Impossible Causes

by Julie Mayhew

  Luke launched into a stuttering, ‘Be present at our table, Lord …’ and we all closed our eyes and clasped our hands. Amens done, enquiries were made as to the health of Luke’s mother and father. Dad carved the chicken and Mum piled Luke’s plate too high with vegetables. This would be discussed in the Provisions Store the following day: how Susannah Cedars served up food like it was going out of fashion, as if rationing didn’t apply to her; how my father probably pinched what he fancied straight from the allotments.

  ‘Hold the wine for me and the boy,’ said Dad, putting a hand over Luke’s glass as my mother wielded the bottle. ‘We need a steady hand for the rifle.’

  In defiance, she filled my glass to the rim, hers too. I watched Luke take this in, saw its onward prattling journey. The Cedars women are true sots. You wouldn’t think it, but they are.

  ‘And what’s new with you, Master Luke?’ asked my mother, spreading a napkin over her lap. ‘Is the boarding house still suiting you? Not missing your mother’s cooking? I bet she’s disappointed you’re not with her tonight.’

  My mother was seeking ammunition of her own – Martha Signal’s dinners are so bad, even her own son left home to escape them! – but the boy came back with: ‘That stranger’s moved in.’

  There was the shortest, loudest silence. Luke continued to fork food into his mouth. My mother’s eyes flitted to me, then quickly away again.

  I told him not to, I might have said to her if the circumstances had been different. I told him to stick with his lodgings with the widow, wait it out, see what else might come up.

  ‘Oh, that’s no good.’ My mother’s voice was too unctuous to be sincere, and my father could hear it. He looked to his wife, then to me.

  I took a large gulp of wine.

  ‘Esther Deezer threw him out,’ Luke went on, oblivious to the tension, his focus on the heaping of his next forkful. ‘Abe Powell said someone ought take him in.’

  ‘Well, you boys are bound to set him on the right track, aren’t you?’ said my mother gaily.

  My father grunted and turned to me. ‘You’re to steer clear of him, Leah, you hear me? He’s worked his way into Jacob Crane’s pocket and…’ He took a mouthful of food as if plugging the barrel of a gun.

  Luke stopped shovelling, understanding well the pattern of Peter Cedars’ moods – how to recognise the signs of a coming storm.

  My father swallowed. ‘He’s just not to be trusted, all right?’

  We ate without talking, my mother and I taking great slugs of wine, until, fortified by alcohol, my mother decided to return to the subject.

  ‘The man made a momentary stumble,’ she said. ‘That’s all it’ll be, I’m sure.’

  ‘“Momentary stumble”?’ My father threw down his cutlery. Luke visibly jumped.

  ‘Well, we must have hope in him changing his ways, mustn’t we, Peter?’ my mother persisted. ‘Because… Because…’ Her eyes went upwards in search of scripture.

  My mind worked faster.

  ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’

  My father was silenced by the quotation, but not satisfied.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry, Leah?’ he said.

  I had pulled apart a potato and eaten just a small morsel of chicken.

  ‘I had too many olives,’ I said. ‘Before. And –’ The words left my mouth before I knew what I was doing ‘– now I have to go.’ I drained my glass and stood.

  ‘Where?’ demanded my father.

  ‘The Anchor. I promised Ruth and Cat I would see them there.’

  My mother twitched at the lie but tamped down her impulse to call it out.

  ‘Sit down,’ said my father.

  ‘I can’t, Dad. Sorry.’

  ‘Your mother has cooked. You will stay and eat,’

  Luke’s eyes went wide at this spectacle, his former teacher being scolded like a child.

  ‘Let her go, Peter,’ said my mum, forcing a laugh for Luke’s sake. ‘She’s a grown woman; she can do what she likes.’

  My father looked up at me, as if what my mother had said was news to him, as if the last twelve years had passed him by and he still expected to see a fifteen-year-old girl standing there. I couldn’t bear it, that feeling of being small under his gaze, so vulnerable. I left the table and put on my coat.

  ‘You have a lovely time!’ my mother called after me, a cue for those who remained to be cheerful now. ‘You young ones,’ I heard her say to Luke, as I opened the door, ‘you have so much energy, you make me green for it!’

