The coastguard.
Ah.
They were thinking of sending out a boat, so I drove over to check things out.
I nod. At last his first arm is free. He flexes it, gratefully. I commence work on the second.
Georgie Hulton said he saw you in tears on the beach the other day. You were out walking Rogue. He said youd just been talking to your tenant a Mr Huff.
What a ridiculous name! I mutter, cheeks reddening. Mr Huff! Ill huff and Ill puff
Was he bothering you? Clifford demands.
Dont be ridiculous, I snort, it was windy. I got sand in my eyes, thats all.
Georgie said he called out to you but
I mustnt have heard him. I shrug.
Clifford says nothing and the second arm is soon freed. I step back, grinning. Clifford stands there in his vest. All plain and uncomplicated in his vest. I am so pleased, so relieved, to see that awful jumper finally gone, to see him back to his giant, scruffy but utterly pristine self. Pure now and unadulterated. I bend down and start scooping up the abandoned segments of jumper and suddenly, for no reason I can think of, I feel like like tearing at those expensive bits of luminous wool, throwing them down, cursing them, jumping on them. Instead I quickly carry them over to the bin (these dangerous and provocative pieces of knitwear) and am about to lift the lid and toss them in when Clifford appears behind me, pulling on his old khaki jacket and asks if he might possibly hold on to them, as a keepsake. Of course, I say, sorry. Of course you can. Of course you must. I pass them over. He is saying something about being late for a job. I nod. I say something about I dont know what exactly. He almost bumps his head into a reproduction ceiling beam. I walk ahead of him to the door. I am saying inconsequential things, about the farm, about his mother. Then he is gone.
I stand in the tiny hallway for a moment, still holding the scissors, scowling. Then I walk through to the kitchen again. My thoughts keep returning to Shimmy, what hed said about Shimmy. Has Shimmy visited the bungalow lately?
Strange. Whyd he say that? Whyd he ask that?
I cast my eyes around the room, frustratedly, irritably. It is then that I see an alien, little object on the edge of the counter-top. What ? I frown and draw closer. It is a tiny, wooden, Russian minaret, a humble thing, home-made, daubed in worn white and ochre and black. I pick it up, fascinated, and twist the small, stiff bulb which eventually comes loose to reveal hidden within a little selection of slightly rusty needles, pins and a small roll of faded threads.
Oh my goodness!
How utterly adorable!
Clifford Bickerton.
Clifford bloody Bickerton!
Never. Offer. Help. Carla. Hahn, I murmur.
9
Mr Franklin D. Huff
I dont know why, but I have the distinct feeling that Mrs Barrow knows more than shes letting on. When she arrived for work this morning (pristine gingham housecoat, Dr Scholl wooden sandals combined with thick tan tights, brown nylon A-line skirt, trusty emu-feather duster held incongruously aloft like the proud baton of a Marching Band leader) the whole cottage was still shrill with the hyperactive buzz of bluebottles.
I had found some brief respite, overnight, in the small, spare room (the box room as I casually refer to it) which seemed like the only place in the whole cottage not utterly overtaken (doused, eclipsed) by the rank odour of rotten fish. The flies were everywhere everywhere yet this was also the only place in the entire cottage that they didnt seem to feel especially drawn to. Not a single fly came in to pester me as I fitfully slumbered (or if they did, I had no inkling of it), although the door had somewhat stupidly been left ajar for the best part of the night after a lumbering visit to the bathroom.
I showed Mrs Barrow the damage (almost with a small measure of pride a secret hankering for approval: Mrs Barrow! Observe my suffering my confusion my persecution!).
The bin has been dumped on top of the Look Out. I pointed.
The bulb on the front porch is gone Presumed stolen.
A tiny pebble has been thrown through the bathroom window (Of course I didnt take her in there, the rabbit being hidden, temporarily, under an upturned washing-up bowl.)
And finally the Pièce de Résistance! I led her out on to the little back porch (the postage-stamp-sized and badly fenced scrap of garden to the fore; a lovely mess of blue and mauve: wild asters, bugloss, scabious and sea holly; cusping a sheer, thirty-foot drop to ground level, but still hemmed in from the beach proper by yet more dampness: some swampy common ground, the thin end of the not-so-Grand Military Canal, the road beyond and, of course, the sea wall) where the big fish is currently in situ on the old bench (which I broke the back slat of two days ago while removing a boot). She pinches her nose.
