A Brief History of Montmaray

by Michelle Cooper

  The politics was even worse than usual because the German Ambassador, von Ribbentrop, was there—oh, I heard the most amusing bit of gossip about him from Julia! It seems he was only a Ribbentrop, not a von, but he managed to persuade some elderly female von Ribbentrop that he was actually related to her, and he had her adopt him so he could take on her aristocratic name. Isn’t that a scream? Especially as all the girls call him von Ribbensnob—you should have heard him at dinner, he’s worse than Lady Bosworth.

  As for who else was there—Rupert’s eldest brother and his wife (who is Lady B’s niece); a young American widow called Mrs. Hooper, dripping with diamonds (she even had them on the ankle straps of her shoes); one of the Mitford girls (forget her name, but not one of the madly Fascist ones, thank heavens, there was more than enough politics already); two Earls; and a French Duke. I rather think I was invited to see if I’d “do” for Lord and Lady B’s youngest daughter, who looks and sounds almost exactly like a horse. At first I wondered if Lady B mistakenly thought we had money, but no, turns out she’s just gaga about royalty, even unimportant ones like us. Needless to say, I tried to be as charmless as possible around the daughter. (And don’t tut, Soph, I wasn’t cruel. To mollify you, please find enclosed two Tatlers and a Country Life, which I stole from Aunt C’s drawing room.)

  Now I am back at school, which is as horrid as ever. I have failed two Latin tests, History is a mystifying blur of dates and names, and we are doing Titus Andronicus in English. Also, the Music Master is in love with me, so I have to keep dashing into broom cupboards to avoid him in the corridors. By the way, an accident happened with my roommate’s bagpipes; I can’t imagine how it occurred, but they are unplayable. The entire school is prostrate with grief.

  Must go, lights-out in a minute. Do write back lots and lots, you know how much I miss you all.

  Love from,

  Toby

  Then there were notes for each of us, even Carlos—that’s supposed to encourage Henry to practice her reading aloud. Carlos’s and Henry’s were in English, of course. Veronica’s mostly consisted of a copy of a letter that Simon had drafted and Toby had signed regarding Montmaray’s policy of non-intervention in the Spanish conflict, which had been sent to the British Foreign Office. Veronica read it aloud to us and I understood just enough to be impressed by Simon’s clever phrasing. Veronica said it was meaningless diplomatic drivel and that Simon had better not have used the Royal Seal, but that perhaps it would remind someone somewhere in that government that Montmaray was once an influential presence in European politics. Then she went off to the library. Lucky she did before I translated my note; otherwise she would have wondered what I was squeaking about and asked to read it. It said:

  Dear Soph,

  I didn’t dare put this in the letter because I knew V would have a fit, but Simon came to dinner at Lord B’s. I pretended he was some sort of cousin of ours and a diplomat besides (well, he is, sort of). Aunt C didn’t realize until it was too late, and then it didn’t matter because Simon was so charming and clever. Truly. Lady B’s daughter, the horsy one, was quite taken with him.

  Then we played a game after dinner, where you say a line of verse and everyone has to guess where it’s from. I was completely stupid at it—all I could think of to recite was “The Lady of Shalott”—but Simon quoted Edward de Quincy’s “Voyage of King Bartholomew,” which had everyone stumped (even me—I’d forgotten just how awful Edward’s verse could be).

  And then Simon started telling all sorts of Montmaray stories—pirate raids and sunken treasure and the Armada and Napoleon and so on—and the girls were mad for it, which of course drew von Ribbensnob over like a bee to honey (he has wandering hands, just in case you ever have the misfortune to meet him; the girls were all giving him a wide berth). Then he and Simon had a long fireside chat about history and politics. I didn’t understand a word, but von R was most impressed, I could tell. Isn’t it splendid for Simon? He is wasted in that clerk’s position. If only he spoke German …

  Also, I must tell you that Julia thought you were very pretty. She said you had beautiful eyes and the sweetest expression. I know you won’t believe a word of it, but it’s true. So there. Just wait till you come over here and acquire some nice dresses; you’ll outshine all the debutantes. And yes, of course I’ll convince Aunt C to buy you lots of lovely things; did you really need to ask? Is V still being stubborn, or have you talked her round by now? Regardless, make sure she writes to Grenville about the traveling arrangements—or I could get Simon to do it. Let me know. But do get on with it.

