The Click of a Pebble

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘Your house is near the port?’ he gasped, spotting a forest of masts through a gap in the roof tops.

  Swinging round, he reviewed their path from the seashore. They must have looped round in a half-circle, the port still some way off and below them. Appalled, Yöst examined the busy street, the steep incline slowing horses and carts to a crawl. These people, concerned with their family and putting food on the table, would they even be interested in learning that upwards of twenty adults and children had recently been savagely beaten to death? And the perpetrators of this crime, the menfolk whom these women encountered on a daily basis and were possibly married to, would guilt drive them to further acts of violence, in an attempt to eliminate any witnesses to the killings?

  M. Meijer touched Yöst on the arm, his expression one of sympathy and understanding. ‘Unfortunately, yes. Very near. But happily, as you will see, on quite a different level.’

  As the road wound uphill, the light steadily increased as did the wind, the cold severe and more biting than it had been among the narrow streets, with their unbroken lines of housing. Fewer now in number and well-spaced out, here houses hugged the ground, as if they feared the wind sweeping across the open cliff face might blow them away. Behind their gleaming windows, Yöst saw figures moving about, and a woman ran out into her garden to bring in her washing. So ordinary and so normal, it could as easily have been one of the women on the island, who cursed the rain when they’d got clothes hanging on a line to dry. Had he dreamed the slaughter? Had it ever been real? He swung round. ‘Was it a dream, Monsieur Meijer? Or my imagination? Say it was, please,’ he begged pitifully.

  ‘I wish I could.’ M. Meijer stopped walking. Loosening an arm from around Zande, he wrapped it around Yöst’s shoulders. ‘It’s not much comfort, I know, yet as you grow up, you will find the vast majority of humankind no different from us. They too wish only to live in peace.’

  ‘If that is true,’ Yöst burst out angrily, ‘why did it happen?’

  ‘Because there are men who fear what they do not understand.’

  ‘Fear?’

  ‘Yes, fear.’ M. Meijer hitched the sleeping boy higher in his arms, the steep climb demanding all his breath. ‘People brought up in a closed environment, with no opportunity for education, are often resentful of change.’

  ‘My grandmother said the world was changing and I didn’t believe her.’

  ‘She was right, Yöst. Sadly, many people find change difficult to accept and cling to the old ways. If things go wrong, they find a scapegoat in the nearest thing to hand – however puerile. It means they blame others for their misfortunes,’ he explained noticing Yöst’s confusion. ‘No different from the fishermen who blamed seals for their poor harvest. They drove them away with cudgels, never once considering the ocean’s currents might well have changed, and driven the fish along a quite different pathway. Here we are.’

  The house in question stood on its own and appeared to straddle the cliff edge, the ground beneath their feet littered with weeds and pebble-sized pieces of white rock. As they approached more closely, Yöst realised that to be an optical illusion and the house actually stood well back, a wide stretch of turf between it and the cliff edge. Here, a railed flight of steps cut a pathway down through the chalk twisting out of sight.

  M. Meijer pointed to the steps. ‘Mostly I use those steps into the town. It’s quicker.’ The little boy had slipped down again and he hefted him up, Zande’s head resting against his shoulder. ‘But not today, not today.’

  His wife was waiting, peering out through net curtains. She vanished and, a moment later, hurried out through the front door. ‘Albert! I was so worried. Oh, my goodness—’ A hand flew to her mouth in astonishment. ‘Not children.’ She bobbed her head at Yöst, her tone gentling. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Yöst, Madame. This is Zande and Tatania.’

  Tatania, who had woken, gazed sleepily at the woman. ‘Mama,’ she crooned, her face lighting in a smile.

  Mme Meijer sniffed. ‘Don’t stand there gawking, Albert. Bring them in before they catch their deaths.’ Almost snatching Tatania out of Yöst’s arms, she ran her into the house.

  Yöst followed more slowly. As they crossed the threshold, he felt the warmth of the house inviting him in. He yawned, suddenly overwhelmingly tired, sensing the anguish and responsibility of the previous days begin to slip from his shoulders.

