Nasty Habits by Gillian White

Author:Gillian White [White, Gillian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0213-3
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-02-13T22:23:00+00:00

14

A MOTIONLESS GULL SITS on the sign of the Merry Fiddler, quite still for a while, and then it lifts its tail. A yellowy-white wink closes the sly, enamelled eye but the merry fiddler, he plays on.

Normally the noisiest place in the village, this afternoon all is quiet at the pub because Cope and Nellie like to take an afternoon rest. All the residents are out. Because it is hot, and the thick walls of the reconditioned pub absorb the heat of the day, Cope and Nellie lie on top of their eiderdown, a cooling draught wafting through the open window like a child blowing kisses. Cope’s chin sags stupidly open, and his rasping snores can be heard from outside in the silent street.

Just occasionally Nellie slips into the wrong position and winces slightly, easing off the damaged hip, rolling forward a little. But it doesn’t bother her really. She’s lived with it so many years now she’s used to it. She never complains. She doesn’t blame it on anyone but herself… she’d been brought up to do that. The nobs across the road… she knows they do not recognise her. Why would they? They come from another world. They must surely have long ago forgotten the existence of the girl Nellie Mundy.

So has Nellie. She has little enough of childhood left about her.

Every now and again a late car passes, and a blast of tape-recorded music rips the still summer air like a bursting paper bag. And the dry road gives a tired puff, a sandy sigh as if it, too, is exhausted by the heat and would like to go somewhere and rest. Away from all the hot rubber.

The heat is too much for Harriet. She and Simon are playing eighteen holes on the neighbouring golf course. But Harriet, paling and wiping her forehead, realises she should not have agreed to this. She pulls her straw hat further over her face and says, as they pass the shelter on the tenth: ‘Let’s rest a while, Simon. Just until this heat dies down. I think the full eighteen holes is getting a little too much for me.’

The blue of the sky is broken only by tiny clouds like powder puffs. The smell of silage is pungent and yellow, the sea is the hard blue of foil wrapping paper, and, twinkling brilliantly, folds and unfolds. ‘Nonsense, Mother,’ says angelic-faced Simon, short sleeves stuck to the pudgy tops of his arms, shirt stuck to his back. Every now and again he pulls it loose by his collar. His cap is settled high on his head, exposing moist, damp curls under the pointed, businesslike peak. ‘You’re fitter than anyone else I know.’ Simon is used to playing to a crowd but he is quite satisfied to exchange that for his mother. She used to play from scratch in her day. She can still pass on a trusty tip or two. He goes to sit beside her, but fidgets. He cannot bear to hold a golf club in his hand and not be using it.

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