The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  She paused a moment, listened. The wind was still heavy-breathing, the waves prowling to and fro with their dull and rhythmic roar. But other sounds were muted—the bleating of the sheep thinner and more mournful, the cries of the gulls only ghosts of ghosts of cries. There were no human sounds at all. Yet six islanders still lived here, must have voices, radios, doors which slammed, dogs which barked. Had they all turned to stone?

  She picked her way along the path, peering through the gloom. Still no sign of any cottage. Should she shout for help, hope that someone somewhere was still made of flesh, had ears? She stumbled to a halt. The path had divided, a second rougher track leading off inland to what looked like a house. Was it just a ruin? A shadow? Chimera? She dared not hope, stood dithering, unsure which way to go.

  Suddenly the darkness was alive—and conquered. A light was flickering in front of her, showing up a curtained window, a sturdy door. No one would hang curtains in a ruin. Whoever had lit that lamp—be it David, grudging crofter or crippled crone—they were flesh and blood, not ghost of monk or sailor, wandering spirit. The light spilled across the path as if beckoning her forward. She fell against the door, beat with both her fists on the weather-beaten wood, laughed with sheer relief as she heard slow and heavy footsteps echoing towards her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Morna reached out for the bedside light, couldn’t find it, shivered. Cold for California. The motel was always either stifling hot or freezing cold. She had better complain in the morning, try and find the manager. Her hand groped further, knocked against something hard. She traced four corners, a rough and splintery surface, fingers closing on a torch. She switched it on, its feeble beam lighting up an upturned wooden crate beside the bed, a swathe of dusty floorboards, the black and gaping mouth of a long-dead fireplace. Where were the sickly browns of the Ocean View Motel—the dung-coloured carpet and mouldy chocolate walls, the blank face of the television screen staring into hers? She rubbed her eyes, glanced around again. The room contracted, the ceiling lowered, turning from smooth plaster into blackened board; the roar outside no longer traffic but howling wind and wave. This was ocean view for real.

  She sat up slowly, kicking off the strange assortment of covers heaped on her bed—three Boer-War-vintage blankets, a piece of dirty sacking, two thick and musty curtains and a duffle coat. David’s coat. She was in David’s cottage, in David’s bed, and wearing his pyjamas. She flung the last cover back, revealing two blue-striped baggy legs, the trouser hems reaching well below her ankles, swallowing up her feet. David’s only pair of pyjamas. He was sleeping in vest and cords downstairs, on a battered sofa which looked older than the blankets.

  David downstairs! It seemed absurd, miraculous—as miraculous as when his tall and stooping figure had appeared at the door of the cottage. She had stood staring like a ninny. He had grown a beard which completely changed his face, made him look less priestly, more foreign and exotic. The hair was strong and coarse, not grey to match his head hair, but the darkest shade of brown; seemed to be alive in its own right like some wild dark-pelted animal. The beard had made her shy, turned David into stranger, someone slightly threatening, too male, too primitive. He had said nothing at all, just motioned her to enter, stood holding the door for her, shaken, almost stunned, gazing at her as if uncertain whether she were real or not. She, too, had lost her voice. All the explanations she’d prepared, all the apologies, excuses, seemed to have crumbled into shale. All she could do was stand shivering and trembling, exhausted by the sea crossing, the long stumbling walk across the island, the sheer relief of finding him at all.

  ‘Are you all … right?’ David asked at last, staring at her bruised and bleeding forehead, her filthy oilskins. He had both his arms hugged across his chest, as if he were holding himself up, holding his emotions in.

  ‘C … Cold.’ Her teeth were chattering, legs numb and clumsy so that she tripped on an uneven piece of lino, almost fell.

  He seemed to come alive then, started boiling kettles, brewing tea, fetching dry clothes and blankets, as if he had suddenly remembered Abban’s own example. The saint had urged his monks to treat every visitor as if he were Jesus Christ Himself, to turn no traveller away, however poor and lowly. On one occasion, a young man, starving and in rags, had arrived shivering at the monastery door. Abban had given up his bed to him, shared his scanty meal. In the morning, the man had disappeared, but an intense golden light was shining over the cell he had vacated. The saint had fallen to his knees, giving thanks and praise. It had been Christ.

