beaten track, turned out to be an unpretentious little local frequented mostly by townspeople. Martha didn’t notice any real difference
between the public bar and the lounge; both had the same small round tables and creaky wooden chairs. The woodwork was old and scratched, and one of the embossed glass panels in the door between
the bars was broken. At one end of the room was a dartboard, which no one was using when she walked in at five past seven.
There were only a few other customers in the place, most of whom leaned easily against the bar chatting to the landlord. Keith was sitting at a table in the far corner under a framed photograph,
an old sepia panorama of Whitby in its whaling days, with tall-masted ships in the harbour and chunky men in sou’westers – like the man on the packets of Fisherman’s Friend cough
lozenges – leaning against the railing on St Ann’s Staith and smoking stubby pipes. The fence had been made of wood in those days, Martha noticed: one long beam held up by occasional
props.
‘Good day?’ Keith said, standing as she came up to him.
‘Good day,’ Martha answered.
He laughed. ‘No, I mean did you have a good day? We don’t all talk like Paul Hogan, you know.’
Martha put her holdall on a vacant chair and sat down opposite him. ‘Who?’
‘Paul Hogan. Crocodile Dundee. A famous Aussie. Lord, don’t you ever go to the movies or watch television?’
Martha shook her head. She vaguely remembered the name, but it seemed centuries ago, and she could recall no details. Her mind seemed to have no room left for trivia these days.
‘What do you do for entertainment?’
‘I read.’
‘Ah. Very sensible. Drink?’
‘Bitter. Just a half, please.’
Keith went to the bar and returned with her beer and another pint for himself.
‘So how was your day?’ he asked again.
‘Good.’ It was a long time since Martha had talked like this with a boy – a man, really – or conversed with anyone, for that matter. She seemed to have lost all her skill
at small talk. She must have had it once, she assumed, though she couldn’t remember when. All she could do was let Keith take the lead and follow as best she could. She dipped into her bag
for her cigarettes and offered him one.
‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘But please go ahead.’
She lit the Rothmans, noting that she would soon need another packet, and reached for her drink again.
‘Well . . .’ Keith said.
Martha got the impression that she was supposed to say something, so she forged ahead. ‘What about you? Where did you go?’
‘Oh, I just walked around, visited the usual places. Sat on the beach for a while. I even went for a dip. I’m not used to it being so warm over here.’
‘It is unusual,’ Martha agreed.
‘I’m making my way up the coast to Scotland. I think I told you.’
Martha nodded.
‘Anyway, it’s a complete holiday. No papers, no radio, no TV. I don’t want to know what’s going on in the world.’
‘It’s not usually good,’ Martha agreed.
‘Too true. And what about you? I’m curious. Why are you here all by yourself, if it’s not a rude question?’
Martha thought of saying that yes, it was a rude question, but that would only get his back up. It was much easier to lie. She realized that she could tell him anything she wanted, anything
under the sun – that she lived in Mozambique, for example, and was taking a rest from organizing safaris, or that she had run away from her husband, an Arabian prince to whom she had been
sold as a young girl and shut away in a harem. She could tell him she was travelling around the world alone, as stipulated in the will, on a legacy left by her billionaire arms-dealer father. It
was an exhilarating feeling, a feeling of tremendous power and freedom. Best keep it simple and believable, though, she decided, and told him she was doing research for a book.
‘You a writer, then?’ he asked. ‘Silly of me, I suppose you must be, if
between the public bar and the lounge; both had the same small round tables and creaky wooden chairs. The woodwork was old and scratched, and one of the embossed glass panels in the door between
the bars was broken. At one end of the room was a dartboard, which no one was using when she walked in at five past seven.
There were only a few other customers in the place, most of whom leaned easily against the bar chatting to the landlord. Keith was sitting at a table in the far corner under a framed photograph,
an old sepia panorama of Whitby in its whaling days, with tall-masted ships in the harbour and chunky men in sou’westers – like the man on the packets of Fisherman’s Friend cough
lozenges – leaning against the railing on St Ann’s Staith and smoking stubby pipes. The fence had been made of wood in those days, Martha noticed: one long beam held up by occasional
props.
‘Good day?’ Keith said, standing as she came up to him.
‘Good day,’ Martha answered.
He laughed. ‘No, I mean did you have a good day? We don’t all talk like Paul Hogan, you know.’
Martha put her holdall on a vacant chair and sat down opposite him. ‘Who?’
‘Paul Hogan. Crocodile Dundee. A famous Aussie. Lord, don’t you ever go to the movies or watch television?’
Martha shook her head. She vaguely remembered the name, but it seemed centuries ago, and she could recall no details. Her mind seemed to have no room left for trivia these days.
‘What do you do for entertainment?’
‘I read.’
‘Ah. Very sensible. Drink?’
‘Bitter. Just a half, please.’
Keith went to the bar and returned with her beer and another pint for himself.
‘So how was your day?’ he asked again.
‘Good.’ It was a long time since Martha had talked like this with a boy – a man, really – or conversed with anyone, for that matter. She seemed to have lost all her skill
at small talk. She must have had it once, she assumed, though she couldn’t remember when. All she could do was let Keith take the lead and follow as best she could. She dipped into her bag
for her cigarettes and offered him one.
‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘But please go ahead.’
She lit the Rothmans, noting that she would soon need another packet, and reached for her drink again.
‘Well . . .’ Keith said.
Martha got the impression that she was supposed to say something, so she forged ahead. ‘What about you? Where did you go?’
‘Oh, I just walked around, visited the usual places. Sat on the beach for a while. I even went for a dip. I’m not used to it being so warm over here.’
‘It is unusual,’ Martha agreed.
‘I’m making my way up the coast to Scotland. I think I told you.’
Martha nodded.
‘Anyway, it’s a complete holiday. No papers, no radio, no TV. I don’t want to know what’s going on in the world.’
‘It’s not usually good,’ Martha agreed.
‘Too true. And what about you? I’m curious. Why are you here all by yourself, if it’s not a rude question?’
Martha thought of saying that yes, it was a rude question, but that would only get his back up. It was much easier to lie. She realized that she could tell him anything she wanted, anything
under the sun – that she lived in Mozambique, for example, and was taking a rest from organizing safaris, or that she had run away from her husband, an Arabian prince to whom she had been
sold as a young girl and shut away in a harem. She could tell him she was travelling around the world alone, as stipulated in the will, on a legacy left by her billionaire arms-dealer father. It
was an exhilarating feeling, a feeling of tremendous power and freedom. Best keep it simple and believable, though, she decided, and told him she was doing research for a book.
‘You a writer, then?’ he asked. ‘Silly of me, I suppose you must be, if
Similar Books