  I stumbled back down through the estate, past the sycamore and the pine, sliding on catkins, tripping on the brick path. The Cedars women are not sots at all. They practise too little with the stuff; it knocks them unsteady.

  I went to the Anchor because I’d told my parents that was where I was going, because it’s wrong to tell a lie. I met Ruth and Cat; I was true to my word. They expressed surprise to see me there. Was I really up for such silliness when we all had to be bright-eyed for school the next day? I shrugged away their assumptions, feigned offence at the idea that I would not be in the market for fun.

  I was wary though, of being in that bar room. If Ben showed up, I would be forced to have the conversation that I had closed my kitchen door upon – explain why I believed, without question, he was doing something terrible with those girls. He wasn’t there, of course. He was supposed to be doing penance and drinking in public would never do.

  I felt no such restrictions on my own behaviour. The wine had relaxed me. Standing up to my father had filled me with a strange sense of rebellion. I tipped back every glass of rum that was brought to the table, and time slipped. I found myself joining in with the dooking for apples hanging from the beams. Ruth laughed uproariously as I stumbled towards her, a mangled fruit gripped in my teeth.

  ‘You look like a suckling pig,’ someone was saying, and I looked down to see that apple juice stained the front of my blouse, turning it transparent.

  Then, Saul Cooper’s whiskery face was close to mine, yet there was none of the revulsion I usually felt when in proximity to the man. I was mesmerised by the way the hair on his head had prematurely greyed, the centre of his beard too, but not his eyebrows, nor the remainder of his facial hair; that was all still darkest Larkian black. I think I might have licked a thumb and stroked one of his eyebrows into place, then joked about how his appearance seemed different while I was under the influence of rum.

  ‘Hallelujah, it’s a miracle on earth!’ I cried at this discovery and Saul was not offended, nor rude in return. He laughed and pulled me close in a friendly way, urging me to shush so I didn’t get into trouble for using the Lord’s words in vain. The rest of our exchange is hazy, but I was definitely the one who suggested we go outside because the bar was too full, too hot. Then, when the cold wind hit the dampness of my blouse, I suggested we go inside the Customs House for blankets.

  The record skips again, and the next thing I know we are on the floor of the front office of the Customs House. I am naked, on top of Saul; he is hard inside of me. I am reaching down and fingering myself, bucking towards a shuddering climax, and he looks afraid, says, ‘What are you doing?’

  Another skip. He is reaching up for me, sucking on one of my breasts. The blankets we’ve laid on the floor are bunched together, not enough to stop our backs and knees from skinning as we grind against one another. I kiss him as violently as I’d seized that apple, biting at his lip and drawing blood. He pushes me over, flips himself on top of me, finishes what we’ve started, pulling free with a groan and spilling himself across the wooden floorboards.

  ‘That will leave a stain,’ I have the wherewithal to say.

  Then, I am on my sofa, dressed, and I have woken breathlessly, my head hammering. I was dreaming of dragonflies, iridescent and beautiful, but trapped, banging themselves hopelessly against the glass of my kitchen window. A hopeful thought arrives: all that went befor
e was just part of this same nightmare. Then I feel the stickiness between my thighs, the pain pulsing from the raw skin on my knees.

  I did all that I did.

  I realise I could have left this out, not mentioned what happened that night. But if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

  FRIDAY THE 13TH – APRIL 2018

  Viola Kendrick does not run very far. How can she? In every direction, there is nothing but sea.

  Hiding is the only option, so she slots herself into the stone arch in the Ornamental Gardens, pulling up her feet – and Dot – onto the recessed bench. She rests her back against the nubby surface, catching her breath. Shells – common cockles, blunt gapers, periwinkles – have been pressed into the render of the arch in patterns. Small red spiders run dizzy paths across these undulations.

  She cannot be entirely certain who is coming for her, or from which direction they will arrive, but Viola knows that when they reach her, it will not be good. She strokes Dot, almost violently, for reassurance, the dog’s eyes stretching wide with this backward force. Then she decides to pray – proper hands-together, eyes-closed, chin-to-the-sky praying.

