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‘Oh. Yes. Of course. It fell down. During the landslip. It was the only casualty inside the house. The bottom of the frame snapped.’
‘I remember the day you bought that.’ He smiles tenderly at the memory.
‘Yes.’
I adjust my arm, frowning, and start to cut. The jumper curls away beneath my hand on both sides like two obliging slithers of apple peel. The trusty old vest below has – to its eternal credit – somehow managed to stay intact.
‘I’ll fix it if you like,’ Clifford volunteers, ‘the frame.’
‘It’s fine,’ I insist, ‘I can do it myself. Some strong glue …’
‘Oh. Okay.’ He is slightly hurt yet resigned.
‘I still love it. I still love birch trees,’ I muse. ‘Berezka. Beautiful Berezka. I don’t know why, they just make me feel so … so …’
‘Russian,’ he murmurs.
I start.
‘I really like all your new propaganda posters …’ He inspects the busy walls, thoughtfully, his eyes pausing on an early ‘Liberated Women Build up Socialism!’ poster which features a wholesome Russian peasant girl brandishing a pistol. Next to it the ‘Think About Those Who Are Starving!’ poster in blue and black with a loaf, cup, bowl and ominous, pointing hand.
‘I’ve been using them as a cheap way of covering up all the stains on the old wallpaper,’ I explain, ‘although they’re way too good for a kitchen, really—’
‘I see your collection of Russian lacquered boxes has increased a fair bit since I last visited,’ he interrupts, flexing his chest as the scissors finally break through the jumper’s waistline. ‘And the Soviet china figurines …’ He tips his head towards the old dresser. ‘Is that a new Lomonosov Chow?’
‘Uh …Yes. I found it wrapped up in a big box of Uzbek fabrics. In an antique shop near Hythe … D’you think you might manage to pull it off manually from here?’
Clifford tries to yank the jumper from his shoulder but his arms are still stiff and he has no luck.
‘Shall I cut down the back?’
He nods and shuffles around, obligingly.
‘Has Shimmy been to visit you here lately?’ he wonders.
‘Shimmy?’ I pause, briefly, before answering. ‘Uh. No. Not of late. He’s still not especially mobile. That problem with his feet.’
Clifford turns his head to peer towards the blades as I insert them, pressing gently into the nape of his neck.
‘Why d’you ask?’ I wonder, slightly anxious. He doesn’t respond so I recommence cutting again.
‘I’ve been doing some work for a man in Bexhill who’s trying to get shot of a collection of Soviet army surplus stuff – a gas mask, a transistor radio, a canteen and a vodka flask, some military badges …’
‘Sounds interesting.’ I continue to cut.
‘He showed me a little, wooden sewing kit – a travelling kit – in the shape of a minaret. And a group of Kiddush cups – the sterling silver ones. Not a complete set. I think he had five in total. In fact …’
‘I can see how this might’ve been expensive,’ I muse, smoothly running the scissors – and my hand – down the back of the jumper, ‘it’s very soft.’
‘Soft but lethal,’ Clifford affirms.
‘And very bright. Luminous, almost.’
‘A statement piece.’ Clifford smiles, wanly.
‘Is that how Alice described it?’ I wonder, chuckling.
‘Uh …’ he frowns, obviously not wanting to appear disloyal.
The scissors cut the waistband and I pull back with a measure of satisfaction (like a smug Lady Mayor on cutting the ribbon at a local fete): ‘The Pringle is vanquished!’ I grin, throwing down the scissors and grabbing the jumper firmly at the top of his arm in order to yank it off. ‘Clifford Bickerton is finally liberated from the scourge of lambswool!’
I pull, but the jumper hardly gives. Instead I yank Clifford towards me and we both nearly topple sideways. He tips but steadies himself, his weight supported on his arm which is now planted, firmly, between my knees. I stop myself from falling by simply holding on. His bicep is like a giant squash. So hard. He doesn’t automatically straighten himself.
‘Don’t let go,’ he murmurs, into my hair. I am close to his ear. I long to press the cool outline of it against the skin of my forehead. It’s a random urge. Silly. But Clifford has such nice ears. Good ears. Familiar ears.
‘I’ve been reading that Ivan Yefremov novel you bought me for Christmas,’ I say, turning my head away, releasing my grip, delighting – thrilling, even – at my considerable powers of self-control, ‘the sci-fi thing. Andromeda. It’s very good.’
‘That was three Christmases ago,’ he answers, thickly.
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s from three Christmases ago.’
‘Oh. Well it’s very good,’ I repeat.
He suddenly straightens himself and clambers heavily to his feet. He walks to the window and peers out.
‘What did the surveyor say?’ he murmurs, coolly assessing the damage.
I stand up myself. ‘Tiered gardens are all the vogue, apparently.’ I try to make light of it.
‘That bad?’
‘No. No,’ I lie.
‘You’ve still got the sauna,’ he observes. ‘That sauna is indestructible.’
I grab the scissors from the floor and walk over. ‘Although I haven’t seen a single bird on the feeders since it happened.’
‘Strange. You wouldn’t think they’d be that bothered.’
‘They have wings.’ I nod.
I take a hold of his arm, lift it and gently insert the bottom blade under the cuff. As I start to cut something terrible occurs to me.
‘Hang on a second … the landslip – wasn’t that your birthday? You came around here on your birthday? Then you ended up searching for a lost cat half the night?’
(The Bassetts had informed me of these small details the morning after. It had been Clifford who’d bravely ventured into the front kitchen – just as dawn was breaking – at the pathetic sound of mewing.)
Clifford doesn’t volunteer anything further.
‘How’d you find out?’ I wonder.
‘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 you’d just been talking to your tenant – a Mr Huff.’
‘What a ridiculous name!’ I mutter, cheeks reddening. ‘Mr Huff! I’ll huff and I’ll puff …’
‘Was he bothering you?’ Clifford demands.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snort, ‘it was windy. I got sand in my eyes, that’s all.’
‘Georgie said he called out to you but …’
‘I mustn’t 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 don’t 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 he’d said about Shimmy. ‘Has Shimmy visited the bungalow lately?’
Strange. Why’d he say that? Why’d 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 (#ubbb81443-c2ca-5d78-906f-c07893a79e0a)
I don’t know why, but I have the distinct feeling that Mrs Barrow knows more than she’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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. ‘You’re sure as you didn’t put it in there yourself, Mr Huff,’ she wonders, ‘and then forget?’
I am – quite frankly – incensed by this question.
‘What earthly reason d’you 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 you’ll find as they’re 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. I’d 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.’
‘Shark’s 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 gulls’ll 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—’
