by Sarah Till
I sit on a kitchen chair and laugh. I can see myself in the mirror, and it's not the person I was an hour before, but a slightly older version of the Elizabeth Nelson who first came to look at the house. Neat hair, smooth skin, wide smile. Temporary repairs. He would probably have come back and done enough work for me to live here. I'd probably been living in the shed for nothing. Well, not for nothing, because look who I found in there: me. I giggle a bit more to myself, then hold in the last laugh, holding it inside until I've been to court tomorrow.
I leave the house and take everything back to the shed. I'm still carrying my hair, and when I've hung the clothes inside, I split it into two plaits and tie the ends. I pin it on Macy's front panel, completing her face. I sit rocking her backwards and forward, afraid to eat or move in case I suddenly turned back into my bag lady self. I keep catching a glimpse of myself in the shard of mirror, and I can't help thinking I look fine, except for my teeth. I spend the rest of the evening looking for some bicarbonate of soda, and when I find it, scrubbing my teeth until my gums smart. The end product is better, and I congratulate myself.
I'm ready. I haven't let go at all, but maybe I've let go long enough to deal with this. I've no idea how I will look tomorrow, but I know that I won't look like the Lizzie Nelson that Julia Scholes has described in her report. All I have to do now is summon the courage up from somewhere to speak up for myself. Because I'm not leaving Tintagel until I die, and my secret dies with me.
CHAPTER 20
I wake up on Thursday morning to a stream of sunlight through the shed window, and blackbird song, my alarm clock. It's early, so I lie in my sleeping bag a little bit longer. I've already planned my route with precision, and I know what buses to catch and where to go. Eventually I get up and go outside into the garden. It's glorious today, and I think it's a shame I have to go to Truro. After half an hour hosing the plants, I hear voices.
'Lizzie? Are you in there? Me and Dr Davies are going into Bodmin today to support you at the hearing. Do you want a lift?'
I do want a lift but I'm not ready. I haven't even got dressed yet, and I hide behind and old sheet that I've hung on the washing line in case it rains. There's some rustling and she tries the gate, which is double bolted.
'She must have set off. All right, we'll get going then if you've got some things in Padstow to do first.'
I hear a car start and they've gone. But I smile and think they’re sounding more and more like a couple every day. Alice could do with a bit of company. It's time. I hang the hose over the line hook and strip off. There's some soap left from my forced shopping at Julia's, and I scrub myself almost raw with it. Then I apply some talc, Youth Dew, from a set Andrew bought me years ago. I shake off my hair and spend some time combing it in the sunlight, then look in the mirror sliver. I still look old, but I still look tidy, too. Now it's clean my hair sits in big curls around my face, the fringe just the right length and angle. I rub on the moisturiser and then some Max Factor foundation. I immediately look different, glowing and almost lustrous. I laugh, but that highlights my still-yellow teeth, and I remember that laughing is probably not allowed. I stroke on some brown eye-shadow, and some mascara, and a little pink blusher. Finally, some dark pink lipstick, a colour that I know suits me and blends well.
Next, the clothes. I pull on the dress and it's loose. I must have lost a lot of weight. But it hangs on my hips well, and it will do. The bra has worked wonders and I feel my huge breasts as a separate part of my body, instead of doughy flesh. Tights and shoes. I haven't worn heels for years and although these are very small heels, I teeter on the, my toes crushed. But the sores on my feet are hidden, and I've got some emergency plasters in my bag. The bag. This is very important to me. My bags are part of me, and just for today this small leather handbag will be a substitute. I spray on some perfume, Youth Dew again, and I think about my mother.
Yesterday, when I was in the house in front of the huge mirror, I recognised someone, it wasn't me, but it wasn't someone I really know. Even in the fragment of mirror in the shed, that I have to bend to reach, I stare at the familiar face. It's her. My mother. I never knew her at my age, but I may as well have; maybe she turned out like me, and all this is genetic. After all she lost four children; I'm lucky compared to her. I've often wished she was here with me, just to touch my shoulder, or to kiss the top of my head. Just to twirl my hair around her finger. She's never appeared until now, and I recognise her presence.
