Chapter Eighty
Eighty
Hunker
In the secret bar of the Merry Maid, Goodithea and Radigon are sitting in the winged armchairs by the fire, a completed game of dominos on their table, along with two tiny glasses of sherry. Betty is next to them, giving them matching Sharpie tattoos with the words ‘The Sistren’ in swirling fonts.
When I enquire about this, Betty swears they keep asking for neck tattoos, but the skin elasticity won’t play ball, so she’s drawing on their inner wrists as a compromise.
When I set Ted down, he goes from woman to woman, begging for attention and snacks, and ignoring most of the men. Joshua isn’t here, and it occurs to me that as a surfer, he might be out in the water trying to catch some of these monstrous waves. When I suggest this to Betty, she says, ‘Joshua is thick, but he’s not suicidal. He’s probably at home playing video games on his virtual reality headset. He loves Roblox.’
‘Roblox? Isn’t that a platform aimed at children?’ I say, trying not to take offence on his behalf that Betty just called him thick. ‘Do adults play that?’
‘Some parents do, I suppose,’ Betty says. ‘But Joshua doesn’t have any kids. Still, he just loves Dragon Adventures.’
‘What even is that?’ I ask.
‘Does what it says on the tin,’ Betty says. ‘You pick a dragon and then ride it around and have adventures. He says he finds it stress-relieving. Not that I can imagine he has that much stress in his life, working as a surf and yoga instructor.’
I know it’s prejudice, but the idea of Joshua riding around on a virtual dragon puts me off him a bit. Still, at least he doesn’t think I’m the world’s most boring woman.
Caleb looks over at me, and I wonder again who he was talking to, and why it even matters to me.
*
The Loor locals are nothing if not prepared. They’ve all come with supplies to take them through the next twenty-four hours. Even though all the businesses will be closed until the storm has passed, most people here are still working in some fashion or other, preparing for the island’s upcoming summer craft fayre – giving each other feedback and encouragement.
Fancy woollens are being made by the Knit and Natt crowd – the usual socks and baby cardigans, as well as some Loor bears. Radigon has a line in multi-coloured pom-pom garlands, and Goodithea is working on some delicate crocheted shawls. Her eyes aren’t good anymore, but she insists she has muscle memory when it comes to crochet. Betty encourages her to charge more for her work, tells her that if she doubles the price, they’ll sell even better, because wealthy tourists are suspicious of anything that seems too cheap. Goodithea says she’ll consult her business manager, which it turns out is Caleb, who agrees.
On the table in front of Maud, there are small sheets of black paper, scattered haphazardly, with which she appears to be making origami.
‘Penguins?’ I ask.
‘Not quite,’ she says. ‘Puffins.’
‘Puffins? I thought origami cranes was the standard?’
‘Not on Loor.’
‘Do they signify something?’ I say, thinking of good fortune or long life.
‘My boredom. And a profit of two pounds each. Since you’re just sitting there, you can make some too.’
I do exactly what I’m told and so does Caleb.
Adeliza shows me how she’s making pendants by supergluing sea glass to metal findings, which she buys for pennies from Amazon and sells for twenty pounds each. I can’t help wondering if one day, I could use sea glass gems to make fine jewellery, setting the most spectacular pieces in silver or even gold, and how much people in the cities would pay for them.
Amos is doing drawings of Loor with alcohol ink. Each sketch only takes half an hour but they’re exquisite, and once framed, will sell to Loor-lovers desperate to remember the beauty of the island.
Betty is writing out mason jar labels for her line of Loor jam and lemon curd. They each have tiny Cornish flag stickers on them and an extortionate price of ￡9.99.
‘The penny off makes all the difference,’ she says.
I look around at them all and feel awed by their industriousness. Everyone here is determined to make the most of these unexpected hours spent with their community.
The storm increases in intensity, until the windows rattle so hard, I think they might blow in. Tiles are coming off the roof with hideous crashing noises, and it feels dangerous to be so close to the sea.
In an attempt to calm everybody down, Maud hands out hot chocolates and explains to me the long tradition of the Loor lore, a custom in which the older islanders tell a story from their life. Goodithea, Radigon, Maud and Amos all speak.
Usually, it happens up on the heath on Midsummer’s Eve, near the ancient standing stones, and tourists are welcome to listen – for a small contribution to the island’s charitable fund.
Amos tells us about the tiniest chalet on the island, called the Gables, where he grew up and still lives today. His grandparents moved in as hippies in the sixties and whenever they had family members come to visit, they put up tents in a garden marked by white cockle shells. How in good weather, he and Adeliza sit together on a cast-iron bench set with cushions, and take turns reading to each other. They don’t have much money, but they don’t spend much money. They’ve had offers from out-of-towners, who want to knock down the Gables and build a fancy beach house, because that’s the rule now: there are no new plots of land on Loor; developers can only build where there are existing structures. Amos has turned down more than a million pounds, because to him, there is no life better than this.
Goodithea recalls a childhood of parasols and Edwardian dresses, but apart from the fashion, she says it wasn’t much different. The haves and the have-nots were still divided on the island. She tells us how she worked as a dressmaker and made the most exquisite gowns and suits, and she wore a hat wherever she went. She’s still never without a hat now, although these days, they’re beanies in bright colours knitted by her sister, who knows just how she likes them.
Goodithea’s voice is high and surprisingly loud as she talks, but when she’s finished, she falls into her customary deep silence. All the memories she has from over a century of living seem to lie heavy within her. She is still herself at all her younger ages, like Russian dolls within – Goodithea at age ten, pigtails and freckles. At age twenty, with a printed blouse and a stare that could strip wallpaper. At thirty, like Greta Garbo, in all her glamour and glory. At forty, her hair greying at the temples but without a wrinkle on her face. She’s each one of those women and girls, and all the ones who came after. All of them still live within her.
Radigon talks about how when received her centenary letter from the queen, her late husband drew curling mustachios on it, to make her laugh, as they were both republicans who supported the abolition of the monarchy. She was initially annoyed about this graffiti but framed it anyway, and now it makes her smile every time she sees it, and makes her miss him all the more.
A huge clap of thunder erupts right over the island.
‘Fucking HELL,’ Betty says, looking scared.
‘Well, you know what they say,’ Goodithea says, sitting up, an unmistakeable twinkle in her eye. ‘A fuck in hell is better than a wank in heaven.’
Radigon considers this. ‘It depends,’ she says, meditatively, ‘on the quality of the fuck.’
‘Aunties,’ Caleb gasps, in horror. ‘You can’t say stuff like that.’
‘Whyever not?’ Radigon sounds genuinely curious.
‘Because you’ll shock Lindy.’
‘All the more reason,’ Goodithea says, proudly. ‘The girl needs a good shocking, by the looks of her.’
‘Where did you even hear that phrase?’ I ask, laughing.
Maud clears her throat guiltily. ‘That might have been my bad.’
*
The wind doesn’t drop all night, and we settle down on cushions on the floor, all of us huddled together as if we’re at a very weird sleepover.
Caleb and some of the other men discuss taking inventory of the damage to the island, as soon as the wind drops a little, and making sure nobody’s in trouble.
Maud explains that the tourists will sensibly stay indoors because of the weather warning, but the hardcore Loor Loons – who don’t do anything that ‘Big Government’ advises – will do whatever they take it into their heads to do. Adeliza explains to us how in the middle of the coronavirus pandemic, when the whole country was limited to one walk a day, Loor residents averaged two, because it seemed safe enough with a winter population of 138 people spread out over an entire island.
‘You rebels,’ I say, smiling.