A Year of Marvellous Ways

by Sarah Winman

  He crouched down to the Marconi wireless that sat on the floor next to the bed, the volume knob rubbed smooth from use. And there along the sides of the walls bags of dried leaves and herbs, and scales too, with brass weights the size of pennies. A pestle and mortar on a shelf up high. Cartons of Craven ‘A’ cigarettes and Lucky Strikes: the usual war bartering.

  He lay down on the bed, glanced over the hand-written notes pinned to the quilted ceiling above, some new some old, but private instructions from her to her. He read:

  Egg Friday Man outside is Drake

  Drake=Sad Watch Drake

  Born 1858

  Money in cupboard Blow out candle

  He knew this world. Had seen this world of fractured thought before, when he was a boy. An old man used to come into the pub – a regular he was – and one winter’s day he came in with bits of paper that his wife had stuck to his gabardine coat, and from a distance Drake thought the paper looked like snow, and on the paper was the man’s name and address, what he liked to drink, and where his money could be found. It was in case he was having a bad day because that’s what they called it in those days, a bad day. Nobody ever robbed Stanley Morris and someone always got him home, usually with a song on his lips. That was a good world, thought Drake. A gone world.

  He unpinned the scrap of paper that said, Drake=Sad. He looked at it for a moment before putting it into his trouser pocket. He smoothed the bed cover and left the caravan as still and untouched as when he had entered.

  He picked up his buckets and marched up to the manure pit where an icy crust had formed. The cold froze the smell and it was just waste, just dirt, and even a startled rat didn’t disturb his calm. He undid his trousers and entered the outhouse. Pulled his pants down and shat like a bull. He wasn’t a new man. He just felt a bit kinder.

  22

  At the start of the Second World War, Marvellous had made a rare journey over to the Great Port.

  Whilst sitting on a bench feeding a pigeon, she had overheard a woman talking about a film she had seen the day before. The film had been shot in colour, the woman had said, and Marvellous listened carefully because she was curious, because she had never seen a film in colour before, in fact couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a film at all. From the title, she thought the film was probably about sailing. Something she would thoroughly enjoy.

  Instead of heading back home straight away, Marvellous joined the queue for the pictures and soon found herself sitting in a row with courting couples, and as the lights dimmed, she looked about as heads dipped to kiss.

  She had never seen so much colour, never in her life had such colour exploded across her landscape, not even in sleep. Red and orange flames burst across the screen with the black silhouette of marching armies, and she thought, maybe, this was Britain to come. And Marvellous thought Vivien Leigh looked like Robin Hood in her curtain dress, it was war there too, it was Make Do and Mend.

  But it was the image of those orange lips and those red lips that had stayed with Marvellous over the years, and she had often wondered how she would have looked with lips like that.

  She had been the last to leave the cinema. They had asked her three times to go as she sat staring at the large empty screen. She only moved when the air-raid siren screamed and she saw the panic race across the usherette’s young face.

  It felt like a thud walking out into a blacked-out world. The sirens wailed and people ran to shelters, but Marvellous didn’t go to a shelter, she carried on down to the harbour and her boat, oblivious to the shouts of the wardens and the noise of bombers overhead. And as she left the falling bombs for the dark quiet creek, she thought again about those orange lips and those red lips and thought that had she had lips like that, then maybe she might have been kissed more.

  She stood in the doorway of the boathouse and unfurled the poster.

  Gone With the Wind? said Drake, raising his head from the washing bowl.

  I knew I had it somewhere. An American gave it to me. I thought you could put it here on the wall by the table.

  Thank you, said Drake, and he dried his hands and took the poster from her.

  Might brighten things up for you a bit in here, said Marvellous. It’s a young person’s picture, I think.

  I think you’re right, said Drake, and he carried the washing bowl and emptied the contents on the briar rose outside.

  I wondered how I would look if I coloured my lips, too, she said.

  What?

  Like her? she said, pointing to the poster.

  Like Vivien Leigh? he said.

  Is that the actress?

  I think so.

  Yes, like her then.

  What colour were you thinking of?

  Red. Or orange.

  I think red.

  Yes, I think so too.

  I think you’d look nice, said Drake, and he missed her smile as he went over to the hearth where a pair of newly washed socks had been left to dry.

  You have post, said Marvellous, following behind him.

  Drake picked up the letter from the mantelpiece and handed it to her. It’s not for me, Marvellous. See? I was asked to deliver it. To this man here, he said.

  Why?

  Because I promised someone, he said, and he put on his socks.

  And she studied the envelope, brought it close to her eyes. She said the name out loud, Dr Arnold, and she felt a whiplash of memory, something sharp and brief, and held on to the table for balance. And then the feeling disappeared just as suddenly, as if the pages to the book had been ripped out and the jagged edge at the margin hinted of something that remained.

  Are you all right? asked Drake.

  Yes, she said quietly. Yes, OK.

  Here, he said, and he led her over to the bed. You look tired, he said.

  It’s been all the waiting, she said.

  I’m sure it has.

  When are you going?

  What?

