Most of the noise came from the third table, near the serve-yourself trolley, where a tired-looking young woman and an equally exhausted man both struggled to put on a brave face as they tried to control two finicky youngsters. The children looked like twins: same blond coloring, same whiny voices: “I don’t like Shreddies, Daddy! Why aren’t there any Sugar Puffs? I want Sugar Puffs!” “Have some Frosties,” the pale mother said, trying to placate them, but to no avail. She glanced up and smiled weakly at the others. The father, dressed for a day on the beach in white slacks and a pale blue sports shirt showing the curly ginger hairs on his forearms, looked over and gave Martha a what-can-
you-do-with-them shrug.
The owner’s wife came in to take their orders. Not that there was much choice: you could have your eggs soft or hard, your bacon medium or crispy. There was a determined set to the woman’s mouth, and she moved about her business with a brusque, no-nonsense certainty, all the while managing to smile and respond to small talk about the weather. Perhaps if anyone wore the pants around here, Martha thought, it was the wife. Her husband probably had a day job and only happened to be around because Martha had arrived late in the afternoon. Perhaps he was even a fisherman. If she could get a chance to chat casually with him, she might be able to find out something about how the local operation worked.
Just after she had given her order for crispy bacon and medium-poached eggs, the final guest came down, ordered and helped himself to cereal and juice, which he brought over to Martha’s table and plonked down opposite her. He was tall and athletic-looking, probably a jogger, with a deep suntan, thin face, aquiline nose and lively blue eyes. His short, curly black hair still glistened from the shower. He smelled of Old Spice aftershave.
He poured some tea and grinned broadly, showing a perfect set of dazzling teeth, the kind one rarely sees in English mouths. My god, Martha thought, a morning person. Probably been for a run around the town before breakfast. She managed to muster a tiny, brief smile, then looked away again to see how the couple were coping with the two kids.
“Sleep well?”
“Pardon?”
The young man leaned forward again and lowered his voice. “I said, did you sleep well?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh?”
“Just put me right next to the bathroom, didn’t they? Six o’clock the blooming parade starts-one after the other-and they all have to flush the loo. I think the pipes run right through my bed. Talk about clatter and bang. Keith’s the name, by the way.” He stuck out his hand and smiled. “Keith McLaren.” His accent was Australian, certainly, Martha thought, but as she had specialized only in regional British accents, she couldn’t pin it down to any specific area.
Martha took his hand reluctantly and gave it a quick, limp shake. “Martha Browne.”
“And before you ask, yes, I’m an Aussie. I’m just taking a little time off from university to travel this lovely country of yours.”
“You’re a student?”
“Yes. Master’s degree in surfing and sunbathing at Bondi Beach University.” He laughed. “Not true. Wish it were. I’m studying law, not half as interesting. I’m making my way up the coast to Scotland. Got some family there.”
Martha nodded politely.
“Seagulls, too,” Keith said, apropos of nothing, as far as Martha could make out.
“What?”
“Bloody seagulls kept me awake too. Didn’t you hear them?”
“Seagulls, you say?” The owner’s wife arrived at their table and set down two plates, which she held with worn oven gloves. “Mind, they’re hot. Seagulls, eh? You get used to them if you live here. Have to.”
“They never wake you up?” Keith asked her.
“Never. Not after the first couple of months.”
“ ’Fraid I won’t be here that long.” He looked at Martha again. “Moving on tomorrow. Traveling by local buses whenever I can. Walking or hitching if I can’t.”
“Well, good luck to you,” the woman said, and moved on.
Keith stared at his plate and prodded a dark medallion of reddish black stuff with his fork. “What’s that?” he asked, turning up his nose and leaning forward to whisper. “Whatever it is, I don’t remember asking for it.”
Martha examined the contents of his plate. They were the same as hers: bacon, egg, grilled tomato and mushrooms, fried bread, and the thing that Keith was pointing to. “Black pudding, I think,” she said. “Must be today’s special.”
“What’s it made of?”
“You don’t want to know. Not at this time in the morning.”
Keith laughed and tucked in. “Well, it sure tastes all right. That’s what I like about staying at these places. They always give you a breakfast that sets you up for the entire day. I won’t need much more than a sandwich till the evening meal. Are you eating here?”
“Not in the evenings, no.”
“Oh, you should. I usually come back. Well, I say usually, but this is only my third day. They do a decent spread. Good value, too.”
When he went back to his food he stopped talking and left Martha in peace. She ate quickly, hoping to get away before he started up again, even though she knew a rushed meal would give her indigestion. Across the room, one of the children flicked a slice of tomato at the wall with his spoon. It splattered on the faded rose-patterned paper and slithered down, leaving a pink trail behind. His father reddened and took the spoon from him angrily, and his mother looked as if she were about to die from embarrassment.
Martha pushed her chair back and stood up to leave. “Excuse me,” she said to Keith. “Must be off. Lots to do.”
“Aren’t you going to finish your cup of tea?” Keith asked.
“I’ve had two already. Anyway, it’s stewed.” And she hurried upstairs to her room. There, she locked the door, opened the window and enjoyed a cigarette as she leaned on the sill and looked at the small white clouds over St. Mary’s.
After she’d finished the Rothmans and paid a visit to the toilet, she picked up her holdall and set off down the stairs again. At the first-floor landing, she bumped into Keith coming out of his room. Just my luck, she thought.
“Want to show me around?” he asked. “What with both of us being alone here…Well, it seems a shame.”
“I’m sure you know more about the place than I do. I’ve just arrived, and you’ve been here three days already.”
“Yes, but you’re a native. I’m just a poor ignorant foreigner.”
“I’m sorry,” Martha said, “but I’ve got work to do.”
“Oh? What would that be, then?”
“Research. I’m working on a book.”
They were walking down the last flight of carpeted stairs to the hallway. Martha couldn’t just break away from him. She wanted to see which way he turned in the street so that she could walk the other way.
“Well, maybe we can have a drink this evening, after you’ve finished work and I’ve worn out my poor feet?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what time I’ll be finished.”
“Oh, come on. Say seven o’clock, all right? You know what they say: All work and no play…There’s a nice, quiet little pub just on the corner at the end of the street. The Lucky Fisherman, I think it’s called. Is it a date? I’m away tomorrow anyway, so you’ll only have to put up with me the once.”
Martha thought quickly. They had passed the door now and were already walking down the front steps to the path. If she said no, it would look very odd indeed, and the last thing she wanted was to appear conspicuous in any way. It was bad enough being a woman by herself here. If she acted strangely, then this Keith might just have cause to remember her as some kind of oddball, and that wouldn’t do at all. On the other hand, if she did agree to have a drink with him, he would no doubt ask her all kinds of questions about her life. Still, she thought, there was
