Really, it was heart-breaking. One vicious card and she felt nervous in her own house. A blurred voice seemed to creep behind the carols on the radio, lowing out of tune. Next day she took her washing to Lark Lane, in search of distraction as much as anything.
The Westinghouse Laundromat was deserted. O O O, the washing machines said emptily. There was only herself, and her dervishes of clothes, and a black plastic bag almost as tall as she was. If someone had abandoned it, whatever its lumpy contents were, she could see why, for it was leaking; she smelled stagnant water. It must be a draught that made it twitch feebly. Nevertheless, if she had been able to turn off her machine she might have fled.
She mustn’t grow neurotic. She still had friends to visit. The following day she went to a friend whose flat over looked Wavertree Park. It was all very convivial—a rainstorm outside made the mince pies more warming, the chat flowed as easily as the whisky—but she kept glancing at the thin figure who stood in the park, unmoved by the downpour. The trails of rain on the window must be lending him their colour, for his skin looked like a snail’s.
Eventually the 68 bus, meandering like a drunkard’s monologue, took her home to Aigburth. No, the man in the park hadn’t really looked as though his clothes and his body had merged into a single greyish mass. Tomorrow she was taking the children for their treat, and that would clear her mind.
She took them to the aquarium. Piranhas sank stonily, their sides glittering like Christmas cards. Toads were bubbling lumps of tar. Finny humbugs swam, and darting fish wired with light. Had one of the tanks cracked? There seemed to be a stagnant smell.
In the museum everything was under glass: shrunken heads like sewn leathery handbags, a watchmaker’s workshop, buses passing as though the windows were silent films. Here was a slum street, walled in by photographs of despair, real flagstones underfoot, overhung by streetlamps on brackets. She halted between a grid and a drinking fountain; she was trapped in the dimness between blind corners, and couldn’t see either way. Why couldn’t she get rid of the stagnant smell? Grey forlorn faces, pressed like specimens, peered out of the walls. “Come on, quickly,” she said, pretending that only the children were nervous.
She was glad of the packed crowds in Church Street, even though the children kept letting go of her hands. But the stagnant smell was trailing her, and once, when she grabbed for little Denise’s hand, she clutched someone else’s, which felt soft and wet. It must have been nervousness that made her fingers seem to sink into the hand.
That night she returned to the aquarium and found she was locked in. Except for the glow of the tanks, the narrow room was oppressively dark. In the nearest tank a large dead fish floated towards her, out of weeds. Now she was in the tank, her nails scrabbling at the glass, and she saw that it wasn’t a fish but a snail-coloured hand, which closed spongily on hers. When she woke, her scream made the house sound very empty.
At least it was New Year’s Eve. After tonight she could stop worrying. Why had she thought that? It only made her more nervous. Even when Margery phoned to confirm they would first-foot her, that reminded her how many hours she would be on her own. As the night seeped into the house, the emptiness grew.
A knock at the front door made her start, but it was only the Harveys, inviting her next door for sherry and sandwiches. While she dodged a sudden rainstorm, Mr Harvey dragged at her front door, one hand through the letter box, until the latch clicked.
After several sherries Dorothy remembered something she’d once heard. “The lady who lived next door before me—didn’t she have trouble with her son?”
“He wasn’t right in the head. He got so he’d go for anyone, even if he’d never met them before. She got so scared of him she locked him out one New Year’s Eve. They say he threw himself in the river, though they never found the body.”
Dorothy wished she hadn’t asked. She thought of the body, rotting in the depths. She must go home, in case Simon and Margery arrived. The Harveys were next door if she needed them.
The sherries had made her sleepy. Only the ticking of her clock, clipping away the seconds, kept her awake. Twenty past eleven. The splashing from the gutters sounded like wet footsteps pacing outside the window. She had never noticed she could smell the river in her house. She wished she had stayed longer with the Harveys; she would have been able to hear Simon’s car.