  Dear God, if you haven’t given up on me completely, please make Michael Signal come around that corner and…

  She needs a friend. Desperately. She needs Michael’s intrusive, encyclopaedic knowledge. She needs his help to find a way out.

  She squeezes her eyes tighter still, imagining the boy into being, scuffing along the smooth path of the gardens in his heavy grey duffel coat, satchel banging against his hip.

  She pictures herself making room for him on the bench, their fingernails digging around a shell each as they talk, believing they can pop one of those stuck-fast periwinkles free.

  Who is coming to question Viola about the body at the stones?

  What should Viola say when they find her?

  Michael always has an answer, to everything.

  ‘So, if we’re expecting the boss of the island,’ Viola would say, kicking things off, ‘that’ll be Mr Crane, right? It’s a no-brainer.’

  ‘Officially, that would be the Earl,’ Michael would reply, not able to resist an opportunity to contradict her. ‘The Earl is the official “boss of the island” as you like to put it.’

  ‘So, the Earl’s coming?’

  ‘Goodness, no! The Earl’s a recluse. What kind of recluse nips out of the house to handle a murder enquiry?’

  She would be the grown-up, not retaliate.

  ‘Then, who’s next?’

  ‘In line for the Earldom? His young wife, the Countess, but she left Lark years ago and took their kids with her so –’

  ‘I mean, who’s next in charge!’

  That she cannot even have a make-believe conversation with Michael without squabbling comes as no surprise.

  ‘Then you’re back to Mr Crane.’

  ‘But it won’t be him, will it? Saul wouldn’t do that, would he?’

  ‘He’ll have to. He’ll have to inform the Council. All of them.’ Michael would count them off, teacher-like, on his fingers. ‘Dr Bishy, Father Daniel, Abe Powell, Jed Springer, Robert Signal and… I was going to say Peter Cedars.’

  They would both wince. Poor Peter Cedars.

  ‘What do I say to them, Michael?’ she’d ask, in all earnestness, in true anguish, once their bickering and one-upmanship was done. ‘What on earth do I say?’

  Viola keeps her eyes tight shut for a last burst of prayer, as the island wakes up around her, a sluggish beast rearing its head. From the harbour below there is the crank and clatter of hands on deck, the gentle putter of an outboard motor.

  Please God, make him appear… Now!

  She opens her eyes, expecting magic, believing she is capable of it.

  But Michael is not there.

  NOVEMBER 2017

  Once again, Viola returned from her walk to find a Land Rover parked in front of the farmstead – a different one, even more ancient than the vehicle driven by the Customs Officer. It had a dirty tarpaulin hood stretched across its open back.

  Viola’s mother was not in her usual chair on the veranda, the sliding temperatures no bar to her habit of sitting outside. She had found a moth-eaten sheepskin coat, left behind in one of the bedroom wardrobes, and wrapped herself in that. A scarf twisted around her unwashed hair completed the look: a grandmother from a fairy tale.

  The vacant veranda and the unfamiliar truck forced a sour uneasiness into Viola’s throat. She picked up her step towards the house.

  ‘Don’t you be going in there!’

  The gruff voice made her jump, skid to a stop.

  The Land Rover, parked in the shadows of the trees, had appeared empty, but as Viola wheeled around, twisting herself in Dot’s lead, she saw the gamekeeper, his white beard framed by the window of the cab. Last time they’d met, he had threatened trouble. Viola’s disquiet began to rise.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because the doctor’s in there looking after her, isn’t he?’

  His words tipped her into panic. Viola sprinted for the wooden steps, taking them two at a time, exploding through the front door, preparing herself for how her mother might have tried to do it. Their stash of paracetamol? Surely not a knife?

  But in the kitchen, her mother was sitting upright, intact, rebuttoning her blouse, with no sign of disaster. At least, not the disaster Viola had anticipated. A barrel of a man in a formal navy suit tossed his stethoscope to the table, letting it snake across the top of Viola’s school books, then he leant in to finger the glands at Deborah Kendrick’s neck.

