by Ruth Skrine
I swallow again, forcing the wine between my teeth. I can feel the hair on the sides of Quentin’s face, the ends bristly under my fingers. Why did he lie to me? I reach out for the bottle but the tumbler is bigger than I realised and there is not much left. As I tip it to drain the dregs, some spills onto the bed. Clutching the stained duvet cover I thrust it into my mouth. Throttle the words. Obliterate the picture of him digging in the compost, of her standing in her white coat watching as we giggle over the baked potatoes.
Draining the remaining wine like an automaton, I dribble some down my chin. When the two deceivers were decorating the sitting room, they must have been laughing behind my back.
The tumbler falls to the floor and rolls across the spinning room. I wait for the crash of breaking glass, wanting something to shatter. If it splinters I may cut my foot, like I did on that walk across the weir. I cradle my sore finger with the other hand, waiting for sleep or death. But I can no longer stay upright. Falling face down on the bed, I fix my fingers under the edges of the mattress, splicing my lurching body as if to lash it onto a stretcher. I am on the sea, the pitch of the boat making me sick. Lurching out of bed, I fall to my knees and crawl on all fours to the loo, getting there just in time.
I must have passed out for the next thing I know is that I am sitting on the floor with one arm dangling over the lavatory seat above pink, lumpy water. I pull the handle and struggle back to bed, only to wake shivering some time later to drag the duvet over me and pass out again.
***
A harsh ringing batters my ears. I reach out and knock my alarm clock off the table. The jangle continues to reverberate in my throbbing head until I roll onto the floor and grope blindly for the knob. Then the silence echoes in the pain behind my eyes. I stagger to fetch some paracetamol before throwing myself back on the bed. I still have two hours before Beth and George are due to call for me.
At first I am aware of nothing but the agony in my head. Then, as the pills begin to take effect, shame engulfs me again. I have to sell the house at once; that will be the only way to liberate myself from the pair who contaminate every inch of my home. Opening my eyes I look at the pool of light thrown on the ceiling by the bulb over my bed, leaving the corners of the room in darkness. If only I could rise up and break through that pale patch, blast a hole in the ceiling and float far above the valley, never to return.
It is vital that I make my escape before there is any risk of meeting either of those traitors. My clothes have been on all night. Stripping them off me I try to wash. The room is not entirely steady yet so I sit on the floor to pull on my tights and shoes, trying not to think of the task I accomplished last time I was in that positon: Then I add my night things to the suitcase and pick up the tin box with its fragile sheets, tucking it down the side of the case between a pair of beach shoes and a spare jumper. Henry lost his Emily and Jake became a murderer. If I catch sight of Quentin there could easily be another murder.
My father’s photo is still face down on my table. That time in the bathroom… I was not yet three when Briony was born. My grandmother was looking after me – that was when I became her “little precious”. Why was she not bathing me that day when I smeared the wall?
Duncan’s diary falls open. I reread his account of being bitten by the dog. The first time I had been envious that he could remember something so early in his life, but now I have memories of my own – but only snap shots. There must be many more. Perhaps I am blocking things out on purpose. I can only think that I smeared the wall because my jealousy of the new baby was so unbearable that I had to do something.
My mind is wandering. In a panic I shut the lid of my case and walk carefully down the stairs clutching the banister. Once outside, my head begins to clear and I realise I am hungry. Leaving my case by the fountain, I creep back to the kitchen and fill my pocket with biscuits. I long for a cup of coffee, but don’t dare linger. The others will be stirring soon. Shutting the wrought iron gates behind me, I walk round the corner, out of sight of the house, to wait for the car to appear.
Chapter 18
Seals invade my dreams again during the first night at Sennen Cove. I am standing above a beach watching two black shapes flop towards the water where they disappear. In between the white tops of the waves it is too dark to pick them out. Scanning the empty expanse all the way to the horizon, I teeter on the edge of the cliff, in danger of crashing onto the rocks. But there is no point in risking my life if they are going to swim far out, for they would be too small to see, even in broad daylight. In my dreams I am sometimes logical, even if such common sense deserts many of my waking hours.
