‘Jesus fuck, Cam. What’s with the clock?’
Cam reached for his pouch of tobacco from the detritus on the table.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Geren stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t tell me. It’s your bird, isn’t it? You’re waiting to get your end away!’
‘Piss off.’
Geren laughed. ‘Pool?’ He gestured at the table which had just come free.
Cam checked the time again – an hour to go – and nodded.
‘I reckon you don’t give a shit if we don’t get out to sea.’ Geren bent for the triangle and started to fill it with balls from the pockets. ‘I mean, who’d work when you’ve got a new bit of skirt to lift?’
Davy sniggered.
Cam took hold of a cue and chalked the end. ‘And when was the last time you got laid, Davy Garnett?’
Geren laughed.
Davy shot Cam a glare. ‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Your bird isn’t all that.’
Cam raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘As if a girl like her would ever look at a little git like you.’
‘You reckon? I heard she’ll drop her knickers for any bastard.’
‘Whatever,’ Cam said under his breath. He turned his back on him and placed the cue ball on the worn-through spot on the faded baize. Davy could be a proper dickhead when he wanted to be, but Cam didn’t give a shit what he thought, and had learnt to ignore his bleating years ago.
‘Sounding a bit jealous there, Davy lad.’ Geren lit a cigarette and squinted as the smoke rose. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. You won’t be a virgin forever.’
Davy turned puce. ‘I’m not a—’
But his protestations were drowned out by laughter from Geren, Cam, and a number of men nearby. Davy slouched back on his chair, face cloudy, arms folded like a sulky child.
Cam signalled for his friend to play first.
Geren took a drag on his cigarette and placed it on the ashtray before bending and looking down the cue to line up his shot. He drew his arm back and played his shot. ‘Anyway, this little bird only has eyes for our Cameron Stewart. True love for sure.’ He tilted his head and winked at Cam in a rare moment of warmth.
Geren could be a dick – he wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea – but he was the best friend Cam had. When Cam’s dad drowned, Geren had been there in a way nobody else had and Cam would never forget that. Beneath the bullshit he was loyal and honest, and the best fishermen Cam knew, a natural who lived and breathed for the sea and had no fear of it. Unlike Cam, he fished because he loved it. Cam had never thought to do anything else. Like most of those from local families, fishing was in Cam’s blood so he never questioned it. He always knew he’d be a fisherman like the generations before him. The Stewarts originated from Scotland. It was Cam’s great-grandfather who brought them to Cornwall, when he’d returned from the war-ravaged battlefields of France and found the fishing industry in Peterhead in decline. The Cornish were desperate for crew to keep up with a thriving pilchard industry, so he packed his bags and headed south, found a spot on a boat, met a girl from Penzance, and stayed.
‘Did you know she used to go out with that Cardew prick?’ Geren struck the cue ball hard to send the others ricocheting off in all directions, sinking two balls. He grinned.
‘Who told you that?’ Cam was taken aback by the violent jealousy which stabbed him in the gut.
‘Her mate. Vicky, isn’t it? She was telling Gem all about it. How he took Hannah for a meal at this poncy place up near Truro. Said it cost over a hundred quid.’ He shook his head. ‘A hundred fucking quid? I said to Gem, don’t you get any fucking ideas, girl. Jesus, that guy’s always been a little prick.’ Geren walked around the table, assessing his options, and puffing on his cigarette.
Nathan Cardew had been at primary school with them, same year, before his parents decided mixing with the likes of Geren and Cam wasn’t good enough for their precious boy. He had a tough time because of his habit of telling tales. Cam never understood why kids like Nathan made life so hard for themselves. Who wants to be a grass? Why choose to give the name of the boy who’d drawn cocks on the toilet walls rather than just keep your mouth shut? Was it worth the grief? But Cam didn’t care then and he didn’t care now. Geren was right, he was a prick. Cam should ignore him, but the thought of him with Hannah was enough to drive him insane. He needed to get out and fish. Needed money to take her out, somewhere nice, somewhere the waiters wore ties and lit candles and called them sir and madam when they brought out their steaks.
