The Cursed Line of Bell of Whitstable

Chapter 9 - Harbour

I take Dad down to the harbour before his evening shift, I tell him all that Bell had told me about what the fishermen catch and the history of this thriving industry, still embedded in tradition. The cold air whips at our faces and leave them burning red, our eyes stream as we watch the boats bobbing on the angry ocean, the water so black down below beneath us with its never-ending depth. The ocean is a lot like life as it's hard to see what's in front of you, a never-ending expanse with hidden possibilities and dangers. You also can't see how far it goes or where it ends but you know it does.

Dad sighs and squeezes me close, he has a hint of a smile as if he's finally found a place on earth where he feels at peace, his usually tightly wound posture is more relaxed as if finally, he can just be himself, no more looking over his shoulder. "Do you like it here Dad?"

He chuckles "Well it's not the Maldives but it'll do kid". Dad does this often, answering a serious question with a joke. "Do you like it here" he fires back.

I shrug "It's  ok, I'd like it better if I wasn't going to school" he laughs at my stroppy comment.

We go into the fish market and eye up all the weird and wonderful fish displayed on the crushed ice. Dad dares me to try an oyster.  After I had watched him gag then turn green because I insisted he goes first. I decline.  We come to the decision we prefer our fish cooked. As we circle around we go past the lifeguard station there is a sign explaining about the volunteers and charity events they do. Dad jokes he might volunteer but I remind him of one crucial detail: you need to know how to swim - so that's him out.

Beside the lifeguard station, there are loads of boats on the beach, large and small. We look at each one of them with their own name written on the side, Dad tells me its bad luck not to name your boat before you take it out on the sea. We then joke about what we'd call a boat if we had one, that's when I saw them lurking by the old fishermen's huts that have been turned into little glamping huts for the tourists to stay in when it's summer. Leaning on their bikes watching us from the shadows, it was those boys from the other night - the feral boys, not speaking just watching us from the shadows.

I wanted to storm over and tell them to piss off for intruding on the first five minutes me and Dad had had since we'd been here. To tell them they weren't needed, I felt smothered by their looming presence but I remembered the fear that was in Pervy Barry  eyes when he saw them. He had known who they were more to the point what they were capable of. I stared back at them, I was not going to have Bell's dogs intimidating me or thinking I was frightened, even if I was I'd front it out. I was grateful for what they did that evening but I was scared at how far they had taken it.

Dad spotted them "must be youth club kicking out time" he joked as we stroll away along on the pebbly beach, deep down I hope they haven't heard him.

We wander back on the beach stopping to throw stones in the sea, trying unsuccessfully to skim them counting how many times they bounce across the eerily still water, we collect shells that I pop in my pocket.

Then we walk up through the high street looking in the windows, one of our favourite past times. Some people would think it's horrendous looking at things you can't afford but for us, they are just things, their value isn't that great. When you've had nothing you learn to appreciate the smaller things or things in life that you can't buy.

As we stand outside a jewellery shop I look at the poster of a man handing a lady a ring, he's clearly proposing to her with their fake smiles and shiny white teeth with over-exaggerated expressions of joy. I wonder if Mum hadn't have died if her and Dad would have married, would they have had children? I'd liked a little brother or sister. I look up at Dad "Do you think about Mum? you know sometimes I wonder what she would have been like". He carries on looking in the shop window as if looking for the right answer - a second or two passes.

"Yeah, I think about her. Truthfully I used to feel bad. When you said your first word, when you took your first steps I'd think to myself that she should be here, she should be seeing this and I'd feel bad because I have all these memories these moments with you and she never got that. She was robbed of her time with you and whatever you think, she loved you so much". He gasps as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "But she was sick Jane, it had taken over her, and it's so hard to fight back when you are in a hole, that deep, that dark with no light leading you back. It takes something earth-shatteringly large to shine a light to lead you home to make you fight your way back. For her, all the fight had been knocked out of her, but not a day goes by that I don't think about her".

I feel bad for asking him about her and making him relive his pain but as I'm getting older I'm feeling the missing piece of not knowing my mother becoming larger and larger. Truthfully the whole thing it feels so senseless to me. If she'd left, I could have reasoned with that. If she had died in an accident, I could have understood that. But she had died by her own hands, she did this to herself, not just to herself but to me and Dad too.
Her choices have impacted on us for the rest of our lives because wherever we go we carry her now with us, like a ghost from the past who only brings more unanswered questions. I try to lighten the mood but also stay on topic.

"What was she like? Do I look like her?" he finally looks at me.

"You look so much like her, especially your eyes. But your personality - not so much. She was shy and quiet, the world scared her, I'd not known her for long before" he paused for a couple of seconds although it felt longer. "She passed away, She always reminded me of a little bird with her wings clipped, you could see she wanted to fly but couldn't. She didn't speak a lot about her past but I knew whatever had happened it had broken her a little. I always felt like she was running from something, not like you my fearless little madam. Whatever happens, you always keep fighting, stand your ground".

I sigh "I don't know about fearless" he turns me to face him.

"Yes fearless, you have strength in you Jane to fight, and never forget that. Life has thrown so much shit at you but you never give up. I don't give up because of you".
My eyes start to well up, I don't feel what he's seeing in me at this moment. I blink repeatedly to pull the tears back, I hate the thought of crying and I know if I get upset so will he. I know I'm the person I am because of him, for that I'm grateful. I know it's not possible but I think to myself; if I inherited my looks from her then I adopted my strength from him.

As we wander back I feel I've taken a step forward to shrinking that empty piece inside of me that my mother has left behind. I know something about her regardless how small, and for now that feels like enough. I now know my eyes are the same as hers so when I look in the mirror a little part of her is looking back.

As we walk into the pub I hear their bikes rattling down the empty quiet street, echoing behind us. I can't see them and have no intention of turning to look for them. I feel like they know I know that they are there but carry on stalking behind us regardless. Dad is oblivious about our silent guard dogs that have followed and watched us home. I wonder why Bell has so much control over these feral boys ? is she watching out for us or watching over us ?