Theres this small pub on the island: the Pilchard Inn the pilchard used to swim these waters, way back, but now the Gulf Stream has shifted and theyve taken to foaming further afield; theyre canny. Its three hundred years old. Balanced precariously half-way up the one and only pot-holed, sharp-tilted road which staggers dejectedly from the beach to the hotel.
Theres this small pub on the island: the Pilchard Inn the pilchard used to swim these waters, way back, but now the Gulf Stream has shifted and theyve taken to foaming further afield; theyre canny. Its three hundred years old. Balanced precariously half-way up the one and only pot-holed, sharp-tilted road which staggers dejectedly from the beach to the hotel.
Mud-coloured inside, with big fish jaws on the walls and stuffed birds. Smells of dust and treacle. The owners nephew still runs it. Keeps it ticking over. Twenty-five. A tragic soak. Stinks like brandy and dry-roasted nuts. Huge, brown eyes (a thyroid problem, but lets not spoil it). A dark heart. They call him Black Jack. Like the card game (Ive never played it).
Barely speaks a word. Caters to the tourists. Resents our presence like a rat resents Rentokil. He is literally filthy. Naturally I have it in mind to seduce him. Or for him to seduce me. Come on, the mans a modern Heathcliff with his catatonic dial, his cat-gut breath, his loose, lardy belly (So Im only four inches taller. I picture it as an act of revenge, on his part. Well hell. Beggars cant be choosers).
In the absence of all other island staff, Jack has been temporarily placed in charge of the Sea Tractor a mythological machine in these parts: half bird, half monster, which, when the tide is high and the conditions are tolerable, we use to ferry post and people and provisions one way and another.
It is his pride. Seven-foot-wide wheels attached to twelve-foot-tall stilts. On top, a kind of oily, open-sided tram carriage. It chugs through the water like a superannuated steamroller.
I have cunningly been employing monosyllabic Jacks passion for this vehicle in my four-pronged attack on his affections. Last week I cleaned it. This week Im expressing an interest in its rudimentary mechanics. Ive invited him out fishing (Im a dab-hand, me). And all the while I bore him with tales of our time on Soames Island in Wellington harbour, New Zealand. He loves it.
(Jack has this fantasy about turning our current crummy bolt-hole into some kind of nature reserve. Hes a nutter. He likes to mutter about the surf and stuff. Hes into Polynesian culture. He even has a Maori tattoo.
The man is plainly out of his tree. I mean, how does he plan to keep nature reserved on a place part-connected to the mainland? In truth hes nothing more than a tragic booze casualty, but somehow, in some way, he brings out the nasty, sexy, six-foot Nurse Nightingale in me.)
This particular morning I find him standing on an overturned bucket, poking his nose into the ancient inns low-slung but very clogged-up gutters. Its still high tide. Were cut off. The coast is clear. And luckily my extra inches mean I dont have to yell up at him.
Need a hand? I whisper.
He jumps and scowls. Why did God make you so obliging?
Side-on he looks like Gene Wilder. But no perm. I say nothing. (What do I know of Gods intentions?) Instead I peer through a window then saunter down the hill a way.
So whos the freak in the balaclava? he asks. He cant help himself. He wants me. I stop sauntering.
Balaclava?
Five this morning, I brought him over on the tractor. Your dad was spitting fucking tacks.
I shrug. I am mesmerized by the sheer sum of words spilling out of him.
Sorry, I finally manage again, you said balaclava?
Then not ten minutes since, he continues, I saw him carrying a shitload of chicken wire
He points to the hazy summit past the old croquet lawn, towards the Herring Cove a sumptuous grass-strewn rise glimmering with an obscene verdancy in the early summer shine (the cliffs crash beyond it, all chalk and shag).
That way.
Jesus, the man is almost trippy.
He peers again, And there he goes
I walk back towards him, up the hill. Once I reach his level I stretch my neck. Sure enough, I see a black-headed creature processing regally along the horizon, arms full of silver.
Chicken wire? Whered he get that from?
And hes got some old lavender, Jack observes almost squinting, and a fucking tonne of blue grass Still in his balaclava, note. The twat.
You know what? Hes been here all of three hours or something and already the bastards appropriating. Hes re-inventing. Hes running bloody riot. Collecting chicken wire for no known reason, and gathering lavender. Wearing a balaclava.
Oh, so hes softened you already with the chin thing, has he? You think I didnt notice? You have a handsome chin. You think that didnt impact? This man is clever, certainly. But I am single-minded, oestrogen-fuelled and cunning.
Right. So he sees me coming from way off and is courteous enough to stand waiting. As I draw closer I am panting a little and wet-legged from the dew (Im resolutely bare-footed my soles are like emery boards. You can strike matches off them. We do it all the time in winter), I see that the balaclava has no nose or mouth holes, although the wools much darker where the mouth and nose should be. Wet. Sweaty.
And the chicken wire?
