The Shell House

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Don’t put yourself down! Of course I like you. A lot. And don’t start thinking you’re not fit enough, ‘cos you are. The thing is . . .’ Greg reached for a handy excuse. ‘There’s someone else. Was someone else.’

  ‘Oh?’ Faith asked dully. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘No-one you know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? We know each other well enough, don’t we?’

  Greg pulled a dead branch out of the tangle of vegetation and hauled it over to the pile. Faith, resting for a moment, watched.

  ‘Is it a secret or something?’ she asked, her face sharp and curious.

  He wished he hadn’t opened his mouth—thought of fobbing her off with Tanya, and decided not. Tanya was an obliging body, that was all; she didn’t figure.

  ‘Dad told me you were with Jordan McAuliffe on Friday night,’ Faith said. ‘Jordan as in river, McAuliffe as in Michelle. That’s something else you didn’t tell me! Why didn’t you let on that her brother’s your friend when we talked about Michelle? I asked Dad about him. Quiet, serious, he said. Rather handsome. You’re weird, you are, talking about the meaning of life but not even telling me who your friends are or who you’re going out with . . . Oh!’ She stared at him open-mouthed. ‘That’s not what you’re telling me—is it? He’s the someone else? You don’t mean—’

  ‘No! Definitely not. Do me a favour!’ Greg pulled out a mesh of dried goose-grass that had tangled itself round his legs. ‘It’s just—things have got a bit complicated, one way and another.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. The accident and everything. The other girl— girl, OK, got it?—is just someone I met. It’s finished now.’

  She glanced at him; they worked in silence for a few moments. Then Faith said, ‘That woman—the boy’s mother—was trying to blame you, Dad said, accusing you of all sorts of things. As if you could have made him break in here!’

  ‘I know. She’s got it all completely twisted, saying I terrified her poor innocent boy. I bet she’ll be at school first thing tomorrow complaining to the Head.’

  ‘He won’t believe her, surely?’

  ‘Well,’ Greg said, treading down nettles, ‘I did have a go at him once—that time I found them chucking stones at the caryatid. Didn’t exactly hit him—I grabbed him, he ducked away and I ended up ripping his anorak. But I could easily have ended up throttling him, arrogant little git.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for grabbing him. I’d have done the same if I saw him damaging my caryatid.’

  ‘If she wants to make something of that I suppose she will.’ Greg remembered the fury that had gripped him, the urge to hurt and to take pleasure in hurting—with hands and fists then, with words this morning. ‘You can pray for him in spite of that? I suppose it makes things easier, being a Christian.’

  ‘No!’ Faith said sharply. ‘It doesn’t and it didn’t! When I said we’ve been praying at home, I meant Mum and Dad have. Not me, because I don’t know how to.’

  ‘But you’re always praying!’

  ‘Not any more. There’s no-one there!’ Faith looked at him, fierce, accusing. ‘I talk to God and He’s not there to listen.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Would I joke about something like that?’ Faith carried on hacking the grass, swinging from her shoulders. Greg stepped back, well out of range.

  ‘But I thought—I thought it was part of you, your belief in God.’

  ‘Yes, so did I!’

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, dismayed. ‘Is it my fault?’

  ‘Of course it’s not your fault! You don’t think you said anything I couldn’t have thought of for myself, do you?’

  That put him in his place. He worked in silence for a few moments, cutting bramble suckers, waiting for her to say more.

  ‘Tell me how it happened, then,’ he said, since she offered no explanation. ‘Was it . . . a sudden revelation, or what?’

  ‘The road back from Damascus? I suppose it was. A conversion in reverse. I don’t know if I can explain.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘Well.’ She straightened, sighed. ‘In our house we’re always having conversations with God, and with Jesus, as if they’re extra members of the family. Always there. I’ve never known anything different. I’ve never even doubted it before, but last week I did.’

  ‘Why last week?’

