Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘I see you’ve made up your mind, then.’ At my cursory nod, she said, ‘So, did you get a job, or are you moving in with him?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Neither, yet. But I will be leaving in the next day or two – I don’t think I can stay here any longer, Bella, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ she said with a sigh of deep resignation. ‘All I can say is, I hope it’s worth it. I hope he treats you like you deserve, and not like -’ She broke off, compressing full lips into a thin line of disapproval. ‘Well, you know what I think of men.’

  When I looked up, she’d gone. So few words, yet they had the ring of finality. All at once I was seized by great pangs of guilt, and for a moment wanted to hurry downstairs, put my arms around Bella and say sorry, it doesn’t have to be like this, we can still be friends no matter what. But as I turned towards the door it came to me that whatever had been between us before was over. And even if I was sorry, I knew I couldn’t wait to get away. So I didn’t go after her, didn’t say the comforting words I should perhaps have said; and, from that moment on, made sure I kept out of her way.

  ~~~

  Two days later, when Bram had moved in, unpacked, and filled the little cottage with his presence, he asked me to stay with him.

  I felt a great surge of happiness and relief, but tried, even as I agreed, to damp down my own excitement. Recent experience told me I had to make things clear from the start. Even so, I found myself blushing and stumbling over the words.

  ‘You know how much I like you,’ I began earnestly, ‘and I need a holiday too, so yes, thank you, I will stay. Not that I am in love – nothing like that – and I do not expect anything from you, except...’ Pausing to breathe, I said, ‘Except I must have your respect.’

  He was trying hard not to smile. ‘My dear, you have that already...’

  ‘And my work at the studio has to come first. I cannot afford to give it up, because...’

  My words were lost in his embrace. ‘No need to explain,’ he murmured against my hair. ‘I promise to respect that, just as I respect you, dear girl...’

  I freed myself. ‘But I will cook for you – and take care of you – in return for my keep.’

  Just for a moment, his eyes were bright with emotion. With a little bow, he thanked me, and all at once I was on the verge of tears myself.

  ~~~

  I had to back to the Cragg for my box, and with Lizzie’s help moved my things as far as the studio.

  Jack Louvain’s disapproval was obvious. Very briefly, studying my new gloves, I explained that I’d accepted a temporary job as housekeeper to Mr Stoker while he was on holiday, but needed to leave my box at the studio for a little while until it could be picked up. There was a long and uncomfortable silence before Jack said in a very controlled voice that he hoped I knew what I was doing, and hadn’t leapt out of the frying pan into the fire. When I dared to look up he was frowning at his list of appointments.

  ‘But I couldn’t stay with the Firths any longer...’

  ‘I know that,’ he said curtly. ‘I just don’t want you to let me down at a time when I need you most. And you’d better get that box moved as soon as you can – it’s in the way.’

  Feeling that I had fallen several notches in his estimation, I promised fervently not to let him down.

  At first I tried to keep to the hours I’d been used to, which were mostly in the early morning, but I saw within days that life with Bram was not going to permit that. His habits had been formed by the theatre, by years of late suppers and convivial discussions which often went on into the early hours. As a consequence, he was wide awake at midnight while I was nodding, and fast asleep at 6 a.m., when I was generally on my way to work. Also, he enjoyed being out at night while the rest of the world was abed. So I spoke to Jack Louvain, explaining that it would be better for me to work after the studio closed in the evening, and after that the days began to fall into a pattern which suited everyone.

  The weather, which had been dry and warm, turned hot by the end of that first week in June, bringing with it a crushing stillness barely stirred by our proximity to the sea. Looking out one morning, we saw a hazy bank of fog hovering mysteriously just a mile or so offshore. It lurked out there, waiting to curl in during the hottest part of the day on currents of air as cold and clammy as a dead man’s hand.

  I’d been in town, shopping, the day the first outriders swept in low across the still surface of the sea, white wraiths snaking up the east cliff to engulf the fortifications of church and abbey. It happened every year, sometimes day after day for a week; but that sudden siege was alarming enough to catch the breath, to make even townsfolk stand and gape in the middle of a busy morning, as harbour, bridge and river were claimed within minutes. Bram, waiting for me on the pier, gazed across the water in astonishment, transfixed as a great python of mist swirled at his feet.

