Winterton Blue: A Novel

ONE

Brendan hovers at the door of the lock-up, glancing back to the garden gate, which Anna has left swinging open. He hears the sound of a thump and immediate swearing.

Are you alright in there, Anna?

’Course, comes a voice out of the darkness, Never better! Now hand me that bloody torch before I brain myself.

Brendan takes two steps in, and finds the torch on the bonnet. There’s the roll of wheels on concrete as Anna slides out from under the car. She raises her hand, grabs the torch, and slides back in. Brendan stares at the floor where Anna briefly was. He is full of admiration until he sees her toolbox, which is full of tubes of glitter and sticks of Pritt.

Didn’t know you were good with engines, he says, picking a paintbrush out of the box.

I’m not, she says, I’m trying . . . to find . . . this . . . leak.

There’s something familiar about the board she’s using, but it’s too dim to see. Brendan bends his head under the chassis, but all he can make out in the wavering torchlight is Anna’s hair, spilling over the concrete like oil itself.

Quite a big leak, I’d imagine, he says, straightening up to better view the sticky patch under his feet, Not something you can fix with a bit of Blu-Tack.

Anna slides back out again. She’s been using an old skateboard as a truckle. She stands up, flails a length of crepe bandage at the car.

No. Well, it was worth a try.

You were going to bandage it? asks Brendan.

I saw it in a film, says Anna.

And this is the crisis? he says, You know I’m hopeless with things that go.

Brendan shines the torch directly on Anna, then clicks it off. She has spatters of oil on her face and in her hair.

I’ve got to get to Yarmouth, says Anna, thumping the bonnet, But not in this old crock.

The sun outside is bright and warm, despite the early hour. Anna opens the lid of the wheelie bin and throws the bandage in, leaving a clear pattern of her hand on the lid.

Stand still, says Brendan, licking a finger, Just a tiny speck here.

He rubs at the tip of her nose.

Clean as a whistle, he says, starting to laugh. Anna looks down at her filthy clothes, and spreads her hands at him.

Think I’ll just have to take the train.

Good plan. But get a wash before you go, says Brendan, Your mother will have a fit if she sees you in that state. And you don’t want to go making things worse.

Brendan swings the gate behind him, lifting it up on the hinges so the catch slots into the housing. They stand and inspect Anna’s garden. The path is littered with weeds and broken pegs. At the far end, caught on the brambles, a plastic carrier bag dances in the wind.

I’m going to have to bring her back this time, she says, She’s not fit to be left. Don’t suppose you could do me a favour, Brendan?

Now what could it be, I wonder? he says, following her gaze.

Anna goes to tuck her arm in his, stopping when she sees the oil on her hands.

My mother loves her garden, the birds especially, says Anna, Could you just tidy it up a bit? Maybe get a bird-table? Some pots? Make it look lived-in.

As opposed to died-in, he says, And how long have I got to effect this transformation?

Anna kicks at a clump of grass growing through the paving.

I’m hoping to bring her back in a day or two, she says, not daring to meet his eye.

I see. So I’m supposed to spend my weekend in the garden centre with a load of humbug-sucking geriatrics, while you go to the seaside. Can’t see what’s in it for me, he says.

Anna gives him a nudge.

They have geriatrics at the seaside too, Brendan, And you get to feed my squirrels.

His eyes flicker with distaste.

How tempting. I suppose your mother loves them, as well?

You’re joking, cries Anna, She uses a pump-action water pistol in her own garden if she gets even a sniff of one. Her aim is brilliant. She calls it ‘dispatch’.

Brendan considers for a moment. He stands in the centre of the path, squinting up at the trees and pale morning sky.

I like the sound of your mother, he says, But what if she won’t budge?

Forgetting the state of her hands, Anna rubs her fingers against her brow, pressing them into her eyes and dragging them down her face.

I’m taking no prisoners, she says, She’ll come back if I have to drag her by the hair.

Her face when she looks at him is fierce.

What’s so funny? she says, seeing Brendan’s grin, C’mon, share the joke.

Minnehaha wash off warpaint, he says, And then I’ll walk you to the station.

Lewis puts his hand between the doors and forces them, just as the driver is about to pull off. He gives Lewis a look, but thinks better of saying anything, and presses the release button to let him on.

Do you want that stowed? he asks, pointing at Lewis’s kitbag.

