Esther Bligh

by Diana Powell

  So I would sit by its grave, looking out across the sea. ‘Not a bad place to be laid to rest,’ Edmund had said when his mother died. He was right, I suppose, if one liked the sea and the sky, if one believed that the spirit still lived, hovering above, able to enjoy a view, able to see it through the perpetual gloom that enveloped the place. And it was almost pleasant to me, then, not because I liked that scenery, but because at least I had some peace from my husband’s constant wailing. And the baby was in his box, safe, hidden away at my feet, a good place for him to be. Out of harm’s way, out of my way. What was wrong in that?

  One day, when I got up from my vigil, instead of heading straight back, I turned upwards and begun to climb the path at the side of the graveyard, on towards the heights. I had been here once or twice with Edmund, on his ‘educational forays’, as he called them. I thought, now as then, that by climbing I would finally reach a point above it all. And yes, there was a place, with a large stone conveniently fallen, where you could look down on the entire village. For once it was a clear day, and I could see how it was hemmed in on both sides, by the sheer cliff to the right and the long headland to the left. And the sea, always the sea, stretching all the way, to… I still didn’t know where. No doubt I had been told by Edmund, but had not listened, as I didn’t listen to so many things… things that had no meaning for me.

  Beneath me, little grey boxes cowered together, sheltering their little grey minds within. The ominous cliff marked our house, and yes, for a moment, I thought ‘our’. It was where I lived with Edmund, my husband. But it was not mine. It never had been, it never would be; for, if I ever came to own it, I would get rid of it straight away. More than ever now, I knew I did not belong in it, just as I had never belonged in this place.

  I carried on walking up the mountain. ‘I will come to the top,’ I thought. ‘I will breathe there. I will open my lungs, I will shout, and throw my arms wide.’ Perhaps I could even dance… But there was no top. What I had thought was the summit, was simply a ridge, that dipped down, then rose again to another ridge. And another, another, another, until the ridges became peaks far higher than where I stood, pleated against each other, struggling to be tallest, on, as far as I could see, on, into eternity. And I could not breathe, or shout, because I was out of breath with the climb. And I could not breathe, because the jagged crests were like barbed wire put there to keep prisoners in.

  And I could not breathe because there was nowhere for me to go but back.

  And still there is nothing when Grace wakes from the deepest sleep since she came here. No wind or rain or trundle of the sea on the pebbles; no hissing and garbling from the children. Not even a voice… anyone’s voice. Today – if it is day, because this room is dark – for once, she is alone. And she is hungry. She wants to eat, something else she can hardly remember. Perhaps it has all been a bad dream. Perhaps it will all be different today.

  And yes, the landing window is a vague strip of blue, and the dust of the house dances in sun-beams.

  But when she reaches the hall, there on the mat is the pile of letters. Mrs Esther Bligh, Mrs Esther Bligh, Mrs Esther Bligh.

  Still, what are they, but scraps of scored paper? Does she know if any of it is true? She doesn’t even know who is alive and dead. Just because Edmund’s name was scratched out on a book, it doesn’t have to mean anything. And what sign of a baby has she come across in this house? No carefully worked lace robes and cot-covers amongst the linen, no likeness, or lock of hair. She should have questioned Mrs Evans further, instead of being silenced by a single look. But she can’t ask again. But who else can help her?

  Who? Or what? There is somewhere that can tell such things. And the day is so fine…

  The graveyard lies against the mountain behind the church. The dead are caught between the high ground and the deep sea. The space is cut in four by a well-worn path, with a bench at the cross-roads, a perfect place for watching the view and the graves and to catch your breath after the steep slope. Today, the sea and sky merge in blueness: it is beautiful, the first beauty she has seen since coming here. A good place to be buried, if there is such a thing, if one has to die. Better, certainly, than the cemetery where her mother lay beside her father, where she had gone every day, unable to say goodbye, until she had met John. Still, it is too cold to sit for long, so she gets up and wanders among the stones just below her. The prime site, Grace guesses – not too far from the church, not too far to walk, yet still having that view. The plots for the rich of the town, perhaps.

