Rook

by Jane Rusbridge

  In the kitchen, Eve hands both ice creams to Nora while she fills Benjie’s bowl with water.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about your mum,’ she whispers, pushing the door to. ‘She’s been calling by a lot recently.’

  ‘She’s got funny about being left alone in the house.’

  ‘She nearly drowned, Nor. It brought home to her that death is not far off, and she’s frightened. She doesn’t want to be on her own.’

  ‘Frightened? My mother’s never been frightened of a thing her entire life!’

  ‘Fear can show itself as anger.’

  A soft scratching comes from the other side of the kitchen door.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Nora steps over the dog, moving to make room for Eve, who opens the door and crouches to hug Zach. ‘I’m here, sweetie. It’s OK. I’m here.’

  Zach’s fingers reach round to stroke the hollow of Eve’s neck. Eve takes the kitchen cloth and wipes the ice cream from Zach’s face and hands.

  In the living room, Ada is asleep on the sofa, the white bristles of the baby’s hairbrush on her lap almost the same colour and texture as the hair falling straight and fine around her face. Zach lifts a finger to his lips and looks fierce. ‘Sshh!’ he whispers, ‘Nana Ada sleeping.’

  Nora and Eve exchange glances.

  ‘She was up half the night,’ Nora says.

  The clink and rattle of ice in a glass had woken Nora, followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing. ‘Her body-clock is all askew.’

  ‘Let her sleep. Come out the back for a bit. I want to talk to you.’ Eve takes hold of Zach’s hand. ‘Sshh!’ she says, finger to her lips, copying Zach. The three of them step outside and Eve closes the back door with a soft click.

  From the high terrace at the back of the cottage, they climb down on to Shore Road via the steep steps cut into the sea wall. Nora watches Eve on the uneven steps, worried her balance might be affected by the bulk of her belly. Tiny flies leap and settle on heaps of drying seaweed washed up by the last high tide. At the water’s edge, Zach paddles his feet up and down in slick mud, picks up a stick and pokes at weed and flints.

  ‘You know the story of the church clock, I expect?’ Eve says.

  Nora nods. After the Second World War, a memorial clock was proposed for the south wall of the ancient belfry. Some villagers considered it an act of defacement to insert a clock mechanism and place a modern slab of Portland stone on a Saxon tower, especially where it would partly cover a previously blocked-up Saxon window. Meetings were held, letters written, posters displayed outside the post office. In the pub and along the foreshore where the dog-walkers met, there were arguments as to the rights and wrongs of the proposition.

  Nora knows about the clock because her father and grandfather, while in favour of a war memorial, fiercely believed the clock should not be allowed to deface the Saxon tower. They, alongside a few other opponents, petitioned against its instalment. It was a story her father loved to tell his girls, an argument which caused neighbours to fall out over garden fences or cross the road to avoid speaking to each other. Feelings ran high and took many years to die down.

  It’s not the church clock Eve wants to talk about. Nora stoops to pick up a length of rope lying in the weed and flings it. The rope snakes through the air with Benjie bounding in pursuit, spattering mud.

  ‘Tell me you haven’t slept with him.’

  It’s all right for Eve, pregnant by a man who adores her, living in her own house, following her own dreams. ‘I take it from that comment you have strong feelings against the exhumation?’ Nora says.

  ‘The idea of Jonny digging up the dead for a TV programme has upset a lot of people.’

  ‘It has?’

  ‘He’s just a front man, a smooth talker.’

  ‘He knows he’s no historian, he’s consulting experts.’

  ‘He told me his experts will extract DNA from the teeth, if the bones are found to be contaminated by handling. He’ll find that hard without a skull, won’t he?’

  Nora picks up the rope which Benjie has brought back and toys with the frayed end before throwing it again, hard and far. She wasn’t aware Eve and Jonny had even met. It seems impossible Jonny can have forgotten there is no skull in the tomb.

  ‘DNA would be needed from both of the men who handled the bones,’ Eve says.

  ‘My father’s dead.’