I'm ready. I get my coat on and push the court letters in my bag. At the last minute I rustle through Macy and grab a discarded pair of faux pearl earrings and a pair of designer sunglasses I found on the beach. I'm just pulling the door latch to when I see the redness splashed on the white bleached step. Upwards, my gaze rests on the wooden door and the metal tent peg that spears a beautiful kestrel. The edges of a piece of white paper flap in the wind and I pull it away from under the bird. 'I know where Andrew Nelson lives.' My blood runs cold and my knees buckle. Whoever's been terrorising me is going after Andrew now.
I look at the kestrel. I can't be sure, but it looks like one of my friends from the headland, one of the couple that keep me company. I'm crushed by the bird's death and, for a moment I'm weak. I know I have to get through today, then I have to tell Mia Connelly what I know. I have to. Before there’s any more killing. I just have to get through today, then I can tell her about the twisted gold and how I've lost it.
I unbolt the gate sheepishly and set off down the lane. As I reach the bus stop I see that there's a queue and I stand back out of habit. A man in a cap nods and smiles and a woman says 'good morning' in a normal kind of way. I recognise them as residents of Tintagel, but they don't recognise me as their local bag lady. I glance at the supermarket and see the skip is being emptied. My heart panics a little – all that waste food that I could have salvaged. The bus chugs around the corner and I step on, speaking quietly to the driver. I sit in the single seat, and I watch him stare at me in the mirror, brow furrowed, scratching his head.
The journey to Padstow goes well, and as I'm getting off, the driver catches my arm and I jump.
'Lizzie? Is that you? Bloody hell.' I nod and take off my sunglasses. 'Have you won the bloody lottery, love? It's the wrong day, by the way. It's Thursday. And you weren't here yesterday.'
I nod again
'I'll be back later.' Hopefully.
Funny how you think you are alone. I've been alone for years now, except for the birds and Jer. But the bus driver sees my routine, and even Julia, who hates my routine, is there. Then there's the dole office, they wait for me every week. The young lad at the supermarket who I swear put out in-date tins for me. Everyone up at Tintagel Castle who wave to me, I'm good for business, I guess, the nearest thing they have to a witch. Morgana. She comes into my head, and I hurry onto the next bus. No time now to get unhinged.
I'm facing Andrew's office now, and I push my sunglasses up my nose. I try not to look, but I see him through the window. He looks around and I pick up a paper and pretend to read it. It would be fanciful to think he feels me here, his mother. Maybe it's just the love that he feels. The intense love that I can't help. It strikes me now that the women who died had families who loved them like this and because of me they are mourning now. I should have told the police earlier. I should have. But how could I?
In any case, the bus moves off and I'm on my way to Bodmin. I feel a little more scared now, as I don't recognise the route. My ticket says 10.32 and the hearing is at 11.30. I should be in good time. The letter from the court said to meet my duty solicitor outside the courts, and when I get there he is waiting. I walk up to him and he looks past me.
'Mr Power.'
I hold my hand out and he looks closely at me.
'Yes. Have we met?'
I smile and whisper.
'It's me. Lizzie.'
He laughs.
'Bloody hell. This might be easier than I thought. You've, well, you've...'
'Had a wash?'
He turns and walks inside and I follow. I see Alice and Dr Davies waiting, and Julia with her husband. Cheryl is here, and so is Sam. None of them look at me as I walk past. They keep talking amongst themselves and then I go into a side room with Mr Power.
'OK Lizzie. Are you sure you don't want to change your plea?'
I shake my head.
'No. I didn't do it.'
I take my sunglasses off and look at him. He shakes his head.
'OK. Then this is what will happen. They've upped your charges as Julia has accused you of fraud and assault now. I don't think she has much evidence, and it's been difficult to find out because she appears to be representing herself. Julia will be called to talk about her version of events, then a police statement will be given, then court reports considered, then you will have a chance to say your story.'
