Posted: Jan 1, 08 1:45pm
This is just about the first short story I've ever written. Any critique would be welcome. I'm concerned that the reader might not be able to 'taste' the scene or connect with the characters in so short a piece.
***********************************************************
In the nursery of her winter's arc the sun, too distant to warm the night-cold rocks and jetties of Caenarfon harbor, warmed me still with the dazzle of a cloudless morning. I walked across the beach with the awkward gait of the urbanite, wary of empty shells and green, glowing weeds, air bubbles spitting through the deep, damp sand, and tiny fish and crabs in salt ponds waiting for the tide.
The old men were there again - early risers both - sitting on folding chairs, sipping tea from plastic cups and looking....looking out to the horizon. I followed their gaze but saw nothing. There was nothing to see. Behind them the great shining turrets of Caenarfon castle towered above the pretty streets, where the town's morning bustle had just begun - schoolchildren, shopkeepers, office workers threading thousands of paths to thousands of lives. But these old guys prefered to look to the sea, to nothing.
I wandered over to them. I'd been here four days now - doctor's orders - de-stressing on the Welsh coast (much cheaper than the magic mountains of Europe). Behind me were the empty tensions of the office, spreadsheets and deadlines; and a relationship I thought was going the whole way, but which turned out to be going nowhere. Through my routine of cold walks and light naps over cheerful comic novels I felt my blood thinning and the aching knot of worry in my stomach loosening somewhat - loose enough now to break my blind morning circuit across the bay to pass a moment or two with these old-timers.
"Morning," I said.
"Aye," answered one, perhaps the elder of the two. As his companion stared silently ahead he offered me a toothless smile which compressed his face into a wrinkled, weatherworn globe. He had that mobility of countenance that comes with extreme old age, every squint, blink or frown provoking a minor structural collapse. But his eyes were bright and lively, enhanced by a film of thick moisture so close to overflowing it gave him the appearance of one in quiet grief.
"Cold today," I said.
"Aye," said he.
I looked to the side of his chair and saw what appeared to be a fishing pole wrapped in a long cloth case. There didn't appear to be a tackle box anywhere. It was as if the old boy carried the thing here as some sort of nostalgic nod to his youth. I certainly couldn't imagine either of these two codgers wrestling fish from this bitter, Welsh sea.
"Too cold for fishing," I said.
"Aye," said the old man. "These days it's always too cold. But I've pulled more than enough from these waters in my time. Fifty years, man and boy."
"You were a fisherman? I mean for money?"
"Aye," said he with a brief, shallow nod. He reached beneath the tartan blanket which covered both men's knees and withdrew a small, steel harmonica. His companion spoke for the first time, but never lifted his eyes from the horizon.
"Play the one you played at your ma's wedding."
I smiled at that but they did not. You could see it was a joke heard too often, offered now only for its familiar warmth. The first old guy raised the harp to his mouth and blew a stream of air so weak into the fronds that not a single note emerged. He carried on blowing until the silent music had warmed his fingers, if not his soul.
Again I followed their gaze to the horizon.
"So what are you looking for?" I asked.
"Not looking," said the harp player, "remembering."
"I see. I'll bet you've plenty of memories."
The old man shrugged.
"Well, you'd be surprised how little there is to remember from a life like mine. Fifty years a fisherman. I'll tell you, the days can run and run, and all you have to remind you of them is an aching back and sore feet."
I smiled down at him, but it was the kind of smile that makes the jaw ache. To dismiss so many years so casually! Such a notion was not helpful to a man in my condition and I felt the knot of worry in my stomach tighten a little. Jenny's face flashed into my mind. Oh God...How did something that started so intensely end in such a whimper? Just a little more effort on my part. But no. I had to let it just fizzle out until it got to the point where we couldn't even remember why we were together. And when it gets to that point it can never be mended. Oh God...Always too tired. Always too het up about work - quotas, spreadsheets, paperwork, money, money...being the boss's best boy. And for what? For fucking what?
Even standing there on that great Welsh beach, with the calm morning sea making gentle music beneath a bare and beautiful sky, I felt the walls of my empty apartment back in the city closing in on me, and I had to swallow hard just to keep from retching up my woes.
"We fed folk."
I came back to the world with a little start. The second old guy had begun to speak, his eyes still at the horizon, his voice raw and rusty like a ship's anchor.
"Dont listen to this old bugger," he went on. "He remembers well enough. We went to sea and we fed folk. That's what we did. And we worked hard, I'll tell ya. But at the end of the day we always brought it home, boy. And then we could have a good drink and laugh about how hard we'd fuckin' worked. But we always brought it home. We went to sea and we fed folk. That's what we did. And now we miss it so much we have to sit here every morning just so we can think about it."
The old boy took a slug of tea from his plastic cup. He reached down and lifted a great thermos from the sand.
"Fancy a drop, boy?" he said, looking at me for the first time. "It's hot."
I smiled and shook my head.
"Suit yourself."
He settled himself back down and turned his eyes once more to the sea. I looked too. But this time it was different for me. There still wasn't much to see, but now I knew that was just because I hadn't put the hours in. To look at something so intensely, to see its secrets, it's history, to uncover its stories and hear its voices...well, you have to do the graft. These two old guys, their longevity of memory secured by the fish-oil of decades that had seeped into them, saw it all because they'd been there.
"That pole," I said to the first old timer, "would you consider selling it?"
He smiled at me and lowered his hand to the sand.
"Take it boyo," he said. "We've seen you walking the beach this last week. We brought it here for you."
