E.W. Fillet and Son “The Butchers” “Our pork sausages a speciality”
Mr Fillet backs up his van across the gravel outside the guest house at number 44. His seagull-white butcher’s coat flaps in the breeze as he gets out. All the best cuts of a pig that spent last summer sprawled in the Suffolk sun, mud-coated and fly-swarmed, are now neatly packaged in the box that Mr Fillet takes from his van. The holiday-makers, taking the salt-laden coastal air, will fatten up on Mr Fillet’s finest pork chops, bacon and his speciality sausages.
Mrs Lily Rose is ready at the door in her flowered frock and lipstick as red as peonies. The bowl of his favourite biscuits is ready too, in the freshly polished front room.
“She’s no better than she ought to be” sniffs Mrs Evelyn Eagle, clutching her faded green cardigan to her portly figure as she watches from across the road. Mr Eagle doesn’t look up from his crossword, more concerned with the crossword than his wife’s daily observations. Evelyn Eagle tuts as she glances across to him, feet on the coffee table, one toe pointing out of his sock, pen poised.
Mr Fillet steers slickly through the front door at number 44, skilfully handling the box of choice cuts and dropping it with a plump thump on the kitchen table.
“I brought your loin” he says, with a heavy wink, and Mrs Rose screams with laughter, her peony-red lips revealing a far-too-perfect set of glistening teeth. She draws the curtains at number 44 and the sign on the door is turned to say “No Rooms”. Mr Fillet takes his time to familiarise Mrs Rose with his wares.
Down at the quay, Jamie Haddock is hauling out his mud-grey boat from the mud-grey sea. He think thinks of being back in his warm bed, with Polly Haddock wrapped in his arms. His catch stares mutinously from the bottom of the boat with dead, gelatinous eyes. Gulls goose-step around the sprawling bladder-wrack, watching and calculating, mewling for an easy meal.
“Go on, now” calls Jamie Haddock waving his knife and, although they step backwards, their eyes never leave the fish lying dead in his boat.
Jamie Haddock quickly parts the fish from their guts, throwing the fleshy pink entrails onto the rocks where the gulls scream and fight over every last gory piece. The fish will be sold in his shop tomorrow to holiday-makers seeking the salt-licked taste of the sea while he tells tall stories of storms and ships and shanties.
Mrs Eagle and Daisy Dancer whisper their gossip over scented chrysanthemums and sturdy sunflowers, avoiding the sharp ears of the Reverend Simple at the front of the church. Their mouths form O’s and lips purse as they share the sins of their neighbours. Reverend Simple fusses around the ornate altar, wondering whether he should bring out red candles or white candles. He wishes he could not hear the hissed accusations from the two ladies, preferring to believe in the innocence of his flock.
A sudden roar of wind shakes the doors at the back of the church. It rattles the windows at number 44 and lifts the gulls sideways from their feast on the beach. Mr Eagle drops his pen.
Rain comes storming in from the sea, drenching Jamie Haddock as he walks home with his catch. It torrents down the streets, rattling and bucking down gutters, hissing over the rolling sea. Water runs from every corner and the wind whips rain into sheets that hit the stained glass windows of the church. Villagers are brought to their windows and doors and watch with wide-eyed awe as a funnel of water lifts from the sea. It dances a frenzied polka across the surface, twisting and bending, zigzagging and jumping. Bit by bit, it spins towards Jamie Haddock’s boat on the flooded shore. The boat levitates, tips and turns, splits in two and then thumps on top of the graves of Major Geoffrey Salt and Bernard Percival Altrincham-Brown.
The wind and rain move on to play havoc somewhere else. But they have left another surprise. The long-lost husband of Mrs Rose now sprawls amongst the seaweed. He drags himself up the path to the churchyard and finds shelter between the hull of Jamie Haddock’s shattered boat and the headstone of Major Geoffrey Salt.
Mrs Eagle bustles out of the church door, pushing her collar up as she turns towards home. She stops stock still when she hears a colossal gurgling snore emerge from the graves. She stares and steps backwards, then back again, towards the safety of the church. White as a ghost, she bumps into the Reverend Simple and screams so loud it echoes in his ears.
“A sea monster”, she squawks, and then faints in the Reverend’s arms as he buckles under her weight.
Eventually, the villagers flock together, advancing step by step towards the sound. Each step is more cautious as they approach the fallen headstone of Major Geoffrey Salt and the shattered remains of Jamie Haddock’s boat. Nobody wants to be the one to step forward and push the boat away. A whispered discussion but no decision. The conversation becomes more heated. Mr Eagle points out that the graveyard belongs to the church, and the Reverend Simple is pushed forwards from the crowd just as a hand and then a face appear from the Major’s grave.
Mrs Rose is far from pleased to be reunited with her long-lost husband. He tells of pirates abducting him from his boat, of forced labour on a distant island. But the storm has taken his memory and he can’t recall the details. Very soon he returns to the Ship and Anchor to drown his sorrows. Mr Fillet no longer visits with his speciality sausages and choice cuts but, as Mrs Eagle notes, Mrs Rose makes frequent visits to his shop.
The sea is calm now, diamond-bright sparks amidst the constant sway and roll of the waves. Its mischief is done for the present.
Mudwriter 