Fiction

Lungs

Whitby awoke to a corpse on the beach. A crowd had gathered around her already, wrapped tight in raincoats and wellingtons, staring at the body slumped on the slate-grey sand. It must have been the storm that killed her. That summer had been the worst in decades; worse than when Irene was a little girl, and the waves had surged all the way up to the quay and left slashes of brown across the bright cottage fronts.
Irene watched the town unfurl from her kitchen window. Children in bright red macs clung to parents' hands, pointing at the body. It was a pitiful sight. Her grey mass lay stripped of all dignity, naked and shapeless in the drizzle, and her head had been caved in. Irene's throat tightened with pity when a lorry pulled up to the shore and men in fluorescent jackets clambered out of it, barking at the gawping tourists to stand back.
She must have been young, Irene thought — six metres at most. After a lifetime spent on the coast, Irene could tell any species by sight. This was a fin whale: she belonged in the open sea, where she was weightless, where the pressing sand could never crush the air from her lungs. Irene turned from the window to clear away her breakfast crockery and put on her coat. Before she left the cottage, she checked the mirror to make sure her hat fully hid her thinning scrub of hair. From the pathway that led down to the town, Irene had a clear view of the men still struggling to haul the carcass away, until the faint rain prickled against her eyes and she was forced to look away.
Irene found herself in her usual haunt, nestled by the window, the local paper laid across the stained white table. Families squalled around her and the reek of chip fat and vinegar made Irene want to gasp for fresh air, but she clung to her mug of tea and waited for her daughter to arrive, as promised, from York. The paper talked of renovations to the Church of Saint Mary, and of the recent appeal to prevent peddlers from overrunning the beach — as if that would somehow make the town peaceful again. On the fourth page, she was met again by the sight of the sprawling carcass, now in grisly definition. WHALE BEACHINGS LINKED TO CLIMATE CHANGE, the headline warned. Poor thing must have been there overnight, if the papers had already got to her. Irene thought of the journalists taking their photographs and leaving her alone and helpless for the world to deal with the next day.
Helen arrived late, flustered, wearing a navy suit.
‘I thought you had the morning off,’ Irene said.
‘I did.’ Helen sat opposite her and waved her hand for the waitress to refill the teapot. ‘I had to pop into the office to sort out the pitch for Monday.
Mark was supposed to oversee that, but we all know how reliable he is.’
Mark was Helen's husband. Together they ran a travel agent's back in York, which specialised in renting twee seaside cottages to fresh-faced families who longed to ‘get back to basics.’ Her fit of rebellion against her mother's own dislike for tourists had worked surprisingly well for her —  Helen was far better off than Irene had ever been; but she was Frank's daughter too. She had his determination.
Irene attempted a motherly smile. ‘Well, perhaps you should have a word with him.’
‘Already have.’ Helen sipped hastily at her tea. ‘You look tired, Mum. Have you been taking your medication?’
‘Which medication?’ Her throat took a daily battering from a cocktail of tablets. Frank had often quipped she may as well go down to the beach and swallow pebbles there for all the good it did her. Irene watched the rainwater dribble down the window, her thoughts drawing back to the stranded whale, gasping for breath as she crushed herself into the earth — the panic — mud filling her mouth, as if she were being buried alive. How long would it take to die?
‘Are you listening to me?’ Helen was saying. She reached over for the paper, glancing over the article. ‘Shame. That'll put people off coming here.’
‘Encourage them, more like,’ said Irene. ‘You should have seen them all gathered around, gawking. I even heard someone telling their child it might explode.’
She winced. Helen began to explain that it actually happened sometimes, but by then Irene was thinking of what Frank would make of the whole situation. He'd been a fisherman when he was young, back when fishing in the North Sea was worth its while.
‘You remember the story your father told about his fishing days, don't you?’ Irene said.
Helen shrugged, exactly as she would have done when she was sixteen. ‘I remember it was more exaggerated every time he told it, just like all his stories. Have I told you about all the drama with planning permission in Scarborough?’
Irene listened to her daughter, nodding along, until their tea was finished and they left to walk back along the promenade. The rolling hum of waves drumming in from the beach drowned out the sound of Helen's worries, but the walk grew more difficult every time Irene did it, even though the ground was level. When they reached the hill, Irene's heart was burning in her chest. She leaned against the railings to catch her breath.
‘We ought to talk about the house.’
Helen's eyes flicked over the rising cliff side, where the white cottage sat, pebble-flecked and grown with ivy, overlooking the sweeping waves below.
An accusing look entered her eyes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I've been talking to a man about selling it.’
Whenever Helen went quiet it meant she was angry. She'd been that way since she was a child, taking a furious vow of silence if she was denied her own way. Irene and Frank had savage fights over it in the past. ‘You coddle her,’ she used to tell him, and he'd just laugh and call her a harridan.
‘Selling it,’ Helen repeated.
‘There's been a few nice couples who're thinking of retiring here,’ Irene said.
‘You still live here! Where on earth do you think you'd go?’
‘Not to yours, if that's what you're worried about. Let's be serious now. Soon enough, I'll be gone, and I need to think about what will happen afterwards. The money will go to you, of course.’
‘Don't be so morbid.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You're only seventy-six. I can't believe you sometimes. The house would be a great asset!’
‘To your business, yes, I'm sure it would. I've seen all those lovely young women with their lovely young husbands walking past and admiring the authenticity.’ She could see it now. They'd laugh about how quaint it all was, quarrel over the morality of feeding their children chip butties (‘It supports the local community!’ ‘But they're fried!’) And then they'd scoot back off to their suburbs and leave her home dead and empty.
‘And what about me?’ Helen was saying. ‘You just assume I'll put it in the business. This is my childhood. What if I want to come back to it?’
‘For good? While you still have children to raise? I don't think so.’
‘In the summer—’
‘Yes, and what about the rest of the year? Empty. I can't bear it. My home, empty, with nothing but rain for company.’ Empty. The word echoed. ‘I won't have it. This is a home that needs life.’
Helen started digging in her handbag for her keys. ‘Life,’ she sneered. ‘I'm your family. I'm the life that should be here, who deserves to be here after all I've done for you.’ By then she was already stalking towards the car, heels clipping against the cobblestones. Before she got in, she turned back. ‘Dad would never do this. You know that?’
He would have, Irene thought but did not say. He would never let people flit in and out of their home like they had never been there.
Helen didn't call for a full two weeks. Irene supposed, when she sat in front of the television screen pretending not to count the hours since she'd heard a real voice, that she could break the silence — but that wasn't her way. That would mean she'd lost.