  And there is the name, ‘BLIGH’, carved in marble, painted in gold, the chosen monument of a wealthy man, dated from more than a century ago. Then she sees another and another: all Blighs, husbands, wives, fathers/mothers … all gathered together, fanning out from the centre clearing, their grave-markers getting fewer and poorer as the years move closer. Marble, then stone. Wood? Does anyone have wood any more? Not here… And finally, close to the path, but further along, she finds Edmund Bligh, ‘Captain Edmund Bligh, beloved husband of Esther, died 1923.’ Beloved.

  ‘Perhaps, after all, the story told by the letters is untrue; everything I have come to believe is nonsense.’

  ‘Liar. Hypocrite.’

  And where is she, where is Edmund’s loving wife? Not next to him – the grave there is tiny, as is the stone, to stop it drowning in shadow. Grace kneels down on the hard ground to see the inscription. Another Edmund, dead at only a few months old. Dead, just a year or so before his father. Beloved son, now, of Edmund and Esther.

  She traces the lines of the names with her finger, then runs her hand over the mound. The grave of a child is such a small thing, but it is still a thing. She had no grave for her child; some would say she had no child. To her, it had existed since she was old enough to imagine a future, for all she wanted was to be a wife and mother, the guiding light of a perfect family. Just as Mother had been to her. Two children, a boy and a girl. No, four, two boys and two girls, alternating in age. Yes, four! Four, so that they would always have someone to play with, so that they would never be alone, as she was. And when she met John, it was the start of the dream coming true, because he talked of it too, down there on the front, hidden by the church roof, on a day as perfect as this. Then it happened, she knew it from the moment of conception. And those few days and few weeks, when she believed John would come home safe and sound to find her waiting with her – their – baby, were the happiest of her life. Then he and it were gone. A bloody mess on her bed-sheets, that she scooped together and burnt outside. So there was no body, and no grave. Nothing. Nowhere for her to come and sit, nothing to care for. Even Esther had had that – if she wanted it.

  There was no grave for John, either. Lost, missing in action, the man who came to the door said. Some were found later and brought home, he offered, trying to stop this woman’s breath-jerking sobbing. Maybe it was possible that would happen with John… But no. How awful it was to imagine there could be no body. Those few nights when he was asleep beside her, she would put her hand on his chest and feel the beat of his heart, and the rise of his breath, the gloss of his skin, the firmness of his muscles. He would come back, of course he would come back, someone so full of life couldn’t die. Then he was gone. Not even a scrap of flesh awash in blood. Evaporated in the gas, perhaps, rising in the air, wandering the heavens until his voice reached her again. Still insubstantial… but something, better than nothing.

  Esther could not have killed her husband; and no mother could kill her child. It was all a terrible mistake, based on malicious gossip. Was it the writer of the letters who was evil, tormenting a poor widow, a bereft mother? Beloved.

  But why isn’t she buried next to them? Because the grave next to them is that of ‘Maud’, wife of Arthur, mother of Edmund. There is no sign of Esther at all.

  She struggles up and wanders among the stones, searching. On some, she has to scrape the lichen away to make the words out. Age has worn the letters to no more than feeble lines and suggestio
ns. Others are plain. Davies, Evans, Jones again and again. The more recent include soldiers from the war: fresh flowers lie on them, they are well-tended. This is what she would have done for John, if she had had him back. If only she had had him back…

  Names rise up from the stones. Dav/Evans/Bli. She doesn’t want this, she wants to keep the silence as long as she can. She doesn’t want it to be like it is in the house, or when the words followed her down the street. But here they are. Names, numbers, dead, all dead. John. John is there. Not him, of course it is not him. It is not John Marlowe, her John. It is John Richards. John, James, Mary. Another John, a baby ‘John’ , yes, she had even named the child, who was no more than a whisper. It would be a boy, of course. John would want the first to be a boy. He would come home to a son, his heir, to carry on his line, as the baby Edmund should have done. BORN/SON OF/Daughter of… Died… She doesn’t want this. DIED. 18/19. 1902, 1918, 1945. DEAD OF… Not now.

