Dancing with Mermaids by Gibson Miles

Author:Gibson, Miles [Gibson, Miles]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780571299898
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2013-05-14T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

The big sea boiled, hissed upon the crackling shingle, steamed from the wings of the gulls. The sky roared. On the beach, a yellow newspaper, caught by the furnace draught, began to flutter, scampered, rolled, took flight and sailed high above the town towards the shelter of the hills.

Matthew Mark Luke Saint John was missing when Mrs Reynolds reached home. He had helped himself to a breakfast of eggs and sausage, washed the frying pan, wiped the table, swept the floor and locked the door to his room. Mrs Reynolds retrieved the destroying angel from her skirt and hid it carefully in a corner of the refrigerator. When the sailor returned she would be ready with a welcome of cold beer and toadstool salad.

Alone in the house, she seized the chance to rescue her daughter’s clothes and shoes, picture books and one-eyed bear and move them into her own bedroom. They would sleep together now until the African was gone. During the morning she stocked the bedroom fit for a siege – biscuits, fruit and cake in a box, a bottle of brandy under the bed. She tested the bolt on the window and dragged the chest of drawers into position beside the door, ready for the moment when darkness came and they built the barricade. Then she went downstairs to sit and wait for Polly to return.

Dust floated, soft as pollen, in the stagnant air. At noon the heat pressed against the walls of the house, testing the bricks and twisting at the loose rafters. Sunlight pushed through the curtains, cutting the rooms in half with shadow.

At two o’clock the front door rattled and Polly appeared, face freckled and dress crumpled with sweat. Mrs Reynolds, furious with fright, pulled her into the house and scolded her for failing to obey instructions. Why had she come home in the afternoon? She knew it was dangerous. Did she want to be attacked again? Dear God, did she want them both murdered and buried under the floorboards?

‘He didn’t hurt me,’ scowled Polly.

‘Hasn’t he done enough damage?’ screamed Mrs Reynolds. But the sight of poor Polly, sprawled sunburnt and exhausted in the hollow of the old sofa, made her anger evaporate.

‘We’re going to get rid of him,’ she whispered as she knelt before the sofa. She took Polly’s face in her hands and began to drench it with kisses.

‘Are you going to send him away tonight?’ whispered Polly. Her face collapsed. She stared at her mother and burst into tears.

‘Don’t cry. He’ll soon be gone,’ promised Mrs Reynolds and rocked the child in her arms.

In the late afternoon gusts of hot sand whirled over the esplanade and scratched a warning at the windows. The shadows in the room crept silently towards the sofa where mother and child lay sleeping. As dusk appeared, Mrs Reynolds woke Polly and retreated to the safety of the bedroom. The shadows grew to fantastic lengths, softened, leaked one into another and filled the town to the chimney pots.

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