The First Cut

13 Martha

The Lucky Fisherman, a bit off the beaten track, turned out to be an unpretentious little local frequented mostly by towns-people. Martha didn’t notice any real difference between the public bar and the lounge; both had the same small round tables and creaky wooden chairs. The woodwork was old and scratched, and one of the embossed glass panels in the door between the bars was broken. At one end of the room was a dartboard, which no one was using when she walked in at five past seven.

There were only a few other customers in the place, most of whom leaned easily against the bar chatting to the landlord. Keith was sitting at a table in the far corner under a framed photograph, an old sepia panorama of Whitby in its whaling days, with tall-masted ships in the harbor and chunky men in sou’westers-like the man on the packets of Fisherman’s Friend cough lozenges-leaning against the railing on St. Ann’s Staith and smoking stubby pipes. The fence had been made of wood in those days, Martha noticed: one long beam held up by occasional props.

“Good day?” Keith said, standing as she came up to him.

“Good day,” Martha answered.

He laughed. “No, I mean did you have a good day? We don’t all talk like Paul Hogan, you know.”

Martha put her holdall on a vacant chair and sat down opposite him. “Who?”

“Paul Hogan. Crocodile Dundee. A famous Aussie. Lord, don’t you ever go to the movies or watch television?”

Martha shook her head. She vaguely remembered the name, but it seemed centuries ago, and she could recall no details. Her mind seemed to have no room left for trivia these days.

“What do you do for entertainment?”

“I read.”

“Ah. Very sensible. Drink?”

“Bitter. Just a half, please.”

Keith went to the bar and returned with her beer and another pint for himself.

“So how was your day?” he asked again.

“Good.” It was a long time since Martha had talked like this with a boy-a man, really-or conversed with anyone, for that matter. She seemed to have lost all her skill at small talk. She must have had it once, she assumed, though she couldn’t remember when. All she could do was let Keith take the lead and follow as best she could. She dipped into her bag for her cigarettes and offered him one.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “But please go ahead.”

She lit the Rothmans, noting that she would soon need another packet, and reached for her drink again.

“Well…” Keith said.

Martha got the impression that she was supposed to say something, so she forged ahead. “What about you? Where did you go?”

“Oh, I just walked around, visited the usual places. Sat on the beach for a while. I even went for a dip. I’m not used to it being so warm over here.”

“It is unusual,” Martha agreed.

“I’m making my way up the coast to Scotland. I think I told you.”

Martha nodded.

“Anyway, it’s a complete holiday. No papers, no radio, no TV. I don’t want to know what’s going on in the world.”

“It’s not usually good,” Martha agreed.

“Too true. And what about you? I’m curious. Why are you here all by yourself, if it’s not a rude question?”

Martha thought of saying that yes, it was a rude question, but that would only get his back up. It was much easier to lie. She realized that she could tell him anything she wanted, anything under the sun-that she lived in Mozambique, for example, and was taking a rest from organizing safaris, or that she had run away from her husband, an Arabian prince to whom she had been sold as a young girl and shut away in a harem. She could tell him she was traveling around the world alone, as stipulated in the will, on a legacy left by her billionaire arms-dealer father. It was an exhilarating feeling, a feeling of tremendous power and freedom. Best keep it simple and believable, though, she decided, and told him she was doing research for a book.

“You a writer, then?” he asked. “Silly of me, I suppose you must be, if you’re working on a book.”

“Well, I’m not famous or anything. It’s my first one. You won’t have heard of me.”

“Maybe one day, who knows?”

“Who knows? It’s a historical book, though, more of an academic study, really. I mean, it’s not fiction or anything.”

“What’s it about?”

“That’s hard to say. It’s partly about early Christianity, especially on the east coast here. You know, Bede, Caedmon, St. Hilda, the Synod of Whitby.”

Keith shook his head slowly. “ ’Fraid you’ve lost me. I’m just a simple Aussie law student. Sounds fascinating, though.”

“It is,” Martha said, glad to have lost him. With luck, there would be no more questions about what she was doing. She finished her cigarette, then drained her glass. Keith immediately went for refills.

“Do you know anything about the fishing industry here?” Martha asked when he came back.

He squinted at her. His eyes really were a sharp blue, as if he had spent so much time staring into blue skies and oceans that they had taken their color from the water and air. “Fishing industry? That’s a funny question. No, I can’t really say I do.”

“I just wanted to see them bring in the catch, that’s all,” she said quickly. “It’s supposed to be very interesting. They take them to that long shed down by the harbor and auction them off.”

“That’ll be on Friday,” Keith said.

“Fish on Friday? Is that a joke?”

Keith laughed. “No. What I mean is, I heard they go out on a Sunday and come back Friday, so that’s when the catch comes in. That’s the big boats. Little boats, like keelboats and cobles, come and go every day, but they’ve so little to sell it’s all over before the sun comes up.”

