Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “But I could visit the lower levels?”

  “Many do,” said Norwen. “Many travel down to speak to those trapped there, to help them rise. Nobody here remains without help if they want it.”

  “There’s a different sort of help I’d like,” said Georgia, staring back out to sea. “But perhaps it’s not allowed. You see, there were people I loved very much when I was alive. My daughter, and a man, though not my husband.”

  Norwen said, “You’d like to contact them. Reassure them, and yourself.”

  She nodded. “I dreamed of him,” she said. “Lying here by the waves, with that incredible music, I dreamed of Romano. It seemed terribly real. Yes, there’s that word again.”

  “Everything is open to discovery in time.” Norwen smiled. “Though time, of course, is the greatest illusion of all.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to think of time the way animals do, just accepting without counting. And I’d like to see more – the animals – the birds.”

  “Most of the birds and many other animals never domesticated, prefer the fourth plane,” nodded Norwen. “On that level, they intermingle.”

  She was surprised. “But the fourth must be awful. If this is the seventh, then the fourth is a long way down. Why would anyone like it there?”

  “You already know there’s no Hell,” said Norwen. “There are no punishments here. People simply gravitate to the plane where they are naturally most at home within themselves. The lower planes are very physical. Life operates physically, which suits those of that need. There is even discomfort, even pain. Not because it is inbuilt, but those that live there expect pain, and so they feel it. It is still, in so many aspects, quite beautiful.”

  “I don’t want to go there if there’s pain,” said Georgia. “I thought it would be exciting to explore, but probably that was just curiosity. No, there’s something else I’d like to explore far more.”

  “Ways of contacting the people you’ve left behind. I know,” said Norwen. “It can be done. But it is not easy. The vibrations of this plane separate you of course, for we live in the same physical space as Earth, but vibrating some million times faster.”

  “Can you teach me?” asked Georgia.

  Romano sat with his legs stretched, his feet beneath the bench in front of him. Sophie sat, rapt, to the left, Julian, glazed and breathless, on his right. The little piazza café was the meeting place for the village. Behind them the narrow cobbled streets wound, interweaving, down the hillside to the glint of silver stream and the olive groves below. The flaking honey and apricot plaster of the houses leaned a little inwards, painting dark shadow stripes across the pavings, kissing their wrought iron balconies curl to curl, washing line to washing line, slatted wooden shutters faded like the sun rotted timbers of old boats, the sky’s particular sharp edged brilliance bouncing from striped awnings, bleaching the sheets hung above to dry.

  The piazza sloped towards the far church and its square bell tower. The cluster of shops glittered like dark jewels, ruby inside with ceilings of hanging salami and proscuitto, mottled hams on ceramic stands, enormous mounds of crumbling golden cheeses under sparkling glass domes. Bottles, wines, creamy rich ricotta and heaps of fresh pasta in all its shapes and designs, the sights and scents of passion. On the cobbles outside, groups of elderly men stood in the patches of shade, women gathered around the shop doorways; the delights of gossip, the study of a drowsy life, hedonistic in complacency.

  Romano had ordered Campari, then a frosted carafe of chilled white wine. Coffee now, to revive them for the drive home. “My dears, I could get used to this,” said Julian.

  “Why not?” sighed Romano. “Happiness cannot be chased, it is insidious and creeps in when you let go of the duty to be careful. Italy is a passionately careless country. That is why it is happy.”

  “The rhythms of the south,” murmured Sophie.

  “This is middle or northern Italy,” Romano corrected her.

  “Oh, for us English, all this is south,” smiled Sophie. “Siesta and wine. And especially romance.”

  They drove back to the cottage and Romano made lunch, preparing a quick salad of tomatoes, mozzarella and basil with crusty bread as warm as the sunbeams through the trees. Drizzled with olive oil instead of butter, the bread turned as rich as the shadows and snapped its crumbs across the tablecloth. The squat olive tree spread a matted silver-green shadow-field across their table, its polished fruit tiny bullets amongst the fluttering points of leaf. The wine was sharp and cold in a terracotta jug, another jug for water and the clink of ice cubes.

