He called himself back to attention. Now that he was seated in the pew, facing the altar, he had to make an attempt at saving Faith’s faith, however stupid and self-contradictory it sounded.
He cleared his throat. ‘Look, if there’s anyone listening,’ he began, speaking so quietly that he could barely hear his own words, ‘could you do something for Faith? You know her, don’t you? Could you show her you’re there? I mean, you wouldn’t want her to lose it, would you? You don’t turn people away, specially not people who want to believe. And it’s my fault, whatever she says, so if you could put it right I’d be really glad. I hope you don’t mind me asking; it’s a bit of a cheek, really. Anyway, that’s it. Thanks.’
What a prat, eh? Asking favours of a wooden effigy.
Behind him, the door opened with a creaking sound.
The back of his neck tingled; the air felt alive with electricity. It’s him, he thought. He’s come to find me. He knows. But it seemed impossible to turn round, as if his head were held in a neck-brace.
Heeled shoes clopped on the stones of the aisle. Half-standing, Greg saw an oldish woman, carrying a water-jug and a bunch of leaves and berries. He blundered out of the pew, clumsy with disappointment. The woman, smart in a grey coat with a scarf at the neck, stared at him, curious and wary. She doesn’t know if I’m here to pray or to nick the brass candlesticks, he realized, glad that she hadn’t come in a few moments earlier to hear him mumbling to himself.
‘Good morning?’ she said. She wasn’t used to teenagers, he could tell.
He tugged at his sweatshirt. ‘Just looking round.’
He was still early at Graveney Hall, though he could see from the number of cars parked along the frontage that the helpers were here in force. ‘Marvellous news!’ Margaret, Faith’s mother, greeted him by a striped pagoda set up as the official entrance. ‘Have you heard?’
‘No?’
‘That young boy, Dean. He’s started to get the feeling back in his feet and legs. They think he might make a full recovery after all! What a relief for everyone.’
But I didn’t pray for Dean, Greg thought for a confused second.
‘There’s a card inside,’ Margaret went on. ‘We’re all signing it, and we’ve got him a present. Make sure you put your name. It looks like rain, but if we’re lucky it’ll hold off till this afternoon. I don’t know where Faith is. She’s around somewhere.’
Greg found her in the Coach House, getting Maura to sign Dean’s card. She waved him over: ‘You as well, Greg!’ People had already written things like So glad to hear you’re making progress and Hurry up and get yourself out of there, as if they were Dean’s favourite uncles and aunties, and Dean a nice little boy. Greg wrote Get well soon. Greg.
‘Not paralysed after all,’ he said to Faith. ‘He’s going to take up his bed and walk! Did your prayers do that, or what?’
Faith shrugged. ‘Who knows? Would have happened with or without them. I’m glad, though.’
‘A bit of a miracle, you could say?’
‘Who do you want me to say that for—for me or for you? What’s a miracle anyway?’
‘Something that goes against the laws of Physics. Something that can’t be explained.’
‘Well, this can be explained,’ Faith said. ‘His spine wasn’t as badly damaged as they thought it was at first. Easy.’
Her mother brought up another whole box full of jam and lemon curd and chutney, all in jars with frilly caps, and each needing a Friends of Graveney Hall sticker with the price written on; then the postcards and guidebooks had to be set out. Then Mike came over to say that the numbers were already more than expected, and could Greg go out to help supervise parking along the front drive. Greg stayed there, guiding the cars into neat lines and stopping people from backing into each other, until Phil came out to relieve him.
Back on the garden side of the house, he stopped to take in the scene. A wind quintet, arranged with their music stands in a semi-circle on mown grass near the steps, played something elegant and classical. There were people everywhere: gazing into the ruins, sitting on white plastic chairs with their refreshments, wandering around the garden, gathering for the next guided tour and looking up at the uncertain sky, which promised rain. Children ran across the grass, parents pushed buggies, one couple had a pair of identical King Charles spaniels on leads. A second pagoda displayed raffle goods, and a queue had formed at the entrance to the Coach House, where sandwiches, cakes and quiches were set out in a spread far in excess of the usual Sunday offerings. What would the Pearsons have thought of all this?
