Winterton Blue (2 page)

Brendan swings the gate behind him, lifting it up on the hinges so the catch slots into the housing. They stand and inspect Anna's garden. The path is littered with weeds and broken pegs. At the far end, caught on the brambles, a plastic carrier bag dances in the wind.

I'm going to have to bring her back this time, she says, She's not fit to be left. Don't suppose you could do me a favour, Brendan?

Now what could it be, I wonder? he says, following her gaze.

Anna goes to tuck her arm in his, stopping when she sees the oil on her hands.

My mother loves her garden, the birds especially, says Anna, Could you just tidy it up a bit? Maybe get a bird-table? Some pots? Make it look lived-in.

As opposed to died-in, he says, And how long have I got to effect this transformation?

Anna kicks at a clump of grass growing through the paving.

I'm hoping to bring her back in a day or two, she says, not daring to meet his eye.

I see. So I'm supposed to spend my weekend in the garden centre with a load of humbug-sucking geriatrics, while you go to the seaside. Can't see what's in it for me, he says.

Anna gives him a nudge.

They have geriatrics at the seaside too, Brendan,
And
you get to feed my squirrels.

His eyes flicker with distaste.

How tempting. I suppose your mother loves
them,
as well?

You're joking, cries Anna, She uses a pump-action water pistol in her own garden if she gets even a sniff of one. Her aim is brilliant. She calls it ‘dispatch'.

Brendan considers for a moment. He stands in the centre of the path, squinting up at the trees and pale morning sky.

I like the sound of your mother, he says, But what if she won't budge?

Forgetting the state of her hands, Anna rubs her fingers against her brow, pressing them into her eyes and dragging them down her face.

I'm taking no prisoners, she says, She'll come back if I have to drag her by the hair.

Her face when she looks at him is fierce.

What's so funny? she says, seeing Brendan's grin, C'mon, share the joke.

Minnehaha wash off warpaint, he says, And then I'll walk you to the station.

Lewis puts his hand between the doors and forces them, just as the driver is about to pull off. He gives Lewis a look, but thinks better of saying anything, and presses the release button to let him on.

Do you want that stowed? he asks, pointing at Lewis's kitbag.

You're alright, says Lewis, snatching his ticket and moving along the rows of seats. There are more people than Lewis expects at this time of the morning, and he takes them in immediately: a pair of elderly women at the very front, sitting on opposite sides and exchanging weather talk across the aisle; a teenage boy fussily putting an ear-piece into his ear and looking out of the window, down at his iPod—looking anywhere but at Lewis. Directly behind the boy are two Chinese girls, both wearing brown uniforms and serious expressions. Mid-way along, two workmen in overalls have their eyes closed and their mouths open. At the back of the coach, where Lewis is headed, he sees something which makes his heart miss a beat: a bent figure in a red lumberjack shirt. The man straightens up, unfolds his newspaper, and Lewis breathes again. It's not Manny.

He puts his head against the window. The cold glass is welcome after the brisk walk to the bus station. Once they move onto the ring-road, Lewis takes off his jacket and throws it on the back ledge. He catches a glimpse of the stadium before the coach dips under the new fly-over. His return home to Cardiff has lasted only a week. He doesn't want to go through it, but he knows he can't not. As soon as he closes his eyes, he sees again the sun, shining like a searchlight through the trees, and the finger pointing at him, and the water lapping at his feet. He hears the cry of the wood pigeons;
Don't go, don't leave me. Don't go, don't leave me.

He should have gone back to Manny's and told him about it. Manny would have helped him through. He hears Manny's voice, calm and low: You need to put this to bed, son. The dead can't hurt you, only the living can hurt you. There's no such thing as ghosts. Now, let's go through it again.

He could have stayed at the site and waited for Carl to turn up. But Carl wasn't going to turn up, was he? Not now he'd got himself a set of wheels. Thinking about the van,
about the whole business of his return to Cardiff—that idiotic idea he had, of making his peace with his mother—Lewis is glad to be done with it. It wasn't as if it were his van, anyway. Not as if his mother had wanted to see him. Going back was just another mistake.

It was an error, Lewis says, precisely and out loud, as if saying it will make it true. The man in the lumberjack shirt twists his head round and looks at him.

The early morning sky has lost its fresh pink light; chasing the bus to London is a bank of dirty grey cloud blowing from the west. Lewis isn't noticing the weather: he's focusing only on the pattern of graffiti scored into the head-rest of the seat in front of him. He's putting his hand on the letters; he's thinking of nothing.

From the end of the road, Anna sees her mother's house, the last in a row of identical villas cutting a pale crescent around the edge of the promenade. The whole terrace, with its façade bleached and flaking and its salt-crusted windows, has the appearance of withered grandeur. Most of the houses are B&Bs, each with a Vacancies sign in the window. Some of the proprietors had made an effort for the summer, putting out pot-plants and hanging baskets, which now twirl straggled and limp in the breeze. It's the dog-end of the season. The wind brings a fret off the ocean; not cold, but achingly damp. Despite being later than she'd planned, Anna walks slowly along the road, enveloped by the mist rolling in off the sea, and the fine, even light it brings. It makes the terrace look unreal, as if it's about to float up off the pavement. Closer, this fantasy is soon dispelled; Anna can see that the cream-coloured front of her mother's house is specked with grime, the railings need painting, and there's a scuttled nest of litter in the basement. Her mother never did get that netting done. Aware that she's being watched, Anna peers up into the bay window, shielding her eyes from the reflected sky, and sees a figure there. It takes a minute to recognize her mother: she looks like an old lady, one of the winter guests. Only the gesture she makes, that frantic, happy, child-like waving, gives her away. With her arm
above her head, Anna mirrors the wave before negotiating the stone steps to her mother's home.

