The Dandelion Clock

by Guy Burt

  Satisfied, I put the torch down. The night valley is silver-grey, and the distant sea is very dark. Somewhere along the path of the empty river Anna is making her way home, and I wonder what she’s thinking of as she walks: whether she is reliving in her head the conversations she’s had with the hermit over the four hours of her shift. I wonder, too, what they have been, what the two of them have talked about. For a moment or two I allow myself to drift, and I catch the sounds of Anna’s voice, small but still audible through the heavy wood. They are musical, but strangely rough-edged, and it surprises me again to find that she is capable of making such strange, unfamiliar sounds come out of her mouth.

  Downstairs, the hermit doesn’t move. I watch the dark shape that is his face for a while, but it seems that, even if he was pretending before, he is properly asleep now. I can hear him breathing, and the breaths are steady and slow and even – nothing like the harsh, tearing breaths that sometimes came over him when he was in his fever.

  ‘Are you awake?’ I say softly. The hermit doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t move, and that’s enough of an answer. I settle myself on the bottom stair, resting my back against the stone of the big pillar that forms the middle of the curving staircase. The candle flame twists for a moment as the air tugs at it, and then straightens.

  I say, ‘I know you weren’t really asleep before.’ There’s no response; the hermit’s breathing is low and regular. I say, ‘Anna lied. She said you were asleep all along. But I know you weren’t.’

  I fiddle with my watch until its alarm is set for just before one. I decide I will sleep in the belltower with the pigeons; being asleep right next to the hermit disconcerts me somehow. I remember what Anna has said about being there if he wants anything, but a moment’s thought convinces me that he can always call out and wake me if he wants anything that badly. I stand up, gripping the torch.

  ‘Anna says you won’t hurt us,’ I whisper.

  The hermit doesn’t reply. I shrug very slightly, to myself, and turn, and start up the stairs again.

  Anna says you won’t hurt us.

  She was wrong. He did hurt us. Things happened; there were – consequences, repercussions. And we were hurt: all of us. I remember how scared I became, after a time, that the hermit, though gone, was still with us. I remember in Florence the moment of terrible realization when the pieces of the puzzle finally gathered themselves in a manner I could understand, could interpret. It was as if all the small fears that had soaked into me over the years were gushing out of me together – the hermit’s here! He’s still here! – in a torrent of almost inarticulate panic. He’s here!

  That was right, and wrong. The pieces were all there, but what I thought was comprehension was in fact something else entirely; a mistake I’ve carried for a long time. Perhaps because of the panic, I made of the fragments I’d gathered a whole, which was my own fear, not the truth.

  When the past is softened by memory, some of the hurt that comes from mistakes and stupidity and misunderstanding is damped down. Time passes, and draws you further and further from the things you did wrong; and perhaps you learn, and don’t make the same mistakes again. But now it seems that I can’t hide behind that softening. The past is right here. I walk through it every day. The house is more and more mended, and I am more and more – damaged. It is as though I have to feed parts of myself into the mortar and plaster, to get this place right again. I wonder, if I ever finish the house, whether I’ll be left with a life that makes any sense at all.

  Anna says you won’t hurt us.

  Maybe she believed it was true. But we were hurt, all of us; Anna too. And I should have known, and I should have done more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘That’s stupid, though,’ Anna says. ‘You shouldn’t do it like that.’

  I have a comic open on my knees. In the frame Anna’s pointing to, a man is holding a pistol to another man’s head. The man with the gun is saying, Drop it! – and the other man is letting a knife fall to the floor. It’s early morning. The hermit has had something to eat – bread, again, but also some of Lena’s cold chicken pie, flavoured with saffron and little shreds of fiery chilli, which Jamie and I like very much. He seems hungry, and we’re having trouble smuggling food for him.

  ‘Why not?’ I say.

