The Quality Of Mercy

Welcome sunshine glitters on the furrowed sea. A gentle, salty breeze ruffles the dark plumage of a cormorant drying its angular wings as it stands on a barnacle-clad post.

“What poise,” thinks Carmelle. She is sure she can incorporate some reference to the statuesque quality of this motionless seabird into her latest piece of writing, which she has entitled “The Soulful Sea”. She will discuss her latest ideas with Darius when she meets him in The Ship. She enjoys their verbal entanglement and is keenly anticipating the delicious frisson generated between them. She is ready, eager, for more than that now, and Darius cannot help but have noticed, surely? She has put clean sheets on the bed and flowers in the room.

Carmelle has stayed on at Greyling Bay longer than she intended, having found the sympathetic eye and ear of Darius, whose particular interest, fortuitously, she has discovered, is the written word (when Laura, a slim, long-limbed student from the university had made his acquaintance at a fund-raising barn dance last summer, his particular interest then, usefully, had been political history. Greyling Bay has a veritable polymath in its midst).

Enjoying the unexpected warmth and stillness of the day sit Frances and Mercy on a bench at the edge of the sand. They watch Carmelle walk past, antelope-like in her fluid gait, hips swaying and arms gently swinging. Oh, how they wish they could regain their youth. That bloody war took their husbands and now all they have to contemplate is a fortnightly visit from the chiropodist and a chip supper with entertainment in the community hall on the first Tuesday of every month. Failing joints, false teeth and thinning hair. Loneliness. That is the reward life bestows for hard work, loyalty and stoicism. But still, they can laugh and feel the warmth on their paper-thin skin, grateful for their friendship.


They could have been something, Frances and Mercy.





Faith Bretherick

Caroline

I forget things now. My memory is going the way of my bladder these days. But I remember others, a lot more than people give me credit for. By people, I mean him. He’s taken to calling me dad instead of Frank, as if that ring on his finger makes him my blood. My Sarah tells him to leave me be. She always was a good girl that one. As pretty as her mother too.

Caroline. The wind still carries her laughter and the sand still holds her footprints. There, at the window of the old Macphearson café, she sits bobbing up and down as she plays peek-a-boo with Sarah. It’s called the Greyling Bay Café now, all fancied up. But I still see the checkered tablecloths and gleaming salt shakers. And I still see Caroline. There, down by the pier where the Browning children are throwing bread to the gulls, Caroline walks to meet me for a date to the picture house up the road.

Bill approaches, net in hand. I’ve never seen Bill without a net in his hand.

"Hey Frank, nice weather for it, eh?"

I’m not quite sure what "it" is or what sort of weather would be good for it so I just smile. Bill’s a good man. His wife used to be one of Caroline’s pupils and when she came to the funeral she was the only one who didn’t try to say anything stupid. She just held my hand for a bit then said, "This is horrible."

"Frank, mate, why don’t you come in a bit and sit on one of the benches? This old rock of yours can’t possibly be comfy. You get soaked to the bone every time there’s a wave."

But I like this rock. Caroline sits by my side, her head in the curve between my neck and shoulder and talks about how many more hours we’d have to put in at the university to afford a house on the waterfront. Turned out it was a lot. I smell her Pears soap when I sit on this rock. I tell Bill no, I’m fine where I am.

Bill is saving to buy a new boat, he thinks he’ll have it by next spring.

I may well not be around for that. I may have gone to be with my girl. But you’ll hear me, catch a glimpse of me sitting on this rock from time to time. Caroline, Greyling and me, we’re in the fibres of each other. We’re a trinity.


Anna Russell