The Shell House

by Linda Newbery

‘Were you mad at me last week?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think? Getting rid of me like that!’

  ‘Oh no, it wasn’t that. I was in the middle of something, that’s all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the grotto, where you found me—I go down there to be by myself. To meditate and pray.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘No-one disturbs me down there.’

  ‘Pray?’ Greg echoed, not sure she was serious.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, all day long?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I think and read and walk about as well, and just look at the water and the trees. I suppose I think of it as my own special Sunday place. That’s why I didn’t like you being there at first.’

  Greg looked at her sidelong. ‘So you don’t—you know—go to church; you go there instead?’

  ‘Church on Sunday evenings. And to Bible Study class on Wednesdays.’

  ‘Oh.’ He was taken aback. The cross round her neck wasn’t a mere piece of jewellery, then. St Ursula’s girl. Right. Religion probably came as part of the package. But it was more than a formality for her, if she spent time praying by herself.

  ‘What do you pray about?’ he ventured.

  ‘Oh, things. There’s always something. I mean big things, not just things for myself.’

  ‘You’ve got the right name then. Faith.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s no coincidence. My parents are both Christians, you see.’

  ‘What if you hadn’t wanted to be one?’

  She looked at him. ‘But I do. I am. If I didn’t believe—well, what would it all be about?’

  ‘What would what be about?’

  ‘Life. Everything. What would it all mean?’

  ‘OK, so what does it mean? You’re telling me you’ve got it sussed?’

  She was stretching deep into the bush, reaching for a cluster of berries, showing a strip of smooth flesh between jeans and T-shirt. A thorn caught at the yellow fabric; she stopped to free herself, then bent the stem down in an arc. ‘It means living for God. For Jesus. Everything we do is for them. Without that, there’d be no point in anything. No meaning.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we work out our own meaning?’

  ‘OK, so what’s yours?’ she asked, chin high.

  ‘You do like to ask awkward questions, don’t you? Only I’m not pretending to have the answers. What you said—is that what you’ve been taught? Or do you believe it for yourself?’

  She turned to stare at him, holding the thorny spray away from her face. ‘Of course I believe it. If I didn’t, it would just be . . .’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Like cleaning your teeth every morning and night. Like looking both ways before you cross the road. Just following rules, no more than that.’

  ‘So you’re a real born-again Christian? Or a born-into-it Christian?’

  ‘Every true Christian is born again. Just going to church and reading the Bible doesn’t make you a Christian. You have to know that Jesus died for you. No, more than that, you have to feel it. You have to know it inside yourself.’

  Greg was beginning to feel preached at. ‘So you know that Jesus died for you? He died for your sins that you wouldn’t commit for another two thousand years?’

  ‘He died to show me the way to God. And to show you.’

  He huffed a laugh; she looked at him sharply but turned away to concentrate on her picking. He dropped a handful of berries into the bag, assimilating this new aspect of her. He felt, in a way, embarrassed; he wasn’t used to having conversations like this. He knew other people who went to church, of course—there was a girl in his form who taught a Sunday school class. Some people rode bikes or played football, others went to church. But for Faith, it was obviously more than that. It was—well, real faith. He didn’t know whether to feel amused, irritated or impressed.

  ‘What about you?’ Faith asked.

  ‘What about me what?’

  ‘What do you believe in?’

  Greg puffed out his cheeks. ‘I don’t believe in God, no.’

  ‘What, then? What do you think we’re doing here?’

  ‘I think we evolved from apes. I mean, God creating the world in seven days and all that—fine, nice story, when people believed the earth was the centre of the universe, but it doesn’t make much sense now. Not since Stephen Hawking and Big Bang theories have proved it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Proved? Aren’t those just theories?’

  ‘Better theories than yours, though.’

  ‘I don’t see that. The Big Bang doesn’t rule out the existence of God.’

  ‘The universe obeys its own laws—the laws of physics,’ Greg said. ‘There’s no need for a God to have created it.’