You’re alright, says Lewis, snatching his ticket and moving along the rows of seats. There are more people than Lewis expects at this time of the morning, and he takes them in immediately: a pair of elderly women at the very front, sitting on opposite sides and exchanging weather talk across the aisle; a teenage boy fussily putting an ear-piece into his ear and looking out of the window, down at his iPod—looking anywhere but at Lewis. Directly behind the boy are two Chinese girls, both wearing brown uniforms and serious expressions. Mid-way along, two workmen in overalls have their eyes closed and their mouths open. At the back of the coach, where Lewis is headed, he sees something which makes his heart miss a beat: a bent figure in a red lumberjack shirt. The man straightens up, unfolds his newspaper, and Lewis breathes again. It’s not Manny.

He puts his head against the window. The cold glass is welcome after the brisk walk to the bus station. Once they move onto the ring-road, Lewis takes off his jacket and throws it on the back ledge. He catches a glimpse of the stadium before the coach dips under the new fly-over. His return home to Cardiff has lasted only a week. He doesn’t want to go through it, but he knows he can’t not. As soon as he closes his eyes, he sees again the sun, shining like a searchlight through the trees, and the finger pointing at him, and the water lapping at his feet. He hears the cry of the wood pigeons; Don’t go, don’t leave me. Don’t go, don’t leave me.

He should have gone back to Manny’s and told him about it. Manny would have helped him through. He hears Manny’s voice, calm and low: You need to put this to bed, son. The dead can’t hurt you, only the living can hurt you. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Now, let’s go through it again.

He could have stayed at the site and waited for Carl to turn up. But Carl wasn’t going to turn up, was he? Not now he’d got himself a set of wheels. Thinking about the van, about the whole business of his return to Cardiff—that idiotic idea he had, of making his peace with his mother—Lewis is glad to be done with it. It wasn’t as if it were his van, anyway. Not as if his mother had wanted to see him. Going back was just another mistake.

It was an error, Lewis says, precisely and out loud, as if saying it will make it true. The man in the lumberjack shirt twists his head round and looks at him.

The early morning sky has lost its fresh pink light; chasing the bus to London is a bank of dirty grey cloud blowing from the west. Lewis isn’t noticing the weather: he’s focusing only on the pattern of graffiti scored into the head-rest of the seat in front of him. He’s putting his hand on the letters; he’s thinking of nothing.

TWO

From the end of the road, Anna sees her mother’s house, the last in a row of identical villas cutting a pale crescent around the edge of the promenade. The whole terrace, with its façade bleached and flaking and its salt-crusted windows, has the appearance of withered grandeur. Most of the houses are B&Bs, each with a Vacancies sign in the window. Some of the proprietors had made an effort for the summer, putting out pot-plants and hanging baskets, which now twirl straggled and limp in the breeze. It’s the dog-end of the season. The wind brings a fret off the ocean; not cold, but achingly damp. Despite being later than she’d planned, Anna walks slowly along the road, enveloped by the mist rolling in off the sea, and the fine, even light it brings. It makes the terrace look unreal, as if it’s about to float up off the pavement. Closer, this fantasy is soon dispelled; Anna can see that the cream-coloured front of her mother’s house is specked with grime, the railings need painting, and there’s a scuttled nest of litter in the basement. Her mother never did get that netting done. Aware that she’s being watched, Anna peers up into the bay window, shielding her eyes from the reflected sky, and sees a figure there. It takes a minute to recognize her mother: she looks like an old lady, one of the winter guests. Only the gesture she makes, that frantic, happy, child-like waving, gives her away. With her arm above her head, Anna mirrors the wave before negotiating the stone steps to her mother’s home.

Those steps are very slippery, mum, she says, taking off her coat and throwing it over one of the many armchairs in the room, You had a lucky escape.

She’s trying not to look at her mother’s face, which is bathed in light from the window. It wouldn’t surprise Anna if her mother had deliberately planned it, sitting where the daylight would make her bruises glow. She has one like a plum spreading over her eye, another curved round the edge of her chin, and a sharp red mark across the bridge of her nose. The moment Anna came through the door, her mother removed the sling from her arm to display yet more bruises, pink turning purple, from wrist to elbow.

I know, I’m lucky, aren’t I? says her mother, without irony, That’s what I told them at the hospital when they were doing the X-ray. The nurses said I must have bones like rubber. They were amazed that nothing’s broken. Except my glasses. Look, they’re in bits.

She takes the two halves of her spectacles from her lap to show Anna, holding them up and peering through one piece of the frame and then the other.

I can see much clearer now, she says, waggling her finger in the space where the lens fell out.

It’s not funny, says Anna, trying to keep a straight face.