My gaze drifts back towards the shore. A dark patch of debris floats past my dreaming eyes. Then I see the rubbish is not just drifting in the current. A head moves with intent, another close alongside. I wake and look towards the window, seeking the comfort of my oak tree. Rubbing my eyes I search the room for familiar shapes. Several moments pass before I become aware that I am not in my own bed. Wriggling, I find the mattress is more comfortable than I expected. George can be very careful with money when he is not spending it on the garden, but my anxiety about a dismal cottage is unfounded. Unwilling to face the others before I am forced to do so, I snuggle down again.
Much of yesterday was spent in silence, staring out of the back window of the car with unseeing eyes, or dozing with my head flopped to the side. By the time we passed over the crest at the top of the steep hill down to the village, the crick in my neck made it impossible for me to follow Beth’s finger pointing to the sea sparkling below. She must have thought I was too exhausted to show any interest. I move my head on the pillow and find the stiffness has disappeared.
When we arrived at sea level I tried to be more enthusiastic. The cottage Beth and George have rented is one of four at the end of the road that runs along the sea wall. They jut out, a row of square boxes stuck onto the rocks below the lookout point. A blast from the sea batters the walls. The cove is just coming to life after the winter. Opposite the lifeboat house the mini-mart was open as we drove by. Beach balls and flippers hung outside swaying in the cold wind.
Fully awake now, I lie listening to the monotonous sound of the waves as they advance in a crescendo, break and pull back with a diminishing whisper. The repeated cycle drums my ears but the cottage feels cosy. My brain appears to be paralysed, as if the drunken torrent of feeling that overwhelmed me has been replaced by a deep stupor. I close my eyes and see again the two seal heads swimming strongly against the tide. Turning onto my side I drop back into a heavy sleep.
When I wake later I find hot croissants for breakfast. We discuss plans for the day. Beth insists that I must not feel bound to spend the time with them. George has worked out an itinerary of churches for his week. She will tag along when she feels like it, but she wants to poke around the art shops in Penzance and visit various potters she has patronised on previous visits. I ask if she would like to look at the diaries but she shows no impatience and I do not have the energy to think about it at the moment.
We arrange to meet for lunch at Porthcurno. I stride out along the coast, keeping close to the cliff edge to avoid the tourist horrors at Land’s End. About two miles beyond, I cut inland. The small lanes are bounded by stone walls covered in such verdant green that they could be hedges. After battling with the violent gusts from the sea the sheltered valley makes me sleepy. I plod on in a trance.
Each day I walk a bit further, determined to push myself to the point of exhaustion, despite the stiffness of my muscles. When my house and its occupants, either the ancestors or the faithless couple, threaten to intrude into my thoughts, I walk faster, jumping the small streams that trickle down through the gorse and concentrating on finding firm footholds and keeping my balance.
In the evenings we talk about the small happenings of the day, the sudden changes in the weather, church architecture, flowers and Cornish customs. Beth does not bombard me with questions as Susan or Briony would have done
in their efforts to help. But I sometimes catch a troubled look as she passes me a plate of fresh fish from Newlyn, or local farm-reared meat from the market in Penzance. I want to confide in her but by the time we have finished our meal I am so exhausted that I hurry off to embrace the oblivion of sleep.
On the fourth morning Beth is a bit tetchy, saying she has to clean the house and George can go on his own to St Ives. I suspect she has seen enough churches for a while.
George turns to me. ‘Would you like to come with me, Meena?’
St Ives is the last place I want to go – too many memories. ‘You’re very kind, but perhaps Beth would like some help with the house?’ I glance across the breakfast table to where she is peeling one of the imported peaches that have just arrived in the shops. ‘Perhaps we could do a walk together when we’ve done the cleaning?’