Geren potted the black and celebrated his win by giving Cam a dead arm. There was too much pent-up energy there. He needed a vent. Geren lived for the moment and was single-minded in his hunt for adrenalin, whether that was at sea or driving his bike too fast, filling his body with drugs and drink, or squaring up for a scat at the slightest provocation. At school he’d been in and out of the headmaster’s office for anything and everything, from smoking on the roof to swearing in class to drawing cocks on the toilet walls. Geren was finally expelled a few months before CSEs and left with an insolent shrug and a fist through a window. Predictable unpredictability ran through Geren like a vein of quartz.
They played another game of pool and at ten to five Cam finally said his goodbyes amid a barrage of good-natured jeering. He smothered a grin and nodded, before zipping his jacket and thrusting his hands into his pockets and pushing out of the door.
The rain had stopped but the wind still whipped the streets as he walked down towards the bakery. He thought of his father and the night he died. Weather like this. Stormy and dark. What must it have been like for him out there? He’d been in the engine room below deck when the trawler capsized. No way out. Martin had been on deck and was thrown into the sea and had somehow managed to claw his way onto the exposed hull where he’d lain in the pitch black, exhausted and shivering, listening to Scotty calling for help and banging on the metal which separated them. Martin once told him, after too many drinks, how the sound of his father’s desperate banging would haunt him for the rest of his life. There wasn’t a man or woman in Newlyn who hadn’t lost a loved one to the sea. And all for a bit of haddock? It was a mug’s game, but then again, what else was he good for?
Cam arrived at the bakery and pressed his nose against the window. He was a few minutes early. With previous girlfriends he would never have wanted to appear too keen, but with Hannah he no longer cared. He wanted her to know how serious he was. He wanted her to know that he’d never been keener on, or more serious about, anything before in his life. He had developed a ravenous appetite for her. The more of her he consumed, the less full he felt. Sometimes he wanted to swallow her whole so she’d be there inside him forever.
Despite the biting chill a warmth spread through his body from the pit of his stomach as he looked in on the brightly lit shop and watched her stacking empty crates and chattering nineteen to the dozen to someone unseen out back. He thought about the softness of her and the feel of her breath on the skin of his neck. He tapped on the glass. She looked up and beamed at him. Then she turned and leaned through the door which led through to the back of the shop, saying goodbye, Cam presumed, to her dad. She smiled at Cam again, then lifted her apron over her head, hung it up and buttoned her coat. She burst out of the shop and jumped into his arms, kissing him over and over as if she might never stop.
‘I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you,’ she said between kisses, her breath smelling faintly of mint.
Her joy enveloped him and his whole body stirred. ‘I’ve missed you too.’
They walked down to the harbour hand in hand and she told him all about her day. Every now and then she’d skip as she walked, her fingers stroking his, looking up at him with that smile of hers, something akin to wonder in her eyes. Hannah was made of goodness. She was uncontaminated, as if nothing bad had ever happened to her and this stroke of good fortune had rendered her pure, and her pureness was a salve which made him stronger.
They walked down the jetty to where his boat was docked. The boat was where they went when they wanted to be alone to kiss and talk and enjoy each other’s company away from the Garnetts. He’d bought it a few years ago, when he was drunk, for a hundred pounds from a guy in the pub who was drunker. It took him eighteen months to get it seaworthy, and there was still much to do – a repaint, a cracked window to replace, some brand new seat covers would be nice – and he loved it. The boat was his own space to retreat to when he needed to be alone. Or when he needed to be with Hannah.
He’d been down that morning and hosed the deck down, washing the dirt and fish bits out of the scuppers and making it all as clean as he could. He’d put some beers in the cool box, and grabbed a couple of blankets and a sleeping bag, and packed them all in the chest on board.
When they reached the boat, he climbed on and held out his hand.
‘Be careful,’ he said, ‘the rain’s made it slippery.’
They kissed as soon as they were both on board. Sheltering in the tiny wheelhouse and leaning back against its flimsy wall.
‘You know,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. All day. I was wrapping saffron buns earlier and all I could think about was sex!’
‘When you were wrapping saffron buns?’ He bent to kiss the curve of her neck.