It is! It’s a hoot. You should’ve seen it. Like a scene from The Birds, all the gulls bombing and diving and me flat out on the pavement. And that chap from two doors down comes running out and says, ‘Get indoors lady, they’re on the attack!’ What a carry on.

So were you just feeding the birds, then, mum? When you slipped?

Only a few scraps. And don’t call me mum. I’m Rita to the guests, so while you’re here, do me a favour—don’t go showing me up.

How many guests are there?

What on earth have you done? says her mother, staring at Anna’s head with a look of severe disapproval.

Caught out by this sudden switch, Anna runs a hand over her hair. She didn’t have time to dry it before getting on the train, but she thought she’d got rid of the engine oil.

Nothing, why?

Exactly, says her mother, It’s about time you had a bit of a cut and blow dry. A nice tint, maybe. Your father went prematurely grey, you know. He said it was all the worry—but genes will out.

There’s nothing wrong with my hair, mum. And I like the grey bit, she says, Makes me look . . . distinguished. Not at all like a skunk.

They both laugh at this. Anna’s grey is concentrated down one side of her head, a long line of silver in the black.

You’ll end up like me, says her mother, They show you all these cards with loops of hair on them, saying, Now Mrs C., would you like the hint of sable or the touch of gold? And guess what?

Anna laughs again. She knows this story well.

It always turns out blue.

Lilac, says her mother, Lilac, I ask you. Who in their right mind wants purple hair?

So, says Anna, refusing to be derailed, How many guests?

Her mother ignores the question, craning her head up at the ceiling and tutting to herself. Anna follows her gaze: there’s a crack running across the plaster, and directly above them, a series of large, blotchy brown stains. They’re sitting in the public room, which has been christened the Nelson Suite. A brass plaque has been put up on the door since Anna’s last visit, and a gilt-framed picture of the man himself hangs over the fireplace, but one look at the details tells her it’s all window-dressing.

We’ve got a foreign girl in, says her mother, Danish. Not a guest, mind, she’s doing the cleaning. She’s not much good. Can’t understand things. Cabbage likes her, though.

The woman who let me in? asks Anna, Blonde, about my age? I thought her English sounded perfect.

Her mother laughs, fingering the broken spectacles.

Your age? She’ll never see forty again. And I didn’t say she couldn’t speak English, just that she doesn’t understand things.

So how many rooms does this girl have to clean?

Her mother throws her a withering look.

If you must know, there’s only Cabbage staying at the moment. He’s hoping for a Christmas slot at the Pavilion. Fat chance of that. But now the new wind-farm’s up and running, there’ll be plenty wanting accommodation round here. They’ll be banging the door down. Men, Anna, she says, with a wriggle of her eyebrows, Lots of them, engineers and suchlike. So we have to stay open. I can’t be going anywhere.

The daughter watches the mother as she talks, letting the words—the familiar exclamations, the sudden laughs—wash over her. Looking closely, Anna tries to see what Vernon sees, what a guest, not knowing her, might notice: that white hair, the strong, weathered face, and those dark eyes. An old woman, but tough, for all that. Anna sees the tilt of her mother’s head, the slackening under the jaw. She thinks: I do that, now, that tilting thing; I have that way of smiling when I talk. I fold my hands like that. Perhaps it’s already too late to front her out.

Anna had got it all planned. The long, snaking train journey up the country had given her plenty of time to reflect. She saw there would be a clear choice: either her mother comes to stay in London, or Anna will have to look after her in Yarmouth. In her head, she’s inhabited the cackling laughter and wild shouting at the television, has pictured her mother trailing around after her, the constant interruptions of What are you doing? every five minutes, the endless, pointless cooking and cleaning. In this imagined future, Anna has already stepped back and watched as her mother has taken aim with her water pistol and blown the squirrels out of the trees. She’s prepared herself for a fight, but Anna’s been too long away: she hasn’t really considered that she might not win. Looking at her now, her plans seem hopeless.

But you had a good summer, didn’t you? she asks, knowing the answer.

Her mother looks at her narrowly.

A bonanza, she says, Absolute bonanza. What of it?

Well, Anna says, How many guests do you think you’ll have this winter?

Can’t imagine, says her mother, archly, Hundreds, I suppose.

Expecting this sort of fabrication, Anna agrees.

So it could be really busy, mum. How do you think you’ll manage?

I’ll manage same as always! I’m a bit bruised, dear, not on life-support. Then there’s Cabbage and the Danish girl. And it wouldn’t hurt you to put a hand in if you’re really that concerned about your poor mother. Not as if you’ve got a proper job to go back to, is it?

