Come Death and High Water (George & Molly Palmer-Jones)

by Ann Cleeves

  Nick spoke aggressively, more loudly than was necessary.

  How ungracious he is, John thought. He does do more than his fair share, but he enjoys it. I hope that he’s not going to be rude all weekend. Elizabeth does hate it.

  But Miss Carson was disposed to be conciliatory.

  “Of course,” she said. “You know that we depend on you and Mark. We must talk again about attracting new, younger members.”

  That, too, was a perennial item on the agenda. We must attract new members, but we will not accept their new ideas or give them any responsibility. The observatory had recruited a number of schoolboys over the years, but only Mark and Nick were left. The others had drifted away, disillusioned by the slow pace of change on the island, the refusal to accept new ways of doing things, tempted by girlfriends, rare birds, beer. John wondered sometimes why Mark and Nick stayed. He suspected that Nick might enjoy the alliances and plotting as much as the older members did, but Mark was different. He had a wild and wicked sense of fun, a wide circle of friends, other interests.

  As he always did, Charlie Todd climbed into the front seat, the only comfortable seat of the Land Rover, without giving anyone else the opportunity of doing so. John was never sure whether this lack of courtesy was caused by Charlie’s usual absentmindedness or by cunning. It was probably absentmindedness. He was a small, round man with curly white hair, like a doll’s wig, and a perpetually dazed but happy expression. People spoke to him slowly as if he were deaf, or very old, or a child. He could have been any age from fifty to seventy.

  “George phoned up,” Jasmine Carson barked suddenly. “ He couldn’t get through to you. He won’t be able to get here until tomorrow, but he said not to pick him up. He’ll walk out straight after the tide.”

  The others climbed in then, Pam Marshall and Jerry Packham taking care to sit on opposite sides of the Land Rover, Paul Derbyshire peevish about leg room and the splash of oil on the seat. It was all the same as every other committee weekend.

  The south of the island had been leased to the council and was managed by its Recreation Services Department. This meant little more than that the litter bins were emptied occasionally and that the area was open to the public. In the summer families walked over to experience a tide on a real island, to picnic on the beach or on the grass. There was nothing else to do there and no one was there now. John noticed briefly that Pam was looking as glamorously well-kept as always, that Jerry was not staring at her with his usual rapt attention, then with an irrational progression of thought, wondered if Liz would marry him now. He knew her so well, yet could not predict how she would react if he asked her again. He was frightened of upsetting things between them. It was her secrecy, her power to surprise which attracted him so deeply.

  Through use a track had been worn from south to north over Gillibry and the island rose steeply away from the shore. The observatory was at the far north end, at the point of the tear-drop, like the figurehead of an old carved boat. It looked down over the rest of the island. In contrast Charlie’s house was hidden in a fold in the ground, surrounded by the only trees which would grow on Gillibry. It was just more than halfway along the track, in a natural bowl, so that the cliffs to the east and the west of it were high and rocky, but the house was sheltered. In the summer flowers grew in the garden. The house itself was a prefabricated wooden chalet which Charlie had imported specially from Sweden. It was incongruous with bright paint and shutters and could have been taken from one of the illustrations of his books. The house was known on the island as the Wendy House. No one could remember who had named it. John stopped in the dip in the road and waited patiently as Charlie collected together the plastic carrier bags and brown-paper parcels which made up his luggage.

  “You’ll be up to eat with us as usual?” John asked.

  “Certainly. Oh, certainly. It will be a very important meeting, you know. There’s something that I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I know that you’ll be most interested to hear all about it.”

  He was still talking as he disappeared through the stunted, wind-shaped sycamores to his home.

