Call of the Curlew

by Elizabeth Brooks

  Mr Deering rolled up to the house eventually, with a smooth crunch of tyres, and Lorna went outside to meet him. She let him kiss her on the cheek and they talked for a few minutes on the doorstep. A few people got to their feet when he entered the kitchen, and the vicar shook his hand. He sat down at the table like a judge, his fingers steepled against his lips, and everyone grew more alert. The policeman took out a notebook and licked the lead of his pencil.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Deering, his eyes falling on Virginia. Someone pulled out a chair and pressed her into it, and she thought how sleek and sober he seemed tonight, with his black eyes gleaming like shards of coal. She tried to picture him the way he was in September, dissolute with grief and vomiting on their lawn, but all that was gone; it seemed impossible, unthinkable – a delirious dream. He stretched his legs under the table and crossed them at the ankle, and as he did so his shoes brushed her bare legs. He sighed, as if weighed down with anxieties, but Virginia saw the minute smile that lurked beneath his heavy eyelids and under his moustache.

  ‘So, Vi, Clement left you on your own while he set off on this “mercy mission”? Is that correct?’

  Nobody called her ‘Vi’, except for Clem. Virginia wasn’t going to answer, but Mr Deering seemed prepared to wait, so in the end she nodded briefly. The policeman began making notes in a laborious longhand.

  ‘I must say I’m surprised,’ Deering remarked, accepting a cigarette from Lorna. ‘I know Tollbury Marsh as well as he does, and I wouldn’t have risked it today, with the tides as they are.’ He put the cigarette between his lips and removed it again. ‘Not without exceptionally good cause.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s not true!’ Virginia leapt from her chair. ‘Clem said the tides were all right today; he said the marsh was in a good mood.’

  Mr Deering laughed bleakly and shook his head.

  ‘Mr Deering knows the marsh better than most,’ someone said, reprimanding her, and there was a murmur of agreement round the table.

  ‘Clem knows the marsh,’ Virginia insisted, gripping the sides of her chair. ‘And he promised he’d be back. He said we absolutely mustn’t worry, even if Lorna – I mean, Mother – even if she got back before him, and she’s barely been back an hour, so …’

  Her voice petered out and she shrugged. She’d offered exactly the same reassurance when everyone was arriving, and she was aggrieved that nobody seemed inclined to give it weight. The apple-cake woman shuffled uneasily, as she had done before, and the vicar smiled at Virginia without quite meeting her eye. The police constable stroked his moustache for a full minute and made a half-hearted note in his pad.

  ‘Right enough, Vi,’ said Mr Deering, the words drifting lightly from his lips and twining with the cigarette smoke. ‘Hope springs eternal.’

  The apple-cake woman nodded bravely and the vicar murmured his assent, but Virginia looked back at Mr Deering and watched the shape of his tongue as it probed the inside of his cheek.

  The police constable cleared his throat and put forward a few questions of his own – ‘What time did Clem leave? Which direction did he take? Was he carrying anything with him?’ – which Virginia answered as best she could. When she hesitated over the question of time (‘It was after one o’clock and before two, but I’m not exactly sure …’) the policeman rattled the pencil against his teeth and told her to think carefully, and try her best to remember. He wrote down everything she said, read it out loud, re-read it in silence, and closed his notebook.

  ‘Well,’ he sighed, sitting down and accepting a slice of apple cake. ‘I think we’ve done what we can for tonight?’ He shot Mr Deering a querying glance, and Mr Deering nodded his assent.

  Virginia looked round at them all: the familiar, the semi-familiar, the strange. They seemed large and looming, like creatures of a different order whose ways she’d never understand. She licked her lips nervously and sought the plainest English words she knew.

  ‘Aren’t we going to go and look for him?’

  A burst of wind made the kitchen window shudder, and the pulsating orange embers inside the range glowed red. A piece of coal crumbled and fell. Nobody looked at Virginia, not even Mr Deering. He just smoked and scattered ash on the tabletop and gazed into space.

  ‘You heard what Mr Deering said.’ The vicar looked at her over the top of his glasses, as if he thought her impertinent.

