The Black Joke
Page 15
Chapter 15
The perfection of beauty (Psalm 50)
In later years Pert would look back on that afternoon on the moors with Rosella and think it the most perfect thing in his life, the one event that made sense of everything he had ever done in the past or might do in the future. Whatever befell him, he would always have that afternoon.
They made their way slowly uphill, sometimes walking on soft turf kept short by rabbits and scattered with their fragrant droppings, at other times hopping from tussock to tussock of springy peat. They stopped occasionally and listened to the cries of curlews and an early lark that dropped its sweet pebbles of song from the sky. They passed little brakes of trees, small and stunted by the wind, and once huddled in the lee of one while a rain-shower passed, finding that some creature had already scraped out a little sandy hollow for them. They sat close together while the rain blew, and Rosella pressed her round back to his shoulder, and he smelled her hair.
When they got up she stood very close to him, looking down, and he put his arms round her. “I've never seen you be shy before,” he said.
“I've never done this before,” she answered quietly, not looking up. He kissed the top of her head, and then her forehead, and coaxed her head up with his hand until he could put his lips to hers. They were very soft. She kept her eyes shut. He felt hot tears pressing at the back of his own eyes, and had to hold her hard to stop them coming. She put her arms round him.
Afterwards they walked on, not minding wet feet or wet clothing, and passed to the high uplands where the wind boomed and snatched at them, for they had reached the very shoulders of Bodrach Nuwl. As they climbed the way got steeper and they went on all fours, crawling like ants on a floor up towards the edge of the cliff. There was no path, and little vegetation, just bare rock, seamed and rutted by the wind.
At the top the wind was like a wild thing, fingering them and trying to get underneath to dislodge them. They lay flat on their stomachs and crawled, inching bit by bit towards the edge. And then they were there.
The first thing they knew was that the wind instead of clawing at their backs was now under their chins, blasting up the face of the cliff. Only with great effort of will could they open their eyes and look down into it. Pert held Rosella tightly by the arms, and she crawled close to him as they peered cautiously down into the abyss.
First they saw acres of grey rock streaming down away from them, and beyond that seabirds, kittiwakes wheeling and settling, guillemots sitting upright with their black backs, and small razorbills flying low and straight, and all too far below to hear their cries. Below them were slopes and stands of stunted trees, and crevices and dark defiles falling steeply down, and then the grey jumble of the Stonefields looking like pebbles strewn in the shallows of a beach but actually vast crags and boulders the size of many houses. And out in front of them was the blue, the hazy mass of solid air moving towards them from the ocean, so tangible you felt you could hold out your arms for balance and walk out on it and never fall.
Later they ran and tumbled down the hill again until they came to a little valley where rivulets and peat-springs came together into a stream trickling over rocks, sheltered briefly from the wind. Ferns and water plants had taken hold, and miniature silver birches and hazel and rowan trees huddled low, and a pair of little grey wagtails flirted on the rocks.
They traced the stream downhill, through bare patches and a deep cleft in the bog, and eventually into a much deeper valley sheltered and warm, the air still and full of insects droning, and taller trees hanging over the water. Every so often they came to a series of rocky pools where the stream could rest a while before going on its tumbling way. They took off their shoes and waded into one, balancing on stones and laughing until Pert fell in up to his neck. He washed the blood off her face, and then she wet her skirt and used it to cool his poor bruised head and jaw. She was calm and serene, and Pert wished his sister could be here to see how a real princess would be.
Afterwards they sat on a big rock under the trees to dry. Rosella's blonde head was in a patch of sunlight, and a little turquoise demoiselle fly perched on her hair, each segment of its long tail a tiny jewel. She held still, and another came, and another until she had four on her head together. Then she laughed and startled them and they flew off. Pert tucked the memory away to treasure, feeling that if he thought about it too soon or too much, his heart would break partly from happiness and partly from the certainty that they could never be this joyful again.
Back in the Bearward they stopped outside her house. They looked at each other, and he summoned his courage and kissed her again, but there was really no need to kiss. They knew what they knew, it didn't need saying. She turned and went indoors without a backward glance, and he trudged up Pardoner's Alley and home.