by Sarah Till
'Do you think she took Julia's purse?'
'No. Definitely not. I was with her all the time.'
'You don't think she's been killing those women, do you?'
'Of course not. Why would she do that? She's a bit rough and ready but I don't think she's a murderer.'
'So she's not a thief. She's hasn't killed anyone. She has food and shelter. She's not ill.'
'No. But she's always up on the headland. There's something going on with her.'
John laughs.
'Ah. So it's nosiness more than concern? Leave it, Alice. Don't get any more deeply involved, or you'll end up fighting with Julia.'
They walk away now, out of earshot, and I get up and go to the end of the garden, where my makeshift lavatory is. Can't be healthy, I know. As I dig the hole, I wonder why I had done this for years? Why I hadn't thought about going to see Andrew before? He'll tell me about the fascination with the piece of gold and then I can tell Mia Connelly, then the murders would stop. I'm even toying with the idea of telling her the tale and then saying I just lost it. The only problem with that would be, if it got out, the army of scavengers with metal detectors. Anyway. The first step is Andrew. No one would want to see their mother go through this, would they? I go back to the shed and make a cup of tea. There's a carton of long-life milk from Julia's shop and I tear it open and make cold Weetabix. I suddenly feel optimistic and get dressed. It feels like today could be the day things change for good.
I grab Macy and decide to do my designated route before I make the journey to Padstow later on. I've got butterflies and I hurry down the lane, scattering dust behind me. Birds fly out of the hedgerow and I smile widely. I'd grabbed some money on my way out, from a pile of emergency pound coins I kept safely in a special edition carrier bag. I'd no idea what sort of emergency might need a pile of pound coins. Actually, I had. I'd started the collection years ago, when I still held hope that one of my siblings might get in touch, ask me to ring them, or even visit them. Or one of my parents might wonder where I am, how I am doing, and send me a letter inviting me to visit them. Or, if one of them died. Surely they would let me know? This was how the collection had stared, from almost the first day a passing tourist had thrown a coin at me.
I walk into the village and the first thing I see as I round the corner was is huge yellow sign. It's pinned to the wall opposite the lane, and it reads 'Zero Tolerance' There are two drawings on the sight; one was of a bottle with 'alcohol' written on it with a line through it, and below that, was a drawing of a stick woman with a stick shopping trolley, a thick black line piercing them both. I walk further up the road and see that they are everywhere. Next to the Sword in the Stone Car Park, on the back of the huge Merlin manikin chained to the shop, and even in the window of the ancient Post Office. Of course, Julia's shop is plastered with them. A previously quaint little grocers, it now looks like one of the Pound Shops you would see in Manchester, covered on 'special offer' stickers. But these weren't offering cheap goods, they were telling everyone that I wasn't welcome in Tintagel. Julia wasn't happy creating her own little fictional story, where I was the dirty old bag lady who steals, she was going for the happy-ever after. For her, anyway. Still, hopefully, this time tomorrow I'd be back in touch with my family and then I'd have someone on my side.
I walk past the yellow placards and to the souvenir shop at the end of the main street. The police have set up an incident room in a steel trailer and I can see Mia's car parked around the back. I don't want to draw her attention so I go into the shop. It has the porcelain name plaques, and I pick one out that says 'Tommy'. This one was slightly different than the one in Julia's shop, it has a picture of two knights of the round table, and King Arthur on the end. I took it into the shop and paid for it, despite strange looks from the shopkeeper. When I stepped back outside, Julia was standing beside Macy.
'Back here again, eh? What you stealing this time?'
She grabs the plaque out of my hand. I hold the receipt up with my other hand and she tries to grab it, but I pull back as she snatches the air. She throws the plaque into Macy and laughs.
'You won't get away with it, you know.' Then her voice raises, even above the wind that howls down from the castle. 'Everyone knows you're a thief now. And I've put up these posters. No drunks or bag ladies here. Let's hope they look a bit closer at Lizzie Nelson and see you don't belong here. I still think it's funny how you always appear at the scene of the crime. Let's hope they chuck you in prison and throw away the key.'