  Mrs Hill mopped her cheeks and took a long, shaky breath. ‘It’s too risky, love.’ She screwed the handkerchief into a ball and pressed it against her mouth.

  Virginia narrowed her eyes and berated them soundlessly, barely moving her lips. What did you come for then? What did you come for? She stared at one of the whorls in the wooden tabletop and made it into an island, a solid fragment amidst miles of sliding sands and waters. Frowning, she reached out and touched it, as if there was a magic she could effect on Clem’s behalf if she only knew how.

  ‘Will you excuse me?’ Lorna stood up very suddenly and her chair rocked backwards. ‘Sorry.’

  Mr Deering glanced round, but Lorna walked out of the room and ran upstairs before he could even say her name, or try to stop her.

  ‘You can come home with me tonight, if you’d rather,’ said Mrs Hill as she and Virginia stood by the open front door. She’d folded the red handkerchief into a tidy square and put it in her pocket, as if to say enough is enough, but she couldn’t stop her eyes and nose from watering and she kept swatting irritably at the drips.

  ‘No.’ Virginia hugged herself and shivered. ‘Thank you.’ People were starting to drift away now, and they all seemed to want to touch her as they squeezed past. Some of them patted her on the back or the head; others squeezed her shoulder.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ Mrs Hill peered back inside the house as she knotted her headscarf. Mr Deering was making himself at home, strolling about the downstairs rooms with his hands in his pockets and a freshly lit cigarette in the corner of his lips. His hat and coat were still hanging in the hall. Virginia listened to his silky tread for a moment and pulled her cardigan tight, but in the end she shook her head.

  ‘I can’t. I promised Clem I’d be here when he gets back.’

  Mrs Hill stared at her, and slowly nodded.

  ‘All right,’ she said, placing her damp palm against Virginia’s cheek.

  Virginia left the front door on the latch so that Clem could get in without knocking. She scurried upstairs, keeping close to the wall where the shadows were deepest, and didn’t stop to spy on Mr Deering until she was almost at the top.

  As soon as the neighbours were gone he went back to the kitchen to cut himself a second wedge of apple cake, and then he resumed his leisurely tour of the ground floor, dropping a trail of crumbs and ash behind him. He paused every now and then to look at the photos, or the Meissen teacups, or the sliver of night between a pair of half-closed curtains. Of course people eat and smoke and fidget when they’re on edge, but all the same he didn’t look like a man whose oldest friend was lost on Tollbury Marsh. She wished Clem would burst in now and catch him at it.

  Mr Deering popped the final piece of apple cake into his mouth and unstoppered the whisky decanter, emptying what was left into a clean glass. Something squeaked and bumped upstairs in the bathroom, and Virginia heard the slosh and spill of water. It happened again – the squeaking, bumping noise – and she recognised the sound of enamel pulling on skin. Lorna must be taking a bath.

  He’d heard it too; she could tell by the way he looked upwards, towards the noise, as he drained his whisky. Oh God, thought Virginia, crossing her fingers. Come back, Clem; come now. Perhaps she said part of her prayer out loud, or perhaps she moved too quickly, because all at once Mr Deering was gazing at her over the rim of his glass. He raised it a little, as if to drink her good health, and smiled like a man who’s been gifted with good fortune.

  The bolt on the bathroom door was inadequate; she’d always thought so. She’d point it out to Clem just as soon as he got back. Not only was it tiny, but the screws
on the bracket were loose too, and anyone trying to break in from the landing could do so with a modest shove – as she had just done. All the same, she wiggled it across as far as it would go and leaned back against the door.

  She thought Lorna would be angered by the intrusion; that she’d bring her knees up to her chest in a swirling flurry and hide her nakedness as best she could. But she just lay with her legs straight out in front of her, her hair floating round her shoulders like pale seaweed, and said, simply, ‘Have they gone?’

  Virginia had never seen Lorna so unguarded; so lacking in ceremony. It unsettled her because she wasn’t sure what it meant.

  ‘You’re having a bath.’