Twenty to twelve. Surely they wouldn’t wait until midnight. She switched on the radio for company. A master of ceremonies was making people laugh; a man was laughing thickly, sounding waterlogged. Was he a drunk in the street? He wasn’t on the radio. She mustn’t brood; why, she hadn’t put out the sherry glasses; that was something to do, to distract her from the intolerably measured counting of the clock, the silenced radio, the emptiness displaying her sounds—
Though the knock seemed enormously loud, she didn’t start. They were here at last, though she hadn’t heard the car. It was New Year’s Day. She ran, and had reached the front door when the phone shrilled. That startled her so badly that she snatched the door open before lifting the receiver.
Nobody was outside—only a distant uproar of cheers and bells and horns—and Margery was on the phone. “We’ve been held up, mummy. There was an accident in the tunnel. We’ll be over as soon as we can.”
Then who had knocked? It must have been a drunk; she heard him stumbling beside the house, thumping on her window. He’d better take himself off, or she would call Mr Harvey to deal with him. But she was still inside the doorway when she saw the object on her step.
Good God, was it a rat? No, just a shoe, so ancient that it looked stuffed with mould. It wasn’t mould, only a rotten old sock. There was something in the sock, something that smelled of stagnant water and worse. She stooped to peer at it, and then she was struggling to close the door, fighting to make the latch click, no breath to spare for a scream. She’d had her first foot, and now—hobbling doggedly alongside the house, its hands slithering over the wall—here came the rest of the body.
Above the World
Nobody was at Reception when Knox came downstairs. The dinner gong hung mute in its frame; napkin pyramids guarded dining tables; in the lounge, chairs sat emptily. Nothing moved except fish in the aquarium, fluorescent gleams amid water that bubbled like lemonade. The visitors’ book lay open on the counter. He riffled the pages idly, seeking his previous visit. A Manchester address caught his attention: but the name wasn’t his—not any longer. The names were those of his wife and the man.
It took him a moment to realise. They must have been married by then. So the man’s name had been Tooley, had it? Knox hadn’t cared to know. He was pleased to find that he felt nothing but curiosity. Why had she returned here—for a kind of second honeymoon, to exorcise her memories of him?
When he emerged, it was raining. That ought to wash the hills clean of all but the dedicated walkers; he might be alone up there—no perambulatory radios, no families marking their path with trailing children. Above the hotel, mist wandered among the pines, which grew pale and blurred, a spiky frieze of grey, then solidified, regaining their green. High on the scree slope, the Bishop of Bail protruded like a single deformed tooth.
The sight seemed to halt time, to turn it back. He had never left the Swan Hotel. In a moment Wendy would run out, having had to go back for her camera or her rucksack or something. “I wasn’t long, was I? The bus hasn’t gone, has it? Oh dear, I’m sorry.” Of course these impressions were nonsense: he’d moved on, developed since his marriage, defined himself more clearly—but it cheered him that his memories were cool, disinterested. Life advanced relentlessly, powered by change. The Bishop shone white only because climbers painted the pinnacle each year, climbing the steep scree with buckets of whitewash from the Swan.
Here came the bus. It would be stuffed with wet campers slow as turtles, their backs burdened with tubular scaffolding and enormous rucksacks. Only once had he suffered such a ride. Had nothing changed? Not the Swan, the local food, the unobtr
usive service, the long white seventeenth-century building that had so charmed Wendy. He had a table to himself; if you wanted to be left alone, nobody would bother you. Tonight there would be venison, which he hadn’t tasted since his honeymoon. He’d returned determined to enjoy the Swan and the walks, determined not to let memories deny him those pleasures—and he’d found that his qualms were groundless.
He strode down the Keswick road. Rain rushed over Bassenthwaite Lake and tapped on the hood of his cagoule. Why did the stone wall ahead seem significant? Had Wendy halted there once, because the wall was singing? “Oh, look, aren’t they beautiful.” As he stooped towards the crevice, a cluster of hungry beaks had spring out of the darkness, gaping. The glimpse had unnerved him: the inexorable growth of life, sprouting everywhere, even in stone. Moss choked the silent crevice now.
