Stickle Island

by Tim Orchard

  D.C. held up his hand to halt the tractor’s progress and came to the side door. He pointed to Amber and shouted above the noise, “Who’s she?”

  Petal opened the cab door. “I know who she is but I don’t trust her! She doesn’t look like much of a camper, and who camps on Stickle anyway?”

  “Her timing is odd,” D.C. admitted.

  “How do we know she’s not one of them, eh?” Petal jumped from the tractor. Si turned off the engine and Petal made straight for Amber. “Looking for him?” She spat out a gob of harsh laughter. “You want him, you can have him, and good luck to you! I hope you get more sense out of him than I ever did.” She started to wave her arms. “Now get away, go on, go back to your scabby little tent, you—you bloody grockle!”

  Amber stepped forward. Petal didn’t scare her. Public school and having Carter for a father had taught her certain things; backing down wasn’t one of them. Petal was jabbing a finger as she spoke. Ambers fists were clenched by her side.

  Having heard the tractor engine cut out, Dick wandered up from the cellar. He saw Amber and Petal standing nearly nose to nose, bright with big shadows; D.C. looking nonplussed; and Si climbing down from the tractor. New love, ex-girlfriend, ex-girlfriend’s dad, girlfriend’s best friend and his own best mate: not an ideal situation in which to sort out your love life. Dick shuffled toward the men and tried to explain: “Her name’s Amber.” He waved vaguely toward the field, avoiding eye contact with anybody. “She’s staying in a tent for a few days.”

  D.C. asked, “Do you think she knows what’s going on?”

  “No, she’s got no idea, why would she?” Dick lied.

  D.C. frowned, watching the two women sizing each other up. “What’s up with Petal, then? She looks pretty angry.”

  Dick swallowed uncomfortably. “She—she…” He looked about in a kind of daze.

  Suddenly D.C. understood and shook his head. “You been playing away?”

  Dick couldn’t answer. His head dropped. He knew, D.C. knew, Si knew. Dick shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders. Si and Dick looked at each other and pulled unhappy faces. Even if it were needed, they didn’t have a fight in them. The three of them watched the two girls. It was a standoff. Finally, with a hand on Dick’s back, D.C. shoved. “You better get over there, lover boy.”

  It wasn’t that far but it felt far. Si said, “Dead man walking.” D.C. laughed.

  Dick looked back at them. Under his breath, he pleaded, “I don’t know what to say or what to do.”

  D.C. and Si seemed not not to hear him, and he found himself walking slowly over. But by then, Petal and Amber had things sussed, though they weren’t about to become friends. Love is more basic, feral, animal, and even before Dick reached them, Amber took a chance and nodded toward the tractor, where Si stood. “That’s your bloke over there, isn’t it?”

  Was it that obvious? Petal couldn’t help a quick glance over her shoulder, and Amber looked toward Dick. The girls knew what was what, and by the time Dick had dragged his sorry arse over to them, all was quiet. The two girls were standing tense, shoulders squared, lips curled. But it was all shake and bake. They knew the truth.

  Petal said, “Fuck you.”

  Amber said, “And fuck you too.”

  Love rules.

  Dick finally arrived trying to apologize: “I’m sorry, Petal, I didn’t know this could—” He stumbled over the words. Although he felt like it, Dick wasn’t the bad man, the backstairs crawler, the man with co-respondents shoes. He was a young guy. Things happened and the blame wasn’t all his, at least he didn’t think it was, but what the fuck did he know? Petal spat at his feet, and when he tried again, he made it worse. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  Petal took it with two fingers in his face and a big round “Fuck you.” She stalked back to the tractor, angry, but not so angry she couldn’t see that in the weird black-and-white glare of the spot, Si’s blond hair, ruffled by the breeze and just long enough to be annoying, made him look like a minor Greek god. Her bottom lip hung sullenly, her eyes were dark, and for absolutely no reason, she punched Si hard on the arm.

  Si said, “What have I done?”

  Petal said, “You haven’t done anything.”

