by Helen Grant
I move about restlessly, until it occurs to me that my endless clattering about may attract James’s attention and bring him out of his study. So I go upstairs, into the room we share, and open the window.
The rain is still sheeting down. I rest my arms on the windowsill and gaze out. The hiss and rattle of the rain is strangely comforting. The air is cool and fresh and also damp, even though I am protected from the downpour by the eaves. My nostrils flare as I draw in the scent of wet vegetation. The land is very green, even though it is autumn. This is why I wanted to be here. Peace, I think. Nobody wanting anything, nobody expecting anything, no bustle and scurrying to keep up. The lights and the traffic sounds and the grimy stink of the city feel like some kind of aberration here, where it is often so quiet that I can hear the breeze shivering through the leaves on the trees. It makes me feel as though I have been ill, and now I’m well.
I remember a day long ago, the day when I walked into the loch.
I’d reached the end of something, driven into the borderlands of what I could stand. I didn’t argue or cry or say shut up, stop it, leave him alone, leave us alone. I don’t think my parents even noticed me go, not at first. I put my hands over my ears and walked out of the room, out of the atmosphere that was as oppressive as the stink of blood. The holiday cottage had French windows which were standing open, and I walked straight out through them.
Outside, the sky was a flat opaque grey, a Scottish summer sky, but the air was warm enough. I went down the stone steps onto the lawn. The grass was springy under my bare feet. I pushed my way between overgrown shrubs until I came to the loch’s edge. The water stretched out in front of me, smooth and glossy, and in the distance I could see the little island that was in the middle of the loch. It was thickly clustered with trees, so that it looked like a little forest, growing up out of the water. Something from a fairytale.
I stood there gazing out at it for a long time. I wished I could be there, or anywhere at all but where I was. There was no way of winning; I knew that. My parents were not religious, so back then I had never come across the concept of Original Sin, but if I had, I would have recognised it at once. Stephen and I, but especially Stephen, would always be wrong. It hardly mattered what we actually did. The question was how much punishment either of us could stand. I thought of my big brother crying, while they picked at him like vultures tearing at a carcass with their hooked beaks. I wished we were orphans in a storybook. Yes, I wished that. I didn’t think it could be worse.
After a while, of course, I was missed. First they sent Stephen out to find me. I didn’t turn round when I heard someone coming over the grass. I already knew it was him because he was sniffing from having wept.
“Fen, you have to go back in,” he said.
“I’m not going.”
“You have to,” said Stephen.
“I hate them.” My hands curled into fists.
“Fen...”
I turned to look at him. “Don’t you hate them too?” I said savagely, my voice rising.
Stephen dropped his gaze. “It doesn’t do any good.”
“I don’t care. And I’m not going back in.”
For a moment there was silence, and then I heard my mother calling, first Stephen’s name and then mine, her tone ominously insistent. I looked at Stephen for a moment and saw him tentatively reacting to her calling. He made small helpless movements, as though he were struggling to resist but was drawn anyway, like iron filings to a magnet. He would give in, I saw that plainly. I turned and walked into the loch, deliberately.
The water was cold, even though it was August. I could feel the line of definition between the part of myself that was submerged in it, and the part of myself that was in the warmer air, as clearly as if I had been cut in two. Under my feet the bed of the loch was soft and silty, with a sprinkling of small stones. My toes sank into it, releasing lazy clouds of brown silt into the clear water.
“Fen–!” Stephen’s voice was urgent, afraid of the further trouble I was bringing on myself.
I took no notice. I kept wading further out. The slope into deeper water was gradual at first, but as the water rose over my knees I could feel the drag on my legs with every step. Stephen was still calling my name but I didn’t look back at him. Instead I looked at the clear smooth water ahead of me, and the little island in the distance.
“Fenella!” That was my father bellowing my name. From the sound, I judged that he was now on the bank with Stephen. No matter. I was more than an arm’s length away from the edge now and I didn’t think he’d follow me in, not with slacks and socks and shoes on. I kept going.