  ‘Baths and then food,’ Mme Meijer led them through a sitting room, furnished with comfortable chairs and a table, pushing open a door at the far end into a kitchen. Not large, a single window overlooked the garden, with clouds and dark sky beyond.

  Yöst gazed in astonishment, having never seen a room this clean before. His grandmother had always maintained clean gave off cold vibes, while dust was the opposite, warm and comfortable. ‘That still doesn’t mean we have to live like pigs,’ she had chided whenever he forgot to keep his side of their tiny hut tidy. So very different from the home he had made with the rest of the boys after she died. Their six pallets had filled almost the entire floor space, and they had shoved their possessions under the wooden struts, hanging jackets and coats on nails driven into the wooden uprights. But this room was neither empty nor cold; quite the reverse. A coal- fired range filled the air with warmth, while beneath the window, stood an enamel sink with a shiny draining board; the floor covered in patterned linoleum. Despite being faded and shabby in places, under the table where it had remained bright and vibrant, it added a cheerful air to the room. Apart from the table, with its bare wood top scrubbed white, there was a chair, a couple of wooden stools, and a dresser laden with coloured pottery, a line of china mugs hanging from brass hooks.

  ‘Albert, bring the bath from the outhouse this instant.’ ‘My dear, the children are hungry,’ he protested.

  ‘I am quite well aware of that,’ his wife retorted briskly. ‘I am also aware, once they have eaten they will wish to sleep, and I’ll not have dirty bodies in my clean sheets. While I am bathing the little ones, perhaps you will go upstairs and find Yöst something to wear. He’ll have to manage with one of your old nightshirts, until we can buy something better. Zande, now,’ she smiled down at the small boy, who was gazing in a bewildered fashion at the blue and white plates on the dresser. She patted his curls. ‘I am sure you can find an old vest or perhaps one of your very ancient jumpers that I have been trying to throw away for the past ten years.’

  A kettle already steaming on the hob hinted at the woman’s anticipation of their arrival. As her husband reappeared from the outhouse carrying a small tin bath, she picked up a cloth and, wrapping it around the kettle’s handle, emptied the water into the bath, steam gusting up from the cold metal.

  Instructing her husband how to add cold water, she pulled out a stool from under the table and lifting Tatania onto her lap, deftly removed her clothes. ‘You must test it with your elbow, Albert,’ she admonished, ‘then put the kettle on again. Yöst will need hot water too. I will try and contrive something for the girl.’ She swung round on Yöst, silently standing with his back to the kitchen door, eyeing her as a wild animal might its captor, alarmed by the speed at which everything was happening.

  She wasn’t young. If Yöst had to guess, he would believe her older than her husband, her soft brown hair, which she wore in braids wrapped around her head, greying at the front. Both were on the plump side, except her face had fewer lines, her eyes of a clear china blue matching the cups on the dresser.

  ‘We don’t have a bathroom,’ she apologised, placing the little girl in the warm water. ‘And the privy is in the outhouse.’ Picking up a flannel, she carefully soaped Tatania’s curls, rinsing them with a tin cup of clean water, her hand on the child’s forehead to prevent the soap suds stinging her eyes.

  Tatania smiled contentedly. ‘Nice,’ she said, and patted the water.

  ‘We didn’t have bathrooms either,’ Yöst admitted, watching the woman help Zande undress. The boy had said nothing since his outburst abou
t the goat. Now, he gave a contented sigh as the warmth of the water took over, his dark skin and rounded limbs in marked contrast to the tiny girl, the whiteness of her skin almost luminous against his.

  ‘The men rigged up a shower for the women and children. It only had cold water, except in summer when the sun warmed it.’

  ‘No doubt you went dirty in winter.’ Mme Meijer said briskly. Picking up the flannel, she scrubbed Zande’s face. ‘That’s better. Now I can see what you look like. I’ll wash your back, the rest you can do yourself … you’re quite big enough.’ She tweaked his nose. ‘All present and correct. One nose, two eyes and a mouth, although that mouth isn’t saying much. I expect it will tomorrow when it’s had a good sleep.’

  The boy gazed up at her from under his lashes. ‘My mother has a bath like this and she always washes me. She says when I do it, I miss bits. I told her that was impossible because you can’t see dirt on my skin.’