  Lorna closed her reddened eyes. ‘Sorry. I just had to get away. Have they all gone now?’

  ‘All except Mr Deering.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lorna fished a cloth out of the water and laid it, dripping, across her face, so that nothing was visible but her mouth. ‘Oh hell.’

  Virginia stared at the pliable pallor of Lorna’s grown-up flesh. She couldn’t envy it – not exactly – but even in the midst of this crisis it caught her interest. Lorna’s legs seemed completely different in substance from her own. They were like the soft, white lumps of wax you pick off the side of a burning candle and mould between your thumb and forefinger. She wondered whether Mr Deering had ever moulded them between his fingers, and then she caught her tongue between her teeth, as if to bite the thought off and spit it out.

  Lorna dragged the cloth from her face and stared back at Virginia.

  ‘Are you staying?’

  ‘I’m not going downstairs again while he’s here. Not until Clem gets back.’

  ‘Stay then. I don’t mind.’

  So Virginia sat down on the linoleum floor with her back against the tub and her feet pressed against the door. Puddles of cold water soaked through her skirt.

  ‘You’ll get wet,’ Lorna murmured, and Virginia could tell she had her eyes shut.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What will we do about Clem?’

  Dripping fingers touched her softly on the head and played with her hair. For a long time Lorna made no reply, and Virginia thought she hadn’t heard, but then she said, ‘You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?’ as if it was something she’d only just realised.

  Virginia dropped her chin on to her knees and they sat together in silence while the bath went cold. The water from Lorna’s hand filtered through her hair and dribbled down her neck, but she didn’t move away. She listened to the dripping tap and improvised little bargains with Fate (If I can count to ten in French between two drips then he’ll come … If I can say my twelve times table without a single mistake, one sum per drip, then he’ll come …). Eventually, as if granting a concession at the end of a hard-fought inner argument, Lorna said, ‘He loved you too. He loved you for your gratitude.’

  The past tense felt like a kick in the stomach, and for a few moments Virginia could hardly breathe, let alone move. As soon as she was able she staggered to her feet and flung the bathroom door wide open.

  ‘Oh.’ Lorna sat forwards, her hair trailing over her face like a tangle of fine wires, and held out a spongy hand. ‘Listen, Virginia, I didn’t mean it badly—’

  Virginia hovered in the doorway, ignoring the outstretched hand. Outside the house a motor coughed and rumbled into life, and they turned their heads in unison towards the sound.

  ‘Is that Max?’ Lorna whispered. ‘Is he leaving?’

  Virginia went to the spare room and peered down at the turning circle. She could just make out the majestic bulk of the Austin 12 as it manoeuvred in front of the house, before inching its way down the pot-holed lane and disappearing into the darkness. She waited a couple of minutes, and even then she ventured downstairs with caution. He’d left a folded note on the hall table.

  There was a wild lumbering and sloshing from upstairs as Lorna climbed out of the bath.

  ‘Has he gone?’ she shouted.

  Ladies, I hate to leave you alone at such a time, but Theo will be missing me. I’ll drop by first thing. In the meantime if there is any news – or should you want me for whatever reason – don’t hesitate to call. You know I’m at your service, day and night. M. D.

  Lorna appeared on the landing, tall and dripping in a grey towel. She looked like something out of a myth; a river goddess in a sleeveless gown.

  ‘Yes, he’s gone.’

  Lorna nodded slowly.

  ‘For now,’ she murmured, as if she’d read the note, word for word, right from the top of the stairs.

  Midnight came and went, but they forgot about the New Year – or if they remembered, neither thought it worth mentioning. Lorna sat at the kitchen table, shivering in her dressing gown, while Virginia paced about in search of things to do. She boiled the kettle and stoked the range and hung Clem’s pyjamas on the rail to warm. She took Bracken outside. She brought the kettle back to the boil and then did nothing with it. Neither of them said much.

  When Virginia was drying up she found a tin at the back of the cutlery drawer, full of string and drawing pins and candle stubs. She took out all the candles – some were only an inch high, with black pimples for wicks, but they were better than nothing – and proceeded to place them in all the marsh-facing windows of the house. She was breaking the blackout regulations, but she didn’t care.

