking about me?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t have thought about me at all. You had a wife.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And then you left. Without a backward glance.’

  ‘If I had looked back I’d have gone mad.’

  ‘Well, if you had happened to have glanced backwards you would have seen a pregnant woman of thirty-six wondering what the fuck to do with her life.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘No,’ Linda said. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was because I didn’t think it would make much of a difference.’

  ‘It would have changed everything.’

  ‘No, Martin, I don’t think it would have done. You’d still have gone back.’