Blood, Salt, Water Read Free Page A

the bait.
    ‘Where were you living in London, Boyd?’
    ‘Crouch End.’
    ‘I knew it!’ She smiled and looked around the Paddle’s interior. ‘Hamble and Hamble?’
    ‘Ah.’ Boyd gave a cheeky grin. ‘You’ve found me out.’
    ‘I knew it! I lived right next door in Highgate. When I walked in here I knew it was a copy. Because of the local produce oath on the menus.’
    ‘I can picture you in Hambles’.’
    ‘You even used the same colour of Farrow and Ball paint.’ She nodded at the walls. ‘Don’t they mind?’
    ‘Well . . .’ He looked at the wooden shelving displaying retro-style olive oil drums, the tumbling basket of sourdough bread and the string of brown paper bags hanging from a bare nail hammered into the wall. ‘They don’t know. They would know if they came in but they won’t come in.’ Because no one came here – at least, no one Boyd was very interested in.
    ‘I’m so glad to be back now, in time for the independence referendum . . .’
    Boyd knew then that she was just back. With three weeks until the vote no one else was glad. Those in favour of independence could hardly wait another minute, and the other side just wanted it to be over. Miss Grierson raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to say whether he was pro or anti. Boyd didn’t. He ran a business, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t afford to take a public position and alienate customers on the other side. He raised his eyebrows back at her and she changed the subject:
    ‘And I was so pleased when I saw you did gluten-free bread . . .’ Miss Grierson got that look in her eye then, a look of mild martyrdom Boyd recognised as the presage to the biography of an allergy. He zoned out on the details but she seemed to be hitting all the narrative points.
    ‘. . .found I wasn’t actually coeliac but certainly had a very strong reaction . . .’
    Boyd’s mind wandered again. He was thinking about giving up the gluten-free range. A big Waitrose had opened nearby and they did it cheaper. He didn’t want to have to listen to this story three times a day any more. ‘Allergy bastards’, he called them, in his head and to Lucy. ‘Allergy bastards bought all the bread today,’ he’d say while they were watching telly. Or, ‘Had to chuck all the gluten-free out because not enough allergy bastards came in.’ They didn’t seem able to buy the stuff without telling him about their Damascene journey. He’d spotted a gap in the market. It didn’t mean he wanted to keep a chart of their colon function.
    Miss Grierson had stopped talking. She looked at him quizzically, sensing his disengagement.
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘how long have you been back, Miss Grierson?’
    She hesitated, probably meaning to tell him to call her Susan, but decided not to, for some reason. ‘Recently – going through her things.’
    ‘Sad?’
    She looked sad. ‘No. She was very old. A lot to do in the house, though. Garden’s a mess.’
    The Griersons’ garden was a huge lot in the middle of town, three quarters of an acre. A small estate really. He used to pass it on adolescent runs in the summer. Giant Scots pines with trunks the colour of ginger snaps. A hundred-foot lawn and a big walled vegetable garden at the back. He had been passing again recently, out running or walking Jimbo, but the walls were high and even the hedge breaks were overgrown. He couldn’t see in any more.
    ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’ll know that most of those big gardens have been sectioned and sold off for new builds. Bear that in mind when you’re selling—’
    ‘Oh, I’m not selling. I’m moving back.’
    Boyd smiled. ‘ I ’ve moved back.’
    ‘We’re all moving back, aren’t we? The old pack.’
    ‘Seems that way. I see a lot of old faces in here.’
    She touched his elbow in a comradely manner – ‘Our age . . .’ Though he was only thirty-five, younger than her by a good fifteen years.
    Suddenly conscious of all that needed to be done before