The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘When I can.’

  He puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it from his own before handing it to me.

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ he says gently.

  We look at each other and I experience a moment of peace as the painful memories and paralysing regret seem to fall away. Leaning against his old red car, sharing cigarettes, surrounded by calling seagulls and salty air, I’m twenty-two again. I recall how intensely I loved this man. It was as if our souls were magnetised, north and south, pulling our bodies together to fuse them. As if the essence of him had crept out of his body and into mine, throwing out barbs, bonding itself to me. I recall how safe I felt with him. As clichéd as it sounds, when I met him outside that cinema in 1998, it was as if I’d come home. I miss that man. I miss the Cornwall of my youth. I miss the way the air felt light and fresh and how cool the sea was on my skin.

  I miss it all so badly.

  Something takes hold of me then. It overrides rational thought. I close my eyes and inch my hand over the body of the car to find his. Our skin touches. For a moment we stay like this. Our fingers making the slightest of contacts. But then, without warning, he yanks his hand back and pushes himself off the car and away from me so abruptly I wonder if I physically hurt him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cam, 1998

  The sun rose on the second morning and light flooded the sky as if God himself had pulled back the curtains. The sky was layered, a yellow the colour of clotted cream and a soft blue-grey, and the wind had dropped such that the sea was undulating calmly, its navy surface streaked with sunlight like a slick of cooking oil.

  ‘Right, boys,’ Slim called. ‘Let’s go.’

  They’d worked hard in rough conditions to shoot the gear in the dark, and though they’d only managed a few hours’ sleep, and their cramped bunk room was already beginning to smell of rancid clothes and unwashed skin, waking to sunshine on a flat sea and the prospect of hauling in for the first time in weeks, had put smiles on their faces.

  Looking back, Cam would wonder whether the euphoria they’d experienced as they brought in that first haul, bulging, as it was, with sole, monkfish, John Dory and brill, might have been the start of it all. The first link in a chain of events which would end in tragedy. But at the time he was as jubilant as the others and thought of nothing more than the money which would be coming his way.

  As the winches turned and the nets followed, the men expertly guided the gilsons and strops so everything ran smoothly. Each of them knew their job. Lawrie watched from afar. Cam was filled with a peculiar pride as he caught the lad’s solemn face studying them intently.

  Geren whooped and punched the air when the nets lifted clear of the water. ‘This is what I’m talking about, baby!’ he cried. ‘Can you see them, Cam? Can you see those beautiful fish!’

  ‘I can see them, Geren. Oh, I can see them.’

  ‘All hail the monk! Handsomest fish in the goddam sea!’

  They shot the nets again and once shot, Geren, Davy, Lawrie and Cam went below to wash, gut and pack the fish. Lawrie passed the plastic boxes to Geren and Davy, who filled them with gutted fish, which went down to Cam in the ice room. Cam always arranged the fish neatly, in regimented lines, tails facing one way, heads the other. Geren teased him for this, but he didn’t care. Cam was sure the buyers paid more for a pretty box of fish, and he’d been doing it this way for so long now it was matter of habit, his hands moving fast, no need to think. He covered them with chipped ice and stacked the boxes, smiling broadly to himself. It had to be said, when the fish came in, when the weather was good, it was the best fucking job in the world.

  He finished packing and went up on deck and found Lawrie standing in the hopper, directing the hose into the corners to wash the mud and broken shellfish into the sea, a treat for the seagulls that followed the boat.

  ‘I’ll show you how to gut next haul,’ Cam said.

  Lawrie nodded at him, no smile, no thank you, just a look of concentration.

  The next haul was even bigger, rammed with fish, nets heaving and pulsing and bursting at the knots. Cam whistled through his teeth and glanced at Geren who grinned.

  ‘Might be a few Christmas presents after all, eh?’

  Geren called up to the wheelhouse. ‘I think I love you, Slim!’

  Slim laughed. ‘I’ll break your heart, princess!’

  The banter continued as they gutted and washed. Cam was good to his word and found a knife for Lawrie. He showed him how to slice each fish along the length of its belly, pull out the innards, wash them and send them down the shoot.

  ‘Are you sick of fish yet?’ Lawrie asked.