  Grace wants to keep the sun and the blue sky and the fresh air longer. She wants the sounds to stay at bay, but she must leave the names and the numbers and the dead. She must go now. There beside her is a gate in the wall, with a path leading from it, upwards. She will walk higher up the mountains. Why not? She has never been there, there has somehow been no time, and with the weather always so bad it is not a good idea to go wandering on the heights. Most days, she hasn’t even been able to see them. Today is different. Today everything seems to be different, with the sunshine, and a quiet dead for company. The view from up there will be wonderful – perhaps she will see all the way to Ireland, if Ireland is that way. She is not really sure. The village will be no more than a child’s toy-town to her, where there can be nothing to be frightened of. If she climbs up there, perhaps she will be able to breathe in the fresh mountain air, to fill her lungs with it, stretching her arms wide. Perhaps she will feel free.

  At the upper end of the churchyard wall there is a small enclosure, a pauper’s cemetery, she supposes. No more than a few misshapen graves lost amongst brambles and long, matted grass. Some are marked with plain wooden crosses, rotting now, most of them. There is one at the very top, apart from the others. Grace pulls at the weeds surrounding it, then scrapes at the creeping moss. ES she sees. ER. –LIGH. Letters making words again. A name. A name she knows is Esther Bligh. But Esther was not a pauper. There are other people who are not allowed to lie with the baptised dead, Grace knows. Those who take their own lives: some churches will not allow them inside holy ground. Or those who have committed the worst of the sins, broken the sixth commandment: ‘Thou shalt not kill’.

  She turns back down the path, running, stumbling as she goes. She will not walk up the mountain now, she will not go anywhere but ‘home’. She hates that she must call it that, but where else is there for her to go?

  – Where have you been?

  – Where were you?

  – What were you doing?

  As soon as she steps through the door, it is there, though she had been so quiet with the key, the handle, her steps.

  – I… Just…

  – Don’t think I don’t know. And don’t think I don’t know you. You think you are different from me. You think you are better than me.

  – I know who you are.

  – I am—

  – I know what you are… Liar. Hypocrite. You killed your child, too, didn’t you?

  NO!

  But she did, didn’t she? If she hadn’t grieved so much for John, if she hadn’t cried so much, if she had thought of the baby that she knew was inside her.

  – I should have put it first. I should have remained strong for the child. It is what John would have wanted for me, to be brave, to stop my tears and think, instead, that I would have this child – his son – so that something would remain of him. Never mind that there was no body, no grave: there would be the greatest thing of all. A child. But I was selfish. I gave in to my grief. It was what I wanted to do. So I lost John and the child. And if he had lived, the son I knew I was going to have, well, I wouldn’t have been alone, I would have had someone to love, and to love me… Instead…

  – Yes, instead, what have you got, but this? And me.

  Now the dead follow her up the stairs as she goes to the only place that is left for her. She hasn’t left them in the churchyard, after all. All the Davieses, and Joneses, and Evanses, and the Blighs, and the soldiers and the mothers and the fathers and sons and daughters of. And John. And the baby. They climb with her, along with the words, CHILD KILLER, MURDERER.

  – Me, yes, me…

  She creeps inside, and once again, shuts the door.

  It is harder than ever to breathe now. Shut up in this little room, with all its cracks and crannies stuffed with rags and rugs to keep the words at bay. But air is finer than letters, surely, it will sneak in between the threads or through the splinters of wood. And yet, and yet… there are days when my mouth gapes desperately, and the weight on my chest grows heavier, and the walls get closer, and then I know that this place will be my coffin. I will be shut up forever, back where I began. Soon, soon.