  At that point the island was separated by a drystone wall, part of which formed the southern boundary of Charlie’s garden. The public was not allowed beyond it, and this northern half of Gillibry formed the trapping area of the observatory. The traps stood over any cover which might attract birds, over small clumps of bushes, over a stream, in Charlie’s garden. On the windswept moor to the north of the Wendy House they were the only break to the skyline, but for the white walls of the observatory. The observatory was formed from a complex of lightkeepers’ cottages. The lighthouse had long since fallen into disrepair and been demolished, but the cottages were still strong. They were as smart as if still owned by Trinity House, freshly whitewashed and painted. They and the outhouses had been built around a cobbled courtyard, and inside had been transformed into dormitories, single rooms, a laboratory and common room. There were a well-equipped kitchen and dining room, and on the first floor a staff flat. From the outside they looked unchanged. As he drove through the white wooden gates into the yard John heard the rhythmic pounding of the generator. There was no mains electricity on Gillibry. He wished that Elizabeth had waited for him to start it. It was an awkward and cumbersome machine and sometimes had to be cranked with a handle. He knew that she was frightened of the machine, had been even before she was pregnant, but she would never ask him to help her.

  As soon as they arrived John went to the kitchen to find Elizabeth. The guests could take care of themselves. They always had the same rooms. Committee weekends followed the same pattern every year. Soon Doctor Derbyshire would open a bottle of Scotch in the common room, someone would put a light to the fire and they would wait for Elizabeth to ring the bell for supper.

  Elizabeth was stirring a pan of soup over the Calor-Gas stove. She was three years older than him, but did not look it. Her hair was thick and black and long. She was slim still, in jeans and a sweater.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  She turned to him and pulled a face. “Lousy. I’ve been sick four times and I always seem to be tired.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. It’s supposed to be a sign that the hormones are working properly. You might have to give me a hand with breakfast tomorrow morning, though. I’m not sure that I’m up to frying bacon. Are they all settled in?”

  “I suppose so. George won’t be here until tomorrow morning, but he’s going to walk. It’s a shame. I wanted to have a go at cannon netting waders over the tide and he’s had a lot of experience. Charlie seemed very excited about something.”

  “Charlie’s always excited about something. Has Nick been behaving himself?”

  “Mm. So far. I think that Mark is a good influence on him. He’s not usually quite so obnoxious when Mark is around.”

  “What about Pam and Jerry?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think that Jerry might be coming to his senses. He doesn’t seem quite so zombie-like and admiring as usual.”

  “I do hope so. I like Jerry so very much.”

  They did not need to discuss Miss Carson. Jasmine was always the same.

  In the common room they had left the curtains open, but had lit tilly lamps. The generator would have provided them with electric light, but the tillies were a committee weekend tradition, an affectation, a nostalgia for the time when the observatory was being developed, before the generator had been installed. It was not cold but the driftwood fire added light and atmosphere. It was a comfortable room, with rugs, big armchairs and a lot of books. It should have been a relaxed, enjoyable time. Paul Derbyshire had opened a bottle of whisky. They all held a drink. Usually it was a period of quiet conversation—restrained, academic, about birds and ringing. But as the tide swept in on either side of the long room, so that it could have been a ship moving forward through water, the occupants seemed unable to pretend even to friendship, and there was a mounting sense of ten
sion and irritation.

  Pam Marshall wandered to a writing table, where the daily log of birdwatching activity was kept, and there was a card index of ringing totals and recoveries. She had changed, and was wearing a plum-coloured velvet skirt and a simple cream blouse, quite appropriate to the occasion. She would never have worn anything unsuitable, but no one else had changed and the different clothes added to the impression that she was ill at ease, trying for some reason to impress.

  She flicked through the pages of the book, then said loudly: “This is really too bad. The log is nearly a week out of date. John should make more effort over things like this.”

  Her petulance surprised the others. Usually she tried very hard to be charming.

  “Nothing to make a fuss about, surely,” commented Jasmine Carson without looking up from the scientific journal she was reading with the aid of thick-glassed, heavy spectacles. “ I’m sure that the day sheets in the ringing room will be made up. You could always transfer the figures to the log now if you wanted to.”