  ‘Sick of fish? Are you joking? These fish,’ Cam said, as he hefted up a huge monkfish, three feet in length, ugly as a demon with its rows of sharp teeth, flattened head, and bulbous eyes, and held it up cheek to cheek, ‘these fucked-up-looking bastards are everything to us. Look closer and you’ll see he’s made of money, lad. You see it?’ He kissed the monster and, for the first time in thirty-six hours, Lawrie cracked a smile as he reached down to grab a shining silver hake and kissed it.

  Cam laughed and batted his arm. ‘Well, look at that. There might be a fisherman inside you after all.’

  ‘Oi, Lawrie!’ It was Davy.

  The smile slipped off Lawrie’s face.

  ‘You’re punching above your weight with that hake. This beauty’s more your type, don’t you think?’

  Davy was holding an octopus, tentacles like Medusa’s snakes, and black ink from its burst sack coating its slimy skin. Before Lawrie could respond, Davy had hurled the creature at the lad. Lawrie cried out and jumped backwards, slipping on the floor which was slick with fish grot and water. As he scrambled, desperately swiping at the octopus trying to get it off him, Davy creased up with laughter. Cam smothered a smile as he ran his knife down the centre of a fish. Lawrie picked up the octopus and threw it back at Davy who ducked to the side and dodged it. Lawrie was red-faced, but Cam was pleased to see him get on with the gutting, gloved fingers rooting around to hook out the red mess of guts, and keeping his upset hidden.

  They stopped around one in the morning for another draft of sleep. Two or three hours here and there was all they could manage. Cam followed Lawrie through the hatch and down into the bunk room. The boy dragged his feet like the walking dead. It was harder for the youngsters when they first started out. Most had no clue what hard work was and this lad was no exception, but give him his due, he was putting the graft in.

  Cam climbed into his bunk and pulled the duvet over him. He drew the privacy curtain and lay his head on the pillow. A moment or two later, Lawrie screamed, high-pitched, panicked. Cam dragged the curtain back and jumped out.

  ‘Jesus, fuck. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I hate them.’ Lawrie’s face was streaked with hot tears. ‘I hate those dickheads.’

  Cam followed the line of Lawrie’s angry stare and there, in the centre of Lawrie’s cot, was the octopus. It stank, they’d left it in the sun for most of the day, and his sheet and pillow were stained with foul-smelling gloop.

  Davy and Geren climbed down into the bunk room, smirks on their faces.

  ‘Everything OK, sweetheart?’ Davy said, as he lay down on his bed. ‘We heard a squeal down here.’

  Lawrie shot him evils but nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m good,’ he said, steeling himself to take hold of the creature, ‘but your girlfriend seems to fancy me more than you.’

  Geren snorted with laughter and climbed into his bunk, ignoring the huffs of Davy who’d had the wind taken out of him. Cam climbed back into his cot and, before he turned off the fluorescent light above his head, he winked at Lawrie, who smiled as he carried the dead octopus out of the bunk room at arm’s length.

  Two hours later the lights went on and Slim was in their faces, ‘Rise and shine, pretty boys!’

  By the end of the third day they were dead with exhaustion. They sat in the galley, nursing triple-strength coffees, eyes raw with ti
redness.

  Martin put a metal tray on the table between them. ‘From the missus.’

  The men grinned. Pasties. Homemade. Sheila baked some for every trip. Either, she said, to keep up morale when the hauls were poor, or to keep up their energy when they were tiring. There were six of them, baked to golden perfection, each one marked with their initials, except Martin’s, which had a pastry heart on it, and one with a horseshoe for the new boy whose name she didn’t yet know.

  They grabbed the pasties and groaned with delight as the crisp, buttery pastry gave way to the succulent filling of swede, potato, chunks of beef, all liberally flavoured with fresh ground pepper. Nobody made pasties like Sheila Garnett, not even Hannah’s dad in the bakery, though his were a close second. It was six happy fisherman who went back on deck to haul the gear in. Bellies full, a break in the weather, and the promise of cold, hard cash before Christmas, was all they needed to keep their spirits high.

  Geren and Cam steadied the bag of the net, which was the size of a mini, as Martin lowered it on to the deck. Cam released the cod ends and the haul spewed out of the net and into the hopper. He leant on his hands and looked down at the fish writhing and flapping, the whole hopper filled to the brim and seething with life.

  ‘You beauty!’ Geren cried. ‘Look at that monster right there. And, Jesus, there must be at least fifteen cuttlefish.’

