ONE
There’s doing a favour and there’s doing a favour. And right then, the favour I was doing was just another one of a long list that would be soon forgotten.
I was driving a van to the west coast to deliver meals to the older residents of some long-forgotten seaside towns out that way. And the favour is that it should have been Sand, my sister, doing the driving. It was her stupid job. My stupid job was a zero-hour contract accounts assistant. That being the only thing I could find without moving away. And, because the point of zero-hour is if they don’t want you, they don’t pay you, I was doing Sand’s job because Sand was feeling poorly, and I’d had a phone call. And Sand could not afford to lose this job.
It was 11:30 when I reached the first village and I looked at the call sheet and cursed which ever idiot put it together. Why would I deliver to number 2, Sea View Avenue, then number 98, West Cottage – and where the hell was that? – numbers 3 and 48? In that order? And here, Sand had been very specific. The company had fitted the van with GPS and they monitored the delivery time and order.
I pulled in outside number 2, checked the sheet and from a heated box, I rescued a main course and a dessert, and placed them in a small, insulated container. I took that box to the back door and knocked.
A mid-fif-for-thir-forties woman dressed in a polyester uniform opened the door.
‘Oh, is that dinner?’ she asked, way too joyously. ‘Aileen, yer dinner’s here!’ she shouted into the house before retreating. I followed her into the kitchen.
Next to the microwave was a plate and a bowl. I emptied the dinner container onto the plate. It landed with a splat, and I scraped the pudding into the bowl; the custard had set.
I put the plate into the microwave and selected 4 minutes. As the dinner rotated, it heated and started smelling. ‘Smell that,’ the carer said.
I tried not to.
When the bell tinged, I took the plate with a cloth and looked for somewhere to place it.
‘Aileen’s waiting in the dining room. I’ve got her there.’
There was a game of chicken which one of us would deliver the food, but I was up against a professional. I followed the carer, the plate burning into my fingers.
Sat at the head of the table in the dining room, that’s lined with cabinets full of old photos and nick-nacks, is Aileen. She looked up and smiled. Her eyes were big and brown, and her nose was still a button, even after all these years. Sleek, near-black hair cascaded down her back and for a minute, a pang of jealousy hit me. I already dyed my hair to hide the grey, and I wasn’t even 30.
‘Hello Aileen, I’m Nic, I’m standing in for Sand– ee.’ Don’t be born to unimaginative parents. My dad picked the names of his favourite actresses: Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman. And you can call Sand Sandy or Sandra, but if you want an answer, call my older twin – 17 minutes if you need to know but also, legally, a whole day – Sand.
‘What have we got?’ Aileen asked.
‘Its… fish pie?’ I guessed. It was fishy and had mashed potato on it. Sweating cabbage accompanied it.
‘Fish,’ Aileen said, smiling.
I served the dinner, then looked at some of the photos. One was obviously of a young Aileen, standing next to a man.
‘Who’s this handsome chap?’ I asked.
‘That bastard?’ Aileen said. ‘He stole my skin and buggered off.’
OK. My bad. Why still have the picture?
‘Aileen means her coat,’ the carer said.
‘My skin,’ Aileen said with as much defiance as she could muster through a mouthful of microwave-hot fish pie.
The carer smiled at me, as if apologising for the outburst.
‘Will you be OK? With the dessert?’ I asked the carer, checking my watch.
‘Sure, what is it?’
‘It’s crumble,’ Aileen said. ‘It always is.’
She wasn’t wrong.
I bid the pair good day, collected the box from the kitchen, and headed back to the van and number 98. As I drove there, I spotted West Cottage. At least I knew where it was. Lone females also occupied number 98 and West Cottage, both without carers, and mine was the only face they’d see that day. But no time to chat. The App I had on my phone told me I was 4 minutes and 28 seconds behind schedule – 29. 30. No time to wonder which idiot had made it an alphabetical list.
Number 3 had a bloke that just wanted his dinner - what time did I call this? - and 48 was a problem. Because they were dead.
Confusion reigned on the face of the woman at the door. She didn’t know mum had a meal delivery. Technically, I had a spare meal; arguably, I was hungry; practically, I was not that hungry.
‘Is it spare?’ the woman asked. ‘I’ve been tidying mum’s house, and I’ve lost track of time.’
The meal was paid for, so it was spare, and God knows the trouble Sand would get if a meal was returned. If she’s her mum’s daughter, this was part of her inheritance; lucky her. I said yes, and she had me enter.
Many years ago, someone had knocked the kitchen through into the dining room, but the décor was similar to Aileen’s place. Down to the picture of a handsome man standing next to a beautiful woman.
‘That’s mum and dad,’ the woman explained. ‘Mum was his second wife.’
The bugger hadn’t moved far.
The daughter looked around the room. ‘I’ve got to sort this.’ There was enough tat to fill a charity shop. ‘Once we get the confirmation sorted.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mum died without a will.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I paused. ‘Umm, your mum didn’t have a fur coat, did she?’ I asked.