  “Oh, it’s not that important. I just like to see things properly done.”

  Her voice was brittle. She looked at her watch. “I want to see Charlie. I don’t suppose I’ve time to go down to the Wendy House now.”

  Jerry Packham answered with authority: “I shouldn’t bother Charlie if I were you. There’ll be time for that later.”

  He looked embarrassed, as if surprised at his own ability to be forceful. Nick shot a significant, gossip-laden look towards Mark, but Mark did not respond. Nick seemed offended by this lack of response, and with a desire to give offence turned to Paul Derbyshire. With bad-tempered sarcasm he said: “You’ll be available to join the working party to mend the paddock heligoland trap, will you Doctor?”

  He achieved his objective. The doctor began to mutter excuses about being very busy, and not being as young as he was. He was notoriously idle.

  Nick interrupted brutally: “Don’t worry. I expect Jerry, Mark and I will manage. We usually do.”

  Mark usually managed to disperse his friend’s aggression with a joke, a piece of clowning, but he seemed hardly to have heard. He seemed unaware that the others were looking at him, expecting him to work his magic, to form the committee into a friendly, cohesive group. He was small and squat with long arms and a squashed, undefined face, as if the features were moulded from plasticine. He stood abruptly, walked to a window and looked out to the lights on the shore. There was a general sense of disappointment and resentment, as if he had let them down. The silence was broken only by the sound of the tide and the hiss of tillies, then Jasmine Carson said:

  “John tells me that he would like to try cannon netting the waders over the tide. I haven’t heard a weather forecast. We’d have to be sure that the conditions are right. John has borrowed the equipment from the North Devon Ringing Group. He says that they have had considerable success, but I don’t know if it’s the right technique for us.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” snapped Pamela. “ We’ve got to try something new occasionally. If you had your way we’d still be shooting the bloody birds to identify them.”

  Just then the bell rang for the meal. The noise was simultaneously a further jar to strained nerves and a release of tension. Deliberately slowly, they walked together into the dining room.

  They sat together around one long table. John and Elizabeth ate with them. Usually at the observatory, meals were cheerful, functional affairs, but for committee weekends some effort was made to add a little style. There was a tablecloth on the big, Formica-topped table, with wine provided by Paul Derbyshire, and Elizabeth served the meal. (Schoolchildren were sent to the kitchen to collect their own plates.) Charlie had not arrived, but he was always un-punctual, and they started without him. John seemed not to notice the group’s uneasiness, and began to talk about cannon netting, trying to persuade everyone to join his enthusiasm.

  “We’d be crazy not to try it. We could double, treble, our wader catches in one day. The conditions here are ideal.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous?” Jasmine Carson was still cautious. She seemed unmoved by Pamela Marshall’s outburst.

  “Not if it’s properly set up. I’ve had quite a lot of experience. We used cannon nets on the Wash when I was at college. I’ve got the right endorsement to my licence.”

  Elizabeth was sitting next to Mark. She ate little, was less exuberantly involved in the conversation than usual. She seemed to be saving her strength, moving with economy. Usually she communicated with her hands and her eyes and a tremendous theatrical range of voice.

  Mark smiled at her. “ You’re very quiet,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She was fond of Mark. She had known him since he was a schoolboy and was tempted for a moment to tell him her secret, but she nodded.

  “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

  Charlie came in then. Nobody took very much notice of him. The conversation did not stop. He was wearing baggy trousers, a jersey with knitted patches on the elbows, and carpet slippers. Elizabeth got up quietly to fetch his soup. When she returned they had started to discuss the working party to mend the trap.

  Doctor Derbyshire called across the table to Charlie: “It was generous of you to offer to buy the wire mesh. Most generous.”

  The thanks were automatic. Charlie always did provide the extras which the modest membership fees could not cover.

  But now he looked up, peered over his soup, and said earnestly: “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I should have thought about it before. It hardly seems worth bothering to mend the traps. You see, I’m going to sell the island.”

