For Rye

by Gavin Gardiner

  He took her hand.

  ‘…amazing.’

  As the rain tapped against the window, as Quentin pulled her in by her trembling hand, as the distance between them closed, Renata imagined herself back in the clock tower. In her mind, she sat in the middle of the little stone room above the churchyard, candlelight warming her pale skin, walls glowing.

  you were NOT meant to go anywhere near her

  Overprotective, that’s all.

  She felt his breath upon her cheeks.

  Even now she was a spectator. She watched from afar as Quentin edged closer and ran a finger down her arm. Suddenly, the peephole exploded, its lifelong distortion giving way to reality. Finally, the door began to open.

  There must be some mistake. These were the last words to fly through her head in the moments before their lips met. There must be some mistake, and he’ll realise any moment.

  If he did, and if there was, it didn’t alter the course of events. His lips sat unmoving upon hers, the warmth of his breath causing her to halt both in body and mind. Then – so that’s what it feels like – he kissed her deeply, pressing his forehead against hers in an expression of uninhibited relief.

  She felt him breathe in her scent. She felt him, already as close as he could be, try to edge through space that was not there. She felt his longing for her, and despite a fleeting attempt at restraint, she responded. She watched from afar against a backdrop of glowing stone, in her mind still hiding in that clock tower, the warmth of the candlelight causing her skin to rise in submission.

  …and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the sexually immoral and…

  Guilt stabbed. She took a deep breath and pushed aside He who had pushed her aside. She was on her own now, with Quentin.

  She peered through slits in her closed eyelids as she succumbed to the touch of his lips. All at once, she saw the stone of the clock tower fall away, its candles extinguishing. Her mental hideout was replaced by piles of books, dusty furniture, a discarded script, and the man who would show her how to love.

  She stopped observing. Finally, Renata Wakefield arrived – here, now. She closed her eyes and sunk into the moment, and into Quentin’s arms.

  11

  The crate tumbles down the stairwell. The girl sets the lantern against the wall and balances the smaller of the two wooden boxes on the stone steps, then descends to rescue her fallen comrade. Approaching the foot of the spiral staircase, she hears the clattering of wood on stone from above.

  The second crate crashes down.

  Remarkably, both are undamaged. The crates are strong. Not only have they survived their respective tumbles, but they’ve also endured the long walk from town and across the fields into the woods, where she stashed them until the sun went down. The girl is scrawny and weak. She dropped them more than a few times.

  And her arm still hurts. Finger-shaped bruises wrap around her wrist from where Father had yanked her from the bookcase. Still, better than the fist. The books disappeared from the shelves the day after she was caught in the act, along with all those in her bedroom. Luckily, the current book she’d borrowed from Mr Harper had been in her schoolbag, but she couldn’t risk her father catching her reading those oh-so-blasphemous romance stories again, so she’d set out to find a safe place to read and write and stash her books. Her excursions had led her far and wide; forests, the long grass of the surrounding fields, even an abandoned building. Whether too far from home or too likely to collapse under her feet, there was always a reason to keep looking.

  Life continued throughout her searching. School, church, home: those were the three primary stages upon which the not-so-funny pantomime of her life unfolded. School, church, home. School, church, home. School, church…

  Church?

  Yes, that was where the answer had presented itself. It had been right on her doorstep the entire time. Well, give or take a few fields.

  It was as the chattering congregation had gathered in the churchyard after Sunday service (learn the love of our Lord, then get gossiping) that she’d seen the cat. He was black and white and he was fluffy, just how she liked them. The girl had watched him rub against the side of the church, before he’d proceeded to sample some other parts of the stone wall. Goldilocks and the Three Bears had popped into her head; this bowl too hot, that bowl too cold. He just couldn’t find the perfect spot, poor Mr Kitty – or maybe Jazz? That’s a cute name for a cat. Nearly as cute as Misty-Moo, the name she’d given the delicate little kitty she regularly found sleeping in amongst an old fleece on the seat of Father’s ride-on lawnmower. Jazz’s search had eventually led him around the cylindrical perimeter of the clock tower and out of sight.

