Winterton Blue (24 page)

Even though they've made an early start, the beach is busier than Anna would like. A large gathering—a mixture of old and young and male and female—has claimed a space near the rocks. They look like a family group. Further over between the trees and the shoreline is a long row of gleaming bodies lying in the open. Her mother makes to approach them, but Anna doesn't want to get too near, and puts her bag down on the first patch of rough sand they come to. There's a smell of thyme, and roasting meat from the café halfway up the beach. Anna rolls out a beach towel for her mother, and one for herself, and then pauses.

We could go up to the café, mum, if you like, she says, trying to make peace, You could have a cold beer.

Why don't we sit up there, says her mother, pointing to where the family group is, And make camp first.

Seeing Anna's face set, she tries another tack.

There'll be a bit more shade for you.

I'll be all right, here, mum. I just thought it would be nice to get a drink, maybe a sandwich.

They
won't mind. We won't be invading their space, her mother says, moving towards them.

Anna pulls up the towels and trudges after her. They pass the family, Anna's mother waving and shouting out a cheery
kalimera!
and Anna follows behind, crushed with shame as the group stop what they're doing to stare at them. They settle in the shade. The boulders below them are huge and foam-flecked, with small spits of sand in between. Two rock pools, deep and clear, stare up at the sky. The waves cut a churning path through the rocks, and the tide washing in and out is a noise that's familiar to Anna: it's the sound she hears in her head at night, in the darkness.

Didn't know you could speak the language, Anna mutters, moving their bags slightly further away from the family.

The hotel lady taught it to me this morning. At breakfast. Which was very nice. You wouldn't want a sandwich now if you'd had some breakfast. It was boiled egg, and toast and honey. I can still learn things, you know. I'm not senile.

Her mother unbuttons her blouse, exposing her camisole and the crêpey skin of her throat. Underneath, she wears a one-piece swimsuit in royal blue. Her hair stands on end, feathery in the dappled light. She doesn't stop chattering as she pulls the camisole up over her head.

The honey's lovely, isn't it? I think it must be local. Now, Cabbage, he loves his honey. Bran, and sliced apple, and sultanas, and yoghurt, all with honey on the top. I don't know where you put it all, I tell him, Mr Hollow Legs! We'll get some to take back.

Anna flips the lid on the sun-cream and sniffs it, passing it to her mother, who is smoothing her hair down with her hands.

We've only just got here, she says, trying not to look at her mother's head, at the pinkness of her scalp.

I know. I'm not senile.

You've already said that, says Anna, in a spiteful tone, The care homes are full of old people, dribbling and chanting,
I'm not senile, I'm not senile!

I don't know why you're so nasty to me. You've been in a bad mood since we left England.

Yes. And d'you know why? It's been Cabbage this, Cabbage that, even before we got on the plane. If you miss him so much, why don't you send him a postcard?

Her mother rummages about in her handbag, peering into the depths and banging the sides together. Specks of dust glitter the air.

Ah, she cries, finding the phone, which she tosses onto the towel spread out between them. Anna stares at it. It's thick as an ingot, covered in plastic leopardskin print. She pulls a face.

Whose is that?

It's mine, says her mother, Well, no, it's Cabb— . . . it belongs to a
friend.

I thought you said no phones, says Anna, the words coming hard from her mouth, In fact, I distinctly
heard
you say you didn't want me to bring my phone. No phones, you said, no phones, no sketchbooks, no worries: we're going to have a proper holiday.

It's for emergencies. Anyway, I can't get the bugger to work. International roaming, she adds.

So? says Anna.

Doesn't roam.

Anna picks it up and presses the buttons. She puts it to her ear.

Hi, Brendan, she says, after a pause, Just letting you know we got here safely and we're having a
lovely
time. Wish you were here, et cetera. I'll call you when we get back. From
my
mobile.

She throws the phone down, staring hard at her mother.

Now, would you like me to call anyone for you?

Her mother sniffs the air.

If you show me how, I might do it later.

Suit yourself, says Anna, But you'll only forget.

Anna's mother shoots her a hurt look. She turns to stare at the view, whistling to herself, while Anna straightens out the towels again, arranging the bags behind her. She leans against the rock, opening her paperback and breaking the spine with a swift crack. She's on page five when her mother bends across, gesturing with her arm for her handbag, which she finally grabs by the strap, lifting it across Anna's body. A cascade of sand sprays Anna's shoulder. She stares in fury over the top of her book as her mother rummages again, mumbling to herself. Out of the bag, she takes a compact. With a trembling hand, she reapplies her lipstick.

What are you doing
that
for? cries Anna, Who are you hoping to impress? The fish?

I've worn it all my life, says her mother, Why should I stop now?

Because no one's looking.

I'm
looking, she says, too quietly for Anna, who has turned over onto her side.

They stay like this all morning, under the overhanging rock, the woman in her blue swimsuit and pink lipstick, gazing at the sea, and her daughter, long and narrow beside her, reading her book with one arm crooked over her head.

When Anna wakes, her mother's gone. She sits up straight, shading her hand over her eyes, and searches the sand, and the boulders, and the sea below. She climbs up onto a jutting slab of rock, just in time to catch sight of a slip of colour moving between the boulders and into one of the rock pools beyond. She yells, then runs, scrabbling down the steep slope until she's on the sand and shouting.

What the hell are you doing?

I'm having a stroll, says her mother, What does it look like?

How did you get down?

Her mother wades back into the shallows, her face creased and sweaty.

One of those young boys gave me a hand. They're not Greek, you know. They're German. But they're ever so nice.

