In which Miss P begins.
Left to finish the job on his own, Billy put the last of the catch back in the ice tray and slid it into the van. He slammed the door and banged on the roof. A few seconds later, the van drove off, leaving behind the familiar stench of fish and the sight of the classic car parked outside the pub.
One of their fancy relatives, Billy thought to himself. Another incomer with money, here to buy out the village and steal jobs. He was just about to walk away when he saw the woman come out.
She had changed her clothes and now wore waders, a cagoule and a yellow sou’wester with a long feather sticking from it. He looked at the sky; not a cloud to be seen, and yet she was dressed for winter. She was also carrying a fishing rod and a tackle box as she crossed the narrow road, coming towards him.
‘You look like a man who knows what I am doing,’ she said, by way of a greeting.
‘The salmon’s about fifty miles inland.’ Billy pointed towards the mountain. ‘It’s all in-shore fishing ’round here.’
She leant into him to share a secret. ‘I don’t actually fish,’ she whispered. ‘I do it for the peace and quiet. But that’s between you and me. Is here a good place to put up a rod?’
‘Does it matter? I mean, if you’re not… What?’ Billy wasn’t bothered, so he humoured her. ‘Yeah, put it anywhere along the beach. You might find some pollack and gurnard at Cliff Point.’ He pulled his hat from his pocket and slid it onto his head.
‘Pollack and Gurnard?’ The woman said. ‘Sounds like a shipping line.’
She laughed. He didn’t.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘good luck to you.’ He took two paces before feeling compelled to ask a question without knowing why. Turning back, he asked, ‘Are you part of that family?’
She followed his finger to the inn.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Just visiting for your festival tomorrow. I’ve heard so much about it.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any more of their type ’round here.’
‘What type is that? Shall we walk?’
For a reason he couldn’t understand, Billy agreed.
‘Sorry about the smell,’ he said, sniffing his hands. He was used to it now; salt, fish and bait were his life, but a stranger must have found it pretty sick. But then what did he care?
‘Do you mean foreign types?’ the woman asked.
‘Aye, I do,’ he replied. ‘We don’t care for them much here, and I can’t say as anyone’s happy with those we have.’
‘You have many?’
‘Too many. They’re taking our services.’
‘Oh?’ she sounded surprised. ‘Your vicar is also a foreigner?’
‘No, I mean, taking away our council services. Buying our land, we’re full up in our village.’
‘I see. Perhaps here would be a good place for my line? What do you think?’
They had come only a few yards and were directly in front of Billy’s house.
‘Good a place as any,’ he said.
He looked back towards the boat. For now, it was shored and safe, but he didn’t like leaving it opposite that inn. The fishing boat was his uncle’s business, handed down from his grandfather and so on into the past. Billy could, if you asked him, name all the owners of the boat and all the family members who had worked it. He could tell you the entire history of the village back to its founding, and he knew as much as there was to know about the area and its people. There had always been a strong tradition of fishing here, and that tradition was under threat from incomers like the woman from London and her strange son. He, in particular, was a threat to Billy, and he didn’t trust him.
Mark was at his window again, his hand pressed to the glass.
‘Gives me the creeps,’ Billy muttered half to himself.
‘Do you know him well?’
‘I know he’s there, lady. That’s enough.’
‘Perhaps you should try talking to him?’
She was a good six inches shorter than Billy and grimacing up at him with lips a shade too red for her age. Wrinkles appeared at the corner of her eyes, and she squinted, her face screwing up in anger. He readied himself for a confrontation as a bolt of nervousness shocked through his body. She lifted a hand. He took a step back and realised she was only shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun.
‘Talk to him? Are you joking?’
‘Certainly not,’ the lady said. ‘From what I have gleaned about your village, there are very few people of your age living here. I’d have thought the two of you would have something in common.’
‘How do you know about our village?’
‘I read.’
‘Ah, well then, you’re lucky, Missus. Not all of us have been taught to do that. Not like them London toffs who come up here taking away our heritage and watering down the breeding stock.’
She was still studying him from below. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘You have told me all I need. I shall pretend to fish before supper and have a think. Perhaps I shall catch a good idea, hook, line and thinker.’
She doffed her sou’wester and backtracked a few paces, where she set up a small stool and assembled her equipment.
Billy shrugged his shoulders and watched her for a while longer. When he was sure that she knew what she was doing, he found his eyes wandering back to the inn. The Londoner was still at his window. Still staring out, still creepy, but now he was looking directly at Billy.
The lightning bolt hit Billy again, but this time it struck him with annoyance. A few seconds of Billy’s famous hate stare should get rid of him. He spat once more and glared back at the lad. Their eyes locked, but the other boy did not flinch.
‘I see,’ Billy said under his breath. ‘Want to play games, do you?’
He dragged himself away from the spot he had been rooted to and headed home.
Miss P wiled away the rest of the afternoon pretending to fish. She didn’t catch anything, but then, she didn’t like to. Instead, she spent her time watching the villagers come and go. Most threw her untrusting looks, some crossed the road to avoid her and none, she noticed, went anywhere near the inn. Mind you, she thought, it was still early.
She took an interest in the way Mark would return to his window and look out, usually towards the boat first and then along the road. She also saw how the other boy would come to his own upstairs window and do exactly the same thing, only he would look towards the inn first and then across to his boat. She also took note of the way the fisherboy talked to himself while he stood there.
That was the only thing about the situation she didn’t yet understand. Everything else made sense. The animosity to strangers, the mistrust of foreigners, the fear for possessions, and the way the two boys kept an eye on the road, looking out for each other. All that was as she suspected, and that part was simple, but what was the fisherboy talking about?
‘Ah, of course!’ she said, realising. ‘Talking stories. I shall come back to that.’
The sun began to set, and the midges started to bother her. She wrapped up her fishing expedition and trotted back across to the pub. Not only had the landlady suggested there may be hotpot for supper, but she knew from the change in the atmosphere that something vital was to take place in the inn that evening, and she needed to prepare.
