by Ruth Skrine
I leap up and bang the window pane with my fists, then lean my forehead against the cool glass. How could he be so self-centred? I want to rip the sheets into fragments. When the blacksmith found out his daughter was pregnant he must have forced her to marry the first man who would have her. He would have beaten her and threatened her with everlasting damnation. Henry didn’t seem to realise he himself could be the father of the baby. I look at the previous pages. Yes, the dates seem right, nine months from October to June. Maria must have known about their meetings. He should have tried harder to see Emily and protect her. All my feelings of fear and hatred towards him return with renewed force. I walk down to look at his portrait again, wanting to slash it to pieces with a knife. As a young man Henry pushed all the blame onto Emily, and as an old man he pushes his guilt onto me.
Clenching my jaw I climb back to my room. The last sheets of paper are lying at the bottom of the box. I lift them out and compare the dates again. Nine years have passed since the previous entry.
1814
I have come again to this place that was so secret but is now so exposed. Although I have pushed Emily out of my mind for a long time, I must now make an end to this story, for I am to be married. I should burn these pages, yet that would be like setting fire to my past. I cannot destroy my memories of that autumn, with the leaves falling slowly around our heads, and the smoke of bonfires in our nostrils.
My grandmother has been so generous in paying for the cost of half of the new house. It is near to the family of my intended wife, and that makes her happy. The old house has gone now. I do not know if I want to live in this valley with all its happy and sad memories, but the rustling of the leaves and the fall of the water soothe my spirit. More importantly, my duty calls. I must stay nearby, for I saw her today. I think it was she, but so changed. I didn’t want to go to the forge but Old William, who used to take my horses for me, died last year. My groom has taken ill, or I would have sent him. My new bay – Mr Peggy he was called when I bought him and I have thought of no other name for him yet – had cast a shoe. Old Betsy, the grey whom I have hunted for several years, is now quite lame, so it was imperative that I get Mr Peggy shod.
As I clattered into the yard of the forge, I saw a woman standing by the side with a baby in her arms. Two children played nearby, a dirty little girl, and a boy of about ten years old. He ran up and took my bridle.
‘Hold your horse, Mister?’
I looked down at his freckled face. My hands tightened on the reins. Those eyes, that thin mouth. It couldn’t be, could it? I looked up to where she stood. She had moved into the doorway as if for protection. Her hair was tied back and her face was aged almost out of all recognition. Her eyes held mine steadily for a moment before she gathered up her skirts and tripped indoors.
I look up at the photo of my father to see if he had freckles, rubbing my own nose. I do have some; they are not very obvious in the winter, but they get darker after I have been in the sun. Julie’s face rises up before me, pale and anxious as she lay in bed worrying about her mother in hospital. The power of genes to throb down the generations makes my heart beat as if a power-driver is excavating my chest. I have to reach the end.
Old Eddy the blacksmith wasn’t around. He isn’t really old, but I remember his face as being aged by the heat of the forge, his hands huge and callused. I can admit now that he frightened me when I was younger. I was too scared to try and see his daughter again.
A younger man came out of the shed and introduced himself to me. ‘I’m Tom Farley, and this is young Thomas.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair, not unkindly.
‘Where’s Eddy, then?’ I asked
Tom looked at the ground. ‘He died last month.’ He shuffled his feet.
I was surprised. I had not heard of his death. ‘Of what did he die?’
‘Oh, it was sudden, sir. We won’t talk about it if you don’t mind, sir.’
The man was so uncomfortable I didn’t like to press him. I dismounted and stood with my hand on Mr Peggy’s mane.
‘Will you take a seat inside sir? My wife will be glad to accommodate you.’
I looked towards the door where she had disappeared.
‘No, I’ll take a stroll.’
When my horse was ready I reached into my pocket and threw a handful of coins for young Thomas. He rushed about picking them up and then ran towards the door calling for his mother to see what he had got. On the threshold he stopped and turned towards me. He was a sturdy lad, and his smile smote me to the heart.
