New Welsh Short Stories (15 page)

Starfish, he said, when she reached him. At first she couldn't see for the foam of the breaker, but as the wave subsided she caught sight of them under the surface, dozens of golden handspans bobbing into each other.

Don't normally get so many this time of year.
They feed on the mussel beds. You know, they eat with their stomachs, said Kenny.

And? she said.

And nothing. I just thought you might be interested, that's all.

I was watching that weird light. Did you see? she asked, nodding into the distance.

Atmospheric refraction, he said.

Isn't that just a sunset? she asked.

I suppose so.

Kenny had said she would love the sunsets here, the special clarity of the air after the choke of the city, but this one looked eerie and cold. He'd said she'd be amazed at the breathtaking views and the friendly people, the great food literally on the doorstep. So when the car tipped over the hill and showed them the sea below, she tried to feel impressed. The view was of a distant mountain range jagging round like a scorpion's tail, a wide stretch of open water, a couple of cottages battered into the land, and not much else.

Kenny pointed to a low grey building way out on the peninsula.

That one's ours. But we'll get our supper first, eh, Bee?

She pictured a tiny stone pub just out of sight, with a blazing log fire and friendly locals with ruddy faces. They'd be serving steak and ale pie or fish and chips. She could almost taste the lovely cool shudder of Sauvignon. She didn't imagine they'd be finding their own supper out on a dark, freezing beach with the wind blowing up her skirt.

The croft had thick walls and small windows. The view from the kitchen window was of shadowy trees; she could feel the night coming down even though it was early evening. She'd put the carrier bag on the draining board when they'd first come in, and as she stood at the sink she could hear it ticking and pocking. Supper was going to be the winkles Kenny had ‘foraged' from the rock pools. She emptied them out of the bag into a colander, as Kenny instructed, and rinsed them under the tap.

The light had fallen away completely when she next looked up; she could only see her reflection, mooning in at her. She hadn't taken her coat off. The croft was freezing, her breath came out white, and her fingers were numb from the icy water. The ceilings were too low and the furnishings, such as they were, looked shoddy. The words ‘mean' and ‘cruel' flashed into her head.

Kenny had emailed her a list of supplies to pack – a very precise email with various sourcing suggestions – and now he was unloading the first box, placing the items in neat rows on the worktop.

Olive oil, check, balsamic, check, garlic, check, chillies –

She zoned out for a minute or two and simply watched as his fingers did a little dance over the pasta, noodles, tinned tomatoes.

Artisan bread? he asked, his eyebrows making high arches.

In the other box, she said, then quickly, No, I'll get it, hang on.

The other box was full of her stuff. She found the bread and handed it to him, and deftly footed her box under the counter at the same time.

The perfect accompaniment, he said, pointing the thick loaf at the winkles. You get them started and I'll light the fire.

When she turned back to the sink, most of the winkles had slithered up the sides and onto the draining board. She couldn't find a spatula in the cutlery drawer, nothing that would allow her to sweep them back into the colander. She didn't really want to handle them, so she flicked them back one by one using a tablespoon, like a golfer perfecting a stroke.

There must be electricity, she said, watching as Kenny rummaged in the cupboard. In his right hand, like a stick of explosives, he held a bunch of candles.

Och no, he said, exaggerating his accent, We dinna need it.

But the winkles will need cooking. And the pasta. Do you eat them with pasta?

He gave her a look.

You can if you like, sweetheart, he said, stacking a pile of saucers onto the counter, But I'll take mine the
auld
way.

You mean raw? She glanced over at the sink, where a few valiant winkles had made another attempt to escape.

The stove's gas. Did you not see the canister? You boil 'em, Bee.

She wanted to say,
You
boil them, and my name's Beryl, but she didn't. She put a pan on the hob.

Kenny sat at the table to eat. She sat away from him, in front of the fire, spooning up the pasta from her bowl. The room was so small she could still smell the sticky salt tang of the winkles. The silence was broken now and then by a quick squelching sound as Kenny plucked one from its shell. He'd brought his very own kilt pin, which looked to Beryl like the kind that used to fasten babies' nappies. She didn't say this to him; it was bound to be some sort of heirloom. Once or twice, he held a morsel out to her, which hung like a snotball in the space between them.

You should try 'em, he said, How d'you know you don't like 'em if ya don't try 'em?

And she said, after the second attempt at coaxing, The same way I know I won't like dog, or giraffe – or spleen.

And he laughed at that and left her alone.

*

She'd met Kenny on a works outing. Every Christmas the sales team went to a Greek restaurant round the corner, the same place each time, where they had turkey with all the trimmings. But this year, the new girl, Ali, suggested St John. Beryl had never heard of it, but Ali said everyone upstairs raved about it, how marvellous it was, food like your granny used to make, and then all the girls started swooning about toad in the hole and spotted dick. Beryl would have preferred the old place and the traditional dinner, but supposed St John would be alright: there'd be party poppers and Christmas crackers and a set menu, so she could still have something normal.

Reindeer was the first item on the specials list, like some awful joke. And the girls made awful jokes: would it be Prancer or Dancer, asked Ali, swishing about in her seat; Sasha said she wouldn't want to eat Rudolph because he was the important one. Then they couldn't remember any more of them, and someone offered to buy champagne for the first one to name all of Santa's reindeer. Beryl leaned back in her seat while they listed and argued. At the table behind her, Kenny leaned back too.

Vixen, he said, into her ear, Donner and Blitzen. Have the spleen, it's just
phenomenal
.