  ‘What’s going on? Are you sick?’ Viola demanded from the doorway, the adrenalin making her splutter.

  Dot, picking up on the mood, gave a sharp, strangled yip.

  The doctor turned, assessing Viola from behind his circular spectacles, a brief judgement, before going back to Deborah to boom out his conclusion.

  ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.’

  ‘But –’

  Her mother was cut off by a short jeer of objection from the doctor. He retreated into the cushions of his chin, raising a solid finger. ‘There is absolutely no reason, Mrs Kendrick, why you shouldn’t be out there. In fact, some fresh air and hard work might do you good.’

  ‘But on my GP records,’ Deborah continued meekly, ‘you’ll see that I’ve been prone to iron deficiencies and –’

  ‘I doubt it!’ The man laughed. He faced Viola now to deliver his final dismissal of her mother. ‘The greatest lesson I learnt from my training on the mainland was that doctors there go looking for problems where there are none. Live your life, Mrs Kendrick, that’s my advice. First, because worry is the biggest killer, and secondly, because Lark does not suffer malingerers. Now!’ He angled a single eye to pin down Viola. ‘Word has reached me, Miss Kendrick, that you are also claiming a sickness that is keeping you from your island duties?’

  Viola’s mouth fell open.

  ‘One that is,’ the man continued, ‘keeping you from school?’

  ‘She is at school.’ Deborah Kendrick spoke more forcefully for Viola than she had for herself. ‘This is her school.’ They all looked to the papers and clutter spread across the battered kitchen table. The doctor extracted his stethoscope from the chaotic scene, winding up its tail and posting it into the stretched-wide jaws of his leather bag.

  ‘Your mother has been given a clean bill of health.’ He spoke as if Deborah Kendrick were no longer there; his business now only with Viola. ‘But you, young lady, have a consultation outstanding.’

  ‘What for?’ Her mother rose from her seat, inserting herself into the exchange, her voice combative, frightening to Viola.

  The man turned to face his challenger, retaliating with condescension. ‘All young girls on the island are given a routine check-up when they come of age, Mrs Kendrick. It is our civil duty to them.’

  ‘Oh,
yeah?’ she replied. Viola watched her mother grip the thick edge of the kitchen table to still her shaking hands. ‘And what about the boys, then?’

  The doctor held Deborah’s gaze. Viola was sure she saw her mother’s mouth twitch into the beginnings of a triumphant smile, and willed for it not to come, in case it should provoke a violence.

  ‘The boys too,’ the doctor said flatly, eventually.

  Deborah’s face fell. The tension was released – though no one was satisfied. He made for the door.

  ‘My surgery is on the south elevation,’ he told Viola coolly, on his way out. ‘You’ll come and see me there, tomorrow, in the afternoon, four-thirty.’

  Viola automatically nodded.

  ‘You will not,’ her mother instructed, once the Land Rover had swung across the yard and growled away down the track.

  ‘Why not?’

  Her mother ascended the stairs for a nap, one that would likely extend late into the evening, merging with bedtime.

  ‘Because that doctor…’ said Deborah Kendrick, leaning over the bannister, releasing her hair from its scarf as she chose her words carefully, ‘… is not a nice man.’

  She disappeared into the black of the upstairs landing. There was the sound of her heavy bedroom door clunking shut. Viola would be lonely without her in the dark of the house, her senses on edge, Dot barking at every sound, sure that foxes were trespassing on the veranda. Yet she had to find some comfort in the way her mother had spoken. These were strong words, seditious even, but they were not the words of surrender.

  Viola would not go to that appointment – if only because the late afternoons were reserved for spying. If she couldn’t get close to the Eldest Girls at school, she would have to keep her vigil at the stones, slowly building the courage to step inside the circle.

  But, before that, she’d need to get rid of Michael.

  His company had been valuable to her; his knowledge of the island exhaustive, his discretion completely lacking. (‘Huxley fell and snagged his bean-bags on some rigging once and they say Dr Bishy had to amputate one of them.’) Every anecdote was delivered with the self-regard of a precocious child at a spelling bee, his embellishments signposted by the rising of his voice.