‘That would be great.’ As she looks up at me her smile lifts her face. I feel that she wants to come, not just to escape from George, or talk me into feeling better, but because she anticipates some pleasure in my company. I jump up and start to clear the table. ‘I’ll help you clean, then we can take some food and walk up to Cape Cornwall.’
We step out across the sand towards the headland. The bay is still in shadow, but the sun now lights the top of the high cliff ahead. By the time we get to the Cape it will be in full sunlight, if the wind doesn’t blow up unexpected clouds as it did yesterday.
We don’t talk much, but walk a few feet apart in comfortable silence. I think back to the only other time I have been on these sands. My new husband had stayed close beside me, insisting on holding my arm. I had tried to get away, running in the waves and pretending a gaiety I did not feel. Now my small contacts with Beth are spontaneous and comfortable.
She picks up a piece of seaweed and starts to pop the bubbles as my father used to do. ‘Look, bladder-wrack.’
‘That’s a funny name. Do you know where it comes from?’
Before answering she put her hands between her knees to apply extra pressure. ‘They’re jolly tough.’ She pops a few more, then throws the whole strand towards the sea. As we walk on she says, ‘I think the word bladder is from the Old English, Blawan meaning “to blow”.’
I skip a step, and pick up a perfect shell. The two halves are still joined together, opened enough for me to see the smooth, shiny inside. I should be able to remember what it is called but, not wanting to show my ignorance, I put it carefully in my pocket to identify later.
We reach the end of the beach and start to climb the cliff. The path winds round, revealing new vistas of sea with each turn. Beth leads the way, her step sprightly and her breathing easy, despite the fact that she is nearly twice my age. We stop briefly at the top for a swig of water, then carry on round the headland, past the lighthouse to the coastal path beyond.
She stops so suddenly that I nearly collide into her. ‘Look.’ She is signalling down into a small cove where there is a dark shape by the edge of the water. Putting her rucksack on the ground, she pulls out her field glasses. ‘It’s a seal.’
We walk carefully on till we are almost directly above it.
It is lying very still. ‘Is it stranded, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ Beth rests her back against a rock as we watch until we see the head move. ‘It’s alive anyway,’ she says.
‘Should we do anything about it?’
She raises her glasses again. ‘It doesn’t look obviously damaged. We’ll ask someone in the village when we get back. Shall we have our sandwiches?’
A few feet down the cliff a grassy ledge provides a natural seat. We are out of the wind, and eat in silence as we continue to watch the creature below us. I finish two tuna sandwiches. The seal does nothing but raise its head from time to time. I begin to pluck at the grass by my side. ‘You must be wondering why I have said nothing more about the papers we found in the cellars.’
‘I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I have to ask you something first.’
My aunt glances up at me, then looks away to where the low shape of an oil tanker moves slowly across the expanse of sea.
I have to broach the subject now; there will never be a better opportunity. Fixing my eyes on the same spot in the distance, my hand stops its agitated movement and presses onto the damp turf. ‘Have you any idea if there is any history of mental illness in our family? Schizophrenia, for instance?’
Beth doesn’t blink. ‘Not as far as I know.’ When I say nothing more she adds, ‘You’re worried that there might be?’
I have to explain. ‘You read about the murder of the cowman and his wife in Duncan’s diary. The man who did it, Jack Farley, is related to us.’
Now she does turn and look at me. ‘How do you know?’
‘In the old diary, the one we found together, Henry recorded a brief affair he had with a young woman. The girl was from the village, the daughter of the local blacksmith. She had a son, Thomas. Jake was that man’s son.’ Now it is all tumbling out in a rush. I tell her of my searches in the library and of my hope that the mad strain was passed to him via Emily, not through Henry. As I go on, a feeling of relief seeps into my bones. ‘I worry that Henry’s genes have somehow become concentrated in me, that I may be going mad.’ The words float in the space between us; there is no way I can swallow them back.
