Darkwater

by Catherine Fisher

  Emptying the bucket, she paused a moment, leaning against the stone wall, letting the wind touch her face, salty from the sea. She despised and hated the school. At least, the way it was now. It might have been a happy place, with real learning; if she stayed on long enough she might become the teacher herself. But the thought of years of this turned her cold. It was only the books that kept her here.

  There was a small shelf of them over the old mantelpiece. Mrs. Hubbard never looked at them, but on Friday nights after everyone had gone and she had scrubbed the floor, Sarah read them. Mr. Dickens’s novels, and Jane Austen’s, and a book about old Greek gods and a great battle at Troy that lasted ten years. And there were two histories too, all about the Normans and Stuarts and Tudors, that really told you about them, not like Mrs. Hubbard, who insisted on nothing but dates and names. There was an atlas with maps of utterly strange places; the Hindu Kush, Rhodesia, Paris. And above all, there was half an encyclopedia, A to M, with satisfying articles on how steam is made from coal, and how animals see in the dark. She had read them all, and was beginning again this week. That was knowledge, she thought. Real learning. She wanted more of it. If she had money she’d buy books of her own, but that was a hopeless dream. Like the library at Darkwater Hall.

  A gull screamed a warning. She scowled, and went back in.

  The class were chanting tables in a breathless gabble.

  Mrs. Hubbard snapped, “Enough.”

  Her black eyes watched them as Sarah gathered up the slates hastily. The classroom was a semicircle of fear, the tiny girl at the front rocking with anxiety. “Stop that!” Mrs. Hubbard barked.

  The girl froze.

  “Any mistakes?”

  Sarah scanned the slates quickly. She hated this. If she said yes, someone would suffer. If she said no, she’d suffer. “No,” she said, glancing up.

  “Liar,” Mrs. Hubbard said. “What are you?”

  “A liar, Mrs. Hubbard.”

  “Put them there. I’ll look at them myself, later.” The class relaxed a fraction. They knew she wouldn’t bother. “Second row. Monarchs of England. Begin.”

  She never used their names. It was as if that would make them people, and she didn’t want people. Just dolts, and liars, and sniveling scared faces. Sarah backed off to the corner cupboard and stacked the slates inside. The boy—Archie, it was—was chanting in a monotone, careful not to sound too clever, or too slow. Mrs. Hubbard listened, half to him and half for the door, turning her snuffbox over and over.

  “Enough.” She looked bored.

  Archie sat down instantly.

  “Next.”

  Sarah saw who was next reflected in the glass, and winced. It would have to be Emmeline.

  Emmeline Rowney was thin. She had something wrong with one of her eyes; it never looked at you straight. She was scrawny and came from a family who could hardly pay the fee; her mother slaved as a washerwoman to get enough. Maybe that was why Mrs. Hubbard enjoyed Emmeline so much.

  The girl stood up, licked her lips, and said carefully, “Edward the Third, Richard the Second, Henry the . . . Fifth, Henry . . .”

  Mrs. Hubbard jerked upright. She seemed overjoyed.

  “What? What did you say?”

  Emmeline froze.

  “Repeat it! After the infamous weakling Richard, who?”

  “Henry,” Emmeline whispered.

  “His number!”

  “F . . . Fifth.”

  The whole class was already rigid, and seemed to stiffen even more, as if not showing any emotion was their only safety. Except for their eyes, which all moved in fascinated horror, toward the dim object that hung behind the door.

  Sarah sighed.

  “Come down here!” Mrs. Hubbard said.

  Emmeline looked as if she would faint. “Henry the Fourth,” she gasped. “It was him I meant.”

  “Indeed? I’m so glad to hear that, dearie. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  The girl came down. She was white, her hands clenched in front of her, her frizzy hair coming undone from the plait at the back. Her nose ran; she wiped it on her sleeve.

  Mrs. Hubbard turned majestically to Sarah. “Fetch it,” she commanded.

  Sarah frowned. She went slowly behind the desk to the dim corner. All eyes followed her.

