2020. Portobello, Edinburgh
New Year’s Day in Edinburgh. Janet had nothing to do, at least nothing useful. Katherine had told her not to call, that she’d be hung over and that they’d touch base on the second on the third. Touch base? What did that even mean? Something to do with rounders? Or American football? And who was supposed to touch whose base? Was she to ring Katherine? Or would Katherine ring her?
She didn’t understand the rules and she didn’t want to. It irritated her, that sort of lazy English. Why couldn’t people just say what they meant and get on with it? She’d never say that to Katherine of course. But she’d frowned at the time and Katherine had arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow in response.
Of course, she could phone a friend, or family. But the author has been remiss in not setting this up. Episode 36 and we still don’t know whether Janet has any living relatives. Pop George is definitely up there somewhere, sat back on an armchair of lenticularis, having died of a shattered heart after the first inquest.
But where is Edward? And what about her parents? Bernadette would be 102 in a month’s time. And Eric, her father, 104. Are they still alive? If so, Janet has been a dreadful daughter. Negligent in her attention. Not even a mention in her innermost thoughts. Unless of course there’s been a family rift. Which wouldn’t be surprising given the circumstances of Philip’s death. And what about Bessie? There was mention of her way back, a childhood friend. Are they still in touch? Or has Bessie also met some unfortunate end that may or may not implicate Janet?
Janet threw the duvet to the other side of the bed and examined her naked legs. It was hard to remember now whether her legs had always been that boxy shape or whether gravity was just getting the better of her. A thin blue vein had appeared on her right shin a few months ago. It was a lovely graceful thing, winding its way down her leg the way a half decent skier would tackle a new mountain run with wide gracious arcs. It stopped somewhere just above a puffy area around her ankle bone.
She reached down and pushed a finger into the distended skin. It was flaccid and malleable. She gave the area a hard rub with two fingers, pushing the errant fluid up towards her calf. Two years ago, after a sudden and unexpected bout of cellulitis brought on by knocking her ankle on a dry-stone dyke in an old sheep fank, a doctor had told her to wear those long socks that kept the circulation going. The doctor had smiled and said she wore them herself when she worked long shifts at the hospital. Janet had tried to smile back at the tall woman in the casual white coat, and had taken a note of the brand the doctor recommended. The socks turned out to be tight, ugly and grasping.
Janet levered herself off the bed, picked her dressing gown off the floor, put it on, flicked the blind cord up, and opened the window a few inches. The beach, grey and dreamy in its lace curtain haar, was starting to fill with people. Janet shuffled through to the kitchen, put the kettle on, dropped an Earl Grey teabag into a mug, picked up the binoculars, went back into the bedroom and studied the beach.
The people looked odd. Not because of the way they moved, although even that was strange. No, it was what they were wearing, or what they weren’t wearing. Some men were simply in trunks. Short snug black or red affairs that cinched in tight around their hips. Some, men or women, she couldn’t tell, were dressed up in tiger costumes. Some cut a dash in sailor suits. Some were bears, football mascots, or something indeterminate with beehive wigs and long glittery frocks. The hardier of the women were stripped down to their swimming costumes, with pink frilled tutus, thick woolly hats and those funny shoe slipper things that Katherine wore into the sea.
One group had lit a fire and were huddled together around it, singing and beating small round drums. Two of the men fanned the young flames with pieces of cardboard, and a third was pouring whisky into small plastic tumblers. Everyone in that group had the same short bobbed blue hair. Janet chuckled at their wigs, and the ferret appeared from whereever it had slept the night, stood up on its hind legs and sank its claws into Janet’s graceful blue vein. Janet slapped down it down and it shot away between her legs, mewling.
The smell of smoke eked into the bedroom and she shut the window and sighed. No matter what was burning on the fires out there, it always smelt like smouldering tyres. Janet checked the time on her radio. Eleven-thirty. She’d slept late. All those people out there on the beach must be the loony dookers, gathering early, read for the gunshot sprint in and out of the freezing Forth.
Janet enjoyed the loony dook. She’d never done it herself of course. She had what others would call a healthy respect for the sea. Not that the Forth was the sea. Any fool knew that. But it was close enough. Sometimes, when she walked along the water line in the early morning as the dawn pinked across the smooth sand, she’d see a thick stump of driftwood and wonder, just for a moment, whether it was Philip. She’d see a pixie ear, or a bony shoulder, or the nape of a young neck, and her skin would goosebump and she’d hurry back to her flat for a mug of hot mint tea and another hour under her duvet.
Janet put the binoculars down, sat down on her bed, and fingered her phone. No messages. She checked her emails. Nothing. No one wishing her a happy new year. She ran a hand through her hair. First day of 2020 and not a single message. She picked up the phone, ran through the contact list, found Bessie, and tapped the dial button.
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 