  ‘It’s stupid to put a gun right up against someone,’ Anna says. ‘If you’ve got a gun, you can shoot someone right across the other side of the room. Or further away, even, if you’re a good shot. And they can’t do anything to you, cos if they move or try to run or anything, you can shoot them. But if you stick it up really close like that, this guy’s only got to pull the gun a little way away and you can’t shoot him any more.’

  ‘But that’s how they always do it on TV.’

  ‘Then they’re always wrong on TV.’

  ‘It would be difficult, though,’ I say. ‘Look – he’s behind him, and he’s got his arm here.’

  ‘So? It’s still better my way.’ She pauses, as if trying to remember something. ‘A gun’s advantage is its range,’ she says carefully. ‘If you give up your range, you’re giving up your advantage, and you might as well use a knife or something. Knives are quieter.’

  ‘How come you know all about this?’ I say, though I find that I have a pretty good idea.

  Anna just shrugs. ‘It’s obvious, actually,’ she says.

  I flip the comic closed. ‘You’re talking to him,’ I say, accusingly.

  ‘So? So are you and Jamie.’

  ‘No … I mean, about – stuff.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well you shouldn’t.’

  Anna opens her mouth to say something, and then seems to think better of it. ‘I don’t talk to him much,’ she says, scraping one finger in the dirt. ‘Just sometimes. It’s – interesting.’

  ‘We should be careful,’ I say.

  ‘Did you hide the bullets?’ she says, out of the blue.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re not in the case any more. Did you take them?’

  I hesitate, not knowing what to say. ‘Why were you looking in the case?’ I say.

  ‘Well, why were you? You did take them, didn’t you? Jamie wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t.’ She stares at me, closely. Then she sits up, her back straight against the big piece of wood by which we’re sitting. She says, ‘It’s OK. I’m not cross.’

  ‘I was – playing,’ I say, vaguely.

  ‘You shouldn’t play with bullets, Alex. They’re dangerous.’

  ‘Neither should you.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to play with them.’

  ‘Well what were you going to do with them, then?’

  She glances away. ‘I was just going to – look at them.’

  ‘I lost them,’ I say, decisively. ‘I dropped them by accident and I couldn’t find them again.’

  She looks at me again, hard. At last she says, slowly, ‘OK, then. Well, if you find them, you put them back, OK?’

  ‘If I find them.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  We sit for a while in the morning sunlight. Anna scratches her ankles. Jamie, who has had the early shift, is asleep in the shadow of the chapel wall, curled up with his head on his arms.

  I say, ‘Anna?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘This isn’t fun any more.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘The hermit.’

  She looks at me, a strange expression on her face, as if I’ve said something ridiculous.

  I say, ‘We’re all just tired all the time. And all we do is come up here and look after the hermit. We never do anything else.’

  ‘This isn’t a game, Alex,’ she says. ‘It’s not supposed to be fun.’

  ‘So why are we doing it?’ I say.

  ‘Because we have to.’

  ‘I want to go swimming,’ I say. ‘Like we used to. It’s much better.’

  ‘Well, we can’t. We have to watch the hermit.’

  ‘That’s what you always say.’r />
  ‘Well, we do.’ She gets up, sticks her hands in her pockets. ‘Just try to understand, OK?’

  ‘He’s better now,’ I say stubbornly. ‘We could leave him for a while. Just for the afternoon, maybe. We could go to the beach.’ I pick up a fir cone and throw it at Jamie’s sleeping figure; it bounces past his arm and his head jerks up, startled. I say, ‘Jamie!’

  ‘What? I was – I was asleep: What is it?’

  I want to go to the beach,’ I say.

  Jamie sits up, running one hand through his hair. He’s slept on a fold of it, and it’s sticking up at the side. ‘When?’

  Anna says, ‘We have to stay and look after the hermit. I told him but he won’t listen.’

  Jamie rubs his face and comes across to us. ‘Yeah, well,’ he says, rather uncertainly.

  ‘What?’ Anna says. ‘You know we can’t leave the hermit, Jamie. You know we can’t.’