  ‘But God made the laws of physics. Otherwise, what? Scientists keep talking about the first few seconds of the universe, but what was before that? What made time and space?’ Faith paused to suck a blackberry prickle from her finger. ‘Anyway, go on.’

  ‘Go on what?’

  ‘About the Big Bang,’ Faith said. ‘How you understand it.’

  Christ! (And he’d better not say that aloud.) He wasn’t sure how much he did understand. It was a bit much to be called upon to account for his existence, the existence of the whole universe—all out of the blue on a Sunday morning when he’d come here to get away from last night. ‘Well, it was about twelve billion years ago,’ he began reluctantly. ‘And our galaxy exploded from a singularity—the centre of a black hole. And maybe that’s where it’ll all finish up again, eventually—sucked back in. Don’t they teach you about cosmology at St Ursula’s?’ It was easier to be flippant than to dredge up Physics lessons he wasn’t sure he could pass on coherently.

  Suddenly Faith was defensive. ‘How do you know I’m at St Ursula’s?’

  ‘Your dad said.’

  ‘Oh, he would!’ Faith said, grimacing Katy-fashion. ‘Why does he have to tell people that? It’s like hanging a label round my neck: St Ursula’s girl!’

  ‘You don’t mind hanging that cross round your neck. Isn’t that a kind of label?’

  Faith’s hand went to her throat; she held out her silver crucifix as far as its chain would allow, as if using it as a charm to ward off evil. ‘That’s not the same thing at all. I choose to wear this—it’s for me. Anyway, what about you? Sixth form or what?’

  ‘Radway. The comp. Doesn’t Daddy mind you hanging around with a pleb like me?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid; you’re not a pleb. And I’m not posh just because I go to St Ursula’s.’ He had annoyed her; she was picking the fruit at accelerated speed, deciding her bag was full enough, pulling out another from her pocket.

  ‘D’you know a girl called Michelle McAuliffe?’ he asked in a gentler tone. ‘Her brother’s in my year.’

  ‘Yes. She’s the year below me, Year Ten. I don’t know her well, but I know who she is.’

  ‘OK, then. Why does God decide to give a fifteen-year-old girl kidney failure? Because he’s so kind and concerned?’

  Faith shook her head. ‘We can’t know why things like that happen.’

  ‘So there is a reason?’

  ‘God has a reason for everything. It’s not for us to know. We just have to accept it as God’s will.’

  ‘So if it were you or me with duff kidneys, we’d have to say, Oh dear! But I’m sure God must have a reason, so I’ll have to put up with it. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘And if you’d been on your way to Auschwitz and the gas chambers? Or buried in an earthquake? Or starving in a famine? All part of the great plan?’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Why are you so angry?’

  Only now did he realize how his voice had risen; he’d almost been shouting.

  ‘I believe in God, you choose not to—why should that annoy you?’ Faith asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He pulled a stem towards him and plucked off the ripe berries, then released it so that it
sprang back out of reach. He let go clumsily; a thorn pricked his thumb. He looked at the bead of blood before sucking his thumb clean, tasting the salt-sweetness. They carried on picking in silence, Greg trying to work out a proper answer for himself if not for her. A few times she glanced at him, seeming about to speak, but said nothing.

  That was what was annoying him! She was waiting for him to come up with a reason, so that she could trot out her ready-made answer. It was like a barrier, a safety-belt. She wasn’t having to think for herself. She was as well-rehearsed as a double-glazing salesman. Before he could find wording for this that wouldn’t be offensive, she stepped back from the bushes, tied the neck of her carrier bag and said, ‘We’ve got quite a lot. Let’s stop for a bit. I want to show you the most wonderful thing in the whole place.’ Her voice was changed—soft, friendly. He knew she thought she’d won the argument.

  ‘OK,’ he said, glad to change the subject. He put down his bag next to hers—three bags in a row on the grass—and picked up his camera. ‘What is it?’

  She smiled over her shoulder. ‘Wait and see.’

