Nia E-Book

Robert Minhinnick

• Herausgeber: Seren
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 221

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Nia Vine is about to fulfil her dream of exploring an unmapped cave system. With her will go two friends who were brought up in the same seaside town. These companions are international travellers, but Nia, who has recently become a mother, feels her experience insignificant compared with that of her friends. While the three explore, Nia finds herself obsessed by a series of dreams that finally lead to a shocking revelation. As events unfold, the strands of her life come into focus – her dysfunctional parents, the daughter she must raise differently, the friends with whom she shared childhood. In a novel whose range includes Saskatchewan, Kerala and the Welsh coast, three times Wales 'Book of the Year' winner Robert Minhinnick writes with all the lyricism expected from the author of Sea Holly, which was shortlisted for the Ondaatje Prize,  and the TS Eliot-shortlisted poetry collection, Diary of the Last Man. Page-turningly evocative, immersive and compelling, Robert Minhinnick has written a novel in which realism and poetry collide and mingle.

Leseprobe

Nia

Robert Minhinnick

Seren is the book imprint ofPoetry Wales Press Ltd57 Nolton Street, Bridgend, Wales, CF31 3AEwww.serenbooks.comFacebook: facebook.com/SerenBooksTwitter: @SerenBooks

© Robert Minhinnick 2019

The right of Robert Minhinnick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

ISBNsPaperback – 978-1-78172-550-4Ebook – 978-1-78172-551-1Kindle – 978-1-78172-552-8

A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

The publisher acknowledges the financial assistance of the WelshBooks Council.

Cover Illustration: Aristolochia clematitis, 1885

Printed in Bembo by Severn, Gloucester, UK.

Nia

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Notes

Author Note

Acknowledgements

I

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,Reality’s dark dream!

It was a hot day and she was gazing into the sun. There was a dog far away and she realised she was looking at it.

Now she was walking towards the dog, past an apple tree and through the grass. This was a familiar place and she was happy here but she was going to see what the dog was doing, that dog with the blaze on its chest and white on its tail.

The dog was staring at her and she was staring at the dog and then they were together and she realized it was a fox. The biggest fox she had ever encountered in the dunes. A fox with a white tail.

And as she reached the fox it bared its teeth and these were bloody. Bleeding, its teeth, or maybe the fox had been eating another creature. Blood on its lips and its jaw red. Blood on its breast.

II

It’s… malarial, said Skye to Nia. Dry week after dry week.

Malaria runs in my family. Yes. Scorchio. As they say.

Summer dresses are just walking out of here, laughed Serene. If only we were charging more…

We’re not cashing in, insisted Nia. We’re not supporting sweatshops… Remember, everything we sell tells a story. It’s up to us to make those stories known…

And be sure Lois is up to date, added Skye.

Lois was the Saturday girl who’d been taken on recently. She was proving successful at attracting custom and was also eager to babysit.

That story about the mats was great, smiled Nia.

Yeah?

Made only by men? While not using electricity? That was a new one on me. I did a separate blog about that.

Which was perfect, said Skye. Product of the week is a superb idea. Pity we can’t choose more.

I like the offcuts from the saris, added Serene. All the things they become! Incredible.

*

They had been talking in the shop. When Isaac Pretty arrived they moved on to the fairground. Here, Nia had bought her daughter candyfloss. Then the child had been taken home by Serene and the other three gone to the caravans in The Backs.

What do they call you? asked Skye.

Marshals, said Rizmas.

Marshals?

Bit American, isn’t it? laughed Ike.

But first, said Nia, where’s Virjilijs?

Gone home, said Rizmas. Met a girl. Also, this referendum thing. Says maybe he’ll be back. Next week. Don’t know how. Anyway, Petr’s still here.

So you’re in charge of The Sunflower? The new ride?

The Star Chaser? You might call it something different.

Oh, we have our own names for things, said Nia.

Well, Petr’s working today. Me tonight. Hey, I’ve been here three years… I’m senior, I’m…

A marshal, laughed Ike. Yes, it’s all changed now. Surprised they haven’t given you a badge.