  The letter, she said, pointing. When are you going to deliver it?

  Oh. Not today, Marvellous, he said. I won’t be going anywhere today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day, I don’t think.

  And she nodded and said, Good, and like an echo said, Good, again. And a faint blush of colour pushed its way back into her cheeks. She didn’t want him to go anywhere; she was getting used to him.

  23

  The afternoon stretched out vacantly before him. Marvellous had taken the crabber round to the Other Saint’s Village, as she liked to call it, to deliver winter herbs and rosehip syrup to those who still refused to see a doctor.

  The cloud had shifted, replaced by an unbroken blue sky, and the shrill call of gulls and geese echoed around the empty creek. The tide was out but on the turn and the wet sand was surprisingly firm underfoot. Between the dark limp popweed, coils of lugworm patterned the riverbed, and discarded seashells too – cockles, mussels, winkles – evidence of their evening feasts. A flock of carrion crows landed over by the church and pecked at stranded sand eels in the thick blur of stinking weed.

  Alone, Drake guided his thoughts back to the night he arrived. His memory was still vague, and for years it would be, the only fixed point was the strange sign that rose from the hedgerow commanding him to Stop Here. But it was what old Marvellous had said to him that night that stayed with him. That she had been waiting for him. How could she have known he was coming? He hadn’t even known that himself.

  The lowering sun shifted as he marched up through the meadow, and it took him no time at all to reach the road beyond, the road once grandly called the High Road, back in the day of God and Bread and Wealth and Men. He was a thorough scout, but an hour of walking and searching along the stretch of road by the derelict bakehouse revealed nothing. No sign. Nothing. And he noticed for that whole hour no motor cars or carts or
vans passed the boarded-up cottages. No traffic at all. The hamlet was eerily deserted. It was so quiet he could hear the mercury drop in that still air of yesteryear.

  He sat down on the milestone and lit a cigarette. He played with his lighter, he looked at his hand. His shakes were lessening, he was sure of it. He watched the aerial dance of swooping starlings pattern the now familiar approach of dusk. Watched as they twisted and dived in the rich eternal blue, and for that brief moment, lost in their joy, he didn’t care about the sign or what old Marvellous Ways did or didn’t know. He felt transfixed by something other, and the golden light shifted across his face as it edged west, and as it did, it momentarily blinded him and he dropped the lighter to the ground. He bent down to pick it up, and as he reached for it, that’s when he saw it. Through his legs and upside down it was, but still he saw it. He began to laugh. And as he marched over the fields back down to the river, he left behind a granite milestone glistening in the late afternoon sun. A granite milestone, simply carved with the words:

  ST opHere

  24

  That night the moon was out and a sliver off full. Huge brushstrokes of pink and mauve had encroached upon the deepening blue. The river was filling up and shadows were forming on the bright surface and music danced hand in hand with the tide. A familiar trumpet introduction curled around the trees. Armstrong. Louis, they whispered.

  A long time since Drake had heard music. Had forgotten how it stirred, how it moved him. For months he had tried to remember the name of the jazz club in Paris, the one he went to after the war. He had tried to remember the name on the ferry back to England whilst he gripped the rails and vomited on to his shoes.

  He remembered following a group of American soldiers – black soldiers, they were – down a dingy staircase into a dank underground cave, full of sweat and dancing and smoke and drink, and the music was unrepentant and men, women danced freely, danced sex upright and fully clothed. A woman came and sat next to him and she was French and she leant over and whispered, Merci. And then she whispered, Liberté, and the only reason he remembered was because he thought at the time they rhymed. She got up, saluted him and left. Even in civvies he looked like a soldier.

  Drake caught his reflection in the glass. The soldier had been replaced by something else. A fisherman perhaps? He went on to the balcony and saw Marvellous inspecting the pit-fire he had started an hour before.

  Drake called out to her and she looked up and waved.

  Caveau. That was the name of the club. Caveau something.

  They fished in a creek still stained by the fall of day, and they watched in silence as the iridescent flow of pink and gold gave way to the solemn colour of night. Marvellous reeled in and cast her line back out towards the deep black channel. They’ll bite now, she whispered.

  How d’you know?

  Shh, she said.

  Fuck! said Drake.

  Got one?

  The jab jab jab was like electricity in his muscles and his heart beat fast and even faster still when he saw the silver fish darting just below the surface. He’d never fished before and he felt like a boy, and he laughed and thought he might even have squealed like a girl. And Marvellous said, Careful now, we want this one, and he was careful and he did what she said, and he reeled in and raised the rod, reeled in and raised the rod until panicked gills could be seen flapping at surface break and the fish surrendered with a last flick of fin on the ignominious mud, staring wildly at the idiot who had caught him, the squealing idiot who had never landed a fish before. God, what a silly way to go, thought fish.

  A mullet, said Marvellous. A good size too. And she hit it on the head with a thick branch.

