A little piece of flash fiction entitled “Sea Salt”
As Margaret was putting away the weekly shop, an angry gust of wind blew the curtains back from the kitchen window and startled her as she was placing a container of sea salt into the spice cupboard. The container toppled to the ground, spilling granules onto the porcelain tiles. They scattered the way sea spray drifts from the sky like ground rhinestone. She thought of her husband Peter at sea, fighting against waves growing ever larger with the stiffening wind. She knelt to sweep the escaped granules into a dust pan and, as she stood, looked through the netted window at the harbour’s expanse. The sea was like TV static, ivory-topped waves dancing about like so many fairies.
She opened a net of Spanish oranges to empty into the fruit bowl; it was actually a large pasta bowl lined with china-blue pictures of pasta shapes she recognised - fusilli, farfalle, conchiglie. The shell-like conchiglie resembled the funnel wave a skilled surfer, as her son Derek considered himself, might knife through. Margaret pictured such a wave crashing down on Peter’s fishing boat, The Erin, like a Siberian tiger prancing with foamy claws to embrace the boat in a submerging hug.
The whistle of the wind pushed through the poplar tree in the front garden, playing the sleek branches like a reed instrument; gale-force now, the point at which Peter usually abandoned his work and turned for the harbour’s sanctuary. The open sea was dangerous in a gale, deadly in a storm. Many a seafarer had been lost to the waters Margaret could see on the horizon beyond the confines of the harbour.
‘Hi Mam,’ a voice bellowed.
It was her son Derek.
‘You frightened the life out of me,’ Margaret said.
She was pale, as if gravity had robbed her visage of any life force.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Derek asked unconcerned.
‘Dinner? Can’t you see I’m still putting away the shopping?’ she snapped.
‘Sorry for asking,’ he said. ‘I’m going into the sitting room.’
‘Well, if you spent a bit less time competing in surfing competitions, you might be able to help your father out once in a while,’ she said with a vinegary bite.
Margaret continued to fill cupboards as Derek’s PlayStation boomed through the wall.
***
A little more than an hour later, Margaret sat at the kitchen table that had been hewn from an enormous piece of driftwood that Peter had found floating in the harbour. It was knotted and full of woodworm burrows. Sliding her hands over its uneven surface reminded her of Peter’s weatherbeaten skin.
She warmed her hands with a cup of tea and tuned the radio to the sea area forecast. The forecaster matter-of-factly announced that there was a storm warning in operation and, with not a hint of contrition, explained that this had been unforeseen. A stew she had prepared bubbled on the stove and the smell of boiled celery was now being accompanied by the stewing lamb. Derek sheepishly entered the kitchen and gauged her mood before speaking.
‘Any word from Dad?’
‘Nothing,’ she said abruptly. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’
Derek followed his nose to the stew on the hob. He lifted the pot lid with a tea-towel and peered in at the softened meat and melting vegetables within, his face directly over the contents.
‘That’s right, blow your snot into it why don’t you,’ Margaret said.
‘Huh?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she replied, her forehead resting in her hands. ‘I’m just worried about your father. I would have expected him at least an hour ago.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mam. He’s been plenty late before.’
‘Not in this wind,’ she said looking out at dark clouds stampeding across the sky.
Derek helped himself to a bowl of stew and sat opposite Margaret. She would wait for her husband to arrive before eating; that was just proper. Derek ate his dinner, mopping up the soupy remains with yesterday’s bread. They sat for a half-hour exchanging barely a half-dozen sentences. Margaret continued to stare out at the elements.
And then the front door opened and they could hear Peter’s familiar amble and a rustling as he took off his coat. The kitchen door opened, wafting the odour of rotted fish-bait and dried salt into the room. Margaret and Derek stared at Peter, brows furrowed in a where were you? gesture.
‘Sorry,’ he said after a studious pause to sense the atmosphere. ‘I got talking to Alan about this new licensing law restricting lobster fishing. I lost track of time. Were you worried about me?’
He had the faux-quizzical look of someone asking a rhetorical question.
‘Derek,’ Margaret said, refusing to look at Peter. ‘Go over there and empty your father’s stew into the bin.’
Posted: May 18th, 2009 under Creative Writing.
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