Mr Carver's Whale by Lyn Hughes

Author:Lyn Hughes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 4th Estate
Published: 2022-06-16T00:00:00+00:00

The Struggle

As soon as it grew dark, each night, they fell upon one another. Wrestling. Grappling. Floundering. On the bed, floor, up against walls. In silence, but for the occasional grunt, groan, slap of flesh on flesh. Only to fall asleep, tangled in each other. Max, waking to find Paulo’s leg hooked around his waist, his head almost buried in Paulo’s armpit, quick to disentangle himself and return to his room.

He woke just before dawn, one morning, to find himself pinned in place: Paulo’s arm a dead weight across his chest. His face bare inches from his own: thinner, darkly coloured from wind and sun, the cheekbones pronounced. Even in sleep, he seemed, from the upturn of his mouth, to find some amusement. At him? The faint streaks of silver in his hair and in his beard, which, since the shipwreck, were more than ever evident. He could feel the rise and fall of Paulo’s chest against his own, the steady beat of his heart, as the room slowly began to lighten and he struggled with the urge, growing stronger by the moment, to remain. To just give in to the thing. For hadn’t he longed, his whole life, for this? To be loved, heart, body and soul? It was almost full light before he finally found the strength to extricate himself and return to his room.

In the kitchen that same day, perhaps sensing some alteration, Paulo suddenly put his arms around him and pulled him close. Max instantly froze. ‘Take your fucking hands off me,’ he growled, with a panicked glance at the window, as if half of Tilting were lined up to watch. Paulo let fall his arms, looked away. Max banged the door hard, going out. He strode along the path beside the sea, then sat for a time on the rocks, wondering how you could love someone in the dark, revile them in the light. He found it hard to swallow for the lump in his throat. An ugly sound escaped him. He bit it down, wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

Returning, he found Paulo at the kitchen table, chopping onions, wiping away tears. In bed that night, Paulo rubbed his face so hard against Max’s beard, his cheeks were reddened in the morning.

In the trading store for supplies, the next day, Max furtively searched the other men’s faces. Surely they must know, he thought, surely have guessed. They seemed much the same: mild-mannered, slow to talk—unless of cod, the prospects or otherwise of a good season, the rising or falling of the price of fish. Tom Flanagan, who’d helped lathe the boards for the punt. The young blacksmith, Kennedy, who’d exchanged a bag of flour for some help in the forge. Colm O’Shea, who’d supplied them with shot for a borrowed gun in exchange for a brace of ducks. Good men all. With good wives and good sons and good daughters.

Using a borrowed knife and somewhat rusty skills, it being some time since he’d put

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