The Click of a Pebble

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘TaTa,’ he insisted stubbornly. ‘She wants to be called TaTa.’

  It had been late when M. Meijer arrived back, his wife peering anxiously through the curtains from mid-afternoon. He apologised, complaining that finding clothes to fit Zande had proved most difficult because of his height and build. ‘I went from store to store. Eventually I got these.’ He held up a pair of navy shorts with a matching jumper. ‘They’re for a six-year-old.’

  ‘I knew I should have gone with you, Albert,’ his wife rebuked, her tone curt with worry. ‘Navy is just about the worst shade you could have picked with his colouring.’

  ‘It was all I could find. That or black.’ He pulled out a pink dress with blue smocking on the front. ‘Tatania will look pretty in this.’

  Noticing Zande’s scowl, his wife hastily intervened. ‘It appears her name is TaTa.’ She smiled affectionately at the boy. ‘Isn’t that right? Anything else?’

  ‘Idle gossip,’ M. Meijer reassured his wife. ‘It can wait. I’m hungry and need some dinner. And while I’m eating, Yöst, you can tell me what you’ve been up to in my absence. I must say, I scarcely recognise you with a new haircut.’

  ‘If you can’t recognise me, can I go back to school?’ he begged. ‘I’m used to being busy and it was a long day with nothing to do.’

  Mme Meijer placed a bowl of fish soup on the table in front of her husband. ‘The children drew some wonderful pictures while I did their washing.’ She dropped a kiss on his head.

  Her husband clattered his spoon. It dropped into his dish of soup, splattering the table top with bits of fish. ‘You hung their clothes on the line in the garden?’

  ‘I am not that stupid, Albert,’ she responded tartly. Taking a cloth from the sink, she mopped up the spilt liquid. ‘Yöst’s jacket, yes, because it could easily belong to you. The rest I put on a clotheshorse outside the back door. They dried very well.’

  She got to her feet and picked up Tatania who had been sitting quietly on Zande’s knee. ‘Yöst, come and help put the children to bed. You can read them a story.’

  ‘He’s a strange boy,’ she called as she tip-toed downstairs again, carefully closing the stairwell door behind her.

  ‘Who?’ M. Meijer was standing by the open back door, staring out at the night sky, smoke from his pipe blowing back into the house.

  ‘Zande.’

  She walked through the outhouse and stood next to her husband, her head with its tightly wound plaits fractionally topping his. The rain earlier had moved inland, leaving a night sky awash with stars. In the distance, a solid patch of darkness that was the island took over, even the moon avoiding it, restricting its rays to the open stretches of the ocean.

  ‘He has decided TaTa belongs to him and he belongs to Yöst.’

  ‘And Yöst?’ M. Meijer drew on his pipe, the burning tobacco glowing like the core of a miniature volcano.

  ‘Did he tell you the priest was party to it?’

  Her husband gasped in surprise. ‘How—’ He spluttered and leant over coughing.

  ‘That’s why he asked for them not to be sent to the church.’

  He wiped his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. ‘What else?’

  ‘Apparently, he is the one who killed Tatania’s mother.’ ‘The boy must have been mistaken. If he was hiding, he couldn’t possibly have seen what was happening. He has to be mistaken,’ he repeated. ‘No man of God would kill.’

  ‘You don’t believe in our god.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ M. Meijer’s voice rose. ‘He wasn’t making it up, Albert.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he sighed, ‘maybe not. On the tram, I overheard people say the islanders had been driven away. They spoke of their gratitude to the church for intervening, believing my people thieves and worse – stealing the very food from the mouths of their children.’

  ‘And the rest, the swans?’

  ‘There was no mention of them or of the killings.’ He fell silent, his attention fixed on the stars, as if he hoped they might supply an answer. ‘It makes no sense. Why would a priest ally himself with fishermen? They are well-known to be superstitious. But a priest … and to kill? No, that has to be wrong,’ he repeated firmly.

  ‘Well, I believe Yöst. He’s seems a sensible lad and a truthful one. He told me that before she died, Tatania’s mother confessed to having a child … a baby, and he’s certain the priest will come looking for it.’