I hope the Friends never restore the place too much, Greg thought. I like it as it is.
Faith came across the grass with a plate of sandwiches and cakes. ‘I know,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Feels like the place has been invaded, doesn’t it? It’s nicer when we have it to ourselves. But think of all that money rolling in! This many people—loads of money at the gate, and that’s before they spend anything else. Here, I’ve brought our lunch—Maura’s taken over the jam and stuff so we can have a break.’
They sat on the low wall to eat, but were sent scurrying into the Coach House by a sudden fierce shower of rain. ‘Good!’ Faith said, trying to run with two wedges of chocolate gateau still on the plate.
‘Why good?’
‘It brings everybody inside. And when they’re inside they’ll spend money.’
For the next hour and a half, while it rained steadily, the Coach House was packed. ‘Like the Harrods sale!’ Margaret beamed, pushing her way through to collect the notes from the bottom of the cash-box. ‘Our extra publicity this year has certainly paid off.’ Quite why wet weather should provoke a rush for green tomato chutney Greg had no idea, but he and Faith were fully occupied with taking money, sorting change and replenishing their tables from the boxes underneath until there was little more to be sold. When the rain eased and the visitors began to drift outside or back to their cars, Margaret came to take over the stall. ‘Go and have a wander round. You’ve done well here.’
Outside, under the dripping trees, there was just a straggle of people, some smugly clad in Goretex and boots, others less suitably in shorts and open sandals. Automatically, Greg and Faith made their way across the orchard and down the steps to the lake. The last guided tour was making its way ahead of them, led by Faith’s father. He gathered his group around the grotto, where Greg and Faith caught up; they heard the exclamations of people seeing it for the first time.
‘This is the grotto,’ Mike Tarrant informed them. ‘One of the last features to be added to the grounds, in the late nineteenth century. Henry Pearson—the owner of Graveney at the time—had it made in memory of his baby son, Edmund, who died in infancy. We think he did the tile decorations himself. It’s not obvious at first, but when you look you can see EP, for Edmund Pearson, again and again in the pattern—here, and here. His surviving son, of course, was the next Henry, the last owner, who lived here until the fire in 1917. Sadly, he had no heir—his only son died in the First World War . . .’
The old lie, Greg thought. People said that so often that they believed it.
The people stared and touched and exclaimed, some of them taking photographs, some gazing blankly, chewing gum. Mike Tarrant looked up at the darkening sky. ‘I think we’d better hurry if we don’t want to get drenched again. We’ll just do a quick walk round the lake, then up to the sunken garden . . .’
As soon as the crocodile moved on, Faith darted inside the grotto and sat on the marble bench, reclaiming it for her own.
‘I keep forgetting about that other Edmund Pearson—the first one.’ Gently she touched the tile pattern. ‘How weird if our Edmund really did drown himself here. I bet he came in here first, don’t you? And saw his own ready-made memorial. Perhaps that’s what gave him the idea.’
‘No grave, but a grotto. It’s better than most people get, isn’t it?’ Greg stood looking out at the ruffled water.
> ‘We’d have to drag the lake—that’s the only way we could ever prove anything.’
Greg shook his head. ‘No. Let him stay.’
‘I wasn’t serious!’
The line of visitors had reached the farthest end; one of them, a boy, skimmed a flat stone that pinged across the surface. Then a fresh spatter of rain sent them all scurrying up the log path into the shelter of trees. The water was steely-grey, pitted with raindrops. Greg retreated into the grotto and stood looking as the last straggler disappeared, and the lake and its trees became theirs again. There was something very peculiar about the light, dull but intense, as if gathering itself; about to remark on this, Greg saw that the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the lake was lit almost theatrically by vivid sunlight. Half a rainbow appeared in the retreating rain; from where they stood it looked as if it touched the ground precisely where the shell of the Hall was hidden from sight by the rise of ground. Greg stood looking at the eerie, beautiful light, wishing he had his camera. The trees opposite looked spotlit, every leaf and stalk and branch clear. And the rainbow—according to the Bible, hadn’t God used that as a promise, after the Flood, setting his seal in the sky? It was the nearest thing to kneeling oxen Faith was likely to get.