  He expected her to go down to the lake, towards the grotto, but instead she walked back across the orchard to the formal part of the gardens. An electric mower trundled noisily along the main grass path; another pair of workers were cutting down brambles from a plinth that must once have supported a statue.

  ‘There are photos of what this looked like in about nineteen hundred,’ Faith said. ‘It was fantastic—well, if you like that sort of garden, it was. All statues and fountains and curving steps, and clipped box hedges, and flower-beds perfectly weeded. You’ll see the photos if you come to the open day. Here. Here’s my favourite thing.’ They had reached one of the pair of stone summerhouses that faced each other across the lower part of the terrace. ‘You haven’t seen her before, have you? Isn’t she wonderful?’

  They were looking at a female figure carved out of a supporting pillar. There were two of them, one on each side of the open front of the summerhouse, but Faith was looking at the left-hand one. The one on the right was damaged, most of its face crumbled away, but this one was perfect. Larger than life, she rose above them, holding a carved garland, one hand raised as if to pluck a too-tempting grape. Her face was very beautiful—straight Grecian nose, large eyes, an expression of calmness and strength. The green shading of moss or lichen made her appear more lifelike than if the stone had been scrubbed and pristine. The ivy twining around her head and shoulders gave the accidental finishing touch.

  ‘That twiggy stuff—it makes her look like something from a legend,’ Greg said. ‘You know the woman with snakes for hair—one look at her and you turn into stone. Medusa, was it?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Faith said quite seriously. ‘She won’t turn you to stone. I’ve looked at her loads of times and it’s never happened to me. She’s not malicious, is she? You can see from her face. I wonder what she’d say if she could speak? I wonder what she’s seen.’

  ‘And there are two of them.’ Greg looked at the other, almost faceless statue, spoiled by time and erosion. ‘How come this one’s so perfect when the other’s all worn?’

  ‘Something to do with the prevailing winds, Dad says. This one’s sheltered by the angle of the building. They’re called caryatids.’

  ‘Caryatids?’

  She nodded. ‘Supporting columns made into female statues. Male ones are called telamons. There are two of them over there.’ She nodded at the opposite summerhouse; they walked across to look. The building was identical, but this time the statues were of muscular, bearded men, again holding wreaths of vines and fruit.

  ‘They’re lovely too, but not like my caryatid,’ Faith said.

  Greg opened his camera case. ‘I’m going to take photos.’

  He took several, from various angles, of both summerhouses, but concentrated on the caryatid, moving in close to get the shadows that threw her features into relief. Faith watched at first, then sat down on the steps; when the man with the mower had moved on, she walked along the main path to the far end and stood looking out across the fields. When he’d used up his disc, he went to join her. The garden simply ended in a bank of rough grass and thistles; two metres lower was a newly-ploughed field, curving down towards the valley. The smell of mown grass filled the air with summer.

  ‘There used to be steps here and great wrought-iron gates,’ Faith said. ‘I’ve seen the pictures. But you can still see the ha-ha.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Ha-ha. This. Haven’t you seen one before? What it is—people who owned stately homes like this wanted to look out of their windows, or sit on their terrace, and see their land sweeping away into the distance. They didn’t want it all chopped up by fences, but they needed to keep cows and sheep out of the garden. So instead of a fence they had a big drop like this, a sort of dry ditch. It keeps animals out but doesn’t interrupt the view. I expect there’s a wall underneath all this grass, to stop it from collapsing.’

  ‘So why’s it called a ha-ha?’

  Faith giggled. ‘Dad says it’s because you’re walking along and all of a sudden the ground drops away from your feet, and you go A-ha! I don’t suppose that’s the real reason, though.’

  Greg turned his back on the ha-ha and looked towards the mansion. He imagined, on a day like this, ladies and gentlemen sitting in one of the twin summerhouses, and a butler crossing the terrace with a loaded tray. Polished silverware, there’d be, and linen napkins in stiff folds, and dainty things to eat.

