Hermit Crabs Claire Frances Maley    © Copyright 2024 by Claire Frances Maley

Image by stokpic from Pixabay

Gulls cry in the threatening sky. Pound shops hide behind steel shutters and amusement arcades silently sleep. My coat billows behind me and my steps echo on the pavement. With my arms twisted around my body, I push forward along the steep street. I remember visiting this town as a child; sandcastles, knickerbocker glories, smiles. It’s always different when you return to a cherished place as an adult, especially when you return to that place to live and work.

Beneath my warm layers, my stomach groans and I pick up my pace. At this early hour, on a bleak Sunday in February, will tourists trickle onto, rather than swarm the streets. I am grateful that the path to my favourite café, is clear. Inside the cafe, the doorbell’s gentle tinkle replaces the wind’s harsh whistle. My nostrils smell fried bacon and roasted coffee beans. The owner smiles broadly from behind the counter and gestures towards my usual seat with the panoramic sea view. The café is quiet, one young boy, around eleven years old, sits in the corner at another table. I nod and half smile at the boy then busy myself with the menu. I feel the boy’s eyes fall heavily upon me.

“Do you like hermit crabs?” the boy asks.

“Pardon?”

I give him a fleeting side glance and hope he can read from this that I do not wish to engage in conversation.  

“Mum got me six,” he adds.

Realising my hint for privacy has not been read, I tuck my hair behind my ears and stare harder at the menu.

“The usual?” the owner asks from beside me.

“That would be lovely,” I say, handing back the menu.

I smile at the rough sea below and inhale deeply. The boy’s gaze does not falter.

“Where is your Mum then?” I ask.

For the first time, my eyes meet his and a flicker of a smile flashes across his ashen face. He is a tall, plumpish boy with dark hair that needs a tidy up and good wash. Before him sits an empty glass. If it had contained ice, it has long since melted.

“Mum? Gone for some air, out there.” He points out onto the beach where a few hardy dog walkers stroll. I can’t see anyone who could potentially be the boy’s Mum. I wonder if she’s shopping. I wonder if she’s having five minutes to herself on the amusement 2p slot machines.

“Didn’t you want to go with her?” I ask.

He shrugs looking at the empty space on the chair beside him.

“It’ll rain. Anyway, we’re alright here,” 

“We?” I ask, immediately regretting my question.

“Me and my big brother.”

I nod clocking the closed toilet door.

Taking care to keep the tray upright, the owner places my latte and bacon sandwich in front of me.

“Someone’s made a new friend,” he comments.

I look away and busy myself unscrewing the lid of the red sauce. Without hesitation, I take my first big bite into my sandwich.

“So, do you like hermit crabs?” the boy asks.

Raising my hand, I signal for him to wait. I chew and take a big gulp of my latte. The heat from the liquid scorches the roof of my mouth. Silently he scrutinises my every move.

“I’ve never really thought about it. I… guess so.” I finally answer.

“Did you know, they swap shells and they are their homes?” 

Despite the burning sensation in the roof of my mouth, I smile. I thoughtfully continue to chew my sandwich. Quietness settles between us, and I wonder if the topic of hermit crabs has concluded.

I shift my focus to the grey clouds as they swirl outside and grow incredibly self-conscious that I am ‘over’ chewing before swallowing.

  “Mum gave me six, but I wanted to share with my brother. I’ve given him three,” he says.

“That’s very kind,”

“I’m in charge of them but I talk to my brother about them lots and show him cool stuff about them too.”

His brother! I become acutely aware of the absence of this boy’s brother.

“Is your brother, OK? He’s been in the toilet a long time.”

“He’s not in the toilet. He’s dead,”

I stare at the boy. As soon as I am aware that I’m staring, I quickly reach for my coffee cup.

“Do you know what the best thing is about someone you know being dead?” he asks.

He smiles at the empty chair.

“They listen more when you talk to them,”   

A seagull’s call is caught and carried in the wind. We both look but cannot see the bird.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“All grown-ups say that.” 

Together we watch the dog walkers throw balls across the quiet beach. With undiluted joy, the dogs bound after the balls – ears flapping, tongues lolling.

  “Did your brother pass… die recently?”

“Three weeks, two days ago. I don’t know how many hours or seconds exactly. No one does but him maybe. He was full of the sadness.”

The owner returns to clear the table, he wears the same bright smile he wore when he took my order. I fight a stronger urge to tell the boy that I’m sorry and at the same time I wonder if the owner has overheard any of what the boy has just said.

  “Do you… would you like another drink? And your brother, would he like one?” I ask.

Slowly, a huge smile creeps across the boy’s face.

“You want to know if me and Andrew want a drink?” he says.

“Sure, what’s your name love?”

“Mark.”

Mark shuffles in his seat, looks at Andrew’s chair, then his watch and finally me.

“Thanks Mrs but we need to find Mum now. Bus only comes once an hour today and she don’t like crowds, so we got to get next bus home,”

With that, Mark scrapes back his chair, then Andrew’s and traipses out. Just before reaching the café door, he turns back towards me.

“Get some hermit crabs. I think you’ll be good with them.”