Before the Poison

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Did you catch it yourself?’

  ‘No, not exactly. Supermarket special. There isn’t any around here.’

  ‘I don’t know much about nature, except that we need to respect it more.’

  ‘Me neither.’ But I’m learning, I might have added. ‘Anyway, what about it? Tea?’

  ‘OK. Thanks. That’s nice of you. No rush. I’m not starving or anything.’

  ‘How did you get here from Staithes?’

  ‘I drove. I’m parked in Richmond market square. I walked up here.’

  ‘Quite a way back. I’ll drive you to town later, after tea, if you want.’

  ‘Cool. Can I use your toilet?’

  I showed her the way to the one at the top of the stairs. While she was gone, I took the salmon out of the fridge and started to prepare it. She must have heard me puttering around in the kitchen, because when she came back down she joined me there and sat at the table, gazing out of the window towards the drystone wall and the woods at the end of the dale. ‘That’s quite the bathroom,’ she said.

  It was one of the old kind, with a claw-foot bathtub, gold-plated fittings, high ceilings and blue and white tiles, after the Portuguese fashion. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should imagine it’s been that way for years, probably since the days your grandparents lived here.’

  ‘It’s very remote,’ she went on. ‘How do you put up with it? I think I’d go batty.’

  ‘I do go batty sometimes,’ I said, wrapping the mustard-smeared salmon fillets in prosciutto. I glanced up at her. ‘Perhaps that explains why I’m so interested in your grandmother’s story. It helps me put up with being so isolated here.’ I realised as I said this that, in an odd way, Grace was company for me, but I didn’t say it out loud because I knew how crazy it sounded.

  Louise was watching me work now, as if fascinated by the simple kitchen techniques. I wondered just what kind of life she had lived. I remembered what Heather had told me, and I knew that this slight young girl sitting before me had found her mother and stepfather dead from point-blank shotgun wounds. What kind of damage that inflicts on the psyche I could hardly imagine. She had run wild, so Heather had told me, and that could mean anything – drugs, crime, alcohol, bad company, maybe all of them.

  I put on some rice and began to chop vegetables. Louise still watched me, fascinated. When I had done that, I unscrewed the cap from a bottle of red wine and offered her some.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ she said, shrinking in on herself, as if every cell in her body wanted to reach out and accept. I had seen the signs of alcoholism before, but not in one so young.

  ‘I suppose I don’t need to, either,’ I said, and put the bottle away, out of sight.

  ‘I don’t care if you do,’ she said. ‘I mean, I’m not against it or anything.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘No skin off my nose. It’ll do me good to abstain. At least, I’ll wait and have some later with the meal. In the meantime, you said you came to have a look around the old place, so would you like the guided tour? There’s nothing for me to do here while the food’s cooking.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, and stood up.

  Louise paused in the vestibule and stood before the family portrait, at which she had glanced on her way in. ‘That’s my family, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Your grandmother and grandfather, and your father.’

  Louise nodded. We continued with the tour. The kitchen, living and dining rooms she had already seen, so all there was left, apart from cupboards, was my TV room. She enthused over the large screen, scanned a few of the DVD titles and said, ‘Do you play them just for the music, or do you like the movies?’

  ‘What a funny question,’ I said, though on reflection it wasn’t, really. ‘Like anyone else, I watch the films, but maybe I’m a bit more aware of the music.’

  ‘Have you ever gone to see a movie only for the music?’

  ‘Star Wars,’ I said. ‘I’m not a big science-fiction fan, but everybody was talking about it.’

  I wasn’t going to show her the empty cellar, so we went upstairs next. When we got to the guest bedroom at the front, over the gallery from mine, she stood and said, almost to herself, ‘This is where it happened.’

  I didn’t know whether this was true or not, so I said nothing. If it was true, then it meant I was sleeping in what had been Grace’s bedroom as well as working in her sewing room, and that the room where I thought I had seen a woman’s – Grace’s – figure reflected in the wardrobe mirror had been Ernest’s room, the room where he had died.