But not changed here yet, shrugged Rizmas, gesturing around the caravan. This was parked in the network of passageways behind the fairground.

Is it scheduled? asked Nia. I mean for development?

They say they will knock this place down, said Rizmas. Next year. Year after. They say it’s all change in the fair. They say. But who knows? Not me.

Three years? asked Ike.

This my third summer.

Enjoying the weather?

So different from last year. Fantastic. Sometimes Petr and I sleep out, and always we leave the door open. Stinks in here. Sorry.

The visitors looked round. The caravan walls were hung with cuttle carvings strung on nylon fishing line. There were lead weights and pieces of driftwood also hanging, as if it was a schoolroom displaying children’s art. Shelves were filled with stones veined with quartz while fronds of seaweed were fixed above the door.

Rizmas looked at his visitors as they stared. Petr, sometimes he complains, he smiled. Yes. Says please, please don’t bring anything else from the beach. From the big stones.

The Horns? asked Nia. You go up there?

Oh, I walk around, I walk around. I walk and I work. Mostly work. One hundred hours last week…

Money good? asked Skye.

That’s why I’m here. But I tell Petr, I say, you know the sea. You know the Baltic. But not me. I never saw the sea till I came here. I never saw the Baltic. Look, I’m from the east and I was born in the trees. The forests there last forever…

So you miss the forest?

This is better. This is amazing to me. I never dreamed anywhere like it.

It’s you collect the stones? And carve cuttle?

Yes. And Petr, he gets used to it now…

It’s wonderful, said Skye, running her forefinger down a tawse of yellow weed. I feel I’m in church. What do you carve with?

Rizmas took down a knife from the shelf. Okay, Petr told me not to carry it on the rides. But people can be, can be…strange…

Oh yes, we know, smiled Nia. Aggravating is the word. When we were the Paradise Club I kept certain things handy under the counter… My own cudgel. Boy, I love that word!

But not now, laughed Skye. It’s a different clientele. Okay, some boys on the weekends can be stupid.

Booze, said Nia. You know.

Yes, since the hours are longer, said Rizmas. Usually the last ride finishes in the dark… Not supposed to, but…

Long hours, said Skye.

But everyone was looking at Rizmas. They saw it was a flick knife he was holding, fine as a stiletto. The boy picked up a piece of cuttle and peeled off a sliver.

Yes, some people can be very strange. When they come out of The Cat. But I know what to do. Petr and me are watchful…

Rizmas stood beside a sofa covered with a sleeping bag. There were clothes and dirty plates on the floor and pages torn from a spiral-bound notebook. An empty spirit bottle emblazoned with ‘999’ lay in a corner, another on a shelf. In the opposite corner was the head of a carousel horse, upon it the name Sylvia ornate in worn gold.

The boy flicked upon the stiletto. Then he closed it. Then he flicked it open again.

He was naked to the waist, his jeans, bleached and torn, held up by a belt with a snake’s head fastening. The hair on his chest was white over a brown skin, once burnt and peeling, now darkened again. His hair also was white, long and flat and pale as the cuttlebone he carved. On his right bicep was the tattoo, Ironwolves.

Rizmas was lean and muscled, not a surplus ounce. Nia noted a white scar on his belly.

Fair play, you’ve stuck it, she said.

In a way, like home. For me, Kaunas was the big city. You know Kaunas?

Always meant to…started Ike.

Kaunas very famous. Used to be flights over.

It’s changing, said Skye.

All my friends liked Kaunas. We went there on the weekends.

Bit like here, said Nia.

Yes. It’s the same. In a way. Kaunas was famous because of the museum.

No museum here, man, said Skye.

No, a special museum. The devil’s museum.

Yeah?

Yes. When I went I always looked at the devil’s vodka glass.

Drank vodka, did he? laughed Ike.

And his fingerprint, no, the print of his thumb was on the glass.

Yeah?

Because he’s hot. The devil. He drank the vodka and his fingers melted the glass. Everybody knows that. So…

So you’ve come to the devil’s museum on The Caib, said Nia.

