on,’ he added, ‘let’s go and help Mummy to unpack. Then we’ll walk down to the harbour and look at the boats, just you and me.’
It was one of their established rituals, that walk down to the old harbour on their first evening at Westport, yet this time Matt felt uneasy about leaving Helen alone. If she untwisted the wires to look in the box? As he’d put it down on the workbenchhe’d heard a scratching sound from somewhere. It needed only one of the worms to be still alive for…
No, he told himself, that was ridiculous.
Jenny ran slightly ahead of him through the uneven lane between the houses, making straight for the steep, cobbled street which led down to the sea. The handful of shops had mostly closed already – grocers, butchers, fishing-gear specialists – and there were very few holiday-makers about. Probably at this hour the Westport landladies were serving up their evening meals and the campers were tending their Calor-gas stoves.
But the craft shop was still open, with its clusters of open sandals hanging like strings of Spanish onions outside. Usually Matt didn’t give it a glance, but this evening he stopped to look curiously at the handmade leather bags and snakeskin belts. An idea was forming slowly in his mind.
‘That bag’s crocodile skin!’ Jenny told him excitedly, cutting across his thoughts. ‘We learned about crocodiles at school. Some countries have special farms where they breed them for the skins.’
‘Aren’t they dangerous?’
Inside the shop a girl was tidying up ready to close for the day. She was tall, with straight dark-brown hair drawn back and tied with a ribbon; typically she wore a peasant smock of dull yellow ochre with a brown sash. She looked up and smiled at him through the display of coloured scarves and raffia hats. Or was it at Jenny?
‘Not if you keep out of their way,’ Jenny was saying, as practical as her mother. ‘Let’s see the boats.’
He let her pull him away from the shop window in the direction of the harbour. She chattered about all she intended to do that holiday, but he only half listened. Westport seemed so peaceful, it was almost unreal. The smell of the seaweed, swooping seagulls, fishing nets draped over the walls, the winking of the lighthouse on the horizon as the sky darkened, the murmur of the waves against the rocks… Slowly he felt the tensions inside him easing.
Of course the sea had always held dangers – the lifeboat on the slipway was a reminder – but they were familiar becausethey’d always been there. They were older than man himself. The worms were a new threat.
‘Daddy?’ It was almost as though she could read his thoughts. ‘When the worms ate your fingers, did they eat the bones as well?’
The question shocked him back to reality. ‘No, just the … just the meat.’
Helen was bound to tamper with the ice-box. Suddenly he was convinced there must be at least one worm alive inside. Never underestimate them, that was the golden rule. He remembered how easily the last couple had seemed to die.
Seemed to
.
He took Jenny’s hand and hurried her back up the cobbled street, through the lane with its tiny fishermen’s houses and quiet stream, till they got to the cottage. The shed door was closed. Through the open window he saw Helen cooking supper in the kitchen.
Much to her surprise he kissed her on the cheek as she was trying to open a packet of bacon, and she flushed with pleasure at the gesture.
‘I’ve been thinking about the living room,’ she told him above the sizzle of the frying sausages and the scream of the boiling kettle. ‘We could leave it till later and do the garden first. After all that time in hospital, you need fresh air.’
She’d not been near the shed, that was obvious. Relieved, he started to lay the table. ‘I’ve a film to develop later this evening,’ he mentioned casually. He’d show her the pictures and raise the subject of the worms that way, he decided.
‘May I help
It was one of their established rituals, that walk down to the old harbour on their first evening at Westport, yet this time Matt felt uneasy about leaving Helen alone. If she untwisted the wires to look in the box? As he’d put it down on the workbenchhe’d heard a scratching sound from somewhere. It needed only one of the worms to be still alive for…
No, he told himself, that was ridiculous.
Jenny ran slightly ahead of him through the uneven lane between the houses, making straight for the steep, cobbled street which led down to the sea. The handful of shops had mostly closed already – grocers, butchers, fishing-gear specialists – and there were very few holiday-makers about. Probably at this hour the Westport landladies were serving up their evening meals and the campers were tending their Calor-gas stoves.
But the craft shop was still open, with its clusters of open sandals hanging like strings of Spanish onions outside. Usually Matt didn’t give it a glance, but this evening he stopped to look curiously at the handmade leather bags and snakeskin belts. An idea was forming slowly in his mind.
‘That bag’s crocodile skin!’ Jenny told him excitedly, cutting across his thoughts. ‘We learned about crocodiles at school. Some countries have special farms where they breed them for the skins.’
‘Aren’t they dangerous?’
Inside the shop a girl was tidying up ready to close for the day. She was tall, with straight dark-brown hair drawn back and tied with a ribbon; typically she wore a peasant smock of dull yellow ochre with a brown sash. She looked up and smiled at him through the display of coloured scarves and raffia hats. Or was it at Jenny?
‘Not if you keep out of their way,’ Jenny was saying, as practical as her mother. ‘Let’s see the boats.’
He let her pull him away from the shop window in the direction of the harbour. She chattered about all she intended to do that holiday, but he only half listened. Westport seemed so peaceful, it was almost unreal. The smell of the seaweed, swooping seagulls, fishing nets draped over the walls, the winking of the lighthouse on the horizon as the sky darkened, the murmur of the waves against the rocks… Slowly he felt the tensions inside him easing.
Of course the sea had always held dangers – the lifeboat on the slipway was a reminder – but they were familiar becausethey’d always been there. They were older than man himself. The worms were a new threat.
‘Daddy?’ It was almost as though she could read his thoughts. ‘When the worms ate your fingers, did they eat the bones as well?’
The question shocked him back to reality. ‘No, just the … just the meat.’
Helen was bound to tamper with the ice-box. Suddenly he was convinced there must be at least one worm alive inside. Never underestimate them, that was the golden rule. He remembered how easily the last couple had seemed to die.
Seemed to
.
He took Jenny’s hand and hurried her back up the cobbled street, through the lane with its tiny fishermen’s houses and quiet stream, till they got to the cottage. The shed door was closed. Through the open window he saw Helen cooking supper in the kitchen.
Much to her surprise he kissed her on the cheek as she was trying to open a packet of bacon, and she flushed with pleasure at the gesture.
‘I’ve been thinking about the living room,’ she told him above the sizzle of the frying sausages and the scream of the boiling kettle. ‘We could leave it till later and do the garden first. After all that time in hospital, you need fresh air.’
She’d not been near the shed, that was obvious. Relieved, he started to lay the table. ‘I’ve a film to develop later this evening,’ he mentioned casually. He’d show her the pictures and raise the subject of the worms that way, he decided.
‘May I help
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