  The girl had looked at her mother, the woman’s forced smile firmly in place, holding the five-year-old Noah’s hand as Mrs Caldwell shrieked in varying degrees at the particular aspects of the boy’s face she found most ADORABLE. Then at her father, solemnly nodding as Mr Oakley the pharmacist had congratulated him on another fine service, another fine service indeed. The girl decided the coast was clear and went after Jazz.

  She followed the stone wall which eventually jutted out, marking the border between the church and the clock tower. She arched her neck and gazed up the tower, a runway of stone stretching into the sky. At the end of the runway lay the great clock embedded into its surface, its cryptic Roman numerals glimmering in the sun. She imagined running along the stony road and jumping onto the clock. What would happen? Well, that would depend on whether or not she could clear the narrow window.

  Window? She’d never noticed any window before. Wonder what’s inside?

  She followed Jazz’s trail around the back of the tower and found him scratching something in the stone. The sun was high, but not high enough to penetrate this dark corner. Shadows bathed the kitty’s new haunt, rendering the thing he was scratching barely visible. Jazz spotted her as she approached – he knew he’d been rumbled – and darted off like a cat out of Hell. She edged closer, peering through the shadows at the focus of his attention. It was a shoulder-high wooden hatch built into the stone. Whether or not she knew it at the time, her search was over.

  That had been enough for one day. She’d take a detour after school on Wednesday to investigate properly. Father would be in town late so there would be no danger of him catching her arriving home later than usual, or in the midst of her exploration as he left church. That would be the only potential danger of this great discovery: her father’s church next door. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t allowed to play in the neighbouring fields, and, judging by the planks of wood boarding up the main entrance of the tower, no one but her would be climbing its stone steps any time soon.

  Come Wednesday, following this further investigation, she would find a small hole in the hatch, big enough for a child’s finger, which would allow her to pry the wooden panel open. Inside, at the top of a stone staircase, she’ll find the room in which she’ll dive deeper into her reading and writing than she ever thought possible. The neighbouring fields were so overgrown that she could lie in wait out of sight as long as she needed before running across the churchyard (plenty of gravestones to use as cover if she spotted anyone) and in through her secret hatch. All this sneaking was, of course, based on the assumption that her visits would take place during the daytime. If she could continue her silent mastery of the staircase at the house, and acquire the means for some portable light (a lantern, perhaps), there could potentially be entire nights of reading and writing awaiting her.

  The room is perfect, or at least it will be once the makeshift writing desk Mr Harper kindly gave her has been dragged up this stupid staircase.

  Finally, as she overcomes the last step with both her wooden friends by her side, the room presents itself. The space had been crammed with rotting furniture and all sorts of rubble, but, having picked the most strategically suitable night, she’d simply thrown it all out of the tall stone window onto the grass below, then shifted it into the neighbouri
ng woods. The room is mostly bare now, and she takes considerable pleasure in dragging the crates – writing desk and chair, that is – into her new study, high above the world.

  The girl lights the lantern with a pack of matches taken from the kitchen and sets it upon the larger of the two crates, which she positions with great pride in the centre of the room. She also places writing materials from her rucksack on her new desk, then takes a seat on the smaller crate. She gazes at the stone walls glowing in the candlelight.

  This’ll do.

  She tried writing tonight but the sight of the blank paper was too much. The infinite possibilities of that empty canvas drove her so crazy she ended up snapping her last pencil. Starting these things is always a nightmare. She kicks the broken pencil across the floor.

  Today is her thirteenth birthday. Despite this, she could have left for the clock tower much earlier and no one would have noticed. She shares her birthday with Noah, rendering her parents and guests utterly preoccupied. He was given – amongst much else – a seaside bucket and spade, shiny, metal, and red. Just the colour he wanted. They even had it engraved, if you can believe that. He loves digging for worms, the idiot. He’s going to be a scientist, apparently.

