by Sarah Till
In those second between opening your eyes and starting to think, the world in always beautiful. I was facing the castle and woke up to the ruins shrouded in mist. I could hear the waves lapping below, in and out of the caves. When I'd first visited Tintagel, I wondered how the cliffs held up the castle, because the caves below were so cavernous. As children we would run in and out, but as Dad's mind became addled and he began to shout obscenities at us as we entered the caves, we shied away. He's shout that the biggest cave was 'The Devil's Arsehole' and 'The Earths Vagina' and we'd scatter away from the entrance to the caves and run up the beach. Except for that one time.
Our young consciousness' had been addled with stories of Tintagel and Camelot. At first, Dad would liken him and Mum to Arthur and Guinevere, almost tempting fate as Mum's eyes strayed elsewhere. Then, after she had gone, he would rant about Morgan and her witchcraft, how women were the devil in disguise. Morgan the whore, Morgan the shape shifter. Morgan the wanton. In the teenage re-enactments of Dad's warped version of the round table, my brothers would be the steadfast knights and my sisters the chaste ladies who's colours the knights wore in battle. Even then I was always cast as Morgana. When Dad had drunk himself into oblivion, John would recast himself as Arthur, making us fetch and carry for him, ordering us to complete ever increasing tasks in turn for favours. As children, this amounted to stealing cigarettes and booze from Dad. As teenagers the whole scenario changed to something much more dangerous.
The central rationale for our home life was to placate dad until he collapsed into an alcohol induced stupor then to placate John, who had become a mini-Dad. This rationale transported itself from Manchester to Tintagel in the summer, where a seemingly Enid Blyton summer adventure in King Arthur Land became something everyone except John dreaded. Away from the familiarity of school and neighbours, he became bolder, and, rather than the ruins of the castle, the caves became his hidey hole. It was a childhood game that had washed through into our adult lives and took on adult tones. As soon as I was old enough to understand that he would only do this with Morgan, the whore, and that my chaste sisters were safe, I ran into the welcome stable boredom of my life with Stan. We would avoid the caves on our family holidays, and my own King Arthur stories were bent around goodness to try to reverse the damage Dad has done. Which makes it all the harder now to understand Andrew's attitude.
Two grandchildren are more than I could hope for. I replay the scene outside Andrew's office yesterday in the relative calmness, watching the little boy in my mind's eye, trying to fix the memory, because who knows if I will ever see him again? His fair hair so unlike Andrew's, more like mine, with a sandy tinge. A warm glow flushes through me as I think about Andrew as a little boy, holding my hand, swinging our arms as we skipped to school singing a song. He was happy. In the evening we'd laugh until we cried, taking turns at silly voices, his giggles making me all the more hysterical. I was a good mother. I was. I couldn't think of a single time when I had wished for anything else apart from my life with Andrew, it was everything I had hoped for. Obviously, that didn't work both ways. It never does for me.
I wondered if I should try to contact him now, have another attempt. Or would I be putting my hand in the fire? I desperately need someone to talk to. It isn't often that I feel the need for another person. I wish again that Jer would come back, the sound of Daisy roaring onto the beach, a few weeks spent next to his warm body; the opportunity to talk to someone. We'd kept up the 'one question' routine year after year, careful not to ask each other anything that would cause the painful tendrils of the past to crash through the delicate membranes of the present that we have built for ourselves. Even so, both of us had become adept at framing things that were bothering us in discussions about others. Last time I had seen him, Jer seemed very annoyed about losing his job. I could have sworn he's told me he didn't have a job before, how could he be biking up and down the country otherwise? Still, knowing him, he could be talking about something that happened years ago. He seemed changed and bitter and kept asking me about my family, something we had only skimmed over before.