  Romano topped up everyone’s wine glasses. Sophie said, “I like to think of my mother doing just this. With you. Looking across at that incredible view. She did, didn’t she?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Many, many times. We spent as much time here as we could. You don’t mind? You’re not angry for your father?”

  “Oh heavens no.” Sophie raised her glass and nodded before drinking. “He was constantly unfaithful to her, though I don’t think she knew.”

  “She knew,” said Romano quietly.

  “Well, I’m glad. She should have left him.”

  “Yes, she should,” said Romano. “I know this now. But at the time - ? She thought of you, when you were younger. And I must tell you, I am married also. I am separated from my wife a long time, in fact I have not spoken to her, not even seen her, for twenty years. Here divorce is still avoided amongst the older families. But my Georgia and I, we should have broken with tradition. We should have married. Now, I regret it.”

  “You didn’t come to the funeral,” said Julian.

  Romano drank, then set his glass down before answering. He watched the swallows hunting on the wing, black arrows against the endless blue. “No,” he said at last. “Your neighbour Betsy, she said I should. But to come under pretence? To introduce myself as some casual friend? I disliked the idea. I stayed at home, and drank silently to our memories.” His eyes, deep chocolate brown behind thick lashes, reflected the moisture of the condensation on the wine glass. Sophie looked down and away. “And now is time for the siesta,” said Romano. “If you will excuse me? Leave everything – a woman comes from the village later. You should sleep too, while the sun is high, then the evening is regenerated with fresh optimism. So, until about five.”

  “My God,” Sophie whispered to Julian, “Betsy knew about him all the time.”

  Chapter Seven

  As they danced the smaller birds caught in their hair and the larger swirled above, dipping their wings like dark sails in a gusty wind. So the shadows danced too, twining amongst them, moon shades and star frost.

  The music was from the trees and the snow peaks, the breezes and the songs of the birds. And there were bats, attracted by the movement and the pleasure of it, darting and squeaking, a hundred tiny witches in their furry winter coats.

  Half flying, Primo caught the girl’s waist and felt the little bones of her body beneath his fingers. If he squeezed, he could snap her like brittle twigs. He thought he’d done that to someone once. He didn’t want to remember in case that was true. He permitted only the memory of excitement.

  Now it was a wilder excitement, the dancing with all the exhilaration of nature interweaving, and the awesome, unexpected and delicious discovery of being in love. The harpy slid from her rock perch, brushing the tops of the girl’s curls, then flew off to a higher ridge. The macaw was asleep on the rooftop. It was the smaller birds that danced, the swallows and the larks, gulls and little owls. And because it was everything, spring and autumn, night and day, the sun slid the shadows down the cliffs and the stars turned them silver as they reached the lower slopes.

  They lay afterwards, Daisy’s head on Primo’s chest, curled together in the wide bed amongst the scatter of multicoloured feathers. The bats returned to their cave. The birds continued the dance outside. The soft wing beats slowed the music and the high notes tumbled in the snow.

  “Making love,” whispered Primo
. “It’s nice to be able to do that again.”

  His breath tickled her ear. “But it’s different now, isn’t it,” she said. “I mean, really different. Really interesting.”

  “Less hump and grind,” grinned Primo. “Everything just seems to happen. I seem to get inside your head.”

  “Instead of inside the rest of me you mean, like it used to be with those tired old bodies. It’s nicer this way.”

  He nodded, paused, and looked suddenly and intensely at her. “I never, ever said this to anyone when I was alive. But I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  Daisy pulled away at once and wedged herself up on one elbow. She glared down at him. “No. That’s stupid. And you said you couldn’t remember your life, so how do you know what you ever said. And I don’t want you to be in love with me.”