It was hidden in my suitcase under the bed, I explain.
She thinks for a short while. Youre sure as you didnt put it in there yourself, Mr Huff, she wonders, and then forget?
I am quite frankly incensed by this question.
What earthly reason dyou imagine I might have had for doing that? I demand.
She shrugs.
This is a shark, Mrs Barrow! How exactly do you expect I might go about acquiring a shark in these Godforsaken environs?
Oh I think youll find as theyre very common in these parts, Mr Huff, Mrs Barrow insists. When Mr Barrow worked out on the fishing boats we would eat sand shark very regular. Once or twice a week. Id have thought a cosmopolitan gentleman such as yourself, Mr Huff, might be quite partial to the odd plate of good quality shark meat.
I stare at her, astonished.
A nice bowl of shark fin soup, she persists. Surely them Mexicanos are all wild for shark fin soup.
Sharks fin soup is a Chinese delicacy, Mrs Barrow, I stiffly inform her.
Shark is very edible, Mr Huff, Mrs Barrow doggedly continues, wafting her hand gently in front of her face, although the mistake you made here, Mr Huff, was to leave the internal organs in place. Always be sure and gut a shark on the beach. Mr Barrow is oft wont to say that. She smirks. Then the gullsll kindly do the rest of the work for you.
I think you misunderstand me, Mrs Barrow I start off.
Or they makes a fine bait, she continues, if you can only bear the stink, mind.
She winces.
I have never eaten shark, Mrs Barrow, nor have I ever considered eating shark, I maintain.
Well if the urge ever takes you again, Mr Huff, might I suggest as you soak the gutted fish flesh in milk or bicarbonate, she volunteers. The worst of that honk is the ammonia, see ?
Again? If the urge ever takes me again?!
Like I say, I repeat, quite sharply, now, I have never eaten shark and I have never
Well you can eats it in all manner of ways, Mr Huff! she promptly eulogizes. Tastes just like mackerel, it does. You can have it fresh, frozen, dried. The liver is specially prized for its oil. A person can even make leather goods from the hide if they so feels the urge.
My point is
I just deep fries it in a nice, light batter, Mr Huff. Better still, after soaking the steak in milk, dip it in beaten egg, then a thin layer of flour, then pop it in a hot, oiled pan
While this is all very educational, Mrs Barrow
Or make yourself a plain stew, Mr Huff, with chopped carrots, onions, leeks, parsnips, potato
I fail to see how
nice tin of plum tomatoes
this has any relevance with regard to
Salt. Pepper. Basic stock. Bay leaf
the rotting carcass of a shark suddenly appearing
Celery. Did I forget celery?
as if by magic
Be sure to only throw in the diced fish at the last minute. Big handful of chopped parsley to serve
or or voodoo
Then hey presto, there you have it: sand shark stew, Mr Huff!
Gumbo, I interject (broken).
Pardon me, Mr Huff? Mrs Barrow looks a tad offended.
Gumbo, I repeat.
You can call it mumbo gumbo if you likes, Mr Huff Mrs Barrow is still more offended but a regular-sized sand shark such as this one here will provide a good hearty family meal, and without breaking the bank, neither.
No, no, gumbo, Mrs Barrow! Gumbo: an American fish and meat dish. A stew.
Oh. Mrs Barrow doesnt look convinced.
Although gumbo has plenty of garlic. And its generally accompanied by a handful of rice.
Mrs Barrows eyes widen in horror. Im afraid as Mr Barrow wont tolerate garlic, Mr Huff! Makes him belch something rotten, it does! Nor rice, neither, except in puddings of course, and even then he generally prefers some sago. He dont have no stomach for all that foreign muck, Mr Huff. A plain English stew is perfectly all right by him, thank you very much.
Mrs Barrow rocks back on her wooden soles, arms crossed.