The other topic of our conversations were the Arthurian legends. He was marginally more of an expert than me; I suppose we both had a lot of time on our hands. He was loud about them and stories in general, his firm beliefs being that we wind our lives around existing stories, taking them as a template. He thinks everyday people take the stories of others and act them out, wishing to conform; whereas 'people like us', the outliers of society, had been subject to grander stories that had affected our lives in deeper ways, and told themselves so loudly that we ignore the smaller, everyday examples. I wasn't so sure, and I told him so. I told him that although the stories are there, we can pick and choose as long as we know we are doing it. I knew that my wake-up call at fifteen had tainted my own story, merging it with all kinds of warped notions of correctness. Even though I knew it was unlikely that anyone would ever find out, not now, not thirty-odd years later, it kept digging away at me, niggling to be told. Never once had that story passed my lips, so did it still exist?
I had carefully posed this question to Jer.
'So, if I have a secret, that has been a secret for years, that I have never told anyone and there is little chance of it ever coming to light on its own, is it still real? Or is it something in the past, a non-story?'
He'd leaned forward, his eyes burning.
'So, you never told anyone?'
'No. Not a soul. No one else knows about it; if they did, I'd be in prison now.'
'So, was it wrong? Criminal?'
'It depends which way you look at it.'
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
'Then I see it as something you need to forget about. Maybe you made a mistake once. If it was such a big mistake, someone would have surely noticed and done something at the time. It's the past.'
'But it's here, Jer, here in my mind. All the time.'
'It's your conscience, then. You need to put it to rest. Then you can move on.' He'd looked at me closely and somehow his features had changed. 'Or you could tell me. Pass it on?'
I didn't, but after we had spoken about it, I felt much better, somehow stronger, for weeks. But then, up here on the headland, I realised that nothing had changed. My theory about the past, about the story disappearing into nothingness was rubbish. How could it be, if I was here every day continuing it? It reminded me of the Zen koan, 'If a tree fell in the forest and no one was there, would it make a sound.' In my case, if something happened and no one else knew about it, did it really happen? I don't know now if it really did, but if not, why am I here, in Tintagel?
I don't know any more. Despite my victory at the Community Meeting yesterday, I can feel a shift in my thinking; all my boundaries merging into each other. I blame it on tiredness and sleeping outside, plus the shock of the murders. I wonder if I have imagined being the threats, if the bloody were not meant for me, if it really was mistaken identity. How could anyone have found me here, anyway? Only a handful of people know where I am. It had to come from my family. On top of this, the complete shock of discovering my grandchildren. I was tired and scared and constantly looking behind myself to check no one was following me, ready to attack. I decided to make my way back to the shed and lie down.
It's about ten when I reach the main road, and I see Alice first, running after me.
'Lizzie. Good news. They let you stay!' I forget for a moment that no one knew I was there, lying behind the warm air brick and listening to them. 'Why didn't you tell us you are a local, you silly thing!' Alice is different now, more patronising than before, here niceness tinged with the obvious determination to help me whether I wanted her to or not. I nod at her and pull a face I hope says 'Thank you.'
'OK. We need to go along to Julia's shop now, Lizzie. She's got something to say to you.'
Of course she has. I'd complete forgotten about Julia. Alice grabs my arm and pulls me along the pavement, Macy clunking haphazardly behind me. We st
op outside Julia's shop and Alice goes in. I can see them through the window, Julia smiling widely, and Alice gesticulating. I stare at the range of touristy gifts outside Julia's shop and my eyes rest on some porcelain name plaques. They have a picture of a knight on one side of the name, and a picture of Merlin on the other side. I search through the names and finally find Thomas. Tommy. It suddenly strikes me that Thomas was my father's name and that Andrew would have named his son after him. I quickly dismiss this as guesswork. I've got enough on my mind without thinking about that now. I look over the girl-plaques. A picture of a maiden in Medieval clothes on one side and a castle on the other. I've no idea what my baby granddaughter is called, but I fantasise that she is called Elizabeth after me. Maybe he has told his wife I am dead and she has insisted on it, in remembrance. Maybe he is secretly sorry about what he has done, the lovely little boy in him still buried somewhere in his own conscience, and he has marked that in the naming. Maybe. It's another thing to eat away at my already well chewed mental health. Although from my reflection in the shop window I don't appear to be anything except vaguely neutral, and expression that is well practised, inside I am heartbroken. Or just broken.