Yes. I work on the rides. But in the mornings I sweep the mess in the Ghost Train. Next door to the Ghost Train is…

The Kingdom of Evil, said Nia.

Yes. Sweep all kinds of things. Dirty things.

Ha, said Ike. All the debris of copulation?

Cop..?

Oh, I can imagine, said Nia. You wouldn’t believe what I have to sweep up outside the shop.

And me, said Skye. Not just you…

But… Rizmas stuttered. Don’t get me wrong…

When I stepped off the last bus, at the bus stop by the entrance, I smelled the air. And, you know I had never smelled anything like that air before. Not spruce trees, no way. Better…

Yes, the sea, said Ike.

I looked up and there it was. A silver line. My first time. The tide was far away. A kilometre across the beach. And the sky was white, not like now. White like cuttlefish.

Can be a big cuttle harvest around here, said Nia.

Hey, said Ike. Did the devil drink triple nine?

Maybe the question went unheard by everyone but Nia.

That mummy’s a real museum piece, she said. I had to wind its bandages back on, once. There was all this gooey stuff used to stick them on.

Embalming fluid, said Skye.

And, oh God, the hounds of hell. Manky old taxidermist’s nightmares. Falling to bits…

But they’re not even stuffed, said Skye.

No. Course not. They’re not real. Kind of paper pulp. Painted over and over. But historic in their way.

Well, said Skye, I would hate to see that decrepit Frankenstein’s monster in the skip. He’s an antique.

A bloody stripper bolt through his neck, said Ike. Who the hell…?

And Igor, the hound master, said Skye. But I think Igor’s kept inside.

Yeah, said Ike. So as not to disappoint anyone. You’ve already paid your dosh before you meet Igor.

Never heard of anyone getting their money back, said Nia. Point of honour not to cough up. But that’s our museum. Can’t remember if there’s a devil in the ghost train. Not drinking vodka, anyway. Now, a pint of woosh, maybe.

But a vodka glass! laughed Skye. Think that’s sexier than just filling your face. Which is what most of the men around here do.

I love it, said Rizmas. Everything the sea gives us is, is…

A gift? suggested Nia.

Yes, yes. But it was salt I could smell. The air full of salt. And sand. And every day I smell it again, every day when I wake up, either here or under the new ride because sometimes it is better to sleep out. Especially when it is hot. And because Petr snores like, like…

A donkey? suggested Nia.

Donkey, yes. Who give rides on the beach. Those donkeys, we work like those donkeys. I’ll tell Petr that… But it’s better here. Better than sorting rubbish at the incinerator. One of the other boys is doing that… He says it is terrible in this hot weather. No air and his uniform not right… But every day, the first thing for me to notice is…the smell of The Caib.

Yeah. We know, said Ike.

But not chips. Not the outfall pipe. No, the salt of high tide, low tide, it doesn’t matter. And the salt of The Caib in my eyes. Every morning my eyes stuck with salt… We have a bucket of water to bathe in and that’s first thing for me, bathing my eyes. So I can see again. Or, I go to the showers.

Yeah, said Ike, glancing round. Who are the Ironwolves?

Video game, Rizmas said. We don’t have one in the arcades here. It is popular at home…But so much money the people here have for the machines. They start every morning till late at night. I watch them, sometimes I help bag the coins if the boss asks.

You don’t bank it, do you?

No, someone else.

You must like that game a lot, laughed Ike.

Who’s the boss? asked Nia.

Mr Manners is big boss. Other little bosses.

Oh well, yeah, said Nia. Because there’s money around, I know it. Pity they never come over to Extraordinaria. It’s hardly far. Not very adventurous our locals. More’s the pity.

III

‘’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!’

The seagulls. So early. Unearthly, the seagulls… But get thee… get thee to…

What the hell, John Vine again, using other people’s words… Shakespeare wasn’t it? A man’s voice in her head. Her father’s, in that Year Thirteen play.