  ‘It was something we were doing at school about the Arab-Israeli war. It’ll sound stupid—’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘We were watching a documentary. It was one still photograph that did it. There was a Palestinian woman whose little boy had been shot dead by Israeli soldiers. The boy was only about ten and his mother was quite young—beautiful, you could see that, even though she was crying, sitting on the ground, with two other women trying to comfort her. It looked sort of biblical: the weeping woman with her shawl draped over her head. And in her face there was—oh, it sounds stupid, but it struck me that in her face there was all the suffering the world has ever known, all focused on this one woman. One of the others was holding up her hands to Allah. But what could Allah do? What could God do?’

  ‘I don’t get it, though. You must have seen photos like that before, you must know—why should that one—?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. Knowing something isn’t the same as feeling it. Suddenly I felt as if I’d always been sort of buffered by this—this air-bag of faith. There was all that despair, the pointless killing of one little boy, and the gesture—hands up to Allah, asking for revenge, when it’s only humans who go out for revenge. It goes on and on and on. And this is happening in the holiest places in the world—Jerusalem, and Bethlehem, and Jordan, and Nazareth. It sort of underlines how useless it all is—how little difference Jesus made, when it comes down to it! I’ve always wanted to go to the Holy Land. I wanted to stand where Jesus stood and walk where He walked. But I can’t—because it’s a war zone, a modern war zone. And I know now that if I did, those places would be spoiled for me for ever. Not only because of the war—that’s just an excuse. War or no war, the real reason I don’t want to go is because I know those places will just be ordinary. I won’t find Jesus there. I won’t find Him anywhere. Like you said, I don’t even know what He looked like. The picture I’ve always had in my mind is completely untrue.’

  She stared at him. He saw the look of glazed panic in her eyes.

  ‘But Faith—’

  She gave a humourless laugh. ‘Yes, what am I going to call myself now? Faithless? I suppose my parents christened me Faith as a sort of insurance policy to keep me on the straight and narrow. It’s worked, so far. Now—’

  ‘Have you told them?’

  ‘Course not. How can I?’

  ‘You’ll have to, though, won’t you? Unless you go on pretending.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘But—perhaps it’s only a sort of temporary blip? Even saints had those, didn’t they—dark nights of the soul? Can’t you pray to get your faith back?’

  ‘I’ve tried that. But who am I praying to? To emptiness. To a black hole. It’s just words. I might as well try a Ouija board or reading tea-leaves. How can I pray to a God I don’t believe in any more?’

  ‘You’ve got to tell yourself there still is a God, even if the lines are out of order and you can’t get through at the moment.’

  ‘How can you say that? You don’t believe,’ Faith said angrily. ‘If you tell me to pretend there’s a God, you’re just . . . going along with it, like I’m a child with an imaginary friend, who needs to be humoured. The point is—the whole point is that if I can lose it so easily, it must mean I never really had it, mustn’t it? I’ve been kidding myself all my life.’

  ‘But you did have it—you did believe when we talked before, truly! You weren’t pretending then.’

  Faith pulled off her scarlet fleece and chucked it on the bank, and carried on cutting grass with a wearied, mechanical motion. ‘No, I wasn’t p
retending. That’s because I was like a trained parrot. I knew my lines. I knew what I was supposed to believe. And all that made me think I did believe, because there was no alternative, was there? But it’s only like a house built on sand—no, it’s hollow, a shell house, like the one up there! In my father’s house are many mansions, Jesus said. You could walk around in it, there’d be plenty of room for everyone. But it’s not like that! You might think so from the outside, but when you get close you can see it’s only a shell, no real rooms at all. Nothing inside except crumbling staircases, no warmth or life, no light at the windows. And I thought it was everything.’

  ‘You can get it back! I bet you can.’

  ‘There you go again. You can’t tell me that unless you’ve got it yourself, and you haven’t. How would you know? Without, it’s just like telling me to believe in Father Christmas, or looking for fairies at the bottom of the garden—you think if I want it badly enough, I’ll be able to hypnotize myself. The thing is, it’s all been so easy—too easy. Doing what I’m told to do, going to Sunday school, going to church, saying my prayers. And Jesus—He’s been everything, too much. I’ll be your friend, I’ll listen to you, I’ll do your thinking for you, I’ll die for you. I wanted that. I wanted Him to be everything, the centre of the universe—my universe, anyway, not yours; you prefer black holes. But now I don’t, because I need to think things out for myself, not lean on someone who saves me from having to and isn’t even there. He was just someone who died two thousand years ago, like you said. This—this thing I always wear, this cross—’ She threw down her blade and tugged at the crucifix round her neck. ‘It’s—it’s too much — it’s like Jesus is asking too much of me, the way I was asking too much of Him!’

