by Jane Johnson
It was distinctly chilly: Mrs Harvey had refused to light the fire in case no one came. ‘We’re running low on coal; it’s not Buckingham Palace, you know.’
Olivia pulled the cuffs of her cardigan down over her hands and stomped around the hall to warm her feet, her steps booming in the emptiness. Then she sat down and regarded the fish. Picking up a board and pencil, she lost herself in the intricacies of the mackerel’s tiger-striped skin.
‘Why, you’re a natural. I should hardly think you need lessons at all!’
An elderly lady was peering over Olivia’s shoulder. She wore a thick navy jersey and a large silver pendant and Olivia recognized her as Mrs Hocking, whose daughter ran the grocer’s.
Despite this, she felt suddenly shy. ‘Actually, I’m giving the class.’
Her only other student lurked in the doorway looking belligerent. It was Mrs Harvey’s daughter, Judith, who had been two classes below Olivia at school in Penzance. ‘Ma said I had to come.’
No doubt to make sure she wasn’t smuggling naked live models into the chapel hall, Olivia thought, and stifled a laugh.
Mrs Hocking had brought her own set of watercolours, the tubes gnarled and the paint within uncooperative. ‘It’s been years since I had these out, not since my Jackie died.’ She tapped her necklace in some complicated manner and a mechanism made the front of the pendant spring open like a hinged bivalve. Within lay a tiny black-and-white photo of a man with not much hair but a huge moustache. Olivia was fascinated, having never before seen a locket.
Mistaking her interest, Mrs Hocking said, ‘A fine-looking man, my Jackie.’ Her voice was burred with emotion. ‘Been gone twenty year now and I never so much as looked at another man since then.’
Olivia got them both drawing, and was surprised to find Judith had a fair touch with a pencil and a good eye for line and perspective, and the girl beamed at her praise, but it was the older woman who astonished her, producing a mackerel in dabbed and silky watercolour that looked as if it might swim off the paper back into the sea. Mrs Hocking smiled rather sadly. ‘Jackie and I used to take our paints and sketchbooks wherever we went, but he lost the use of the fingers in his right hand during the Great War and it didn’t seem right to outdo him after that.’ She paused. ‘He had no joy left in him when he came home from the front. He never laughed, he’d hardly even speak. War is a terrible thing: it drains all the humanity out of a being.’
She fell silent, patting her necklace. Then she drew it over her head, popped it open, took out the little photograph and slipped it into her handbag. She handed the empty locket to Olivia. ‘For you, dear. You’ve reminded me to do something for myself again, and not to live for ever in the past.’
‘I can’t take it,’ Olivia protested. ‘It’s much too precious.’
The old woman laughed. ‘’Tis pewter, my bird. It shines up well, but it’s not silver. You take un: you’ve given me something much more valuable.’ She tapped her fish. ‘Now I’ve started I won’t stop again.’
Olivia allowed Mrs Hocking to hang the necklace around her neck. She thought, I will find a photograph of Daddy and put it in there, and that made taking it feel better.
The following Tuesday she had five students; the week after that seven. But in between, everything changed.
15
THE YEAR HAD TURNED TOWARDS WINTER. FOGS WRAPPED the coast, clagged the trees; cloud hung heavy over the headlands. Birds’ cries sounded mournful and distant, eerily like the cries of children. Sometimes the fog did not lift all day and the hedge and its sea gate marked the limits of her vision.
Chynalls felt like an island and Olivia could imagine herself a figure out of legend, a castaway or exiled warrior living beyond the bounds of normal society. Despite this, she treasured her isolation, swimming in the cove beneath the house even when the temperature of the sea made her teeth chatter and her heart clench. She felt as if every dip toughened her up, tempered her, added new layers of protection. She was Achilles in the Styx; the Gorgon on Sarpedon. But one day when returning through the sea gate with her hair in long snaky locks, she came upon the postman on the steps up to the house and the sight of him reversed the Medusa effect so that she was the one who felt turned to stone. Was her mother dead now too?
But Bert Blewett grinned at her. ‘Something special for you,’ he said, holding up a brown-paper parcel.
It was addressed in her mother’s clear handwriting, but she could not make out the franking stamp. When it became clear that Olivia was not going to open the parcel in front of him, or share the contents, Bert sniffed and went on his way, muttering. Inside the brown paper was a cardboard box in which a small cornucopia of treats had been packed between wood shavings. Olivia pulled out a Chanel lipstick, a small bottle of Givenchy perfume, a packet of candied almonds, a beautiful ruby-red beret, and a set of Caran D’Ache drawing pencils in the full spectrum of the rainbow. A small card accompanying these gifts read, For my beautiful grown-up girl on her 16th birthday, with all my best love, Mama, and three kisses.
Olivia sat with the treasure box on her knees, and burst into tears. She had completely forgotten that it was her birthday.
As a gift to herself she walked up to the garage and took the car out, up the hill, past Treharrow Farm, ignoring the catcalls of the men in the yard as she whizzed past. She had never returned to the scene of the assault but all the time had been aware of it as a dark weight, lurking just up the hill. It felt good to whisk past it in the Flying 8 and leave it all behind.