  I’m not sure which I found more thrilling—the thought of Simon in evening dress, impressing everyone with his cleverness, or the image of myself in a glorious, glittering gown, walking into a dinner party on (I might as well admit it here) Simon’s arm. Drawing gasps of admiration. “Who is that elegant couple?” Et cetera.

  Yes, utterly pathetic, I know. Anyway, it’s a sharp reminder that I need to stop being such a jellyfish and determine once and for all what I’m doing—staying here with Veronica or leaving. But any decision-making will have to wait till tomorrow—I’m going to bed now. My throat feels as though I’ve swallowed a handful of sand. I do hope I’m not getting a cold…

  16th November 1936

  The weather is miserable and so am I. My nose is clogged, my head aches, and I can’t stop coughing. I’ve been trying to read, but have to keep breaking off to grope for a handkerchief, and then I lose my place—and besides, my eyeballs hurt whenever I move them. I thought writing might be better, but it’s no good, either. I can’t help wondering if this is God’s punishment for me fancying myself in love with Simon. And now I’m sounding like Rebecca—I really must be feverish. Going to try to sleep now, although every time I drift off, I dream I’m drowning in a deep, dark sea…

  Veronica just came in to bring me hyssop tea and the news. Henry is coughing now, and so is Rebecca—although they’re attempting to outdo each other in protestations of wellness, Henry because apparently it’s girlish to be confined to bed and Rebecca because she believes His Majesty would starve to death if she wasn’t up and about to look after him. There has been no communication to or from the village today, most unusual for us, but that’s probably a good thing, as we don’t want to spread this whatever-it-is to them. Imagine if George became ill—he’s not getting any younger, and this incessant coughing is so wearying. Veronica points out, however, that we probably caught it from the men who brought our mail, one of whom she remembers coughing and spluttering all over our parcels, in which case we’ve all been exposed to it.

  I’ve just read back over this and cannot believe I actually wrote the inane phrase “not getting any younger.” I do hope my brain hasn’t been permanently affected by this flu…

  18th November 1936

  I write this sitting by Henry’s bed. Her face is flushed and damp, and her limbs keep jerking the blankets crooked, but at least she’s sleeping now. Awake, she is a most uncooperative patient. She fusses when I try to get her to sip some hyssop tea, refuses spoonfuls of broth, and pushes my hand away fretfully when I sponge her forehead. Veronica, the only one to have escaped the contagion, is worried enough to have raised the “Doctor Required” signal flag over the gatehouse. Not that many ships are likely to see it—there’s a storm bearing down on us from the north and another from the west. Any captain worth his salt would be steering well clear of us. There have been hardly any ships around lately, anyway—I think it’s to do with the Spanish war. But as I keep telling myself, what could a doctor do that we aren’t already doing?

  Veronica has just taken a pot of chicken soup (she promised me it wasn’t the white fluffy hen) and a jam roly-poly down to the village in case any of them are ill. Meanwhile, my voice has disappeared almost entirely after reading Henry three chapters of Treasure Island (using appropriately terrifying tones for Black Dog and old Pew). It’s the only way to keep her in bed. At least her fever seems to have broken, thank heavens. G
oing downstairs now to brew some hot lemon and honey for my throat …

  Veronica is back and says Alice, Jimmy, and George are all coughing, but George is by far the worst affected. He wouldn’t let her visit him—he was afraid she’d catch it, even though Veronica shouted through his door that we have been coughing all over her for days and she feels fine. Mary reported he looks dreadful, gray and withered, with his chest sunken in. Veronica has left the doctor’s flag up over the gatehouse, but the weather is terrible, there are no ships on the horizon, and in any case, George despises doctors. He maintains that sea air, brandy, and comfrey ointment cure just about every ailment known to man and that “bone saw-ers” just make matters worse.