  The cane leaned in its darkness. This was its place; a thin sliver of power, barely seen, but it dominated the whole room, all their lives, their sleep. Not always the same one, of course; Mrs. Hubbard wore out two or three a year. Now Sarah picked it up, seeing the ends of the bamboo were already split. It felt light and cruel, a swishing thing, ridged, the leather around the handle soiled with sweat, a hard grip. Every time she touched it she felt its attraction; she almost wanted to use it, to see how it would feel to wield that power.

  Mrs. Hubbard squeezed out of the pulpit, uncreasing and uncrackling like a great dark puffball of sweat and pomander oils, the black bun of her hair glossy and tight, stabbed with hairpins.

  Emmeline sobbed. Something broke in her; all the pent-up agony came tumbling out. “Please ma’am I’m sorry I’ll learn it honest I will but don’t give me the switch because me da he gives me enough and he’ll go mad he will . . .”

  Mrs. Hubbard smiled with pleasure. “An enlightened parent. I’m sure you will learn it; I fully intend to present you, dearie, with a few reminders of your current failure. However, as it’s such an important day, and I don’t wish to get too . . . flustered, I will not use the cane.” The class’s silence was a blank astonishment.

  Emmeline sniveled. “You won’t?” She sniffed, incredulous.

  Mrs. Hubbard took a large pinch of snuff. “No, I won’t.” She inhaled the brown powder into her huge left nostril, then her right, and smiled.

  “Sarah will do it instead.”

  three

  Somewhere outside, under the gray clouds, a gull began calling, a high, anxious mew.

  Sarah felt its fear close around her. “Me?” she said.

  “You.” Mrs. Hubbard’s tiny black eyes watched her shrewdly. “I’ve watched you, dearie. You’re keen. You could have your own little place one day, just like this.” She glanced playfully at Emmeline. “Five will do. Hand out, and if you flinch you’ll have two extra.” Sarah frowned, watching the little girl’s palm rise up toward her, a small, trembling, fragile thing, pitifully dirty. Its openness beckoned her; part of her longed to crack down on it with the bamboo cane, to feel that quick swish end with the cry of pain. But the rest of her was annoyed. She didn’t particularly care about Emmeline, or any of them. Sometimes she felt sorry for them. But it would be folly to lose her job over this. Five quick smacks and it would all be over.

  Emmeline sobbed.

  “Are you hesitating?” Mrs. Hubbard snapped.

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Don’t forget you’re just a menial here, girl. What are you?”

  Sarah was silent.

  Suddenly she saw the door at the back was open. There were footsteps, a rustle of silks. The visitors had finally arrived.

  And with them stubbornness, that swept over her like a wave, so that she straightened her shoulders and drew up her chin. She was a Trevelyan, and all the pride clamped down inside her for so long came scorching up, a wave of heat in her neck and face. She glared at Mrs. Hubbard’s rolls of fat. And didn’t answer. The instant was huge as it passed; the terrible instant when Mrs. Hubbard—and the class—realized the usual echo wouldn’t be coming.

  Mrs. Hubbard’s chest swelled with wrath. Appalled, the class watched. Emmeline’s hand, wavering with weariness, descended and came abruptly up again.

  Mrs. Hubbard snatched the cane. “I had high hopes of you. Thought you’d go far. But I know what this is, this is pride!”

  She spat the word like venom. “Always th
ought yourself a cut above the rest, haven’t you, dearie. A snobby little madam. Miss Sarah Trevelyan of Darkwater Hall, that’s what you think you are. But your family were all drunks and tyrants and womanizers. And all I see is a scruffy little pupil teacher on three shillings a week. Your face is red, your clothes stink, and there’s a leak in one of your boots. That’s the truth. That’s all you are.” And at the back of the room, suddenly, Sarah saw him watching her, the stranger from Darkwater Hall, the one they called Lord Azrael. Their eyes met; he looked sympathetic. She jerked her gaze away, silent with fury. “Give the cuts,” Mrs. Hubbard barked, “or take them yourself.”

  Sarah smiled, spiteful. “I’ll take them.”

  Mrs. Hubbard was sweating. Two threads of hair had unpinned from her glossy bun. She didn’t know that behind her the doorway was dark with fascinated faces. Three ladies, four gentlemen, a faint breeze of perfume and cigar smoke heralding them like footmen. The class knew, without turning.