Somehow that image set him wondering where Wendy and the man had died. Mist had caught them, high on one or other of the hills; they’d died of exposure. That much he had heard from a friend of Wendy’s, who had grown aloof from him and who had seemed to blame him for entrusting Wendy to an inexperienced climber—as if Knox should have taken care of her even after the marriage! He hadn’t asked for details. He’d felt relieved when Wendy had announced that she’d found someone else. Habit, familiarity and introversion had screened them from each other well before they’d separated.
He was passing a camp in a field. He’ hadn’t slept in a tent since early in his marriage, and then only under protest. Rain slithered down bright canvas. The muffled voices of a man and a woman paced him from tent to tent. Irrationally, he peered between the tents to glimpse them—but it must be a radio programme. Though the voices sounded intensely engrossed in discussion, he could distinguish not a word. The camp looked deserted. Everyone must be under canvas, or walking.
By the time he reached Braithwaite village, the rain had stopped. Clouds paraded the sky; infrequent gaps let out June sunlight, which touched the heights of the surrounding hills. He made for the café at the foot of the Whinlatter Pass—not because Wendy had loved the little house, its homemade cakes and its shelves of books, but for something to read: he would let chance choose his reading. But the shop was closed. Beside it Coledale Beck pursued its wordless watery monologue.
Should he climb Grisedale Pike? He remembered the view from the summit, of Braithwaite and Keswick the colours of pigeons, white and grey amid the palette of fields. But climbers were toiling upwards, towards the intermittent sun. Sometimes the spectacle of plodding walkers, hill boots creaking, sticks shoving at the ground, red faces puffing like trains in distress, made his climb seem a mechanical compulsion, absurd and mindless. Suppose the height was occupied by a class of children, heading like lemmings for the edge?
He’d go back to Barf: that would be lonely—unless one had Mr Wainwright’s guidebook, Barf appeared unclimbable. Returning through the village, he passed Braithwaite post office. That had delighted Wendy—a house just like the other small white houses in the row, except for the counter and grille in the front hall, beside the stairs. A postcard came fluttering down the garden path. Was that a stamp on its corner, or a patch of moss? Momentarily he thought he recognised the handwriting—but whose did it resemble? A breeze turned the card like a page. Where a picture might have been there was a covering of moss, which looked vaguely like a blurred view of two figures huddled together. The card slid by him into the gutter, and lodged trembling in a grid, brandishing its message. Impulsively he made a grab for it—but before he could read the writing, the card fell between the bars.
He returned to the road to Thornthwaite. A sheen of sunlight clung to the macadam brows; hedges dripped dazzling silver. The voices still wandered about the deserted campsite, though now they sounded distant and echoing. Though their words remained inaudible, they seemed to be calling a name through the tents.
At Thornthwaite, only the hotel outshone the Bishop. As Knox glanced towards the coaching inn, Wendy appeared in his bedroom window. Of course it was a chambermaid—but the shock reverberated through him, for all at once he realised that he was staying in the room he had shared with Wendy. Surely the proprietress of the Swan couldn’t have intended this; it must be coincidence. Memories surged, disconcertingly vivid—collapsing happily on the bed after a day’s walking, making love, not having to wake alone in the early hours. Just now, trudging along the road, he’d thought of going upstairs to rest. Abruptly he decided to spend the afternoon in walking.
Neither the hard road nor the soggy margin of Bassenthwaite Lake tempted him. He’d climb Barf, as he had intended. He didn’t need Mr Wainwright’s book; he knew the way. Wendy had loved those handwritten guidebooks; she’d loved searching through them for the self-portrait of Mr Wainwright that was always hidden among the hand-drawn views—there he was, in Harris tweed, overlooking Lanthwaite Wood. No, Knox didn’t need those books today.
The beginning of the path through Beckstones larch plantation was easy. Soon he was climbing beside Beckstones Gill, his ears full of its intricate liquid clamour as the stream tumbled helplessly downhill, confined in its rocky groove. But the path grew steep. Surely it must have been elsewhere that Wendy had run ahead, mocking his slowness, while he puffed and cursed. By now most of his memories resembled anecdotes he’d overheard or had been told—blurred, lacking important details, sometimes contradictory.