  Oh, Henry’s awake again—back to the Admiral Benbow Inn and marauding buccaneers …

  23rd November 1936

  Veronica went down to the village early this morning and Mary was waiting for her on George’s doorstep; she said he’d been asking for Veronica all night. Veronica didn’t tell me what he said to her—it couldn’t have been much, he was so ill—then Jimmy came in, coughing himself, to sit with his great-great-uncle, and ten minutes later, George took his last breath. Neither Veronica nor I can bear to tell Henry just yet. I can’t quite believe it myself. Imagining Montmaray without George is just so…

  Well, I’ve had a good long cry, and although my nose is all clogged up again, I feel a bit better. I am madly praying to a God I’m not sure I believe in that George is now floating on a tranquil sea with a good supply of fresh pilchards for bait, a set of unknotted lines, and lots of cloud cover so the fish can’t see any shadows. That’s a lovely picture. I will try to keep it firmly in my mind now as I write to Toby and tell him. Veronica has gone back down to the village to help Mary pack up George’s things and clean the cottage.

  It is still raining, but slow and steady now. The gale has eased to a stiff breeze. Every now and then, the clouds tear themselves apart and silver shows through. It’s the closest I’ve seen to sunlight in days.

  25th November 1936

  Today we buried George and something very strange happened. I have told and told myself that I was just being fanciful, but I know I wasn’t. It really happened, and I don’t see how it could have. But I’m determined to write it all down—that might help me figure it out.

  All right. Today we buried George. There’s no room for a cemetery on the island (and it’s difficult to dig six feet down into solid granite), so all the villagers are buried at sea. I wouldn’t want it for myself, but George loved the sea—at least, he respected it and was grateful to it, and I suppose that’s pretty close to love. Veronica, Henry, and I walked down to the village after breakfast—rather slowly, as Henry was still coughing and even I felt a bit wobbly after all those days in bed (Rebecca stayed back to look after Uncle John). Alice and Mary were still sewing George inside his sailcloth shroud when we arrived. They’d dressed him in his good trousers and a clean blue shirt, and tied something heavy to his feet to stop him floating. I think it was that broken bit of anchor he used as a doorstop. After they were finished, we carried him to the gig—he weighed hardly anything—and then set off towards South Head in the thickening rain.

  It was the most wretched boat trip I’ve ever taken. The wind scooped up armfuls of icy water and tossed it in our faces, meanwhile whipping our hair around so hard that we could barely see. Alice, Mary, Jimmy, and I handled the oars. Henry was coughing harder than ever, although she insisted she was fine—and indeed, she looked ten times better than Veronica, who was as white as the shroud. Veronica has always been close to George, but I was surprised at how badly she was letting her grief show. It isn’t like her at all; she’s always been the most stoic of us. And George was nearly a hundred years old, after all. He’d had a full life, a good one; he’d been loved by his family; he’d died quietly, without much pain, watched over by his great-great-nephew. If one has to die, there are far worse deaths than his.

  But I didn’t say any of that to Veronica, of course.

  We were well past the rocks, out on the dark blue water, when Alice and Mary finally stopped rowing. They looked at Veronica expectantly.

  “Here, then, Your Highness?” Alice called over the moaning of the wind. Veronica said nothing. I’d expected her to take the lead in the ceremony—I certainly hadn’t a clue what we were supposed to do, other than toss the body overboard—but she merely huddled in the prow, staring at the thrashing sea. Alice and Mary turned their enquiring looks on me. We were all aware that I was a very poor second choice of leader, but I nodded.

  “There’s usually a prayer first,” Mary whispered. “Shall we?”

  I nodded again, and she and Alice recited the Lord’s Prayer, Jimmy joining in halfway through after a prod in the ribs from his mother. I mouthed along, but couldn’t help wondering what George would have thought of it. The only time I’d ever heard him mention God was once when he’d stepped on a fishhook. I’d never seen him go anywhere near the chapel or say grace at meals or spend Sundays doing anything other than what he usually did. If he’d believed in any god, it would have been Neptune or Poseidon, not the God of the Anglican Book of Common Prayer.

  “Amen,” said Alice, Mary, and Jimmy.

