Hy Brasil

by Margaret Elphinstone

  He passed me an ebony snuffbox with a delicate oil painting of a ship in full sail on its lid. ‘That’s not a galleon,’ I remarked.

  ‘Of course not. It’s a British ship of the line, about 1805.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve seen the Victory in Portsmouth.’

  ‘So have I. The snuffbox belonged to Nicky too. He used to keep his dope in it. Now these.’

  He dumped a bundle of papers into my lap, loosely tied together with string. Letters slid out as I picked it up. I recognised the spiky italics immediately, and I couldn’t help seeing the first words:

  My darling,

  I can’t come tonight. The bloody President’s coming to dinner and Pappa says I have to be dutiful. Tomorrow, maybe.

  I’ve thought about what you said. I don’t know. Sometimes I think there’s a fate on me, and I must let you go, or I’ll add your ruin to our own. Maybe you should go away from here, my dear love, while you still can …

  I pushed the letters back together. ‘No, no. I don’t know why you’ve got them, but Lucy would never want me to read these.’

  ‘I don’t mean you should. I didn’t read them either, and I wouldn’t. But you must understand: these belonged to Nicky. All these things are Nicky’s.’

  ‘But the glass is the one I saw at the Pele Centre …’

  ‘Sidony, I found all this at the Pele Centre.’ I must have looked blank, for he reached over and took my hands as if that would make me understand him. ‘The glass was on the shelf, just where you said. While I was there I thought I’d just check what else was up there. And on the end of the shelf there was an old shoe box, do you remember seeing that?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, it was there, covered with dust like the other junk. When I looked inside I saw the shell head, and the snuffbox, and so I knew it was more of Nicky’s. Then I looked at the papers, and of course I knew Lucy’s writing right off. I didn’t even have to look inside. Sidony, you realise who had to deliver all those letters?’

  I shook my head at him, still bemused. ‘You mean you stole it all out of the Pele Centre?’

  ‘No! It was Olly stole them out of Ferdy’s Landing. After Nicky died the house was boarded up. No one moved anything until Ishmael bought the place, and that was all of two years later. I tell you Olly must have taken them. He must have gone into Ferdy’s Landing!’

  ‘And now you’ve taken them out of his office?’

  ‘Those things are Nicky’s, Sidony! What was that man doing in Nicky’s house? What the hell was he after? Olly West doesn’t know a thing about the Cortes. He always says the past means nothing to him, he’s only interested in the future. It’s true, he really does, though I know it’s hard to believe anyone could be that stupid. He wouldn’t know when 1611 even was. He’s the last man to go around pinching antiques.’

  ‘Well, that would figure. If he’d known what it was he’d have taken more care of it. But why would he want Lucy’s letters?’

  ‘He didn’t. I thought at first he’d planned to blackmail her, but that don’t fit. There’s nothing secret about what happened with Nicky. Nothing left to hide.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare attempt to blackmail Lucy.’

  Jared grinned suddenly. ‘God, nor would I! No, that won’t wash. But there’s something … Ever since Olly got here – that’s just before Nicky came back – I’m not sure. No, I can’t explain it. But what I do know now is that Olly West must have been into Ferdy’s Landing after Nicky died, and he took away these things from there. I don’t know why. But they’re not his.’

  ‘They’re not yours either, Jared.’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you. All these things belonged to Nicky.’

  ‘So what are you going to do with them?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that. Listen, Sidony. There’s only one other person who’d recognise all this, who’ll know where all these things belonged just as well as I do. No one else ever got invited into Ferdy’s Landing. This is why I have to talk to Lucy. Otherwise it’s only my word against Olly’s. But she and I both… That’s proof.’

  ‘Of what? Why do you need proof?’

  ‘I want to know why Olly West was after Nicky’s things. He didn’t need an antique goblet or a shellhead from Gallipoli. What did he want? I want to know what happened after Nicky died. You know Olly tried to buy that house himself, but Ishmael came in with a better price. No one else wanted it – the heir was a distant cousin, well, it was Penelope Hook, in fact. You know her, don’t you? Nicky was very touchy about anyone meddling, you know. He kept all his papers in his father’s tin army trunk, and the only time I ever tried to open it he boxed my ears. Did anyone ever do that to you? It really hurts. I never touched the thing again. I don’t know what he kept in there.’

