The Visitor (2 page)

‘Hello,' she said.

He sat by the hearth. It had been so warm they hadn't had to light a fire in this room for months. She was his height and when she went to his side she could see his scalp had reddened after another day in the sun. She bent down and unlaced his boots. As she eased them from his feet sand sprinkled onto the floor. She felt the need to smooth it on the flags, like salt to lay the fish on. Like before.

‘All right?' he said. He was staring at her.

‘Hm?'

He proffered his hands. She rubbed them, easing each hot, swollen knuckle. His hands were softer now he didn't put to sea. Watching the younger men go could soothe skin if not bone.

When he could uncurl his fingers a little she went to the kitchen and lit the stove. He followed her and sat at the table, watching her set the supper things. He hadn't brought anything home from the harbour but she didn't mention it. Some days he had something from Matthew Tiddy, their neighbour's son, or their own son George if Jack would take it from him. Cradling a bit of pollock or whiting wrapped in newspaper, Jack would lay the fish delicately on the table, as if it were a baby. She knew how he needed to hold the fish in his stiffened hands. It was more than the taste. But today the table was empty. There were some cooked potatoes left from yesterday she could fry. She wasn't hungry. She put the kettle on to boil.

‘That was some to do today,' he said.

‘What was?'

‘You didn't see?'

‘No. I was here all day. That darning.' She looked for the potatoes.

‘Well,' Jack said, ‘the palace was open. There were people inside, taking measurements.'

‘Really?' She saw the palace bright with silver fish, women bent over buckets of salt. A song played at the edge of her thoughts.

She couldn't find the potatoes. She was sure there were some left. She'd put them next to the fat ready to cook today. Only they weren't there. No bother. She'd cook some fresh. The kettle began to sing.

She moved around the kitchen without thinking. Her hands knew the exact distance from table to stove to the back of the chair. Her feet felt the grooves and lumps of the rough floor, rolling and lifting as if dancing across its contours.

‘Are they going to open the palace again?' she asked.

‘Seems so. I always said the fish would come back. It was foolish to stop.'

She filled the teapot and left it to brew. ‘But there's nothing left,' she said. Turning back to the stove he caught her hand and held it. His eyes were as washed out a blue as when he was a boy.

‘You'll see,' he said.

She was about to speak when there was a shout from outside. The kitchen window looked directly onto the street. A group of young men passed by, so close they could see in. Strangers. As they went by the front door on their way to the seafront there was jostling and the sound of someone being knocked into the door, then laughing as the door swung open. A gangly man sprawled onto the kitchen floor, all legs and elbows. There was cheering from the street. He struggled to his feet while she and Jack stood motionless.

The man seemed suddenly to realise where he was. He took in the stove, the table, Jack's curled hands and mouth set in a grim line.

‘Sorry,' the man mumbled, and dove back onto the street. His friends cheered again. Pearl pushed the door shut and locked it, then poured the tea.

First thing in the morning Jack went to the seafront, as he did most days. He went to watch the few fishing boats that still went out and to chew over the changes in Morlanow with the rest of those who'd stopped fishing. There were more men on the front than in the boats.

She pulled her wet nightdress from the back of the cupboard and took it to the little yard behind the cottage. The white-washed walls which separated her yard from those on either side were too bright in the sun. It was late August and still hot. The air swam with it. The nightdress would dry in an hour or so. She held it to her face and breathed in the sea. It filled her chest. She gave the nightdress a good scrub in the tin pail and hung it on the line. She could hear the workmen in the next street over, their voices a low hum broken by the blows of their tools. Which turn in the road was being widened today, she wondered. They were building on the cliff top too. New houses, though they looked light enough for the wind to lift them into the sea.

‘You've had a wash on early.' Eileen Pendeen was looking over the wall. Her neighbour ran a shop, the oldest in the village. When Pearl was a child, Pendeen's stocked everything Morlanow needed: rope, hooks, linen, soap, oakum, tea, sugar, cork. Now Eileen's place sold games for the beach and towels. The fishing supplies were out the back. You had to ask to see the hooks and the cork. There were many other shops like it too.