  ‘But how can he if you’ve stopped—hey, don’t!’

  She had pulled the clasp round to the front and was unfastening it. Guessing what she was about to do, Greg sprang forward to stop her. Too late: as he grabbed her wrist, she transferred the cross and chain to her left hand and threw it clumsily overarm into the lake. He saw her eyes shiny with tears and then the slow trajectory of cross and chain, whirling through air, hitting the water with a slap, sinking. Immediately he plunged in. Cold wetness wrapped the legs of his jeans and surged inside his boots as he snatched up the cross from the sandy bed. The water came only to his knees, but as he turned to show Faith the chain in his hand, the sand shifted and gave way beneath his feet. He overbalanced, staggered, too late to save himself: toppled backwards in a wild flailing of arms, a comic windmilling, a fall of slow-motion inevitability. He heard Faith’s shriek, and in an instant the shock of water embraced him, closed over his head, dragged at his clothes, filled his eyes and ears with coldness. Spitting, spluttering, gasping, he got his head above water and thrashed for a foothold. Faith splashed in to help him, extending a hand. His feet sank in deep as she pulled. He lurched to the bank, dripping, streaming, shaking tendrils of waterweed from his boots.

  ‘Greg! Oh, Greg!’ They stumbled against each other, Faith laughing and crying. They stood on the path, hugging, while a puddle formed at their feet. ‘You were so funny — like a gun-dog, straight in!’

  ‘Did you get that on camera? Shall I do it again?’

  ‘Oh, you’re soaked !’

  ‘Now you mention it, yes. I hung on to your chain, though. Here it is.’ He dangled it in front of her. ‘Hey, you’re going cross-eyed.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ She looked away with an effort. ‘I don’t want it. You can have it.’

  ‘What, after I’ve swallowed a couple of gallons of lake fetching it?’

  ‘No.’ Faith shook her head.

  ‘OK,’ Greg said, stuffing it into his pocket. ‘I’ll look after it till you need it.’

  ‘But what shall we do about you?’ She grabbed one of his hands and started rubbing it between both of hers as if he were at risk from hypothermia. ‘You’ll get cold—here, put this on.’ She fetched her fleece jacket from the bank and draped it round his shoulders, tugging it round; she picked a piece of weed from his hair.

  ‘You’re nearly as wet yourself.’

  ‘Shall we go up to the Coach House? There might be some blankets or something up there.’

  He quite liked her fussing round like this, but shook his head. ‘I’m OK if you are. We’ll warm up if we carry on working—after I’ve emptied out my boots.’

  ‘Me too.’ Faith looked down at her soggy trainers.

  They sat side by side in the grotto, wringing out their socks and their jeans. Faith was downcast again; Greg’s sousing in the lake had raised her spirits but, he saw, only temporarily. She hadn’t tried to blame him, but this must be his fault; he was the one who’d started questioning her faith, picking holes in it. Why had he done it? Whatever he had wanted, it wasn’t this. Noticing that she was starting to shiver, he gave back her jacket, guided her hands into the sleeves and zipped it up to her chin; then he sat with an arm round her. She leaned against him reluctantly. With hesitant fingers he pushed her hair back from her face and kissed her cheek; when she did not resist he held her closer and bent his mouth to hers.

  She pushed him away. ‘Don’t! Stop it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to. And you’re only doing it as a consolation. Don’t think you can make up for—’

  ‘I don’t. And don’t think I went floundering in the lake just to make you laugh, either.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Greg said, with complete seriousness, ‘I’ll make a bargain with God.’

  She looked at him, startled, pulling away. ‘A what?’

  ‘A bargain. Like this.’ He raised his eyes to the curved ceiling of the grotto. ‘OK, God, are you listening up there? If you give Faith her faith back, I’ll believe in you too.’