  ‘I suppose,’ he says. ‘Alex? She’s right. We ought to stay.’

  I kick the ground. ‘I’m bored with the hermit,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing to do. We’ just look after him. It’s no fun.’

  ‘I told you. It’s not a game,’ Anna says.

  ‘It’s OK for you. You enjoy doing it all. But I think it’s boring.’

  She looks for a moment as if she’s going to argue back about this, but then she closes her mouth and looks thoughtful. She glances at Jamie and then says, ‘Well – I s’pose that’s true. Are you really bored, Alex?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Well …’ She still looks like she’s thinking. ‘We don’t all have to be here, I guess. You two go. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Thanks, Anna.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Jamie looks at her uncertainly. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK on your own?’

  It’s a silly question. I answer for her. ‘Of course she will. She likes being with the hermit. Come on.’

  The little cove that is our favourite place is empty. Although the day is bright and sunny, it’s still quite early in the morning and there is only a scattering of people on Altesa’s sandy beach. It’s rare anyway for anyone else to make the trek along the cliff path and down through the scree to the rocky place there. Jamie and I trot down the uneven route to the beach with the confidence that comes of having retraced the same steps time and again – down from the top of the cliff, round the bulge of land where once I gripped the rock tight to try and stop Anna from falling, and down onto the tumble of loose rock and pebbles that is the beach. We pause for a moment here, to get our breath back and to survey the area: the sea swells and breaks lethargically against the promontory, and there is almost no breeze. The beach itself is sheltered, enclosed by the cliffs and shielded by the spur of the promontory, and although there is a strip of dark shadow running all along the base of the tall cliff – the diving cliff – the rest of the beach is catching the morning sun, and the rocks and dried seaweed are hot to the touch.

  ‘Want to swim?’ Jamie says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Underwater.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  I am hot and dusty from the long walk down the valley and the hike over the cliffs, and the thought of plunging into the cool water by the promontory is almost too enticing to bear. We hurriedly struggle out of our clothes and, being careful where we put our feet on the sharp-edged rock of the spur, we tiptoe out to where the water is good and deep.

  ‘On three!’ Jamie says. ‘One, two—’

  We jump and hit the water at the same time: Jamie in a smooth dive, me holding my nose and going in feet first. The water boils and seethes with bubbles for a long moment, and then begins to clear and settle again. Every part of me is suddenly deliciously cool, and all the hot sweaty dust is gone in the blink of an eye.

  As usual, I feel myself break the surface before I’ve got complete control of what I’m doing; but it’s only for a moment. I take a breath, and angle myself the proper way, and kick down hard; and I’m underwater.

  I can’t find Jamie for a moment, and then I see him a little way off. He has swum right down to the bottom, and has his hand on one of the rocks there, holding himself down. With his other hand he gently moves some of the rocks on the seabed, looking for anemones and sea-urchins. Sea-urchins are nasty if you step on them; the spines break off under the skin and go bad. But if you curl your whole hand around them you can pick them up easily. Placed on a flat rock – or even on the palm of your hand – they will start to walk along on their spines, moving all the individual spikes in a complicated, laborious effort. We find dead ones as well, where the spines have fallen away; and the husks that are left are blue and pink, and divided peculiarly, like flowers, into fives.

  We’ve found spider crabs down here, too, and brought them to the beach to watch them wave their delicate claws; and once, a small, black lobster, in a cleft in the rock. On the side of the spur itself there are starfish and limpets and more anemones and mussels and all kinds of seaweeds. Close in, you have to be careful, because the swell of the waves is sometimes stronger than you expect, and can slap you hard against the rock before you can put out your arms or legs to brace yourself. There are fishes, too; little silver ones that dart back and forth in shoals that turn as if all the fish are moved by the same remote control; and larger ones sometimes, as long as your hand, in smaller groups. Jamie says the bigger fish are further out, and don’t come in so close to the shore.