Some of the shop keepers are outside now, arms folded and frowning, watching me as I trundle up the main street towards the headland. A couple of reporters who have been enjoying a cream tea crane their necks to hear Julia, and I quickly turn my face away before a camera flash goes off. The village is busier than usual, and I see a group of tourists wandering down the High Street, their metal detectors slung across their backs like some weapon. I don't look back, but I can feel their eyes burning into my backs. News travels fast in Tintagel, and soon no one will trust me. Julia's still shouting.
'I don't know why you chose Tintagel to bring your dirty bags to, Lizzie. Why here, eh? Why here?'
Good question, Julia, very good question. Only I know the answer. No one else knows what happened that summer's day, that turned into a chilly night. Up on the headland, I watch as the kestrels sit in a tree, watching me. The birds are nesting now, bringing food to their young, and sit on the cold ground, careful to sit in a different place each time I come here so as not to wear away the scrub too much. I think about Andrew as a baby, and how much I loved him. I love him still. Although I don't actually know him now. From my glimpses of his life, it seems that he has a happy life, and I'm glad. He always smiles at his wife, she hardly ever smiles but some people are like that, and he carried little Tommy high on his shoulder. And a daughter. A tiny daughter. The wind blows the tears across my face and into my hair.
Half an hour later I am standing naked in the garden under the cold hose pipe. I scrub away at my face, trying to clean the grubby looking grime from my skin. Same with every inch of my body. Then when I'm dry, I crush up some flowers and rub the petals on my skin. The garden is beautiful, established now. The great-great-great-and more-grandchildren of the sunflowers grow right across the wall of the house, twenty of thirty strong plants held up by garden string and bamboo. Vegetables grown from last year’s seeds, a mini meadow of flowers. Two cherry trees and a pear tree, and tomatoes and cucumber growing under a make-shift polythene greenhouse.
I scour the beaches and sidewalks on my travels for anything that might come in useful here, plastic sheets and even horse manure for the garden, all collected and carried home in Macy. It's amazing what you find. Clothes, books, radio's, dozens of discarded tents and camping materials, all stashed behind the shed. Sleeping bags, sunglasses, sun hats. Shoes. Rarely the right sizes, but I slip on a pair of expensive looking flip flops and a skirt that is a bit tight but should be OK. A long black jumper and for once, a bra underneath. Hair up or down? I plait it, hoping that it will be tamed. I have no mirror to see the results; why would I? Until now I've not cared what I look like.
It's nearly time. I study a book of street maps I found two years ago on the car park wall. I feel slightly nauseas, and I break off some lemongrass from my herb garden and devour it. In ten minutes I'm in the village again, the flip flops hurting my toes, but it's too late to go back now. It's past lunch time, around two thirty, I guess, and I want to get to Andrew's house around six. I'll have to walk from Padstow to the estate where he lives, and I've no idea how far it is, but I can't afford a taxi. I wait for the bus and stare at the sea of yellow posters down the road. Then back at my obligatory carrier bags, which I now cannot leave the house without, in case I have an opportunity to bring something home.
This time I'm taking something as well. I've got the plaque, wrapped in some tissue paper that I found in a discarded shoe box. I've also got a little pink bonnet I found last year. Nearly
new, I'm sure. It's amazing what people throw away. I've certainly learnt my lesson, I keep hold tight of anything I find now. The sun comes out and reflects on the posters, making them even brighter than before. A couple of people at the bus stop look embarrassed and move away from me. I was sort of hoping that I have managed to lose the bag lady look by tidying up slightly and leaving Macy behind, but I expect I'm recognisable around these parts. It'll be different in Padstow.
I buy a return ticket and then wonder if Andrew will invite me to stay overnight. He might not have a spare room with two small children, so I suppose I've done the right thing. The bus journey takes a while as there's a lot of traffic. Someone has stuck a yellow poster on the bus and two boys and a girl at the back start to snigger and point. I begin to hum loudly to drown out their loud whispers. Their laughing gets louder so I sing a few choruses of Mr Bo Jangles, and the couple adjacent to me look sad. Maybe they know someone like Mr Bo Jangles?