  She stood over Drake and showed him how to gut the fish. Knife under the gills and head off. That’s it, she said. Slice all the way along from its bottom. Scrape the guts out. Simple. Here’s your fish, Francis Drake. And Drake took it in both his hands and he felt so proud. And he wanted to hold that fish up high like a trophy and would have done it, had Marvellous not pointed out the bright hungry eyes that watched him intently from the barren trees around.

  They drank mugs of warm bitter ale whilst the fish cooked on a griddle pan in a sea of flames, butter and salt browning and crisping the skin.

  The wreck on the sand bank, said Drake. Was it your boat?

  No, said Marvellous, that’s Deliverance. That was Old Cundy’s boat, a fisher chap I knew way-back. Both he and his boat passed on a few months after Dunkirk, not that either of them were particularly seaworthy at the time.

  Marvellous took the pan off the fire and on to the grass. It sizzled and spat. Plate, she said and Drake handed her his plate and she placed the fish upon it. There was little room for the boiled carrots.

  Remember this taste, said Marvellous. It is the taste of freshly caught fish and triumph and the knowledge that you will never need to go hungry. It is the sweetest combination, in my opinion.

  And from the first mouthful, Drake knew that it was.

  Do you know, said Marvellous licking her fingers free of fish oil and butter, that when they asked for fishing boats to join the flotilla and go to France, Deliverance’s engine started all by itself?

  Really? said Drake, smiling.

  I know you probably find that hard to believe, but yes, it did. And Old Cundy didn’t have any decision to make at all because it had been made for him: that boat was going with or without him.

  Brave boat.

  It was a brave boat, Drake, indeed it was. But it was more than that. Would you like some carrots now?

  Thank you, said Drake, as a large buttery spoonful landed on his plate.

  What was more than that? he asked, pulling a bone from his mouth.

  Old Cundy’s grandson was over there. And the boat loved that boy because it could still feel the young man’s hand on its tiller. A tiller never forgets the hand that steers it. Always remember that, Drake.

  I will, he said.

  I waved Deliverance off myself. It was a moving sight. Imagine it, Drake! Nose forward through the waves. German bombs dropping fore and aft but onwards she went, until the French coast came into sight. And what a sight! Beaches packed with men, jeeps on fire and oil drums too, and lines of soldiers wading into the breakwater desperate for home.

  Deliverance got as close as it could because of its shallow hull and planes flew in low and dropped their bombs and boats were hit and boats went down and fishermen drowned far from home. And soldiers scrambled towards the boat and some fell just feet from safety. And that boat shuddered every time a young life was lost, but it didn’t turn away, didn’t shift into reverse, not until it had ten soldiers on board, and its job was done.

  But then suddenly, said Marvellous, racing from the shore, came the last man standing. He dived into the spume and struck out for Deliverance. Come on! Come on! they shouted as bullets rained down. His comrades leant over the sides causing the boat to tilt dangerously, hands reaching for the struggling soldier, his hands reaching for them. Come on! Come on! they screamed. His hands, their hands reaching. And then they got him. They heaved him aboard and he fell face down on the deck and refused to move. He stayed there for minutes. Maybe a bit longer. And only when they reached safer water with naval gunships by their side, did the old fella leave the tiller. He knelt down by the young man and placed his hand on what he believed to be a familiar shoulder. The young man stirred and slowly raised his head.

  And it was him, right? The grandson? said Drake, eagerly.

  Marvellous put down her plate and lifted the ale to her lips. No, it wasn’t, she said.

  Fuck.

  You swear a lot.

  Sorry.

  But it should have been him, shouldn’t it? It should’ve been him.

  Did he ever come back? said Drake.

  No. Old Cundy died shortly after. Maybe it
was the effort, maybe the heartache. They tried to sell the boat but the boat was like a grief-stricken dog and refused to move. It knew, you see. Overnight it just seemed to break apart. I watched it die on the ooze. Everything has its time, Drake. That’s what I’ve learnt. Everything has its time.

  The fire burned low and the cold grew and old Marvellous retired early. Drake sat alone and finished the last of the ale. He looked over to the church and thought that maybe God too had become a casualty of war. He watched insects flit feebly around the dying flames lured by the charred remains of fish bones and skin. He poured a jug of river water on the fire. It hissed and steamed, and his face glistened. The unexpected sound of a clarinet and saxophone in the early bars of a song stirred his heart.

  He picked up the oil lamp and stumbled along the riverbank until he stood level to the rotting hull on the other side. And in the lamplight, as Billie Holiday sang of foolish things, Drake stood to attention and saluted the good ship Deliverance and he didn’t feel silly – or foolish – because he was a little bit drunk. And had you been passing that clear night, you would have seen a young man saluting a wreck on a sandbank as an old song wound its way around the coast and up valleys and along creeks, falling into the ears of the sleeping, reminding them of love because sometimes that’s all there is.

  And as the song came to an end, back in the caravan, Marvellous Ways reached across and turned off the wireless. She lay down on her bed, her head giddy in the silence. She was about to blow out the candle when she noticed a note stuck to the ceiling, scribbled in an unfamiliar hand.

  Drake=a bit happier

  She blew out the candle and like a blind, darkness fell.