  In the water, Jamie’s hair floats round his head like dark seaweed, and his body – which looks very pale against the dark green-grey rocks of the sea floor – is mottled with the ribbons of light which break through the surface waves above us. He turns his head as I kick nearer to him, and a thin stream of bubbles breaks from his mouth. Sometimes, when you’re starting to feel that you need to take a breath, it’s easier to let out some of what you have. When he sees me, he grins, and with his free hand gives me the thumbs-up. On the rock below him, I can see he’s found one of the big starfish that we sometimes get in the cove: knobbly and sandy-coloured, with tinges of blue on its bumps. I nod enthusiastically and concentrate as hard as I can on thinking words at Jamie.

  Good one!

  Sometimes Jamie and I try this – try thinking ideas or words at each other. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Our thoughts so often seem to be in tune that it’s hard to tell whether our successes are genuine or not, but we still try. Sometimes we lie with our heads touching, to see if that makes it any better. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t; it’s hard to say.

  Jamie lets go of the rock and kicks up to the surface for another breath, and I go with him. Our heads break the surface at the same time.

  ‘Did you see?’

  ‘Yeah!’ I gasp. ‘That’s a good one!’

  ‘It’s a big one. Maybe we’ll find more.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, breathing in and out fast. The longer you do this, the longer you can stay down. ‘On three!’ I say, when my lungs feel hot with it. ‘One, two—’

  We jackknife and kick our way down again, fighting through the heaviness of the water to the bottom. The starfish is where we left it. If you find the right handholds, you can grab rocks and things on the seabed and use them to pull your way around, keeping close to all the creatures that inhabit the rocks and sandy patches without having to keep kicking with your legs. As we progress, looking for more starfish, I am struck by how strange we look, almost as if we are walking on our hands: Jamie’s arms are stretched out to the seabed, his hands holding and turning and examining, but his legs and feet trail away upwards towards the light. I wonder briefly how we must look to the fish, and whether they are amused by us, or just curious. A stream of the little silvery ones winds round Jamie and then turns, flashing for one quick second with sunlight, and zips off out of sight. If they are amused, they have gone away to laugh about us in private.

  Later, tired and breathless and dizzy from being under the water for so long, we sit on the hot rocks of the
beach together, little pools of water running off us and turning the stone black and slick for a time before the sun dries it up again. Jamie makes a little pillow out of his clothes and rests his head on it.

  I say, ‘I wonder what Anna’s doing.’

  Jamie grunts. He has his eyes closed.

  I say, ‘Don’t you think sometimes Anna’s – a bit weird?’

  Jamie doesn’t open his eyes. He says, ‘Well, a bit.’

  ‘Why didn’t she want to come to the beach?’

  ‘She likes looking after the hermit, I guess.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know, Alex. She just does.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s weird.’

  ‘Mm.’

  Jamie sounds sleepy, and I remember that I woke him up to come here. ‘Are you still tired?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit. Sometimes I’m just sitting or something and I think I could fall asleep right there, just sitting up but asleep, you know?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I think about it. ‘Do you think Anna gets tired?’

  ‘She must do.’

  ‘She doesn’t show it very much, though.’

  ‘Maybe she’s been sleeping while she’s with the hermit.’

  I think of what I’ve heard, and know that she isn’t; that they spend all the time when she’s there talking together. It is, I realize, probably what they’re doing now. I wonder whether to tell Jamie about it, but for some reason it doesn’t feel right to do that. I look at him. He has one arm back behind his head, helping to cushion it against the rock, and the other by his side. There are a few beads of water still on his skin, but he’s drying off quickly in the sun. His hair is still plastered across his head, though.

  I say, ‘Do you think—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ I say vaguely. It has been troubling me, in an odd kind of way, for a while now. ‘When we’re older, will we – I mean, will our things look like the hermit’s?’

  Jamie opens his eyes; he looks surprised. He glances down at himself and then across at me, and gives a kind of half shrug. ‘I s’pose so,’ he says.