  M. Meijer pushed open the kitchen door, a bundle of clothes under one arm. Hearing Zande’s comment, his mouth twisted uneasily. ‘As an old married man, I can tell you, Zande, all ladies possess X-ray vision and can see dirt wherever it’s to be found. So you’d better do a good job.’ The kettle began to whistle and he lifted it off the heat. ‘I’ve found you a nightshirt, Yöst, and here’s a cloth to dry yourself on. When you’re finished, I’ll empty out the water.’

  Mme Meijer picked up the small child from the bath and began to rub her dry. ‘Albert, you’d better lift Zande out before he turns into a pickled prune. Yöst, I appreciate everything will feel very awkward for a few days.’ She paused while her husband lifted the dripping figure of Zande from the bath and wrapped him in a towel. ‘And very different. I realise you may not have lived in a house before, nor slept in a bed with sheets. I expect you will discover many things that are strange. Things you don’t understand or maybe don’t approve of. If you reach screaming point, remember we are trying to keep you safe.’ She smiled at him, the gentleness of her expression at odds with her stern tone. In her blue eyes, Yöst read both sadness and concern. He guessed she understood without needing to ask. If any of the adults had been left alive, her husband would not have encumbered himself with three children.

  Seeing his face change, raw emotion blanketing its surface, Mme Meijer swung away, focussing on Tatania and drying each of her toes separately. ‘Tomorrow, young lady,’ she said, her voice brisk, ‘we will start with potty training.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Yöst said, salt from his tears running down into the back of his throat.

  ‘For what? You’ve not tried my cooking yet.’

  The strain on Yöst’s young face changed to amusement and he laughed.

  6

  From the comfort of her own armchair, Mme Meijer viewed her husband with exasperation. ‘Albert, what is it? You’ve had your spectacles on and off six times in as many minutes.’

  M. Meijer peered over the top of his newspaper. ‘It’s just occurred to me that we may have to move.’

  ‘First things first, Albert,’ Mme Meijer pushed her needle through the hem of the nightshirt she was constructing for Zande, out of some old pieces of fabric. ‘Tomorrow, you must catch a tram to the next town and buy clothes for the children.’ The two youngest were asleep in their spare bedroom, tucked up side by side, an old piece of waterproof sheeting protecting the mattress. Yöst, who should have been with them, had crept downstairs and was now closeted behind

  the staircase door.

  ‘Do we have money?’

  ‘Enough. Van Vliet always leaves a purse … in case.’

  Mme Meijer gave a short bark of amusement and nipped the thread between her teeth, holding up the garment for inspection. ‘It’s amazing how many times in the last thirty years it has been needed.’

  ‘Marie.’ Albert laid his hand on his wife’s arm. She brushed it off and got to her feet. Crossing to the window, she began sorting through the bits of fabric lying on the table.

  The room in which the couple were sitting extended the full width of the house, its rear windows offering panoramic views across the bay. Beyond the horizon, out of sight of even the keenest eyes, lay the Atlantic, although, if the history books were to be believed, over the centuries the ill- tempered waters of the Bay of Biscay had proved an even greater recipient of shipwrecks than the ocean itself.

  If they woke early, husband and wife sometimes watched the fleet sail out along the narrow channel between island and mainland, the conical shape of the island’s cliff scarcely more than a blur against the pre-dawn skies. Only after the spring equinox did it show up white before the trawlers set sail, quickly falling into shadow again once autumn winds drove the sun away. To witness their return to harbour, they had to use the window in the back bedroom, high enough up to see over the heavy wall that protected the ships at anchor. Perched on the windowsill, they would count up the number of wagons parked on the quayside, assessing the day’s catch as good or bad. If good, several hours toil still awaited the fishermen before the last vehicles were loaded, their catch destined for the overnight train which left at midnight from the neighbouring town.

  It was a comfortable room, made shabby from years of use and not much money. A long curtain hung against the front door to stop draughts, the matching chair covers equally as faded, their arm-rests almost threadbare, while the window curtains seemed ill-suited to the task of keeping out the cold, decades of washing having shrunk the fabric so they now left a wide gap. Even the rug by the fireplace had not been replaced, a corner charred black where a spark from the fire had set it alight.