  ‘She’s a girl; an ordinary child,’ he protested.

  ‘Maybe, but the priest doesn’t know that.’

  Silence fell, while M. Meijer’s tamped down some fresh tobacco in his pipe and relit it.

  Mme Meijer hastened back into the kitchen. ‘Finish your pipe.’ She called over her shoulder, ‘I’ll check on the children and make some coffee.’

  After ten minutes or so, her husband followed, carefully latching the back door and slipping its bolt. ‘Asleep?’

  His wife nodded. ‘Yöst too, poor child.’ Pouring two cups of coffee, she sweetened them with a little sugar, placing a cup on a table beside her husband’s chair before sitting down. ‘It’s market day, tomorrow. I was wondering if I might take Yöst with me. He needs to get out.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  She was silent for a moment, considering her husband’s words. Then, taking a sip of her coffee, she replaced the cup in its saucer and picked up her sewing. ‘If it’s a baby they’re searching for, he’s safe enough. Ramon, my old friend, he will be there. I wanted to ask you first; I was wondering if he might offer the children a home.’

  ‘You’d ask a stranger?’

  ‘Hardly a stranger, Albert. We gave him shelter when he needed it and you helped him buy his first cow, remember? He will understand and not ask questions. Besides, his smallholding is way out in the countryside,’ she continued briskly, ‘well away from wagging tongues.’

  ‘Robert wouldn’t care for it.’

  ‘Robert isn’t here. He’s probably the far side of the world, chasing after some woman.’

  ‘Marie! You can’t …’

  ‘Don’t you go defending him, Albert. You’ve been free for thirty years, yet you still consider yourself subject to his rule. We are useful to him, that’s all.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ his voice was shrill, brittle with indignation.

  ‘Very easily, Albert, because it’s true. He’s not half the man his father was. He, at least, had the good sense to permit cobs to live among humans if they chose. If anyone was responsible for the killings, Robert was. Herding them together on the island, women and children too. The town was awash with rumours and malicious gossip. It was only a matter of time before the men of the town wanted them gone.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I admit that was unfortunate. Yet, by insisting they remain as a community, Robert has made the carinatae strong again and secured their future.’

  ‘Does it matter that much, Albert?’

  ‘Not to me, perhaps,’ he sighed, ‘it does to the present generation. For young fledglings, it’s the perfect life.’

  Leaning over, Mme Meijer patted his hand. ‘Perfect life or not, Albert, if as you said, there’s no guarantee Robert will be back in the spring, it’s up to us to decide what is to become of the children. And I know they’ll be safe in the country.’

  ‘I will think about it.’

  Mme Meijer got to her feet and went over to the table, once again sorting through the pile of cloth. ‘Good, and while you are doing that, ask yourself how long we can keep Zande cooped up indoors as well.’

  8

  Mme Meijer tilted the black beret to one side. ‘Now you’re just like a proper schoolboy, Yöst. I bought this for Albert years ago,’ she continued briskly. ‘He complained his face was the wrong shape for a beret and refused to wear it. It’s a bit big, but you’ll soon grow into it.’ She tied the ends of her black scarf, tucking them neatly into the collar of her coat.

  Zande was still sat at the breakfast table, Tatania beside him, scooping up
the last of her bread and milk, and wielding her spoon with such skill, it was impossible to believe she had been introduced to cutlery only a few days before. Zande had not resorted to silence, although he remained quiet, answering if addressed and directing his replies at Yöst, as if he was speaking a foreign language that Yöst alone understood. He frowned and tugged at Yöst’s jersey.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Tante Marie said I might ask about Blacks. Will Monsieur Meijer tell me?’

  Mme Meijer and Yöst exchanged a startled glance. Neither had expected him to remember the conversation, not after the excitement of being bought new clothes to wear.

  ‘Why don’t you talk to him, while I go with Tante Marie and carry her shopping?’ Yöst said, carefully removing the boy’s clutching fingers from his new jersey. ‘I won’t be long. We have to buy milk for TaTa,’ he added, aware this would clinch the argument, Zande almost obsessive in his care for the little girl.