‘It's only Friday,' Eileen said.

‘Didn't want this to stain,' Pearl said, ‘waiting until Monday.'

Eileen looked up and down the line, taking in the single piece of clothing pegged out. ‘You heard about the palace?' she said.

‘It's going to be opened. Jack saw them measuring yesterday.'

‘It's going to be opened all right,' Eileen said. But before Pearl could say anything Eileen said, ‘I'm late getting to the shop as it is. I'll call in after, have a cup of tea.'

Pearl heard Eileen's back door open then close. She stayed in the yard, letting the sun heat her face. There was no breeze. Eileen was sharp. Pearl wouldn't risk a swim today.

She decided to go to the seafront to see the palace. Its re-opening was a surprise. She hadn't let herself think about that possibility for so long. The disappointment only became worse as the years passed and it seemed less and less likely any money would be found to repair and relaunch the fleet. When the pilchards returned, the men could afford to get their boats back. There would be money for the town's women too, curing the fish with salt and stocking their larders for the winter. Eileen would have to get rid of the beach towels and games and put the cork in the front of the shop. Pearl could still taste the dark, oily flesh of a pilchard, as if she'd just eaten one, but at the same time she remembered the hunger that so often accompanied hope of their arrival, felt the physical ache of it. At least the holiday visitors came every year without fail to Eileen's shop. The fish had never been so loyal.

From her front door the palace was only two streets away but they were crowded. People packed the road from one side to the other. Pearl gave up trying to find a way through and stayed close to the houses on one side, moving with the crowd. She kept her hand out, letting it brush against stone, wood, glass to keep her balance. There was such a jostle, this time of year.

She came to the station. Morlanow was the end of the line so there was only one platform and the ticket office stood where the tracks finished. It was a single storey building but one of the smartest in the town. From Easter onwards there were tubs of flowers outside: pink and yellow lavish-looking things that stank to high heaven of sweetness. And spiky palms too. She remembered the prick of them through her thin clothes when she was a child. Jack and Nicholas liked to break off leaves and use them as swords. They were pirates. And what was she?

There was a newly pasted poster on the ticket office door. She had seen the picture before: Morlanow's seafront, painted by someone often talked about. It was no good, she couldn't remember his name. The poster showed the seafront with several new-looking fishing boats moored up. Two people stood admiring it: a fisherman and a little girl in a pretty cream dress. The rest of the seafront was empty. The sea filled most of the poster. It was beautiful: rich blue with purple to show the gentle swell. The hills that flanked it were gold and though the sun itself wasn't in the picture she could feel it in every drop of paint. It was as if heat was seeping from the paper. It looked such a wonderful place, so still and quiet, so many lovely new boats, that she found herself wishing she could go, but then she saw ‘Morlanow' written underneath. She was already here.

There was a cry from the warren of streets behind her and then the sudden tumble of stones as another wall came down. She turned round but could see only people: waves and waves of sun-warmed skin. The poster didn't show this place with its strangers, cars, and building work. But Morlanow was another place again, too. It was full of fishwives and the stink of fish. It was running along the sand with Jack and Nicholas. It was swimming and keygrims and praying.

Mrs Tiddy came out of the ticket office, holding a cloth. ‘Morning,' she said. Her thick, dark hair was wrapped in a scarf and she wore an old apron over her dress. She smelled of polish and scalding. ‘I called by yesterday,' she said. ‘You weren't in.'

‘No,' Pearl said. Her neighbour smiled and waited for more. When Pearl didn't say anything Mrs Tiddy moved to the ticket office windows and began to wipe them, though they already looked clean. The frames were painted in the railway company's colours: chocolate and cream. So were the benches and the frames round the information boards. The Tregurtha Hotel up on the cliff used them too, though Pearl hadn't been any further than the hotel's stable yard. The horses all had chocolate and cream nameplates.