  ‘I know, but there was another man, wasn’t there? It has to be the male line, a male relative.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew so much about it all.’

  ‘Your mother brought her fifties photos to show me. She’s very upset.’

  ‘She’s upset because she’s been dropped. And angry with me. You are too.’

  ‘No. I’m not. You love all the history of this place. I can see why you got involved. But I know the bishop won’t give permission for this thing so I’m not angry.’ Eve’s strokes her belly protectively. ‘Anger is a very negative energy.’

  ‘This thing is going to be a substantial historical programme centred on a centuries-old mystery. It’s a wonderful idea.’

  ‘Nora, it’s a TV programme. You’re deluded.’

  Benjie has returned with the sodden piece of rope and stands in front of Eve this time. He drops it at her feet, looking up at her with his paw on one end.

  Eve is always so sure that she’s right about everything.

  ‘My grandfather was convinced they’d say no to the church clock, you know.’

  Just above Eve’s eyebrow the skin puckers around a piercing like a steel nail sewn through the side of her head. Close up, the punctured skin is disconcerting, the pull and stretch of flesh over metal.

  ‘They said yes.’

  But Eve is not listening. She grabs the rope just as Benjie pounces, ready for a tug of war. He grips the other end with his teeth, which are bared. Eve mimics his mock growl as the rope shakes and twists between them.

  Laughter floats across the water from three people splashing in wellingtons as they wade along the path which, when the tide is right out, provides a short-cut across the inlet. However, water is fast covering the mudflats and the final stretch of their short-cut has already vanished beneath murky ripples. Nora and Eve lean against the sea wall and watch the waders’ slow progress.

  ‘Harry’s given me five paintings to sell, to raise cash,’ Eve says.

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘Yeah, to help get one of our projects off the ground when the café opens; Stavro’s graffiti-teaching sessions.’

  ‘Will anyone buy his paintings?’

  Eve turns towards her. ‘Are you serious? Have you seen them?’

  Nora hesitates. ‘No.’

  She’s not sure why she’s lied, except for the complex mix of intrigue and guilt connected with looking at Harry’s painting when he wasn’t there. Also, she feels awkward around Harry. Her body had reacted of its own accord when he kissed her, pushing back into his, a frisson shooting through her hot as a blade. She’s been avoiding him whenever possible; they haven’t really spoken since she snatched the pickaxe from him and locked it in the shed.

  ‘He’s a man of hidden talents,’ Eve continues.

  ‘We argued.’

  ‘You and Harry?’ Eve studies her face. ‘Really?’

  ‘About the alcohol he brings to the house. He and Mum are always drinking.’

  ‘Look what I found, Mummy, look!’ Zach sways towards them with his stick, grinning and waving a dripping mop of green slime.

  Eve licks her lips. ‘Ooh yum! Green candy floss, my favourite.’ She takes the stick of dangling slime, rubbing her stomach. Zach jumps up and down, shrieking and shaking his head when Eve mimes pinching pieces of green algae and pretends to pop them into her mouth. Zach’s chin wobbles and his eyes grow round. ‘No, don’t eat it, Mummy, not in real life.’ He clings to her arm to stop her.

  Eve claps her hand to her mouth, rolls her eyes and wilts, as if falling dead to the ground. Her feet thud and bo
unce on the pavement. Zach’s used to these baiting games, but Nora thinks he’s not completely certain when his mother is playing Let’s Pretend, unless she announces it.

  He rubs his eyes and bends down to put his cheek against Eve’s, where she lies ‘dead’ on the road. ‘Just ’tend, Mummy? Just ’tend?’ he whispers.

  29

  Eve wheels an elderly man into the room. His hands and feet are trembling and he has huge, old-fashioned hearing aids in both ears.

  ‘Where do you want to sit, George?’ Eve asks, very loudly.

  ‘I want to sit on your lap,’ George replies, his head wobbling a little as he twists round in his wheelchair.

  Eve laughs, and rubs his shoulder. This is the lively group, she’d said to Nora as they unpacked the car earlier. Not so drugged up, so they’re full of beans.