  We moved on. Louise seemed awed most of all by the sewing room, sitting for a moment in the small armchair. Then she sat at the escritoire. Her hand disappeared underneath it and felt around. A few seconds later, a small hidden drawer sprung open on the bottom left. It was empty.

  ‘How did you know about that?’ I asked. I had searched for ages and found nothing.

  ‘Granny Felicity told Dad about it.’

  Louise pulled out an Everyman edition of Shelley’s poetry and turned to Grace’s name written neatly on the first page: Grace Elizabeth Hartnell, 1928. Then she examined the oil painting of the lime kiln beside which she had stood to observe the house. The signature ‘S. Porter’ was just about visible once you knew where to look for it. She found it, ran her fingers over it, then stood back and took the whole thing in. ‘Her lover,’ she whispered.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ I said. ‘I’ve met him.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I know his work. I’m a painter myself. Not terribly good, but I dabble.’

  ‘We’d better go down and check on the food,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing else up here, and the attic’s empty.’

  Louise followed me out of the door, with one backward glance at the painting, along the corridor and down the stairs. ‘Thank you,’ she said when we went back into the kitchen.

  After a few moments, dinner was ready. I thought the kitchen might be a more relaxed and informal setting than the large dining area, so I set a couple of places at the pine table. I put some coffee on for later and served up the food, then dimmed the lights.

  ‘What kind of music do you like?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. All sorts, really. I don’t listen to anything much. I liked what you were playing before. And I like violins. Anything with a violin. And cellos. They sound so melancholy.’

  I poured myself a glass of wine, put the iPod in the kitchen dock and turned to Sol Gabetta’s recording of the Elgar cello concerto – you couldn’t get much more melancholy than that – and we settled down to eat.

  ‘That was delicious,’ said Louise as she rested her knife and fork on the empty plate.

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry, but there’s no pudding.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’m quite full enough. I don’t eat very much as a rule. Can we sit in the other room by the fire again?’

  ‘Of course.’ I put the dinner things in the dishwasher and poured us both a cup of coffee, then we went through to the living room. It was pitch black outside. I threw a few more logs on the fire and closed the curtains before sitting down.

  The Elgar had finished, and Louise didn’t seem to care one way or another about having anything in the background, so I didn’t put on any more music. She settled into the armchair and crossed her legs under her. It was a still evening, and the deep silence enveloped and permeated Kilnsgate House. It pushed against my ears like noise-cancelling headphones. All we could hear was the soughing of ashes and knotty logs crackling in the fireplace, the scraping of blown leaves against the flagged patio out the back. After a long pause, during which Louise stared into the flames, which reflected in her dark eyes, she looked up at me and said, ‘This is all very new to me, you know. Meeting people, having dinner and all like real folks do. It’s not easy.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it is,’ I said. ‘You haven’t had an easy life.’

  She shot me a defensive glance. ‘My father was kind to me.’

  ‘I’m s
ure he was.’

  ‘He never talked about it, you know, about his background, his mother, where he came from, about his family over here. Not until the very end.’

  ‘I’d heard,’ I said. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘I didn’t. Not at first. They told me you were interested, asking questions. That was why I just stood outside and watched. But I wanted to come in. I wanted to see the inside, where she lived, where it happened. I think maybe I can talk to you about it now, if you’re willing to bear with me and listen.’

  ‘I’m willing. You know I’m interested.’

  ‘You can have another glass of wine if you want. It doesn’t bother me.’ She smiled for the first time. ‘You might need one.’

  I held up my cup of coffee. ‘I’m fine with this for the moment.’

  She nodded. ‘Then I’ll begin.’

  15

  Extract from the journal of Grace Elizabeth Fox (ed. Louise King), August, 1940. Cape Town

  Friday, 16th August, 1940

  What a thrill it was to set foot on African soil at last! The first thing we saw on the quayside was a row of shiny, expensive cars, all sent by British firms operating in South Africa. They were at our disposal, we were told. The business community here wants to show true South African hospitality to the fighting men, and to us sisters, too, of course!