When the water reached my breast the bottom of the loch began to fall away more sharply. I paused for a moment, looking at the vitreous surface of the water, the way the spreading ripples died away when I stopped moving. The cold wasn’t so bad now, and anyway, there was a cleanness to it. The loch would drown me if I swam into the middle and became too tired to swim, but there was no malice in it. It was simply there, whether I swam across it and climbed out the other side, or slipped under the water and never came up again.
My mother was shouting now too. “Stupid, stupid girl!”
I took a deep breath and launched myself forward, my toes leaving the bottom. I kicked out, actually swimming now. The cold of the water seemed to coagulate around me, encasing my body in its frigid embrace. My breath came in hard little gasps. I kept my head up, looking at the island, the trees crowded on it.
Behind me, the voices of my family rose and fell but I was not tempted to turn around. My parents sounded very angry, and Stephen was drowned out altogether. I could not think of a single reason to go back. Besides, I needed to concentrate on staying afloat. The clothes I was wearing – a t-shirt and cropped summer trousers – were light and fairly close fitting, but there was still a noticeable drag on my limbs as I moved. I was not used to swimming fully clothed, and it was more of an effort to keep my head out of the water.
The island still looked a long way away. I had not consciously meant to aim for it when I went into the loch, but now I struck out for it. Water slapped at my face; I shook damp tendrils of hair out of my eyes. The first cold shock was over and the feeling of my arms and legs sliding through the cool water was almost pleasant, but still I didn’t want to put my face in.
For a moment I paused, treading water, and tried to touch the bottom, but there was nothing there; my bare feet cycled without meeting any resistance other than the water. I was well out of my depth now. I wasn’t afraid. I thought that I could swim the distance, if I took my time and paced myself. It was better anyway than going back. If I swam far enough out, the angry voices behind me would fade away altogether.
I concentrated on the movements of my arms and legs, on keeping my fingers pressed together, my breathing regular. The water made tiny lapping noises as I cut through it. The ends of my hair floated like delicate water weed. The taste of the loch was on my lips, subtle as a kiss.
After some time I began to flag a little. I didn’t seem to be getting as close to the island as I’d have expected after swimming for this long. Perhaps it was simply that my progress was so gradual that I wasn’t really aware of it. I tried closing my eyes and swimming vigorously for a minute or two. I thought that when I opened my eyes again I would see a difference, but instead I was dismayed: the island seemed no closer, and I had changed direction without realising, my face towards open water. If I kept swimming this way, I would swim right past the island without ever putting my feet on it.
I trod water again for a moment, and risked a glance behind me. The shore looked a long way away now. There was one figure on the bank – Stephen – and from here he looked tiny, a doll. I felt cold, a sensation that had nothing to do with the cool water: the loch was suddenly huge, and I a tiny speck in the very middle of it.
There really was nothing for it but to keep swimming. I put
my face to the island again. Either Stephen had stopped calling or he was too far away for me to hear him; all I could hear now was my own breathing and the water itself – the increasingly uneven splash of my strokes, and the slap of little waves against my neck and shoulders.
Slowly, slowly, I struggled towards the island. After a few minutes in the water, I had acclimatised to the temperature, but now I was beginning to feel cold again. Swimming in waterlogged clothes required all my energy; it made the water feel clinging and gelatinous. I was sinking into its embrace; water slopped into my mouth and made me splutter. The first jagged spikes of panic pierced me.
I trod water again, shaking back damp hair. The island was closer now, but it would take determination to reach it. I swam, grimacing against the cold water. My fingers were acquiring a pale waxen look and I could feel my toes slowly turning numb. If I got a cramp now–
Don’t think about it.
I kicked harder, trying to force life back into my limbs. My lower jaw was juddering, my breath hissing in and out as I shivered. The effort had become agonising; for a while I didn’t really think at all, but floundered through the water like a drowning animal, fighting to keep my head up.
