Winterton Blue (23 page)

When Anna got home from the swimming lesson, she showed her mother what had happened to her eyes. She'd been off school too much since her father died, with various ailments that had no specific source. Her mother said they were just worries, but the redness was plain enough to be real, and Anna felt sore when she blinked, as if someone had blown sand in her face.

It's the chlorine they put in the pool, her mother said, tipping Anna's chin up to the light to see better, You must be allergic to it.

I've got something in my ear too, said Anna, trying not to cry, It's all stuffy.

That's just water, said her mother, It'll be gone by tomorrow.

Anna woke in the dark, with a fierce pain in her left ear, as if someone had pushed a knitting needle through to her brain, and was jabbing it back and fore. Her cries woke her mother, who went straight across to Nonna Farrugia. While her mother stood waiting at the gate for the doctor to arrive, Nonna sat with Anna, who was holding a hot water bottle against the side of her head and screaming with delirious abandon. She wanted her father, but she didn't know where he'd gone.

He's gone to heaven to be with the angels, darling, said Nonna, when Anna cried for him. The old woman pulled Anna towards her, held her tight, and cried with her.

Anna cannot recall any more of that night, not the doctor or the trip in his car to the hospital, nor the nurses or the
cool pillow, nor her mother, sitting at her side in the half-light. Even though she has been told this story over and again, fever had wiped the memory. But Anna can recall Nonna, her arms around her, the skin on them warm and soft and loose-fitting. And Nonna's extraordinary wailing, as if she could blot out all the pain simply by being that much louder.

Wake up, Anna! Wake up!

It's jet black in the room. Anna turns over on her hearing side to find out what the fuss is about.

Anna! Anna, quick!

Her mother is swaying on her bed; but no, now her eyes are growing accustomed to the darkness, Anna sees that the bed is swaying, and above it the chandelier is chattering its glass.

We're having an earthquake, you deaf moo! shouts her mother. She staggers across the floor towards the shutters and hangs on to the hasp like a man at sea. And then it's over. In the distance, a siren goes off.

Right. That's me, her mother says, grappling her way towards the light-switch; the room is filled with sudden, swinging light.

It was only a tremor, mum, says Anna, They have them here, sometimes. I should've mentioned it.

She watches as her mother zips herself into her skirt, and puts her handbag over her shoulder. There's a finality to her actions which makes Anna's bones ache.

What are you doing? she says.

Well, I won't sleep now, will I? What if there's another one? I'm getting my stuff together.

Anna can't argue with this logic. She swings herself over the edge of the bed, and watches as her mother goes into the bathroom. She waits, not quite knowing what to do next. Her mother's voice comes echoing over the partition.

I knew something wasn't right down at the harbour,
Anna. I could feel the ground wobbling. I must be psychic, mustn't I?

Anna stares at the ceiling.

What am I thinking, then? she says, to herself.

In America they have them bags you know, her mother continues, With chocolate in them. For emergencies. They're called . . . emergency bags.

The dog has started barking again. Anna considers the bone in her mother's handbag, but before she can suggest this diversion, there's another shout from the bathroom.

Anna! Come and see this!

Her mother is on her hands and knees on the floor, with her head cocked low. It looks as if she's listening for another tremor. She's staring at the space under the basin.

Well, I never, she says, her face full of wonder.

Anna crouches down next to her, and follows her finger to a line, a large diagonal crack running from the floor tiles to the top edge of the wash-stand.

That wasn't there before, her mother says.

It might have been. We might not have noticed it, mum.

Might not have noticed? It's like Cheddar Gorge. We'll have cockroaches any minute, you'll see. Pass me down that toothpaste.

Anna watches as her mother squirts a steady wodge of Colgate into the crack, smoothing it out with her finger.

What do you think that's going to do? Poison them?

Anna's mother looks up at her and starts to laugh. On her hands and knees, with her head hanging down and her bag half off her shoulder, she laughs until she's winded.

At least if they bite us, they'll have nice fresh breath!

The woman at the Information Centre eyes Lewis with suspicion. He has circled the exhibits twice, picked up a stash of leaflets only to discard them again, and he's been scrutinizing the scale models for ten minutes or more. Usually it's local lads who give her trouble, seeing if they can get the blades on the models to move faster, or flicking their chewing gum at them. She watches as Lewis puts his hand up to the blades before she speaks.

Is there anything I can help you with, sir? she says, trying to make her voice at once commanding and friendly, Only, visitors are not allowed to touch the interactives.

Lewis draws his hand back and slides it into his jeans pocket. He turns around, smiling.

No, he says, There's nothing I want.

She waits, unsure of what to say next.

You can take a trip out, you know, to see them close up, she says.

