Winterton Blue (22 page)

Now they sit squashed in their airline seats, and her mother can't stop fussing with the safety belt.

You were eight, I'm telling you, her mother says, How is this supposed to
go
?

Anna leans over and shows her mother how it clips and unclips, how she can pull it to the desired width.

And when do we get a drink?

We haven't taken off yet, Anna says, And I was definitely younger, because I'd just started those swimming lessons at school. Remember?

You were eight, says her mother, finally. Nodding to the bag at Anna's feet, she adds, Give me one of those sweets, love, I've got heartburn bent double like this.

The flight is going to Crete, and it's full. The pilot tells them they are waiting for a couple of people, a last call has gone out, and if they don't appear there'll be a short delay while their bags are removed. He announces this in a reassuring, almost bored tone, but her mother seizes on this fact.

They have to do that, she says, Just in case they've put a bomb on board.

The man in the seat next to Anna gives them a quick glance. She whispers to her mother.

Mum, I've told you. Don't say those things. Don't say bomb on here. They'll throw you off.

You
just said it, she says, fumbling with the packet of indigestion tablets, Maybe they'll throw
you
off. When do we get a drink?

As the plane travels through the air, Anna shuts her eyes and pretends to sleep. She isn't tired, but the sunlight outside the window is too intense, and she's weary of her mother's constant exclamations.

That'll be the Alps, her mother says, wiping her breath from the porthole with her handkerchief.

Anna looks for the hundredth time. It's a cloud.

That'll be them, all right, she says, closing her eyes again. She would like to look at the clouds properly, without her mother wittering at her: she wants to imagine Lewis, sitting cross-legged and smiling in at her, his roll-up dangling from the side of his mouth and his green eyes shining. She finds it frustrating that she can't remember his face, just details: the flecks of hazel in his eyes, the long white scar under his bottom lip; his smell. She's near to it now, there's something about the scent of him, a familiar, long-ago . . .

They say if you look hard enough, exclaims her mother, breaking the spell, You can see all the dead climbers. They just leave them there, you know, in the snow. They're preserved, she adds, in a whisper.

You're confusing it with Everest, sighs Anna.

Don't be ridiculous, we won't be crossing Everest! Your geography's rotten!

The man next to Anna presses the bell above his head. Her mother gives her a nudge.

He's pressed that bell, she says.

When the steward comes, he orders a second drink.

Would you like one? the man asks, in a friendly tone, and Anna accepts for both of them. Her mother looks suspicious, but when the whisky arrives, she smiles and waggles the miniature at him.

Down the hatch! she cries.

The man nods, and gives a wink only Anna can see.

Maybe that'll shut her up, he mutters, leaning back into his seat and smiling in a way that Anna finds extremely offensive. She closes her eyes again, careful not to take up too much of the arm-rests on either side. She dreams of deep water.

Anna found it extraordinary that the swimming teacher was also the dinner lady. Her name was Mrs Chambers. She had an old face, and dyed orange hair which looked like fuzzy
felt. As Anna and the other children shivered in the shallow end, Mrs Chambers stood at the edge of the pool. She'd still got on the checked overall she wore when she dished out the mash.

Hands on heads, now bend at the knees! All the way down, don't think I can't see you at the back, Philip Cross. All the way down!

Anna's first plunge into the water was shocking. It went straight up her nose, with a stinging black pain, which made her forget not to breathe in, and when she surfaced again, choking, everything was blurred. But she could hear Mrs Chambers's shouts echoing in the vast pool.

Anna Calder, you'll go straight back down! Straight back down!

And Anna went straight back down, but with her hands on her head she still couldn't stop the water from shooting up her nose and swirling in her ears.

Afterwards, in the changing room, she felt blind and sick and partially deaf. Her friend Yvonne was standing on tiptoe, trying to comb her hair in the mirror. Yvonne had managed to get dressed quite easily, but Anna was still struggling with her woollen tights. They didn't seem to fit any more; it was as if her legs had got longer and fatter. She pulled them up as far as they'd go, which left the gusset stretched taut between her knees.

Look at you, said Yvonne, peering at her, Oooh, Count Dracula!

Anna hauled herself up on the ledge and stared into the mirror. Her eyes were full of blood. She'll definitely go blind, she thought. She might even die. In those days, in Anna's world, it was possible for anyone to die, without warning.

Anna's mother is delighted with the room and the view over the harbour, but is most impressed by the barking dog. It's
chained to a stake in a building plot just beyond the hotel wall, and has been straining at the end of its leash for the last ten minutes, letting out hoarse yelps. Anna had spent hours on the Internet searching for the right hotel: air-conditioned, a room with a view of the harbour, no all-night club below. The one she found looked perfect; a faded, colonial-type place, with a cool garden surrounded by trees. She didn't anticipate barking dogs.

I can ask them for another room, she says, I'm sure they'd be happy to oblige.

Oh you, don't fuss. It's only a dog. Even a dog has to sleep, says her mother.

Anna puts her suitcase on the bed near the window, just the same, and before they go out for dinner, she pulls in the shutters and locks them. It's suddenly quiet enough to hear piped music.

Fancy that! her mother cries, opening the window at the other end of the room and peering over the gardens, They've got a band. Cabbage would've loved that!

They're sitting under a café umbrella, looking out at the sunset. Their plan—Anna's plan—is to have a light supper and a good night's sleep. She has the car-hire people coming early in the morning, and is finding the conversation wearing: her mother has remarked fully and loudly on other people's idea of holiday clothes, has listed the various kinds of vessel on the water, and the numerous types of fish lined up along the quayside in their crates of ice, and now she's turned her attention to the menu, which she reads out to Anna, item by item. She pauses just long enough to suck on her drinking straw.

This cocktail tastes a bit odd, she says, taking another experimental sip, It's sort of . . . minty. I said,
it's very minty,
Anna, she says, louder.

That'll be the crème de menthe, mum, I told you you wouldn't like it.

I didn't say I didn't
like
it, only that it tastes minty. Like Bisodol. And don't call me mum.

Sorry. Rita. Have you decided what you want to eat—
Rita
? Anna smiles up at the waiter hovering at the edge of the table.

I'll have him, says her mother, On toast.

Anna feels a crimson flush on her face, but the waiter grins.

I'm afraid I'm off the menu tonight, madam. But maybe tomorrow?

It's a date, says her mother, So tonight I'll settle for the lamb. As long as it's got a bone in it. I've got a little friend, you see.

The waiter nods.

With chips, madam?

Go on then, as it's you. Give me some chips as well.

Her mother leans on her arm. They're staring at the water, and at the sky, which has turned from pale blue to a damp, drizzled grey. A wind blows up from nowhere, gusting around the harbour and shivering the lights strung along the waterfront.

I don't feel right, Anna.

How not right? Is it your hip?

Not that. I think that plane has done something funny to my ears. It's like the ground's not steady. Like when you come out of that lift in the shopping centre. You know—wonky.

Anna feels the weight of her mother against her.

Maybe it was that second cocktail, she says, Or the lamb.

Maybe! says her mother, and patting her handbag where she has stashed the bone, No. The lamb was lovely. Didn't that plane make
you
feel ill?

A bit, says Anna, But you know me—any excuse. What did you always say to me? Hypochondria is a real illness?

This makes her mother smile. She shifts her weight, looking about her for a bench to sit on.

Why don't we go back to the hotel? says Anna, And relax in the garden?

Good idea, says her mother, A brandy would settle all that food. Cures all known ailments, she says, Even hypochondria.