So soundly had I slept, utterly sedated by the roll and rumble of the overnight express, that the groggy aftermath of slumber drooped heavy as a soggy blanket over my perceptive faculties. I stood upon the platform, blinking dully in the bracing morning chill, as if still asleep. It was extremely quiet; in fact, everything seemed exceptionally, unnaturally silent, save for an occasional gust of steam from the winded locomotive, expelled with a throaty rasp like a weary parting sigh. Bright pinpoints of dew glistened on tufts of grass poking up between the rails, and the weathered crossties were damp and discolored. Shallow puddles shimmered on the platform. A red-rimmed sun peeked above the roof of the station and threw glancing rays against the toil-worn train. I heard a noise in the sky and suddenly a flock of grey-white birds raced in overhead to settle, with a great flutter and noise, into a thicket of trees opposite the platform, across the tracks, where I gazed at them drowsy and torpid.
Nothing seemed to be happening. All was still, as if time had taken a short respite from its labors. I struggled to gather my wits and order my thoughts. A sparkling, luminescent wetness danced in the air, the way it might look if thousands of tiny sparklers were twinkling behind a gossamer curtain. And then, welling up into this gauzy tableaux of pulsing, pinpointed sunlight, I detected the smell of the sea, strong and heavy with salt and fish and other mingled fragrances so sharp I half-expected to taste something tart and pungent on my tongue. I stood immobile on the platform, observing and sniffing and wondering why and how and what it was that seemed so – well, so altogether unusual – till then I heard, faintly at first, the sound of engines, boat engines, on the water, their growling plainsong rising to join the tincture of salt and fish and the diaphanous morning light and the pale yellow sun in the clear crystal-blue sky, and the whole of it coiling within me then, tightening, like a violin's string drawn taut to the breaking point, like a single high note held and held and pulling the listener to the edge of some precipice – till abruptly, without warning, it all broke, with something like a tearing sensation, and I blinked and exhaled and the feathery curtain parted, and it was simply another plain and ordinary day, and my father and I were simply lingering idly on the platform as people collected their bags and ambled along, and the unremarkable world plodded along its mundane way.
I glanced up at my father. Perhaps he too had been dazzled by the morning's brilliant incandescence, the squadrons of shrieking birds, the fecund mingling of ocean and salt and fish, and the wet steam-smell pouring from the train; we exchanged no words, but I saw his expressive eyes wide and alert, scanning left to right, up and down. We stood without speaking, therefore, watching and waiting while our fellow travelers gathered their belongings, greeted their friends or families, and departed the station.
Soon, we were alone on the platform. My father began to purse his lips and tap his foot. I wondered if something might have gone awry, perhaps a scheduling mishap with the person who was supposed to meet us, and hoped not. My father's foot tapped harder. I was growing a bit anxious myself; for the tapping of the foot was often followed by the bulging of a particular vein on his forehead, at which point things could turn stormy. Just then, however, just as the staccato of shoe upon platform began to accelerate disconcertingly, a figure in a gray hat emerged from the station house and peered about with a frown. I saw him first; then he spotted my father, waved and smiled, and strode briskly in our direction. The tapping of the shoe ceased as my father returned the wave.
The two men exchanged greetings and my father introduced me, but my mind was still lagging and I merely nodded perfunctorily. Our new acquaintance helped my father carry our bags across the parking lot to his car. I climbed into the back seat, where I closed my eyes as the engine fired and we began to back away. Suddenly, I heard anew the frantic beat of lush, abundant wings, turned to look out the rear window and, as we departed the station, watched the mass of white birds flee the thicket of trees across the tracks and hurtle out over the water in a noisy, flapping rush.
We were booked at the Marshal House, on Hamilton Terrace, facing the water. Named, I later learned, in honor of William Marshal, the first Earl of Pembroke. On the opposite shore, across the broad, flat surface of the channel I came to know as the Haven, like stately, enormous obelisks, rose the towers and tanks of what my father told me was the Texaco refinery. Immense numbers of birds careened over the waterway, calling and screeching, wheeling over the flats then back toward the sea. I stood staring across the broad silver expanse as my father unloaded the luggage and bade our driver goodbye, the sun reflecting brightly off the damp sidewalks. Then I followed him through a heavy red wooden door and into the cozy, compact lobby of the Marshal.
As we crossed the hotel's threshold, cobwebs were still cluttering my fuzzy head, and I felt a beat or two behind. The moment we passed through the door, however, my ears perked up to the clatter of dishes and cutlery and voices ricocheting back and forth, and my nose caught the aroma of food, wafting like a cloud. I became aware my feet had sunk into a thick carpet, which, as I cast my eyes downward, struck me as some indefinable combination of red and purple. I stood mute and disconnected, only partly present. And thus I might have remained – had not a grinning woman suddenly materialized before us, bobbing her head and chattering, swirling her hands about in circles as if working spells, the combined effect of which was to suggest to my disoriented mind that perhaps she had been secreting herself behind a curtain, awaiting our arrival, and had now leapt out to accost us in some odd manner.
Fortunately, no accosting was underway.
It quickly became evident this animated lady had something to do with the Marshal. She was speaking at an extreme rate of speed, however, and endeavoring to follow her words was like racing hopelessly after a bus pulling away from its stop. I kept at it though, attempting, with a concentrated frown, to follow the gush of words.
“…jolly, jolly well … morning, a fine fine morning … must be the Americans,” she exclaimed. “… Zelinski, by the post, yes … welcome, a double, indeed a double … right, all set and ready … our best room, view of the water … my favorite!”
