Derry Cottage

Part 4

Rain burst from a cloud as if a giant’s invisible hand had squeezed it, wringing out the water. It sprinkled on the ground somewhere in the distance. Some lucky spot, watered green and lush, as lush and green as the fruit in the back fridge of a green grocer’s shop.

‘It’s amazing when you see rain in the distance, isn’t it?’ Mary said, her voice slightly breathless, she was so pleased with herself for spotting it. They stood on the top of a steep sloped path.

‘Yeah.’ Mike said, but she had to repeat herself before he understood her. He didn’t look pleased, in fact he looked almost scared of the tiny cloud, the only one in the partially clear sky that was leaking. ‘I just hope the weather holds.’ he said and scanned the horizon.

They were on top of a hill between the village and the sea. The sea, it was blue and copper green and the hill patched with grass and mud, deep and as rich as chocolate. Sheep dung lay like Easter eggs between blades of grass on the slope, so steep that you could never catch your balance if you stepped onto the slope, stepped off the path. Instead you’d be forced to run, have no choice but to run down the slope and at the end of the field, where the grass changes to a sudden drop you’d fall to your death on the rocks below.

The sheep weren’t scared though, they stood on the slope, stock still and chewed at the grass, only moving one foot at a time, undeterred by their surroundings, unimpressed too, judging by the  blank looks on their faces.

‘The people here can’t know how lucky they are!’ she wanted to say, wanted to tell Mike, but she didn’t because he probably already knew. It was the sort of thing he would say. Besides, it didn’t seem so perfect now, now that Mike was walking ahead, about five metres in front and he whipped at the tall grass with a stick as he walked. It had become windy and dark clouds whipped across the sky like packs of angry bikers, Hell’s Angels, black clad and noisy.

The wind sounded in her ears. She tried to imagine it was the sound of the sea, that the wind didn’t sound like this in London, that it wouldn’t sound like this anywhere else in the world, although of course it did. The wind is the wind and London is London, but in London she was almost always inside and besides, it was the smell it brought with it, salt and rocks and fish and mermaids’ dreams, which was a thought that made her laugh, feel like a little girl, imaginative and playful.

Mike couldn’t smell it. He read the sea on an A5 card, crumpled from being in his pockets. It was creamy white and had the words Tide Table printed on the front. When Mary had looked at it earlier she had wondered why the adverts on the back were printed in black and white. It had all looked so dull, so thoughtless.

‘It says here a quarter past five. We’ll need to hurry if we’re to get down to the Voss before high tide begins.’ He said with a crinkled brow and raising his voice so she could hear him above the sound of the wind and the crashing waves below them.

Mary remembered him using the word Voss yesterday. She had no idea what it meant though. He had talked about it on the way down in the car but she hadn’t listened.  The sound of the wing mirror brushing against the hedgerow had annoyed her and she couldn’t concentrate on what he said, at least that’s what she told herself. It seemed a hundred years ago.

Mike kept the map in his hand, folded to the part that he needed. They corkscrewed along the narrow path that ran around the steep edge of the cliff. The path was so narrow and worn so deep into the earth it was almost impossible to walk. It would be so easy to fall over, to roll right over the edge of the cliff. She found the only way to keep her balance was to wiggle her bum as she walked, to waddle like a duck, one foot in front of the other and shaking her tail as she followed Mike, who was walking in just the same way. Mary could have laughed, she felt happy, so happy yet a little anxious too because she knew it wouldn’t last. They’d be back at the cottage soon.

Perhaps Mike knew. He looked so sad. His legs spattered with mud and his neck had turned pink like spam and a white band had formed where his binoculars had hung. It had been a long walk and the sun hadn’t been kind, instead burning through their sweat, dust sticking to their skin like glitter on a child’s painting and the shadows of the clouds, cutting across the bumpy countryside at reckless speed, at tragic accident speed, had played tricks with their eyes, either too bright or suddenly too dark.

Mary had begun to feel tired.

‘Slow down.’ She called to Mike because he was walking too fast. He didn’t slow down, but they stopped instead.

‘Look, I can’t keep up.’ she said, catching up with him. He squinted at her because she had the sun behind her, and it wrinkled his skin and he bared his teeth like he was in pain and probably it made his face ache.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked and it sound like , ‘There better not be anything wrong? We’re not stopping.’

But she wanted to stop. Mary’s feet ached because she’ worn the wrong trainers, they didn’t support her arches. Her stomach ached because she hadn’t liked the sandwiches Mike had wrapped in tin foil and she’d only eaten one.

’Are you hungry?’ she asked and felt awkward asking, as if it were the one question she shouldn’t ask, ‘There must be a pub in this village. Maybe we could stop and get something to eat or just a pasty or a bag of crisps or something. What do you think? What’s this town called again?’

‘Noss Mayo.’ Mike replied and he said it quietly like an apology. Mary couldn’t make out what he had said, but it didn’t matter. What did it matter what this village was called? Although she should have known the name because she’d seen it written on the signs, on the map she had looked at in the morning, the one that Mike had shown her, but she had been thinking about something else or not cared or whatever, it didn’t matter.

It was an older village than Newton Ferrer, the village where they were staying, at least it seemed older. The streets were curved like a rally track, steep and cobbled like a Hovis ad. Some too narrow for cars and every house seemed to have a cat.

They sat in a pub and it started to rain. Outside the sky was grey and dull as a schoolbook and they stayed until Mike felt he was about to get drunk. ‘Let’s go back.’ He said and outside he wasn’t concerned anymore with the rain.

‘It’s a holiday!’ She cried, delighted to get her hair so wet, to feel the cold skinny fingers of the rain creeping down the back of her t-shirt. Mike smiled too and he must have felt it too. Every movement felt cool and real, every colour, dripping through the leaves of the trees, it all looked so bright and alive. It was like a movie, like being in a movie, like pictures in a photo album and then they ran, swirled, dizzy and drunk until the rain became so hard they had to shelter beneath a tree and the rain lashed at the estuary like a shower pouring onto a blocked floor pan. Even the ducks skittered for shelter, gulls and pigeons hid in trees.

Mary and Mike got wet like drowned cats and across the estuary they saw Derry cottage, old and squat, dark and wet, miserable as an old man who sits by the sea and watches and has seen it all and has lost it all and it felt like the cottage was watching them.