The children get louder and I sing louder, until finally we reach Padstow bus station. The kids get off the bus behind me and follow me for a while. I go to the bus station office to ask if there is a bus to the road where Andrew lives and they tell me to catch the twenty-seven, which stops over the other side. I ask how long it will take, and they tell me it will take three quarters of an hour, because it's going towards Bodmin. A friendly chap looks at my road map and tells me that the estate had been expended since this was made, and that I would have to walk for about twenty minutes after the bus ride. It's three thirty-five now so I go to the bus stop and wait. And wait. Half an hour goes by and finally it arrives.
I get on and, thankfully, there are no young people to make fun of me. There isn't a seat for just one person, so I flop down on a double seat. I think about the court case and how I can possibly defend myself. All I can do is tell the truth – that's all I can ever do. But I get a feeling that it won't be enough now. Julia was going all out to get rid of me. Maybe if I laid low for a while she would ease off? I watch the landscape out of the bus window. There are lots of references to the Arthurian legends here. It's a real money spinner, and a deep bitter pit forms in my stomach. How the innocence of my childhood was lost through those stories, and that I continue to be tainted because people have to dredge up the past. I've lived in Tintagel for years now without anyone having to ask me why I was there or what I was doing. Why did it have to come up now? How on earth has anyone found out about Dad's rantings about the Grail and Mum's piece of metal? And who would put that together, know I had it and come here to find it?
I remember Jer telling me that some people are naturally loners. They'd had enough of life. 'Done' he called it. Their searching was at an end, and they were either too tired to too damaged to carry on and just wanted to stay where they were, doing what they are doing, forever. No goals, no desires, no need for expensive stuff. Just done. I laughed to myself and thought if they we done, then I was 'well done'. My fellow passengers looked at me as I laughed out loud, but why should I care? I didn't know them. None of them were Andrew or my grandchildren. Or Jer. It was my stop now, bundling my carrier bags through the doors, and got my street map out again. I had to turn it upside down to make sense of the streets, but eventually I got my bearings and began to walk east.
After about fifteen minutes, I sit on a wall. The curtains across the road twitch, a bungalow with a sunny aspect. My feet are stinging, and when I look down, the flip flops had cut into the place between my toes and they were pouring with blood. Looking a little bit closer, I'm horrified to see that my toenails were green. They hadn't looked like that in the shed, and I panic and wonder if I'd misjudged the way I looked. I stand up barefoot, the red footprints behind me, and find a car mirror to see if I looked too bad to go to Andrew's door. It was hard to see myself in the tiny mirror, but I didn't seem to look any worse than usual, in fact, I looked a lot better than I had in the police station.
I carry on, packing the flip flops in my bags. It's getting windy and I climb a hill leading to Andrew's road. This looks like the new part of the estate, and I can imagine that he chose this place because it was, at one time, so rural. In fact, I could see the moor land stretch across the back of the houses. He'd always wanted to live somewhere rural. Just like he's wanted to find a woman who wasn't like me. Suddenly, I feel uneasy about this. I can see the end of Andrew's road now, and inevitably, one of these houses belonged to him. They were nicely appointed, semi-detached and all had extensions and conservatories.
It's too late to back out now I'm here, so I walk on. The light's failing and I know that the twenty-minute walk described by the man at the bus station had turned into nearly an hour. Lots of cars had passed, me, heading home for the evening, and as I stand outside what I hoped was the house my son still lived in, I see that there were two cars parked in the drive. Good. Those children would be getting out and about; lots to do and see, the seaside, libraries, lunch in town with daddy. They were expensive looking cars, and they jolted me into remembering to put my shoes on. The house had a huge bay window, and I could see that the lounge stretched through into an open plan dining room. It was all cream and white with hints of red here and there, and I thought about the police station yesterday. Bright, sparkly places just made me scruffier. I was much better suited to stone and sand; maybe I had become part of it, just blended in, a walking piece of Tintagel?