  “That’s silly. Why?” He looked up and frowned.

  “Boys go all soppy when they’re in love, and I don’t like them anymore.” Daisy sighed and lay down again, leaving a small chill of air between their bodies. “But then I’m tempted to get soppy too. That’s when they run off and leave me and that hurts.”

  Primo was feeling vulnerable already. “I don’t get soppy. Ever.”

  “So you’ll just get what you want and then chuck me out, and I’ll feel terrible.”

  “I told you,” he said. “Pain’s part of everything here. You just have to get used to it.”

  “It was part of everything when I was alive too,” said Daisy. “But I never got used to it.”

  “You said you don’t remember either – not even your name, you said. You lied. So you got hurt when you were alive. So what! Doesn’t everyone?” They listened to each other’s breathing, carefully unmoving. Outside they could still hear the bird song. “So you’re just a coward,” said Primo at last. “Most girls are cowards.”

  “Like men aren’t?” Daisy sat up quickly and swung her legs from the bed. “Like it’s men who have babies and do all the hard work?”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” shouted Primo into the magical muted melodies, so that everything stopped and the birds crept away and the stars went out, one by one. The music faded. “We’re dead, aren’t we? What does all that matter now?”

  Daisy pulled her scarlet silks over her small breasts and pressed a button into place. “I’m going,” she said. “I thought you were nice but you’re not. You’re just like all the others.”

  “So much for love,” said Primo into his pillow.

  He was asleep when she came back and undressed and climbed back into bed with him. He slung an arm across her hips and tucked her close, then carried on dreaming into the nape of her neck. In the morning they made love again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said some hours later.

  “Why? Did you do something to be sorry for? I didn’t notice,” he said.

  She sniffed and he wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a sob. He was having trouble with the telepathy. It was easier with the birds. Less emotion. She said, “You’re irritating. But you’re better than nothing.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Primo.

  The love making was interesting. It started in the time-tested tradition, but ended less so, as if the bodies lay not simply entwined but also merged, taking the same space, as if one absorbed the other, each equally within and without. The resulting tingle was beyond expectation. It was, Primo supposed, beginning an element of the spiritual, even though the act remained partly physical. But he still had the same equipment, and so did she. He could feel her skin, her bones, her breath. He hadn’t bothered thinking about such things before, but now he took less for granted. It was intriguing.

  But he didn’t mention love again.

  “At first you said about not talking,” said Daisy, chopping lettuce for lunch. “But now we talk a lot. You seem to like talking after all. So tell me about who you were.”

  Primo was surprised. “Why?”

  “It feels odd, knowing nothing about you,” she said.

  “No one talks about who they used to be,” Primo scowled. “It’s an unspoken rule. Leave the past well alone. We even change our names. You weren’t always a Daisy.”

  She shook her head. Now she was chopping tomatoes. “No. I was called Kate.”

  “Big difference.”

  “I’ll tell you about who I was, the little bits I remember anyway, if you tell me about you.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Primo at once. “And I wish you wouldn’t keep cooking stuff. It’s stupid. I don’t like my house mucked up with bits of pretend food.”

  “I’m not cooking,” Daisy pointed out. “It’s only salads. The meaty things seemed to upset the birds, so I stopped it. I just like eating, that’s all. It doesn’t hurt you.”

  “It annoys me,” said Primo.

  “Well, I’m not stopping,” said Daisy. “And besides, it’s not your house anymore. It’s ours.”

  “No it isn’t,” said Primo. “I built it. It’s me. You just moved in.”

  “I couldn’t have, if it wasn’t me too,” said Daisy. “Stop arguing. You’d miss me, if I went away.”

  Which was perfectly true. “Do what you want,” said Primo. “I don’t care.”

  “Then have some egg salad.”

  “Fuck off,” said Primo.