She tilted her head to let him. ‘It’s true! And once I’d thought it I couldn’t unthink it. So basically I’ve been thinking about sex all day. Literally. Didn’t matter what I was doing, I was thinking about sex.’ She drew back and looked at him seriously for a moment. ‘Is that what they mean when they say men think about it twenty-four seven? Like you actually do? I never really believed them.’
He laughed. ‘Who’s them?’
‘You know. Them. People who say things.’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, though, it must be knackering for you all. Poor sods. I had to have a sit down with an emergency doughnut at two just to get through the afternoon.’
‘It is exactly that,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Knackering.’
‘And to think we let you operate heavy machinery and fly planes.’
Her attention was grabbed by something behind him. She reached over his shoulder, the soft skin of her upper arm brushing his cheek. He turned his head to kiss it.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I keep looking at this and wondering what it is.’
He looked at what had caught her eye and saw she was holding the screw top jar that he kept on a small shelf to the side of the wheel. It was filled with clear liquid in which opaque crystals hung suspended in a gently shifting amorphous mass.
‘It’s a storm glass. My dad gave it to me.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘It predicts the weather.’
She stared at it, tipping it upside down and watching the crystals tumble like snowflakes.
‘It’s got a mix of different chemicals in it, ethanol and others I don’t know. Some guy a hundred years ago made them for the fishing folk who kept being lost in storms they didn’t know were coming. There was a fancy one, made of wood and brass, in the pub until about ten years ago when someone nicked it. My dad made this one when I was lad. It’s old but I keep it with me because it reminds me of him.’
‘Does it work?’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think so. If it’s clear it means it’ll be fine, if the crystals hang in threads there’ll be a gale. These,’ he said, gesturing at the jar, ‘all clumped together like that, mean a storm’s coming. But they don’t ever change that much, if I’m honest. Seems there’s always been a storm coming, right from when he gave it to me.’
Hannah placed the storm glass back on the ledge.
‘They were like that the night my dad drowned.’ Cam thought about that night. Recalled sitting on his bed staring at the crystals thick in the jar, the wind and rain lashing against his bedroom window, his stomach turning over and over as he thought of his dad out at sea.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘That must have been awful.’
He shrugged. ‘Fishermen drown.’
She stood up on tiptoes and kissed him, wrapping her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and pulling him to her. He felt tears on her cheeks and drew back and saw silver tracks glinting in the harbour light.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing can happen to you, OK? You have to stay safe. Promise me.’
He gently dried her tears then kissed her again, but this time harder, as if it was the most important thing he would ever do. His father, the storm glass, the biting cold, the lads going stir-crazy in the pub, all of it was forgotten. She took hold of his hand and placed it on her breast. He moaned and leant close until their faces were only millimetres apart, their breathing in time, her breath hot and sweet on his skin.
‘We’re going to freeze,’ she whispered.
He grinned and walked over to the back of the boat where he lifted the lid on the built-in chest. He pulled out two life jackets and passed them to her. ‘Pillows,’ he said, as he grabbed the blanket and tarpaulin, two cans of lager, and a heavy musty-smelling sleeping bag.
The air hummed with distant sounds of people arriving at the pub after work, and as he spread out the tarpaulin on the deck and laid the blanket on top, she unzipped the sleeping bag.
‘We’re going to die of actual hypothermia,’ she said, as she shimmied out of her jeans and slipped beneath the sleeping bag. ‘We should have got together in the summer.’
He lay beside her and pulled up the sleeping bag so everything was covered but their heads. ‘If I die of hypothermia tonight, I’ll die a happy man.’
They kissed, losing themselves in it, bodies warm where they touched. Cam concentrated on every detail, committing it all to memory, stored with perfect clarity so it would be there like an easily accessible photograph for the lonely hours back at sea. He wanted it all, the sweat, his bristling body, the sound of the waves, the smell of musty sleeping bag mixed with the unique smell of her – pungent body spray, her shampoo, a hint of the bakery – which tunnelled into him.
‘My a’th kar,’ she said softly, her voice breaking into his thoughts.
‘What?’
‘You don’t speak Cornish?’
He laughed. ‘Do you?’
‘A few words. Mum taught me.’
‘Say what you said again.’
‘My a’th kar.’
‘What does it mean?’