She turned in the bed. No, he’d never knowingly hurt her. Never that. But she was going to find him. Find John Vine.

And there had really been a nunnery, people said, under the sands. There were the ruins of a mill, a firing range, and…maybe a nunnery, or at least its garden. Somewhere lost, though she’d once been able to discover it. But once only. Like so much she couldn’t find now.

So she lay waiting for Ffresni to wake. Ffrez curled up in bed, under the driftwood mobile. The murmur on the child’s lips gentler than breath.

4 a.m. First daylight. Mother of pearl between the blinds and the cockerel again, the cockerel that had crowed before dawn, had called in the darkness.

No it wasn’t the gulls, don’t blame the seagulls, it was the first cockerel she had heard on The Caib for years. Kept in a back garden down Cato Street. Because things were changing. It wasn’t only the heat.

But yes, the heat… And those flowers, she’d once found the flowers. How many years ago? Lifetimes it seemed. But they’d come back to her mind so clearly. Rare, weren’t they? Protected? Strange yellow flowers with stranger fruits. Flowers in the shape of the…shape of the birth canal, she’d read. Shape of the…uterus then? Those weird flowers with their peculiar fruit… But evidence, surely, of that nunnery of legend.

The nuns planted those flowers, hadn’t they? And the flowers were there still, lost in the dunes, lost in the… Yet birth canal, what a strange way to describe a flower. But poisonous too, those blooms, their strange smell of what… The afterbirth?

Ach, sex nauseous. Sex noxious. The flowers stank of sex. And still here, those flowers, hundreds of years later. After the nuns had gone, their poison flowers remained. She’d found them once but couldn’t say where… But they were exactly where she thought they’d be. Thank God, she had discovered them.

So maybe they dosed themselves, those nuns, aborting their own children. Just as chastity aborted their dreams… Or even allowed those dreams to flourish. Clever, weren’t they, the nuns? Who knew more than you’d think. Busy as wrens in their brown habits. Their brown rags. Yes, there they were, cowled and hungry, testing themselves. Enduring that hunger.

But worst

the atrocity of thirst

Ha! But women tending their herbs and the veins purple in the old nuns’ hands. Testing themselves. What happens to old nuns? Such brave women.

But vanished now and their garden gone wild. And those flowers that smelled of…

Golden trumpets, she had thought. On the one occasion she had needed to search…. Yes, golden trumpets…

*

Skye regarded the goat. Its agate eye. Young nanny, not long from a kid. Then her beard, black lip and nubbins of horns. The goat was scattering pellets like seed over the straw. Quickly she photographed the face. Black and white, she thought. Yes, a beautiful child. Becoming a ruined god.

Meanwhile, Nia was dropping feed into the chute and now the goat was ravenous, trying to lick the grains before Big Mama came over and claimed her rights. Big Mama with her shitty arse and some kind of prolapse, Big Mamma even now nudging the younger goat out of the straw around the trough.

Yes, here’s the greedy one, said Nia. Now Ffrez, you do it, you feed the goats. And the child let her handful slip into the chute as the goats’ hooves skidded in the pen. Nia brushed hair over a mark on the child’s forehead.

That’s right, love.

Good, Ffresni, added Skye.

Goats are greedy, aren’t they? You greedy goats!

The three had driven over to Hafn Bitw, now a petting zoo. Once a derelict farm, it had been leased to a family who were making the venture work. Prefabricated additions had been attached to the outbuildings.

The three had used Skye’s Mazda and parked where they could. Fine weather had made Hafn Bitw popular but Nia had been coughing in the field’s dust. She noted the buzzing in her head again. Could she have tinnitus in one ear?

Next were the pigs. There were two in a sty further up the field, two sows, like the goats, one younger, the other dominant, one capable of nipping the other, making it squeal.

Skye looked into the first pig’s eyes. Sly in the clefts, the mean creases. Cold cinders, those eyes. That yet might flare. What was buried there so deeply? In a pig’s eyes.

Fear, she guessed. And was it boredom? The boredom of being a pig? No, pigs in shit were happy pigs. And always a view to the main chance.