I was still some ten metres from the island when my feet struck something underwater with painful force. A rough surface scraped against my skin. I looked down and saw that I had swum into the branches of a fallen tree, almost completely submerged in the loch. I grasped at it with my hands and clung on, breathing heavily. It was a while before I had recovered sufficiently to make my way through it to the edge of the island itself, and even then it was a struggle. Some of the branches bounced or sank when I put my weight on them, and others were slick with weed and algae.
At long last, I crawled up the bank on my hands and knees, grabbing handfuls of grass and weeds to stop myself sliding back into the loch. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have the energy. I lay on my side on a patch of bare brown earth, my mouth opening and closing uselessly, my whitened hands curled into fists.
Cold. So cold.
I knew I couldn’t lie there forever in my wet clothes. When I had stopped gasping, I forced myself to sit up, hugging my knees to conserve what little warmth I had. Looking out over the water, I could see the shore far away, and the white rectangle of the holiday cottage. Was Stephen still standing there, looking out over the loch? At this distance it was hard to say. I saw a thin dark shape that might have been my brother, or a post or tree trunk. I waved feebly, but saw no movement in return.
After a while, I stood up, with some idea of running – or at least walking – around to warm up. My teeth were chattering. I knew that there was absolutely no possibility of swimming back again. I didn’t have it in me to swim that far. And then I looked at the black limbs of the tree poking up out of the shallow water and shuddered. I doubted I could even make my way back through that tangle of submerged branches. To be here on the bank, freezing cold and wet, was bad enough, but becoming stuck in there would be worse. I imagined someone coming out here later in a boat and peering over the side, to see my dead white face looking up at them from the dark water, like some ghastly reflection seen in a tainted mirror.
I walked away from the water’s edge, stepping carefully to avoid stones and nettles. Almost immediately I saw what was not visible from the shore of the loch: the remains of a building. It was hidden by the trees that clustered around it, and I saw that they were growing up through the floors and out through the empty windows too. It was old – very old. That was clear. I picked my way all around it and saw nothing but desolation. The ceilings had fallen in, and most of the rooms were full of rubble. Even if I had dared go inside such an unstable-looking building, it would hardly have provided any shelter, with the rooms open to the sky. I wasn’t afraid of it, though, in spite of its grim appearance. When I stood on the shore, I had thought that the island looked like something out of a fairytale. Now it seemed as though it really was, but the fairies had gone long ago. I was delirious with cold and exhaustion and it seemed to me that perhaps they would come back, if only I waited long enough. Perhaps when night fell.
I kept walking around and around the ruined building, until I could barely focus on what was in front of me and I was falling over my own feet. I still didn’t feel any warmer. At some point I suppose I sat down in a corner of the tumbledown walls and closed my eyes.
It was a light that woke me. It was bright – too bright. Dazzling. My eyes felt as though they were sealed with a crust of frost; it was an effort to open them. I thought about putting up a hand to shield them from the light, but somehow the thought did not translate into action. Everything seemed to be seeping into my consciousness very slowly. I saw that there was not only one light, but many of them, beams dancing over the ancient stonework and the trunks of the trees. The effect was strange and beautiful.
Fairies, I thought.
But it was not. Someone was close by. I heard the rustle of his clothing as he squatted down next to me. When he spoke, his voice was kind, and very definitely human.
“So we’ve found you, lassie,” he said. “You’ve given everyone a fright, that’s for sure.”
I didn’t even have the energy to turn my head to look at him properly, but in my line of vision I could see white teeth and a beard with a lot of grey in it, and under that, some dark material with a stripe of reflective stuff on it.
“I thought it was the fairies,” I said, but I think I didn’t say it out loud, only in my head, because he didn’t react to the words. Other people were coming now; I could hear the crackle of the undergrowth as they trod it down. I knew why they were coming. I had hoped for fairies, but they were coming to take me back to the ogres.