  We were perhaps fifty yards apart. Afraid we might lose each other, I hurried through the blanket of fog, grasping his arm as he turned eagerly to me.

  ‘Did you see it?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see the mist?’

  ‘Sea-fret,’ I corrected him, ‘it’s called a sea-fret...’

  But for the moment he was less interested in local etymology than in the phenomenon he’d just witnessed. ‘Never,’ he swore, ‘have I seen anything like that. Marvellous, quite marvellous – I must get back, write it down...’

  I grinned then, amused by his enthusiasm. We made our way through the fog and down to the beach, with the intention of walking back along the sands towards Newholm. To our left the cliffs had resisted that stealthy invasion, and it was less dense as we left the town and harbour behind.

  Somewhere above us the sun was shining, turning the mist to a milky, translucent shroud. Once past the Saloon we were isolated, veiled from public view, able to skip and hop – turn somersaults if we wanted – along the firm, damp sands at the edge of the sea. I took off my shoes and ran for sheer joy, teasing Bram until he removed collar and tie, boots and socks, dropping them in my shopping basket as he caught up with me.

  Laughing, linking hands, kissing, we frolicked like children while foam came surging round our ankles, wave upon gentle wave, where, incredibly, it seemed, the Mary and Agnes had been driven ashore by powerful seas.

  All the signs were gone now; but we guessed the spot, reflecting on the day that had brought us together. Terns and oystercatchers flapped away as we slowed to a stroll, picking up shells and bits of jet, progressing through a private Eden of dew-drenched, gossamer warmth. Our shared awareness was intense; we stopped and kissed, wanting to make love there and then while every sense was at its peak, but we were neither brave enough nor mad enough for that. In the end need drove us away from the beach, up the steep and narrow track that led back towards Newholm and the cottage.

  We passed beneath the ghostly iron girders of the railway bridge, climbed further, and suddenly had the odd experience of walking out of the mist as one might walk through a doorway. Behind us, in hot, dazzling sunlight, stood the edge of the cliff; beyond it floated a mass of fluffy white cloud, hiding sand and sea, everything bar the clifftops of Kettleness on the one hand, and the skeletal ruins of the abbey on the other.

  Held by the magic, we stood and gazed at that shifting featherbed of cloud, while bees hummed amongst the gorse and butterflies fluttered all around. I was suddenly aware of the heat of the sun, my thin cotton dress clinging damply to my skin. I looked at Bram and his beard was jewelled with minute drops, a lock of hair hanging over his right eye. Touching lightly, we continued on our way. A short while later we were entering the cottage, peeling off damp clothes between hungry kisses, not even bothering to close the door before falling on to the bed and into each other’s arms.

  Afterwards, when I was feeling satisfied and sleepy and smiling like a cat at the very idea of being in bed at that time of day, he lit a cigarette, releasing spirals of blue smoke into a golden beam of sunlight. As I sniffed pleasurably at the scent of tobac
co, he asked whether I minded him smoking. I didn’t mind at all, and said so; but then there came a stab of pain as he said somewhat smugly: ‘Florence hates it – I couldn’t do this at home. In fact, if I were at home, I wouldn’t be doing any of these things – I wouldn’t be smoking, I wouldn’t be in bed, and I certainly wouldn’t have been making love . . .’

  ‘With me, you mean,’ I added with forced lightness, ignoring the oblique compliment as well as the reference to his wife.

  ‘No,’ he corrected, ‘I mean I wouldn’t have been making love.’

  ‘But of course you wouldn’t,’ I answered sharply, digging him in the ribs before making a rapid exit. ‘At this hour of the day you’d have been at the theatre, working . . .’

  He laughed at that and said I was impudent – and maybe I was, but I wanted him to see me, Damaris Sterne, not some convenient and malleable substitute for Florence. If I punctured his ideas from time to time, and tried to deflect those comparisons with his wife, then it did him good, I think. It made for what I considered to be more honest dealings between us.