  A group of us piled giggling into one large car, which happened to be a spacious and elegant Bentley, the kind that Ernest would just love to own. Our driver Julian was a representative of a diamond mine, but sadly, he had brought no gifts of diamonds for us. Kathleen and Doris were with me, along with Stephen and two of his fellow officers, but we lost Brenda somewhere along the way. No doubt she was in another car and being well taken care of, too.

  Stephen brought his Leica camera and wanted to keep stopping to take photographs. Julian wanted to show us the Cape Peninsula first, and then he said we could go wherever we wished. He drove overland to the coast and followed the road down, hugging the hills on one side and overlooking the rocky and sandy coastline below. We passed through Simon’s Town and saw some Navy corvettes and destroyers at anchor there, then we carried on until the road became too rough to drive any farther.

  We all piled out of the car, and the wind almost took our breath away. Stephen snapped away with his camera, taking a picture of me standing on a rock, trying to hold my hair out of my eyes. The sea below was a beautiful shade of blue, and waves pounded against the rocks, making a deep booming sound and showers of brilliant white foam. Farther out, little whitecaps flitted across the surface.

  Julian gave us some time to explore the immediate area, and we all wandered hither and thither, seeking good vantage points. I found myself in the shelter of some rocks, and suddenly I was alone, everything quiet and still. Before I knew it, Stephen was standing beside me. Gently, he took me in his arms and kissed me. At least he tried to. I pulled back. I could not do it. So much of me wanted to, and I still wonder as I write now with a trembling hand if that makes me a bad person. Ernest need never have known, I tell myself, but it does no good. I could not give myself to Stephen. He was disappointed, but he is gentleman enough to understand.

  We heard a noise and noticed a group of baboons on the rocks above us. They were looking down at us in quite a threatening way. Julian had warned us that they can be dangerous, so we backed away, out of our little hollow. They seemed not to care, and they turned their backs on us and made a rude gesture. Stephen and I almost collapsed with laughter and relief as we dashed back to join the others. Kathleen gave me a questioning glance, to which I did not respond.

  Throughout the rest of the day, I could not help thinking of that almost kiss and how young, handsome and charming Stephen is. Ernest seems so far away, and in my memory so dour and preoccupied. Sometimes I wonder if he loves me at all.

  We drove back to Cape Town and visited a busy market full of exotic bolts of material in vivid colours and patterns, unusual dried roots, herbs and heaps of brilliant yellow, red and golden spices. I bought some white handmade sandals and several yards of silky material in an orange, green and brown pattern to make a dress. I also bought a colourful bead necklace, which I will probably never wear, but which will always remind me of this beautiful and troubling day. After that we visited some Western-style shops where we could stock up on lipstick, powder and accessories, such as handbags. Everybody was so warm and friendly, but they all stared at Kathleen, with her blonde hair, long legs and statuesque figure. She is over six feet tall.

  After the shopping, Julian took us for a special dinner at the home of one of the important government officials, and we ate so much food that we could hardly dance. There was lobster and langoustines and meats that I had never heard of, such as springbok and kudu, all delicious.

  After dinner we had a concert of local music, the men in colourful native costumes beating drums and chanting in a most exotic and charming way, and the ladies dancing, and then the orchestra played in the ballroom, and we danced until late. I danced with Stephen towards the end of the evening, and he apologised for the incident on the rocks. I forgave him. It is wartime. People do impulsive things. It made me realise how careful I must be, that not even I am immune to the romance of the sea, the war, or a handsome young man.

  Now, as I lie here writing this, with Brenda snoring away gently across the cabin, I still remember the strength and warmth of Stephen’s arms around me, and I wonder if I will dream of him tonight. When I remember our stolen moment, I let myself believe I may be falling in love with him, but it is a love that can never be. I am starting to behave like a silly schoolgirl, though I remind myself I have done nothing wrong.

