I stare at her, astonished.
‘A nice bowl of shark fin soup,’ she persists. ‘Surely them Mexicanos are all wild for shark fin soup.’
‘Shark’s fin soup is a Chinese delicacy, Mrs Barrow,’ I stiffly inform her.
‘Shark is very edible, Mr Huff,’ Mrs Barrow doggedly continues, wafting her hand gently in front of her face, ‘although the mistake you made here, Mr Huff, was to leave the internal organs in place. Always be sure and gut a shark on the beach. Mr Barrow is oft wont to say that.’ She smirks. ‘Then the gulls’ll kindly do the rest of the work for you.’
‘I think you misunderstand me, Mrs Barrow …’ I start off.
‘Or they makes a fine bait,’ she continues, ‘if you can only bear the stink, mind.’
She winces.
‘I have never eaten shark, Mrs Barrow, nor have I ever considered eating shark,’ I maintain.
‘Well if the urge ever takes you again, Mr Huff, might I suggest as you soak the gutted fish flesh in milk or bicarbonate,’ she volunteers. ‘The worst of that honk is the ammonia, see …?’
Again? If the urge ever takes me again?!
‘Like I say,’ I repeat, quite sharply, now, ‘I have never eaten shark and I have never—’
‘Well you can eats it in all manner of ways, Mr Huff!’ she promptly eulogizes. ‘Tastes just like mackerel, it does. You can have it fresh, frozen, dried. The liver is specially prized for its oil. A person can even make leather goods from the hide if they so feels the urge.’
‘My point is—’
‘I just deep fries it in a nice, light batter, Mr Huff. Better still, after soaking the steak in milk, dip it in beaten egg, then a thin layer of flour, then pop it in a hot, oiled pan …’
‘While this is all very educational, Mrs Barrow …’
‘Or make yourself a plain stew, Mr Huff, with chopped carrots, onions, leeks, parsnips, potato …’
‘… I fail to see how …’
‘… nice tin of plum tomatoes …’
‘… this has any relevance with regard to …’
‘Salt. Pepper. Basic stock. Bay leaf …’
‘… the rotting carcass of a shark suddenly appearing …’
‘Celery. Did I forget celery?’
‘… as if by magic …’
‘Be sure to only throw in the diced fish at the last minute. Big handful of chopped parsley to serve …’
‘… or … or voodoo …’
‘Then hey presto, there you have it: sand shark stew, Mr Huff!’
‘Gumbo,’ I interject (broken).
‘Pardon me, Mr Huff?’ Mrs Barrow looks a tad offended.
‘Gumbo,’ I repeat.
‘You can call it mumbo gumbo if you likes, Mr Huff’ – Mrs Barrow is still more offended – ‘but a regular-sized sand shark such as this one here will provide a good hearty family meal, and without breaking the bank, neither.’
‘No, no, gumbo, Mrs Barrow! Gumbo: an American fish and meat dish. A stew.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Barrow doesn’t look convinced.
‘Although gumbo has plenty of garlic. And it’s generally accompanied by a handful of rice.’
Mrs Barrow’s eyes widen in horror. ‘I’m afraid as Mr Barrow won’t tolerate garlic, Mr Huff! Makes him belch something rotten, it does! Nor rice, neither, except in puddings of course, and even then he generally prefers some sago. He don’t have no stomach for all that foreign muck, Mr Huff. A plain English stew is perfectly all right by him, thank you very much.’
Mrs Barrow rocks back on her wooden soles, arms crossed.
‘Garlic is the mainstay of South American cuisine,’ I stolidly maintain, ‘and it actually has many impressive anti-bacterial qualities …’ I suddenly find myself listing them, almost as if the list itself will somehow validate the feelings of hurt and distress I’m currently experiencing as a direct result of my perceived ill-treatment by the vindictive, bin-stealing, fish-hiding, garlic-hating people of the Great British Isle: ‘It’s good for wounds, Mrs Barrow, ulcers, colds, bladder problems …’
Mrs Barrow starts at the mention of bladder problems. ‘I’ll as thank you to please refrain yourself from trespassing into areas of such a deeply intimate complexion, Mr Huff!’ she exclaims, turns on her heel and heads back inside, affronted. I remain on the balcony for a second, momentarily nonplussed, then turn and follow. She disappears into various rooms and can be heard banging the wide open windows shut.
‘D’you think it’s a good idea to be closing all the windows, Mrs Barrow?’ I call through. ‘Isn’t it better to give the flies every opportunity to disperse?’
Mrs Barrow stomps back into the kitchen-diner, shaking her duster around. She marches into the sitting room, still wafting, and slams the window shut in there, too.
‘Mrs Barrow?’ I follow her into the room.
‘Mrs Barrow? D’you not think it might be better if we …?’
As I irritably address her I am slightly bemused to observe a series of skittish, disparate bluebottles suddenly unify and cohere (like a swarm of wild bees, or pre-roost starlings) on to an expanse of the whitewashed chimney breast behind Mrs Barrow’s shoulder, then doubly bemused – nay, astonished – to see them forming into a coherent shape. A large … a large … what? Uh … An … an X? Yes … an … uh … Then they busily adjust, and the X … well, it tips … it tips on to its side and what were formerly the two ‘horizontal’ lines are fractionally reduced to produce … How fleeting is this moment? I blink. Nope. Nope. Still there … still there …
A kind of cross shape! An actual cross! Large as life! On the chimney breast! A big, black, buzzing cross!
The hairs on the back of my neck promptly stand on end.
Mrs Barrow is speaking.
‘There was none of ’em in the little room,’ she ruminates, ‘did you happen to see that, Mr Huff?’
She turns and double-checks that the window is properly shut. I merely gape. I am inarticulate. Does she even notice the deafening cross of flies – right there – immediately to her left? I lift my arm and start to point vaguely as the cross shifts again; a diagonal line forms between the top of the vertical line and the further reaches of the horizontal line to the left and a … yes … it’s now a four. A perfect four. A four!
Mrs Barrow finally satisfies herself that the window is properly closed, spins back around swishing her duster (like a hoity-toity priest on Palm Sunday condescending to scatter holy water on to the unwashed masses), disperses the flies, quite unthinkingly, then pushes past me and disappears once again into the back section of the cottage. Three seconds of silence, before:
‘Euceelyptus!’ she bellows, victorious.
‘Sorry?’
I start to follow her. She is standing on the threshold to the small, box room.
‘In the little girl’s room!’ She points with her duster. ‘Euceelyptus! That’s her smell. Well I never!’
Mrs Barrow seems delighted. I push past her and step inside the room, sniffing.
Eucalyptus!