Salt

Christine Griffin

christinegriffin@blueyonder.co.uk

Margaret knew straight away simply from watching his profile that he wasn’t satisfied. He examined the sandwich for half a second before putting it into his mouth, then adopted that irritating look as he chewed, as though he was tasting vintage wine or fine cheddar. Always something to find fault with. What was it this time? She cast her mind back to the meagre facilities at the holiday cottage where she had prepared the picnic a few hours earlier. Wrong brand of margarine perhaps? Too much fat on the ham?

            ‘No salt, Margaret. You know how I like salt with my tomatoes. It’s quite spoiled my enjoyment. The first picnic of the holiday and it’s ruined.’

            Well, tomorrow you can make the sodding picnic yourself, she thought as she gazed out over the fretful sea to the cloudy horizon. Notice you didn’t think to pack the salt, or anything else for that matter, did you? All left to me, as per usual.

            The holiday had been his idea. She was never allowed to decide the destination. She would have loved a luxury hotel in the Greek islands – a luxury hotel anywhere in fact, but he always ruled out any suggestion from her.

            ‘No, Margaret, there’s nothing to do in those places except eat and lie in the sun. We’d soon be bored. Anyway, there are plenty of places in England we haven’t visited yet.’

She had once tentatively suggested that she might go abroad with her sister, but he had seemed genuinely upset by that idea.

‘We don’t see enough of each other as it is, Margaret, what with me being so busy at the office. Nice to spend some time together, don’t you think?’

Which was why they found themselves sitting on this godforsaken beach in Dorset right at the end of the season, eating the unsatisfactory, saltless sandwiches. ‘Cottages are cheaper in September, Margaret, and you know I don’t mind the weather.’

He liked the idea of being thought a tough man and this year’s challenge was to go reef and wreck diving in Lyme Bay . He’d read about it in a Sunday supplement and had become obsessed with the idea.

            ‘I shall go in every day, Margaret, and you will watch me and take photographs to prove that I did it. I’ll show them at the office that I’m tougher than they think.’

            Poor office, she thought. Day in day out, listening to him boring on about his exploits. He refused to join one of the organised diving groups, preferring to go solo. Why pay, he reasoned, when he could do it perfectly well on his own?

‘I’m sorry, Gordon. I quite forgot to bring any salt. I’ll get some at the little village store on the way back. Don’t let it spoil your enjoyment. You’ve got your dive to look forward to this afternoon. Will you swim right across the bay first to warm up, do you think?’ And she offered him a custard cream by way of a peace offering.

            She hated the way he always turned over the custard creams and examined the underside before he put them in his mouth. As though she had stuck an earwig on the back or something. Just eat the bloody thing then go and swim, she seethed.

            Earlier that day, as they had passed the little newsagent in the village, she’d seen the headline in the local paper – ‘Severe Weather Warning’.

‘Want to watch out, if you’re planning swimming,’ one of the locals outside the shop had warned. ‘Sea can cut up pretty rough in these parts.’

 Oh please God, she’d thought. And indeed the sea did seem to be building up quite a swell as the wind rose. Gordon had smiled his superior smile at the man and dismissed it as scaremongering.

 ‘A bit of wind and rain never hurt anyone,’ he said. ‘I’m an experienced swimmer, as it happens. Quite looking forward to a bit of a challenge. ’ And he whistled as he carried on towards the beach.

He had finished his lunch. Odd how the lack of salt hadn’t stopped him scoffing most of the sandwiches as well as half a packet of earwiggy custard creams. The sky had darkened and a mean wind blew sand everywhere.

‘Better get your swim in soon, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s turning out a bit rough.’

            ‘Rough seas don’t bother me, Margaret, as you know. But, I will take your advice. I’ll probably use the snorkel today.’ And he stripped off his holiday T-shirt with the pictures of whales on it and folded it neatly on top of his diving equipment. The flab of his belly hung over his swimming shorts and she turned away. The sea was starting to look distinctly rough now. Huge waves crashed and tumbled over each other ending in a clash of white at the water’s edge

             ‘I’ll be watching you,’ she said and smiled at him.

            He swims like a demented turtle, she thought dispassionately as he set off from the rocks. Keep going, she willed him. Go a little further out. That’s better. He turned to wave to her, the snorkel perched at a ridiculous angle on top of his head. She waved back gaily. Honestly, she thought, for someone who counted himself a good swimmer, he wasn’t getting very far. All that splashing about.  He waved again and she returned the wave and called out, ‘Well done.’

The library book she had brought with her absorbed her – she did so enjoy mysteries. As she felt the first drops of rain, she glanced up. No sign of him. The glassy waves rose and fell in the distance and a couple of gulls wheeled in and landed on the water. Nothing else was visible between her and the horizon. Perhaps she’d read a little more while she waited for him. Pulling her anorak hood more tightly round her head, she bent again to her book.

Half an hour later she closed the book with a satisfied smile. She’d seen right through that one. It was obvious from about page two who’d done it. The sea in front of her was still empty. No use in waiting any more, she thought. Better get back to the cottage. Carefully she gathered up the remnants of the picnic things, leaving one discarded saltless sandwich for the birds to finish. If it’s salt you want, she thought, there’s plenty in the sea. She slipped the whale T-shirt and his socks and sandals into the bottom of his diving bag, using a rock to make sure they didn’t blow away and set off back to the village.

The lady in the shop was friendly.

‘Left your husband out there, have you? Honestly, these men. Always trying to prove something. I see it all the time. You look frozen, dear. Get yourself back home and have a good soak, that’s my advice.’

Margaret chatted for a while to her, agreeing that men could indeed be very stubborn.

‘I’m used to him,’ she said. ‘We tend to go our own way a bit on holiday. He’s enjoying himself. That’s the main thing.’

And she smiled, made a few purchases, then thankfully made her way back to the holiday cottage. Emmerdale would be on soon. He hated her watching the soaps, but he wouldn’t be there to see her, would he? The shop had yielded quite a reasonable bottle of red and she was looking forward to settling down in front of the fire and the telly.

He was sitting at the table when she let herself in. On the floor was a pool of water that had dripped from his seaweed locks. His sightless eyes stared at her accusingly and she could see salt encrusted round his lips and nostrils. The flabby belly was blue with cold.

Really, she thought. This is most inconvenient. Typical of him to try to get the last word. Fortunately she knew exactly what to do. It was like throwing spilt salt over your shoulder to get rid of the devil. Her granny had told her that. ‘If you see a spook, Margaret, all you have to do is throw salt on it and it will disappear.’ Granny was Irish and knew a trick or two.

She took the packet of salt out of her bag and tipped the lot over him. Just as granny had promised, he shrivelled, dried and disappeared. She glanced at the clock and decided that she had at least an hour before she need raise the alarm. The cottage had no phone but it wouldn’t take long to nip to the village shop and ask the lady there to call the police for her.

 Reaching into the bag again she pulled out the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. Emmerdale was about to begin and she settled down in front of the fire. She was actually quite looking forward to the rest of the evening. She did so love a mystery, but unlike the case in her library book, she didn’t think that anyone was going to see through this one.

‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass to the television. 

©2009 Christine Griffin

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