Jenni Fagan - The Sunlight Pilgrims

— This isn’t aaaaawkward at all, Stella says.

The caravan is warm, the wood-stove crackling and the whole place nothing like his bare wee ice-box next door.

— We were just sharing some stuff from the chippy, Constance says.

— Honestly, I don’t need to eat. I’m totally fine if there’s not enough, Dylan says.

— There’s enough, Stella says as she lays the table. — Dylan used to live in a cinema, Mum.

— Really?

— What’s your favourite film? Stella asks him.

— It is too difficult to pin down. I love early Russian cinema, Yakov Protazanov, F. W. Murnau, a lot of obscure stuff, Harmony Korine, Wolf Rilla, Czech animator Břetislav Pojar, The Goonies , David Lynch, early Disney, even a lot of the early talkies — especially Laurel and Hardy. I don’t talk about films much. I tend to like stuff that never gets a major release.

— Don’t you like WALL-E ? she asks.

— No.

— I loved that when I was little, Stella says.

Constance flicks the telly on. The way she moves, something liquid about her. Just acting cool, trying not to feel like a giant in a moon-polisher’s caravan and the kid happy to see him, actually gleeful.

— Look at this, Constance says.

On the telly there are queues of people at an airport and people sleeping by chairs and a pregnant woman rubbing her tummy and everybody looking worried. The news report flicks over to a weather report. The man points as weather unfolds across Europe and Africa and bits of America — red alerts all the way round, and a band of news rolling across the bottom of the screen — flights are cancelled all across Europe. Temperatures are going to plummet faster than everyone thought. The South of England is already struggling. The Thames flashes up, all frozen over.

— There it is! Stella shouts.

Constance zooms the volume up.

Locals have named the iceberg Boo, because it is giving fishermen such a fright to see it travel over the North Sea and it is almost certain now to be heading toward the region of Clachan Fells.

Footage of the iceberg shows a hulk bigger than a hotel; it is bigger than the new shopping centre in the city. Stella drops to her knees in front of the telly, shocked.

— I didn’t know it would be that big, Constance says.

— We have to go and see it, Mum!

— I’m in, Dylan says.

— You need to get snow-shoes for walking on the mountain soon, Dylan. We have ours in the shed.

Stella starts giggling.

— I think we’re going to need more than snow-shoes, Mum!

— I know, Estelle, I’m going to try and get some skis as well — don’t look at me like that! We might well need them. Anyway, Dylan, tell your mum I’m asking after her. We met Vivienne a few months ago — nice woman.

— She’s not here.

— I know that. I mean when you speak to her.

Dylan considers leaving it at that. He is feeling guilty each day they sit in Tupperware and an ice-cream box, but when he asked about ferries from Fort Harbour they said sea-ice was going to halt all the usual trips to the islands. Stella is studying him now and he doesn’t know why he finds it so hard to say it out loud.

— I mean, she’s not here. She passed away two weeks ago.

— I’m really sorry to hear that, Constance says.

— So, what are you up to this week then, Stella? he asks brightly.

Constance walks back into the kitchen area, her feet bare. He is aware of everything about her: the cut of her jeans, the way she lifts up a plate, the way she is careful to not look back at him for too long. The brittle around the edges. She is jagged. It makes him want her more. She turns the telly down but leaves the footage on. The three of them eat quickly, not chatting much. Constance sprinkles salt on her chips even though there’s already some on there. He helps her clear the plates away. Would that he would. Not to let her know that, though. Not to make her feel awkward.

— Nothing much, just decaying in utter boredom. Mum, that’s the door!

— I can hear that, I’m not deaf!

— I’m sorry she’s being a bit rude, Stella whispers.

— Come in!

— Hiya, Constance, Stella, hello!

— Hi, Ida! This is Dylan, who moved in next door.

Stella grins at him and he crosses his eyes at her.

— Love the head-to-toe latex, Ida.

— Thanks, Constance. One has to try for these events — you never know when a fan might require an autograph.

— Not every street has their own porn star, Stella says. Ida shrugs modestly.

— Most of them do these days, sweetheart. When money’s short, the tits come out!

She laughs and something about the woman relaxes Constance as well, and Dylan is lulled by the warmth of the fire and the fairy lights and sitting in here all cosy, while it gets darker and darker outside.

— I came in to see if you want to put in for the drinks kitty, Constance? I’m nipping over to the cash-and-carry.

— Just let me find my purse.

— Did you hear about this iceberg? Aye. Lobster Jack reckons he has seen it. Nearly all of the fishing boats are back in for winter already. Sea-ice everywhere — never seen the like!

— Can you see it from the harbour? Stella asks.

— Not yet, they reckon just another few weeks, though. So, where d’you move from? Ida asks.

— London-Soho-he-lived-in-a-cinema-it’s-quite-boring, Stella says.

— Like she says, Dylan grins.

— Well, you are a breath of fresh air!

Ida gives him a long appreciative look from top to toe.

— See ye then, girls, she says.

Ida flounces out the door.

— I think I saw you heading up the mountain the other day, Dylan?

— I did, Constance. I went up there again today as well — I saw the coastline on the other side of the mountain. Looked choppy, though, and it is definitely being mapped over with ice. I’ve never seen anything like — any of this! I mean, I know it is a nightmare, but it’s majestic as landscapes go. I found ice-flowers in the forest. From the top I could see a few islands out there and lighthouses? And a wee port.

— Aye, that is Fort Hope.

Constance takes a pre-rolled joint out of a tin and lights it up and her daughter scowls. So she opens the window a crack and blows the smoke out.

— When I was a kid we had a director in Babylon for a screening of his movie. I remember him saying one eye is always looking through the telescope and the other is looking through the microscope.

— Did you work in the cinema since you were young? Stella asks.

— I was checking the tickets when I was your age. I used to check the tickets for Godzilla , then I’d sit in the back row and watch the whole film again and again.

— It sounds better than trips to the city dump, Stella says.

Constance passes him the joint.

— Give us a minute, Dylan. I’m just going to get Stella’s costume on, so she knows it fits for the bonfire party later!

Stella follows her mum through to their bedroom. He triple-drags and stands next to the fire. He had a wee look in their bedroom when he came in and it is nothing like his. It’s clad in wood and painted white, with a matching upper and lower bed and handmade patchwork blankets. There are fairy lights strung all around the caravan. This caravan has the exact same layout as his — but she’s painted everything white. There are clever nooks for everything; she’s even drilled holes in a wide driftwood shelf, so all her wooden spoons and kitchen utensils are neatly slotted in there. He takes a roll off the table and tears it in two, chews briskly so they don’t come back to find him eating at their table like a great big hairy-fucking-stoned Goldilocks. There are stuffed animals all over the place. On the wall an upside-down bat is sleeping behind a glass dome. Antlers hang above the kitchenette with tea towels and socks drying on them. Stella’s drawings are tacked up all over the place and one says Universe Closed, Take Rainbow . Constance’s bookshelf is full and from here he can read a few titles: gardening manuals, History of French Furniture Restoration, Antiques for Beginners , colour charts from Farrow & Ball, a History of Burlesque , nearly everything by Bukowski. There’s one by Edgar Allan Poe, a few Stephen Kings, Cookie Mueller, Trocchi, Breece D’J Pancake, a biography of Mama Cass and one big old volume of Coleridge. She has a record player in the corner and a stack of vinyl on the floor. Neil Young’s Harvest Moon lies with its sleeve lyric-side-up and a round red-wine stain on it. Half the room is carpeted in woven matting and there is a thick rag-rug on her real-wood kitchen floor.