  Cuttlefish. Black gold. They were raking it in. Geren whistled tunefully as they hauled the winch. The prospect of money had relaxed them all. Fishing was a bugger of business when it wasn’t going well. There were no wages on The Annamae, the crew got a share of the haul. No fish meant no pay. Shitty hauls, torn nets, and broken gear could stretch to thousands of pounds. Slim was in debt up to his eyeballs. Geren had a baby on the way. Martin had his mortgage and two daughters to support, who were studying at colleges upcountry. Cam needed to start saving; he wanted to move out of Martin and Sheila’s. And he wanted to spoil Hannah. He wanted to take her somewhere nice, somewhere better than where Nathan Cardew had taken her; the Italian restaurant in Port Haven, maybe, with its fancy checked tablecloths and red roses.

  Though it wasn’t quite the same as Newlyn in the eighties, when fish were bountiful and prices consistently high, the cash they would get, stuffed into each man’s envelope, would mean heading straight to The Packhorse where the booze and drugs flowed. Whole days were lost to the hangovers which followed. There were only two rules in the pub: keep the fire burning at all times to dump drugs on if the police showed up and don’t cut cocaine on the bar. The landlady didn’t like the varnish marked. The party they’d have when they docked would be a good one

  The men prepared the fish, working quickly, chatting freely. Geren’s mood had lightened and since the octopus he’d backed off Lawrie. At one point he even smiled at him. ‘Hey, Lawrie!’ he called, as he slid his knife along the line of a cod and hooked out the mess. ‘I tell you what, lad, you won’t get a trip as good as this for a while.’

  Lawrie glanced up, checking to see if Geren was being genuine or if there was a barbed comment to follow. Geren met him with a smile and Lawrie ventured a small one in return, and went back to his fish-washing with vigour.

  The skies began to grow heavy that afternoon. Dark grey clouds concealed the sun and the wind picked up, touching the choppy waves with white. Cam glanced up at the wheelhouse and noticed Slim’s face, brow furrowed, radio held to his grimly set mouth, gaze fixed on the sea. He went up to the wheelhouse and raised his eyebrows in greeting when Slim turned. The skipper made a gesture to give him a minute.

  ‘… yup. Right. OK, mate. Thanks for that.’ He hung the radio up. ‘Falmouth,’ he said without looking at Cam.

  ‘And?’

  ‘If we stay out we’ll be hit by that weather. I’ve checked the forecast. I’ve no time to get around it.’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘Falmouth said at least an eight. Could reach a nine.’

  Cam took his tobacco papers out and started to roll a cigarette. ‘We’re netting gold out there. Never seen anything like it. I reckon we could shoot the nets on the hour for the next two months and not see an empty haul.’

  ‘The men are dead on their feet. Do we want to go through a big one when everybody’s shattered?’ He sighed heavily. They both knew the crew would be reluctant to leave the fish and the prospect of earning the type of money on offer. ‘We’ve done well, but I think we should cut our losses.’

  ‘Did Falmouth say how long until it hits?’

  ‘It’s going to pick up from now. We’re moving into its path. A five or six in the next few hours and, if they’ve got it right, tomorrow morning it’ll strike hard. If we turn now, there’s a chance I’ll outrun the worst of it, but if we carry on…?’ He rubbed his face.

  Cam stayed quiet. Slim wasn’t asking for advice this time. Nobody knew the sea like he did. Jim Baker’s veins ran with saltwater, not blood. He’d learnt to fish before he could walk, and Cam knew – they all knew – he wouldn’t put their lives at risk unnecessarily.

  Geren appeared behind them. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Storm coming.’

  Geren’s face registered no worry. All fishermen were brave, they had to be, but Geren was one of the few who got a kick out of riding huge waves.

  ‘We’ve still got a quarter of the hold left to fill and the nets keep giving.’ He took off his woollen hat and rubbed his hair, which stuck up like a scarecrow’s with the grease and grime. ‘Man, I’m so skint and with the baby coming…’

  Cam watched Slim’s brain whirring as he weighed up the risk and reward.

  Then he shook his head. ‘You’re all too worn. Too easy to make a mistake. How about we turn about, drop the nets on the way home for one last haul. By the time we bring the gear in, we’ll only be fifty miles from Newlyn, and should beat the worst of the gale.’