  ‘His mother was expecting another child,’ he had informed Mme Meijer when she commented. ‘Maybe she promised Zande a sister.’

  Hastily grabbing up his new jacket, he shut the front door behind him, catching up with Mme Meijer as she walked across the cliff-top.

  It was a clear day with a stiffening breeze that flattened grass stems and tore at their shallow roots, the spiky head of a blue thistle bowling merrily across the rock-strewn surface. As they descended the hill, other women dressed similarly to Mme Meijer emerged from their front doors, a capacious wicker basket looped over each of their arms like a badge of office.

  ‘Walk in front,’ she whispered, ‘and pretend you know where you’re going.’

  Increasing his pace slightly, Yöst overtook the gossiping throng immediately sensing their attention, their eyes boring into the back of his neck. His new clothes felt stiff as if made out of rigid cardboard, mindful that in a poor community anything new was likely to invite comment.

  Once again, his thoughts reverted to the island, arguing for and against the decision to leave. Forgetful of its lack of warmth and food, he continued to switch back and forth, weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of staying. Maybe they wouldn’t have had a proper bed to sleep in, but did that actually matter? On the island he’d often slept on the ground and always slept well enough. And maybe they wouldn’t have anyone to talk to, at least they would have been safe.

  That idea was paramount and overrode everything – every reason, every excuse – aware of the dark shadow that had made its presence felt, the moment they stepped from the dinghy onto shore. He felt it again now, lurking. At least from the cliff-top on the island, unwelcome visitors would be easy to spot, and no one would ever find the cave. Even he sometimes mistook its exact location in the cliff.

  As he rounded the slope into the main street, a tram lumbered slowly uphill, the steep incline more than a match for its engine, sparks spewing from its iron undercarriage whenever it criss-crossed between rails. Yöst watched a young man take a quick step and leap aboard, wishing he might do the same … run away from this town. He’d rarely if ever encountered danger, except that one time when he’d been searching for shells on the beach and a boulder had crashed down from the rock face, so close he’d felt the wind from its falling. He’d experienced the same sense of trepidation then, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up. That had been enough to save him. The tram bell rang out making him jump.

  Drawing level, Mme Meijer tucked her arm through his, steering him across the road.

  ‘Everyone’s staring at me,’ he hugged her arm, grateful for her presence.

  ‘Because you’re so handsome,’ she smiled reassuringly. ‘Tomorrow, the ladies will ask and I will reply that you’re my sister’s son and she was good-looking too. How jealous they will be.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yöst, there’s not the slightest resemblance between you and that waif I took in, other than the colour of your hair. And most of that is hidden under your beret.’ She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I know it’s not possible, nevertheless, it wouldn’t surprise me if you had grown in the past few days. It must be all the washing.’

  As they headed down the hillside, the women separated, calling in at different shops on their way down. One stopped to chat to the cobbler, his arms encumbered with the shoes he was arranging on a table outside his shop window. Yöst watched the woman take a man’s boot out of her basket, point to something on the heel, shaking the offending item angrily. Inspecting it, the cobbler dropped the shoes he was carrying onto a table, ushering her into his shop.

  It was a busy scene. Farmers, entering the town from dawn, had positioned their horse-drawn carts against the kerbside, unloading tall wicker baskets piled high with glossy red tomatoes, peppers and figs, their purple skins tight and ready to burst. A large dray horse, trailing its harness, lapped thirstily at the stone water trough sited halfway up the steep hill, its owner chatting with one of the stall-keepers.

  ‘Good morning, Madame Serpaud.’ Mme Meijer said to a stout woman, plodding up the hill towards them, receiving a breathy nod in reply. She lowered her voice. ‘Yöst, run down to the grocers at the bottom of the hill and buy a tin of powdered milk.’

  ‘The grocers?’ Yöst watched the woman out of earshot.