My father attempted to get a word in, with no luck, as the woman – by now obviously the landlady, Mrs. Zelinski – had taken complete charge of matters.
“Bags over there,” pointing to a corner; “Hurry along, dear,” to a young girl carrying an armload of bedclothes toward the stairs; “What a handsome lad, what's your age?” directed to me, while simultaneously gesticulating to someone in the dining area; “Just fill in the blanks, sir, if you don’t mind,” handing a paper of some kind to my father, before calling out a Good Luck to a portly gentleman passing out the doorway; then back again to my father, “Delighted, just delighted … don’t get many Americans here, I must say … you’ll enjoy the prospect over the water, you will … anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask …”
As she pressed her energetic campaign of patter and motion, her husband – for thus was he identified by the bustling proprietress - emerged with ghostly silent footsteps from an adjacent sitting room. Following his wife's crisp, efficient introduction, the so-named Mr. Zelinski nodded his head ever so slightly toward my father and exchanged handshakes, then shook my hand as well. He spoke with an accent of some sort, seemed several years older than Mrs. Zelinski, and had a distant, unsettled look in a pair of unnaturally pale blue eyes, set wide apart. Thin strands of silver-grey hair lay combed flat against his head. Whereas his wife was a minor cyclone of commotion, Mr. Zelinski seemed a pool of quiet reserve. He lingered for a few moments making niceties, then politely excused himself and retired back to the sitting room from whence he had appeared; as he turned and exited the lobby, I noticed his gait revealed a slight limp, listing almost imperceptibly to the left.
All the while, Mrs. Zelinski sustained her birdlike clucking – much of it escaped me, but the gist seemed to be that nothing could possibly give her greater pleasure than our presence in her simple establishment, except perhaps if we might now proceed to the dining room and permit ourselves to partake of breakfast, which she described with vivid fanfare.
“Every morning 7 to 9,” she said with emphasis, suggesting strict attention to the clock was important. “Eggs how you like them, ham, bacon, toast the way you like it – I don’t know what Americans eat for breakfast, though, do I?” she reflected bemusedly, chortling gaily. “We’ll fix you right up, though, whatever you like – porridge, oatmeal, our cook's a dream, she worked at a hotel in Bristol and wasn’t it our good fortune when she married a local chap! You’ll be wanting a bite now, won’t you? “
Breakfast struck me as a wonderful proposition, as the close, warm hotel had made me ravenous. My father must have felt the same, for we dashed our luggage up to our room, then dashed back down to Mrs. Zelinski's morning repast; as to which my recollection sharpens, for bountiful platters of eggs, sausage, bacon, potatoes, and toast, and big mugs of steaming tea with thick, fresh cream, feature prominently, whenever I think back to that first morning in the Marshal House. A young server-girl with reddish hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion also appears into the picture, quietly solicitous, and I will attest till the final minute of my final day that she even smiled at me several times when my father wasn’t looking. Mrs. Zelinski gabbled and kept tabs on us – “Anything you want, speak up – don’t be shy!” - Mr. Zelinski remained out of sight, and when finally we finished I felt immensely content, the cobwebs now transmuted into a general fatigue and listlessness.
After the plates were cleared, we meandered outside, to look at the water and smell the air. Mr. Zelinski was out there as well, smoking a cigarette and staring flatly across the Haven. He smiled politely and my father said our breakfast had been excellent.
“Yes, that is good,” said Mr. Zelinski, nodding somewhat stiffly. “My wife will be very pleased to hear it.” He lifted his head toward the water. “It is a lovely day.”
Again, I noticed his accent, and also, in the bright sunlight, a thin scar running down the left side of his face, beginning beside his left eye and extending well down his cheek, almost to his jaw line. His gaze lay fixed across the Haven.
“We have a boy too,” he said then, motioning with his cigarette in my direction, but keeping his eyes on the water. “He is at school now, but will be home at four. I will send him to your room if you wish. His name is Alan.”
“Well, that would be very nice,” replied my father. “Wouldn’t you like that?” he inquired, looking toward me.
I nodded and agreed that would be fine, though in truth it suited me perfectly to spend the afternoon by myself exploring this new territory, where the air and light quivered and shimmered before my eyes, and the thick bouquet of salt and fish and sodden earth wafted in the wind.
My father and the strange man with the accent and the scar continued smoking their cigarettes and talking, but I listened no further. I stepped across the street to an embankment fronting the Haven and overlooking the docks, and leaned against its stone wall, still damp with dew. There, I watched the birds circle and dive, watched the boats ply slowly from their moorings out toward the mouth of the Haven, where it opened to the Atlantic, observed small puffs of smoke emerging from the stacks of the refineries in the distance, and the red jetties jutting out into the water, and a huge black and red tanker approaching slowly from the west. The breeze blew softly and a chill tarried in the air. I closed my eyes and listened again to the birds, and felt the wind slide across my face, then opened my eyes and the tanker had crept a bit closer to the jetties on the opposite shore, and the birds were still diving and climbing against the crystalline sky. Every now and then a car passed behind me, and I heard the dull hiss of tires on the slick road as it moved by. Presently, my father called, and I crossed the street again to his side.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Different from home, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I think we’ll like it here.”
I smiled and nodded.
The silver-haired Mr. Zelinski was gone. We reentered the Marshal and ascended the stairs to our room, where my father changed his shirt and left for work. Myself, I fell fast asleep in my bed by the window, which I had opened halfway, the breeze billowing the white lace curtain and the birds cawing as I drifted away.