At the crest of the hill she turned right, then left onto the road towards Land’s End, passing through the dark wooded valley that led down to Lamorna and winding back up onto the tops again, where the mist was beginning to thin. Just past Boleigh Farm she drew the car up on the verge and jumped out, leaving the engine quietly ticking over. Climbing over the old stile, she made her way up through the field until she reached the ancient menhirs known as Dans Maen, the Dancing Stones, or Merry Maidens. Mist drifted between the stones, floating just above the unmown grass. She knelt, feeling the chill moisture soaking through the knees of her trousers – a pair of Daddy’s, too big, but held up with one of his stout belts – and took several shots with the Leica. Then she stood up and slung the camera over her shoulder and started to walk widdershins around the circle, touching each stone in turn. When she touched the fourth stone she drew her hand back sharply as if burned: some energy between her and the granite had arced, literally shocking her. Hesitantly, she reached out and laid her hand on it again, but whatever electricity it had collected had been discharged and it felt simply like a cold, damp stone. Even so, she was shaken.
The legend ran that the circle represented the remains of a group of maids who had defied the rule of the Sabbath and danced to the music of two local pipers, all of whom had been punished for the transgression by being turned to stone. It had always seemed a silly tale to Olivia, annoyingly moralistic, but right now, engulfed by the mist, still tingling from the contact with the petrified dancer, she shivered.
Continuing her passage around the stones, she trailed her fingers across each one till she came back to her starting point. Should she make a wish? It was another local custom, another silly superstition. But why not?
Olivia walked on to the fourth stone, laid her palms on its rough surface and closed her eyes. For a time her mind remained blank. Then a single fleeting thought crossed it and she smiled. That would do: it was so absurd it could never ever happen so it was perfect for a mad sixteenth birthday wish.
Back in the car again, she drove on slowly through the narrow lanes, praying not to meet a tractor, since reversing was not something that Daddy had got around to teaching her. And now he never would. Tears blurred her vision, but she was in luck, for there were no other vehicles on the road. On the hill above Sennen, isolated shafts of sun were breaking through the low cloud as the end of the land came into sight. The light rendered the scene with such contrast and sharp clarity that it looked, she thoug
ht, like a daguerreotype, the sea all silver plate and mercury, fixed with a solution of common salt. She drove as close to the cliff as she could then abandoned the car and walked along the furze-covered cliffs, taking photographs of the stark granite sentinels against that silver sea. She passed lookout stations and mounted Bren guns and men in uniform who asked her not to take photographs of their positions, and eventually made her way back to the car, realizing with a start that so much time had passed that she would have to drive directly into Porth Enys to collect Mary from school. As a result she drove faster than she should have, and just as she was taking the corner down to Raginnis, she lost control of the vehicle and, panicking, turned the wheel in the wrong direction and worsened the swerve, sending up a spray of earth and stones and taking the Flying 8 over the verge and into the hedge. The impact sent her head-first into the steering wheel and the horn went off with a fearful blare.
‘Bugger!’
Olivia rubbed her forehead and got out to examine the damage. The front of the Flying 8 was well and truly embedded in the hedge. She looked around. Of course, it had to be on Treharrow land. Before anyone could arrive to berate her for her reckless driving, she got back in and tried to reverse out. The car grumbled and the wheels spun uselessly. She pressed the accelerator harder and the engine shrieked, then died. She employed the pull cord over and over, to no effect.
Someone rapped on the window, making her jump.
‘Need some help?’ It was Jago.
Relieved, she nodded and wound the window down. ‘I can’t get it out,’ she said piteously.
‘Can see that. We’ll need to bump you out of the hedge.’ Turning on his heel, he strode off down the road before she could reply, disappearing through an opening in the hedge.
Olivia sat there, torn between running away like a scared child, and accepting the consequences of her actions like a grown-up. In no time, Jago returned with two of the POWs. One was the blond man. Olivia felt her guts shrivel. She sat rigid in the driver’s seat, her hands clamped on the wheel.
‘Put ’er in neutral,’ Jago said through the open window.
Like an automaton, Olivia changed the gear, keeping her eyes on the hedge, but a moment later the blond man was fully in her vision, leering in at her as he and the other man pushed and bumped the Flying 8. Olivia fixed her gaze on the small square of bonnet that ended before the blond man’s hands and clenched her teeth. The car bounced and juddered and suddenly rolled backwards out onto the road.
‘Splann!’ declared Jago. He leaned his head in through the window again. ‘Do ’ee want to leave her here with me and I’ll get her back to the barn with the lads? You can walk back from here, can’t ’ee, bird?’
Olivia shook her head desperately. She could not leave the vehicle: she could feel hot urine pooling beneath her on the leather seat. ‘One more try,’ she pleaded.
She pulled the start cord again, but the engine did not respond.
‘Ar, well give me the starting handle and I’ll give her a go with that,’ said Jago.
Olivia handed it over without a word and watched as he cranked and cranked – to no avail. She was almost crying now. If it wouldn’t start she’d have to walk, and that meant getting out of the car in front of all of them with the tell-tale stain on her trousers. She couldn’t, simply couldn’t. She should have kept her wish from the stones for now, she thought miserably. And then, a miracle, the engine caught and roared to life, and she put her foot down and rocketed away from them all without even a thank you. In the rear-view mirror she saw the three figures standing in the road, ever dwindling, and raced on.