  Her birthday present was a pocket Bible laid ceremonially outside her bedroom door and, later, a bin bag filled with crumpled wrapping paper. ‘Lenata,’ the child had bubbled, his incapacity for Rs boiling her blood, ‘I found some mole lapping papah you can put in the lubbish, Lenata.’

  The speech impediment was real, in so far as it was a permanent fixture of his speaking voice. However, the accentuation of her mispronounced name was, she was sure, deliberately emphasised. He knew it annoyed her. She could see it in the grin through which he sneered the word.

  ‘Lenata,’ he’d whine at every available opportunity. ‘Lenaaaah-tah.’

  In a funny sort of way she owed him everything. Since his arrival the atmosphere in the house had settled. Her mother’s bruises had ceased their constant renewal, and the girl was largely ignored – treatment she would gladly choose over the alternative.

  She did miss the bond she’d shared with her mother. Although never vocalised, it had often felt as if they were just two friends stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her last memory of any meaningful time spent with Sylvia Wakefield was, of all things, an improvised driving lesson. It had to happen whilst Thomas was out of town since, her mother had explained, his finding out she was being taught a ‘man’s skill’ would have ended regrettably.

  Was there anything unusual about a little girl’s heavily pregnant mother teaching her to drive in secret? Sure, but the urgency of the lesson didn’t need spelt out. From the late-night shouting, the girl knew of the responsibility resting upon the shoulders of their unborn child; more than anything in the world, Thomas Wakefield wanted a son. Certainly not another failed attempt, as he considered the girl. He wanted a damned SON. An ultrasound was out of the question (blasphemous as he considered them) so it was a matter of waiting for nature to reveal whether or not Sylvia had failed her husband once again – and for the final time, the woman feared. The rage that swelled from his every pore at the mention of another girl filled Sylvia with the belief Thomas may be capable of anything in the event of such a failure, a belief strong enough to warrant the extreme measure of providing her daughter with an emergency escape.

  Thankfully, it hadn’t been needed. Noah had arrived – a boy, praise be – and, although the girl saw the little weasel for what he really was, she understood that she really did owe him everything. Yes, the atmosphere in the house had calmed, but more importantly he had been the driving force in her pursuit of writing.

  Noah was a wonder child in the eyes of his parents. The abounding praise for the boy was always juxtaposed with regular vocalisations of her father’s contempt for Renata. (‘There’s something wrong with that girl. She’s never been right. Do you see now why I wanted a boy?’) It was this incessant scorn (‘You’re a leech on this family, child. A parasite.’) that had pushed her reading even further, not only as an attempt to correct her ‘inferior intellect’, but also as an escape.

  An emergency escape, just like the driving lessons.

  The writing had spawned naturally from her obsessive reading, and it was all because of that little worm of a brother. The girl, now sitting at her makeshift writing desk in front of a blank sheet of paper, wonders if the stupid worms he’ll dig up with his new spade will recognise him as one of their own. The girl giggles at the thought.

  One day, months from now, she’ll find fear in a place she thought there was none: the pages of a book. Then the giggling will stop.

  Soon, sitting in this clock tower, the girl will be changed forever.

  Every day after school the girl stops at Harper’s Books, where she’s welcomed like royalty.

  ‘Ah, young Wakefield! Make way for the good lady!’ Mr Harper would announce. Despite her embarrassment, she was as yet unable to restrain a grin at this display, and so the announcements would continue. The presence of any other customers would have amplified the girl’s embarrassment. Luckily, there were few.

  The deal was that the girl could borrow any books that caught her eye, so long as they were returned in perfect condition. It was, of course, mostly the romance section that won her attention, which would lead her through the pages of Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, E. M. Forster, and, having completed the classics, onto the contemporary work of Natasha Peters, Rosemary Rogers, and Kathleen E. Woodiwiss. Although she hungered mostly for stories of love, she’d make occasional forays to the adventure or even crime and mystery sections, these excursions becoming increasingly frequent once she’d worked through the romance section several times over.