The spleen was horrible. The taste of metal lingered for days. But he'd asked for her number. Of all the women at the table, of all the women in the restaurant, Kenny had singled her out and asked for her number.

The next time she met Kenny, at the Chop House, she refused to try the oysters. He had steak tartare and she had fishcakes, and the pattern was set. It became a joke with them, how unadventurous she was, how cosmopolitan he was. The winkles were another joke, another small victory for Kenny.
They'd come all the way up the country for this.

After she'd finished her pasta, Beryl had a Twix and Kenny ate an apple, throwing the core on the fire where it sparkled and spat. She would have liked more wine, but Kenny had bought some whisky at a supermarket on the way up, and insisted they try it. He poured a measure into two tumblers, holding his glass to the light, swirling it gently.

You have to look for the tears, he said, See how they develop.

Beryl copied him, not sure of what she was doing, and splashed the whisky over her hand. As she licked it off, he pointed out the ‘legs' running down the inside of his tumbler, then went on about ‘mouthfeel' and whether it was an aggressive or mellow malt. She finished hers in one burning gulp, suppressing the urge to laugh.

An early night was the only alternative to a lesson on bourbon versus sherry casks. She lay down in bed and listened to the distant waves, sudden blurts of wind, and, underneath the wind, faint knocking.

Was someone at the door? she asked, when he finally joined her.

No, Bee, he said, There's no one near. Not for miles. Unless you count the ghost.

*

The morning started fine and clear and quickly turned the colour of ash. Kenny had planned an outing for them – a hike across the bay if the weather allowed. Beryl found him in the kitchen, packing his rucksack. A row of items was placed along the worktop, and she watched as he did his finger
-
dance over them, checking, double
-
checking, repositioning the torch, the whistle, the hip
-
flask, the spare cagoule, spare hat. He packed – methodically – each piece of kit. The window was silvered with frost. She rubbed a hole in the glass to see out, saw the dripping trees and the putty
-
tinted sky, and glanced back at Kenny, who was sitting on the step, pulling on his hiking boots.

The weather's not very promising, she said, willing him to look at her.

Aye, it's ony a fret, he said.

The Scotlish was beginning to grate.

All the same, I could get the forecast online.

Beryl went into the living area to plug in her laptop, then remembered there was no electricity. She'd charged the battery before they left, but as she was opening the lid, Kenny appeared at her side and closed it again.

There's nae wi
-
fi out here, he said, a smile hatching on his face, D'ye ken, goon?

Beryl looked up.

Do I what?

He let out a little sigh of annoyance.

I said, ‘Can we get going?'

Kenny wanted to check the tide before they set off, so they trudged down to the shoreline. The sea wasn't visible through the mist, but the sound of it, a soft regular grinding, seemed louder than it had the day before. After a mile or so of slow climbing, over wet rock and shale, whip
-
grass and rutted track, they paused at a hole carved into the side of the hill. It gave some shelter from the weather. She pulled her hood back and wiped the rain from her face. It was the kind of rain that falls unseen, filmy and soft and penetrating, and she hated it, the softness, the not
-
quite
-
rainness of it that still left her soaked and shivering.

Have a glug of this, said Kenny, unscrewing the cap on the flask. Beryl took a hesitant sniff; it smelled of iron.

What's in it? she said, eyeing him.

A wee concoction of my ane.

I'm fine, really, she said. You have it.

Kenny tipped the flask to his lips and drank; then, with a quick flick of his wrist, dashed the dregs onto the ground.

Beryl studied him in the flat, even light. He had a look on his face she didn't quite like. The words mean and cruel popped into her head again, lit up like neon store signs. They continued to walk, in single file, her behind him. When the wind blew at them, she could smell his breath; a bit eggy, faintly sulphurous.

At the top of the crag, the view was of nothing. Kenny stopped and pointed to where, if she could only see it, the croft would be.
A bird was hawking in the distance. Beryl's stomach was rumbling. She'd packed some chocolate bars in her own rucksack, and rifled through it to find them. She was sure she packed them. She turned the sack upside down, pulling out the extra cagoule Kenny made her bring, the Maglite he'd bought her for the trip, the maps. The maps? She didn't recall putting any maps in there.

Kenny, she said, trying to keep her voice level, What have you done with my food?

His face split in a wide grin.

That crap's nae food, he said. Anyways, ya won't need it.

Beryl flung the rucksack at him and strode off the side of the track.

Don't tell me what I won't need, Jock McBloody Tavish!

She tried to keep moving, appalled at herself, but her anorak got caught on a stem of gorse. She could feel Kenny's eyes on her back as she yanked at the fabric. She felt tearful and ridiculous, but then his arms were round her.

Down there, he said, in his ordinary voice, is a surprise. Come on.

The Kisimul Inn was renowned for its marvellous food and select range of malts, said Kenny. It was remote enough, he added, to prevent the London types from descending and ruining it with their back
-
to
-
nature jollies. No Tamsins and Tarquins here, is what he'd said, although he himself worked for a restaurant consultancy in Islington. When she'd asked him, on their third date, what exactly he did, he told her he was a ‘consumer grounded channel relevant data analyst'.

And what do
you
do, he'd said, My gorgeous Bee?

She'd loved that, the way he'd made her feel. She didn't mind then that he never called her by her real name. That time they were in an ordinary back
-
street pub, and shared a bowl of chips. He seemed normal enough then.

As far as she could make out, there were no chips on the menu at the Kisimul Inn. Kenny rattled through the dishes on the chalkboard, savouring his accent. Finnan Haddie; Cullen Skink; Bawd Bree; Bridies; Stovies
…