Fisher's Man [Short Story]
09:44
The latch, Hal thinks.
Something as simple as the latch on the door.
He can’t bring himself to
slide it home. To lock out the night; too final an action. It may be tonight,
or any night. He’d always left the door unlocked. Always, when alone. Possibility,
unbolted. But those possibilities are best left unnamed. Hidden in the fog,
like the houses across the bay. He moves to the window, as if the view might
have changed. Darkness, still. The hazy ghosts of spluttering dock-lanterns are
the only points of light.
The kettle hanging above
the fire begins to whistle. Old Ned opens one eye, cocks an ear and starts to
whine. Hal turns, his vigil interrupted. ‘Sorry, Ned, must have woke you.’ The
Labrador’s complaint continues until Hal removes the kettle with iron tongs.
The whistling dies. ‘I’m waking all. Me, who can’t sleep.’
Hal watches the boiling
water as it spills into the teapot. The leaves begin to cloud. He quickly replaces
the lid lest his thoughts also steep black. Tea has been all he could stomach
for a couple of days now; he is starting to feel weak. Food was too solid; like
the ground he stands on.
While it brews he walks
back to the window. Still no change. He speaks aloud, ‘It’s not unusual.’ To be late, he means, but that stays
silent. A fisher’s month-long trip, does not adhere to any calendar. These were
just a few more days to the score. But they never felt ‘just’.
He returns to the table
and sits. At least he can focus on the tea. Something other than indeterminate
shadows outside. He refills an unwashed mug. Wraps it in his fist to glean some
small warmth. It is difficult to ignore the empty chair opposite. He focuses on
his fingers accepting the heat.
There’s a quiet knock on
the door. His heart sails, then drops again. A knock is not expected. Hal waits
for a flinging of the unlatched door, a shout of greeting. The latch, he thinks
again. What is it for but security? And who more vulnerable than a lonely soul?
The knock comes again.
Too soft to open the door itself. But who could be knocking now? Surely dawn is
closer than the sunset past.
The sound of an infant’s
whimper answers his thought. He stands to open the door. The wind dances past
the man on the step; entering uninvited. He is not alone in this separation. A
boat is crewed by two. Leaving two at home – or three, counting the babe in the
other man’s arms – to tend a land-life. And wait.
‘Evening Hal,’ says
Piter. ‘It’s just me and Posie.’ As if that were not plain enough from
circumstance and looking.
‘You must have heard the
kettle,’ Hal jokes. The other man steps around Hal into the firelight and Hal
closes the door; a dosey doe in the small room. ‘Ain’t she getting big?’ He
nods towards the sleeping child.
‘That she is.’ Piter helps
himself to the neglected chair; a habit, a regularity. ‘Her mama’s gonna need
those net-hauling arms to lift her.’ The smile on his face is forced and both
men know it. There is a small, empty beat. The father holds his child closer. The
late hour sits low in their chests.
Hal says, ‘Right you are,’
to fill the space. He reaches to a timber shelf for another mug. ‘I wasn’t
lying about the kettle. Tea?’
‘Please.’
Everything feels
restrained and polite to Hal. Tonight, he is too quiet with this, his closest
friend. He missed the free flowing banter of the fortnight before. Sure,
fishers were common enough in this town, as were their partners left behind.
But Piter and Hal shared the exact same partings. A single boat left that dock,
Hal thinks, carrying both our hearts. It must be lack of sleep, making us this
way. His head spins and he sits to cover any signs. More tea.
After filling the mug for
Piter, he leans against the back of his chair letting it steady him. It creaks,
and the noise opens the conversation like a rusty hinge.
‘I’ve this,’ Piter says,
reaching into the grey blanket that swaddles his child. He sets a small parcel
wrapped in brown paper on the table. ‘Baxter gave it me this evening.’
Hal nods. ‘A good woman.’