  He continued, noisily, to eat his soup.

  Chapter Two

  There was no spontaneous reaction. At first they were too shocked. Charlie seemed calm, unexcited. Perhaps he was playing one of his practical jokes. Then the silence became awkward, challenging. Charlie stopped eating and looked around, inviting response. Pamela Marshall gave a well-bred, high-pitched little laugh, but Jasmine spoke for them all.

  “I think, Charles, that you had better explain.”

  The stern schoolmistress voice came at just the right moment. She looked across the table at him with a controlled ferocity which had been one of her favourite methods for maintaining discipline. He surrendered immediately to her authority, lowered his eyes, and when he spoke it was with a naughty child’s defensiveness.

  “It’s a very worthwhile cause,” he said. “I saw it on the television when I was at my friend’s. A canal boat, which is a theatre too. It goes along the canal giving performances and the cast live on the barge. But the boat needs restoration, and the Arts Council have stopped giving them any money.”

  He looked around the table. They were all staring at him: no one would help him out, no one would make the explanation easier. It was nearly high tide. The island was separated from the mainland. In the silence they could hear the waves breaking over the rocks and the slipway at the north end. He caught Jasmine’s eye and started again.

  “They seemed such nice people. I phoned them up and offered to help. They were so excited and grateful. They are very young. Then I realized that I didn’t have much money left. The film made most of the money and that was a long time ago. The books don’t seem to be selling so well lately … They said that I could live with them on the boat.”

  “Do I understand,” said Jasmine Carson, “ that you intend to sell the island to finance their hare-brained scheme? You are a foolish man, Charlie Todd.”

  She could not have given a worse insult.

  “But what about the observatory?” Nick demanded. He had lost the pose of petulant aggression. There seemed nothing to him without it. They had become so used to the act that now he was unrecognizable, without personality.

  “I thought,” Charlie said hopefully, “ that the trust might like to buy the observatory. At a realistic price, of course. I wouldn’t want to be greedy, but it costs rather a lot of money to restore a canal boat.
”

  “My dear man.” Paul Derbyshire’s voice was shrill with impatience and unhappiness. He was a small man, thin and nervous, and now his face was red, the colour of raw meat. “ How could the trust purchase the observatory? It hasn’t the money to buy a roll of wire netting without your help.”

  “I could make it a condition of sale that you stay in the observatory,” Charlie said. He felt that he was being extremely reasonable and looked with distaste and surprise at the angry, irritated faces. What a boring, unimaginative lot they were. His words seemed only to fuel the doctor’s impatience.

  “We’d never be able to survive here if we had to pay rent for the buildings. Even if the landowner allowed us to retain the use of the observatory the rent would be astronomical and we could not expect to have the same unrestricted access to the trapping area. Anything might happen here. Imagine a café at the north end, caravans in the paddock, an ice-cream van on the beach. And everywhere people.”

  He hesitated, imagining the horrors of the invasion of Gillibry’s privacy. He tried to calm himself and said, as reasonably as he could: “My dear Charles, you must reconsider.”

  But Charlie was stubborn. He was dreaming of life as a travelling player, moving from village to village along the canal. The observatory no longer had any relevance to him. It was as if it had never existed. With some attempt at dignity, but sounding like a child fighting over a long-discarded toy, he said: “ It’s my island. I can do what I like with it.”

  Elizabeth gathered the soup plates together. As she moved she become the focus of their attention. They ignored Charlie and watched her as if she was performing a dance or a mime. When she went into the kitchen they waited in silence for her return. There was too much to be said to Charlie and no one felt up to the task. Elizabeth returned, carrying a huge casserole containing the main meal. She always made an effort for committee weekends and they turned their attention gratefully to the food. She acknowledged their compliments with a smile as stylized as the ritual clearing of the plates, but Mark at least noticed that she had been crying. John abruptly left the table and did not return. They watched him go in astonishment. Still nothing was said.