‘There’s one in a case, upstairs. Dad said to keep it locked, keep the creepy-crawlies in.’
‘Could I see it?’
‘The case? Aye, but I've no keys.’
I found a screwdriver in a drawer. ‘Perhaps we don’t need them.’
I followed her upstairs to a bedroom and in the bottom of a wardrobe was an old case. Sure, it had locks, but more to stop the catches pinging undone. I used the screwdriver to prise them open. Inside was the most luxuriant coat I had ever seen.
‘Do you like it?’ the woman asked.
It was beautiful, but it was also stolen, and I told her this.
There was shock on her face. Bad enough deciding what to do with a fur coat these days, worse when you discover it’s stolen. Catastrophic, when you think the owner might lodge a claim against a non-existent will.
‘Do you know the owner?’
I told her I did.
‘Take it, give it back. Get it out of this house.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. Dad never let mum wear it, but he wouldn’t throw it away.’
I recalled what Aileen had called him. She was right.
I closed the lid and made as good a job as possible in sealing the case. It wasn’t going far, anyway.
In the kitchen, the daughter scraped her fish pie and crumble onto crockery, and I took the empties and the suitcase away with me.
I spent the rest of the lunchtime delivering main course and pudding to a mostly appreciative audience. With the last serving gone, I returned to Sea View Avenue.
At number 2, I knocked at the door and stood waiting for it to open. The carer had obviously gone, and it was a while before Aileen appeared.
‘Did you forget something?’ she asked.
‘I have something for you,’ I said, holding the case up and opening the lid.
Her eyes sparkled with recognition. ‘Take me to the sea,’ she said. ‘There’s a chair in the porch.’
I fetched the wheelchair from the porch, and Aileen gingerly stepped down from the house and into it. I placed the case on her lap, and she opened it and stroked what was inside. Aileen didn’t want a cardie and didn’t care if I locked the door or not.
I pushed Aileen in the chair along Sea View Avenue, onto Beach Way, and as close to the sea as I could muster. We were ten metres from the water’s edge before the wheels dug in. The beach was as deserted as you’d expect for an early September weekday afternoon.
‘Help me stand,’ Aileen asked, struggling from the chair. I took the case, offered an arm, and supported her to the sea.
At the water’s edge, she unzipped the housecoat she was wearing, dropped copious amounts of underwear, and asked me for the coat. Her nudity did not embarrass her. Nor did the wind blowing in from the North Atlantic chill her.
I handed her the coat as asked, and she draped it over her shoulders. The coat came alive, moulding itself to her form.
Her brown eyes widened, and whiskers extended from her nose.
She collapsed to the floor and, whilst her features were no longer human, I could see the joy on her face. All these years, all these years.
She turned and slid into the sea. I didn’t wave; she was gone, and it would be a fair while before I saw her again.
TWO
It was late after I had dropped the van off at head office and driven to Sand’s so I could return her work pass and uniform. Being identical twins was useful in that respect.
At home, I somehow found a parking space within walking distance of my house on Queen Street. I was opening the boot of my Fiesta to get my things when I noticed it.
Nothing sinister, just not something you see around here: a bright green car. So bright as to almost shine under the yellow streetlights. Then I realised it was a Ford Zodiac. My husband - God rest his soul, should he have one - had been a bit of a car nut and he’d spent one Christmas trying to beat me at Top Trumps with a plethora of decks featuring vintage cars. This model was from 1969, had a V6 engine and weighed a ton. That card was a winner, only beaten by a Lamborghini Doodah.
I don’t know why I noticed the car. Perhaps it was the green shining.
I slammed the boot shut on my Fiesta and took my bag to the front door of my home. As I sorted my house keys from my car key, I heard a voice say, ‘Miss McCloud?’ and alarm bells rang.
I turned to the voice that had asked, my keys clenched between my fingers.
‘Yes, but I don’t normally use that name.’ Lethargy, and a hatred of forms, had meant that after becoming a widow, I had kept my husband’s surname. And that wasn’t McCloud.
‘Nic, then.’
‘OK. You’ve got three seconds to either explain or run away.’
‘Run?’ He laughed. ‘Remind me.’
‘I’ve dealt with things stranger than you, and they didn’t scare me.’
‘I know…’
He might have heard me inhale and the keys rattle, but I think me dropping the bag and stepping forward persuaded him.
His hands came up. ‘Perhaps I’ve got off on the wrong foot.’
‘You think?’
‘Let me buy you a coffee and explain.’
‘A coffee? This time of night? Where?’ None of the caffs near me served after three, let alone eight.
‘Well, there is one place. Nearby, well-lit and normally busy.’
‘You’re offering to buy me a coffee? In a McDonald’s?’
‘The Costa is closed.’
‘Well, aye. This time of night.’
‘Is that a yes?’
I looked at him. I was tired, in need of a shower, and I was hungry. But he also intrigued me. ‘I’m going to drop my bag off, and I’ll see you there in ten minutes.’ The high street was a short walk from my house.
‘I can give you a lift. I don’t mind waiting.’
‘Aye. And maybe you could sell me a bridge.’