  ‘Do you think Lucy knew?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. I’ve never mentioned Nick to Lucy since I came home. But now I must. If Lucy’ll back me up, I’m going straight to Gunn and Selkirk with all this lot, and they can chase up West. I didn’t think before, I never thought what happened to Nicky’s things. When he died I was … upset, I suppose. And later I tried not to think about any of it any more. But now I want to know. I think he’d want me to find out.’

  ‘I suppose Penelope might have cleared out some things?’

  ‘Penelope? In which case … No, I reckon Olly got there first. Penny would have known not to leave the goblet. But you’re right. We have to consider that.’ He frowned. ‘Sidony …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘These letters … I’ve never talked to Lucy about any of it. We’ve never mentioned the past. When she comes tomorrow … I’m quite glad you’ll be there. I mean, before I explain all the other stuff I need to give her back the letters, and tell her I need to talk about Nick. But … well, I’ve told you how it was. I’m not sure I’m just the right person to hand over those letters. I mean, maybe it would be better if someone else gave them to her. Someone she trusts who isn’t anything to do with the past. Maybe someone who isn’t a man.’

  ‘Well, there’s quite a few of those around,’ I said tartly. He flushed, and I instantly took pity on him, and laid my hand on his knee. ‘Jared, it’s OK. Don’t be upset. It’s just my natural reluctance to get involved. But you’ve both been very kind to me. I’ll do it.’

  He nodded, and started putting Nicky’s treasures back in their box. I got out of bed. ‘Sidony? That promise I gave you. It was made for one night. You do realise that, don’t you?’

  I could only hope he’d attribute my obvious embarrassment to a becoming modesty, but actually it was guilt, because I’d looked through his things, and therefore knew more about his intentions than I was supposed to. ‘Yes, you were quite clear about that,’ I said, as I went downstairs to find my clothes.

  We continued in perfect amity until we were washing up after the largest breakfast I’d eaten since Easter 1993, when Arthur and I stayed in a bed-and-breakfast on Arran, this being my brother’s attempt to cheer me up after the break-up of my first serious relationship, which happened to be with my Fiction 1700–1900 tutor, just six weeks before my finals. I was explaining to Jared how I really wanted to stay longer in Hy Brasil, only my deadline was October, and I hadn’t much more money. I told him how Lucy had refused to go on charging me, and that I was paying her in housework and gardening instead, ‘So I should just about manage until September, but that’s all.’

  ‘If you really did want to stay you would,’ argued Jared. ‘You haven’t got to do anything.’

  ‘I’ve taken an advance from the publishers and I’ve already spent most of it.’

  ‘So? There’s nothing to stop you putting a manuscript in the post, is there? If you really meant it about wanting to stay here you’d find a way. You’re going home because that’s what you want to do most, only you won’t admit it. You’d rather not deal with the fact that you have a choice.’

  ‘There’s no employment here. I can’t see much choice.’

  ‘You mean you won’t. You just
think in straight lines because you’ve been told it’s morally good not to do anything different. There’s nothing really stopping you doing whatever you like.’

  ‘Such as?’ I demanded, as I dried a plate.

  ‘Well, for example, you could decide not to go away at all. You could decide to forget your book and marry me and live for ever on Despair. It’s your choice.’

  I dropped the plate.

  I knelt down and very slowly picked up the pieces. I’d have been less startled if he’d thrown a bucket of cold water over me. My face was burning, either with embarrassment or fury; I wasn’t sure which. It seemed to me a thoroughly underhand example to use. It wasn’t a statement or a question. I could have dealt with either of those, but I didn’t know how to casually ignore a conditional hypothesis which suggested in equal proportions a sentence to life imprisonment and a garden of earthly delights. I stood up with my back to him and as I laid the broken shards on the table I looked out of the window.

  ‘Jared, who’s that?’