He stares at me, hazel-eyed. My words hang in the air a while. Soon theyre flapping like old underwear on a windy washing line.
And the chicken wire?
He blinks.
Oh. Was that a question you just asked me?
(Imagine his words, all tight and clipped and southern hemispherical, but completely ensnared by woollen weave Uh. Gnah, gnah, gnah, gnah, gnah, gnah, gnah, gnah hi?)
Sorry, I lie. I cannot understand what youre saying through your mouth.
He still looks quizzical.
Sorry, he answers eventually, I cannot hear what youre saying through my ears.
He proffers me the bunch of blue grass. I stare at it, impassively.
Are you offering that grass to me?
He nods.
And the chicken wire?
No. Thats mine. I have need of it.
I take the grass. He grunts his satisfaction at our transaction then strolls away.
Thank you, I finally yell, but hes already twelve steps down the hill. I inspect the bunch then look up.
Four foot off, perched on the clifftops, two jackdaws are quietly watching. Heads cocked, beaks glinting. I tickle my nose self-consciously with the grasss silver, whispy flower-heads, my eyes still fixed upon them.
Suddenly they lift and plummet, peeling like bells. I stiffen. Perhaps Im paranoid, but I honestly get the impression they might be laughing at me. I drop the grass that very instant (well, almost immediately), and calmly kick it over the cliff and down and down and down, into the sea.
The mean-beaked, dirty-vented, scraggy-feathered sods.
Chapter 4
I corner Patch in the Ganges Room. She likes to hang out there sometimes with Feely. Its actually the front half of an old ship (the Ganges, circa 1821, you nerd), the captains cabin, to be precise, but sawed off and just kind of tacked on to the hotel dining-room, with a steering-wheel (not period) dug into the dark timber floor, and portholes and old wooden benches and ancient photos on the walls and everything. A view out to sea.
Patch props Feely on a box and he steers. She stands right beside him, daydreaming. I creep up behind them, minutely galled by their gentle companionability.
Wheres he taking you? I whisper, over her shoulder.
Patch jumps from her deep reverie. What? she almost pants.
Tobago, Feely answers curtly.
And then what? Swordplay? Pillaging? Piracy?
He turns and gives me a serious look. Youre making too much of things, he says gently. Its only imaginary.
(Who the hell made this child so snotty?)
Patch sniggers and Feely steers onward, rather smugly.
After a canny minutes silence (as if in quiet tribute to Feelys considerable skills as navigator and helmsman), I clear my throat, then let the little shit have it. This isnt Tobago, you dunce, I pronounce firmly. Its Newfoundland. What the heck is up with your geography?
Geography? He echoes, blinking repeatedly. I have entered his world.
Its Newfoundland! I repeat, then gasp, as if only now fully comprehending the shimmering blue-green vista which unfolds right before me.
Feely shakes his head. Hes seeing orange skies and sandy shores and parrots in flocks and pine trees. Its Tobago.
Nope.
Its Tobago.
Nope.
Its Tobago.
Whatever you say.
He pauses. He turns.
Its Tobago!
I smile pityingly, Of course it is, Feely.
He jumps from the box, his face stricken. Its Tobago!
Whatever you think, little man.
(Little man is, of course, the final blow.)
He runs off, screaming.
Proud at having done my sisterly duty, I kick the box aside, grab the wheel and steer Patch and me straight into the heart of the tropics.
Ah, Tobago! I croon.
(Ever seen it? Me neither.)
Patch has sat down, meanwhile, on a bench beneath a port-hole and is gnawing at her thumbnail. She clearly has much on her twelve-year-old mind.
I glance over. You look exceptionally porcine, I inform her.
I hate you, she answers cheerfully. She doesnt exactly know what porcine means. But shes probably in the area. Shes a bright kid. Reads far more than is properly healthy.
You hate my hormones, not me, I enlighten her, and in one years time, you too will be a monster.
Balls.
I let go of the wheel and slither over.
So tell me all about the new man, I whisper. The interloper.
She shrugs. Shes not having any of it.
Jack says when he arrived this morning Big was spitting fucking tacks. I quote directly.
Patch wriggles her toes. I dont know about that, she says, then pauses, but I do know (The child wants my tall teen approval so desperately) that hes bedding down way up on the top floor. And when Big showed him a room, he double-checked the cupboard space, but insisted there wasnt sufficient reach, so strode next door and claimed the neighbouring suite instead. The big one at the end with the hole in the roof.
Im impressed. The man is saucy.
Yes.
Has he much baggage?
Psychologically, perhaps I mean hes a white South African but literally, none. A tiny suitcase and a very small guitar.
(This chubby pup is facetious beyond belief.) Was he wearing the balaclava?
Initially.
Any reason given as to why?
None.
I mull a while. And did he mention his name?
Patch shrugs, I didnt catch it. Something stupid. French-sounding. Double-barrelled.