Winterton Blue (35 page)

A fishing boat passes on the horizon, heading towards port. Anna can see the lights in gold and rose, flecking the water, and the gulls, like shreds of silver in the sky around it. Sometimes, she sees dog walkers on the beach, or a warden from
the nature reserve, patrolling the sand; but there are days when she sees no one. When she's ready, she'll have visitors. Her mother and Vernon are eager to come, as is Brendan, whose texts are full of spelling mistakes and a sudden enthusiasm to visit Norfolk.

At the back door, a tree she doesn't know the name of has burst into flower: tiny white clusters with a heady scent. Anna upturns a wooden crate and sits under the tree, nursing her beer, listening to the last birdsong. The night falls so soft that at first, she doesn't notice she has company; a shadow rising up from the cliff, as if he has walked straight from the sea. She knows this shadow as well as her own: it's Lewis, coming out of the darkness. Anna smiles; she can't see how it looks to him, the pain and hope all mixed.

It's me, he says, taking a breath, I've got something to give you. From your mother.

It's a long way to come, she says, Just to deliver a message.

Lewis opens his fist. The tourmaline ring, like a solid piece of ocean, gleams in his palm.

I think she'd want you to wear it, he says, watching as she puts the ring in her pocket.

And what do you want? she asks.

He leans against the wall and fetches out his tobacco. He looks as if he's considering his answer, but he's not. He's searching for a word.

You, he says, finding it.

Anna spends a long minute with her face turned away, staring into the night.

How are your problems, she says, Still cubed?

Maybe only squared, he says.

Anna holds her hand out flat, looks directly up at him.

Give me one of them, she says, but instead, he places a roll-up in her palm.

You can smoke inside, you know, says Lewis, almost smiling.

Yeah, we could, says Anna, But I've given up, nearly.

Me too, he says, cupping his hands over hers while she lights it.

Out at sea, the fishing boat moves closer to the shore. If anyone on board was looking, they would see a necklace of luminous stones at the water's edge, the cliffs crumbling onto the sand, and above them, a small red circle of light, burning a hole in the darkness.

I am grateful to Dannie Abse for permission to use his poem “A Woman to a Man,” included in
Jazz Poems
(Pocket Poets series, Vista Books, London).

Lewis's first encounter with his nightmarish Wandsworth flat can be found in the short story “Shorthold,” featured in the anthology
Wales Half Welsh
(ed. John Williams), published by Bloomsbury.

The song that Wayne so loves and with which he drives Lewis insane is a sample from “White Wedding” by Billy Idol, although Wayne was a total Generation X fan and could have irritated his brother with any number of their hits.

For their support and assistance, I'm indebted to Derek Johns at AP Watt, to Elisabeth Schmitz and the whole team at Grove/Atlantic, Inc., and to Ursula Doyle at Picador, without whom the tights, stockings, pop socks debate may never have taken place. The jury's still out . . .

To my family and friends, and once again, to Steve, for putting up with everything, love and many thanks.