'Story?'
'Yes. You know, your version of events.'
He begins to sort through his papers and I sit very still, hoping that this composure lasts. He's right. It does all come down to stories. Like Jer says, Somebody's truth. Truths. Or lies? I'm not very good at keeping calm, I suddenly remember, and it I can feel a hum or a laugh or even a song rising in me. I'm scared and I think about the kestrel and the blood. I keep it down, but my shoulders start to shake a little. My story against Julia's story. And twelve people good and true to judge who is telling the right story. But what if they choose hers? It will be the wrong one. I panic a little and I can feel the sweat bursting through the film of makeup. I pat my face with a tissue and pour myself a drink of water from the jug on the table.
It's like the two stories about Arthur's life. One with Morgana and one without Morgana. One that plays down his relationship with her and one that portrays her as an evil seducer, a witch and a temptress. I've read all the stories many times, and listened to countless surfers and travellers, and even Jer, go over them and compare them, but that doesn't ever tell me which one is true. I know which one I would like to be true. It suddenly occurs to me that they could all be made up stories. Fiction. That Dad's obsession with Arthur and his knights could be based on a myth, something made up just for the glory of it. Like Julia's story about her purse. For a reason. Isn't that manipulation?
Those who have written the stories might have had vastly different ideas about why we should hear this version of the story, their version. And now it's up to those who read them to decide which one to believe. Like the jury, and the judge today. Me or Julia? Mallory or Geoffrey? Dad or John? My mind drifts back to the rocks and the cliff. For the first time in all those years, I see that everything that had happened to me might have been based on a two-bit story made up by a monk who wanted a promotion. Or a pissed-up poet. This shocks me so much that I let out a loud, 'Ha!' and the solicitor looks at me.
'All right, Lizzie. We'll go in soon.'
I nod. I'm going to pieces. I try to focus but I can feel my mind dragging me back to the stories, to Dad's drunken ranting and his obsession with the Grail. I'd always placated myself with the fact that if something that had happened to you, however, bad, had been sung about or written about, it was a part of a collective consciousness, and you would never be alone in your suffering. It was the only way I could have borne it. Now that truth is fading before my eyes, slipping away into oblivion, with the magic of the ruined castle gone and the Sword in the Stone a barely acknowledged car park name, it was all much, much worse. I wasn't part of a legend, after all. My story, and everything that had happened to me, wasn't a continuation of something that was written for eternity. It was just a story, and now someone was trying to make money out of it by coveting a piece of old tat, reviving that story and giving it a name. It was obvious now, right here where I could do nothing about it, where I was fighting to be believed in any case. Someone thinks I have the Holy Grail. The piece of scrap metal Mum found at Cadbury Castle, that Dad waxed lyrical about for years as it proving it send him mad. The greed in John's eyes as he hungered for it, and Andrew's coveting of what was mine. All tied up in the Grail. Jer had told me that the Grail was a symbol of integrity and love and loyalty; now, in today's world, it stood for wealth and power and death. All those people with their metal detectors, all looking in the wrong place, spending all their time looking for something that was wound around a story and no one even knew was real. But that was it. Someone thinks I have the Grail. It's that they want from me.
I'm shaking now and I feel like crying, but the solicitor stands up and shows me to a long corridor, where at the other end, a door opens and I find myself standing in a dock. Everyone looks at me as I stand behind the shiny Perspex screen. Julia stands up and leans forward. Joanne smiles and Alice and Dr Davies look at each other. I smooth down my hair and take off my coat. It's a little chilly, but I'm so upset that I can't decide if it's just me. People chat amongst themselves and then they stand as the jury file in, and the judge. I've fully expected the judge to be a man, but it's a middle-aged woman. She's quite attractive, slim and dark. I see Julia flush red when she sees the judge.
A man at the front, the Clerk of the Court it says on his badge, motions for us to sit down. The judge begins to speak.