  Sometimes he decided that he didn’t really like her all that much, but it didn’t seem to interfere with the loving. He was uncomfortably aware that, increasingly, he adored her. He went for long walks with the harpy, climbing to the peaks where the wind streamed through his ears and slapped his face and made his eyes sore. When he trudged back, he was delighted to see Daisy outside waiting for him, her small mouth stretched into a dimpled smile, really glad to have him home. He liked the sex but he liked just touching her almost as much. He was curious about the way the physical was still there but different. Touch hurt, or felt good. He’d been badly wounded, many times by Pigseed and the gang, and by others that the gang had fought with on the third plane, but he’d never bled. No blood at all. Gaping, fleshy wounds, but no bleeding. Bones, toe nails, skin, breathing as naturally as always, but hair that didn’t grow longer than you wanted it and teeth that didn’t need dentists. Daisy must have a stomach, she stuffed enough lettuce into it.

  Finally he said, “Alright. I refuse to talk about my past and I don’t want to know all the boring stuff about you either. But I’m okay with just a few odd things. I mean, were you older? When you died?”

  “Yes, I was,” she said. “That’s funny, isn’t it. We seem to get back to this sort of age, like twenty nine or thirty or something, no matter what we were when we died.”

  “Sam was a kid,” nodded Primo. “He told me once. Just ten years old when his dad did him in. He grew up quick once he got over here. Most of us grew younger while he grew older. Now he’s the same age as the rest of us. So how old were you?”

  Daisy thought about it. “You tell me first.”

  Primo laughed. “You think it’ll be a turn off, if I was young when I came over and you were an old hag of eighty or something. Fancy screwing some old dear, could be my grandmother.”

  “So why do we all end up young, anyway?” said Daisy. “Everyone’s about the same. It’s weird.”

  “So we’re dead and we live with the birds on a mountain and we can talk without words and only a few moronic idiots still eat food. So that isn’t weird?”

  “Piss off,” said Daisy. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you anyway. And by the way, I wasn’t eighty.”

  It was flying with the cassowary that took Primo deeper into the huge green valleys of the fourth plane. The cassowary had taken to the air a long time ago but his legs still tended to drag in the air currents, making his flight lazily aimless with occasional hiccups. Primo clung to the bird’s bony blue crest, a useful handle as they travelled side by side. Preferring the low warmth, the cassowary turned from the peaked majesty of the cliffs and Primo discovered himself deep into unknown countryside. It was
unexpectedly tropical. The straggling tips of palms scratched his knees. He had to jut his chin out to avoid the reaching, grasping arms of orchid vines, avid to find a lift upwards.

  When the cassowary turned, wishing to return to familiarity, Primo let it go and continued alone. There were villages. Amazingly, people didn’t shoot at him or throw stones as they had on the third. Here they waved. It was a long time before he went back home.

  “Nothing seemed to stop me,” he told Daisy, who had been waiting for him for ages and was sulking. “No fogbanks. Not even cold. No icicles. In fact it was balmy. I liked it.”

  He wondered if there was the choice, without asking someone’s permission, of moving house. When he’d desperately wanted off the third and had run from the gang, the breezes had taken him through the barrier, no problem. He’d arrived just the other side on the fourth plane border land, and been immediately enthusiastic. The mountains were wonderful, the birds had congregated around him and he had made his home with a minimum of effort, as if it was natural for him to abide there. Now he wondered about moving further inland.

  He still loved the cliffs and the wind and the falling streams, but he’d loved the welcoming warmth of the gentler countryside and its rich greens. Loving things now seemed to be happening all the time.

  Chapter Eight

  The explosion was black and jagged and red hot.

  The road had been dry dust, winding up the old hillside to the monastery, blistering brown and bleached grasses under the summer’s relentless determination. In these parts winter was just a sudden storm and a dash to stable the donkeys and fill all the buckets. One chill month perhaps, with looming clouds to shadow the old olives. The rest of the year was summer, greedy and parched.