  ‘What?’ He caught the sharp edge of fear in my tone, and was beside me in a flash. There were men in green uniforms coming up the hill. They had guns. The only place I ever saw men in uniform with guns was in Milan airport. My mother’s father got out of Poland in 1939. Perhaps my reaction was atavistic: if there’d been anywhere to go I would have run. I trembled, and my legs felt weak. Maybe I couldn’t have run.

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Fucking coastguards!’ He was at the cupboard. Coastguards? In Cornwall coastguards give you weather reports. Jared took a long double-barrelled gun from the top shelf. And a box of cartridges. ‘Can you aim a shotgun?’

  ‘Of course I can’t! I’ve never even touched a gun,’ I backed away. ‘I’m English!’

  ‘Fuck.’ He clicked something and the barrel of the rifle went down. He took two cartridges from the box. ‘Get away from the window! Get upstairs!’

  ‘Jared, you can’t shoot people! What are you doing?’

  ‘They’re not taking me! Get upstairs!’

  ‘No!’ I grabbed the gun by the barrel. Luckily he hadn’t clicked it back yet. ‘No! You mustn’t shoot anyone! You can’t! Especially not coastguards or police. You’ll get into terrible trouble! Jared, you can’t!’

  The room went dim. There was the shadow of a man at the window. Jared wrenched the gun away from me, locked the barrel into place, and raised it to his shoulder, pointing door- wards.

  The door was opening.

  ‘Jared, No!’

  I took him by surprise. He was just aiming the thing. I snatched it from him. Suddenly the room was full of men. I fled behind the open cupboard door. Jared tried to break for the door upstairs. They closed in. The moment they touched him he went berserk. If the police came after me I think I’d try to be civilised and polite and hope that would soften their hearts. But as soon as the big guy laid a hand on Jared he lashed out. He fought like a cornered cat, struggling wildly until they knocked him off his feet. I saw him hit the floor face-down with a crack, and then they were on him and had his hands handcuffed behind his back. It took them about twenty seconds. It was their efficiency that appalled me: it was like a reflex. They’d obviously been trained to deal very easily with anyone like Jared.

  I couldn’t see his face. Very quietly I backed from the cupboard to the stove, and I slid the shotgun in between the back of the stove and the wall. It fell with a noise like a poker rattling in a grate. No one noticed. I think however long we live that that was probably the best turn I’ll ever do him.

  The green uniforms were everywhere, all through the kitchen, into every shelf and cupboard. I heard them thumping up the stairs, heavy footsteps on the floor above, voices shouting from room to room. They took no notice of me. When they turned to the cupboard where I was standing one jerked his thumb at me and signalled a question to the big guy who was still standing over Jared where he lay on the floor. He just shook his head. I wasn’t even worth wasting words on, thank God.

  They came flooding back from upstairs. When I think about it now I think there were no more than half a dozen altogether, but it felt like an army. One had something in his hands. Not Nicky’s box, nothing like that. Just some plain plastic packages, the sort you get Chinese ready-meals in at the supermarket, only they were blank on the outside.

  They dragged Jared to his feet. They didn’t ask him to get up, they were deliberately rough with him; I’d never seen that before. Where he’d fallen one side of his face was bruised and swelling. He didn’t say a word, but there was a defiant sullenness about him that made the big guy shove him so he staggered against the other one, who hit him hard on the side of the head with his clenched fist, as if Jared had fallen on purpose. I was the one that flinched, not Jared. He was half-dazed, though, and when the man thrust the packets into his face and shouted questions at him, he just shook his head as if he were too weary to reply.

  I stared at the packets. I could hardly take in that this was real. It was like a nightmare where things that you know keep turning into something else, and just for one moment there was a question in my mind. I’m not sure if there were doubt in my face, but when I looked at Jared I caught him watching me, and he gave me a tiny shake of the head, which wasn’t dazed at all but very clear. I believed him; I do still, and I always shall. I know. But what those men were saying was that they’d found the stuff in his possession, and he didn’t try to deny it. I was the only witness, and even I could see there wasn’t any point. I said nothing, and when they took him away I did nothing. What could I have done?