  “You bare-faced, stinking little . . .”

  A masculine throat cleared, noisily. “Is there a problem here, ma’am, eh?”

  Mrs. Hubbard froze. Her face drained; only Sarah saw her struggle, the rigorous contortion of all hostility down to a single cold gleam in the eye. When she turned, she wore a sickly smile. For a moment Sarah almost admired her.

  “Major Fleetwood! How wonderful to see you! Ladies! Please do come in.”

  The red-whiskered man gave a beery laugh. “Don’t let us interrupt the necessary, ma’am. Discipline, eh! Know all about it. In India kept a fella just for whipping-in.” He strolled down between the tables and eyed Sarah blearily. “This one blotted her copybook, eh?”

  “This ungrateful wretch . . .” Mrs. Hubbard took out her snuffbox, glanced at it, and thrust it back. “. . . was my pupil teacher. I have considered her conduct unsatisfactory for some time.”

  “Bad show.” Major Fleetwood scratched his greasy hair. “Trevelyan girl. Got anything to say?”

  She had plenty. But she shook her head grimly. Lord Azrael pushed forward. If he said anything, she thought, she’d die.

  “Get on with it, ma’am. No use prolonging the agony.”

  “The ladies?” Mrs. Hubbard whispered.

  “Won’t be too shocked. They have maids, Mrs. H. And dogs.”

  Sarah thrust her hand out, furious. It was even dirtier than Emmeline’s.

  “Look,” Lord Azrael said quietly. “Whatever it was, I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

  “She’s a fat bully,” Sarah said immediately. “And I mean that.”

  Mrs. Hubbard went white. Then she brought the cane down, hard.

  It whistled.

  The pain was an explosion, a hot slash over the thick flesh of her thumb. Tears jerked into her eyes. She kept rigidly still.

  Azrael looked shocked. She was glad.

  Two. Three. Four.

  Pain didn’t repeat, it grew, swelling and throbbing into hugeness, spreading like a fire up her arm, neck, cheek. As the cane was raised for the last stroke, she knew she would twitch, yell, scream, but she didn’t; with a relentless fury she kept every inch of herself still, even when the molten, numbing flame stroked down. Only the slightest of indrawn hisses escaped her.

  Five quick smacks, she told herself scornfully. “And that,” Mrs. Hubbard gasped, slightly out of breath, “hurts me as much as you. Such ingratitude, Major! I nurtured this girl. Gave her every opportunity. Even thought of her as my successor.”

  “You can keep your situation.” Sarah put her sore hand under her arm. “You were right about one thing. I do think myself above it. I’ll make myself above it.”

  She shoved past them, past Emmeline and the slightly unsteady major, past the impressed and fugitive eyes of the class, straight through the cluster of ladies who crowded hurriedly back to make way. None of them looked at her. She was an embarrassment. But as she passed him, the stranger brought his gloved hand out of his pocket and said sadly, “It would be a shame for you to go without your wages.” His voice was low, with a curious friendliness.

  “These are my wages,” she said hotly, opening her hand at him.

  “I didn’t mean that. Take this.”

  He pressed it into her bruised fingers, then turned and limped between the desks. If it had been money she would have flung it after him, but it wasn’t. It was a small rectangle of white card, quite empty on both sides. She crumpled it in fury and stormed out, grabbing her shawl and running, out of the hateful stink of the place, down the lane, racing hard into the salt wind.

  And then suddenly she was laughing, stupidly, leaping up onto walls and running along the tops, arms wide, chasing through the panicky sheep, jumping mud hollows and boulders, circling and giggling under the stunted thorn trees. The wind roared after her from the gray wilderness of the sea—it buffeted her and tossed her hair over her eyes, and her cut hand was icy and numb, but she didn’t care.

  She was free!

  She had thrown it off like a smothering web, the filth, the endless, mindless bullying. And the books. But for an exhilarated hour she didn’t even care about those, racing till she was breathless along the cliff path and down the steep track into Newhaven Cove, all the gulls screaming and dizzying around her head.

  She walked out onto the smooth sand. At first her feet sank into the softness of it, leaving a trail of holes from the cliff, and then as it grew harder and more ridged she splashed through it, avoiding the coiled cast-heaps of worms and picking up tiny yellow shells. She threw one far out to sea, thinking, calmer now.