Beth takes her time before she answers. ‘I don’t think we are a family that goes in for madness much. We are too ordinary, a bit boring really.’ She is weighing what I have said, taking my fears seriously, not dismissing them as “all that nonsense” in the way Quentin did. After a pause she goes on, ‘I think I always knew there was some secret. Your father once said there were more Smedleys in the valley than we knew about.’
‘D’you think he made the connection with Jake?’
‘If so, he never mentioned it. I doubt if he read Duncan’s diary as carefully as you have, or picked up the family sense of duty towards Jake’s father.’
‘One of my problems is that I imagine I have been given some power of second sight. That scares me.’
She puts out her hand and covers mine where it is lying on the grass. ‘There’s a lot of difference between an ability to observe carefully – and madness. You don’t feel mad to me.’
I had expected that voicing my qualms would make them more concrete and more difficult to dispel. Instead, they seem more manageable. My aunt has not shied away from me as if she were afraid I might contaminate her, but neither does she need to smother me with reassurance.
Having said so much, I need to confide another misery. ‘Quentin is having an affair with Susan.’ I free my hand from hers and clasp my knees to my chest.
‘Oh Meena, I’m so sorry. You were getting fond of him, weren’t you?’ I nod. ‘That must be so awful, coming so soon after your mother’s death and the failure of your marriage.’
We sit in silence then, until we both became aware that we are getting cold around the edges, despite the sunshine.
‘Come on, we had better get the circulation going again.’ She scrambles to her feet and holds out her hand to help me up. We retrace our steps, but before passing over the brow of the hill, which would hide the bay from our view, we turn back for a last look at the seal. The tide is lapping at the dark body. As we watch, it gives a wriggle. The next wave lifts it from the sand, only to deposit it again as the water recedes. I want to cry out – but at that moment it seems to make a decision. Rising up on its front flippers it flops towards the sea. For a moment its whole length can be seen in the shallows, then with a sinuous movement it swims out of view. A sigh of wind reaches us from the sea, as if the air too has been holding its breath.
‘There it is,’ I cry, as I see the black head moving strongly through the water.
‘It looks just fine,’ Beth says.
We clamber back down the cliff in comfortable silence. By the time we have regained the sand we are tired and climb up onto one of the big r
ocks at the back of the beach to watch the waves creeping nearer. ‘Do you remember that day we came here? You and Briony built a sandcastle and waited for the water to come in and fill the moat.’
‘When was that?’ I am surprised. I have no memory of ever having visited Sennen, except that once on my honeymoon.
‘We came on a day trip from St Ives. When the sea had knocked your castle flat we all clambered up onto these rocks and stood getting splashed as the tide advanced.’
‘Did you come on holiday with us? I don’t remember.’
‘Not even the trip to see the seals? One came up right next to the boat and you tried to touch it. That stupid man – he was a Scotsman – he chanted, “I am a man upon the land, I am a selkie in the sea”.’
‘I don’t remember,’ I repeat.
‘He said the two lines several times.’ She frowned as she pictured the scene. ‘When he had our attention, he told us that the eyes of selkies contained the souls of the dead. He wanted to impress us, but what a silly thing to say in front of children. You snatched your hand out of the water and started to cry.’
If only I had known. The story provides such a sensible explanation for my dreams of seals and death all mixed together.
Beth is back in her own memories. ‘It was the year before I married George,’ she continues. ‘I couldn’t decide if I wanted to or not. I hoped your father would help me make up my mind, but he was so absorbed with you that he hadn’t much time to listen to me.’
‘All I remember is the spade we got in St Ives.’
‘No, he bought that for you here, at the mini-mart.’
‘Are you sure?’ I can’t believe my memory can have played yet more tricks on me. The water is lapping at the foot of our rock now. Each wave comes a little higher and we will soon be soaked. All at once another memory smashes into me. I am clambering back so I won’t get wet. My father holds out his hand to me. ‘Come up here, you’ll be safe here.’