  Back at the tent, Amber flopped down on the grass and held her head in her hands. She wasn’t a crier, but tears stung her eyes. Her dad was probably right after all—trust no one. “That’s your girlfriend then, is it?”

  Dick started to make a fire. Quietly, he said, “Ex.” A few minutes and it was roaring.

  Amber said, sadly, “How do you do that?”

  Dick glanced at her and smiled. “Practice.”

  Amber didn’t return the smile. “Like with me, is that what I am? Practice?” Dick fiddled with the fire. With a cold tilt to her voice, Amber said, “So I’m a grockle, am I? Do many grockles come here? Many girls like me? Is that what you do? No wonder she was angry.”

  Dick knew that was ridiculous—tourists rarely came to Stickle, and a girl like Amber, never. He blurted out, “I’ve only been with one girl before you and that was Petal.”

  Amber didn’t altogether believe his reply, and she curled her lip. “She’s with that other guy, right?”

  Dick shrugged, sighed, rolled his head in a yes-no fashion, and admitted, grudgingly, “Suppose she is now.” It was more than difficult to explain—how it had already almost been over anyway and that Petal had already begun to tire of him. Nobody in his right mind would tell a new love something like that.

  “For such a little place, you people like to put yourselves about, don’t you?”

  He reached out for Amber’s hand, but she swatted him away.

  “Don’t.”

  They didn’t speak. They stared at the fire. Time went by. What Dick wanted at that moment was all the language, all the words, everything he’d never bothered to learn about the beauty of English, and he wanted to be able to roll and flow, to tell Amber in a concise, articulated string of words exactly about this and that and everything, but his brain was numb with thinking, and Petal and Amber were like two different worlds that should never collide but they had, and there weren’t sentences he could think of to explain that. So Dick put some wood on the fire and again tried to reach for Amber’s hand. It was cool and dry, and their fingers entwined. They both breathed out then, as though they’d been holding their breath for hours, days, lifetimes. Neither spoke. The touch was enough.

  Their bodies moved inexorably closer, inch by slow inch. Dick shifted away from the fire to look into her eyes. They weren’t arguing. They were adjusting.

  She stuttered, “I-I-I—”

  He said, “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He paused. “I swear, honestly, I haven’t. No one comes here and I haven’t and I’ve never felt like this before.” He shook his head and said hurriedly, “I think I love you. Does that sound stupid?”

  That was exactly what Amber wanted to hear. She kissed him and, more, she said, “Me too.”

  They dillydallied the way folks do, they touched each other up. It wasn’t over, it was touch and feel about, hands up legs and fingers curled about an ankle, hands slipping between thighs, nipples that needed kissing. They slipped in and they slipped out, they moved about and went on little runs of quick movements, and every touch was for real. Neither questioned the moment or the fucking past or the fucking future.

  Later, Dick told her, “So we all agreed not to tell anybody. Then I showed you. All right, I love you, but it was a bit stupid. Anyway, I didn’t tell you we were moving the stuff because I felt bad for the others, like I’d let them down. I’m sorry. This is all new to me, everything is new to me. Honest, look, when this is done, money or not, I’m moving to London.”

  Now was the moment for Amber to come out with it, now was the moment of truth: the time to tell him about herself and the reason she was there. And she wanted to tell him. She was determined to tell him. She needed to tell him. But still, there was her
dad. There was Carter. A problem she could not solve, impossible to talk about. She tilted her head a little bit so Dick could kiss her. It had been a long day. She would tell him in the morning.

  26

  It was Saturday evening on Stickle. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. Nothing else was happening. They came along in dribs and drabs and stood around under the lee of the church and wondered what it was all about. The old-timers and the blow-ins. They milled about swapping information that was basically the same. They all believed it was about the ferry. They murmured about possible changes to the council’s policy, wondered if the bastard councillor would ever show his face again. There were jokes about tar and feathers or throwing him into the bay. The fact that Tony and Dave, the father-and-son team who ran the ferry, were there, talking to D.C., seemed to confirm it.