Ffresni was again allowed to throw a handful of food into the chute.

Ooh, Nia laughed. Like a strawberry in a sow’s belly. That’s what they used to say, isn’t it?

Who used to say? asked Skye.

Well, not you. The elders in Clwb y Mor, bless ’em. Means something… insubstantial.

Elders? Jeez.

Committee, then.

Codgers were they?

Trustees. That’s the word.

But Skye had put down her camera. The pigs’ eyes were buried in creases like coin slots. Old blackberries, she thought. That had lost their blush. Not goat’s eyes with a sulphuric gleam, where the intelligence shone through.

Not that she might trust a goat. A sphinx, that goat. Yet a god’s sacrificial throat.

Now the pigs were tearing at one another and Ffresni looking frightened. Ahead were the Shetland ponies but the women decided to detour to the rabbits.

Nia thought about the animals that didn’t emerge from their huts. The runts preferring darkness. Or the trembling farrow chewing pissed-on hay.

Coffee? suggested Skye.

Mmm…

Not that I can take pictures inside. Regulations and all.

I’ll just show Ffrez about washing her hands. They’re dead keen on this with children. She touched the guinea pig, after all.

They walked across the crushed grass. The coffee shop was located in the indoor area. There were no animals here but chances for children to play. A plastic slide had been set up, a track for toy cars, ringed by tyres, and two rooms that might be hired for private parties. Only two of the restaurant tables were occupied.

Are you scared? asked Nia.

Of what?

Going down. Where we’re going.

Course not. Are you?

No. But…

It’s 100% safe. There’s Ffrez, I know. But look, Serene is wonderful with her… And if it’s only Ffresni? Which is natural. But anything else?

What you mean, only Ffrez?

There’s nothing else bothering you?

I’ve decided, haven’t I?

Well really it was your idea…

Look. I’d die for her.

Yes, but…

Here and now. No buts. I’d die for her. And you haven’t…

Haven’t…?

Got…

Look, said Skye, reaching for Nia’s hand. I know. I understand. But, yes, Ffrez. Of course Ffrez. And the shop doing so well this summer.

Well…

There was a pause. Nia slowly brightened.

Remember that woman who bought four dresses one afternoon last week. But then brought two of them back the next day…

So it goes, said Skye. But that cupboard you distressed last year went a fortnight ago.

Yes, that’s good. Ooh, doesn’t she like that little house. Putting the toy chairs around the table…Picking up the plastic flowers.

Must be in our genes, laughed Skye.

Tidying up, sort of, smiled Nia.

Her hair’s getting thicker. And long.

Not cutting it, said Nia. No way.

Who’s asking you to? Hey, calm down…

Don’t niggle then.

Who’s niggling?

Mentioning dresses brought back…

Look, we’ve popped out for this treat, said Skye. Don’t let’s argue. Again. We both need to get ready after we go back…

There was a pause.

Zugzwang. Again, said Nia.

What? asked Skye.

When one of us doesn’t want to speak.

Why?

Because when we speak it’s bound to be wrong.

Zugs..?

Used in chess. When one side must move but that move will weaken its chances.

Oh.

Chess is life to some people.

Not you though.

No.

And not us.

Ulrikke.

Who?

The computer I play against. There’s a choice of voices and Ulrikke’s a Norwegian nymphet. Very Scandi noir. Or something like that. But no.

And not us.

Nia smiled. These days that was infrequent. Look, she said, if the computer’s winning, I change things.

How?

Make it more stupid. I think it’s one till eight. On the gauge, that is. Eight is most difficult. But the better the computer plays, the slower it moves. So I get bored. I stay on three. Because I like to play fast. And sometimes I know when the computer is getting desperate.

Do computers get…?

Okay, okay, it’s not possible. People get desperate. Not machines. But Ulrikke makes mistakes. Makes sacrifices just to slow things up. To delay the inevitable. My victory, her loss. But she already understands the inevitable. When that happens I really like it… A little triumph. But…

Yes?

Using sacrifice as strategy seems alien to the computer.

