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Short Fiction
Joe's Ark The rain beat down on the garage roof, washing July away. It had washed away June already, and most of May before that. The British Isles, like most of northern Europe, was losing its summer again. Joe was sure that it was coming soon. He held Suzette, stroking he sleek head, while he considered the situation. Deciding when to put to sea was tricky. Too late would be…too late, but if he embarked too soon, he’d be eating into provisions unnecessarily. Noah had provisioned for a voyage lasting ten months, but then, he’d had the benefit of inside information ‘We’ll be all right, Suzy, hinny,’ he told his pet, ‘I’ll make sure of that. But what am I going to do about the wife?’ Suzette cocked her head as if considering, while her beady gaze held his with all her usual air of enquiring intelligence. Joe’s wife Linda detested Suzette. She said pigeons were thick and were vermin, and no use except in pie, but Joe knew that was just jealousy speaking. The soft colours of Suzette’s plumage made Joe think of being up on the moors at twilight and with the little bird’s plump warmth in his hand, things seemed better, somehow. He began tidying up, and she followed him, pecking at wood shavings, picking them up and dropping them again. ‘’Night little hen, sweet dreams, see you in the morning,’ he said, as he went to put her in her cage, then he stepped through the connecting door into the house. It was after five – time to get the dinner on before Linda came home. Joe Steel was an unemployed shipwright. He’d worked at Swan Hunter until the day they’d all got the chop and he’d arrived home early, stumbling in with his leaving cards in his hands to find Linda, his wife, on the sofa on top of his best friend. His love for her had died on the spot, snuffed out by the shock, though later when he’d calmed down, he thought he could understand why she’d done it. They were childless and while for him this
was a disappointment, for Linda it was a torturous
hunger. It became a need she couldn’t leave alone. I
want more tests, she’d said. I want IVF. But Joe
wouldn’t, and it wasn’t the money, though they
had little enough of that to spare. No, it wasn’t
that, and it wasn't the loss of privacy either, though
that was bad enough. No. He didn’t agree with
forcing gates. This just broke things in his experience,
starting with the gate itself. He understood that Linda’s betrayal was
revenge, as well a desperate attempt at a solution. Resisting his first powerful urge to punch
her lights out – though he caught the friend later,
in a dark alley, and actions spoke louder than words
– Joe had mulled it over and decided privately he
would accept any blameless cuckoo resulting from Linda's
betrayal. He was even, secretly and not without a sense
of shame, excited at the prospect, and caught himself
waiting and watching for the first signs. But
Linda’s plan, if such it was, came to nothing. There was to be no nestling, even now, not
even a cuckoo. They talked about divorce but neither made a
move and so they had carried on ever since, together yet
apart. It was one night not long after this, that Joe had had The Dream - a vision that made a liar out of God. Hadn’t He told Noah, hadn’t He solemnly promised, it would not happen again? And now look what He was up to, with rowing boats plying high streets the length and breadth of Britain. Paralysed in his solitary bed, staring sightless at the wall, Joe saw a land drowned by rain and river, sea and sky, the water cycle seeking new stasis as the ice caps melted. A torrent came down the Tyne, bent bridges like hairgrips and shoved them out to sea. People were swept away or crushed as they ran with their screeching bairns for the high places, and were overtaken. The Angel of the North looked on as
buildings, bridges, roads were pulled apart like Lego,
chewed and spat out. Then came the hush, and the smell,
growing as the silence and the days stretched on. Everyone had nightmares, and generally it was little more than a case of indigestion, or cheese at bedtime; Joe understood that perfectly well. But he had foreseen his mother’s death in a dream and dismissed it…then, three days later they’d found her, just as his dream had foretold. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for that, and now, waking with a wracking headache, he decided that this time he would trust his intuition. He decided upon his very own shipbuilding project. He didn’t tell anyone, there was no-one
he cared to confide in. But if a shipwright couldn’t
meet the challenge, who could? He was in oddly high spirits, negotiating the purchase of a little boat and two dinghies. He spent every penny of his redundancy money and Linda spat fury, but Joe didn’t enlighten her, he just stayed out of her way in the garage, customising the boat, a seventeen foot Arran. He added an outboard motor, a petrol tank and an automatic pump. He extended the tiny day cabin, and carpentered drop-down stabilizers so the boat could function as a trimaran. He learned to use a compass and read maps,
and began following the shipping news. He hung around the
trawlers at Joe became a man of great education, and
though he had no certificates to show for it, he knew
that one day soon, he was going to be put to the test. Meanwhile there was Linda. She came home at
six as Joe was busy in the kitchen, and he knew
she’d arrived when he heard the slam of the front
door. Linda was quite sure she hated Joe. She
would look at his soft eyes, his mouth was almost
flower-like – but appearances were deceptive. He was
hard in Linda’s opinion; cruel, unyielding,
implacable. They sat eating in silence, the rain
slavering down the window, thick as dog slobber. ‘You do know it’s the Great Flood
again, Linda?’ Joe said suddenly, over a forkful of
tomato. ‘You what?’ she said, and her eyes
goggled. ‘The Great Flood,’ he said coolly,
and took another mouthful of salad. ‘Coming soon to
a town near you. Want to ride it out with me, come with
me on the boat? I’ll be taking it down to Linda spluttered and began to choke while
Joe watched impassively, noting that her eyes were the
shape and colour of gooseberries, and wondering yet again
why he’d used to think she was so pretty. It
wasn’t until Linda’s face started turning
purple that he got up and slapped her back in desultory
fashion. ‘Water,’ she croaked, flapping her
hand and he went to fetch it before sitting down again. ‘You knaa,’ he went on as if
nothing had happened, ‘we’ll need to be well
out to sea when that dam goes and that wave comes down.
