Red Shift

Jan threw the door open and was sick into the bracken.

“So much for your fancy teas,” said Tom’s mother. “Well, it had to show sooner or later.”

Jan came back into the caravan. “Sorry,” she said. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?”

“Sit down,” said Tom’s father. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks.”

“Here you are.”

“Do you mind if I take it outside? I want to rinse my mouth.”

“Not before time,” said Tom’s mother.

Tom followed Jan out to the steps and put his anorak round her. She was shivering. He went down the steps and turned the leaf mould over with a spade.

“One of the benefits of the rural life,” he said. He came back to her. “What’s up, apart from the lobster?”

“Sea food gets me sometimes.”

“Indeed.”

She shrugged. “I’m fine now.”

“At least you’re human. I thought you weren’t bothered by next week.”

“I’m bothered, all right.”

Tom’s father was finishing the meal, but his mother had taken her tea through to the lounge.

“Better?”

“Thanks. It sometimes gets me.”

“You should’ve said. Can I make you anything?”

“A piece of bread will do fine.”

“Moselle?”

“I’d rather not. Sorry. It was a lovely meal.”

“Moselle’s good for an upset stomach.”

“No, thanks.”

“Your colour’s back.”

“I’ll finish your wine,” said Tom.

“Show it a little respect,” said his father. “It’s not lemonade.”

“To the glorious dead German grape.” Tom raised his glass.

“Cider’s the worst,” said his father.

Tom and Jan cleared the table.

“You feel it in your bones next day. Soon as you drink anything – tea, milk, water – you’re as stoned as when you began. Wicked.”

“Courting time,” said Jan. “All ancients into the lounge.”

“Ay, well,” said Tom’s father. “Think on.” He closed the kitchen door after him.

Tom poured the last of the wine. He hid his face in Jan’s hair. She stepped away.

“What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t like the smell of drink,” she said.

“Have some, then you won’t notice.” She shook her head. “Your loss.” He emptied the glass.

“Let’s wash up.” Jan pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and ran hot water into the sink. Tom picked up a towel.

“There’s something bothering your father. He wasn’t himself.”

“Wasn’t he? Look, I’ve worked it all out. On your pay, and what I can scrounge, we should just about be able to meet, say, every month. Crewe.”

“Why not come here? It’s not that much further.”

“Crewe’s quicker, and we shan’t waste time we could spend together. No privacy here. We couldn’t talk. If you make it Saturdays, the shops’ll be open, and it’ll be warm.”

“I’ve never felt romantic in Crewe.”

“You will. It’ll be the most fabulous town on earth.”

Jan gave him a plate to dry. “Fantastic,” she said.

The kitchen door opened, and Tom’s father appeared.

“Er.”

“Yes?” said Tom

“My glasses.”

“By the telly?” said Jan.