  The sun had broken through the mist while they were talking; it reflected ripple patterns on the curve of the wall. She sat shrugged into her jacket, her hands tucked up inside the sleeves; her eyes were dark and intense. She was a girl in a shell, cupped and held like a pearl in an oyster. He saw her as part of an accidentally beautiful composition: dark hair and eyes, scarlet fleece, tiles arranged behind her in swirls.

  ‘You can’t do it,’ she told him. ‘You can’t make a bargain with God. He doesn’t make bargains.’

  ‘How do you know that? Besides, you’re contradicting yourself again. You’re telling me what God does and doesn’t do when you’ve just been saying you don’t believe in him.’

  ‘Habit.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see if God wants to play.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk like that!’ Faith reproved.

  ‘Why not, if he doesn’t exist? Who’s to mind? And if he does exist, he won’t mind a bit of straight talking, will he? Or does he only listen to theeing and thouing?’

  ‘You’re cold.’ Faith rubbed his arm. ‘Let’s get back to work.’

  Greg stood up slowly, his attention caught by the EP initials in shells. ‘What if—?’

  ‘What if what?’

  ‘What if he’s here? Edmund?’

  ‘In the grotto? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you that he could have drowned in the lake?’

  Faith stared. ‘Drowned himself, you mean?’

  Greg nodded. ‘That would explain the vague wording, wouldn’t it, if no-one knew for sure? At the time of the fire. Not in the fire. Not on the Western Front, either.’

  ‘What made you think of that?’

  ‘Being in the water just now. What’s in there? What’s under there?’

  The idea, he realized, had been prompted by Jordan’s email, though he did not say this to Faith. Jordan had tried to find his way through the bushes, in darkness, looking for a way down to the lake. Greg had not seriously suspected Jordan of having any thought of drowning himself, but nevertheless he had been uneasy, picturing it.

  ‘Well, he could have done,’ Faith conceded. ‘But why?’

  ‘You don’t have
to look far for a reason! Shell-shock . . . unable to face going back . . . best friends killed . . . And then there’s the house! Imagine it—he comes back from the Western Front, from who knows what, for home leave, and finds the place a smouldering ruin.’

  ‘Mm. I suppose.’ Faith turned to look out at the water. ‘How odd if he’s in there, so close, after all the wondering we’ve done . . .’

  ‘It’s just an idea,’ Greg said. ‘You know when people talk about that footsteps-on-their-grave thing—a kind of premonition? That’s what it felt like, only in reverse—not the future, but something that happened here years ago. We’ll never know, though, will we?’

  ‘I don’t like thinking about it,’ Faith said. She reached for a damp trainer and pushed a sockless foot inside it.

  By lunch-time, when they went up to the Coach House, both had dried out enough to look only mildly dishevelled, though Greg wasn’t sure his Timberland boots would ever recover. Preparations were already in progress for next weekend: tables and chairs assembled inside, and a long row of display stands showing photographs past and present.

  ‘There’s one I want to show you,’ Faith said. ‘Maura’s put these up—she’s in charge of the old photos as well as the new ones. But they’re precious, the archive ones, so they only come out for special occasions.’

  Maura, who had pure white hair cut in a youthful style and was dressed as if for yachting, smiled vaguely at them and carried on sorting through a box. On one of her stands she had mounted photographs in matched pairs: old black-and-white or sepia, showing Graveney Hall’s former splendour, and colour prints of present dilapidation. Greg’s eyes went straight to a shot of the caryatid, full-on in blank sunlight and not as good as his own, in his estimation; but Faith was pointing to the black-and-white photo on the next panel.

  ‘Greg, look at this—it’s him, Edmund! I’ve seen this picture before, last year, but I didn’t take much notice then.’

  Greg looked: a family of three, in a posed portrait. The Pearson family by the Pan statue in about 1914, said the caption in amateurish calligraphic script; and, with dubious accuracy, Edmund Pearson was killed in the First World War. Mr and Mrs Pearson, stiff and formal, sat upright in garden chairs, dressed in light summer clothes that nevertheless looked restricting. Behind them was a tall young man. Greg stared, for the first time, at the face of Edmund Pearson.