Alice and Julia appear from the shop. Alice stands right in front of me and talks slowly at me.
'Now. Julia has something to say to you, Lizzie.'
My eyes wander to Julia, who looks pale but smiley.
'I'm sorry, Lizzie. I had no idea that you lived at Coombes Cottage. I thought you were a bag lady. And I know now that you didn't kill anyone. I apologise.'
I want to scream at her I am a bag lady, just because I have an address doesn't change the fact that I am destitute. It triggers off a while new line of wondering, about what would have happened if Andrew hadn't left the taps on? Would I still be lying in the breeze on the headland every day? After all, wasn't that the reason I came here? Nothing had really changed except the way I looked and that I was now only one step away from not surviving, whereas before the dominoes still stood between me and poverty. Alice nodded at Julia and she continued.
'So, I'd like you to come into my shop and choose some items to the value of twenty pounds.'
They both smiled at me and I nodded. I parked Macy up against the window, but Julia protested.
'No, no. Bring that in. You know, with all this crime about. You don't want anyone to steal your... things. Do you?'
We go into the shop and she grabs Macy.
'Here, leave it her, by the counter. Here's a basket.'
I walk around the shop with Alice and choose some groceries. Tins mostly, because they last. And some paraffin. Alice nods each time I pick something up, and she's beginning to get on my nerves. I reach the tourist area and see another 'Tommy' plaque. I go to pick it up, but Alice is vigorously shaking her head.
'No, no Lizzie. Not that. You need things to keep you going. Nutritious things. Food. Fruit and veg and suchlike.'
She pulls my elbow and guides me to the fresh food section and starts to choose for me. I stand back and let her, because what's the point? She's never lived in a shed with no fridge. What would she know about choosing food that lasts? She could never know that a small porcelain plaque on the wall of my shed would nourish me more than an iceberg lettuce, or a pound of plums. Because it would nourish my soul and give me hope while I waited for someone to come and kill me for something I haven't got.
She piles sup food in the basket and then we go back to the counter where Julia is standing. She looks calmer now and she's beaming.
'All done, are we? Let's tot this up.'
She rings the items through the till and puts the goods in carrier bags. As if I haven't got enough. Then she places the shopping in Macy.
'Exactly twenty-four pounds. But that's OK. Worth every penny.'
Alice smiles.
'That's wonderful. Julia. Thank you. And Lizzie thanks you too. Don't you Lizzie?'
I nod and stare at the floor. I just want to get back to the shed, back to my sunflowers and relative normality. We leave the shop and Alice pats me on the shoulder.
'You get off home Lizzie and put all that away. Do you want me to help you push the trolley up the lane? I'll have to be quick because I'm helping DC Connelly organise some interviews, and a safety talk for Tintagel residents. You should come along.'
We both look at Macy. She's spun around slightly with the weight of the shopping, and her face, a left-over nose from Comedy Relief and two googly eyes from a teddy I found in a skip. Her mouth is formed by the grill at the bottom of the trolley. It looks like she is smiling. I shake my head. And so, it begins. I sense now that Alice will use every opportunity to come to Coombes Cottage. I expect that she and John Davies will be up on the headland later on, scouring the vista to see whatever I'm so interested in up there. But they won't see it, because it's hidden inside my head.
I start my walk up the main street and I can see Julia and Alice in Macy's rear-view mirrors, standing in the street watching me. I reach the Cottage before I see the police car speeding towards me. I expect it to screech around the corner and continue up towards Bodmin. But it stops beside me. There are two officers in the car and one of them gets out.
'Lizzie Nelson. We've had a complaint that you've stolen something for a shop in Tintagel. Julia Scholes' shop, to be exact.'