  Would David hope to wake to a Shining Light rather than to an inconvenient woman? Had he slept at all on that lumpy springless sofa? Morna sat back against the bedhead, pulled the blankets round her. She was wide awake herself now, hunger and excitement both churning through her stomach, precluding further sleep. She had been excited last night, had to try and hide it with David still so tense. There had been constraints between them, sudden awkward pauses in the conversation, embarrassments over things like non-existent lavatories. She longed to know what he was feeling—resentment, irritation, or something of her own strung-up elation. It had been impossible to eat. Despite her hunger, she had refused the meal he offered. There wasn’t room. Someone had tanked her up with brightly coloured soda pop which was fizzing and exploding in her stomach. She had gone to bed at seven like a child, with just a cup of tea, a stale digestive biscuit, had collapsed on to his box bed with its thin and scratchy mattress which rustled when she moved, its one misshapen pillow which smelt of paraffin and woodsmoke. He hadn’t even changed the sheets—maybe hadn’t changed them since September. She didn’t care. It was a way of getting closer to him, sharing his space, his smell.

  She hauled his duffle coat further up the bed, pulled it right across her face. It felt heavy, rough against her cheek, pressing down on her like the dense and muffling darkness which pressed down on the island, on the house. She no longer feared the dark. David had lent her his torch, left it by her bed like a magic charm to guard against the demons of the night. He had stood at her door, rigid, over-formal, as he mumbled good night. She had almost expected the words to be in Latin; he the abbot of the monastery, she the novice, newly admitted to his rule. She had listened to his footsteps receding down the stairs, heard the faint noises from the kitchen, noises tangled with the wind outside, rattlings from the roof, whistlings down the chimney; tried to keep awake so she could think, found herself drifting on a sea again, rocking back and forth, lulled by the waves until they turned into the mighty shipping lane of Ocean View.

  She pushed the coat off, rolled over on one side and then the other, sat up again, restless like a child on Christmas Eve who couldn’t sleep because of all the treats downstairs. Could she not wake David, go and say good morning? She fumbled for her watch, shone the torch beam on it. Five past three. Barely morning yet. Impossible to bother him so early. His own watch had broken. He had dropped it in a rock pool whilst hunting limpets, hardly seemed to miss it. She counted back the hours to Californian time. Chris would be sitting down to dinner—Bunny’s help-yourself or Loo Fung’s takeaway. She felt starving now herself, would never last till breakfast. Perhaps she could creep down to the kitchen, raid the larder. She ventured one foot out of bed, wincing at the cold. She was already wearing two pairs of David’s socks, his warmest sweater underneath the pyjama top. She struggled into his jeans which were too tight around the waist and far too long, rolled the bottoms up, added a second sweater and an old suede jerkin which stank of tar and fish. It couldn’t be easy to wash your clothes out here—or yourself—needed courage to undress at all.

  The door whimpered as she opened it, each wooden stair grumbling at her tread as if she had woken it from sleep. The torch sent startled shadows up the bare stone walls. She stopped stock-still as she heard a sudden noise, shone the torch beam down. A tall dark shape was emerging from what Cormack called the parlour, a gloomy room where damp seemed spread on everything like a dank and clinging dustshee
t.

  ‘Morna …?’

  ‘D … David …?’

  Silence. She manoeuvered the last few steps, stood gripping the banisters, staring down at the strip of floor between them. ‘I’m sorry, David, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  She could feel her heart thumping its excitement, struggled to sound casual. ‘You d … don’t get up at three, do you?’

  ‘Is it three?’

  ‘Mm. Ten past.’

  ‘No, I’m quite a layabout, in fact. It’s a matter of saving fuel. I tend to get up when it’s light and turn in when it’s dark.’

  ‘Bed at four p.m., you mean? That’s worse than me last night.’