Lewis approaches the desk and leans on the glass counter. He smiles again, showing his teeth as he bends near.

In a boat? he whispers.

That's right. We've got a leaflet somewhere.

No don't bother, he says, But now you mention it, there is something you could do for me.

The woman smiles back. Behind him, a school group is being led round the exhibits by a young man who looks barely old enough to be their teacher: she will have to keep an eye on them, too.

I have a friend who works there—on the project. Only I've lost her number. I wonder, do you know where the employees are billeted?

The woman laughs lightly. She gets all sorts of requests, but this one is new.

I imagine they're
billeted
all over Norfolk, she says, aping his tone, It's quite a large workforce. Have you tried calling their main office?

They don't give out addresses, says Lewis flatly.

The woman shoots him a narrow-eyed look.

Quite so, she says, Well, I've got a leaflet here somewhere listing all the current Velsters projects. That might help. Bear with me.

She turns to fetch him a leaflet off the stand. By the time she's found it, he's gone.

It's the last day of October. Despite the constant onshore wind, the temperature outside is mild compared to the air-conditioned chill of the Information Centre. The whiteness of the sun makes everything look fresh. Lewis is growing to like it: the regular buffeting action of the breeze makes him feel as though he is being cleansed, as if it's searching out the dust inside him and blowing it into space. In fact, the whole place is growing on him, so far is it from the cram of London, or the bad taste in his mouth that has become the memory of Wales. He could never understand why people ran away to remote places when the easiest way to lose yourself is in a city. But now, he knows why. It's the
feeling
of being remote, inside, in the bones, that makes it so alluring. He misses Anna: it's been four days since she left, and another three until she's
back. He knows his inactivity is linked to her: whatever else he plans—and the plan is only to find Carl—he would like to see her, just once more. He fantasizes about the things he would tell her and how he would hold her, and this detaches him from the other feeling he has, as though he's lost a skin, as though he's been flayed. There's a sharp keyhole of blackness when he tries to remember the last night he spent in Cardiff, and the recce of the house. Even thinking about it makes the blood beat behind his eyes. He walks along the beach wall, still looking all the while at the thirty wind turbines on the horizon, spinning air into heat. He stops to look again: now there are twenty-eight, now twenty-five. He shuts one eye—the one that's throbbing, and counts again: thirty. He feels a dark bloom growing at his temple. He opens his hand and stares into it, seeing the lines blur and merge into one. Lewis can sense, rather than see, a shadow growing over the vision in his left eye, as if someone beside him has put up their own hand to block the light. He feels the panic rising and tries to breathe through it, expanding his chest and ignoring the catch inside, like a crochet needle hooked between his ribs. A prickle of sweat at his hairline, heat in his armpits. He knows if he looks upwards, he'll see a cloud of black water, the bubbles hissing past him to the surface, a snake of oil smearing his vision.

The man delivering the hire car is Anna's age, with a neat moustache and delicate hands. Despite the heat of the morning, he's wearing a suit and tie.

Where are you taking us, then? asks Anna's mother, smiling up at him. Her lipstick is perfect today.

He's not taking us anywhere, I'll be driving. Mr—erm—sorry, I didn't catch your name, says Anna, This gentleman's just dropping the car off, mum.

It's Nick, isn't it? her mother says. She gives Anna a quick, disgusted look, Nice to meet you, Nick. You'd be very welcome to come too.
I
won't object. We're going to the
beach.

In the car, they don't speak. Anna's mother grips the seatbelt every time a vehicle approaches from the opposite direction. Anna can feel the silence like a current in the air: her mother would like to give a running commentary about the state of the roads and the other drivers, and Anna's own struggles with the unfamiliar gearbox. She says nothing until Anna negotiates a tight bend, taking them over the white line in the centre of the carriageway.

You've got to get in more, she snaps, You'll get me killed.

Good, says Anna.

Don't be horrible to your mother.

Well, stop showing me up. Why do you have to flirt with everything in trousers? ‘Nice to meet you, Nick! Coming to the beach, Nick?' For God's sake.

Exasperated, her mother shakes her head.

His name
was
Nick, I tell you. I heard him say it. You don't listen, that's your problem. And he was such a pet. If you'd have shown him some encouragement, we'd have a
proper
driver.

I am a proper driver, says Anna.

Her mother stares through the windscreen.

I mean one that can drive, she says.

Anna almost misses the sign for the coast. She turns too quickly, the map and water bottle flying off her mother's lap into the footwell. Her mother bends to retrieve them, still talking.

Just because you don't take an interest—doesn't mean I have to be rude as well. One ignoramus in the family is quite enough, thank you.

Can't hear you, mum, says Anna, through clenched teeth.

You'll have that on your tombstone, I reckon. Can't hear you! Can't hear you!