She smiled. ‘I love you.’
The words shot through him like an electric shock and he stiffened.
She flushed pink and began to chew on her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘No, no. It’s…’ His chest had tightened so much he couldn’t breathe. ‘God. I mean… Really? You feel that?’
‘Yes. Of course. But if it’s going to mean you won’t have sex with me I can unsay it.’
‘No. Don’t unsay it,’ he whispered. ‘I love you too. I do, Hannah. I mean it. I love you so much.’
Then she kissed him. He slipped his hand beneath her sweater and stroked her skin which was peppered with goosebumps. She lifted his sweater and pressed her warm lips against his aching body. He groaned softly.
His desire was momentarily interrupted by the dread in his stomach.
He swore.
‘What?’
He swore again. ‘Fuck. Fuck. I haven’t got a condom. I meant to go to the chemist but I forgot. Jesus. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh.’ Her voice was thick with disappointment. ‘So we can’t do it?’
He hit the deck of the boat with his fist.
‘Let’s do it anyway. Just…’ She hesitated. ‘Come out. Before you… you know.’
He didn’t reply for a moment or two. They couldn’t. It wasn’t worth the risk. But then her hand went to his crotch and she stroked him gently as she ran the tip of her tongue over his lips.
‘Yes,’ he rasped. ‘Yes. OK.’
Chapter Nine
Hannah
I’d woken early, so slipped out to walk Cass while Nathan and Alex were still sleeping. On my return I can hear them shouting at each other from across the fields. I glance at my watch. It’s not even seven-thirty and yet here they are, already at each other’s throats. There’s a crash and I swear under my breath as I break into a half-jog and cross the lawn to the back door. When I walk in they glance at me briefly before returning their attention to each other. Nathan’s mouth is set in a tight, thin-lipped grimace. Alex is red-faced, nose flaring, chest heaving up and down. I scan the kitchen for what might have caused the crashing noise, but can’t see anything out of place.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask when neither offers any explanation for their fight.
Nathan’s face contorts into a grotesque snarl. He is about to speak but Alex blurts his words out first.
‘He wants to take my phone.’
Jesus. Really? This is about a phone? I purse my lips and take a breath in an effort to conceal my exasperation, which will only infuriate Nathan and make Alex more defensive, and certainly won’t help de-escalate the argument.
Nathan’s fist clenches. ‘For God’s sake! I’m not taking his phone. He—’
‘You are though! You just said it.’
‘This is ludicrous. I didn’t say I was going to take it; I said I didn’t want to see him on it at the awards ceremony this evening. And then he exploded and now here we are. If he’d been reasonable to start with then we wouldn’t have got to this. He completely overreacted, and was incredibly rude and aggressive, and he has to understand there are consequences. Now he loses his phone and that’s his own lookout.’ Nathan stares hard at Alex with unveiled challenge. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell your mother I walked up to you and tried to confiscate your phone just like that?’
Alex’s brow furrows as he retraces the steps of their argument. His confusion is familiar. It’s impossible to argue with Nathan who is as slippery as wet soap and will twist and manipulate every word uttered, then add questions, an incredulous tone, wrap it all up in lawyer-speak, and blind you with a rewritten version of what you clearly remember, leaving you speechless with self-doubt.
‘That’s not true,’ Alex tries, ‘you said I wasn’t allowed to take it tonight and I asked why, and then the next thing you said was you’d confiscate it. I said no and you said I couldn’t have it back.’
‘That’s not how it went, Alex. You know that full well. As if I would take your phone because you asked for simple clarification. You’ve not only misremembered but I find it hurtful you’d think I would do something like that. You spoke to me rudely and without respect. You didn’t look me in the eye. You snapped. You showed absolutely no interest in what is, I’ll be honest, a very important evening for me. But all that’s irrelevant now. The fact you’ve got so worked up, that you’ve managed to get yourself into this hysterical state, supersedes the original grievance. You’ve proven how addicted you are to that damn contraption and, well, I’m afraid I can’t trust you not to look at it tonight. The last thing I want is my son at the town hall, in front of the mayor no less, glued to a screen like a dysfunctional zombie.’
Alex’s mouth moves silently as his fists open and close at his sides like a pair of beating hearts.