The baker was always gifting the day’s remainders to the shore-wed. Hal was
glad he was not the one to receive it. The unspoken concern in the townsfolk’s
eyes is unbearable. He feels his stomach turn, but cannot tell if it’s in
hunger or unease. His appetite waned with the due date.
‘Indeed,’ Piter agrees as
he unwraps the dense cake and breaks it in two with his hands, Posie balanced
on lap and arm. ‘There you are.’ He pushes one of the rough pieces across the small
tabletop and brings the other to his mouth, taking a bite before following it
with tea.
Hal picks up his mug,
making no movement towards the cake. Then he laughs weakly. ‘You’d think it was
mid-afternoon the way we’re carrying on.’
‘Well, what’s time for
the want of company?’ Piter had clearly meant to lift their spirits but it set Hal
thinking of a boat’s steady rise and fall. To be fair, there wasn’t much that
didn’t set him off this way. Hal doesn’t blame the other man. When the heart is
set on one thing, there’s little that won’t trigger a thought in its direction.
The silence in the room is
broken by a log collapsing in the fire. Ned lets out a single snore in response.
Both men smile; small, genuine.
Hal places his hands
either side of the cake in front of him. His fingers worry the wrapping. ‘I
didn’t leave the house today.’ It might have been said to himself, except for
Piter being there. ‘It always surprises me; the way these rooms change size.’
Piter makes a noise, an
encouragement.
‘When there’s the two of
us – and Ned, of course – I always feel like we’re falling over each other.
These two rooms, full to bursting. I look at those new manors that the
merchants have built near the bluff. They fill me with envy. But then – but now
– I’m like a single spoon in a draw.’
‘I know what you mean.’
Piter’s voice is quiet. ‘Lirel, when she’s home, talks of sellin’ and buying
something bigger. Especially now, with Posie. I talked her out of it when last
she’s home. When you quit the sea, I said, and not before.’
Hal grunts.
‘She just laughed.’ Piter
trails off, his humour failing. Hal knows there is no humour in loneliness.
The fire is burning low. As
grateful as Hal is for Piter’s midnight visit, he just can’t find conversation
in himself. The brown paper rustles in his fingers.
Piter stretches out his
arm and rests his hand on the other man’s, quietening the fidgets. There might
not be any words left between them tonight but the touch is rallying. Hal turns
his hand so he can better grasp the other. The two men hold hands as, with
another falling log, the room flares then dims.
Hal does not know how
much time passes. When Posie turns and yawns in her father’s arms, they concede
the night. It’s time to try and get some sleep.
Standing, Piter squeezes
Hals hand and says, ‘Eat something. I can see you’ve not, and it won’t do to faint
when they arrive.’ Hal nods at Piter’s last try at lightening his spirits. A
joke, hand in hand with real advice.
‘Yes, I will.’
Their hands separate and
Piter opens the door to the night. Hal had forgotten how brisk it is outside. The
wind dances about like a playful dog. Again,
his mind flies to that same boat.
Hal clasps Piter on the
shoulder and nods again. Then the door is closed and he turns to see the tiny
room stretch all the way through to the bedroom. He downs the last of his tea
and rinses both mugs in a bucket with a little of the kettle water. When they
are back on the shelf, he sees the hunk of cake left on the table. What is so
daunting about cake? He thinks. It’s heavy, dense. When he takes a bite, it’s
somehow sweet and savoury at the same time. His mouth remembers how it is
supposed to chew, even if he himself had forgotten. His stomach is grateful,
undeceive by days of tea. He wraps the rest of it for the morning, when it
comes.
As he swallows the last
of his mouthful there is a noise behind him and he starts. The wind must be
wild to blow the door open like that. The latch, he thinks, might have
prevented it. But, turning, he finds himself staring at the face that has
filled his thoughts.
Arms grabbing, hugging.
His love. His husband, returned.
This is a short story I wrote and wanted to share.
Picture credit: J. M. W. Turner, Fishermen at Sea, 1796
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