It’s no more than Anna expects, this line of attack, and brings with it a sharp stab of anxiety. She’s been freelance for nine months, having had, one January morning, what her mother would later describe as a blow-out: as if she were a car on the motorway, and could simply mend herself by getting towed to a garage. She’d been teaching at a college in the East End; was employed to cover general art and design, textiles, some graphics work. More often than not she’d be enlisted to take day-release classes—Brick 1, Mech Eng 3—or to supervise a class of schoolchildren who’d come in for the day to make a video. Her mother was thrilled when she’d got the job, after so many years of faffing about, as she put it, but her idea of education had been cultivated from repeated viewings of Goodbye, Mr Chips and an addiction, in the ’eighties, to Brideshead Revisited. It didn’t really include teaching family planning to a group of plasterers on a Friday afternoon. And Anna was no wiser than her mother, at the start. It wasn’t the security cameras, the passkeys and ID cards, nor was it the cynical disillusionment of the rest of the staff that ground her down: she thought she’d been employed to teach a subject. When that subject never actually emerged, she realized that she was there to do anything that the Head deemed necessary. Which mainly amounted to babysitting children from local schools and telling grown men how to have responsible sex. She lasted just one term, until the January morning when she woke up and couldn’t move. When she had her blow-out.

She didn’t want to tell anyone; not her mother, not even Brendan. Sometimes, when the phone rang and Anna couldn’t face the call, she left the answering machine on. She would stand in the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand and watch the light fade on the garden. Her mother’s voice, distorted by the old tape, would end her message with the same question: And how’s the teaching going, dear?

It was six months before she let on. By then, there were other things to occupy her mother: the summer season was in full flow; people were holidaying at home again instead of going abroad. It was an exceptionally busy time. Profits were up.

With this in mind, Anna broaches her proposal, wanting to get it over with: her mother doesn’t need to stay open over the winter, after such a good summer. But the moment she begins to form the words, the door opens; Vernon Savoy puts his head in the gap. The only other time Anna had met him, after a show on the pier at Great Yarmouth, he was sporting a handle-bar moustache. She’d thought it was part of the costume, that and the cravat and the waistcoat stretched over his girth. She sees now it’s all part of him. His hair, the colour of pewter, is combed back in a slick from his forehead, but the moustache is almost yellow. His waistcoat is paisley pink and purple, as if in sympathy with the shade of bruising on her mother’s face.

Deanna, he shouts, with an air of benevolence that Anna dislikes, We meet again!

The room fills with a scent of sweetness and dust, like dead roses. Afraid that Vernon might be about to do something ostentatious, perhaps attempt to kiss her hand, Anna locks her fingers together behind her back, edging round her mother as he takes up the whole of the bay window. Dropping down on one knee, he grasps the arm of the chair.

How are you, Rita? he says, whispering now.

Safe from his welcome embrace, Anna sits back down and absorbs this tableau: her mother pulls a handkerchief from inside her sling and puts it to her mouth. Now she is the fragile old lady, badly in shock.

I’ve asked Marta to bring some tea, says Vernon, You’d like some tea, wouldn’t you, Deanna?

I certainly would, Mr Savoy, nods Anna, playing her part, And Anna will do just fine, thank you.

If we’re into abbreviations, you must call me Vern, he says, plumping up a cushion in the window-seat before lowering himself onto it.

Call him Cabbage, says her mother, back to normal again, We all do. Don’t we, Cabbage?

Only you, my dear, he says, with a faint smile, Only you.

Anna squints at Vernon, trying to gauge his expression. Sitting in the window, his face now in shadow, he takes on a hazy silhouette. Anna draws a breath,

I was just about to suggest to my mother, she says, appealing to Vernon, That a short holiday would do her good.

Bones like rubber, says her mother, Did I tell you, Cabbage, what the nurses said? I don’t break, me, I bounce.

They also said—Vernon picks over his words, searching for the right emphasis—That you’ll need some assistance, my dear, what with your hip so badly bruised, and your arm out of action, so to speak.

He turns back to Anna, and with a jerk of his head, adds, She might enjoy a little holiday. I know I would.

Encouraged by this, Anna begins her speech. She looks from Vernon to her mother and back again.

I thought she might like to come and stay with me for the winter. To recuperate. I’ve fixed up the garden especially. It’s got a bird-table. It’s got . . . things. Things—in pots.

The word you’re searching for is plants, says her mother, And I believe we have such things in Yarmouth also.

Vernon rises from his cushion and takes in the room with a broad sweep of his arm. He’s in full character now.

But that’s stupendous, he says, so that both