Limestone Man by Robert Minhinnick Read Free Book Online

aftershock of TCP.
    Normally, tuition took place at Rosser’s. But that evening, it was inconvenient. So the lesson was held in Parry’s front room. On the dinner table that smelled of lavender furniture polish. Or sea lavender, as his mother once insisted. It grows in the rocks, you know.
    I’m starving, announced Rosser, after what felt like hours. Fancy some chips?
    And they had somehow found themselves in the fairground. Sharing one of the measly portions from the Farmhouse Fry.
    How about a ride? Rosser had then asked. Out of the blue. Yes, Rosser had suggested the idea. It must have been Rosser’s idea. Because Parry never had any money of his own. So it was obviously Rosser’s suggestion to try the water chute. But nothing at all had happened. Nothing at all.
    Only that Rosser touched Parry’s leg. Yes, Rosser had put out his hand and touched Parry’s left leg. The inside of his leg. Rosser had put out his hand and left it on the inside of Parry’s left leg.
    Had left his hand there while there was screaming and laughter and the echoes of laughter. Laughter from the ghost train. Screaming from the waxworks. Screaming and laughter from everywhere else in the fairground, that mid May evening with the petrolblue sunset. And the swifts had come back. Returning that moment.
    Because Rosser had been the older boy. Had been twenty - five at least. And that was what everyone was expecting anyway. Wasn’t it all somehow falling into place?
    Because when the water chute ride was over, why was Parry’s headmaster waiting where the carriages pulled in?
    Yes, why was the headmaster waiting for Rosser? Immediately the carriage door was opened? Like police on a tip - off, Parry thought now. Nothing happened, Rosser had protested immediately. As if he was waiting to make his protest. As if he understood such a denial would be expected of him.
    Nothing happened, added Parry, as if he sensed such a rejection was his due. His right.
    But poor Rosser, thought Parry now. Whatever he had hoped or planned to do. Rosser who had touched his left leg. And allowed his hand to rest there. For a moment. An instant, a shaming eternity. But hardly a moment.
    To be greeted by his headmaster in hat and mackintosh. Under that May sunset. With the head of English also there. In Nescafé - coloured trousers.

FIVE
    I
    The town had been quiet but not silent. There was a sound Parry recognised from the past. Some old muezzin of the back streets, voice cracked and plaintive.
    Parry hadn’t heard such a voice for years. He thought the tribe extinct. But here was the voice once again, the voice that called for iron. Old iron. And once again it called. A voice in the acid mist that rolled over the coast. Eerie in the saturating fog.
    Iron. Old iron. Out of season that voice. And out of time. But there it was again. Rasping like a jay.
    Yet, there was music in that voice. A rusty desperation. And maybe, not so desperate. The voice of a back - street singer, restoring the world to order. A singer who sang of what he knew and understood. Grief in that melody. Ancient resignation.
    Parry had listened, head cocked, but the voice never came again. It had vanished utterly.
    II
    Who is the patron saint of lost causes? asked Parry.
    Search me, said Mina.
    Saint Jude, said Parry. Lost causes and grievous situations.
    Please don’t say it, said Mina.
    Say what?
    â€˜Hey Jude’, that’s what, said Mina.
    Am I so predictable?
    Collars up, the couple walked seawards through the mist. They turned in at the entrance of Clwb y Môr.
    Haven’t been in here for ages, said Mina. Thought it was all shut up. Talking of lost causes.
    Parry smiled at the young woman behind the bar.
    I know you, he said. You’re John Vine’s daughter. I’ve known you since you were kneehigh to a great green cricket.
    And you’re Parry, replied Nia Vine. Always Parry. Never your first name. Which is Richard. So I know