  Saturday, 24th August, 1940

  Now we are sailing on the Indian Ocean, and at times the water is so still and clear I can see the bright coloured fish in its depths. Porpoises and dolphins follow in our wake and play for us, twisting and turning through the air, slipping back into the water without a splash.

  The days are hot and humid, and a sort of languid spell seems to have fallen over everyone. Brenda hardly moves from her bed unless she has to work a shift in the sick bay. She just lies there completely still with the electric fan pointing at her until evening, when the sun has gone down. Even then, it is not much cooler, though it is a blessing to be away from the heat of the sun. There seems to be no respite. I have not seen much of Stephen lately, though I think of him often, especially when I see the couples hand in hand walking around the deck under the light of a huge golden moon. Everyone seems to have fallen in love. It must be the magic of the East, the ocean, the stars and moonlight and the sultry nights. I would like to fall in love, too, perhaps with Stephen, but I cannot allow myself to do so. The voyage will soon be over, and the veil of secrecy has finally been lifted. We have discovered where we are headed. Five sisters, including Kathleen and Doris, are to land in Hong Kong, the lucky beggars, and the rest of us, equally lucky, I think, are bound for Singapore, where we are to help start up the brand-new Alexandra Hospital!

  November 2010

  ‘I don’t know how much Uncle Rolly told your friend,’ Louise said, ‘so if I’m going over familiar ground just stop me.’

  ‘Uncle Rolly?’

  ‘Don’t you know him? Roland Everett. He was Dad’s solicitor in Northallerton, and they became close friends. I just called him Uncle Rolly. He isn’t really my uncle. I’ve known him ever since I was a little girl.’

  Uncle Rolly must have been Heather’s source, I realised, or one of them. I poked the fire and the logs split. Flames and smoke spiralled up the chimney. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘What was your childhood like?’

  She seemed surprised by the question, as if anybody should be interested. ‘Very happy,’ she said. ‘At least, the first eight or nine years were. We had a nice house by the sea, Dad was making a good living, and Mum co-owned a catering business. Then it all went wrong. I suppose it must have crept up on them very slowly, but it hit me like an express train. I
mean, I remember late-night arguments, tears, hushed conversations, consultations with my grandparents – the Middletons, I mean – but really, the first time I knew there was something serious in the wind was when Mum told me to pack a bag and go with her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had no idea. I think I managed to piece it together a bit later. You see, Dad suffered from depression – fits, bouts, whatever you call them. He managed to function, go to work and all, and the doctor gave him pills, which seemed to help, but Mum was more outgoing, a social butterfly, and it just dragged her down, like he was sick all the time but there was nothing physically wrong. You know what some people are like. They can’t stand being around illness of any kind, they think everyone should stop malingering and just get on with life? Mum was like that, and she just couldn’t take it any more. Don’t get me wrong, she had a good heart. But she didn’t want to be a nursemaid, a carer. She wanted to go to dances and parties and meet people. She was always laughing and she loved gossip. She didn’t want to be stuck with an invalid for the rest of her life, so she bolted. And she took me with her.’ Here, Louise paused and stared back into the fire. She had been right, I could have done with another drink, but I restrained myself.

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want,’ I said. ‘I mean, the details. Heather – Rolly’s friend – told me some of it. I know what happened.’

  ‘Now I’ve come this far . . . Anyway, the next thing I knew we were in Brisbane. Suburbs, really.’

  ‘It must have been a wrench for you.’

  ‘Oh, Brissie’s all right. Plenty to do, nice weather and lots of beaches near by, even better than Brighton. The weather, anyway.’

  ‘But no father.’

  ‘No. That hurt. I missed Dad a lot, and I worried about him. He wrote, of course, phoned, and I visited him for holidays and stuff. But it’s not the same.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Mum started hanging out with the party crowd, mostly divorced. She drank a bit too much, talked a bit too loudly, wore short skirts, embarrassed me in front of my school friends once or twice. She was becoming a bit of a burden, but she was my mum. You couldn’t help but love her. There was no harm in her, do anything for anyone, except take care of the sick.’