  ‘Yes. TaTa needs milk. I asked the man on the milk cart for a little extra yesterday, telling him my nephew was staying for a few days. I doubt if it will be enough,’ she sounded worried, ‘and he will become suspicious if I ask again. I need to wean the child on to vegetables. She can’t stay on bread and milk forever. What did she eat on the island, Yöst?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never saw her before last week.’

  Fumbling in her purse, Mme Meijer pulled out some coins. ‘Here! If there is any change from the milk, buy some oranges, they’re cheap enough.’ She pointed down the hill. ‘If the grocer doesn’t have milk, the bakers opposite should stock it.’

  Nervously, Yöst hurried down the street, his finely tuned hearing picking up on snippets of conversation. None concerned the happenings on the island; the gossiping women more concerned with who was marrying whom or who had recently become affianced, ghoulishly steering conversation round to those ill and likely to die. His reflection in a shop window stopped him in his tracks, the boy gazing back at him a stranger. He knew his hair had been cut short because his neck felt cold, but hadn’t realized until now how short. After a bath, and with different clothes and a beret, no one would ever recognise him as the boy who had rowed daily from the island to the harbour. Even he wouldn’t.

  Reassured, he gazed about him, entertained by the carter’s rough speech, calling out, ‘Come, buy. Fresh today, you won’t find better,’ the hillside resounding with the clink of coins as money exchanged hands. Women, in sombre black, crowded round the stalls, examining produce for sale, testing fruit for ripeness, while children waited patiently. Astride the kerb, two small girls were playing pat-a-cake, their feet in the gutter. Boys, still too young for school, and wearing berets like him, swapped cigarette cards or idly drew patterns in the dust with a stick while their mothers gossiped.

  It reminded Yöst of his early life and going shopping with his mother. ‘Now hold my hand, I don’t want you getting lost,’ she would instruct him on leaving the house. ‘I intend to have a dozen children,’ she announced when she told him about the baby, ‘all girls because they will never leave home as you will. And when I am old, they will take care of me.’

  This would have been my life, he decided sadly, if she had lived. She would have been one of these women gossiping with their friends, me with my feet in the gutter, stealing an apple when the carter wasn’t looking to share with my best friend.

  Once more, Yöst was overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness. He had lost everything and everyone he had once cared about. He didn’t include his father. Migrating for up to six months each year, he had played little or no part in his upbringing. His mother and grandmother had been the important figures in his life and they
were both dead; also the boys he had grown up with, Rue and Tast, and Willem … closer even than a brother. All that love he had taken for granted, and often frivolously wasted, that was gone too.

  He thrust his sad thoughts away, unearthing a memory of the Black lauding the majesty of their lives to newcomers. ‘Human existence by comparison is a humdrum, commonplace affair, constrained as they are to a single medium. Zeus in his wisdom has awarded his children kingdom of air, sea and land. Believe me there is nothing finer than our god’s gift to his children.’

  Comforted, he continued down the slope, the crowd of shoppers round the carts spilling out into the roadway. Yes, the Black was right. There could be nothing more magical than their lives. That momentous day when Rue had first felt the pricking of the barbs beneath his skin, and then his first flight; hesitant at first, clumsily rising into the air, his wings expanding as swiftly as those of a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Yet still carinatae. The transformation into the celeste would have happened at his initiation, once the newly fledged cob had built up sufficient strength to make the transition.

  Rue had watched it a dozen times; they all had, despite children being barred from the ceremony. That hadn’t stopped them; not even the thought of a beating had kept them in their beds. On nights when the moon was reaching its peak, they raced to cliff-top, concealing themselves behind a bush or rock, waiting for the cobs to gather.

  Most times, at least thirty would take part. Much of a muchness regarding height, they were all tall and powerful, ill-health a rarity. Gathered in a circle, they’d link hands, sharing the power needed to shape-shift from human into the translucent shape of their maker, Zeus. As the power began to move between them, the air seemed to ignite, sparking and cracking, with streams of silver dust fogging the air. As it cleared, each cob had acquired outstretched wings of purest gossamer, their span exceeding the cob’s height by some measure. Then, with a universal cry of joy, they rose up into the air and vanished into the heavens.