‘Can you see the rainbow’s end?’ he said.
‘Nearly. But is the rainbow really there? Or do we only think we’re seeing it?’
‘It’s an illusion, and we’re both seeing it, but we’re not seeing exactly the same because of the distance between us. I’d have to see through your eyes to see exactly the same rainbow you’re seeing.’
‘Are you saying more than you’re saying?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m a Physics student and I know that what we’re seeing is sunlight refracted by moisture in the air. But can you believe that’s all it is?’
‘What, then?’ Faith said. ‘You’ll be telling me next you think there’s a pot of gold buried at the end.’
‘Did you know that it wasn’t till Isaac Newton that we understood about rainbows—about how light gets dispersed into different colours? And then he was criticized for spoiling the mystery of it.’
Faith nodded. ‘Understanding isn’t the same as wondering. It’s fading—look. Going, going . . . gone.’
‘There’s still a bit left, if you want it,’ Greg said, looking towards the trees. ‘Anyway, I don’t believe that. When you understand something you get something else to wonder at. We know now what makes a rainbow, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth looking at. Looking properly. And we ought to think Wow! and say thank you, because the world is arranged the way it is.’
I sound like Jordan, he realized; that’s a Jordan thought. For the first time he understood the meaning of the word gutted. He felt a physical pain deep inside, as if his intestines were being slowly pulled out, leaving him hollow.
‘But the world has evil things in it as well, not just sunshine and rainbows. You gave that as a reason not to believe. And anyway,’ Faith said, ‘who should I thank?’
‘Who do you think you should thank?’
‘You want me to say that God’s put this show on just for me? And therefore I have to believe in Him again? Except you see signs and wonders, you will not believe. That’s what Jesus said to the man at Capernaum whose son He had healed.’
‘OK, so that means you might not get signs and wonders—it doesn’t tell you to take no notice when you do get them. Jesus performed miracles, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, for healing! Not conjuring tricks.’
‘OK then. Dean’s going to take up his bed and walk, and we’ve just seen a rainbow. What more do you want—loaves and fishes?’
‘You’re making it too simple,’ Faith objected.
‘And you’re making it too complicated.’
‘But if I believe, then you have to believe as well,’ Faith said, ‘because of your bargain. I have to drag you with me. And you don’t want that.’
‘But I do want you to believe,’ Greg said, with certainty.
‘Why?’
‘I want to know it’s possible.’
‘You want me to save you the effort of believing for yourself? Sorry, I can’t decide to believe because you want me to. And you can’t decide to believe because of a bet.’
‘No, but I can be a—a wondering agnostic.’
‘There’s nothing stopping you from being that. It doesn’t depend on whether I believe or not.’
‘OK, then.’ Greg moved nearer to the shore and felt in his jeans pocket for Faith’s crucifix. He leaned out over the water, dangling it. ‘A rainbow’s just particles arranging themselves in a certain way. Dean’s getting better because he was going to get better anyway. So neither of us believes. Either there is a God behind everything or there isn’t—there’s no half-way, a God who’s only partly there, or a God who can’t make up his mind whether he exists or not. And we’ve both decided he doesn’t. In which case you won’t be needing this tacky piece of jewellery. There’s no point hanging on to it, is there?’
‘Wait—’
‘Let’s donate it to Edmund.’
God doesn’t make bargains, he thought, but I can make one with myself. If Faith gets her faith back, I tell the truth—to myself, to everyone who matters. And if she doesn’t, I don’t have to. Simple.
He glanced at Faith. Intensity sharpened his actions as he whirled the chain around like a lasso, preparing. Faith watched him uneasily. Taking an exaggerated breath, he swung his arm back, watching her from the corner of his eye. Like an Olympic discus-thrower, he balanced himself for the throw.
‘No!’
Faith grabbed his arm at the moment of lunging. The crucifix whirled over the water, catching the light.