  David smiled. ‘Not much good if you couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Oh, I did. I went out like a light.’ Morna cleared her throat. Embarrassing to be caught like a thief halfway to the larder. ‘I was … er … just going to try and find your biscuit tin.’

  ‘It’s empty, I’m afraid. Anyway, biscuits won’t fill you up. You must be really starving. How about some supper?’

  ‘Supper? Now?’

  ‘Why not? We haven’t had it yet.’

  ‘Well, I … er … wouldn’t mind a snack.’

  ‘That’s all it’ll be, I’m afraid. What d’you fancy? I’ve got almost everything in tins—soup, Spam, sardines, corned beef, even mixed fruit cocktail.’

  ‘I don’t mind. What do you eat usually?’

  It was baked beans for the first month—breakfast, lunch and tea. I was dreaming Heinz in the end. Then I got more adventurous—tried my hand at home-made bread. That’s what Abban lived on—soda bread and seaweed.’

  ‘Seaweed?’

  ‘Mm. You ought to try it. It’s meant to be nutritious—you know, roughage and minerals and all that sort of stuff.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘It’s not bad. The Welsh and Irish have eaten it for centuries. And in Japan it’s as basic as our chips and peas. They have hundreds of varieties—arame and kombu and nori and mekabu. One of the Japanese scribes was praising it as a delicacy as far back as the sixth century BC. Abban ate it stewed with roots. In fact, it’s amazing what you can do with it. In the last war, when most foods were short or rationed, the Aran islanders got together and cooked a sort of banquet based entirely on different types of seaweed. They had laver salad, devilled dulse, carragheen purée, and heaven knows what else besides. I’ve only tried dulse, so far, but I’ve made dulse soup, dulse pancakes, dulse salad, dulse …’

  ‘Okay, dulse dinner for two. And a cup of standard supermarket tea, please.’

  She was glad when he laughed. It helped to break the tension. She was still standing at the bottom of the stairs, he a yard or two away, both stiff with cold.

  David was the first to move. ‘I’d better light the lamp. We’ll break the rules for once. Light and heat at three a.m. By the way, have you seen the moon?’

  ‘No.’ There had been no moon when she went to bed—only cloud swatched over darkness.

  ‘Come and look.’ He led her into the parlour. A piece of crumpled fabric had been tacked up in front of the small and deep-set window to form a makeshift curtain. He swept it back.

  The sea was so close, she gasped—a whole ocean trapped in a foot or two of glass, with a lumpy three-quarter moon pouring down its light so that the water looked alive, glittering and rippling. Neither of them spoke. She had always felt impatient with the language. You couldn’t say ‘It’s beautiful.’ It was too banal. Anyway, was it even beautiful? The moon was a cold, dead, dusty chunk of rock tagging after planet Earth. So how could it move you so profoundly, make you want to coin new words? David was so close now she could feel his elbow brushing hers. A man and a woman, shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the moon. It was a setting for a story, a Mills and Boon romance. David wasn’t wearing a cloak and ruff or thigh-length riding boots, would never have made the book jacket with his ancient corduroys, his three bulky shapeless sweaters. But what about the romance? His bed was just behind her, the rumpled sofa where he had been sleeping—or perhaps not sleeping—thinking of her, maybe, as keyed up and excited as she was herself. Couldn’t she try and tell him what she felt, break down his reserve? They couldn’t hide forever behind formalities, decorum. She turned to face him, dared to touch his arm.

  He stepped abruptly back, let the fabric fall. ‘Well, I’d … er … better get that range going. It’s damn cold down here.’