  I was fairly sure that something from the Bible came next—“I am the resurrection, and the life” or “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” or “O death, where is thy sting?”—but I couldn’t remember what, exactly. Clearly, neither could anyone else. After an awkward pause, Alice and Mary hoisted up the bundle, one at each end. The gig rocked wildly for a moment as we all struggled to retain our balance. Veronica’s arm shot out to steady Henry and I felt my shoulders slump in relief—now she had come back to herself, now she would take over. But she still said nothing, and suddenly George’s body was overboard, slipping into the sea with barely a splash.

  “Someone ought to say something now,” Henry said hoarsely between coughs. “Something… special.”

  I glanced at Veronica. Her hand was still clenched around Henry’s upper arm, but her face was hidden behind her hair, which the wind had wrenched out of its pins. Everyone but Veronica seemed to be looking at me.

  So I stood up, not quite knowing what I would say. I opened my mouth and suddenly it was full of words—Shakespeare’s, not my own, but I thought George might approve, since he’d battled so many storms at sea.

  “Full fathom five, thy father lies,” I said. “Of his bones are coral made, those are pearls that were his eyes—nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change, into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell…”

  My voice was barely audible, even to me, over the wind and the waves.

  “Hark!” I said, louder. “Now I hear them! Ding-dong, bell!”

  Henry tilted her head, as though listening for underwater chimes. Alice reached out for Jimmy and laid a broad hand on his back, nodding at me all the while.

  “That were lovely, Your Highness,” said Mary. Veronica looked up and gave me a surprised, pleased half smile, bringing Simon to mind, and I was still basking in the general approval when an enormous wave crashed over the prow. In all the shouting and confusion, one of the oars slid overboard.

  “I’ll get it,” I yelled, because I was closest. I leaned over the side. The oar bucked in the gray-blue froth, brushing my fingertips.

  “Let me, Your Highness,” cried Alice, but I’d already curled my hand around the paddle and was dragging it closer.

  That was when it happened.

  I looked down into the water, still clutching the oar, and suddenly everything went dark. And I know I often get a bit faint when I hang my head upside down for a long time, but this was different—I could see, but the noise and the cold seemed far away and I wasn’t even sure if I was still breathing. I felt as though I were in a dream. Then a long white shape drifted under the boat, under my outstretched arm, and I nearly screamed because I realized I was inside a dream, that dream, except this time it was all real.

>   Of course, the shape was George’s body, not yet sunk in the turbulent water. I knew that. The bundle moved restlessly, the bit of anchor tied to his feet not quite heavy enough to drag his body under. I could see where the stitching of the canvas had started to come undone. Thick, dark hair poked out of the top, washing around in the swirling current … except George hadn’t had any hair; he’d been bald ever since I could remember. I was shivering by then, trying to pull my arm back, but it seemed frozen solid. The waves tossed the bundle up and down, to and fro. All at once, the head flopped out of the cloth, its face lolling to one side, and that was when I saw it clearly.

  It was Isabella.

  I stared into her dead eyes for an infinite second—and then I was being yanked back into the gig and someone was shouting and I felt a jersey being pulled over my head. The wool smelled of Veronica, of soap and tea and ink.

  “Sorry,” I gasped. “Just … felt a bit faint.”

  Henry unclenched my fingers from the oar and Veronica insisted on rowing back in my stead. The rain had turned to a downpour by then, and I was cold and wet and bone-tired. Shock, I suppose.

  Well, I’m not in shock now, eight hours later, sitting up in bed with a blanket round my shoulders and a hot brick at my feet, and I’m certain it was Isabella’s face. It wasn’t even how I imagine she must look now, but how she looked years ago, before she left. The face I saw was Veronica’s face, only with a sharper nose, darker eyes, more of a peak where her hair was pulled away from her forehead. Yes, it was Isabella; I know it was.

  And now—now I understand that it’s been Isabella all along, that she has been the thing in my dreams. But what does it mean? It doesn’t make any sense. Firstly, Isabella isn’t dead, and secondly, if she did, by chance, die sometime in the past eight years without anyone informing us, she certainly wasn’t buried at sea off South Head—we’d know if she had been. Unless it’s some sort of prophecy—except she looked so young. Isabella was always very diligent about her lotions and facial massages and so on, but she’d be nearly forty now, and the face didn’t look that old.