  Quite what he made of my attitude, I’m not sure. I know what Bella would have said, but I didn’t feel like a whore, and didn’t imagine Bram saw me in that light. Perhaps he regarded such freedoms as part of local custom, or thought himself singularly lucky in meeting someone like me, a girl who didn’t mind sharing herself completely with a stranger, a married man to boot. Perhaps he thought I was mad. Most likely, with all the problems he’d left behind, he was simply reluctant to question it.

  As for me, I was happy to accept things as they were, questioning nothing. In a way I suppose Bram and I were both escaping from intolerable situations, and like all escapees we were drunk on freedom, intoxicated by all the silly things we had in common, by a physical and emotional closeness that neither of us had experienced before. Certainly, during those first few days I discovered great pleasure in living for the moment, and was determined to relegate guilt, like my upright relatives, to the far corners of my mind.

  Sixteen

  My existence seemed touched by a kind of magic, and I became as enchanted with the life we were living as I was with Bram. It was like a game to me, exciting, full of treats and thrills and laughter. Time had no meaning, and I felt like a child playing truant from school, one being aided and abetted by a fond and over-indulgent parent. When I said this to him, he only laughed and provided me with more, a train-ride down to Scarborough, afternoon tea at a pretty tea-shop by the castle, a visit to the revue at the theatre.

  Money seemed not to be a problem. That same day we went to a dress shop, where he happily ordered what amounted to a new wardrobe for me. And we wanted them quickly, he said; by the end of the week, if they pleased, and here was another five pounds to hurry things through. Impressed and delighted, I tried not to gape.

  When my pretty things were delivered, I could scarce believe it. Three blouses, a good skirt and jacket, two sprigged cotton dresses with frills caught up at the back, as well as a more formal gown in pale green silk. That gown was so beautiful I was beyond words – the most luxurious thing I’d ever possessed. Even the underclothes were pretty, trimmed with more lace and bows than I’d ever seen.

  In my new summer dresses I felt like a princess, but our small mirror meant I could only see myself in bits. So next day Bram booked a room at the Royal Hotel on the west cliff, where we went in a pony and trap, complete with luggage.

  Taking off his coat and shoes, Bram stretched out on the bed to watch me posing before a tall pier glass. I was used to a corset, but refused to wear the drawers on the grounds that I’d never known any woman who wore them, other than a doctor’s wife I’d worked for, and I judged her habits none too clean. I said I was happier without and, from his quirky smile, I gathered Bram was pleased for me to stay that way.

  He was also keen for me to try out some of the rouge and eyeshadow and face-powder bought from a chemist in Scarborough. I’d been reluctant at first, but, thanks to his experience in the theatre, he was also skillful with make-up.

  ‘There, you see...’ He knelt before me while I tried not to blink, gently applying colour to my eyelids, lips and cheeks. ‘You don’t need much,’ he said softly, ‘you’re not going on stage... Just a little to enhance your natural beauty ... And then, if you pin your hair like this, to one side . . .’

  I wasn’t prepared to believe it, but he was right. The hairstyle was new, sophisticated; the rouge accentuated the shape of my mouth, making it fuller, somehow, and prettier, while the blue-green shadow brought out the colour of my eyes. With a dusting of powder to disguise my freckled cheeks, and a little lamp-black applied to my lashes, I barely recognised myself; it seemed strange that a man should have effected that transformation, so quickly and so easily. As I gazed wide-eyed at his reflection behind mine in the glass, he smiled in confirmation, and for the first time I was willing to believe that when Bram called me beautiful, he meant it.

  Apprehensive as we prepared to go down for dinner, at the top of the staircase I almost panicked. What if someone recognised me as the girl in the photographs – the fisherlass who worked on the quay?

  ‘Nonsense! Do you know yourself, dressed-up? I promise you, Damaris, people see only the surface. Like being on stage – the audience is convinced that what they see is real. Here you are, a daughter of the Sterne family of Robin Hood’s Bay – or was it a Whitby fisherlass? You’ve played photographer’s assistant too. This evening,’ he smiled, ‘you’re the beautiful companion of a sometime Dublin lawyer. Believe me, Damaris, if you look and act the part, you can be anything you want to be...’