He nodded. ‘I will see you in McDonald’s, in ten minutes.’
Once he had gone, I turned to let myself in and in the distance, I heard a V6 engine spring to life.
#
In the McDonald’s, youth loitered. At least I’d have witnesses. They and the CCTV I had noticed above the door, the counter and three of the four corners.
Zodiac Driver – good name, Nic – sat in an alcove, a coffee in front of him and a green velvet coat at his side. I tried to guess his age, but over thir-for-fif-forty was all I could do. His sitting didn’t help with height and when he’d stood on my doorstep, vital statistics were one of the things furthest from my mind.
‘I’m sorry. When you said, “Buy a coffee” I didn’t think it was to share,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I didn’t know what you’d want, so I gave Leon at the counter a five-pound note. Just tell him it’s from me.’
‘And the change?’
‘Leon keeps it.’
I found Leon, ordered a cappuccino and some flapjack. And that was a good deal for us both.
Back at the table, Mr Zodiac was enjoying the performance of one of the youths trying to balance an empty box on his nose.
I watched for a second, then turned to him. ‘Do you think they even remember?’ he asked, still looking at the kids.
‘Remember what?’ Not to accept coffee from weirdos?
‘The things their mums must have told them, that they absolutely know cannot be true. And yet somehow are.’
‘Myths? Legends? I’m sure they’re too bothered worrying about what tomorrow brings, not yesterday's fairy tales.’
‘And yet some live on, don’t they?’ he asked as I unwrapped the flapjack and opened the lid on my coffee to let it cool down. Hunger was winning over abstract conversation. Did he mean kids live on? Let’s hope so.
‘Myths are often based on a grain of truth. As are all stories, do you not think?’ he continued.
I kept eye contact as I bit into my flapjack. Munching was my only reply. Myths then, not kids.
‘Kids’ stories? Hollywood guff?’ I asked through the flapjack.
'Jack Frost. The Tooth Fairy. Santa.'
I swallowed. ‘They're just things we tell the bairns.’
‘Selkie?’
I placed the coffee I had picked up to wash down the oats back on the table, untouched.
‘Some say they exist, some don’t,’ I said.
‘What do you say?’
I took a few seconds to think. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘I know that you, Nicole McCloud, were on the coast today delivering meals. You were there instead of your day-older twin sister. I know you found something that belonged to one resident in the home of another. A recently deceased other. And that when you returned that thing, it freed the first.’
‘And you know that because?’
‘Because it’s my job.’
‘Pays well? This job?’
He laughed. ‘No.’ He stared at me for two seconds too long, then took a sip of his coffee.
‘And you knew Aileen was a Selkie?’ I asked.
‘We suspected it. No kids, because of the issues they can have. Her husband stole the skin of a female Selkie many years ago. Kept it hidden, then left her for another. Left her in a house where she could see the sea.’
‘A fine man.’ Leaving a Selkie to pine for their home.
He smiled. ‘No. But the clan had their revenge. Fool went out in a boat.’
I smiled as well. Take the skin of a Selkie and she’ll become your hostage. And then for him to abandon her and live with another woman down the road? No wonder they got their revenge. And today, they got their family back.
‘How did you know?’ he asked. ‘When you saw the skin?’
‘Everything clicked into place. Her eyes, face, hair. Too seal-like to be anything but. Then I saw the coat. The skin she said had been stolen.’
We both took sips of coffee.
‘This job of yours, Selkie historian, is it?’ I asked.
‘Selkie, Wulvers, that sort of thing.’
‘Where are you based?’
‘We’re based in the university.’ The university library housed one of the leading collections of mythology.
‘But you don’t work for the university.’
‘No. Our funding is a little… oblique.’
‘Dodgy?’
‘No, no, no. Hard to trace, though.’
I took a bite of flapjack and when I’d chewed it and swallowed, I asked, ‘And why are you telling me this?’
‘I thought you’d like to work with us. For us.’
‘I have a job, and you said the pay was crap.’
‘You’re a zero-hours contract assistant accounts clerk for a manufacturer that’s about to go under. And when they do pay you, it’s minimum wage. The people working here have got better conditions.’ He gestured toward the serving counter.
I looked at Leon. Probably.
‘I can offer you a reasonable, stable salary. Interesting work.’
‘Well…’
‘The occasional international travel. Health insurance.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Twenty-five days, if you need them.’
‘Everyone needs a holiday.’
‘Unless you’re having so much fun, you don’t want one.’
‘Aye, right. Pension plan?’
He smiled.
‘What? No-one ever retired?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And when would I start?’ This unknown job at the uni.
‘How much notice would your current employer require?’
‘If I tell them tomorrow, I can start on Thursday.’
‘Tomorrow is Thursday.’
‘Exactly, they’ll not be sad to see the back of me.’
‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Come to the university at ten o’clock. Someone will meet you.’
I offered my hand in agreement.
‘You’ve got flapjack on it,’ he said.
And that is how Wilson enrolled me as a Trainee Curator, Second Class at The Museum of Myth.