  The light, playful tone Mr Harper presented masked his awe at the rate with which the vicar’s daughter was tearing through the shelves of his shop. True to her word, the books were returned as she’d found them. Not that the books were good as new to begin with. Following the death of his wife, Mr Harper had made an obsession of reading. He’d acquired boxes of novels from every dealer in the surrounding area, and having read them all, opened the shop as a means of passing the books onto anyone that would benefit. He’d even had wooden crates made up for customers to borrow, with the words Harper’s Books stencilled on their sides. They’d need them for the stacks of books they’d be buying. He and his wife were – bloody hell, ‘he’, just ‘he’ now – financially comfortable following the lucrative combination of relentless saving and no children. He didn’t need the shop to live, but he did need to pass on the books. Why? Well, not every question needs an answer.

  Mr Harper was not a religious man – a rarity in this town. He stopped attending service after his wife passed, much to the disapproval of the townsfolk. (‘MEANING! You need MEANING in your life!’ Mrs Lazenby had implored. ‘Don’t you want to know what it’s all ABOUT, Mr Harper?’) He remembered enough about Mr Wakefield, however, to fear the vicar’s discovery that he’d supplied his daughter, Renata, with ‘blasphemous’ works such as Sense and Sensibility or Great Expectations. But what he saw in the girl’s eyes upon completion of a book was the same thing he’d seen in the mirror in the midst of his grieving, deep in the solace these infinite pages had afforded him: peace. And as Mrs Lazenby had rattled on about that profound MEANING he was missing, and about the REASON for being here, as well as the REASON for his wife being DEAD in the DIRT, one thought remained in Mr Harper’s mind: not every question needs an answer, dammit.

  So he’d inadvertently accumulated a shop’s worth of books, opened said shop full of books, and was now effectively running a free library only a few ‘customers’ made use of. And all the while those ludicrous crates sat gathering dust in the storeroom.

  The girl had figured some of this out for herself, and some of it he’d shared with her. She sensed, to the degree with which a girl her age could, his gestures of kindness were not fully altruistic; she knew he was getting something from letting he
r borrow any book she liked. His payment was company.

  She also knew, better than he did, what her father would do if he knew of the books she had unlimited access to. What she didn’t know was what he would have done had he caught her with one of the books from the alcove, that mysterious, forbidden alcove. Namely because she didn’t know what was in there.

  ‘Anything, young Wakefield!’ Mr Harper would bellow, a face like sunlight. ‘Ever hear the story of Aladdin? Well this,’ he’d said, sweeping his hands across the shelves, ‘is your cave, and I’m your genie!’

  The girl had glanced at the back of the shop towards the alcove. Clouds suddenly obscured the sunlight of the man’s face. Yes, he knew about her father alright. His wife had been well connected and she’d shared with him just about every rumour in Millbury Peak. There was even a chance he knew Renata’s father better than most. Maybe, just maybe, there were reasons he’d stopped attending service besides his loss of faith. Yes indeed, he knew of the man, and he knew just how angry a copy of Pride and Prejudice might make him, let alone something from the alcove. Oh yeah, he knew the rumours, and for once he believed them.

  ‘You will NOT go near those books, Miss Wakefield,’ he’d said through the clouds. ‘Not one of them. Do I make myself clear?’

  The alcove had then been stripped. This dark pocket of the shop was now bare, and over the following months nothing but dust would grace their shelves. For a time, consumed by her lust for the rest of the shop, the girl forgot about the forbidden area. The stories lining these walls seemed infinite. Whilst these endless pages were available to her, she would never need another book.

  Until she did.

  ‘Man the deck, me hearty!’ said Mr Harper one day as he limped on an imaginary peg leg towards the shop door. ‘Need to find us some pirate’s grub, I do!’

  As Mr Harper headed down the street, leaving the girl flicking through a Gustave Flaubert novel she’d read twice already, she found her eyes drifting to the bare shelves of the alcove. He’d never left her alone before now, and the unexplored territory called to her. What were these accursed texts that could land her in more trouble than anything else in the shop?