  ‘It’s a lot to ask of you,’ he continued.

  ‘Albert, you never ask of me.’ Choosing a piece of material, Mme Meijer retraced her steps, planting a kiss on his bald patch, before resuming her seat by the fire. ‘Admittedly, I never imagined we would have children this late in life.’

  He chuckled. ‘Certainly not after thirty years. I—’ He jumped to his feet. Placing a finger on his lips in response to the question on his wife’s face, he took two silent steps and jerked open the staircase door.

  Overbalancing, Yöst tumbled down the steps into the sitting room. ‘You heard?’ he exclaimed in disbelief. He rubbed his knees where he had banged them on the floorboards. ‘How could you? I made no sound.’

  M. Meijer chuckled. ‘I told you I was a child of Zeus. Good hearing is only one of our many gifts.’

  ‘If you’re staying, you had better wrap yourself in this.’ Mme Meijer picked up a shawl from the arm of the sofa, holding it out. ‘I presume you want to find out if Albert is intending to boil you in oil and serve you for lunch tomorrow?’

  Yöst gave a startled gasp, his face almost comic in its bewilderment. It felt to the adults viewing him this might well be his normal expression, his mouth mobile and constantly moving as if he was sitting on a mountain of jokes, he was longing to share. Yet it was still a child’s face as was his voice, which hadn’t even begun to consider breaking and dropping an octave or two into the base notes of an adult male. ‘I hadn’t got around to the oil bit yet,’ he confessed with a shamefaced grin. He sat down on the rug and curled his feet beneath him. ‘But yes, I was hoping to learn … I mean, I wondered …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, sir.’ Impatiently, he brushed his long hair out of his eyes. ‘I wondered where we are to live. I mean this house isn’t very big and with three of us … you may think it’s too small. If it is, please tell me; don’t just decide to send us to the church. I know they take in orphans, only we can’t go there … not to the church.’ He stopped then as if another thought had occurred, ‘Not in this town; especially not in this town.’

  M. Meijer frowned and leaned forward to interrupt, his wife hastily signalling to stay quiet. He relaxed again, watchfully studying Yöst as if he was a page of numbers he was trying to add.

  ‘You see they might decide to split us up and I couldn’t allow that to happen. I know TaTa’s only a baby … but I sort of feel res
ponsible for her and …’ he hesitated, ‘Zande too. I told him we would never be separated.’

  M. Meijer tapped his pipe on the palm of his hand, taking a pinch of tobacco out of a zipped leather purse. ‘Have you ever met a Black before?’

  ‘Only our leader, sir. And I didn’t really meet him. You don’t, you see. Not until you change. Why?’ he asked, repeating Zande’s constantly recurring question.

  ‘Because they are the most charming and beautiful and—’

  ‘They always get their own way,’ Mme Meijer completed his sentence. ‘Have you noticed how Zande studies you from under his eyelashes? They’re so long, they sweep his cheeks.’ She picked up a bobbin of white thread, cutting a length. Putting on her spectacles, she peered closely in an effort to thread her needle.

  ‘Yet quite ruthless,’ her husband continued. ‘Don’t worry, once he has settled, he won’t keep you to it.’

  Yöst sat up straight. ‘I gave him my word and I intend to keep it.’ His tone changed. ‘My grandmother said great men never gave promises lightly. But when they did, they always kept them.’

  He caught the swift glance that passed between husband and wife.

  Mme Meijer placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘You won’t be sent to the church, Yöst, here or anywhere else. We will keep you with us. That is what Van Vliet would expect.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Zande’s father, the Black. You have never heard his name?’

  Yöst shrugged. ‘Grandmother called him Robert.’ Carefully folding the shawl, he replaced it on the sofa arm. ‘I’ll go and sleep now.’ He gave another shrug. ‘I didn’t sleep much the last few nights.’ Pulling open the door to the staircase, he swung round looking bewildered. ‘Monsieur Meijer, it’s evening and dark outside. Why haven’t you changed?’

  Mme Meijer moved her hand in warning. Understanding, husband said simply, ‘Since I married my wife that has never happened.’