‘Of course. I’m glad you like it, but –’
Billy never heard the rest. He headed for the farmhouse to ask Thwaite for a piece of paper and a pen. Then he sat at the kitchen table, carefully transcribing the poem, with the old man watching silently as he did so. It had been a long time since he had written anything, and it took him quite a while.
When he had finished and the ink was dry, Billy folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He stood up and went to the doorway, looking out at Creecher sitting where he’d left him.
From that distance, and with no human to compare him with, he could almost have been mistaken for any other man. Almost. Thwaite came out from the house and stood alongside Billy.
‘Can I ask you something?’ asked Billy.
‘You can ask,’ said the old man. ‘I can’t promise I’ll know the answer.’
Billy smiled and looked back towards Creecher.
‘Something troubles me,’ he said.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Why aren’t you bothered by Creecher?’
‘Why aren’t you?’ said the old man.
Billy smiled. It was a fair point.
‘I’m used to him. But when I first saw him . . . Well, let’s just say he has quite an effect on most people. But not you. Why not?’
The old man took a deep breath.
‘I do not question the ways of God,’ he said.
Billy peered at him.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.’
Thwaite smiled.
‘I think you do,’ he said, with a grin.
‘No, sir,’ said Billy. ‘I don’t.’
Thwaite scratched his stubbled chin and looked hard at Billy.
‘All right,’ he replied. ‘If it be His will that I tell, then tell I shall. I prayed for help and He sent me two angels.’
Billy laughed at the thought but saw immediately that the old man had not been joking.
‘You think that Creecher is an angel?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Well, he ain’t human, is he?’ said the old man. ‘Any fool can see that.’
Billy raised an eyebrow. He could hardly disagree. ‘But what about me?’ said Billy. ‘Don’t I look human?’
Thwaite looked Billy up and down for a long time.
‘Possibly,’ he replied eventually. ‘But I reckon there’s probably all kinds of angels.’ And he headed out into the fields.
Billy walked over to Creecher, who glanced up from his book as he approached. His skin seemed to shimmer coldly in the shadow of the wall. He looked like he came from another world all right, though Billy would not have guessed at heaven.
‘The old man thinks you’re an angel,’ he said, sitting down next to the giant.
‘Maybe I am,’ said Creecher matter-of-factly.
‘Yeah – and maybe you’re not.’
Creecher frowned.
‘Are you angry?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Billy. ‘No – I don’t know. I like old Thwaite.’
‘I like him, too.’
‘Then let’s stay here.’
‘I cannot,’ said Creecher, in a tone of finality.
‘Because you have to follow Frankenstein,’ Billy sighed with exasperation.
‘Yes.’
‘Let him go. He doesn’t want you. He hates you. He thinks you’re a monster. Why do you follow him about like a dog?’
‘He has promised to help me.’
‘But we could have a new life here,’ said Billy.
‘You perhaps,’ Creecher replied.
‘Look where we are. There’s no one for miles around. You could live here and read your books and –’
‘I need more than that,’ said Creecher, getting up and snapping his book shut.
The giant walked away, heading up to the fell top without saying another word.
The next day, Billy stood in the shadow of the clock tower in the centre of Keswick, watching Frankenstein and Clerval amble round the town. Billy had the distinct impression that Frankenstein’s work in England was drawing to a conclusion.
Frankenstein had rented a small warehouse at the edge of town, but it seemed more of a storeroom than a workplace. He had visited it once, but only briefly. Soon he would no doubt move on, and Billy and Creecher would have to move on, too, in pursuit.
Each time Billy dwelt on this, Jane’s face would appear, smiling, beautiful.
The two men disappeared inside a shop, and Billy took the opportunity to pull out his copy of the poem and read it through again. He had just reached the end, when the two men emerged once again.
They were laughing as they stepped out into the sunshine, but no sooner had Clerval started to walk away than Frankenstein stopped and turned to peer suspiciously in Billy’s direction, making him jump back into a doorway.
Frankenstein’s casual manner was a facade as always. Underneath that thin veneer he had the same old look of a hunted man.
‘He knows he’s being followed. I’m sure of it,’ said Billy, when he saw Creecher later that day. The giant nodded.
‘He knows I’m here,’ said Creecher. ‘I told him that I would be with him when his work was complete. In any event, we are bound together, he and I.’
‘How do you mean?’
Creecher grinned.
‘He used his blood in my construction. We are bound together. I can sense him – smell him.’
‘You can smell him?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Creecher. ‘Always.’
Billy screwed up his face. The more he learned of the giant’s creation, the more unsettling he found it. The idea that Frankenstein had used his own bodily fluids in the process was somehow revolting.
‘So in a way, we are family, he and I,’ Creecher continued. ‘We have the same blood in our veins.’
