Cynan Jones: Everything I Found on the Beach

The men laughed and drank but as they went along Grzegorz thought of the long space of the beach, the flat sands and that sense of peace when he was cockle digging. He could never afford land, but the beach had a common right and he could work it. It would be the closest thing to a farm. He just needed to set himself up.

It was over an hour before they got to the dock and the men got gratefully off the bus. The mood was different now.

A guy came out of the shed and talked to them in Polish and then the whole group of them went into the shed.

Grzegorz remembered what his friend had said. The only tricky bit is the boat, but it’s simple. It’s like steering a plow really. It’s the only difficult part.

Grzegorz stood there with the others listening to a man who spoke to them from behind a desk that looked odd in the otherwise empty boatshed. Grzegorz’s English was still poor and he understood only some of what was said, but then the Pole who had spoken to them outside barked out the translation. He was skin-headed and brutal looking. A football hooligan. Grzegorz felt a sense of unrealness, this new and hollow fear at the idea of the black sea they had seen from the bus. They’d been asked once and simply outside the shed if they wanted to back out. “Once you’re in the shed you’re in everything,” said the Pole. “You back out then, there’ll be consequences.” No one had backed out.

The men went up individually and showed their identification to the man behind the desk and he took the passports and ID cards in this strange formal way and put them all together in a strongbox. “You’ll get them when you get back,” he said.

For each of them who went up, the man behind the desk flashed a square of paper. This visible change came over the men who had gone up then and they moved off.

The skinhead stood close to the desk, just out of the light. He was like some kind of unnerving scavenger. Grzegorz felt him almost, rather than saw him, had this rip of gall go through him at the irreversibility of this thing he was doing. For a moment he had the taste of the horrible liquor come up in his mouth again, but he swallowed it down. It was like the sick feeling he had as a child before he used to jump off the bridge into the cold pool of the river by his grandparents’ farm. He was one of the youngest of the kids who played, and always the first to be made to jump. He swallowed the fear back, the same way he used to, with this childish determination to do something he knew was dangerous and stupid. For what? For the chance to be something.

Grzegorz stepped up and handed over his passport to the man and looked up at the skin-headed man, trying not to show the nervous rush that was going through him.

The man looked at the outline of the eagle on the passport then at the name, then ran his finger down a list in front of him with this surreal-seeming officiousness. Then he drew out a photograph and showed Grzegorz a picture of his wife pushing the pram. This sick feeling came up hard in Grzegorz.

The skin-headed Pole was acting as translator.

“Can you drive a boat?”

Grzegorz nodded numbly.

“Yes. I can drive a boat.”

Hold sat on the upturned crate and cut down the spine of the fish and let the boat bob and tremble around him in the water. He held the fish down on the board and cut behind the gills and then turned the knife stiffly in the flesh and cut through the rib bones and drew off the fillet. Intact but for this loin of it gone, the fish looked still alive it was so fresh.

Hold sliced away the spurs of rib that had come off in the smooth cut of the fillet and threw them into the water; then he pared the flesh finally from the skin and threw the skin too into the water. Then he cut the fillet and took up the pieces one by one and ate them richly, chewing and savoring them.

It was the early mixed-up warmth of spring, and the colder breeze could not get into the boat the way it faced, so the space inside was warm and was one of the first warmths of the year to him.

He ate the fish and got up and took the boiled kettle from the gimballed stove and made a black coffee and sat back on the crate in the strange created warmth and felt the boat and felt the sea get up slightly beneath him.

Holden looked at the knife and cleaned it on his pant leg and tested its edge with his thumbprint and tried it against the hairs of his arm and looked up from the boat at the cliffs and at the pale kittiwakes circling off them.

Three years ago, Danny had died and had left him this knife. Hold had taken the knife but there was inside him the sense that he was keeping it in trust for Jake, and that he would pass it on when the boy was old enough.

It was as if the continued use of the knife was vital in keeping the sense of his friend around him. He’d give it to Jake. He’d made that decision straight off. He’d give it to Danny’s boy Jake when he got old enough.

When Grzegorz brought his child back newly from the hospital there was a celebration. Already, the traditional red ribbon he had been given when they went off to the hospital in the taxi was tied around the little boy’s wrist. Everyone held his new son, and it was like delivering him to some huge, surrogate family.

He’d waited at the door for a moment, as if getting his breath, letting his wife go in with the baby to the initial greetings. “This is not right,” Grzegorz thought. “It is not right to bring a son into this. He should have a real home, a place better than this.” He stood in the doorway of the bleak place and looked blankly at the artless graffiti that went across the broken brick wall in front of him. “Polish out.”

He thought of the boy taking his first steps here, uttering his first words. “No,” Grzegorz thought. “It is okay now, he is too small for anything. But I have to get out before he starts to grow up, before he walks. I want his first steps to be around a table that is ours. That belongs to us. I want him to have a room of his own with his brother. I didn’t come here for this.” He felt a strange, tired relief and joy and emptiness.

He went upstairs. His son was in the big maternal arms of one of the heavier older women and he saw his wife tired, uncertain, this look of things slipping away. That should be my grandmother, holding him there, my new son. He looked at his wife and met her eyes. He looked fascinated at his wife’s strangely deflated stomach after all the months of fullness. She was like a child against the big, heavy woman. “This should be happier,” he thought. “This should be happier than this.” He thought of the humiliating, horrible thing of the waters breaking there in the room full of people.

A man came in and put three ducks down on the table. Grzegorz looked at the birds, limp and distraught, river mud in amongst the oiled colors of their feathers. He looked at the very orange legs of the wild ducks and wondered, detachedly, how the man could have caught them. And then the man put down bottles on the table and there came a sudden activity, glasses banging on the table, the birds swept up.

At the beginning there had been exactly this kind of vibrant energy to the house. There was the sense of the beginning of a party, of some great feast a big family had come together for. There was a common purpose to all the people who had arrived, who had come on the two buses, the men to jobs allocated them by the agency. Then the weight of it had sunk in.

He did not know they would be there for so long, stuck, suspended somehow in this no-man’s-land between Poland and what they had held as an ideal new world. It was more than a year now. The baby, product of that first new vibrant energy, a momentous piece of life that they felt was a sign of the newness and change of everything, came now not with celebration but as an extra weight. He had bought into a vision of this country that did not fit. He was unnerved by the dullness of the buildings, the latent fatigue of the place, colorless shops with broken signage. It didn’t tally with the view he’d had of the place. He was perturbed by some strange lack he could not pin down here.