  When all the windows were lit, upstairs and downstairs, there was one candle remaining. Virginia melted the base and stuck it inside an empty jam jar, pressing it down until it stood unsupported. Then she thought for a moment, before lighting the wick and starting up the attic stairs.

  The round window was like an eye in the east-facing gable, staring blindly over miles of bare darkness. Virginia placed the jar on the sill and knelt beside it for a while. It was cold in the attic, with the wind creeping through the slates, and her cardigan was only thin. She wanted to look out into the night, but all she could see when she tried were the shards of her own face reflected in the glass.

  New Year’s Eve, 2015

  SOPHIE POKES HER head up the stairwell and calls again, ‘Hello?’ There’s a moment of quiet during which, no doubt, she peers timidly into the gloom and wonders what’s lurking, but before you know it she’s pulled herself together and started the ascent.

  Virginia is too appalled to move. She feels like a spider whose web has caught the interest of a curious toddler. As the steps come closer, she wheezes some kind of protest, but it’s worse than useless; she can’t even hear her own voice over the creaking of the stairs. If she were younger and stronger she would run down and shoo the girl back to the landing, but she can’t do that any more. She tries to stand more squarely and breathe more deeply, but it only ends in a coughing fit.

  Sophie jumps when she catches sight of Virginia, but she doesn’t retreat. She hovers inside the doorway, pulling her sleeves down over her hands and trying not to look curious.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mutters. Virginia nearly retorts, Sorry for what? only it’s obvious the girl won’t understand what she means. It was a diffident greeting, not an apology.

  Virginia shuffles and clears her throat, and Sophie seems to take that as an invitation, because she sticks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and comes right in. Her glance takes in the rocking chair – it’s a not-unattractive antique, apart from anything else, or it would be if the wicker seat were repaired – and Virginia moves sideways in a half-baked attempt to shield it from innocent eyes. At least she hasn’t spotted the shotgun.

  There’s one thing in Sophie’s favour: she doesn’t act as if Salt Winds appals her. As she ventures across the attic floor, crunching through dead woodlice and catching cobwebs in her hair, Virginia is alert for any sign of distaste. But the girl is wide-eyed, and when she reaches the centre of the whole space – which is impressive, when you remember to think about it – she turns right round and mouths a discreet ‘Wow’ and the old woman can’t help feeling touched.

  ‘You’ve called your paren
ts?’ Virginia says. It’s a question, but she makes it sound like an observation.

  ‘I can’t.’ The girl touches the rectangular shape inside her pocket as she continues to survey the room. ‘The battery’s dead.’

  Her eyes are still pink, but she’s not shivering much and she looks more sensible than she did before. She talks quietly and avoids eye contact, but she holds her head up with a conscious firmness as if telling herself, inwardly, Courage!

  ‘You’ll have to use my phone, then,’ says Virginia, leaning on the stick with a faint wince and heading for the door. ‘Come. I’ll show you where it is.’

  Perhaps Sophie is not so sensible after all, because she makes no move to follow. She touches the mattress with the toe of her shoe and a cloud of spores puffs up. Her eyes fill, and the corners of her mouth waver, and all the spores have settled before she risks a reply.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to call anyone.’

  Virginia catches hold of Sophie’s arm and they both stagger slightly.

  ‘Oh, but you have to,’ she cries. ‘They’ll be worrying.’

  ‘Will they?’ Sophie shrugs and gives a little pout. ‘Good.’

  Virginia’s hand drops as the child moves away from her and wanders towards the window. As she passes the rocking chair, her thigh brushes against the armrest and sets the whole thing in motion. Rumble, rumble go the stately wooden runners, back and forth, and suddenly Virginia is faint with heat. She’s going to be sick; she’s going to fall – but the rocking chair slows and stops, and the feeling passes. So much for whisky on an empty stomach. She draws a shaky breath and the nausea washes over her, and away, like an ice-cold wave.

  Sophie hasn’t noticed anything. She’s frowning at the floor and her lips are wobbling again.