In which Miss P arrives.
Miss P switched off Radio One’s afternoon show and adjusted the feather in her trilby. She freewheeled her Lagonda Rapier down the slope and into the fishing village, cutting the engine to save the fumes. She didn’t want them to contaminate the air and, when she filtered the sea from the heather, her nose found what it was searching for. Writer’s block.
The small bay was sheltered by a long sweeping hill that climbed high to become a cliff. Men worked on a couple of fishing boats moored against the quayside. Another boat rested halfway up the beach, dragged from the water and held upright on runners. The men there, mainly old and weathered, were busy unpacking trays of fish and loading them into a van. They halted their work to gawp at the car as it rolled to a silent stop outside the inn. They removed their woollen hats and scratched their chins. The saltiest of them put his hands on his hips and shook his head, while the youngest one, who Miss P judged to be no more than seventeen, had frozen in mid crate-pass and stood rooted to the spot, swaying slightly like seaweed. He stared at the dark green Lagonda as if he had never seen a car before, his mouth open.
Miss P stepped from the driver’s seat and offered them a cheery wave with the gloves she had just removed.
‘You have a beautiful village,’ she complimented.
It certainly was. With the sea to one side and a cluster of white cottages landward, it semi-circled the bay until the road came to a dead end at the base of the enclosing hill. Houses peppered the hillside, connected by steps and narrow paths. Behind them, a brown and brooding mountain towered under the bright summer sky.
Miss P received no greeting from the men, simply vacant stares, and so she waved them goodbye and turned her attention to the inn. As she placed her hand on the door latch, a thought occurred, and taking a sharp intake of breath, she backed up two paces.
Someone’s palm was pressed against an upstairs window as if trying to hold back the view, or the sea, and the gesture woke a memory.
‘Dear King Cnut,’ Miss P said. ‘An excellent man, though at times he could be something of a… Well, of a Cnut.’
She pictured the person above gazing out forlornly over the bay and sensed unease and sadness.
The odour of writer’s block intensified.
A clatter and much swearing drew her attention back to the boats where, distracted, the younger fisherman had dropped his tray. Paying no attention to his work, his gaze remained fixed on the upstairs window. The lad only moved when the oldest fisherman beat him about the head with a haddock. The others scrambled to collect the dropped catch, and Miss P entered the inn, her mind now spinning like a sardine bait ball.
‘Good afternoon.’ She was greeted by a cheerful voice as she stepped into the bar, and was then met by a face which matched it in sincerity. A pretty woman, no older than forty, stood behind the counter with a sink plunger in one hand. ‘We’re not open until five.’
‘I am expected,’ Miss P said, gliding to the bar and tucking away her leather gloves. She touched the brim of her hat and winked.
‘Oh my!’ The woman clutched the plunger to her chest with the rubber end under her chin. She might have been about to sing a rock ballad. ‘I know you.’
‘Miss P,’ Miss P said. ‘Sandra?’
‘Yes.’ Sandra was now staring at Miss P in the same way as the fishermen had done.
Miss P nodded her head to the plunger. ‘Testing, one, two, one, two.’
The landlady hid it behind her back. ‘What’s the point of having a teenage son if you have to do the gents on your own?’ she asked.
Had it not been for the plunger, Miss P might have taken that the wrong way. ‘What’s the point, indeed?’ She smiled. ‘I am here for tomorrow’s festival. I do hope you secured a room for me. I did write. Will Wilbur be a nuisance if he sleeps outside?’
‘Wilbur?’ Sandra’s head moved to one side as she looked out of the front window. ‘Are you not a single?’
‘I am sure he won’t trouble anyone,’ Miss P said. She fished in her bag and drew out some money. ‘He’s used to being outside in all weather.’
‘Oh! Well, we do have a kennel at the back,’ Sandra said. ‘But we don’t like dogs upstairs.’
‘I can assure you, Sandra, Wilbur would not be happy in a kennel, and he would not fit upstairs. Now then, you kindly told me your prices, so here we are for the night, with that little extra for breakfast. I am not fussy. Full English, coffee, toast, a generous supply of Robinson’s jams, and a tin of slim Panatela will do.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t approve of Robinson’s,’ Sandra said, distractedly looking for a dog. ‘They used to have that little black man on their label. Is it a cat?’
‘No, dear, I believe it was a golliwog, and I once had all the collectables. Your accent tells me you’re not from this village.’
The woman focused on Miss P again. ‘No, we’re not. We are from down south but when…’ She broke off, seemingly surprised at herself for starting to tell her story, but Miss P winked, and she carried on. ‘When my husband left us, we came here to get away from it all. A new start for me and Mark. But it’s not been easy. They don’t take to strangers in this village, but we have nowhere else to go. We ran here to escape the memories and, as I feel I can tell you, to escape the beatings. I loved the peace of this place so much that we stayed. Trouble is, the place doesn’t love us. I put all my money into buying the inn, and we can’t afford to leave it, no matter how unwelcome we’ve been made. Who else would buy in the middle of nowhere like this? If only I’d known. Mark’s dropped out of school. The nearest school is twenty miles away anyway, and we can’t afford a car. We’re stuck. He’s got no future, and I feel it’s my fault. The only income we get is from the local men who come in here, drink, moan about us southerners and otherwise ignore us. They only come in because we’re the only pub between them and a ninety-minute drive. Are you sure your dog will be alright out there? They don’t like animals here either.’