'We're here today to hear case 33576. Crown vs. Elizabeth Nelson' She looks at me in the dock. 'Is this Mrs Nelson?'
My solicitor stands.
'Yes, Mam. Yes it is.'
'OK. Let's proceed. I'd like to get through this as quickly as possible today. On reflection this could well be a magistrate’s matter, but as we're here and there is a charge to decide, let's carry on. We've received statements from all parties and all court reports are here, so there is no need to adjourn. Can we have the first witness please?'
Julia is shown to the witness box, and she stares at me. She looks a little bit untidy and very pale.
'Can I just say, I'm not sure that this is Lizzie Nelson. Not sure at all.'
The judge looks at her.
'What do you mean?'
'Well, it doesn't look like her. Not at all.'
My solicitor intervenes.
'I can assure the court that this is Mrs Elizabeth Nelson, the same person who was charged at Camelford Police Station.'
The judge waves her hand.
'Continue. I am happy that this is Mrs Nelson.'
Julia is sworn in and her solicitor asks her to sum up, in her own words, what happened on the day of the offence.
'Well, I was apologising to Lizzie for saying she was a vagabond, when in fact she lives at Coombs Cottage, then I said she could have some shopping. When she'd got it and gone, I saw my purse had gone. Simple as that.'
Her solicitor smiled.
'Thank you Mrs Scholes. You are an upstanding member of the community, are you not, as Chair of the Community Committee?'
'I am.'
'And you definitely didn't give your purse to Lizzie Nelson?'
'No.'
I want to stand up and scream that she's a liar, but I stay very still.
'Thank you. No further questions.'
My solicitor stands up.
'So, Mrs Scholes. Why did you think Lizzie was a vagabond?'
She snorts her derision.
'Because she is.'
'But you said you were apologising. So presumably, you changed your mind.'
'Well, yes, but she's still a dirty tramp.'
He looks at me, then at the jury.
'Hmm. So you say in your statement. Several times. So did this lead you to believe that Lizzie stole your purse?'
Julia laughs.
'I can see where you're going with this. No. My purse wasn’t there. She had it. Simple.'
'Did you see her take it?'
Julia frowns now.
'No. But she did it. They found it on her. She did.'
'Could it have been an accident? Because my client says that she was nowhere near where you say your purse was, and another witness has confirmed this.'
Julia blushes scarlet.
'Well, she would, wouldn'
t she? People like her. They're everywhere, in all your business, their dirty fingers all over your shop. Begging on corners. Eating half eaten food. I saw her up on the headland just before Susan was killed. I saw her.'
People like me. People like us. It all comes down to that one thing, in the end. People like us. Jer was right all along. You can't choose how you live. Even straying slightly outside the rules of 'normal' even if you can't help it, and that's the deal life had dealt you is dangerous. I'm here today not because I actually did anything wrong, but because I minded my own business. I had no further part to play in the world for a while, and I opted out or fear of inadvertently blurting out a secret, Top Secret, I had been holding inside me for years. I hadn't even considered how this would affect me either mentally or physically. It may have changed my appearance as I gradually struggled to a halt, but it hadn't made me into an imbecile. I'd read avidly all of my former life, mainly to fill the boredom latterly, and although I had no qualifications to speak of, I'm an intelligent, if slightly disturbed and unhinged, individual.
I think of Celia, and her life as a prostitute. She had a definite outward appearance of madness, yet it was clear that she was switched on. Maybe she'd read the classics in between jobs? I snigger a little and then refocus to find everyone staring at me in silence. The judge stares at me intently.
'I'm sorry, Mrs Nelson, is there something amusing about this that I am missing?'
I stand up.
'I'm very sorry, your honour. I'm very nervous. I apologise.'
She smiles and nods.
'Very well. Go on, Mrs Scholes. You were telling us why you thought Mrs Nelson had your purse. And how you thought this woman, who you said is homeless, has managed to spend money online on your credit card, as stated in the latterly added charge of fraud. Oh and then three counts of assault?'