FERRYMAN’S REST

By Annabel Bird

An extract from Ferryman's Rest

The couple fall, giggling, into the sodden evening. The woman is Anna—that’s instantly

clear from the straightness of her golden hair, its enviable thickness, the way it drapes to

her shoulders like expensively lined curtains. Even though Nessa is sitting in the bus

shelter on the other side of the street, she clenches her fist as if to stop herself from

stroking it. The light above the pub door shines on Anna’s crown, drawing attention to

the dark halo of roots. Dyed, then—of course it is, no woman has hair this colour past

the age of ten. Anna isn’t wearing her glasses which is interesting. She could be wearing

contact lenses, or perhaps she is so vain she’d rather stumble around in semi-blindness

than see the face of the stranger she is kissing.

Oat milk cappuccino. This is what Anna drinks when she comes to the café to see

Priya. Often, they sit giggling in the corner but fall silent when she approaches and this

makes her feel foolish and ugly. Anna did once compliment her on her flapjacks and she

preens at the thought of her unctuous, syrupy treats rolling around the flat belly of this

beautiful young woman.

She knows where they will go. The man leads Anna down the concrete slipway to

the river. She is laughing and is unsteady on her heels. The slipway is dark, but Nessa’s

vantage point is good and her eyes have long adjusted to the night.

Vinegar and salt explode in her mouth as the man pushes Anna against the wall of

the pub and lifts up her short skirt. Nessa eats chip after chip as she watches their

drunken rutting. The man stops and turns Anna around to face the wall. They become

silent then, the laughing has stopped. A pleasant swell spreads between Nessa’s legs as

their dance becomes slower and more rhythmic. The polystyrene tray is empty now and

she sucks her fingers clean, giving each the same level of attention as a fair-minded

mother with a large brood.When they are done, Anna brushes down her skirt and smooths her lovely hair.

When they emerge from the slipway they are subdued. They are strangers again and no longer touch each other. Their embarrassment scuttles across the road to the bus shelter —regret and shame settling into the vacuum created once passion is discharged. The man opens the pub door and the noise erupts, pulsing across the air like smoke signals. As he turns to pull the door closed behind him, his sandy hair and closely shaven, boyish face are briefly spotlit. He is probably considered good-looking, but he is of no interest. He is nobody—here on holiday, a stag do, perhaps. Nevertheless, she files his face away for future reference.