Slightly exhausted, Miss P sat on a barstool. ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘I am pained to hear your story, but never fear.’ She reached across the bar and touched Sandra’s hand. The gesture brought the woman back to the here and now. ‘A little Scotch, if you will.’
‘Of course, Miss P.’ Sandra’s cheerfulness returned in a blink. She poured a drink, put it down and then delved under the counter. ‘If you would sign the guestbook…’ She opened it, and her head snapped back in surprise. ‘Oh, I see you already have. I must have… Did I nod off? I’ll fetch my son. Mark!’ She shouted the name so loudly that Miss P imagined that the boy lived at the other end of the village.
A few seconds later, there came the sound of feet thumping down the stairs. This was followed by the creak of a door, and an angry-faced youth appeared in the bar.
‘What?’ he demanded.
Miss P sniffed her whisky; it took away the stench of writer’s block now so thick in the air.
‘Mark, please,’ Sandra said and nodded towards their guest. ‘This lady has come to stay. Please fetch her luggage from outside. And her dog.’
‘No dog,’ Miss P said. ‘Just two hampers in the back of Wilbur.’
Mark Lee never thought he would find himself living in the arse-end of nowhere with his manic mother, no mates and nothing to do. As if having to live in this dump was not bad enough, he was now only treated like a servant. He stomped to the door, throwing the old lady a tip of his head, which could have meant any number of things, some rude, some indifferent.
Outside, his eyes fell immediately on the fishermen, and he flinched. Which one of them was going to tell him to piss off today? Which one would hurl the rotten fish guts? Would the stupid one with absolutely no brains moon at him again? As it happened, none of them did any of those things, but the youngest did stare, rip his filthy cap from his short blonde hair, spit and turn his back.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Mark muttered. ‘Bloody hillbillies. I’d have been more welcome sabotaging a fox hunt than… Fuck me!’
He met Wilbur.
Mark gawped in awe as he drank in the sleek, racing-green curves all the way to the boot, where he found two large wicker baskets. Dragging them into the inn one at a time, he had no idea why an old lady would need so much for a one-night stay — Maybe she was a travelling theatre company. It was hard to pull his eyes away from the car, but the threatening glares from the fishermen hurried him inside.
‘Are you a travelling theatre company?’ he asked as he hauled the second hamper into the guest’s bedroom a few minutes later. ‘You here for the festival?’
‘No, and yes,’ the woman replied. She thanked him and turned her attention to the view. ‘Is this the sea, or a loch?’
‘It’s called a loch ’round here,’ Mark said. ‘But it leads out to sea, so it isn’t, not really.’
‘Islington.’
‘I don’t know what it’s called. Loch Dum-Place Nowhere, or something.’
‘No, dear. You have come from Islington,’ the woman said, taking him by surprise.
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s in your accent. I was only pondering on Islington this morning on my drive from the other side of Dum-Place Somewhere Else. Did you know it was originally a Saxon settlement called Giseldone? What a lovely word that is don’t you agree?’
‘Not bothered.’
‘Ah!’ The old woman turned to him, and Mark wondered if he’d said something wrong.
‘And therein lies the rub,’ she said, which made no sense to Mark.
She bleated on about Islington, but he didn’t listen. He tried to work out how old she was. He’d been thinking of her as a granny, but perhaps she wasn’t very much older than his mum. Her tight jacket appeared to be made of crocodile skin, and her strange little hat had a long feather in it. She looked like some old bird from a comedy show. He thought he recognised her, but couldn’t place where from.
‘And that was when I knew someone had to do something about the Roman occupation.’
He realised she was still talking. ‘You what? Sorry, um, lady, woman, person, I was miles away.’ He pulled himself together. ‘Right, well, there’s your luggage. I gotta get on.’
‘With what?’
That was none of her business. ‘With stuff,’ he said.
‘Well, Mark, you go and enjoy your stuff while I do mine. Thank you.’
He turned to leave, feeling rather grateful and very confused.
‘Oh,’ she said and stopped him. ‘Do I tip you?’
‘Tip me where?’
‘Do I give you some gratification for your efforts.’
Was she coming on to him? He felt his skin burn with embarrassment.
‘If I do, I shall pay in the morning,’ she said, but it didn’t help. ‘A couple of pounds for your services?’
He hoped he’d be worth more than that.
‘Sedulous young men should always be left fiscally satisfied.’
‘Stop it,’ was all he could think of to say, and he left the room in a panic, making sure the door was shut tight.