‘Eileen said she saw you on the beach,' Mrs Tiddy said. ‘Below the drying field.'

‘Did she?' Pearl said. Another pause. Mrs Tiddy stopped wiping the windows, her cloth motionless on the glass. Her back was still straight as a nail though she wasn't as strong as she looked, Pearl knew. ‘I don't think so,' Pearl said.

‘Now then,' Mrs Tiddy said, coming over to her. ‘You know you're not meant to swim.'

The bell on the ticket office wall rang. The clerk, Mr Daniels, came out onto the platform. There was the slow chuff-chuff of the engine and then smoke came into view. The three of them watched it though there was no sign yet of the train. The track curved round the coast. The train would be nearly in and yet it wouldn't be seen until the last moment when the track straightened on the approach to the station. They stayed watching. Pearl couldn't take her eyes from the track bed. The little stones between the sleepers made her think of the cairn on the beach. Was it still there? What if someone had knocked it down, not realising how important it was? There was a sharp whistle as the train rounded the final bend.

‘I'd stand back, ladies,' Mr Daniels said. ‘She's going to be full.'

When Mrs Tiddy turned to ask Mr Daniels about the pony trap, taking passengers to the Tregurtha Hotel, Pearl took the opportunity to slip away.

She wanted to turn left out of the station, to get to the seafront, but was confronted by a motor car. It was trying to inch its way round the tight corner of the station entrance, its progress hampered by the streams of visitors going in the opposite direction, towards the sea. Two young girls were admiring themselves in the car's windows as it tried to pass them, the family inside all red-faced and squashed. The car wasn't going anywhere for the moment. Pearl didn't like to get so close to cars but in the summer it was unavoidable. She squeezed past the front, catching her hand on the burning metal bonnet. Someone pushed her from behind and she stumbled. The preening girls loomed over her, blocking her way. The sun was hot on her arms, her face. She didn't recognise anyone. And still more people tried to push their way round the car. Finally the girls moved. She was safe, across the road.

It hadn't always been like this.

Eileen had said she would come round. Pearl would have to be in, all neat and tidy in the kitchen under Eileen's nosy gaze. Eileen was kind, a friend, but she did fuss and Mrs Tiddy would tell her all sorts. Pearl turned in the direction of home. The palace would still be there tomorrow.

Three

‘Move?' Jack said the word awkwardly, as if it were in another language. Pearl looked up from the pastry she was working and stared at her husband's back. ‘But we've lived in this house since we married,' he said. ‘More than forty years.'

Pascoe stood on the doorstep. A local boy – man now, she reminded herself – but not a fisherman, despite his family's long history with the sea. Pearl wasn't sure what it was that Pascoe did do, but he always had money, was always standing drinks. He thought too much of himself, wearing fancy suits but his hair all sides up. He was trying to smooth it down now, stroking his head as if it were a pet.

‘It will be a bit of a change,' Pascoe said.

‘I've no doubt of that,' Jack said. He stepped forward so that he blocked the doorway, bracing each side of the frame with his tightly curled hands.

‘Come on now. I dare say it will be better for you in a new place,' Pascoe said. ‘A nice bit of garden.' He appeared over Jack's shoulder then, looking into the kitchen. He looked so young. He inclined his head towards Pearl but was still addressing Jack. Pascoe never spoke to her directly. ‘And for your wife, much better to be away from all the noise down here. We're expecting another good season next year and we all need to be ready. Morlanow has a lot to offer but we don't have enough beds at present. People are having to stay
down the coast at Pentreath. The visitors from Birmingham alone
…
'

She stopped listening. The pastry was clammy in her hands. She looked at the low ceiling, its paint stained the colour of sand, the beams which ran anything but straight. She could still see the eyes in the grain. The thought of not seeing the ceiling again suddenly struck her. She hadn't looked at it, really taken it in, in such a long time and now she wouldn't see it any more. Her chest tightened and a coughing fit came.