She was a young girl again, falling from a great height into an immeasurably vast expanse, plummeting so quickly that the wind whipped the scream straight from her throat. When she hit the surface it shattered like a mirror and she plunged below, into freezing water. She floundered, her lungs clenching in shock. Her mouth and nose filled with brine. She lunged for the surface but it was already pulling away from her, as she was hauled further and further below by the weight of her clothes. Every mad toss of her body took the air further away from her.
The water was icy clear and ringing with an echo like creaking hulls. Irene saw it, far away, so distant but so enormous — impossibly huge, larger than anything that could ever live and breathe, so large that she knew she must be dreaming. The shape passed below her, a sleek black mass of serpentine grace. It moved slowly, forcefully, its fluke rising and falling in rhythm with the waves. Panic trickled into Irene's lungs. She felt the pressure of water crushing her ribcage as she descended and the glittered surface faded into twilight. The shape passed overhead, rumbling, moaning — the sound crackles through the water, hammering through Irene's skull —
— She opened her mouth, felt her heart bursting for breath, her brain pounding and screaming, felt her ribs buckling inside her —
Irene awoke, breathing hard and clutching her chest. Lamp on. Glass of water on side. She took a sip and waited for the pain to subside, but her heart was thrumming and her breath escaped her in ragged, uneven whistles. Her phone was on the bedside table, where Helen had once told her to put it. Just in case you need me.
‘Hello?’ Helen's voice said, after two rings. ‘Hello?’ She sounded afraid.
Irene opened her mouth but only a choking sound came out.
‘Mum — is that you? Mum? What's wrong? Do you want me to call an ambulance?’
Irene's fear switched in an instant. Her throat was still tight but it all had just been panic. Everything was going back to normal. She could feel her heart slowing, her head clearing. ‘It's me,’ she said. ‘I'm sorry, I was a little confused, I didn't mean to —’
‘You're not breathing properly. I'm going to call an ambulance.’
Irene looked helplessly at the receiver. ‘Don't! I'm fine. It was an accident.’
‘Calling me at three in the morning is not an accident. You can't breathe properly: you are not fine.’
‘I don't need an ambulance!’
‘Wait there. I'll come over myself.’
Helen arrived in tracksuit bottoms, looking strangely vulnerable now that she was bereft of her suit and heels. She fretted over Irene's breathing, clucking and flinging her hands to and fro, which only made the whole thing worse. Helen insisted they go to the hospital. She threw some of Irene's spare underwear and a toothbrush into a bag — just in case — then led Irene over to the car, still fussing as she helped her into the front seat.
‘I've been staying at the White Horse,’ Helen admitted. ‘I've had a lot of work on here; I didn't want to put upon you — and — well. You know. You're lucky I was around.’
Irene said nothing. It had been years since Irene saw the town at this hour. The last time had been with Frank, close to her ruby wedding, when the whole town suffered from a power-cut and they'd wrapped up warm and climbed to the church, to see the stars and sea as if towns didn't exist. Now everything was still and silent, muffled by the clouds overhead, and even the streetlamps seemed distant. The local hospital was unavailable this late at night: York was the closest emergency service. Helen drove stoically on, her face tight with determination — but Irene, filled with guilt at how well she was feeling, could only think of her bed.
She'd be wasting their time. There was nothing wrong with her above being a decrepit old bag, and they'd tell her so if they knew she'd made her daughter drive her all the way to York for feeling a little puffed out. ‘We should turn back,’ Irene said. ‘This isn't an emergency.’
‘For God's sake. Stop being so proud and accept that you need to see a doctor.’
‘They'll tell you I'm fine and this will all be for nothing. You should go home and get some sleep.’
‘I'm not getting out of bed at three in the morning because you've called me in a state, and then turn back halfway to the bloody hospital!’
They were nowhere near halfway. They weren't even at the dual carriageway yet. ‘You'll be wasting more time if you get there just to be turned away.’
Helen's eyes flicked to the side. She slowed, turning into the nearest corner, then pulled up as soon as she was able. She stared at the wheel, her mouth tight with suppressed anger. Then she looked Irene up and down, scrutinising her. ‘You really are fine, aren't you?’