I hear voices from behind me, one of them familiar, and I realise that it's Andrew. He's talking to the neighbour next door. I hear a door shut and duck down between the cars. He walks past and as I catch a glimpse of him, my heart fills with the love that only a mother can feel. I steady myself against the car and sneak up the side of the house. There's a conservatory, and beyond it, a dining kitchen, where little boy is painting with his mother. It's almost as if I've rolled back the years and I'm sitting in my own kitchen watching myself and Andrew. Except this woman is blonde and thin, and Andrew is Tommy. Andrew is laughing and Tommy is giddy, gazing at his mother. Andrew comes in and stands behind them, then goes to the pram in the corner and lifts out the baby. A girl. She's about four months old and wearing a pink dress and knitted bootees. Each detail drives bitter bile into my mouth, because I should have knitted for them. I should have bought a layette, waited outside the maternity ward. Been to the christening, and the wedding. I think I'm going to cry. It's a beautiful, tender scene, but I'm outside, hiding behind a bush. There's nothing else for it. I'd knock at the door and then it would all be over. I'd finally have my family back.
CHAPTER 15
I watch for a moment longer than I go to stand at the front of the house. It's darker now and all the lights are on, making it look like a huge dolls' house lit with an orange glow. All the feminine touches are there, the flowers in the hallway window, the sunflower boot scraper, the delicate lace of the nets at the window. All the things that Stanley held at arm’s length from me. Despite my lack of friends, I knew from the magazines and books I read what the tools of the homemaker encompassed. Housework and cooking, essentially by role, were only part of the balance. The equilibrium was borne in the creativity of decorating the house. I'd asked for extra money to make the house beautiful, but Stanley was happy with the darkness and the polished wood. Maybe that was beautiful to him.
This house had the mark of a woman who was happy here. I was thankful for that. I hoped beyond hope that Andrew was happy too; it was my ultimate wish for him. At this moment I realise what my mother had gone through when she left us. She had to go, just as I had to have my adventures away from Manchester, but that didn't mean she had forgotten about us. Maybe she had stood outside mine and Stan's house, wondering about Andrew? Maybe all women do this; standing outside their children's houses hoping to capture a spark of their happiness to take home and keep in a jar, something to take out every day to reassure us that everything was well in the world? It seemed so now for Andrew. I can hear the shrill laughter of a giddy three-year-old, as Tommy laughs his way through his little life. The baby is cry
ing for a few minutes, and I wait until she has stopped until I knock on the door.
It’s a gentle knock, one that someone as hesitant and unsure as me would make. I wait a while, then my stomach flips over as I see the shadow of a person through the dimpled glass pane. The door opens and there she stands.
'Can I help you?'
I stare at her and she stares at the bunches of carrier bags in my hands. It’s happened again. Like at the police station, I’ve completely misjudged it. I should have left the bags behind.
'I've got some gifts for your children.'
'Oh. I'm sorry. I don't buy from gypsies. I'm sorry.' She begins to shut the door but I put my foot in it. She stares at the caked blood and the green nails. I see the fear creep over her face. 'What do you want?'
'I'm Andrew's mother.'
The colour drains from her face.
'But he said she was dead.'
I nod.
'I'm not dead. As you can see. I live in Tintagel, just a few towns away. Andrew has known where I am all along. I'm your children's grandmother. I need to ask him something. About his granddad and the Holy Grail.'
We look at each other for a while, her eyes narrow, and my face half smiling and, I hoped, welcoming. Was she wondering why Andrew had said I was dead? Was she looking for some likeness? Was she struggling to come to a rapid understanding of my decline from Andrew's mother to someone who's feet were bleeding and clothes dirty?
'Andrew. Andrew! Can you come here. I need help. There's a mad woman here who won't let me close the door.'
I hear him shout from upstairs.
'I can't hear you. I'm putting Tommy to bed.'
She's screaming now and I can't think of anything to do to stop her. I move towards her and she screams louder. I see Andrew rush down the stairs, two at a time. He's wearing brown slippers and track suit bottoms, with a blue t-shirt. Clean, tidy, just like his father. She steps back and he sees me.