‘If you ever want for anything...’I couldn’t finish what I was trying to say.
Tom Farley replied gently, ‘We’re all right, sir. Don’t you fret yourself.’
I rode home through the gathering dusk, stabled Mr Peggy and came up here to the tree. When the others were felled, opening our dell and making space for the house, this one survived. I must now draw this chapter of my life to a close.
I cannot burn this record, but it must be hidden where it will be safe from prying eyes. She was so beautiful, I want to remember her as I found her, wild and strong. I shall confine these pages to the depths of the house, that house that will be my own, whether I will or no. My duty claims me.
I do not know the noble families round here yet, but I shall endeavour to make my way in society and not be led astray by the gaming and high life in the city. Once we are married I expect we will do well enough, even if I would so much rather be in London. I will strive to make the family strong in the neighbourhood. If the boy doesn’t get on at the forge I will do my duty and give him a place on the estate. I will not see him in need.
Putting the sheets down I carry my father’s picture to the window, staring into the eyes that look out at me. If he were here now, he would protect me, make the world safe as he did when I was small. I bend my head to kiss his cheek, as I have so often done before, but stop myself just in time. Never again can I trust my memory not to play tricks on me. In fury I shake the photo in its frame and throw it on the bed. What is the use of trying to unravel the misshapen past?
Henry’s last entries lie on the table where I have left them. I skim through the story again. Within the limits of the society in which he lived, he had tried to make amends. Some unspoken understanding lay between him and Tom Farley, obviously a proud man. They both seemed to accept the situation, but could not talk about it, just as they could not discuss the blacksmith’s death.
Again, I go to look at the portrait of Henry as an old man. I no longer want to slash it, although I still feel he is demanding something of me. Perhaps he just wants me to know the facts – perhaps even to forgive him. Emily came into his life when he was unhappy and lonely. In those days it was accepted that the sons of the gentry dallied with the “lower orders”. Duncan’s picture next to him catches my eye. He recorded the murder, and left the note on Henry’s memoir telling me of the hidden papers. I have to get the generations straight. Henry must have been grandfather to both Duncan and Jake, though Jake was a good deal older. Had Duncan realised that Jake was his second cousin when he left the papers for me to discover? I rub my eyes and look up at him again. For a moment I think he winks at me.
My eyes travel back to Henry. Now he is making no demands, merely staking his genetic claim on me. If Jake was his grandson, I share my inheritance with an insane murderer. I have tried to believe it is all my imagination, but the chance of two families with the same name in the valley is unlikely. I have to know for certain.
I look at my watch. It is only three o’clock. The library will still be open. I seize a coat and rush out.
Chapter 15
‘I’ve discovered what frightens me.’
Quentin and I are having supper in his flat. He looks up at me across the table. ‘Really?’
‘I’m related to Jake, the murderer.’
‘For God’s sake. How on earth do you figure that out?’
I tell him about the last instalment of Henry’s diary and my hurried visit t
o the library. I had found the family – Thomas Farley, his wife and four year old son, Jake – listed in the 1841 census as living on the estate. There can no longer be any doubt that Jake was Henry’s grandson.
‘But that was goodness knows how many generations ago! How can that possibly affect you now?’
Green specs of basil float in my tomato soup. It is one of a new range from the supermarket that I don’t like much but Quentin insisted that it was his turn to provide supper so I have to swallow it somehow. ‘I can’t escape from my inheritance.’
Quentin reaches out and takes my hand. ‘You’re crazy. There are no genes for murder.’
I look up, willing him to understand. ‘But there are for madness. I sometimes think I must be a bit mad to have my problem. Jake could have been suffering from schizophrenia or manic depression.’
Quentin goes to fetch the chicken Korma that is heating in the new microwave and calls through the door from what was my father’s dispensary. His voice sounds sterile. ‘You are as sane as anyone else, it’s just your ridiculous imagination.’ The cooking smells are replaced by the memory of disinfectant.