  Chatting as they went, they filed in and sat in pews. Making his way toward a seat, John Newman scanned the church. The only noticeable absence was Henry Stick. John said to Dick, “I thought you said your dad would be here tonight.”

  Dick shrugged. He’d left a note telling him about the meeting but honestly didn’t know if he wanted his father there or not, didn’t want to explain about the dope in the cellar that, he was almost 100 percent positive, Henry wouldn’t agree with anyway. The best thing would be if the whole deal was done and dusted before his father arrived.

  Julian Crabbe clapped his hands and, after about half a minute, managed to call the meeting to order. There were shouts from the floor: “Why are we here?” “What are we here for?” “What about the ferry?” “I thought we’d got till next April.”

  The vicar looked at Paloney and Petal, who looked at each other. Under his breath, Paloney said, “You’re on.”

  At that moment, with the church full of people, Petal felt suddenly weak, almost nauseated and glued to the pew. Finally, actually physically prodded by Paloney and D.C., she rose on shaky legs. She looked about at all the people and took a deep breath. “Whatever our differences, we all want to live here on the island, so why don’t we join together and try to make it our island?” What was she saying? Even to herself she sounded like an idiot.

  A man at the back laughed and shouted, “How are we going to do that?” D.C. had a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with laughter. Julie looked perplexed. John Newman’s lips were pursed.

  Annoyed with herself, Petal tried again. “Look, after the storms something was washed up on the beach. It’s valuable.”

  Voices came back to her in a clutch: “What?” “Washed up?” “What is it?” “What’s been found?” “How much is it worth?”

  Petal tried to think of a way to soft-soap the situation and looked again over to Julie and D.C., who sat with John Newman on the pews a couple of rows back. D.C., more hindrance than help, grinned and shrugged. He was beginning to annoy Petal, and in a way, it helped her. Sod him. Julie mouthed, “Go on.”

  Petal looked out on the full church, and for a moment she caught Si’s eye. He was giving her a look, all half closed like Elvis or somebody. His lips were pink and moist. He looked beautiful. She wanted his love. Strength began to come back to her legs. This was something she had to do. She’d studied up on co-ops, and although she didn’t completely understand it all, she now knew enough to get the ball rolling. Petal held up her hands. “Okay, okay, this is the tricky bit.” She paused. “What we’ve found is illegal, but it could save the ferry and the island.” The moment of truth. “It’s six bales of Colombian grass, and it’s worth a lot of money.”

  Silence, a big long silence. Eventually the question was asked several times all at once. Simply, “How much?”

  “Two million, but we’d be seeking a share of two hundred thousand,” Petal said. “And with two hundred thousand, we could run the ferry ourselves as a co-op.”

  A hippie with dreads stood up and spoke in a bored monotone: “Most things are about money, man. Why does everything have to be about money? The world’s a beautiful place, why do we have to spoil it with greed?”

  Some people coughed, others laughed, and a few heavy sighs blew about the room. Petal smiled at the stoned individual. This she could deal with. “All right, okay, but this money would be shared between us. We would all own the ferry. It’s about our island and being able to maintain our life here.”

  “It’s still about money,” the dreaded hippie muttered.

  “What ideas do you have to save the island?” Petal’s smile had not left her face.

  Nonplussed, he eyed the congregation uncertainly. “Ideas? I don’t know, man, I was just saying, you know, like why?”

  More people laughed and Petal said, swiftly, “Yes, right, thanks for that. Now anybody else with any useful ideas?”

  Plenty of people had questions, and between Petal and PC Paloney, most were answered, but for some, the amount of money mentioned was almost too much, like Monopoly money. Most had no real concept of what was involved. Could they go to jail if it went wrong? Who would buy it? It was hard to grasp.

  D.C. tried in his own way to help, waving an arm toward Julian Crabbe. “If you believe in God, this is God given; if you believe in luck, this is pure, the very best of luck. If you believe in fate, this is what fate looks like. When the council arbitrarily takes away our democratic rights to live where and how we choose, it’s time to stand up and be counted. This isn’t about us all making a few quid. This is about seeing the way things are and keeping your way of life. This could be our one chance to take back control and, if you like, stick two fingers up at the powers that be.”