Martha thought for a moment, making mental calculations, trying to remember what happened on which day. The person she was looking for must have a small boat of his own, she concluded. That might be easy to trace if she knew where to look. There should be a register of some kind…

“It’s only a couple of days,” Keith said. “Pity I won’t be here. You’ll have to get up early in the morning to see the boats come in, but the auctions go on for quite a while.”

“What? Sorry.”

“To see the boats come in. I said you’ll have to get up early. They come in before dawn.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure the seagulls will wake me.”

Keith laughed. “Noisy little blighters, aren’t they? Tell me, do you come from this part of the country?”

“ Yorkshire? No.”

“I thought your accent was different. Where you from, then?”

“ Exeter,” Martha lied.

“Never been there.”

“You’ve not missed much. It’s just a city, like all the rest. Tell me about Australia.”

And Keith told her. It seemed to suit both of them. Keith could find suitable expression for his homesickness in talking about Sydney life, and Martha could pretend to be interested. The whole evening was beginning to seem like a farce to her, and she wondered why she had bothered to agree to meet him at all. It brought back disturbing memories, too, mostly of her years as a teenager, pretending to be interested in what the boys said as they showed off, and then, later, fending off their wandering hands for as long as it seemed proper to do so. Would Keith turn out to be just like the rest, too? She put that last thought right out of her head.

“…as flash as a rat with a gold tooth,” Keith was saying. “But that’s just what people from Melbourne say. It’s hardly surprising Sydney ’s like a flashy whore to them. Melbourne ’s more like an old maid in surgical stockings…”

The place was filling up. Already most of the tables were taken, and three men had just started to play darts. Martha nodded in all the right places. She soon found that she’d finished her second half-pint.

“Another?” Keith asked.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To take advantage of me.”

Keith blushed. “I wasn’t…I mean I-”

She waved dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Yes, I’ll have another, if you like.”

It was while he was away at the bar that Martha first heard the voice. It made her hackles rise and her throat constrict. Casually, she looked around. Only two men were playing darts now, and it was one of them who had spoken. He was small and swarthy and wore a navy-blue fisherman’s jersey. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and his eyes seemed to glitter unnaturally, like the Ancient Mariner’s, under his ragged fringe. He caught Martha looking and returned her gaze. Quickly, she turned away.

Keith came back with the drinks and excused himself to go to the gents.

Martha turned her head slowly again, trying to catch the man in her peripheral vision. Had he recognized her? She didn’t think so. This time he was so absorbed in throwing the dart that he didn’t notice her looking. Could it really be him?

“Do you know him?”

Martha almost jumped at the sound of Keith’s voice. She hadn’t seen him come back. “No. What makes you ask that?”

Keith shrugged. “Just the way you were looking at him, that’s all.”

“Of course I don’t know him,” Martha said. “This is my first day here.”

“You just seemed to be staring rather intently, that’s all. Maybe it’s someone you thought you recognized?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just drop it, will you?”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Martha said. And it was probably the truest thing she’d said to him all evening. Now she had something concrete to work on, her mind seemed more able to focus and concentrate. On the other hand, she felt herself drifting further and further away from Keith. It was becoming harder for her to follow his conversation and respond in the appropriate way at the right time. He began to seem more like an irritating fly that she kept having to swat away. She needed to be alone, but she couldn’t escape just yet. She had to play the game.

“You a student, then?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m doing postgraduate work at Bangor.”

“And this book, is it your doctoral thesis?”

“Sort of.”

It was excruciating, like some awful interview she had to go through. As she answered Keith’s inane questions, Martha was conscious all the time of the darts match going on behind her. Her skin was burning and her pulse beat way too fast.

Finally, the game drew to a close. The man she had been watching walked over to the bar, where she could see him out of the corner of her eye, and put his empty glass down on the counter. “Well, that’s my limit for tonight,” he said to the barman. “See you tomorrow, Bobby.” The accent was right, the voice hoarse.

“Night, Jack,” said the barman.

Martha watched Jack walk toward the exit. He glanced briefly in her direction before he opened the door, but still showed no sign that he recognized her. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to ten. For some reason, she got the impression that what had just happened was a kind of nightly ritual: Jack finishing his game, putting his glass on the counter and making some remark about the lateness of the hour. If he was a fisherman, then he would probably have to be up early in the morning. But shouldn’t he already be out at sea? It was all so confusing. Still, if it was his habit to do this every night, she could come back tomorrow, when Keith was out of the way, and…Well, the next move would take careful planning and a lot of grace, but she had plenty of time.

“Want to go?”

With difficulty, like focusing on something from a great distance, Martha turned her attention back to Keith. She nodded and reached for her holdall. Outside, the warm fresh air felt good in her lungs. A bright half-moon hung high over St. Mary’s.

“Want to go for a walk?” Keith asked.

“Okay.”

They walked along East Terrace by the row of tall, white Victorian hotels, toward the Cook statue. As they passed the whale’s jawbone, Keith stopped and said, “That must have been exciting, setting off after whales.”

“I suppose I’d have been one of the waiting women,” Martha said, “hoping to see the jawbone of a whale nailed to the masts.”

“What?”