Garlic is the mainstay of South American cuisine, I stolidly maintain, and it actually has many impressive anti-bacterial qualities I suddenly find myself listing them, almost as if the list itself will somehow validate the feelings of hurt and distress Im currently experiencing as a direct result of my perceived ill-treatment by the vindictive, bin-stealing, fish-hiding, garlic-hating people of the Great British Isle: Its good for wounds, Mrs Barrow, ulcers, colds, bladder problems
Mrs Barrow starts at the mention of bladder problems. Ill as thank you to please refrain yourself from trespassing into areas of such a deeply intimate complexion, Mr Huff! she exclaims, turns on her heel and heads back inside, affronted. I remain on the balcony for a second, momentarily nonplussed, then turn and follow. She disappears into various rooms and can be heard banging the wide open windows shut.
Dyou think its a good idea to be closing all the windows, Mrs Barrow? I call through. Isnt it better to give the flies every opportunity to disperse?
Mrs Barrow stomps back into the kitchen-diner, shaking her duster around. She marches into the sitting room, still wafting, and slams the window shut in there, too.
Mrs Barrow? I follow her into the room.
Mrs Barrow? Dyou not think it might be better if we ?
As I irritably address her I am slightly bemused to observe a series of skittish, disparate bluebottles suddenly unify and cohere (like a swarm of wild bees, or pre-roost starlings) on to an expanse of the whitewashed chimney breast behind Mrs Barrows shoulder, then doubly bemused nay, astonished to see them forming into a coherent shape. A large a large what? Uh An an X? Yes an uh Then they busily adjust, and the X well, it tips it tips on to its side and what were formerly the two horizontal lines are fractionally reduced to produce How fleeting is this moment? I blink. Nope. Nope. Still there still there
A kind of cross shape! An actual cross! Large as life! On the chimney breast! A big, black, buzzing cross!
The hairs on the back of my neck promptly stand on end.
Mrs Barrow is speaking.
There was none of em in the little room, she ruminates, did you happen to see that, Mr Huff?
She turns and double-checks that the window is properly shut. I merely gape. I am inarticulate. Does she even notice the deafening cross of flies right there immediately to her left? I lift my arm and start to point vaguely as the cross shifts again; a diagonal line forms between the top of the vertical line and the further reaches of the horizontal line to the left and a yes its now a four. A perfect four. A four!
Mrs Barrow finally satisfies herself that the window is properly closed, spins back around swishing her duster (like a hoity-toity priest on Palm Sunday condescending to scatter holy water on to the unwashed masses), disperses the flies, quite unthinkingly, then pushes past me and disappears once again into the back section of the cottage. Three seconds of silence, before:
Euceelyptus! she bellows, victorious.
Sorry?
I start to follow her. She is standing on the threshold to the small, box room.
In the little girls room! She points with her duster. Euceelyptus! Thats her smell. Well I never!
Mrs Barrow seems delighted. I push past her and step inside the room, sniffing.
Eucalyptus! Shes right. I have no idea why I didnt notice it before! Its stringent. Clean. And very powerful.
Well Carlas as told me on many an occasion how she cant abide the smell. Shes allergic! Disinfectant, see? She always says as the whole place is full of the scent of it. The little girls smell! Orlas smell. Although they was as thick as thieves when that poor child was still alive if you could call it a life, as such, she cavils, and it was no different then, neither. Not as Id know, mind. I was off in Dymchurch that entire summer nursing my sister-in-law God bless her soul who was down with the dropsy. Terrible it was for a while. We all thought as shed miss the birth of her first grandchild. She was quite frantic about it as I recall. Then she suddenly got herself better. Died one year later of a heart attack. But it was very quick. Blessedly so, Mr Huff.
Mrs Barrow crosses herself and heads back to the kitchen.
Euceelyptus! she chortles. Flies cant abide the smell of it! Wait till I tells Carla about this!
I remain in the room inhaling suspiciously and am soon drawn to my suit jacket which is slung over the back of a small, rickety whitewashed chair by the bed. I check the pockets (pure instinct) and draw out several handfuls of leaves eucalyptus leaves. Eucalyptus leaves! Remember? From my little Hastings misadventure?
Mrs Barrow? I yell through, but am interrupted by a scream. Mrs Barrow has finally discovered the little rabbit in the bath.
Its a rabbit, Mrs Barrow! I yell. Just a rabbit a dwarf variety.
Mrs Barrow comes storming back through. We has a strict no-pets policy, Mr Huff! she chastises me, hands on hips. Its right there in the contract: large print! Miss Hahn could happily evict you for less!