  There were shouts of agreement. Paloney waved D.C. back into his seat.

  Petal, pulling out her notes on cooperative planning, began to explain that the money would be held in common. “It’s a bit like what those old-time lefties used to go on about, you know, taking control of the means of production.” Petal had no real idea exactly what that meant, but she’d heard her dad say it and liked the sound of it.

  Someone else near the back shouted, “Hasn’t seemed to have done those poor fucking collective farmers in Russia much good.”

  Someone with half a brain asked, “So are you saying we sell the dope and buy and run the ferry?”

  “Yes, that’s more or less it,” Petal said. “There are rules and regulations to starting a co-op, so it will take a little bit of effort and luck, but yes, the plan would be to form a co-op and use the drug money to fund it. Everyone on the island would be a member, so the money would appear to come from us all, which would explain the large amount. Then we run the ferry as a non-profit-making venture.”

  Someone else sensible asked, “What about the guys who own the ferry? Why would they agree to that? It’s their livelihood.”

  “Well, then they can join the co-op and we’ll give them jobs,” Julie interjected, hopefully.

  D.C. couldn’t help but sneer. “Well, they’re going to lose it anyway if Kent Cunty Council have their way.”

  Some people sniggered. Enough was enough, and Petal snapped, “Why don’t you shut up. This isn’t a joke, Dad.”

  Another fella pushed himself to his feet. “All right then, but how do you know Dave and Tony would want to—”

  Tony waved from the back of the church. “We’re here, Bert, ain’t we?”

  Bert swiveled and waved back. “Sorry, lads, didn’t see you there.”

  Tony looked at his son, who shrugged and said, “From our point of view, if we don’t agree, it’s all over anyway come April. Really, we haven’t got a lot to lose.”

  John Newman asked, “How much do you think the actual ferry is worth?”

  Tony shook his head. “Well, after next April it won’t be worth a lot, will it?” He shrugged and thought for a minute or two. “It’s hard to say, but if we had to sell it, we’d get maybe twenty thousand. That’s if we could sell it.”

  There was a bit of a silence while people thought about it. Then, as though the idea had finally sunk in, several islanders stood to have their say.


  Des, a guy of about thirty with a smeggy beard, went first. “My family have been on this island for nearly three hundred years. And from what I’ve been told, it seems this place always needed something nefarious to survive. What does it matter, tastes change. Way back it was French lace and brandy. Now it’s this stuff.”

  Next was Bill. He was small and bulky. His wife and two teen-type chavvies were next to him. “All that stuff you read in the papers about drugs is rubbish. It’s like drink, it depends on you. I tried that hashish and opium when I was in India with the army, just after the war. I’m still here. Anyway, as D.C. said, it’s like the bounty of the sea. I’m for it.”

  An old woman, Maude, in a long cardigan, raised her walking stick. “I don’t know about that, but what will happen to us if we don’t? I’ve had a good think since that councillor was here. What will they do with us, eh? We’ll be like those poor refugees, those Vietnamese boat people. Pushed from pillar to post. I’m too old to be shifting.”

  A score of other crumblies all started shouting together. They weren’t going to move. They’d faced down Hitler when he was just across the Channel, and they weren’t going to let some jumped-up local official tell them where they could live. When they’d coughed themselves into silence and collapsed back into their seats, Liz, a woman in her thirties with drab blond hair and a couple of kids beside her, raised a hand. “Isn’t there another way? You know, couldn’t we complain? Couldn’t we get the council’s decision reversed?”

  Everybody sat there looking at one another for a while. Some there may have claimed everything is political, but modern politics wasn’t about change or progress, it was all about maintaining the status quo for big business and the multinationals. While on the surface of it, the idea may have sounded reasonable, if there was one thing nearly all the Islanders agreed on, it was that politics wasn’t going to solve any of their problems. And hardly a person in that church, including Julian Crabbe, believed in miracles.