Those steps are very slippery, mum, she says, taking off her coat and throwing it over one of the many armchairs in the room, You had a lucky escape.

She's trying not to look at her mother's face, which is bathed in light from the window. It wouldn't surprise Anna if her mother had deliberately planned it, sitting where the daylight would make her bruises glow. She has one like a plum spreading over her eye, another curved round the edge of her chin, and a sharp red mark across the bridge of her nose. The moment Anna came through the door, her mother removed the sling from her arm to display yet more bruises, pink turning purple, from wrist to elbow.

I know, I'm lucky, aren't I? says her mother, without irony, That's what I told them at the hospital when they were doing the X-ray. The nurses said I must have bones like rubber. They were amazed that nothing's broken. Except my glasses. Look, they're in bits.

She takes the two halves of her spectacles from her lap to show Anna, holding them up and peering through one piece of the frame and then the other.

I can see much clearer now, she says, waggling her finger in the space where the lens fell out.

It's not funny, says Anna, trying to keep a straight face.

It is! It's a hoot. You should've seen it. Like a scene from
The Birds,
all the gulls bombing and diving and me flat out on the pavement. And that chap from two doors down comes running out and says, ‘Get indoors lady, they're on the attack!' What a carry on.

So were you just feeding the birds, then, mum? When you slipped?

Only a few scraps. And don't call me mum. I'm Rita to the guests, so while you're here, do me a favour—don't go showing me up.

How many guests are there?

What on earth have you done? says her mother, staring at Anna's head with a look of severe disapproval.

Caught out by this sudden switch, Anna runs a hand over her hair. She didn't have time to dry it before getting on the train, but she thought she'd got rid of the engine oil.

Nothing, why?

Exactly, says her mother, It's about time you had a bit of a cut and blow dry. A nice tint, maybe. Your father went prematurely grey, you know. He said it was all the worry—but genes will out.

There's nothing wrong with my hair, mum. And I like the grey bit, she says, Makes me look . . . distinguished. Not at all like a skunk.

They both laugh at this. Anna's grey is concentrated down one side of her head, a long line of silver in the black.

You'll end up like me, says her mother, They show you all these cards with loops of hair on them, saying, Now Mrs C., would you like the hint of sable or the touch of gold? And guess what?

Anna laughs again. She knows this story well.

It always turns out blue.

Lilac,
says her mother, Lilac, I ask you. Who in their right mind wants purple hair?

So, says Anna, refusing to be derailed, How many guests?

Her mother ignores the question, craning her head up at the ceiling and tutting to herself. Anna follows her gaze: there's a crack running across the plaster, and directly above them, a series of large, blotchy brown stains. They're sitting in the public room, which has been christened the Nelson Suite. A brass plaque has been put up on the door since Anna's last visit, and a gilt-framed picture of the man himself hangs over the fireplace, but one look at the details tells her it's all window-dressing.

We've got a foreign girl in, says her mother, Danish. Not a
guest,
mind, she's doing the cleaning. She's not much good. Can't understand things. Cabbage likes her, though.

The woman who let me in? asks Anna, Blonde, about my age? I thought her English sounded perfect.

Her mother laughs, fingering the broken spectacles.

Your age? She'll never see forty again. And I didn't say she couldn't speak English, just that she doesn't understand things.

So how many rooms does this
girl
have to clean?

Her mother throws her a withering look.

If you must know, there's only Cabbage staying at the moment. He's hoping for a Christmas slot at the Pavilion. Fat chance of that. But now the new wind-farm's up and running, there'll be plenty wanting accommodation round here. They'll be banging the door down.
Men,
Anna, she says, with a wriggle of her eyebrows, Lots of them, engineers and suchlike. So we have to stay open. I can't be
going
anywhere.

The daughter watches the mother as she talks, letting the words—the familiar exclamations, the sudden laughs—wash over her. Looking closely, Anna tries to see what Vernon sees, what a guest, not knowing her, might notice: that white hair, the strong, weathered face, and those dark eyes. An old woman, but tough, for all that. Anna sees the tilt of her mother's head, the slackening under the jaw. She thinks: I do that, now, that tilting thing; I have that way of smiling when I talk. I fold my hands like that. Perhaps it's already too late to front her out.

Anna had got it all planned. The long, snaking train journey up the country had given her plenty of time to reflect. She saw there would be a clear choice: either her mother comes to stay in London, or Anna will have to look after her in Yarmouth. In her head, she's inhabited the cackling laughter and wild shouting at the television, has pictured her mother trailing around after her, the constant interruptions of What are you doing? every five minutes, the endless, pointless cooking and cleaning. In this imagined future, Anna has already stepped back and watched as her mother has taken aim with her water pistol and blown the squirrels out of the trees. She's
prepared herself for a fight, but Anna's been too long away: she hasn't really considered that she might not win. Looking at her now, her plans seem hopeless.

But you had a good summer, didn't you? she asks, knowing the answer.

Her mother looks at her narrowly.

A bonanza, she says, Absolute bonanza. What of it?

Well, Anna says, How many guests do you think you'll have this winter?

Can't imagine, says her mother, archly, Hundreds, I suppose.

Expecting this sort of fabrication, Anna agrees.

So it could be really busy, mum. How do you think you'll manage?

I'll manage same as always! I'm a bit bruised, dear, not on life-support. Then there's Cabbage and the Danish girl. And it wouldn't hurt you to put a hand in if you're
really
that concerned about your poor mother. Not as if you've got a proper job to go back to, is it?