The Sing of the Shore. Lucy Wood
you could see the shapes of all the other numbers behind the lit-up parts.
‘Don’t you want to be here?’ his father said.
Ivor looked around. There was the kitchen, the dark outside the window. ‘Here?’ he said.
Once, in town, his father had passed someone he used to know from school. His father had recognised the man, Jody, straight away, but it had taken Jody a moment to come up with Ivor’s father’s name. Jody had been down visiting his parents and now he wanted to go – he kept looking towards his car and nodding in all the wrong places.
Ivor had pulled on his father’s hand but his father had kept talking. About the state of the tides, what was biting, the blue shark, the development out the back of town. Remember that party out at the Jennings’ place? he said. Remember the ambulance?
Ivor had pulled again at his father’s hand, until his father let go. And still Jody kept glancing round and checking his watch, and nodding, until finally he said, I have to get back.
His father had run his hand down his neck and watched him walk away. ‘Back,’ he said. Then he’d shrugged and walked into the pub. A beer for him and a Coke for Ivor, and those chewy scratchings that were so tough and salty they made your teeth ache.
His father’s eyes were closing again.
His phone started to ring in the front room. It rang and rang but he didn’t get up to answer it.
‘The warehouse might be hiring next week,’ he said.
Over went the blanket with its smoky, ketchupy smells. Ivor leaned in and his teeth were against his father’s cheek, and his father’s hand came up and smoothed and smoothed, like he did with the fish he caught when they were thrashing and gleaming.
Ivor got to the house first. It was late afternoon and the sky was dark, the cliffs silhouetted like breaching whales. He’d told his father he was staying at Gull’s and would be back in the morning. The town glinted in the distance, supermarket floodlights bright as haloes.
It was raining and he put his bags down and pushed at the window. It didn’t move. He leaned forward and pushed harder. The frame was wet and heavy. It shook but didn’t budge.
He ran round the side of the house, tried the other windows, then rattled the front door. The rain came down in sharp pieces. He looked towards the town, then back at the house. He shoved the door, then leaned all his weight against it. Something gave and he shoved again. A gap appeared and he forced it with his shoulder. The door jolted open. The wood around the lock was spongy and on his way in he pushed the screws of the metal plate until they nestled back in place.
When the others arrived he met them at the front. Crystal was carrying a rucksack. Gull Gilbert had brought nothing.
They stood inside, too close, Crystal’s arm pressed against Ivor’s. She smelled like apples and petrol and she was wearing lace-up boots that reached almost to her knees, and a pyjama jacket with clouds on it. Gull Gilbert had slicked down the sides of his hair.
Ivor’s cheeks were hot. Everyone was just standing in the open doorway, waiting.
Gull Gilbert prodded Ivor’s bags with his foot. ‘What’s in these?’
‘Nothing,’ Ivor said. It was just the food he’d brought. There was a packet of crackers, cheese he’d cut off a bigger piece, half a carton of orange juice, a tin of soup, eggs although he had no idea what to do with eggs. Also three cans of beer he’d found lurking at the back of the fridge.
When he’d packed it, he’d thought there was too much – he’d almost taken out the cheese – but now everything looked small and awful. Any moment now, Gull Gilbert’s lip would twist and everything would crumble.
A handful of rain flung itself across the wall. Gull Gilbert reached out and closed the door. ‘We should get all that in the fridge,’ he said.
They went into the kitchen. Ivor put the eggs in the cupboard, then took them out and put them in the fridge. He thought the orange juice should go in the fridge door, the soup on a shelf. He spent a long time deciding, even though he knew he’d be getting it all out again in a minute.
Crystal went to the sink and ran the tap. She opened all the cupboards and looked inside, got out plates and slammed them down on the table. Then she picked them up and placed them gently. Then she pursed her lips, crossed her arms over her chest and pretended to smoke. Finally she slumped down over the table with her head in her hands. ‘What are we supposed to do?’ she said.
Gull Gilbert pulled out a chair, sat down, and got up again. The chair screeched against the floor and made everyone flinch. He opened the fridge. ‘We should have a drink,’ he said.
‘Now?’ Ivor said.
‘It’s Friday, isn’t it?’
The cans opened with a hiss. When Ivor drank, all he felt was very cold. He realised that the lights were off. He clicked them on and the kitchen turned orange. The room appeared in the black window, three faces staring back in.
He went out into the hall and looked at the pictures. In one of them, the table was laid with all the different types of cutlery, and the food was on mats in the middle. He went back into the kitchen and started laying out knives and forks and spoons, then he opened the soup and glooped it into a pan.
Gull Gilbert had one leg up on the table. His fingers drummed. ‘We need to turn the lights off,’ he said. He tipped his can and drained it to the dregs. His voice sounded huskier, as if his throat was very dry.
‘I want the lights on,’ Ivor said. He tipped his can up until the bubbles burned his throat. The taste was getting better, or maybe his mouth was going numb.
‘Someone will see us,’ Gull Gilbert said. He got up and clicked off the lights. The kitchen plunged into gloom. He sat back down and up went his leg. He stared at Crystal’s beer. ‘Are you going to finish that?’ he said.
Ivor got up and drew the curtains, glanced at Gull Gilbert, then turned on the lamp in the corner. He took another long drink, then clicked the burner under the pan of soup. Nothing happened. He clicked it again.
‘The gas is broken,’ Crystal said. ‘I tried it before.’
‘Shitting frick,’ Ivor said.
‘You have to hit something when you say that,’ Crystal told him. ‘Then you have to go and lock yourself in the bathroom.’
Ivor drank some more beer, then spooned the soup into bowls. There were only a few cold spoonfuls in each one but he laid them out anyway, then the cheese. ‘Someone else could help,’ he said.
Gull Gilbert got up and brought over the crackers and spread them across a plate. He took out the eggs and looked at them, then put one down in front of each of them. ‘I’m not hungry yet,’ he said.
Ivor looked at his watch. ‘I think this is the time we’re supposed to eat.’ He cut the cheese into slices and gave them out. The rain hit the windows with clinking sounds. ‘We should have a conversation,’ he said.
‘Us?’ Crystal said. She had taken more than her share of the crackers.
‘Say something,’ Ivor said.
Gull Gilbert was pushing his spoon around his bowl. ‘Did you make this soup yourself, Ivor?’
Crystal snorted into her bowl. ‘Why are you talking in that voice?’
Gull Gilbert’s spoon clattered down. ‘He said we had to have a conversation.’ His leg wouldn’t stop drumming.
Ivor poured out the orange juice, which looked too thick. He couldn’t remember how long it had been open. ‘Don’t actually drink this,’ he said as he passed it round.
Crystal took hers and started drinking.