“It was a sign. It meant everyone was safe. The women used to walk up here along West Cliff and look out for the ships coming home.” Martha looked at the huge arch of bone. From where she stood, it framed the floodlit St. Mary’s across the harbor as perfectly as if the whole setup had been contrived by an artist.

“It’s hard to imagine you doing that,” Keith said, moving on slowly. “Pacing and waiting.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I can’t really say I know you, of course, but you give me the impression that you’re a modern woman, liberated or whatever. You’d have been more likely to be out there on the ships.”

“They didn’t take women.”

“I don’t suppose they did. But you know what I mean.”

Martha didn’t. It had been his first really personal remark and it took her aback. How could someone just sit and talk about inconsequential things for an hour or two and then come out with a statement like that? She hadn’t even been paying attention to him most of the time. Could he really see into her character? She hoped not. He wouldn’t like what he saw.

By the Cook statue, they sat on a bench and looked out to sea. A cool breeze ruffled her hair and the moon’s reflection seemed to float somewhere far in the distance, yet its eerie white light spread over all the ripples and billows of the water as far as the eye could see.

Martha thought of the passage from Lawrence ’s Women in Love, where Birkin threw pebbles at the moon’s reflection in a pond. It was supposed to symbolize something, or so her English teacher had said, but nobody really knew what. Symbols, to her, had always stood for things you felt but couldn’t explain. And now she felt like throwing pebbles at the rippling white sea.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Keith asked.

“What do you think? You seem to know what kind of person I am. What would you say?”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. But if I was him I wouldn’t let you go away by yourself like this.”

“Why not?”

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? A pretty girl like you…”

A pretty girl! Martha almost laughed out loud. From where they sat, at the top of the cliff and back a little bit from its fenced edge, she couldn’t see the waves break on the beach below. She could hear them, though, and the deep grumbling hiss as one withdrew filled the silence before Keith spoke again.

“There’s something disconcerting about you, though,” he said.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Well, for a start, you’re not easy to get to know.”

Martha looked at her watch. “We’ve been together about three hours,” she said. “How much do you expect to get to know about someone in that time?”

“It’s not time that counts. Some people you can get to know real quickly. Not you, though. There’s hidden depths to you.”

“Why, am I disconcerting?” Martha asked. Despite herself, she was becoming interested in his perception of her.

“Oh, I don’t know. You seem so distant. And you don’t get my jokes. It’s like you’ve spent the last few years on another planet. I mean, if I make a little joke, you don’t laugh, you ask a question.”

“Like what?”

Keith laughed. “Like that!”

Martha felt herself blushing. It wasn’t a feeling she enjoyed. She smiled. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just curiosity.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s more like a form of defense. You’re very evasive. You’ve got a lot of defenses, Martha. You’re hiding in there somewhere, behind all the walls and barbed wire. Why?”

Martha became aware of Keith’s arm slipping around her shoulder. It made her stiffen. Surely he must sense her resistance, she thought, but he didn’t remove it. “Why what?” she asked.

“Why do you need to protect yourself so much, to hide away? What’s there to be afraid of?”

“There’s a lot to be afraid of,” Martha said slowly. “And what makes you think I’m protecting myself from the world? Maybe I’m protecting the world from me.”

“Now that really is choice. I’m not sure I understand you, not at all. But I do find you intriguing, and very attractive.”

A ship’s light blinked far out to sea. Keith leaned over and kissed her. Martha managed to contain her boiling rage and let him. It was a soft, tentative kiss, not a violent, tongue-probing attack. A small price to pay, she told herself amid her anger, for appearing normal. She knew she wasn’t responding with the enthusiasm he expected, but there was absolutely nothing she could do about that.

“It’s a shame I have to go tomorrow,” he said, breaking away gently. Clearly her response, or lack of it, didn’t mean very much to him. “I’d like to spend more time with you, get to know you a bit better.”

Martha said nothing. She just stared out at the rippling moon on the water and watched the ship’s light move across the horizon like a star through the sky. He kissed her again, this time more passionately, exploring her teeth with his tongue. When she felt his other hand slip up over her side and reach for her breast, she pulled away.

“No,” she said, as calmly but firmly as she could. “What do you think I am? We’ve only just met.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith said, “really I am. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought…I mean I hoped. Oh god, you can’t blame a bloke for trying, can you?”

Martha could, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she tried to placate him despite the rage she felt. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she said. “It’s just too soon. I guess I’m not the kind of person for a holiday quickie.”

Now Keith seemed offended. “That’s not fair. That’s not what I had in mind.”

But it was, Martha knew. Oh, Keith was a nice enough boy, not too pushy, but all it came down to was that he wanted to go to bed with her. He would make out that he didn’t usually do such things, and she was supposed to say the same. Then he would tell her how it was different with her, really special. He was a wolf, all right, but a tame one. Getting the brush-off just made him sulk and become petulant. They weren’t all as easy as him to fight off.

“Come on,” Martha said. “Let’s go back. It’s getting chilly.”

Hands in pockets, head down, Keith walked beside her back to the guesthouse.