  One man is asleep, the woman next to him, perhaps his wife, plucks at his sleeve. ‘Wake up! Wake up! She’s here!’

  Over by the door stands a woman on her own, bone-thin, her face like a crone’s.

  ‘Come on, Phyllis.’ Eve’s white-blonde plaits tumble over each other as she bends to hook arms with her.

  Phyllis is the only woman in the room whose nails are not varnished with a garish pink colour, which Nora takes as a sign she will not be cajoled into a chair or persuaded to conform.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ she mutters. ‘Don’t you touch me, don’t you dare!’

  Her body is twisted with fury at being brought to this room with its circle of chairs, her back so hunched by age or arthritis she can only glare downwards at the floor. Yet she’s as frail and slight as Ada.

  Last night, waif-like in her pale nightdress and her silver hair in disarray, Ada stood by the French doors in the sitting room. Her back was towards Nora and she held the handle of the croquet mallet in both hands, the mallet’s heavy head resting on the floor. Two or three of the panes of glass in the French door were ragged with broken glass, part of the wooden frame splintered. Ada rocked back and forth on the balls of her bare feet, unaware of Nora’s presence. She heaved the mallet up, cradling it with both arms across her body until the weight began to topple her. The head of the mallet thudded down to the floor. Nora heard a low vibrating sound, feral. Ada straightened her back. Her shoulders swayed as she breathed hard and prepared again to lift and swing the mallet down on the window like an axe. The growl came from deep in Ada’s throat.

  Eve smiles at Nora over Phyllis’s bent spine and shoulder blades. ‘Where do you want to set up?’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Phyllis lashes out with her stick.

  Nora opens her cello case and glances round. The air is like soup, the room stuffed with an assortment of winged chairs and mismatched side tables on castors. In the far corner, a man with the face of an ageing matinée idol sits upright and motionless, his hands linked on his lap. His trousers are immaculately pressed. He stares at the floor with a dreamy smile, not at the repeated swirls and lurid colours of the carpet, but into the privacy of some inner space, his isolation in the crowded room due to drugs or sorrow.

  Eve has backed away from Phyllis and moves round the circle of chairs saying hello, talking about last week’s quiz, the weather, what they can look forward to for lunch. Every now and then she stops and straightens, putting a hand to the small of her back. Zach’s face was pale and serious when Eve fell to the ground pretending to die, her feet bouncing on the tarmac while he hovered over her. She has been asked back for another scan, to check the unusually large size of the baby’s stomach. The doctors at the hospital have told her it’s probably nothing to worry about, but how can she not be anxious? She doesn’t take enough care of herself. Here she is, in stifling heat, smiling and talking, bending to make eye contact with each person in the circle as she says their name, crouching or putting a gentle hand on a shoulder; smiling, talking and touching.

  ‘MUM!’ Last night, Nora had yelled at Ada to get her attention.

  Ada swung round, her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘It’s locked!’ The words spat out.

  ‘Use the key.’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘It’s night time. Most people . . .’

  ‘I am not—’ Ada stamped her bare foot. Nora darted forward as she swung the mallet again ‘—most people!’

  Her mother’s grip on the mallet was surprisingly strong. They glared at each other, both clasping the wooden handle. Sweat prickled Nora’s forehead. With a blink, Ada’s expression softened. Her hands fluttered and dropped. She frowned, lifting her hands to examine the palms as if they were dirty or unfamiliar and chafed them together. She was trembling. Nora let go of the mallet. Just in time she moved close to support her mother’s weight and save her from crumpling to the floor amongst the shards of glass.

  ‘Darling,’ her mother leaned into her, ‘Might I lie down for a moment?’ Her voice passed over Nora’s skin like a feather.

  Eve has plugged in her CD player. ‘Is everyone here? Where’s Norman today? Is he still in his bath? And how are you, Clara?’

  The woman next to Nora begins to hum, drumming her fingers on the chair arms. Every now and then she tugs her polyester dress down to cover her age-splotched knees. Her legs are naked. ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush,’ she belts out, full vibrato, and chuckles to herself.