I look at the ground. Of course they have. I am the queen of misunderstanding. I should have known that all the palaver was just another step in Julia's quest to get rid of me. But I had a receipt, the one Julia gave to me, and I handed it to the officer who was already rummaging through Macy. The other officer gets out.
'Do you live here, Lizzie?'
I nod.
'OK. Got anything, Dave?'
Dave rummages around Macy for a while longer, then pulls out a brown purse. Naturally. Why else would have Julia insisted on me bringing Macy in the shop?
'Is this yours, Lizzie?' he asks as he goes through Julia's credit cards.
I shake my head.
'Did you steal it. Lizzie? From Julia Scholes' shop, while you were shopping there. We know you've been there, Lizzie, you've just given us the receipt and there's all this shopping.'
I sigh and shake my head.
'No I didn't steal it.'
'So how did it get there then?'
I look at the officers. I can see that they feel a little bit sorry for me.
'I don't know. I honestly don't know. Macy, my trolley was beside the counter.'
They look at each other.
'Sorry, Lizzie, but we're going to have to take you to the station. Julia's made a complaint and we have to follow it up. Do you want to pop your trolley inside?'
I look up at Coombes Cottage. The door looks huge and I push it reluctantly. I turn and shoot them a warning look.
'Best to keep that locked, you know. What with the murders, and all that? Dangerous round here, love.'
I push Macy inside, and look around. It's the first time I've been in here since last summer and I hear a rapid scurry, and then silence. A couple of birds are nestled on the banister at the top of the stairs and I spot huge spider's webs stretching from floor to ceiling. But I can see someone's been in here. There are footsteps in the dust, down the hallway and onto the stairs. And back again. I always walk around the edge of the room, but this single track goes straight through the middle. I close the door behind me, flicking the latch and locking it.
CHAPTER 13
The journey to the police station was interesting because they took me to a town that I had never visited before. I'd heard about Camelford and seen road signs but hadn't realised it was so near. I hummed in the car, and the policeman opened the windows wide and wrinkled his nose. Along the narrow, high hedged lanes I wondered what the police station would be like. Those in Manchester were imposing and frightening and I was a little afraid. Would they put me in a cell? Would I be able to see a solicitor, even if I had no money to pay them? When we arrived it was a small affair, more like a flat roofed hous
e with a small block of flats on the end. The policemen are very polite, opening the doors of the car for me, but keeping their distance. They show me into the reception area, where we were buzzed through. A desk sergeant takes my details.
'So it's Lizzie Nelson. Coombs Cottages, Tintagel. And you were born in... 1961?'
The policemen look at each other. Obviously, I looked much older than my age.
'Is there anyone we can contact for you, Lizzie? Any family?' I shake my head. 'OK. We'll need to take a statement from you. In an interview room. We'll get a duty solicitor for you.'
They lead me through to a small room, where two a policewoman and a policeman are waiting. The policewoman smiles.
'Hello, Lizzie. I'm Cheryl.' I can see immediately that she thinks I'm mentally ill, because she talks very slowly and leans into my face. 'So, Lizzie, someone has told us you have stolen their purse. And they found it in your bag?'
I nod.
'I didn't take it. She's done it herself. I was in the shop and she put it there. And of course I've been around where those poor women were killed. It's on my route. You know, where I push Macy.'
Cheryl tilted her head to one side.
'But why would she do that, Lizzie?'
'Because she wants me out of the village. There was a meeting yesterday to remove me from Tintagel and she was outvoted. So she's done this instead. And she thinks I've got something to do with the murders.'
A young man slips into the room now and introduces himself as my duty solicitor. Cheryl continues a little flushed now.
'And have you? Julia Scholes seems quite insistent that she's seen you in the vicinity of the crimes.'
I sigh.
'Of course not. I've told DC Connelly that I didn't and they're nothing to do with me but I expect people need someone to blame. Especially Julia.'