The church is never locked; the great iron ring always turns. It opens a small gate set into the heavy doors of the porch.The flagstones are cold.The church is full of the cold air of the hereafter.
Brenda lifts the latch on a little pew, and sits. She does not look up towards the altar or aim her prayers anywhere. But she seems to be praying. She is muttering something under her breath. Her hands clasp and unclasp in her lap.
The nave of St Stephen’s church stands over her, dim and gracious. The family crests of old Port Victoria families can just be made out on the cloths hanging from the beams.The colours have faded to nothing, the threads eaten away by the passing of the years.They hang dead straight above her head.
She stirs, after a while. She retraces her steps and lets the door fall shut behind her.The gravestones lean back into the grass. She says something, a little louder this time.
– Wish they were all under there. Her. And him. And that bloody Hilda Pickery too.
She sets her lips into a straight line and walks past the gateposts and down the driveway to Les Puits.The curtains are drawn across the upstairs windows. In the jumble of the porch she sees that Peter’s boots are missing; for a moment it seems that he must be at work this morning, as usual. But Peter took his boots with him when he left, two weeks ago.
She bangs the knocker against the door, sending the pigeons flying up from the roof. Again and again the noise echoes round the yard but no one comes to the door. Either Elsa sleeps like the dead or saw her coming and won’t answer.
Brenda leaves the front door and opens the yard gate. She doesn’t know whether or not the hens have been fed; she isn’t interested in hens. She stands back and looks at the window she knows to be her sister-in-law’s. She stoops to pick up a small pebble and sends it tumbling against the pane. Nothing happens. She lifts a sizeable stone and hurls it hard. The glass shatters inwards; tiny shards tinkle down towards the earth.
_____
PortVictoria is not a big town. Even so, the summer is a breathless season in those streets, after the open fields.The boys haven’t been back to Les Puits since their father left, they live under the little grey roofs of Turkenwell now, with their mother, closer to her than they have ever been before.
– get off that cushion.
– that’s my cushion.
– it is not; it’s mine.
– I sleep on it.
– yes, but it’s mine. Now get off.
– why?
– Daniel, just get off. I need my skirt. Oh, look at that
– it’s all creased. Can’t you look where you put things?
– I didn’t.
– you put your cushion there.
– ’s not my cushion you said.
– you know perfectly well what I mean. Cheeky little beggar. Henry’ll just have to put up with me like this; I’m not changing again.
– why d’you go?
– got to earn money to feed you lot, haven’t I.
– don’t want you to go.
– don’t start, Chrissake. Patrick, get your nose out of that book and listen.You listening?
– yes, mum.
– there’s a quid for bread. Go to the park and get bread on the way back. For gawd’s sake keep quiet – don’t want her sticking her nose in again. Got that?
– yeah.
– and don’t lose that money. Right then, I’m off.
She doesn’t look the same now, walking along the road.
How can a body change its shape so, in a few weeks? It’s not the shape that is different, but the flow.
Patrick and Danny wrestle in the cushions for a while in the empty flat. When they leave, the crashing of the front door behind them sends the next door flying open as if on a spring.Wilf Pickery has been waiting; he can get a word in before opening time.
– eeugh! Don’t let me catch holda yer. End of the month an’ yer out! Garn!
They skate down the steps, away from the park, down to the harbour.The sheet of water draws them; magnet-like it pulls the soles of their feet along the wharves.This is their playground, the crates and cranes and piles of timber.The sea wall is the tightrope, with safety on one side and the deep on the other.
_____
There’sWilly le Cras still sitting in the same place. Not so much time has gone by after all. Brenda slides a pint of mild towards him; wipes the froth off the bar.
– all right,Willy?
– aye.
– I’ll leave you to it, then, nice an’ peaceful. Henry – you got a moment?
– can it wait, love? I’ve got these invoices to do.
– Okay then.
She’s tired; she could sleep for a week. It must be the worry.What’s wrong, exactly? The boys, of course.What else – Gerry? Oh no, she’s better off without him, isn’t she? It’s quite a relief, isn’t it?
– wake up, darlin’.
– oooh! Me God! Don’t do that; I’ll die of fright.
– ‘an I’ll give yer the kiss o’ life. Three pints, darlin’. Thanking you.An’ crisps.Them vinegar ones.Any news from your lost love, ’ave yer?
– who?
– yer know – yer ancient mariner.
– nope.
– ’e must’ve arrived somewhere by now.Wherever ’e was going.Where was ’e going?
– I’m surprised you don’t know, Franklin; you know everything else, doncha?
– yeah, mostly. I wouldn’t ask, only ’e never did come about that Lister.
– the what?
– that engine, you know. Gone off without one, ’asn’t ’e?
– I don’t know. It’s not my business, nor yours either.
– it’s been running a helluva swell from the north, y’know.
– you want anything else? There’s other people to serve.
– Okay, okay. Only showing an interest, like.
Mid afternoon and the doors are closed, the chairs stacked, the floors mopped. Brenda leans on a bar stool, picking her nails. She tells Henry that she’s in a fix.The neighbours have complained about her boys in the flat; they say that it’s in the lease: no children.The landlord’s given them until the end of the month and then she’ll have to take them back to the house in St Stephen’s. It’ll be too far for her to come into work twice a day from there. She’s in a real fix.
– what about your family, love?Your parents?
– me mum’s dead.
– and your dad?
– we don’t speak.
– ah. Well. Look, you’ve got a couple of weeks; something might turn up; it usually does. I’d hate to lose you, Brend. I’d have to get someone else, you know – ’specially now, in the summer.
– I know.
– go on, then.There might be some good news waiting at home. See you tonight.
When a car drives up alongside, she almost thinks... but then a man in a white shirt opens the door, steps out and proffers his hand.
– Mrs Duncan?
– that’s me.
– I’m Detective Sergeant Mullins.We’ve got a spot of trouble with your youngsters.
– what?
– nothing much to worry about, but if you’ll just come with me... that’s it.They’re at the station.
– what they done?
– seems one of the dockers caught them tampering with some goods on the North Quay. Bit young to be on their own down there, aren’t they?
– little blighters! I’ll give ’em what for.
– they’re with one of our women at the moment. She’ll have a word with you. Here we are.This way, please.