“I need to go to Whitby,” I said to my lovely wife. “Do some research for the book.”
“And would you be having mushy peas with that research, dear?”
“As it happens, yes. There’s a scene in the book where the hero eats fish and chips. By the harbour. I need to get it right.”
My wife consulted her laptop. She checked her phone. “Astonishing,” she said. “They’re both faulty. They’re both saying it’s December. When obviously – if you want to stand by Whitby harbour and eat fish and chips – it must be July.”
“We all have to suffer for our art, dear.”
You’d better imagine her reply. It’s best I don’t quote it word-for-word.
But a few days later here we were, trundling across the Moors. And with the car full to bursting as well.
Alex back from university – and with Lizzie. I’d explained the plan. They’d looked doubtful. But they’d dutifully climbed into the back of the car. “Not long,” I said. “Ten more minutes and we’ll be there.”
No-one whooped with joy…
I parked the car and we walked the deserted streets of Whitby. No room at the inn? Not a light on in any of the inns.
I pulled my coat round me. The wind did seem a touch sharp…
“What do you want to do?” my wife said.
“Stand by the harbour. Eat fish and chips. Make sure I get the scene right.”
“You realise it won’t do a lot for Alex’s relationship if his girlfriend dies of hypothermia?”
“I’ll just take some photos,” I said. “Then I’ll get the fish and chips.” I left them huddled on the swing bridge and walked down to the edge of the water. Checked what my hero could see. Did exciting researchy things like pace out the distance to the rubbish bin.
I walked back up the steps. “We’ve taken a vote,” my wife said.
“What do you mean you’ve taken a vote?”
“What I say. We’ve voted that you’re taking us to the Magpie. I booked a table while you were staring at the harbour. And I’ve got to tell you…” she added.
“…I’m fairly certain Hemingway never photographed a rubbish bin.”
“So three to one?” I said.
“Yes. And no time for a recount. We’re due there in five minutes.”
So it was that I found myself face to face – or face to mask – with a waitress.
“Can I get you a drink while you’re looking at the menu?” she said.
What else do you drink with fish and chips? “Pot of tea for four,” I said confidently.
My wife coughed. Alex said, “Hang on, Dad…”
Another tradition was carelessly tossed out of the window. My beloved had seen the word ‘botanical’ on the menu. You know what that means.
And my youngest son had spotted his favourite initials – IPA.
“It comes in a pint bottle. Is that alright?” the waitress said.
“More than alright,” the boy replied.
Two craft gins were added to the order.
“And for you, sir?”
“I’m driving,” I said glumly. “Mineral water, please. And we’ll need bread and butter for four.”
Nope, we wouldn’t. The younger generation didn’t even have fish and chips.
But the meal was delicious – once we’d got the plates the right way round.
“Are the mushy peas for you, madam?” My wife swiftly reached for her crucifix. “That’ll be a ‘no’ then…”
“Have you got all your research done? Can we go back to the car?” Beverley said half an hour later. After another round of gins and another pint of IPA.
I stared at the bill.
What was that about suffering for your art…
“An engaging plot, interesting characters and a real sense of place. I usually keep a book on the go to dip into when I want some distraction – but not this one. I read it over the weekend – I really needed to know how it finished!”
Salt in the Wounds is available now on Amazon.
The follow up – The River Runs Deep – will be published in January