‘Yeah,’ said Billy, eager to move on. ‘But if you have this bond, why do you need me to track him? You could just stay nearby and move when he moves.’
Creecher took a deep breath.
‘Do you know how lonely I have been, Billy? Knowing that any person I tried to speak to would cry out in horror at best, and try to kill me at worst. To mankind, I am what Browning said I was – an ogre, a monster from fairy stories and nightmares.
‘But Fate brought us together, Billy. Against all the odds, I had at last made contact with a person who seemed able to tolerate me long enough to see that there was more than horror there.
‘In truth, I could have tracked Frankenstein without you, but I would never have learned so much of his actions as I have through you. I should have had to hide away in some dark corner of London until I sensed that he was leaving and then follow his scent wherever it took me. I would have found him just as well, but I would not have found you or our friendship.’
‘Shut up,’ said Billy, smiling. ‘You’re reading too many of those novels of yours. You’re beginning to sound like a woman.’
Creecher chuckled. A great burst of sunshine washed across the fellside and eventually over Creecher and Billy, too, warming the colours all around them and making everything glow as though lit from inside. The effect was startling and Billy felt his heart flutter giddily for a moment.
‘If I’d always lived here . . .’ he began, but he seemed unable to finish the sentence.
Creecher looked down at him.
‘You think you would have been a different person?’ said the giant.
‘Maybe,’ Billy replied.
His mind was suddenly flooded with images of his life in London, and it had the speeded-up, black jitteriness of a nightmare. Had he woken from a dream? Was this the real world, and the past just an illusion? Or was this the dream? Would he wake at any moment and find himself back in the baker’s attic?
‘I’m going to go for a walk,’ said Billy.
He told himself his walk was aimless, but it wasn’t true, and before long he was walking past the great stone circle and on towards the little cottage, with its gate and arch of roses
.
Billy looked in through the window. The scene was bathed in an amber glow from the fire. There was a woman sitting in a wooden chair, sewing – a woman Billy guessed must be Jane’s mother.
Florence was reading a book and Jane approached her from behind, placing her hands over her eyes until she called out in mock anger and Jane left off, laughing brightly. Billy grinned.
He remembered the scene in Great Russell Street with the family there and had a repeat of the selfsame yearning. This is what Creecher must have felt as he stared in at the cottage in the woods, thought Billy.
Billy had a sudden vision of himself sitting in just such a cottage, basking in a golden glow. Jane came wandering through from the kitchen, carrying a huge pie, steam rising from the crust. A child – no, children – came running and laughing as she placed it on the table. She smiled at Billy, her face a picture of joy and contentment, and Billy smiled at the dream and was filled with a sense of loss when it dissolved.
He walked back to Black Crag Farm, his heart aching, as darkness fell across the landscape and the clouds parted and a million stars pierced the limitless blackness of the night.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
There seemed little point in pursuing Frankenstein and Clerval around Keswick again so, the following day, Billy worked with Creecher, clearing rocks from a field near the farm. Afterwards, he washed and smartened himself up and headed over to the stones. He found Jane sitting in the garden, reading. He had to walk past several times before she noticed him.
‘Mr Clerval,’ she called. ‘What a nice surprise.’
‘I was just passing,’ said Billy from across the fence.
‘Mother, this is Mr Clerval, whom I was speaking of.’
The older woman Billy had seen through the window came out from behind a tree and smiled at him. Billy lifted his hat.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs . . . ?’
‘Cartwright,’ said Jane’s mother. ‘Clerval is an unusual name. Is it French?’
‘Swiss, ma’am,’ he replied.
‘Well, don’t stand there all day, young man. Come round and have a cold glass of lemonade. Florence!’ she called into the cottage. ‘Get Mr Clerval a lemonade.’
Billy came through the gate in time to return Florence’s scowl at the window with a warm smile.
‘Are you staying locally, Mr Clerval?’ asked Jane’s mother, as he sat down.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I’m staying with a friend at Black Crag Farm. We’re helping Mr Thwaite with some jobs about the place in return for our board and lodgings.’
‘You certainly look like a strong young fellow, doesn’t he, Jane?’ said Mrs Cartwright.
‘Mother, really. You’re embarrassing Mr Clerval.’
‘Oh, Mr Clerval seems fairly unembarrassable to me,’ Florence remarked, putting a jug of lemonade on the table.
‘You’re from London?’ asked Mrs Cartwright.
‘Yes, ma’am. How did you guess?’
‘Oh, we get a lot of people now,’ said Florence, sitting down. ‘They come up from London for the scenery, you know. They wander about for a bit until they get some mud on their shoes, or it starts to rain, and then they go.’
‘I’m headed for Scotland,’ Billy went on. ‘Me and . . . my friend. He has an arrangement to go to Scotland and I said I’d accompany him.’