‘I was just a little panicked. I was dreaming —’
‘You dragged me out of bed at this hour for a bloody false alarm. I can't believe you. I literally can not believe you.’
Irene dared to mention that it was not her idea to go to the hospital, and that she'd just wanted to hear her daughter's voice; Helen asked how she was supposed to have interpreted it, and on it went, the pair of them snapping away at one another right until Helen dropped Irene off back at her gate. She stopped long enough to help her mother out of the front seat, then, still growling about how she needed to be up at seven, got back into the car and screeched away. Irene waited up in the kitchen, pressing a glass of water close to her mouth until the sound of wheels faded, and the stillness grew, and all she could hear was the distant hiss of the sea.
Her lungs were failing, a gruelling process, slow and inevitable, like being buried alive. She'd known it for months. Or years, why not? What was the point of dragging it out? No need to be a coward. Frank hadn't been. When Death came for him, he'd met him head on.
It had gone something like this:
Death came scything into the room, his claws outstretched for Frank, who sat reading his paper. Frank looked up, a grizzled eyebrow arching. ‘Now there's a mug that could do with a drink,’ he said. He folded his paper, slowly, deliberately, while Death watched. Then he stood and reached for the decanter on the mantelpiece. ‘This'll put the spark back in your eyes. Glenfarclas. Fifteen years. Been saving it for this very day.’
Death lowered his scythe and took the whiskey. He downed it in one, grimacing. The ruddy fluid trickled out from between his rusted ribcage.
‘Takes like Satan's bathtub,’ said Death.
They laughed. Frank invited Death to a game of poker, in exchange for a year or two. Death sat. He still clutched his scythe. They played for hours, Frank's nerve unwavering. ‘All in,’ he said, clutching his double Kings.
Death's empty sockets glared over the ace and queen held between his claws. ‘Met.’
Frank saw the cold black fire burning between those hollow eyes and moved aside, roaring, as Death leaped up and swiped for Frank with his scythe. Bellowing, Frank got Death in a headlock, pummelling the base of his skull — the skeleton twisted, hissing, the scythe skittering out of his reach. Frank carried on punching but Death broke free, seized the scythe, and swung it in a deadly arch that breaks right through Frank's ribs. Frank fell back, straight onto his armchair, clutching his chest and knocking over his beautiful decanter. Death, swearing and dizzy, legged it out the open window. Irene entered moments later, saw Frank motionless on the armchair, the shock of betrayal still on his face, and screamed.
It was a ridiculous fabrication, she realised, like a Norman Wisdom sketch. She told it to herself that way because she couldn't imagine the reality. Frank was too bold and full of life to die drunk and alone in his chair. It was the only way to cope, to meet Death head on and laugh in his face.

 When the day came, she knew she was ready. She could see the ‘Sold’ sign swaying outside, where the last fading rays shone through the clouds and caught on the sign's patent sheen. Helen had accepted it, eventually. There were plenty of cottages like it, she'd ended up saying; she could come back to Whitby at any time. It was a lie. There was nowhere like their home. Helen had cried when Irene told her.
The curtains closed. She tried to imagine new voices in her kitchen, or new bodies in her bed, or new coats bustling together beneath the stairs, but her mind wouldn't stay on them. Lying in bed, she could only think of Frank, young, red-haired, grinning, full of stories, and the one story he swore was never a lie.
It was the fishing trip he'd had as a young lad. A humpback whale had tangled herself in a discarded net from another ship, and their little boat had found her upright in the water, straining for the surface. They thought she was dead until a gust of breath spurted from her blowhole, but she had no strength left. The nets were tangled so tightly around her fins that the water flushed red when they managed to release her. The whole process took over an hour, he told her, while the whale struggled to lift her head high enough to catch her breath.
But when they did set her free, the whale did not flee like they expected, but followed in the wake of their ship, breaching the surface and collapsing back under the waves as if she were dancing, throwing herself between sea and sky with all the joy of having touched death and finding herself alive once more.

Catherine Stanford