Free Crustaceans by Andrew Cowan

back in your shell, Paul.
    She was calling me now. I got to my feet and stood where she’d see me. One Friday, a few weeks before, I had come this way with a boy called Peter Kelsey, who’d tagged along as I was walking from school. Unsure what he wanted, or why he was being so friendly, I’d shown him the war memorial, I’d shown him where my mother was buried. And he’d seemed interested. Afterwards we had gathered some conkers, filled up our satchels, and when at last I’d got home, the kitchen steamy with cooking, my father had frowned and pointed across to the clock. Late today, Paul, he’d said. I was with someone, I told him. I couldn’t say friend. I kept that word to myself, clung to it all evening as I threaded my conkers. But the following Monday, in the noise of the playground, I found myself yanked down by my hair. Peter Kelsey walked me round in slow circles. Bent double, one arm raised to cover my face, I twisted my neck and saw a swirl of blazers and ties, the jostling bodies and grins of my classmates. Eventually a teacher had stopped it. Peter Kelsey was breathing hard. I didn’t pretend to cry then, but forced out a laugh, dry and defiant. I hurled myself on to him. That was the first time I was placed on detention. I was with a friend, I told my father that evening.
    All done, Bridget smiled; they can rest in peace now. Her camera poked out through her cagoule. It was starting to drizzle. She pulled up her hood and slipped a hand under my arm. Lead on, she said, and I took her down the long gravelled track that skirted the new graves, the stones dark and glossy, Cellophane wrap on the flowers, handwritten cards. Where the cemetery backed on to my school I knew of a skip, mounded with soil and branches, discarded bouquets and ribbons. It was enclosed by high hedges. I supposed it would make a good photo. Is the film finished now? I asked her. Almost, she replied, and I said nothing more. We met a single-lane road, and a sign pointing to the burial chapel, where Bridget turned left, her hand leaving my arm. Isn’t it this way? she asked me. I want to show you something, I murmured, and gestured towards a border of shrubs and small trees. There were dedication plaques on the benches. My mother was lying a few yards beyond them.
    The grave was tended by my grandparents, and ignored by my father. A plain white block gave her married name and her dates, and like most of the stones in that area it said she had passed away. She was not sleepeth, she was not gone before, and her end was not peace. She wasn’t the devoted wife of the above. Ah, Paul, said Bridget, and motioned a sign of the cross. She tucked her hands under her arms. So this is your mum, she said, and I nodded. The noise of the traffic was louder here, the rain coming harder. I rounded my shoulders. I want a picture, I said. A picture? With the camera, I said. Bridget gave a small smile; she gazed at me softly. I’m not sure, Paul, she said; really I’m not. You took all those others, I said. And sighing, reluctant, Bridget flipped the cap from her lens. I did, she admitted; plenty of those. I crouched by the side of the stone. I reached one arm behind it. You swear you won’t breathe a word to your dad? she said, and I promised I wouldn’t. Then I showed her my smile, my teeth. I held the expression until she was ready, until I heard the doubled click of the shutter. It was the last shot on the film.

THIRTEEN
    The Union flags on the promenade are ragged, furiously snapping. Gulls coast above them, stark against the grey sky. The snow dwindles, comes in brief flurries, and even today, in this splitting cold, the seafront cafés and giftshops are open. A few teenagers play the machines in the arcades; the noise along the main stretch is constant. Outside Majestic Amusements there’s a mechanical man, his Perspex body full of small toys. He swivels his eyes as I near him. His mouth