I rub the back of my hand where he touched me. Perhaps he is right. My obsession with the distant past is taking me over. I push the soup bowl away to make room for the steaming plate he puts in front of me. He doesn’t move to sit down but stands behind me with his hand on my shoulder. ‘Have you considered that it could be the other side of the family?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Jake’s madness. It could be from his mother’s side. Nothing to do with you.’
The thought had never occurred to me. It is as if I need to blame something dark inside me, some blemish seeded in the distant past. Madness is safer than thinking of the other possible reason I am so distorted.
The pressure of his hand and the feel of his lips on the top of my head are comforting. I relax back against him. ‘You could be right. I’ll try not to be so daft.’
He refills my glass and sits down again. I half expect him to change the subject or tell some story to make me laugh. But he is more sensitive to my mood than he has been recently. In the silence I feel he is holding my fears, not dismissing them. For a moment I am reminded of the serious way my father used to listen to my childhood terrors before reassuring me. No, don’t think of him.
After several mouthfuls he says, ‘I’m quite sure your problem has nothing to do with madness. You’re just anxious, that’s all, and we’ll overcome that, I promise you.’ He holds my eyes with his own.
After our meal he draws me to the bed and starts to take off my clothes. Gently he removes each piece, caressing the skin of my arms and legs and body as each bit of me is exposed. I lie back with a deepening sense of abandonment. This time we will manage it and I will never fret about madness again. My father’s face flits behind my closed eyelids but when I open them Quentin’s smile is tender. He rubs his chin against my cheek and I catch a whiff of after-shave. Soon we are lying side by side, naked under the duvet. Our love-making begins in the familiar way. After a few minutes he disappears to fetch me another glass of wine. Balanced on one elbow to take the glass, the duvet slips and my breasts are uncovered. Somehow it does not matter, I am quite proud of them. I empty the new glass, gulp, gulp, gulp without putting it down.
We fall back and his clever fingers arouse my passion again. Warmth and tingling spread through every inch of my body and I am floating above the bed, poised to tip over the edge of a cliff in a cascade of pleasure. Then his hand moves and every muscle in my body freezes. As I realise where his finger has gone I scream and tear myself away. A pain sears through me. ‘How could you?’
‘Don’t panic. It’s all right.’ His voice is quiet and reassuring.
‘I trusted you.’
‘You want me to help you.’
I wrench myself to the edge of the bed. ‘Not till I am ready. You hurt me.’
‘It only hurt when you jumped.’
I twist further away. He has violated my trust. Curling onto my side I try to protect myself.
He strokes my back. ‘You’re no different to any other woman.’ I can hear the relief in his voice but there is something else. Is he laughing at me? I turn back and batter his chest with my fists. ‘I hate you, I hate you. I’ll never trust you again.’
He holds my hands in a firm grip. ‘You are being hysterical.’
‘You got me drunk on purpose.’ Pulling my hands out of his I stand up to reach for my clothes. ‘You said that was against your moral code.’
‘I thought it might help you relax. It did for a moment.’
‘You tricked me.’
He gets out of bed. I have my shirt on and am hauling at my trousers when he put his arms round me. ‘Look, I’m sorry if you’re upset, but we can’t go on like this.’
‘You don’t understand.’
He sighs. ‘Perhaps I don’t, but you must try to help yourself. There’s no reason why you can’t let me in. There’s nothing wrong with your body.’
I put my hands over my ears, then shrug him off and do up my buttons without saying another word. Picking up my shoes I head for the door.
‘I was trying to help,’ he calls after me, ‘to show you that you’re normal. I’ve been reading about your problem; you should feel inside your body for yourself. Then you might believe me.’
I turn to face him. ‘You don’t understand a thing. Reading about other people can’t help me.’ I leave the flat, slamming the doors of his bedroom and sitting room as well as the one in the corridor leading to my own house.