  Far from convinced at the time, I never forgot those words.

  ~~~

  The stark formality of evening dress suited him, complementing his fine physique and providing a foil for the whispering green silk of my gown. As he said, we were well matched, and what with his red beard and my red hair, we made a fine-looking couple.

  Going down for dinner, I felt as though we’d been transported to another world, Bram’s world, where all was beauty and illusion and nothing was quite what it seemed. I was no longer Damaris Sterne, fisherlass and domestic servant; I felt like a leading lady in my shimmering silk, playing a part and loving it, delighted to be having our evening meal in the grand dining room below.

  It was a glimpse of Whitby I’d never seen before, a world of wealth and ease and pleasure, of grand rooms with chandeliers, orchestras playing, elegant ladies, gentlemen in evening dress, a world of wine and compliments and food dramatically presented. It was dazzling, and even though I tried hard to seem composed I could not entirely suppress my sense of awe and delight. Bram smiled so much it made his eyes shine, and every time I looked at him he was gazing at me with such pride and affection, it brought a lump to my throat.

  Wanting to hold the moment, I clung to his hand instead, and it was as though he was saying the moment could last, it could grow, not all was illusion.

  ~~~

  There was no escaping the fact that our liaison was illicit, and the need for secrecy gave everything an added edge. One of Bram’s chief concerns was that of being recognised by some old acquaintance or patron of the Lyceum, although for discretion’s sake he’d registered at the Royal under a pseudonym. But that was only because the Whitby Gazette published weekly lists of visitors to the town. Fortunately, his friends the du Mauriers – regular visitors in the summer – rarely took up residence before July, when everyone came with children and servants for a month by the sea.

  After luncheon the following day, we took a stroll down to the Saloon, built, Bram remarked with a sly smile, like some miniature German schloss cut into the rock of the west cliff. Later we took tea while listening to a band playing Viennese music. The excursion was largely for my benefit, since I wanted to wear one of my pretty cotton dresses and flourish a parasol like all the fine ladies; but in truth the afternoon was not a success. Bram seemed happy enough behind a newspaper, occasionally peering at the wor
ld from beneath the brim of his panama, but if I’d felt safely cocooned inside the hotel, out there on the esplanade I felt vulnerable. At any moment, it seemed, Bella or Isa Firth, or any one of my rivals from the fish market might look down from the clifftop and recognise me by my hair. All in all I was more relieved than sorry when we left.

  I think Bram was equally glad to return home and embrace the security of our little cottage. He could relax there and be himself, collarless, with sleeves rolled up, chewing on a cigar or the end of a pen, asking questions of me while I cooked or cleaned or ironed. After we’d eaten, we’d relax for a while, and generally, if he’d been writing, he would join me in the garden and we’d drink lemonade or ginger beer, or feed each other the tiny red fruits of strawberries I’d discovered on the sunny side of the wall.

  Our days were much the same; it was a sunlit, timeless world, where nothing seemed to matter. I fell into a habit of retiring outdoors in the afternoon, to lie in the shade with a book or yesterday’s newspaper to hand. It was such luxury to be able to read when and if I wanted, I no longer felt obliged to cram in words like a starving man.

  Sometimes, drugged by an afternoon’s love-making, I would gaze idly out to sea while Bram dozed, knowing I could please myself. That was part of my enjoyment. I loved the garden, loved its wild, neglected air, the overgrown hedge and collapsed drystone wall with its clumps of thyme and sea-pinks and valerian. I loved the scents and colours and sounds, the buzz of insects and the distant murmur of the sea; but it seemed no more permanent than a hoard of fairy-tale treasure. I knew I must appreciate it, since it might well disappear with the next shower of rain.

  Perhaps that awareness was true for Bram as well. He loved the cottage, but he said I was the one who made him happy, the only one who could make him feel that life held some hope. It seemed a strange thing to say, but he wouldn’t explain. I began to see how erratic his moods could be, veering between optimism and uncertainty, benevolent good humour and a kind of absent-minded melancholy I found difficult to comprehend.