He rested. Around him larches swayed numerous limbs, engrossed in their tethered dance. His breath eased; he ceased to be uncomfortably aware of his pulse. He stumped upwards, over the path of scattered slate. On both sides of him, ferns protruded from decay. Their highest leaves were wound into a ball, like green caterpillars on stalks.
A small rock-face blocked the path. He had to scramble across to the continuation. Lichen made the roots of trees indistinguishable from the rock. His foot slipped; he slithered, banging his elbow, clutching for handholds. Good Lord, the slope was short, at worst he would turn his ankle, he could still grab hold of rock, in any case someone was coming, he could hear voices vague as the stream’s rush that obscured them. At last he was sure he was safe, though at the cost of a bruised hip. He sat and cursed his pounding heart. He didn’t care who heard him—but perhaps nobody did, for the owners of the voices never appeared.
He struggled upwards. The larches gave way to spruce firs. Fallen trunks, splintered like bone, hindered his progress. How far had he still to climb? He must have laboured half a mile by now; it felt like more. The forest had grown oppressive. Elaborate lichens swelled brittle branches; everywhere he looked, life burgeoned parasitically, consuming the earth and the forest, a constant and ruthless renewal. He was sweating, and the clammy chill of the place failed to cool him.
Silence seized him. He could hear only the restless creaking of trees. For a long time he had been unable to glimpse the Swan; the sky was invisible too, except in fragments caged by branches. All at once, as he climbed between close banks of mossy earth and rock, he yearned to reach the open. He felt suffocated, as though the omnipresent lichen were thick fog. He forced himself onwards, panting harshly.
Pain halted him—pain that transfixed his heart and paralysed his limbs with shock. His head felt swollen, burning, deafened by blood. Beyond that uproar, were there voices? Could he cry for help? But he felt that he might never draw another breath.
As suddenly as it had attacked him, the pain was gone, though he felt as if it had burned a hollow where his heart had been. He slumped against rock. His ears rang as though metal had been clapped over them. Oh God, the doctor had been right; he must take things easy. But if he had to forgo rambling, he would have nothing left that was worthwhile. At last he groped upwards out of the dank trough of earth, though he was still light-headed and unsure of his footing. The path felt distant and vague.
He reached the edge of the forest without further mishap. Beyond it, Beckstones Gill rushed over broken stones. The sky was layered with grey clouds. Across the stream, on the rise to the summit, bracken shone am
id heather.
He crossed the stream and climbed the path. Below him the heathery slope plunged towards the small valley. A few crumbs of boats floated on Bassenthwaite. A constant quivering ran downhill through the heather; the wind dragged at his cagoule, whose fluttering deafened him. He felt unnervingly vulnerable, at the mercy of the gusts. His face had turned cold as bone. Sheep dodged away from him. Their swiftness made his battle with the air seem ridiculous, frustrating. He had lost all sense of time before he reached the summit—where he halted, entranced. At last his toil had meaning.
The world seemed laid out for him. Light and shadow drifted stately over the hills, which reached towards clouds no vaster than they. Across Bassenthwaite, hills higher than his own were only steps on the ascent to Skiddaw, on whose deceptively gentle outline gleamed patches of snow. A few dots, too distant to have limbs, crept along that ridge. The hills glowed with all the colours of foliage, grass, heather, bracken, except where vast tracts of rock broke through. Drifts of shadow half-absorbed the colours; occasional sunlight renewed them.
The landscape was melting; he had to blink. Was he weeping, or had the wind stung his eyes? He couldn’t tell; the vastness had charmed away his sense of himself. He felt calm, absolutely unselfconscious. He watched light advancing through Beckstones plantation, possessing each successive rank of foliage. When he gazed across the lake again, that sight had transfigured the landscape.
Which lake was that on the horizon? He had never before noticed it. It lay like a fragment of slate, framed by two hills dark as storms—but above it, clouds were opening. Blue sky shone through the tangle of grey; veils of light descended from the ragged gap. The lake began to glow from within, intensely calm. Beyond it fields and trees grew clear, minute and luminous. Yes, he was weeping.
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