We stood outside for a moment, wondering whether we could face any more of Dawton’s version of hospitality, when a young man crossed the back of the room. He was tidily dressed as a waiter, and failed, at that distance, to give us any obvious reason for disquiet. His whole demeanour, even through glass, was so different from that which we had encountered so far that we elected to shoulder our misgivings and go in.
The waiter greeted us cordially and sat us, and the tension which, I realised belatedly, had been growing within us since the afternoon abated slightly. The young man was also the proprietor and cook, it transpired, and was moreover from out of town. He told us this when we observed, quite early into the meal, that he didn’t seem like the other villagers we’d met. Soon afterwards the main course arrived and he disappeared into the kitchen to leave us to it.
We drank quite a lot during the meal. As soon as we sat down we knew we were going to, and ordered two bottles of wine to save time. We hadn’t spoken much during the walk, not because we didn’t feel there was much to say, but almost as if there was too much. Susan hadn’t looked out over the sea, either, though there was once or twice when I thought she might be about to.
“Why would they call a pub that?”
Susan was still trembling slightly when she finally asked. Not a great deal, because it would take a lot to unseat her that much. But her hands are normally very steady, and I could see her fork wavering slightly as she waited for me to answer. I’d had time to think about it, to come up with what I hoped was a reasonable suggestion.
“I guess because it’s the most interesting thing which ever happened here.”
Susan looked at me and shook her head firmly, before putting another fork of the really quite passable lamb into her mouth. We’d looked for fish on the menu initially, assuming it would be the specialty of the house as in all small coastal towns, and were surprised to find not a single dish available. I’d asked the waiter about it, but he’d simply smiled vaguely and shaken his head.
“No,” she said, finally. “That’s not the reason.”
I opened my mouth to press my claim, and then shut it again. I didn’t believe it either. Perhaps it was just because of the behaviour of the publican, or the overall atmosphere of the town. Maybe it was just the colour of the sky, or the way the rain angled as it fell, but somehow I just didn’t quite believe that there wasn’t more to the pub’s name than a simple remembrance. There’d been something about the painting, some aspect of its style or colours, that hinted at something else, some more confused or inexplicable element. To name a pub after a ship that sank in—possibly—dubious circumstances, and to put that ship’s name up on a sign with a painting that seemed almost to have some intangible air of celebration about it, hardly seemed like amiable quaintness.
But such speculations weren’t what we were here for, and I saw my job as being that of steering Susan away from them. Although there was something a little strange about the whole thing, it didn’t mean that the villagers had tried to cause harm to the passengers of the Aldwinkle thirty-odd years ago. It simply didn’t make sense: what could possibly have been in it for them? Either way I didn’t want the weekend to compound Susan’s suspicions. Her mother’s blatherings had left her with more than enough distrust of the human race. We’d come here to try to undermine that, not provide documentary evidence to support it.
So I steered the conversation away from the sign, and focused on the publican. There was enough material for speculation and vitriol there to keep us going to the other side of dessert, by which time we were more than a little drunk and rambling rather. By the time the waiter came through with our coffees I thought Susan had left more disturbing thoughts behind.
I was wrong. As he stood at the end of the table she turned on him.
“What do you know about the Aldwinkle?” she said, challengingly. The waiter’s hand paused for just a moment as he laid the milk jug down. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe I imagined it.
“It’s a pub,” he said. Susan tried again, but that was all he would say. As he’d observed, he was from out of town and only came to Dawton to work. He sat at an adjoining table as we finished our third bottle of wine, and we chatted a little. Business wasn’t going well, it would seem, and we’d made it to the restaurant just in time. Within a few weeks he suspected that he would probably have to give up. There simply wasn’t the custom, and we’d been his only patrons that evening.
We enquired as to what the locals did of an evening. He didn’t know. As we talked I began to sense an air of unease about him, as if he would prefer to discuss something other than the town and its inhabitants. Probably simply paranoia on my part. I was starting to realise that we were going to have to leave this haven, and return to our room. The thought did not fill me with glee.
In the end we paid, bid him goodnight, and stepped out onto the front. The first thing that struck me was the realisation that I was extremely drunk. I tend to drink just about everything as I would beer, that is in the same sort of quantity. This approach doesn’t work too well with wine. I’d probably had the better part of two bottles, and suddenly, as we stood swaying in the wind that whipped down the soulless stretch of the front, it felt like it.
Susan was a little the worse for wear too, and we stumbled in unison as we stepped off the kerb to walk across the road to the front. Susan slipped her hand underneath my coat and looped her arm around my back and, not saying anything, we stepped up onto the ragged pavement on the other side of the road.
It was late now, but a sallow moon spread enough light for us to see what lay in front of us. Beyond the low wall a ramp of decaying concrete sloped down to the shore. The shore appeared to consist of puddled mudflats, and stretched at least a hundred yards out to where still water the colour of slate took over. In the distance we could just hear the sound of small waves, like two hands slowly rubbed together.
“Tide’s out,” I observed sagely, except that it came out more like “tie shout.” I opened my eyes wide for a moment, blinked, and then fumbled in my pockets for a cigarette.
“Mn,” Susan replied, not really looking. She was gazing vaguely at the wall in front of us, for some reason not letting her eyes reach any higher. She shook her head when I offered her a smoke, which was unusual. I put a hand on the cold surface of the wall, for something to lean against, and looked back out at the sea.
When I was a kid my family often used to go on holiday to St. Augustine. Actually the place where we stayed was just outside, a little further down Crescent Beach in the direction of, but thankfully a good ways from, Daytona Beach. I remember standing on the unspoilt beach as a child, probably no more than five or six, and slowly turning to look out at the sea from different angles, and I remember thinking that you can’t ever really stand still when you’re looking at the sea. There’s nowhere you can stand and think “Yep, that’s the view,” because there’s always more of it on either side.
In Dawton it was different. There was only one way you could see it. Perhaps it was because of the curve of the bay, or maybe it was something else. Your eye was drawn outwards, as if there was only one way you could see the view, only one thing you could see.
Suddenly Susan’s arm was removed and she took a step forwards. Without looking at me she grabbed the wall purposefully with both hands and started to hoist herself over it.
“What’re you doing?” I demanded, stifling a hiccup.
“Going to see the sea.”
“But,” I started, and then wearily reached out to follow her. Obviously the time had come for Susan to do her staring out across the water. The best I could do was tag along, and be there if she wanted to talk.