Chapter Nineteen
I have another dream – if dreams are what they are. Belle was right. They don’t feel like dreams. They feel like real time spent in some other place, some other life – and death. But they can’t be real. They mustn’t be.
This time when I come to myself, I am gazing not at a ceiling rose, nor into darkness, but across a room. I don’t recognise this room. It is peculiarly old-fashioned, fussily decorated and yet neglected-looking. There is a faint musty odour, and motes of dust drift lazily in the sunlight that slants through the windows. The room is papered in a bold ugly design of intertwined vegetation, in shades of green and brown. Directly opposite me is a white marble fireplace, with a tiled grate. It is elegant but cold; there is no fire burning. Above the fireplace is a large mirror in an ornate gilded frame, the glass tarnished with dark spots. The backs of the clock and the china ornaments clustered on the mantel shelf are reflected in it. I can see armchairs, their overstuffed upholstery studded with buttons, and a little spindle-legged side table. I can also see half of a large oil painting in a heavy gilded frame, but that is all I can see of it, because I cannot turn my head. I cannot even shift my gaze; the things at the periphery of my vision are impressions, indistinctly seen.
Judging by my line of vision, I am sitting, and not standing. But as I cannot look down it is impossible to be sure. I cannot say what I am wearing. I can’t feel it, and since I am unable to make even the tiniest movement, there is no rustle or crackle of fabric to tell me anything.
I sit for a long time. The light from the windows takes on a golden hue and the shadows in the room grow longer, the contrast between dark and light more marked. As the sun sinks, the shadows grow and merge, until I am sitting entirely in the dark, my face still angled towards the fireplace, my gaze still fixed, long after there is anything to see. It is quiet too. The soft bump of a moth on the window pane can be heard from outside, but inside the room there is nothing, not even breathing. My thoughts become as thick and slow as sludge. I stare stupidly into the dark until the first grey light begins to pick out the shapes in the room again, ever so faintly.
When it is full light, a series of creaks announce that someone is moving about the house. A door
opens behind me. I do not turn my head; I do not move a muscle, even when she bustles past me: a young woman in what looks like an old-fashioned servant’s uniform, a dark dress of some rough fabric with a white apron over the top of it, and with a white cap perched on her auburn hair. She has a dustpan and brush in her hands. She hitches up her long skirt a little so that she can kneel comfortably on the hearth and sweep up the ashes of the long-dead fire. While she is doing this, she hums to herself very quietly. When the task is finished, she stands up, the dustpan full of ashes in one hand, brush in the other. She turns and sees me.
The dustpan falls from her hand and hits the floor. I hear the soft whump as the ashes land on the carpet. There is one moment of silence and then she screams, so loudly that the room seems to vibrate with it. She runs past me, heading for the door, and now she makes no effort to be quiet; her feet thunder on the floorboards. I hear her progress all down the hallway outside the room – the frantic footsteps and the screams for help that fade as she puts as much distance as possible between herself and me. A door bangs violently.
I don’t scream. I continue to stare ahead of me as I have done all night. After a while I hear scuffling and whispering in the passageway outside the room, and then they come in: two of them this time. One is the maid with the auburn hair, who comes in reluctantly. I hear her sobbing. The other is an older woman by her voice, which is harsh and determined as she urges the girl to enter the room. The pair of them come and stand in front of me, but I cannot see their faces, only the fronts of their aprons.
Then the older one stoops to peer closely at me. Her face looms large in my vision. It is very wrinkled, like a withered fruit, and the whites of her eyes have a yellowish tinge, like ivory.
“She’s gone, right enough,” she says, grimly. “Though I suppose we should check. Go and get the mirror from her dressing table.” She waits until the girl has hurried off, glancing over her shoulder to be sure she has gone. Then she plucks something from my lap. As she straightens up, I see that it is a small green glass bottle. Laud I read. The rest of the text is under her calloused thumb but I know what it says. Laudanum. She stuffs it deep into the pocket of her apron.