  The whole thing took about a quarter of an hour. When they’d gone it seemed so quiet. My legs were shaking, and I sank down on one of the chairs at the table. I held up my hand and watched how much it shook. My thoughts were clumsy and slow, all the more so because of the urgency I felt. After a minute or two I got up. It occurred to me that the heat from the stove might do something to the gun. I wasn’t sure if it were dangerous for a loaded shotgun to get hot or not. I took the poker, and leaned down over the back of the stove. It seemed fairly cool down there. I managed to push the gun along with the poker until I could reach in from the side and get it. I had to take it by the barrel, which I did extremely gingerly, making sure it wasn’t pointing at me. I was trembling so much it was quite difficult to do. I was nervous that something might explode, though I’ve never heard of a gun exploding unless you pull the trigger. When I got hold of it I found it heavier than I’d expected. I lifted it cautiously over the hot water pipes. I had an idea that I ought to unlock the barrel again as there were two unused cartridges in there. When I examined the top of the gun I could see the lever you pressed sideways to make it go apart. I pushed it very gently with my finger, just in case it might be the trigger after all, even though I knew it wasn’t, and to my relief the thing slid back and the barrel went down, just like when Jared had loaded it. I could see the cartridges tucked in at the top. I considered for a minute, and then very warily I took them out.

  I felt better when I’d put the gun away. Gradually I was working out what to do. I was in the middle of picking up his books, smoothing their pages and putting them back on the shelves as closely as I could to their right order, when I heard an engine burring away like a distant sewing machine, in the direction of the sound. Even so, I waited until I’d tidied up a bit more. It was lucky he didn’t possess very much. They’d left the open shelf of pans untouched, and they’d never even got to the cupboard; the only damaged thing in the kitchen was the shards of the plate I’d broken which were still lying on the table. I didn’t face going upstairs.

  The next thing was the key. I put off looking, because my worst fear was that it might be in his trouser pocket. His sea jacket was hanging on the back on the door. There was nothing in the pockets except the wrapper from a bar of chocolate, a pencil and a set of allen keys. My heart sank. Then I saw it: an ignition key hanging on a nail in the frame of the back door. Thank God.


  As I ran down the hill I studied the sound apprehensively. There was a froth of white water in a v-shape just to the left, between Despair and Lyonsness. I prayed that for the next hour or so it wouldn’t start doing anything else. High tide yesterday had been around three o’clock. Right now it was eleven twenty-three. So it must be coming in. That meant the water would be flowing both ways round the island, presumably, until it met in those nasty-looking white horses. There wasn’t any noticeable wind. There didn’t seem to be any reason why things would change, but one thing I knew was that you never knew.

  The dinghy was lying upside down at the top of the beach by the jetty, where I had helped to carry it. I untied the rope that held it down, turned it over and dragged it down the beach. It scraped unpleasantly on the stones at the top, but I couldn’t lift it by myself, so I had to hope it didn’t matter. I got the oars fixed into the rowlocks, shoved off, and scrambled in. Luckily I can row: my parents aren’t into boats but Arthur and I often used to hire a rowing boat from our local beach for an hour or two on a summer afternoon. I came alongside Cerberus quite neatly, and climbed into it. I had to tie the dinghy to the boat while I found the boathook and fished around for the mooring. The rope was wet and weedy and tried to slip out of my hands, but I fixed the painter of the dinghy on to it with several half hitches, until it seemed secure enough.

  With a sinking heart I turned my attention to the engine. Turning on the ignition was no problem. But as I’d feared there was one of those horrible cords you have to pull with a jerk to make the thing start. We have one on the lawnmower at home. It used to be Arthur’s job to mow the lawn. It was a family joke that the refinements of gardening were beyond him. I will never think of running a lawnmower as unskilled labour again. I pulled the cord as hard as I could a few times and nothing happened. I studied the engine a bit more closely. There was a lever underneath where the cord came out. I remembered about the choke, and I tried pulling it. I jerked the cord again and this time there was a small noise. Encouraged, I did it again. And again. It got better after a while and then suddenly it died with a sort of gasp.