Is that good?

Yes. Sacrifice is all too human. Isn’t it?

Skye made a face and looked away. Don’t play enough chess, do I? Suppose you’ve got to be…proficient to understand sacrifice.

There was a pause. At last, Skye spoke.

Ike’s double-checking the gear. I hope.

Trust him?

Yeah, yeah. He wasn’t always trustworthy, you know. No, don’t ask. But look at Ffrez, oh, she’s putting the cups away now. In her own fashion. But did you think you’d be doing that for Carpenter…?

Tidying up after him? As if….

No, not after him. Not for him. With him. Did you think that might work…

Yes. We followed each other. New York, Trivandrum… That was important. We could…

What?

Mmm…

What?

Hang on!

Skye paused.

Understand one another, she said. Takes time. And it helps.

Nia returned. Go on, she said. I want to listen.

Skye sipped her coffee.

I remember the nights in Bud’s. Not weekends, they were full on. We’d be downstairs, I’d be looking for shots, Carp would be just… sucking it all up. For his writing. Together with the booze and the smoke at the back door. That’s where the topers congregated and the police just let them be…

You don’t do that now…

No. Don’t need it. But a good cabernet’s different. That Bulgarian is fine with me. So, weekend nights were a sort of coma. But, Mondays, Tuesdays we recovered. I’d wake up and hear the ice groans from the river.

Eh?

It wasn’t far away, the South Saskatchewan. Serious river. I mean, a real real river.

Okay.

And from November this real real river froze over, so there was only a narrow channel. That ice was scary the first time you heard it. Like an animal in the dark.

Some days I’d go down to look at that ice. Like marrowbone, the colour of that ice. Watch the anglers trying for mooneye, casting into the unfrozen channel.

By March the ice was thick, the floes grinding against each other. Like river icebergs. No, a river glacier, that ice. And mornings, sometimes a hoarfrost, blue in the car headlights, the Manchurian elms outside another kind of blue.

Your trees?

You bet. Those trees were like ghosts. And the frost was another layer over the ice… Oh, how’s Ffrez?

Getting up. She’s fine. Go on.

Engrossed, isn’t she? And boy, I’d wake up. Tuesday was the best night, the traffic past Bud’s long gone, and I’d just…

Yeah?

Listen to the ice’s language. I trained myself to wake. That language was so strange. Sad. No, grievous. It was like somebody alive grieving for, what…? Loss? Life itself.

Yes.

And the first time I heard it I came to realize Carp was awake too. And listening to the ice.

That’s nice.

Yeah?

Course!

Awake like me. With me. But a stranger in my bed. As I was a stranger in his bed. The smokers had vanished from the back door, the jamming finished. And here I was, listening to a river. Listening to a river that came out of the fucking Rockies, came out of the prairies, came into my head, came into my ear in a room above a blues club. A bar that stank of white widow.

Oh, that’s strong. Hard core, weren’t you?

No! But Christ, I used to think, how did I get here? I’d be shaking, but not from the cold. Shaking in, what? Excitement? No, not that. Yeah, expectation. And I’d realize that Carp was shaking too. Trembling for the same reason. I never asked him, but yes, that’s what I thought. Being alive together…

Like we are now?

Together.

You’re lucky, said Nia. You’ve travelled. You’ve been places.

Hey, we’re going somewhere this week where nobody’s ever been. Remember that.

I am, I am.

Look, I remember once coming into Bud’s after a walk to the ice. Down by the bridge, those mooneye fishermen stamping in the cold. The frost was smoking, like the waves at The Horns. Our spindrift smoke. And the landlady came up to me with this jar. ‘Hey honey,’ she said, ‘why don’t you try this?’

Ooh, hey honey. Hey honey, mimicked Nia.

Why weren’t you ever an actress? laughed Skye. Anyway, it was saskatoonberry jam and she’d picked the saskatoonberries herself. Boy, you couldn’t have imagined anyone more unlike your typical jam-maker. No Jerusalem with that mother. Now, she was hard core!

Yeah?