  ‘A song for every occasion, haven’t you, Iris?’ Eve says.

  Iris gives Nora a bold stare, then sits back in her chair and beams around the room. Nora looks away. Her cello rests between her thighs. When Harry kissed her, the bulk and weight of his body pressed against hers. She straightens her arms, pushing the cello upright and away from her body. She’ll make a decision soon about whether or not to go back up to London. A few weeks from now the pavements outside the Academy will turn yellow and brown with a filigree of fallen leaves from the plane trees. If she does go back to London, she’ll be able to see more of Jonny.

  She brushes some dust from the polished wood. Her cello’s formal curves and curlicues are artificial and out of place in this room; it doesn’t belong here and nor does she.

  Eve passes around photographs of wedding couples in church doorways, pictures of balloons and cakes. It’s a session on anniversaries. Eve plays a recording of Happy Birthday and sings along at full volume, conducting with exaggerated arm and body movements. When Iris interrupts, warbling, ‘To tell you the truth I’ll be lonely,’ with a doleful expression, Eve moves swiftly on.

  When the time comes for Nora to play, Phyllis has seated herself on a chair to one side of the circle. Nora pulls the cello to her. During the Bach Prelude in G major Phyllis cranes forward in her chair, fighting the severe hunch of her back to get a better view of the cello, to look higher so as to be able to watch Nora’s fingers. She taps with her stick on the carpet, keeping time, and her body – with the eager, forward stretch of her neck, the yearning of her jaw line – uncurls a little. Her head jerks upwards. Looking directly into Phyllis’s faded eyes, Nora remembers her own face forced upwards by Isaac’s hand on the back of her head, the shock of his roughness. She was playing Beethoven to a lecture hall of students. ‘This, for the public!’ he bellowed, ‘Not for yourself!’ He believed the cello to be an instrument with the power to influence, to transmit ideas and hypnotic images, spiritual states of being, to affect the human mind in ways as yet unknown. Nora lifts her head, keeps it raised as bars of semiquavers run beneath her fingers.

  When Nora stops playing, the matinée idol with the crinkly hair swivels his gaze around the room. He hasn’t said a word for the entire hour, but he has leaned forward and watched everything with a serene smile on his face. Now, he sinks back down and stares at his hands. He twiddles his thumbs, first one way and then the other. Phyllis is straining forward in her seat, but when she sees Eve has begun to pack her CD player into the plastic crate along with all her other bits and pieces, her face falls, her body slumping as the hunch returns to her spine.

  30

  Nora wakes to the smell of burning. In the in
stant of recognising the taste in the back of her throat, she’s up, crashing into her father’s study, her mind seeing the bookshelves on fire – but there’s only darkness. The curtainless window shows a cusp of moon, a starry sky. Déjà vu washes over her. Somewhere in the night, her mother will be up and smoking, that’s all. The house is still.

  Without switching on the light, Nora walks one step at a time like a child, down the stairs. In the kitchen, the fridge hums. No movement from Rook’s basket, but the smell of smoke is more pungent. She checks the oven and finds it cold. The acrid taste in her throat is stronger and she has a sense, now, of something stirring in the house.

  From behind the closed door of the dining room comes a low-level noise like paper being screwed into balls. No one goes in there any more. Do they? With an unreasonable surge of premonition, she stops with her hand on the glass door knob. A flicker of light and movement gutters along the bottom of the door.

  When she turns the handle, the door falls open to a room wild with the heat and roar of flames. She slams the door shut again, leaning back, pulling on the handle to hold the door closed against any suck of air which might force it open. A glimpse was all she’d had. So many licking flames: flames climbing the sides of the chimney breast; flames racing along the curtain pelmet; flames transforming the old raffia wastepaper basket into a spiky bush of orange.

  Water. Bucket.

  No, too late, too many flames, their darting image imprinted on her retina as her mind registers the shock and reaches for half-forgotten warnings about water and electricity.