See the next page for a preview of
Linda Newbery’s evocative novel
Sisterland
Available in hardcover from
David Fickling Books
Excerpt from Sisterland copyright © 2004
by Linda Newbery. All rights reserved.
Only a Visitor
They came across Natzwiller-Struthof by chance. Not at all sure that she wanted to go in, Hilly knew she would, as the road had brought her to the gates. It wasn’t the sort of opportunity you could miss.
With their baguettes and Camembert and other picnic items stowed in the boot, they had been looking for a place to stop for lunch. It was another hot day, too relentlessly hot for walking round villages or for visiting Strasbourg. The forest offered coolness and shade, trickling streams and grassy clearings. Hilly, in the front passenger seat with the road atlas on her lap, had noticed the roadside signs with the three crosses indicating some sort of war memorial.
‘Natzwiller-Struthof?’ her father said, changing to a lower gear for a sharp uphill bend. ‘It’s a concentration camp. Was. Open to visitors now, I think.’
‘In France?’ said Zoë, in the back seat.
‘Zoë, this part of France was taken over by Germany at the start of the war.’ Her father glanced back. ‘You know, the Occupation of the Rhineland! We were talking about that yesterday, remember?’
Zoë lifted her chin and stared out of the side window, haughty and withdrawn.
Hilly said, ‘I know, though—it does feel a bit peculiar, doesn’t it? Here in the hills—the signs pointing up and up. It’s like we’re not in any particular country—as if the mountains are a sort of barricade between the Rhine and the rest of France.’
‘Barricade against British tourists, as well,’ her father said. ‘Anyone noticed how few Brit number plates there are? Dutch, German, but very few GBs—I’ve only seen one or two since we got here. Looks like Alsace is a well-kept secret.’
‘No beaches, that’s why,’ said Rose, the girls’ mother. ‘Lots of people want beaches.’
‘So why do we have to be different?’ Zoë said, still huffy. She hadn’t wanted to come on this holiday, and was making sure everyone knew. She complained about the room she was sharing with Hilly
; she complained that self-catering meant they were forever shopping for food; she complained that it was too hot.
‘I wish you’d stayed at home, too!’ Hilly had told her earlier, in a fierce, muttered conversation in their bedroom, before their parents were awake. ‘It’s Dad’s birthday today, so you might make a slight effort.’
How many more times would they go on holiday like this, all four of them? Hilly wondered. This was possibly the last time. For their parents, this Alsace trip was revisiting the past; they’d come here nineteen years ago, the summer they got married. Although she had seen photographs, Hilly was surprised by the wooded slopes of the Vosges mountains, the deep valleys, the almost ridiculously picturesque villages along the wine-growing route. It was as she imagined the Swiss Alps: high meadows rich in wild flowers, remote farmsteads with logs stacked under the house eaves.
As they followed the memorial signs the road narrowed between stands of spruce, the young trees clustering so thickly that the farther slopes looked furred in green. Through the open window Hilly smelled warm grass and the resinous tang of pine; she saw verges bright with the purply mauves of wild thyme and harebells. It seemed an unlikely journey to a concentration camp, she thought, remembering documentaries she’d seen at school: bleak industrial areas, windswept flatlands, and those terrible railway tracks that led one way.
A sign to the left took them to a levelled parking area. The Craigs’ car nosed into line next to a Peugeot with a French number plate, facing trees and a grassy slope. The large car park was two-thirds full; there was a blockish building that looked like toilets, and a sign asking visitors not to picnic or play ball games. Looking towards the entrance, Hilly saw iron gates, a high wire fence.
‘You must be joking,’ said Zoë from the back seat. ‘You’re not seriously expecting us to go in?’
‘You can wait here if you like,’ their father told her. ‘I’d like to see inside. Anyone coming?’
‘Me,’ said Hilly.
‘You would.’ Zoë was sliding out of the car, trailing the lead of her Walkman. ‘Just up your street, isn’t it?—holiday combined with doom and gloom. Why be happy when you can be miserable?’
The Shell House Page 25