The Visitor by Katherine Stansfield

on the waves and feeling for the tides. But they often clashed, whether it was to do with the state of a hull or the chance of rain.
    Pearl laid the tablecloth and smoothed a ruck. In the first days of their marriage she’d tried her best with Jack. She managed to hold back her tears until he’d put to sea for the day and she could conjure a smile when people in the street asked how she was finding married life. When the baby that followed George passed on, she knew the marriage was only a means of tying her and Jack together. The child didn’t see out his first week, and somehow she had known he wouldn’t. He came from disappointment and his body was thin with it.
    Jack didn’t speak of the child after he was buried and George was too young to remember. The lost baby slipped back into the dim gloom he had emerged from, and Pearl was relieved that no more came.
    From then on she learned to live with Jack rather than love him. She held him when his sleep was dark with dreams. She folded and put away his clothes. She saw that love couldn’t be worked at, but living could. Living aged well, adapting over time, but love left a sting.
    George brought a large ling wrapped in newspaper. He sat in the kitchen while Pearl boned the fish. She had readied so many she felt as if half the contents of the sea had passed through her hands. She laid this body down on the scarred wooden board with the tail towards her. It was a large fish and would do for all three of them. One fillet for George and another shared between her and Jack.
    George stretched his long legs. ‘Keeping all right then, Mother?’
    Just the two of them. Sometimes she wondered what life would have been like if she had kept to that, but there was no use wishing.
    â€˜Can’t complain,’ she said. ‘How’s Elizabeth?’
    â€˜She’s well. Going to stay with her sister tonight so I’m seeing Matthew later.’
    â€˜Oh yes?’
    â€˜He’s low about that girl he’d taken up with. You know, I told you – the one who’s been painting him. Well, she’s going home as her lessons at the art school are done.’
    Pearl ran the knife behind the ling’s head and felt the resistance from the backbone as she sliced through. You had to do it firmly or blood would run everywhere. A clean chop was needed.
    â€˜Matthew’s always getting attached to those maids and he knows they won’t stay,’ she said.
    â€˜I know but he won’t learn. Can’t resist a woman who asks to paint him.’
    He was a rascally one, Matthew Tiddy. All that switching about and everyone knowing. She wondered what Mrs Tiddy thought of it. Things were that different now. The knife slid the length of the backbone, paring the cool damp body between her hands. Gently steamed, the flesh would fall away from the fork.
    â€˜He’s worried about his mother,’ George said.
    â€˜Hm?’
    â€˜Have you seen much of her since you got up here?’ he said.
    â€˜Oh, around and about, you know. She keeps herself to herself and that’s fine by me. Mind out while I get the plates. There isn’t room to move in here.’
    George brought his legs up and straightened on the chair, losing his easy grace in an instant. He was suddenly all angles and seriousness.
    â€˜But you’ve known each other such a long time,’ he said.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter how long I’ve known that woman,’ Pearl said. ‘She won’t keep her nose out of other people’s business and that brings trouble.’
    George rubbed a grimy finger against his nose and sighed. ‘I don’t understand what it is she’s done that’s so upset you. But then if you won’t tell me about the past, how can I?’ He slumped in the chair, his dark hair falling across his forehead. ‘I been meaning to ask you,’ he said. ‘Eileen told me—’
    â€˜Can you get me that