  Morna flushed, followed him into the kitchen, a cramped lowceilinged room which she had seen only in the tactful light of the oil lamp. David was lighting it now, striking four damp matches before the fifth took him by surprise, jumping back against the sudden burst of flame. The flickering shadows unwove the solid walls, embroidered the rough stone floor with gold. She suspected harsher daylight would reveal the room as dirty, even squalid. Everything was improvised—the waste bin an empty oil-can, the toaster a rusty fork with half its prongs missing, the fridge a packing case set outside the back door. Fridge! She shivered. The whole kitchen was a fridge. She moved closer as David struggled with the range, feeding it with driftwood or bits of flotsam thrown up at high tide. Fuel was a prize, the reward for patient scouring of the beaches—a gift from a fickle sea which might withhold its bounty. He had told her already how he went out twice a day to collect every stick and scrap he could find, then rationed it to tide him over empty-handed days. Water, too, was precious, collected in a rain butt, or lugged in a bucket from the stream. Yet there was some new and raw excitement in living rough, struggling for every basic need. A simple cup of tea became a challenge, an achievement. As a child, she had always longed to go back-packing or pony-trekking, escape her mother’s timid holidays, where they sat it out in genteel guest-houses with antimacassars on the chairs and board games for wet and endless afternoons, and where no one ventured further than esplanade or tea-rooms, and lights were out at ten. She had often resurrected her father, invented expeditions for just the two of them—canoeing down the Amazon or sleeping under the stars in the Gobi desert. When she grew up, Neil imposed his own timidities, always splashing out enough to ensure unruffled luxury, keep away danger or adventure.

  David was still coaxing the range. The wood seemed damp, slow to kindle. When at last it caught, his face and hands glowed orange suddenly, as if they, too, were on fire; she still in shadow, separate.

  ‘Can’t I help?’ she asked. Best to stick to practicalities, avoid all personal subjects for the moment.

  ‘You could make the tea.’

  She quarter-filled the heavy iron kettle from the pitcher of water, put just one tea bag in the cracked and lidless pot. There were barely a dozen left. David’s supplies were scanty altogether, although he was emptying his larder in her honour, spreading the table with a sort of picnic tea—bloater paste and cupcakes, a knuckle of stale soda-bread, a tin of pineapple chunks, a jar of cut-price strawberry jam without the strawberries. It was like those midnight feasts she had read about in Enid Blyton and never had at school—weird food at a weird hour, when the rest of the boring world was fast asleep an’ you had to whisper. They had been whispering themselves. She hardly knew why, except the night seemed so private, so huge and overawing, it was as if they had no right to intrude into it, assault it with their noise. The wind was a constant presence, ranting outside the cottage like the roar of the range inside. She moved from the front window to the tiny makeshift side one which had been inserted at a later date and faced inland. No curtain here to hide the dark hulk of a hill, further hills beyond it, merging into sky; the two almost indistinguishable, the darkness as solid as the land it swallowed up. The moon’s light barely reached there, or only as a thin and watery milk drizzled on to granite cloud. The few faint stars looked timid and uncertain as if they could be brushed away by the first impatient hand.

  Morna turned back from the pane, attracted like a moth towards the lamp. That tiny pool of light was challenging the vast black uncertainties outside
, the kitchen range crackling its defiance of midwinter. She went and sat beside it, warmed her hands. David was pressing some black oozy substance between a plate and a saucepan lid, to squeeze the liquid out. The seaweed, she presumed. It looked worse than she had imagined, its cloying smell hanging in the air as if he had uncovered a haul of long-dead fish.

  ‘I think I’ll stick to bloater paste.’

  ‘No, wait a bit. I’m going to make dulse fritters. The batter disguises the taste.’ He drizzled oil into a huge black frying pan which looked as old and battle-scarred as the cottage itself. ‘They may be a bit heavy, I’m afraid. I haven’t any eggs. Cormack offered to sell me pickled gulls’ eggs, but nothing from his hens. He told me they’d stopped laying in the tone of voice which implied I was personally responsible.’

  ‘Why is he so hostile?’

  ‘Well, I’m English to start with, which is enough to damn me anyway, but even if I weren’t, I’d still be an outsider and all the islanders are suspicious of outsiders. You can hardly blame them, I suppose. Life’s damn hard out here, so they’re bound to resent softies or townies, or people who stay a week or so and think they know it all.’

  ‘That’s not you, though, David.’

  ‘I don’t know. My life’s pretty soft compared with theirs. I’m living on a grant, sitting at a desk and …’

  ‘Where’s the desk?’