Zennor in Darkness

by Helen Dunmore

  ‘Stars!’ he exclaims. ‘I’m glad you think so well of ’em, for they’re all we’ve got, or likely to have.’

  He will not think now. His skin prickles, receiving the impression of the tumbled room, his tear-streaked wife packing away their linen, the cold smell of autumn air seeping in through the door neither of them has bothered to close, for there’s no safety or privacy left here to guard. Soon the Hockings will come up from the farm, wondering, knowing, guessing. Stanley will help to pile their books into boxes with his big clumsy hands. And William Henry will want to talk. He will want to tease out what has happened in his slow, taunting Cornish voice.

  He must not think, he must keep still and let it all happen to him without resisting it. Clare is going to have a child. He thinks of her, ruffled and sweaty with wind and sun, drawing his portrait on the edge of the cliff. How she frowned as she concentrated. Her tense little fox-face was not pretty at all, and she did not care. She thought of nothing but her drawing. He smiles.

  ‘It is good that he left a child,’ says Frieda, kneeling to roll up a rug.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That young man. Her cousin. It is good that he left something behind him that she will love.’

  ‘Oh – love,’ he says, tasting the word as if it comes from a foreign language. ‘Yes, I daresay she’ll do that.’

  They look at one another, then she stoops and packs on, indefatigable. Her crown of rich rough hair glistens, though the day is sunless. She has rolled up her sleeves for work and there are shadows in the creamy hollows inside her elbows. She has stripped off her rings, and her bare fingers move confidently, filling up space in the boxes. He watches her for a while, his face smoothing, relaxing. Suddenly it sharpens, attentive as the muzzle of a fox scenting down the wind. The scent blows sharp, then thins to nothing, leaving an itch against his senses. The packing-cases vanish; Frieda blurs to gold. He goes to the table, shoves the muddle of their things aside, pulls paper and pen towards him, and begins to write.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ZENNOR IN DARKNESS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five