‘Scotland is very wild, they say,’ said Mrs Cartwright. ‘And the people there don’t take kindly to strangers.’
‘How soon will you go?’ Jane asked.
Billy looked off towards Black Crag Farm.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Soon, maybe.’
‘Oh,’ said Jane, brushing the creases from her dress.
After some short polite conversation, Mrs Cartwright left them to return to her pruning. They talked for a while longer. Billy felt tongue-tied and clumsy and could think of little to say. He was happy to listen to Jane. He felt both nervous and relaxed in her company. It was an intoxicating combination.
‘Jane,’ said her mother, coming over. Billy had forgotten she was there. ‘Shall we go for a stroll among the stones? The evening light is rather wonderful.’
‘Of course, Mother,’ Jane replied. ‘If you would like to. Will you join us, Mr Clerval?’
‘Perhaps Mr Clerval will read us some of his poetry?’ said Florence, giving Billy a withering look.
‘Oh, I don’t think –’ began Jane.
‘Oh, would you, Mr Clerval?’ Mrs Cartwright enthused. ‘Jane does so love poetry.’
Florence grinned wickedly.
‘Very well,’ said Billy. ‘I did bring one with me. It’s not very long and I’ve only just written it, so don’t expect too much, will you?’
‘Oh, I’m sure it will be lovely,’ Mrs Cartwright replied.
The group left the garden and wandered over to the stones. Mrs Cartwright sat down on one near the centre of the circle, with Jane alongside her. Florence stood behind them, clearly looking forward to what she hoped would be Billy’s embarrassment.
Billy took out the piece of paper, unfolded it, coughed twice, licked his lips and began.
‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,’ he said, in a quiet, faltering voice.
‘What’s that?’ said Jane’s mother. ‘Speak up. I can’t hear you.’
Florence giggled, until Jane flicked her with her fan and shushed her.
‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,’ repeated Jane. ‘I like that. Is there more?’
‘It’s only a start, you know,’ said Billy. ‘I mean, I haven’t really worked it all out yet.’
‘Even so,’ she said.
Billy licked his lips and looked nervously about him, before clearing his throat and speaking more loudly:
‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
’Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.’
Billy had been nervous when he began, but had gained in confidence as he spoke. He had not been able to make eye contact with Jane, though, and as he turned to her now, he saw her eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, Mr Clerval,’ she said. ‘That was beautiful. Beautiful. You should publish your work.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘Is that the end, then?’ said Mrs Cartwright. ‘Oh. Well done, well done.’ She clapped her hands vigorously.
‘Florence,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I need to stretch my legs. Will you take a turn with me across the field?’
‘Of course, Aunt,’ said Florence. ‘Jane?’
‘Jane should rest,’ said Mrs Cartwright. ‘She can stay with our poet.’
Billy smiled and Jane blushed a little. Even Florence’s mood seemed to have improved.
‘It was a lovely poem,’ she said, as she walked
away.
When they had disappeared from view, Billy sat down next to Jane.
‘Say those lines again, will you?’ she said.
‘Which lines?’ Billy asked, taking the hands that she stretched out towards him.
‘The ones about quiet breathing,’ she replied.
Billy had to fight the urge to embrace her. Instead he leaned forward and spoke softly into her ear again:
‘But still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.’
Jane pulled her face back and looked into Billy’s eyes. They sparkled with tears and seemed like shimmering, depthless pools. Billy felt as if he might fall headlong into them.
‘Have you lived here all your life?’ he asked, pulling back a little.
‘Oh, no,’ said Jane. ‘We are only renting. We come from Manchester.’
She cast a quick glance across the field in the direction of her mother.
‘We came here for reasons of health,’ she went on. ‘The clean air and so on. The doctors thought it might be beneficial.’
Billy nodded.
‘We passed through Manchester on the way here,’ he said. ‘It seemed an awful place – all those ugly, giant mills and warehouses. The people there looked so beaten down. You must have been glad to leave.’
‘Glad?’ said Jane incredulously. ‘Not at all. Manchester is a fine place and my father owns one of those mills, I’ll have you know. The people there are happy to have work.’
‘They didn’t look very happy.’
Jane shook her head and sighed.
‘What would those people be doing otherwise? Living in hovels and tending some tiny plot of land? It’s progress, Mr Clerval. We can’t all stay in cottages in the countryside. Men like my father are helping to change the world . . .’
But Billy was not really listening any more. He was simply watching the movement of her lips. She was so beautiful, he thought. So beautiful.
‘But I’m talking too much,’ said Jane. ‘Mama says that women should not speak about such things, but I believe that we are –’
Something caught Jane’s eye behind Billy’s head and she gasped, staring in horror. It was at that moment that Florence arrived, with Jane’s mother a pace behind.
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