I step towards Nathan. ‘I’m sure Alex wouldn’t have looked at his phone during the—’
Nathan interrupts me with a scornful snort.
Alex juts his chin forward, eyes narrowing to slits beneath his heavy brow. ‘It’s my phone.’
‘You paid for it, did you? And it’s you who pays for the monthly line rental?’
Alex hesitates and glances at me, but all I can do is lower my gaze.
‘It was a birthday present,’ he says quietly, his voice wavering.
‘You know, I think—’
‘Be quiet, Hannah. This has nothing to do with you. I told you we shouldn’t get him a phone and I was right. A whole generation of children are unable to have conversations or look people in the eye. They have no attention span, no opinion that isn’t force-fed to them. I can’t risk him sitting in the corner staring at his phone at the ceremony. How would that look? How would that reflect on me?’ He reminds me of a politician giving a stirring address at a rally, with neat, disorienting soundbites, an assertive thumb, and bulldozing arrogance. ‘I want him to be a young man we are proud of. Not just another entitled, disengaged snowflake who believes life owes him everything on a polished silver platter.’
‘Nathan, please. Stop now,’ I say wearily. ‘Alex needs to get to school.’
‘Stop now? You have a problem – Hannah – with how I’m parenting him? You think I don’t have the right to discipline him in my own home? Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’
There’s something buried in his words. An accusation. I straighten myself and face him, about to speak, about to placate him, but he silences me with a raised hand like a policeman directing traffic, then holds his other hand out towards Alex. ‘Give it to me.’
‘No!’
‘Give me your phone or I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’
‘Alex,’ I say calmly. ‘Give him the phone. You can have it back tonight.’
‘He’ll have it—’
‘He’ll have it back tonight, Nathan.’
Alex’s hand twitches. He looks from me to Nathan and back at me. I give him a nod of encouragement and a small, almost undetectable, smile. He hesitates, then looking as if he might kill both of us, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and thrusts it into Nathan’s outstretched hand.
Nathan smiles with undisguised triumph. ‘Thank you. Now get yourself to—’
‘I hate you.’
I watch in horror as Nathan is possessed by a scorching anger which distorts his features and turns him ugly.
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard.’
‘You hate me?’ breathes Nathan. ‘For what? For providing you with a beautiful home? Food? Money for things you want? Giving you a phone and paying the bill each month? You hate me for caring what you do with your life?’
‘Please. Both of you. Enough.’ Though my voice is firm, I can’t disguise its tremor. I walk to Alex and rest my hand on his arm, and as I do I’m filled with self-loathing. I should be taking his side, defending him, but I know from years of experience there’s no point. You cannot win against Nathan. He’s too good. Too well practised. So instead of standing up for my son, I tell him to apologise.
‘What? Why? He’s—’
‘You need to say sorry.’ I drill my words into him. ‘You cannot speak to your father like that.’
‘But—’
‘Now!’
The sudden shout makes Alex flinch and I immediately regret it. I can’t remember the last time I raised my voice to him. The shock on his face is clear but fleeting, as he rapidly regathers himself and turns back to Nathan.
They stare at each other for a moment or two, tomcats sizing each other up, both wound tight and waiting to see who’ll pounce first. But then Alex appears to relax. His fists unclench. He gives a half-smile and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to apologise.’
He picks up his school bag and slings it over his shoulder before reaching for the kitchen door. I say his name, but he ignores me. Then the door closes behind him and he’s gone.
I move to follow him, but Nathan grabs me. His fingers dig into my arm.
‘Leave him. You said he needs to get to school. Well, he can get himself to school this morning.’
‘He doesn’t have bus money.’
Nathan smiles. ‘Then he’ll have to walk, won’t he?’
Tears threaten and I breathe deeply to stem them.
‘I have to say, that wasn’t the start to the day I needed. Maybe if you’d been here when he woke up this morning, rather than out having a jolly walk, he might not have lost his temper like that.’ Nathan tugs on the cuffs of his shirt, puts his suit jacket on, and brushes himself down. ‘He’s been difficult for a while, but his behaviour is definitely getting worse. Do you have any idea what’s got into him?’