Mary was at the school gates, bundled in the too-large gabardine coat that had been Olivia’s own. Olivia flung the passenger door open for her and she climbed in, looking suspicious.
‘Where did you get this from?’
‘It’s Pa’s,’ Olivia said shortly.
‘Does that mean it’s yours now he’s dead?’
Olivia said nothing.
Jago brought her back the starting handle later that night and she stowed it in the box in the hall where Pa had always kept it and swore she was never going to take the car out again.
*
Two nights later there was an immense thunderstorm with winds that made the glass rattle in the window frames. Olivia, reading a book in the kitchen under the flickering light of the hurricane lamp, jumped as the first crump of thunder sounded overhead, as loud as German bombs, as loud as the downing of the crashed aircraft. She went to the front door, opened it and stood in the porch, watching the slanting sheets of rain battering the plants in the overgrown garden. The moon lay over the sea, trapped between thick clouds. It sent a small silver disc like a spotlight onto the brazen surface of the sea below like an SOS, then disappeared again from view, casting all into darkness, until a fork of lightning split the sky, illuminating everything with a flash of harsh light that left jagged after-images on her eyeballs.
Olivia loved storms. As a child she would stand on a chair at her bedroom window, mesmerized by the elemental power, as thunder raged and lightning zigzagged. She had had to be restrained from running out into the wild weather, arms wide, mouth open to catch the rain. She itched to be out in the elements now, running down the path to the cove, leaping into the lightning-seared waves. The sea was warmer during a storm, it would be wonderful—
Someone called her name, breaking the spell, and she turned. At the top of the stairs Mary sat like a small ghost, her face almost as pale as the white nightclothes she was wrapped in.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Go back to bed. It’s just a storm.’
‘My night light’s gone out.’
With a sigh, Olivia came back inside.
As she relit the little candle with one of the precious matches, the child grasped her arm. ‘I heard someone outside. They’re coming to get me.’
‘Don’t be silly. It was just me, checking all was well before locking up.’
‘When will it stop?’ Mary whined.
‘The storm? Soon, I’m sure.’
‘The horrible war. When will Mummy come home?’
It was weeks now since Mrs Ogden had gone to Bristol to see her sick mother and in all that time there had been no word from her. Olivia had come to the reluctant conclusion that she had abandoned Mary and would never return. This theory had been bolstered by the fact that Winnie had taken all her money with her. Olivia knew this, as she had checked the blue ginger jar where Winnie kept it, from which Olivia had occasionally helped herself to the old shilling, feeling no sense of guilt at all.
‘I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Now go to sleep.’
‘Will you stay here till I’m asleep? There are monsters in the shadows.’
Olivia laughed. ‘There’s no such thing as monsters. Don’t be such a baby.’
In the pale circle of her face, Mary’s eyes glittered furiously. ‘There are monsters! There are lots and lots of monsters, everywhere.’
As Olivia turned to leave, the child whispered, ‘And you’re one of them.’
*
Olivia was still smiling to herself as she made her way down the stairs, but then her smile faded. She had failed to draw the blackout curtain over the front door when she came back inside, and now she was certain she could see a figure out there in the porch. She froze, holding her breath in the pitch dark. She could hear the rain hammering on the porch roof and blowing as hard as hail against the front windows, the sound of the wind buffeting the chimney. Another rumble of thunder sounded, further away. It was just the storm: a trick of the light.
She relaxed and started down another stair when the shape outside moved – and just as it did lightning jagged across the sky for an instant and Olivia saw, as clearly as if taking a flashlight photograph, the blond man.
A small mew of horror escaped her. Preoccupied by Mary, she had come straight in and gone upstairs. She had not locked the front door. In a sudden pause in the noise of the storm she he
ard the handle turn, and then he was staring right at her, his hair a pale beacon in the darkness.
An internal voice was telling her to run run run, another to think think think. She could not get past him to the front door: he filled the space like an ogre. If she was fast she might get out the back. Had she locked the back door? Her mind was a blank. She thought she had, but was that just a memory of the hundreds of times she had done so before? If she had locked it he would surely catch her while she scrabbled for the key in the scullery. Even if she got outside he would surely catch up with her. He was fast, and rough, that much she remembered, and her breasts ached from the memory of his hands on them. If he ran upstairs, she could lock herself in the bathroom. But then he would find Mary. Did she care about that? Oddly, she found she did. Then she thought: the cellar! If she could get to the cellar steps she could throw the bolt on the cellar door and escape down the tunnel to the beach and from there run up through the sea gate and along the lane to sound the alarm and bring help…
All these thoughts tumbled through her head in the split second in which it took the blond man to step through the door.
‘I see you,’ he said.
Olivia felt her guts knot. She tried to run, but her muscles wouldn’t obey. Suddenly she found herself sitting on the stairs as her knees gave out. A coward! She was such a coward! Where was her Achilles, her Medusa, her warrior self when she needed them?