  Soon, but not yet. There was indeed a short time when I ruled inviolate over every inch of this house, supreme and unchallenged. The brief interlude I savoured after the loss of his mother had been quickly dimmed by the knowledge of my pregnancy and the birth of the child, and, of course, the pretence of grief after its death governed all other actions, when I had to spend my days keening, sitting at his side soothing his fevered brow, and mopping his tears.

  He will die, quickly now, I thought, this will see him off. The doctor thought it, too.

  ‘He is greatly weakened by the shock and the grief,’ he told me. ‘And his lungs after that last bout are even more fragile.’

  He hung on.

  Good for nothing, not even death, I thought. ‘How marvellous,’ I told the doctor, whose amazement was equal to my own.

  Still, he did no more than lie there, and there must be someone to rally, and take command, and see to basic, day-to-day practicalities. So, of course, that person must be me.

  I went back to my burning and my sewing, continuing my efforts to drive every last memory of ‘dear mother’ from the place. That was when I ordered the trees to be cut down. I told him after it was done, though, of course, he had heard the noise.

  ‘More light,’ I said. ‘We need more light. The dark contributes to the damp. And the wood will feed the fires for a good while. You must have fires, you must have warmth.’

  ‘The rooks,’ he whispered.

  What I wanted to say then, I kept to myself, merely telling him to ssshh, and save his precious breath. ‘The rooks are fine,’ I said.

  ‘I watched the black birds, as the workmen began to climb. They rose from their nests, with their usual yacking cries magnified ten times, and circled this way then the other, darting forward, then away. I watched, and clapped my hands in glee, as they took one final turn, then broke into haphazard ones and twos, and wheeled away.’ She was glad they were gone. She had seen them watching her. They could see all she did. ‘It was your fault,’ she told him. ‘You told me they could talk. I couldn’t have that. Or was that something else you lied about? Yes, your fault, again…’

  Yes, there was more light then, with the trees gone, except the rain came straight off the sea and hit the windows with greater force, and the gales blew straight at us, instead of sifting through branches first. So that the damp and cold inside were greater, not less.

  Now I could see the water without interruption, and the cliff to the side, and the long headland the other way; so that I was constantly reminded of how I was caught here, unable to walk away.

  Money, I needed money. It was owed to me.

  It was still my plan to leave – what else? – but I would not do it without some money in my pocket. But from where?

  There was another book his mother had attended to each Friday evening, poring over it, almost as much as she did the bible. I had seen her working at the kit
chen table, curling her arm tight around the book whenever I approached, locking it afterwards in some secret location away from her ‘daughter’s’ prying eye: her housekeeping ledger, her list of accounts, in which every item of expenditure was etched in a column of red, against a column of black incomings. The repository of the family’s riches, I thought, my salvation! Imagine, then, my disbelief, when I finally found it, breaking the lock on her desk drawer, opening it in triumph, to see… page after page of empty space beneath ‘Monies Received’.

  0.00; 0.00; 0.00. Nothing! Nothing at all!

  Liar. Thief. Fraud! All these words put on me!

  ‘There is money,’ he told me. But did he? The photograph of the house was shown, yet when I scratched my head in desperate recollection, there was no mention of riches. Yes, he gave me money for new things, but that was from his army pay while he went without. There was none of that now. Before that, what had he earned with his book-writing and his studying and his knowledge? Sweet Fanny Adams! So much for books, and learning. Where did they get you? Nowhere.

  The household treasures I had thought to sell, that I felt sure must be about here somewhere, if I only had time to look – they had disappeared a long time ago. A silver tea-set, a list of jewellery, china ornaments, they were all here in the book, carefully itemized with the amount received from each sale. Where had the money gone to, besides the little spent on food and clothing? Him! Before the war, it was for this trip, that trip, that lecture. Since – oh, the pounds lost here – his doctor’s bills. Each visit, each medicine, more pounds, shillings and pence added, until…

  Until…? Of course, I did not know. The entries had finished with her illness. Then, there had been her funeral, the baby’s birth, its illness, its funeral, the two of them getting the very best of burials, at Edmund’s behest; and Edmund getting worse, and needing more treatment, until…