Free The Woman Who Walked Into the Sea by Mark Douglas-Home Page B

nailed to the barn.
    ‘Yes, I saw it.’ Cal said. ‘It’s funny.’
    Duncan grinned at Cal’s reaction. ‘I stole it,’ he said, ‘from a woman who lives on the Pacific coast of America. She has a Wall of Lost Soles too.’
    ‘I wouldn’t call that stealing,’ Cal shrugged, ‘and anyway the world’s big enough for two.’
    Cal’s answer again seemed to please Duncan who began to hum, turning this way and that before beckoning to his visitor and leading him from one barn to the next. Duncan kept up a continuous commentary about his beach-combing finds, selecting examples for inspection, until Cal was taken to see the Neptune Scroll. Though it was squint and in a damaged frame, Duncan ushered Cal into its presence with all the comic formality of a fawning courtier. Making admiring comments, Cal cast his eye over Duncan’s table of special discoveries. He wondered aloud whether he could spend some time picking through the barns. He was sure they would reveal all kinds of interesting information. In case he hadn’t explained properly, he said he researched ‘anything that floats really’. His particular area of interest was the North Atlantic, discovering all the quirks of the wind and currents, discovering where things washed up, tracking back to find out where they’d originated.
    Duncan shot Cal the same half-mad grin he’d seen at the skylight the previous evening. Without thinking, Cal said, ‘By the way who were those men?’
    The grin faded. Duncan picked at the sleeve of his shirt and muttered about his land not being for sale, about the public meeting, about people taking sides against him. He wouldn’t look Cal in the eye.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Cal said, seeing his distress. ‘It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
    The tide was out, Duncan said, changing the subject. It was time he went to South Bay.
    ‘You’re ok if I have a look around?’ Cal said as Duncan turned and walked away.
     
    Duncan stooped but not low enough – at fifty-seven, he wasn’t as supple as he imagined. The effect was the exact opposite of the one he intended. Instead of keeping himself hidden by the dune until he had checked the identity of the woman on the beach, he broke the sky-line. She saw him and changed direction.
    He cursed his bad luck and lit a cigarette. The thought of another angry confrontation made him jumpy. He talked to himself, a nervous undertone, like someone psyching himself for a challenge: reminding himself how it was Boyd’s Farm, how he was a Boyd, how he could do what he wanted. It seemed to help because he added ‘I, Neptune, Monarch of the Sea’ grinning and peering through the tall grass. The figure was still too distant to tell whether she was friend or foe. Duncan hoped it was Dr Bell, who walked her terrier, Pepe, at South Bay. But Duncan couldn’t see any sign of the little dog. He prepared for a stranger, turning his back, raking his fingers through his unruly and brittle hair and brushing down his clothes. When, eventually, she was close enough to try ‘hello’ he pretended not to hear her.
    ‘Hello,’ she tried again, louder, and walked round him until she was beside him, looking up into his face. ‘Hi.’
    He indicated with a nod of his head the pile of flotsam he had collected. He picked up a lobster pot, followed by a buoy, which he turned around so that she could see all sides of it. ‘I’ll be busy sorting out this lot for a while I imagine.’ The remark was boastful in a juvenile way and his demeanour also that of a self-satisfied child expecting a compliment for his hard work.
    ‘I’m sure you will,’ Violet said. She tried to summon up sufficient enthusiasm. ‘It must have taken you ages. Haven’t you done well?’
    Duncan pulled a piece of torn netting from the pile and then a plastic pipe.
    ‘Wow, so many different items,’ she said, getting the hang of things.
    After Duncan had shown her a length of blue rope, Violet asked, ‘I