Read Online The Crooked House by Christobel Kent - Free Book Online
Authors: Christobel Kent
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advertised a cheap fizzy drink. Funny thing was, in London it might all have been some kind of ironic reference but Alison couldn’t smile. She felt sick.
‘Gin and tonic?’ said Paul. ‘It’s probably safe enough.’
‘Vodka,’ said Alison. She hesitated, located an empty table and sat, her back against the wall. She watched Paul go to the bar, inserting himself between a bar stool and the old man with the beard. Watched him wait for Ron to finish some pointless restacking of crisp boxes, a gesture Alison recognised from out of the past, designed to show them all that the landlord was nobody’s servant.
The old man leaned down on his bar stool, reaching towards Paul as he stood patiently and said something Alison couldn’t hear. Even from the reckless lean of his body she could tell how drunk he was, and how ancient, but Paul turned politely towards him and answered. And then instantly she knew the old man, of course, something about the shabby coat he wore, a heavy tweed stiff with age and dirt, something about the point to his beard and the walnut gleam of his old bald head and there it was, even his name. Stephen Bray, the tilt of his boat on its side out in the marsh, the reek of home brew and unwashed clothes.
Still here? Alison was astonished, but then it occurred to her that those you thought were ancient, at thirteen, perhaps had only been middle-aged. She saw Paul answer politely, sawhim nod just faintly in her direction in response and the old man looked over. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and frowned down into the contents of her bag, pretending not to notice them looking her way. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Paul get Ron’s attention at last but Stephen Bray’s hand was on his arm, detaining him.
His boat had always been out on the marsh, out along the shingle path from the waterfront that was buttressed with timbers sunk decades ago into the mud and now rotting. In theory you could make your way from there to the crooked house but it was a maze of creeks and dead ends. A memory came to her, of her father getting in more than once with mud up to his knees, saying he’d been to see Stephen, and had struck out across the marsh afterwards.
The drinks were on the bar now, Ron’s hand not as steady as it had been. Stephen Bray was still talking, up into Paul’s frowning face; now he was trying to pay for the drinks and Paul’s hand was out and up, refusing.
Her father had taken her along to see him on his boat once or twice, when she’d been smaller, when they’d been happier. Their family on an even keel: that was a funny phrase in this place. She remembered clambering down the narrow gangway into the crowded space – it had once been a rich man’s yacht, her father had told her, sixty years before. And still there’d been something fairy-tale about it, even frowsty and cluttered, with the long sweeping curve of the hull inside, the tarnished rails and the narrow shelves stacked with cans and pots, the bunk covered in an ancient army blanket and all of it tilted at forty-five degrees. Her father whispering before they got there, ‘He’s all right,’ and holding her hand tight. ‘He’s just a lonely old man.’
There’d been a bottle he’d fished out from a cupboard that smelled of diesel, a liquid, straw-coloured and viscous, that had made her eyes water just to sniff it. He called it parsnip wine and never at nine or ten having even tasted wine Esme hadknown no better. He’d got out tiny dusty glasses etched with grapes, one for each of them, and they’d laughed kindly when she spluttered and retched at the single sip she took.
Lonely. Maybe. Paul looked over at her but not in desperation, not yet. He seemed actually interested in what the old man was saying and she felt a tightening in her gut at his kindness, his patience.
Something wrong with Stephen Bray: her mother had thought that. Eccentric, her father had countered, and what was wrong with that –
Kate
,
‘Gin and tonic?’ said Paul. ‘It’s probably safe enough.’
‘Vodka,’ said Alison. She hesitated, located an empty table and sat, her back against the wall. She watched Paul go to the bar, inserting himself between a bar stool and the old man with the beard. Watched him wait for Ron to finish some pointless restacking of crisp boxes, a gesture Alison recognised from out of the past, designed to show them all that the landlord was nobody’s servant.
The old man leaned down on his bar stool, reaching towards Paul as he stood patiently and said something Alison couldn’t hear. Even from the reckless lean of his body she could tell how drunk he was, and how ancient, but Paul turned politely towards him and answered. And then instantly she knew the old man, of course, something about the shabby coat he wore, a heavy tweed stiff with age and dirt, something about the point to his beard and the walnut gleam of his old bald head and there it was, even his name. Stephen Bray, the tilt of his boat on its side out in the marsh, the reek of home brew and unwashed clothes.
Still here? Alison was astonished, but then it occurred to her that those you thought were ancient, at thirteen, perhaps had only been middle-aged. She saw Paul answer politely, sawhim nod just faintly in her direction in response and the old man looked over. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and frowned down into the contents of her bag, pretending not to notice them looking her way. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Paul get Ron’s attention at last but Stephen Bray’s hand was on his arm, detaining him.
His boat had always been out on the marsh, out along the shingle path from the waterfront that was buttressed with timbers sunk decades ago into the mud and now rotting. In theory you could make your way from there to the crooked house but it was a maze of creeks and dead ends. A memory came to her, of her father getting in more than once with mud up to his knees, saying he’d been to see Stephen, and had struck out across the marsh afterwards.
The drinks were on the bar now, Ron’s hand not as steady as it had been. Stephen Bray was still talking, up into Paul’s frowning face; now he was trying to pay for the drinks and Paul’s hand was out and up, refusing.
Her father had taken her along to see him on his boat once or twice, when she’d been smaller, when they’d been happier. Their family on an even keel: that was a funny phrase in this place. She remembered clambering down the narrow gangway into the crowded space – it had once been a rich man’s yacht, her father had told her, sixty years before. And still there’d been something fairy-tale about it, even frowsty and cluttered, with the long sweeping curve of the hull inside, the tarnished rails and the narrow shelves stacked with cans and pots, the bunk covered in an ancient army blanket and all of it tilted at forty-five degrees. Her father whispering before they got there, ‘He’s all right,’ and holding her hand tight. ‘He’s just a lonely old man.’
There’d been a bottle he’d fished out from a cupboard that smelled of diesel, a liquid, straw-coloured and viscous, that had made her eyes water just to sniff it. He called it parsnip wine and never at nine or ten having even tasted wine Esme hadknown no better. He’d got out tiny dusty glasses etched with grapes, one for each of them, and they’d laughed kindly when she spluttered and retched at the single sip she took.
Lonely. Maybe. Paul looked over at her but not in desperation, not yet. He seemed actually interested in what the old man was saying and she felt a tightening in her gut at his kindness, his patience.
Something wrong with Stephen Bray: her mother had thought that. Eccentric, her father had countered, and what was wrong with that –
Kate
,
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