Rage carries me up the stairs. I throw myself on the bed, tense with the need to retaliate, a cornered beast ready to strike out in self-defence. But there is no adversary out there, no target to aim at. It isn’t really Quentin’s fault. The enemy is somewhere at the core of my very self.
The next morning I want to make peace. How can Quentin love me when I can’t give him what he wants? He was only trying to help. When I wriggle my hips I can feel no soreness so he has done no damage. I put on my dressing gown and creep up to his door. For the first time since we danced round the bonfire I knock, not knowing if I will be welcome.
‘Come in.’ He motions me to the table where he is eating breakfast. ‘Get yourself a plate.’
‘Are you angry with me?’ I ask.
‘Just disappointed.’
That makes me furious all over again. ‘I’m not doing it on purpose.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Do you think I want to be like this?’
He takes a large bite of toast and I go to fetch a piece of bread. We eat in silence. I had expected to spend the day with him. The air is warming up and, although still too chilly for children to swim in the river, I’d been imagining us finding a sheltered spot under the trees. ‘Shall we take a picnic into the field?’
‘I’m going to the gym today.’
‘You don’t usually go on Sundays.’
‘I’m going today.’
‘Won’t you be back for lunch?’
‘Sorry. I’m going to do a work out and then try and find someone for a game of squash. I really need the exercise. Don’t hang around for me.’ He looks up and his face softens. ‘I’ll come through tonight if I’m not too late back.’
‘If you like.’ I can’t put any warmth into my voice, despite my fear that I am losing him.
Upstairs I get into a bath invigorated by an expensive brand of foam. A gentle wind sets the seal curtains flapping but I close my eyes and draw in the luxurious scent. When the phone rings I climb out reluctantly. I am fed up with being disturbed when I am pampering myself. Leaving wet footprints on the stair carpet and holding a towel round me, I lift the receiver.
When I hear Beth’s voice my annoyance vanishes. After a few pleasantries I ask, ‘Did Daddy have freckles?’
‘That’s a funny question, but yes, he did. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Connecte
d to the papers we found?’
‘Yes.’ There is a pause. She is waiting for me to say more.
‘I want to tell you about it but the whole thing is so complicated.’
She doesn’t press me but goes on to explain the reason she has rung. ‘George and I are going to Cornwall for a few days at Easter. We wondered if you’d like to come too.’
By then I will be desperate for a change and Quentin may miss me if I go away for a bit. I remember that George has a long-standing interest in old churches, so there will be a chance for Beth and me to spend some time alone together. ‘That would be wonderful. I’ll bring the tin box with me and you can see the story for yourself,’ I stop as I remember my sister, ‘provided Briony doesn’t need me. She nearly lost the baby a few weeks ago. Did you know?’
‘I’m so sorry. How is she?’
I reassure her that all is fine now. She explains that they have taken a house at Sennen Cove, just round the corner from Land’s End. At least it is not St Ives. I like the idea of walking in a new place where memories of my honeymoon will not be waiting to threaten me round every headland.
After putting the phone down I walk slowly back to the bathroom. Quentin said I had to help myself. I drop the towel and very deliberately let my hand work its way over my body. I start to shake as I feel some lumpy bits of skin. I have no idea where my finger has got to; perhaps it is inside already. I can’t feel a definite hole. My hand jerks away and I clutch the edge of the bath, feeling dizzy. Quentin said I was normal, but I don’t know what “normal” is. I grit my teeth and try again. Perhaps the skin forms a sort of gate that will only open when it wants to. Again I feel faint; it is just too difficult. I shake myself and get dressed. I’ll try again some other time.
Chapter 16
In the second week of March the first couple arrives to see over the house, shepherded by the agent. They peer into the rooms with hungry eyes, blind to the past. When they see something they like, the view from the drawing room window, the curved staircase with the wooden banister that I have polished specially, I see them smile, then quickly hide their pleasure.