  He said to Faith, ‘All this, just for one family! It must have been palatial! Who were they, the people who lived here?’

  ‘The Pearsons were the last ones—till nineteen seventeen. Before that it was Sir Somebody Something and all his descendants. There’s a leaflet—I’ll get one for you later.’

  A thought struck him. ‘Your mum and dad—putting in all this work and effort on a place like this. Why don’t they . . .’

  Faith had stooped to pick a clover flower. She turned towards him, wary again. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I mean, they’re Christians. Aren’t there other things—more important things—they could be doing?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like making money for famine victims, or helping the homeless—this isn’t really helping people, is it?’

  Faith twirled the clover stem between her finger and thumb, then tossed it aside. ‘Oh, there you go again—finding things to criticize! What about you? Why aren’t you helping famine victims or the homeless if it’s so important to you?’

  ‘I didn’t say it was! I was just saying, they’re Christians. Shouldn’t people be more important to them than statues and stuff?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m just asking—’

  ‘So when you’re playing computer games or kicking a ball about or all the mindless things boys do, do you stop and feel guilty because you could be shaking a tin in the High Street or working for Oxfam? ’Course you don’t. My parents aren’t trying to make themselves into saints just because they’re Christians—neither am I! It’s up to us what we do in our spare time. Why should you criticize?’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’ he began, but she was in no mood to hear his answer. She gave him a final glare and walked away quickly, taking long strides across the grass.

  Bugger! He hadn’t meant to upset her but she was so easily offended, so touchy, on the subject of her faith especially. Why had she started on the subject at all if she didn’t want to discuss it? She needn’t have told him about the praying; at first she’d sounded proud of it, not in the least secretive.

  Girls! He wasn’t doing too well, one way or another. That was two of them he’d quarrelled with in different ways in less than twenty-four hours. He sat down heavily on the grass, wondering what was the matter with him. Reluctantly he remembered what an idiot he’d made of himself last night. He’d have to come up with a convincingly edited version for Gizzard. Even now he didn’t know what
had stopped him from following Tanya upstairs. All set up, on the point of having a fantasy fulfilled, he’d blown it.

  And now Faith. She was obviously a very different species of girl from Tanya, but he’d managed to upset her as well. He couldn’t imagine Faith going to boozy parties, let alone trying to drag boys into bedrooms—ludicrous thought! It wasn’t easy to tell at first glance, though. He remembered Faith’s clothes last week: the skirt short enough for him to glimpse her knickers, the skimpy vest top that clung to her small breasts. She had seemed then like any other teenage girl who wanted to look sexy. There was only the cross to give any sort of clue, and lots of people wore those quite meaninglessly.

  He didn’t want to argue with her, didn’t want to leave it like this. He stood up. Damn! He’d forgotten how damp the grass was, and now he had a wet bum. He wondered where she’d gone. If she’d run to Mummy or Daddy, well, that would be it. But if she were on her own, he could try to make up the argument.

  He walked back towards the blackberry bushes, skirting the statue base where the two workers, a man and a woman, were piling cut brambles into a wheelbarrow. One of them smiled at him without speaking, and he wondered if they’d overheard his spat with Faith. Across the orchard, the three bags of blackberries lay on the grass; there was no sign of her. He stood for a moment, wondering what to do.

  The grotto. That’s where she’d be. With some difficulty he found the log path where it crept down from the open orchard. He made his descent to the lake shore and stood on the path in the open bowl of sky enclosed by trees, feeling the silence and seclusion. He heard the trickle of the spring that emerged from the grotto’s interior, saw the crystal channel of its decanting into the lake, and a clear fan-shape where it funnelled into sandy water.

  Faith was exactly where he’d found her last week, sitting on the bench inside. She looked up at him and away again quickly.

  ‘Oh. You,’ she sniffed.

  He sat on the bench next to her. ‘Look, I—I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Would I have trekked down here otherwise? I didn’t mean to get at you.’

  ‘But you did.’ She turned her face away. ‘Don’t you like me or something?’