In the Approaches

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—’