  There had to be other jobs she could get. Down at the harbor, gutting fish. It was hard, but she could do it. Or at the china clay works. Then she remembered Major Fleetwood owned them. Not much chance there. Service then. A maid. She was quick. If someone gave her a chance, she’d learn. The thought of endless dirty dishes came to her; she squashed it quickly.

  It was past midday, but there was no point going home. After a while the sky darkened; it began to drizzle steadily, and the numbness in her hand wore off. It hurt now, throbbing hard, and she pulled it well into her sleeve out of the wind.

  At the back of the cove the Darkwater came down the cliff in tiny falls; she turned and trudged back there, following her own solitary trail of prints over the empty, windswept sand.

  For now, she thought, she wouldn’t tell Martha, or her father. She’d find another job first. Whatever she did, though, on Saturday Martha would expect three shillings. Every week, money on the table. This week there’d be none. How would they eat? How would they manage? For a second, panic gripped her.

  The Darkwater ran sluggishly into the sand. She crouched and washed her hot hand. Blood clouded the stream.

  “Looks nasty, that.”

  She turned, quick with surprise.

  A tramp was huddled up under the overhang of the cliff, out of the wind. After a good look at him she turned back, plunging her swollen fingers into the stream. “It is.”

  “Strap?” he asked, interested.

  “A cane.”

  “Ah. Felt plenty of those meself, in me time.” His white hair was cut short, like stubble. She noticed he had quite a camp under the cliff, with a tin can boiling over a fire, and a scrawny dog gnawing something disgusting. The tramp edged up, against the rock.

  “Made some space for thee.”

  She stood nervously. “I have to get home.”

  “Tha don’t look eager. It’s good soup. Warm you up.”

  Sarah hesitated. The man looked old. His overcoat was tied with rope and the boots he wore had obviously been someone else’s. He also had only one eye. The other was a blank emptiness; it fascinated her and she stared till she realized he was grinning.

  “Sorry.”

  “Used to it, girlie. Come on. I’m not dangerous.” Clumsy in tor
n mittens, he was pouring soup from the tin into a chipped mug and it smelled wonderful. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, so hungrily she sat opposite him and took it. Her right hand was swelling fast, red weals rising like the ridges in the sand. “Cut and run?” he said, making a strange wheezing noise. She realized he was laughing.

  “In a way.” Cautious, she tasted the liquid. It was hot, fishy. Salty. “What’s in this?”

  He shrugged. “Mussels. Samphire. Lobster.”

  “Lobster!”

  “Any fool can empty a creel.”

  She drank it gratefully, feeling its heat fill her. Taking the crust out of her pocket she dipped it in and chewed. Finally the tramp said, “Did it meself, once.”

  “What?”

  “Cut and run.” He turned his empty eye on her. “About thy age, I might have been. Lived in a fine great palace, very classy. Very high up. Landlord thought the world of me. The apple of his eye, I was.” He wheezed. “Couldn’t take to the work, though. Started to think meself a bit above it. Had plans for meself.”

  She took a thoughtful gulp. “So what happened?” A scatter of rain rattled from the gorse bushes. The tramp waved a mittened hand. “Fell. Came down in the world. Took me a long time, to get this far.” She stared, wondering. For a moment a sort of regret clouded him, then he wheezed out a laugh. “Not that being gentry of the road don’t bring its own rewards. Got something else to go to?”

  “Not yet.” Emptying the mug, she put it awkwardly on the sand; the dog knocked it over and licked the inside avidly. “Thanks for that. I’d better go now.”

  “I know thee,” he said slyly. “Trevelyan’s lass.”

  She sighed. “So?”

  He winked. “All them ancestors of thine. Tearing of their limbs and grinding their teeth while the devils pitchfork ’em. They ruled the folk around here for centuries, hard as nails. Now here’s you, as low as low. How are we all fallen so far, eh?” He rubbed the dog’s neck. “But don’t look back, that’s what I say. Uses you up.” As she stood he bent over and picked something up from the seaweed. “Dropped something.”

  It was the rectangular card. “That’s nothing,” she said shortly.