Then, when things calm doon again we can sail up to
Hexham. Or mebbes the Cheviots. Whatever -
Suzette’ll help us find the best place.’ ‘I’d laugh,’ she said, still
pop-eyed and wheezing, ‘Except I’m not sure
you’re joking. For goodness' sake, this isn’t
Bangladesh, Joe.’ She drained the tumbler of water and her
colour began returning to normal. ‘Aye, well,’ he said, clearing the
plates away, ‘Cassandra couldn’t tell them
either.” ‘Eh?’ ‘The wooden horse. She tried to tell
them it was bad news, but you can’t tell people, can
you? But you’re my wife, for what it’s
worth.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, not seeing
at all. The man was mad. This was Newcastle-upon-Tyne,not
frigging ancientTroy. ‘Well, thank you, kind
sir.’ That night Joe had The Dream again. Linda
heard him whimpering through the wall. Let him, she
thought, turning over and pulling her duvet over her
ears. Next day the boat was ready. One of the
dinghies held provisions, while the other was for Linda,
with iron rations for a week. Suzette perched on its rim
preening while Joe checked the inventories. In the evening Joe took Linda into the
garage and she listened to his instructions with her arms
folded, tapping her foot. ‘And how long may we expect this little
jaunt to last?’ she said bitingly, ‘may one
venture to ask when your lordship will be coming
home?’ He sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do
you?’ It was sausages and mash for tea, and Linda
found sausages easier to swallow than Joe’s
prophecy, but as she sat watching the evening news, she
was bound to agree things were starting to get alarming. ‘But it was as bad as this, almost,
last July,’ she fretted, sitting alone with her
coffee. ‘Nothing but rain and everyone going on
about global warming. But August wasn’t so bad, and
September was pretty good.’ Next day she exchanged the barest of
farewells with Joe, spent the day at work dodging
dripping ceilings and strategically positioned buckets,
and came home to find he’d gone, the crackpot, just
as he’d said, and so had the boat and that bloody
useless bird. She peeled off her sopping tights, looked in
the fridge and decided she couldn’t be bothered to
cook. She made a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich and ate
on the prowl, uneasy and unexpectedly lonely without her
enemy in range. ‘And pardon me for saying
so’, she said to the empty room. ‘But the world
still appears to be here.’ But that night something woke her in the
small hours. Strange noises coming from the street. She
dashed to the window and looked out but there was a power
cut- again- and the street was dark. She flung up the window and shrieked. Her
car, like all the other cars, was heading down the
street, borne on a rising tide. Other heads came poking
out of windows, voices ascended, shrill with alarm. The
street was a river. The river was growing. The rain was
stabbing the earth to death. Linda flew down the stairs and was met by
water. It was a struggle to get the garage door
open. The door was stiff and when she got it open, a cold
rill of water flowed round her thighs. She waded over to
the dinghy, impeded by the ballooning of her pyjama
bottoms, flopped in bottom first, and fumbled to untie
the mooring rope, thanking God she’d left the outer
doors open on Joe’s instructions. Or you’ll be
trapped like a rat, Joe said, and despite herself,
despite everything, she’d listened. Linda didn’t make it, all the same. The
monstrous wave that came at dawn would have scuppered the
little dinghy for sure, but Joe’s pet had already
secured the ultimate negative outcome. Rubber wasn’t tasty, not exactly, but
there was satisfaction in shredding and it was something
to do in a moment of boredom. Now the activity of
Suzette’s tiny beak slowly but surely laid waste
Joe’s careful planning. Linda’s body span down Church Street to
medievel St Peters, where her ankle became hooked in some
railings and she was trapped in eternal pilgrimage. Three days later, Joe came sailing high over
her head. He was coming in from the sea, following
Suzette as they headed west under clear and sunny skies. The sea was blue again after the months of
grey; brightest blue, sparkling in the sun, but there
were things in the water that it didn’t do to look
at and Joe was careful not to look. What good would it
do? The past itself was dead and gone. His new
life started now. Published in the anthology More Tonto
Short Stories, Tonto Press, 2007. and performed at the Durham Literary
Festival, September 2008. |