relief that Lin is not among them.
For the first time, he allows himself to think of his friend. He first met Lin picking apples in Norfolk in the autumn, and when the harvest had finished, they had come to Morecambe together seeking work. Though they usually worked in the same team, yesterday they’d been bundled into different vans on the long drive from Liverpool. Lin’s van had parked about a quarter-mile further west than the one he’d been travelling in, and the visibility had been so poor that he’d seen nothing of the other group once they were out on the sands. Angie told him that more than a dozen cocklers had survived, and that a few more were still unaccounted for. He can only hope that Lin is among the survivors. The reporter concludes the story and the screen changes to a commercial. Wen slumps back against the sofa, feeling drained.
A quarter of an hour, later he hears a key in the front door. Angie stops just inside the door and looks at him.
“You’ve not moved an inch, have you?” she says.
He rises and nods hello to her, uncertain of her meaning. She takes off her coat, hangs it on a hook by the door and walks by him into the kitchen.
“I thought I hallucinated you,” she remarks as she passes. He takes a few steps towards the kitchen, watches her take a bottle of whisky from beneath the sink and pour herself a generous glass. She drinks a third of it in one go, looks over at him and holds the glass up.
“Drink?”
He shakes his head.
“Suit yourself. Are you hungry?” She gestures putting something in her mouth.
“Yes,” he nods. “ Puh-lees .”
“Can you cook?”
He hesitates. She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pack of chicken, then reaches up to the cupboard for a small bag of rice, before turning back to him.
“You,” she says, pointing at him. “Cook? Food?” She holds up the rice, gives it a little shake, and points towards the cooker.
“Yes,” he says. “Little.”
“A little,” she corrects.
“A little,” he repeats.
“Thank God for that,” she says with a sigh. “’Cause I’m knackered.” She bends down and removes a frying pan from the cupboard and hands it to him, walks past him into the bedroom and closes the door.
He stands uncertainly holding the pan for a moment. He places it atop the cooker and picks up the packaged chicken: two breasts, sealed in plastic on a white tray, for a price that would buy five times as much at home. He is not entirely sure he understood her meaning. But he is hungry, so he rummages in the cupboard and drawers and finds the soy sauce and some onions, a knife and a wooden cutting board, and begins to skin and bone the chicken, cutting it into pieces. The door opens and she walks past him in a dark blue dressing gown, still holding the glass, now empty. She pauses to refill it, then disappears inside the bathroom. After a moment, he hears her running the bath. He does not know any English people, so has no basis for comparison. But her actions seem strange by any standard.
He is not a bad cook. In fact, these past few months he’d taken over much of the meal preparation, as he was more experienced than the others: men whose wives had looked after them at home. No one wanted to spend more than a few pounds a week on food,so he was forced to be resourceful, scouring the shops for items that had been heavily discounted. Mostly they lived on homemade dumplings, instant noodles and rice, occasionally buying cheap sausage or pork belly to go with it. He has not eaten chicken since he left London. He finds some oil in the cupboard and stir-fries the chicken with the onions and soy sauce, and prepares the rice the way his step-mother taught him, cooking it halfway, then turning the heat off and allowing it to steam itself from the bottom up.
When the food is ready, he goes to the bathroom door and presses his ear against the panel. He can hear nothing. Perhaps she has fallen asleep, he thinks. After a moment, he
For the first time, he allows himself to think of his friend. He first met Lin picking apples in Norfolk in the autumn, and when the harvest had finished, they had come to Morecambe together seeking work. Though they usually worked in the same team, yesterday they’d been bundled into different vans on the long drive from Liverpool. Lin’s van had parked about a quarter-mile further west than the one he’d been travelling in, and the visibility had been so poor that he’d seen nothing of the other group once they were out on the sands. Angie told him that more than a dozen cocklers had survived, and that a few more were still unaccounted for. He can only hope that Lin is among the survivors. The reporter concludes the story and the screen changes to a commercial. Wen slumps back against the sofa, feeling drained.
A quarter of an hour, later he hears a key in the front door. Angie stops just inside the door and looks at him.
“You’ve not moved an inch, have you?” she says.
He rises and nods hello to her, uncertain of her meaning. She takes off her coat, hangs it on a hook by the door and walks by him into the kitchen.
“I thought I hallucinated you,” she remarks as she passes. He takes a few steps towards the kitchen, watches her take a bottle of whisky from beneath the sink and pour herself a generous glass. She drinks a third of it in one go, looks over at him and holds the glass up.
“Drink?”
He shakes his head.
“Suit yourself. Are you hungry?” She gestures putting something in her mouth.
“Yes,” he nods. “ Puh-lees .”
“Can you cook?”
He hesitates. She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pack of chicken, then reaches up to the cupboard for a small bag of rice, before turning back to him.
“You,” she says, pointing at him. “Cook? Food?” She holds up the rice, gives it a little shake, and points towards the cooker.
“Yes,” he says. “Little.”
“A little,” she corrects.
“A little,” he repeats.
“Thank God for that,” she says with a sigh. “’Cause I’m knackered.” She bends down and removes a frying pan from the cupboard and hands it to him, walks past him into the bedroom and closes the door.
He stands uncertainly holding the pan for a moment. He places it atop the cooker and picks up the packaged chicken: two breasts, sealed in plastic on a white tray, for a price that would buy five times as much at home. He is not entirely sure he understood her meaning. But he is hungry, so he rummages in the cupboard and drawers and finds the soy sauce and some onions, a knife and a wooden cutting board, and begins to skin and bone the chicken, cutting it into pieces. The door opens and she walks past him in a dark blue dressing gown, still holding the glass, now empty. She pauses to refill it, then disappears inside the bathroom. After a moment, he hears her running the bath. He does not know any English people, so has no basis for comparison. But her actions seem strange by any standard.
He is not a bad cook. In fact, these past few months he’d taken over much of the meal preparation, as he was more experienced than the others: men whose wives had looked after them at home. No one wanted to spend more than a few pounds a week on food,so he was forced to be resourceful, scouring the shops for items that had been heavily discounted. Mostly they lived on homemade dumplings, instant noodles and rice, occasionally buying cheap sausage or pork belly to go with it. He has not eaten chicken since he left London. He finds some oil in the cupboard and stir-fries the chicken with the onions and soy sauce, and prepares the rice the way his step-mother taught him, cooking it halfway, then turning the heat off and allowing it to steam itself from the bottom up.
When the food is ready, he goes to the bathroom door and presses his ear against the panel. He can hear nothing. Perhaps she has fallen asleep, he thinks. After a moment, he