  Geren started to protest, but Slim silenced him. ‘That’s my final word on it. It’s a mid-ground. Your safety, the safety of the boat, these are my priorities. You know that. It’s that or steam home without the final haul.’

  Geren returned to deck, grumbling, and smacking his hand against the wall when he was out of sight of Slim. Cam thought about Hannah and glanced up at the sky, which was changing colour like a ripening bruise.

  He couldn’t wait to get back.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hannah

  His eyes can’t find mine. He is twitching, mouth forming silent words, hands trembling at his sides.

  ‘I have to go back. I’ll run you home, then get going.’

  I drop the cigarette, cross my arms around my body, and lower my head. I watch the end of the cigarette burning on the tarmac, a thin trail of smoke wending its way upwards, disappearing to nothing.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Two stray tears sting my cheeks and I turn away so he can’t see as I drag my sleeve across my face to dry them.

  He fixes his gaze straight ahead as he drives back towards Penzance on the A30. I don’t know what to say. Without even being aware of what I was doing, my body moving on autopilot triggered by nostalgia, I’ve crossed a line and it’s clearly shaken him. I could kick myself. Stupid of me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says then. ‘It’s… I don’t know…’ He hesitates. ‘What… what happened that night. Fuck. Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘Fuck. I need to get away from here. I shouldn’t have come back. I should have put Alex on the train. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ His words have turned to almost incoherent muttering. The way his body is flinching and twitching is unnerving.

  This is my fault.

  My fault.

  For the last fifteen years I’ve lived with constant guilt. It runs through my veins with my blood. But what I’m feeling now, the nauseating thickness of it, is suffocating. I can’t put any of it right. I can’t fix it. Raking over old ground won’t do any good. Nor will reminiscing. Nostalgia is an enemy dressed up as a friend.

  Sitting in the same car seat I
sat in fifteen years ago when I was frozen with shock and chilled to the bones of me, I know there are no words I can say, no apologies or explanations I can give that will make things better.

  It’s as fucked now as it was back then.

  We get to a mini roundabout and Cam flicks the indicator on. The ticking keeps time with my heartbeat. He reaches for his cigarettes, taps the packet and manoeuvres one into his mouth, presses the car lighter and, when it clicks, holds it up to light it. A car horn sounds from behind us. He ignores it, waits until the cigarette is lit, before pushing the car into gear. I catch the angry face of the driver behind as he overtakes on the inside of the roundabout. Cam doesn’t seem to notice him. If he does, he doesn’t care.

  ‘Help yourself.’ He gestures at the packet.

  I don’t take one; Nathan will be home soon.

  Cam winds down the window and rests his arm on the sill of the door. He draws on his cigarette, squinting against the smoke. ‘I still see his face everywhere I go,’ he says then. ‘In my dreams, on the streets, in crowds. Sometimes he’s beside me on the sofa or behind me while I brush my teeth.’

  The stab to my stomach takes my breath. I see him too. I hear him. He inhabits my dreams; his body, waterlogged and pale, suspended in a sea that’s saturated with blood.

  We pull up outside Trevose House and he turns off the engine. His hands don’t leave the steering wheel.

  ‘I loved you so much, Hannah. Did you know that?’

  My hands knot around each other in my lap. I want to get out of the car. I don’t want to be here.

  ‘I thought we’d be together forever.’ He laughs bitterly, quietly. ‘Jesus… I got it so wrong, didn’t I? It broke me when you chose him. After everything we went through? I didn’t understand it. But I’m glad you have this good life. This house. Nice things.’ He winces and draws in a breath. ‘I was never good enough for you.’

  I turn my head to look at him. How can he think these things? How can he think I want this house? That I’m interested in nice things? ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I say, trying hard to keep from crying. ‘I hate this house. I hate it all. It’s just… It was too hard. To see your face. To be reminded all the time.’ I stop myself talking and remind myself for the thousandth time I chose Nathan for a reason. That reason was to protect Cam. ‘We couldn’t be together after what happened,’ I say then. I’m not looking at him now. It’s too hard. Instead I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead and talk as if I’m reading from a script, monotonous and calm. ‘You see that, don’t you? How could we have stayed together? Please, know—’ I pause when my voice cracks. ‘Please know how sorry I am. Truly. I fucked it all up and I’m sorry.’