She bends slightly to one side, bouncing on her left leg, and then does the same with the other side, as if she's warming up for a sprint.

My hip's much better, she says, Feels easier. Must be the weather.

Coiled over her shoulder is a length of pale green rope. She pats it fondly.

I saw this, and I thought, that's a very unusual colour for seaweed, but look—it's fisherman's rope! I followed it all the way out. It must be twenty foot long.

Anna can't trust herself to speak. She looks at the rope, and her mother's hands, turning it over as she admires her find.

Can we take it back as a souvenir, Anna? she asks, It's such a pretty colour.

Let's go back up, Anna says quietly.

Her mother looks out over the pool, her eyes following the marks in the sand where she has dragged her find.

I wouldn't mind a dip. I'm feeling a bit hot.

But you can't swim, mum.

No, but you can, nearly. You could float me.

Anna doesn't understand her at first, but then her mother ties one end of the rope around her waist and passes the other to Anna. Feeding the line out behind her, she wades into the pool.

You just lean against that slab, there, she shouts, And hold on your end, and I'll have a little paddle.

Anna ties the rope around her own waist and catches the end tight in her fist. She watches as her mother spreads her limbs, dipping up and down like a starfish on the surface of the water.

Lewis is shaving when he hears the knock on the door. He calls from the bathroom, but is surprised to find Marta already in the room, putting another tray down next to the one on the table. He wipes off the residue of foam with the palm of his hand.

Good afternoon, Mr Caine, she says, turning, I hope you don't mind, but I've brought you some lunch.

He's conscious of the enforced closeness of them both, and of the small white towel he's wearing around his waist. The sight of the trays cluttering the table, the smell of fried food, renders him mute. Marta straightens the edge of duvet, smoothing it as she ducks past him.

Mrs Calder and her daughter will be returning at the weekend, she says, So you will tell me—or Mr Savoy—if there's anything else you need.

She turns back to the door, falters, and then decides to say her piece.

I notice you didn't come down yesterday. If you prefer your meals up here, do let me know. And this evening? You'll join us, I hope?

Her voice is light, appealing, and her manner is familiar. But looking at her face, Lewis sees she isn't flirting with him.

Dinner parties aren't really my thing, he says.

The corners of her mouth twitch. She shrugs again.

Of course, she says, Whatever you wish. By the way, it's usual for me to clean the rooms up here—change the beds and so on—on Fridays.

Lewis looks about him, and down at himself, his bare feet on the rug. The room looked fine before she mentioned it, but now he imagines bolts of dust rolling under the bed, particles swimming in the air, and him, breathing in the slough of someone else's skin.

You couldn't do it today, could you? he says, lifting himself onto the balls of his feet.

Marta smiles at this.

What's funny? he says.

She's still smiling, but more uncertain now she's heard his tone. She puts her hand on the edge of the door.

Forgive me, you're not dressed. Today
is
Friday, Mr Caine.

When she's gone, he goes back into the bathroom. A scurf of foam sits along the length of his jawline. He splashes water on his skin. His heart is racing, and he breathes out slowly, counting. In the mirror. He sees how tense his face is—how
shifty.

Relax, he says to himself, baring his teeth over the word, It's only a day. You've only lost one day.

Anna looks again at her watch. Her mother has been in the bathroom for over an hour. At this rate, they'll be eating at midnight. She stares out over the balcony at the last smudge of sunset on the sea. Down in the building plot, she can just make out a corrugated iron arc, with the back half of the dog sticking out of it. It has been quiet since her mother started feeding it; Anna suspects it's got a stomach ache.

Are you alright in there, mum? she calls. She thinks she can hear noises, but it could simply be a pocket of sound: waves crashing on the rocks, resonating inside her head.

I'm nearly—, her mother falters, I'm just coming.

When she opens the door, Anna sees at once what the matter is: her mother's face is as shiny as a Maundy penny. She's put white highlighter under her eyes, panda-fashion, and has scored two long brown furrows to mark the place where her eyebrows used to be. But there's no lipstick; she's wiping her mouth with a tissue.

Can you do it for me, love? she says, holding out the tube of lipstick for Anna, Only, I'm feeling a bit gippy.

She sits on the edge of the bed and closes her eyes. Standing over her, Anna has to compose herself before she dares put the colour on her mother's mouth. She takes the tissue out of her fist and unfurls it.

Shall we just take a bit of this off? That bathroom light,
it's deceptive, she says, examining the slick of highlighter across her mother's cheekbones, Was it the fish you ate for lunch, d'you think?

It's those glasses, says her mother.

Anna concentrates, licking the tissue and dabbing at the make-up.

What is? she asks, peering into her mother's face.

Those glasses! says her mother, opening her eyes and blinking at her, Can't get your make-up on when they're on, can't see to put it on when they're off.

I think I follow you, says Anna, her tongue on her lip, But this isn't eyeshadow, is it, mum? What is it?

Brighteyes, says her mother, Cabbage got it for me, off the net. It's like Tippex, she grins, Obliterates everything. Makes me look about eighteen.

In your dreams, says Anna, Now, come on, pucker up.

Her mother closes her eyes again and makes a moue, before breaking into a smile.

I used to do this for
you,
when you were small.

Yes, mum, keep still.

Her mother smiles wider. Anna takes a step back, waits.

You were a right little nag, she says, ‘Now do me! Now do me!' And whatever it was—lipstick, eyeliner, nail varnish—you had to have some too. Old Mrs Farrugia was appalled. She'll be trouble when she's older, she used to say. But you just wanted to be like me.