The Girl in the Photograph

by Kirsty Ferry

  ‘Maybe she blazed into his life like a comet, the way you blazed into mine?’ suggested Stef. His voice made Lissy’s toes curl with pleasure.

  ‘Um – I have no idea what you’re talking about, but do you want to take a picture of this now?’ asked Becky. ‘Then I can kind of get it away from here? Before it’s kind of missed? You know?’

  Lissy brought her thoughts back to the task in hand. ‘Stef?’

  ‘Certainly, Lissy.’ He laughed. ‘I will be one minute.’ He turned and ran across to the beach hut. Lissy watched him go and she shivered a little, but not in an unpleasant fashion.

  She wondered if their stars, their comets, would burn as brightly; if the way their worlds had collided again would leave an imprint on this little cove, or even in Sea Scarr Hall, along with the shades of Julian and Lorelei – for that was who she had decided haunted that place, for better or for worse.

  It must have been one hell of a summer fling.

  Becky’s fingers pressed lightly on her arm and she dragged her attention away from Stef.

  ‘So can we stop worrying about you now?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Worrying?’ replied Lissy, confused. ‘Why on earth should you be worried about me?’

  ‘Because you’re far too stubborn, that’s why,’ replied Becky. ‘And you two. Hell, you guys are caught in a perpetual riptide. You need to just ride it out and let it sweep you away. Seriously. Make this work, okay?’

  Lissy’s eyes drifted to the photograph, and she remembered the photo Stef had hung up in the beach hut – the one of the girl in the red dress. She was slowly getting back to being that girl, slowly letting people back in. It would take time, but she would get there.

  A few grains of sand had drifted onto Lorelei’s photograph and Lissy blew them away gently. The woman in the photograph looked back at Lissy, her eyes warm and gentle. Lissy smiled at her and didn’t feel stupid in the least.

  ‘Riptide?’ She looked back up at Becky. ‘Well, next summer, we’re going to get an old VW van and we’re going to Cornwall again, to finish what we started down there. Then we’ll visit Portofino and I’ll stay there for a little while. We can easily commute back and forth between Portofino and London. And because I don’t really work at the Tate I can just reduce my volunteering. They’ll have me back anytime I want to go there, I know that. I won’t be far away, really, and Stef just does his own thing for his job. Plus, it’s only two hours or so, direct from London to Genoa.’ Her gaze drifted over to the beach hut again, then she looked straight at Becky, making her mismatched eyes as frank and as honest as they could ever be. ‘We’ll be okay this time.’

  ‘To be okay is all we want for you, Lissy.’

  ‘I promise you, everything will be fine.’ Lissy looked back at the beach hut and waved at Stef as he came out, his camera in his hand. Stef raised the camera in an answering wave and Lissy’s heart bounced around in her chest.

  Yes. They’d be okay.

  In fact, they’d be just fine. They’d be utterly fine – this time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sea Scarr Hall, 1905

  Lorelei was in her sitting room, throwing some of her most precious belongings together in a carpet bag when Walter found her. The photograph Julian had given her today had been one of the first things she packed, along with her ring. The photograph was her touchstone. It was for her to remind herself who she really was – she was still, beneath all the veneer, that girl on the rock, smiling with such hope into her future.

  ‘So the whore has returned,’ came the voice from the doorway. Lorelei didn’t need to look at him to know that he was drunk. His words were slurred and part of her thought that was very useful; he wouldn’t be able to put up much resistance when she barged her way through the doorway and hopefully knocked him flying like a six-pin. Oh, she could dream …

  ‘No, the whore has not returned,’ she said, quietly, although the fear was rising within her. ‘There was never a whore in this room, therefore she cannot return.’

  Walter swore and stumbled into the room. He raised a fist, flailed a little, aimed, then lost his target. A wardrobe got the full force of it this time. He tried again, and she was too slow; he managed to land a stinging slap across her cheek.

  Lorelei cried out and scurried away from him, her cheek burning, her eyes filling with tears. He came after her, reaching out to grab her, but thank God he was so very drunk he couldn’t seem to manage it.

  With a stream of vitriol on his lips, he continued to stagger towards her, tripping over a hatbox on the floor. The white Lady of Shallot dress was partially stuffed back into it and Walter leaned over, making an erratic grab for the gown.

  He caught hold of it on the third pass and stood upright, swaying slightly. ‘This,’ he said, brandishing it, ‘is a whore’s clothing. And you’ve been wearing it to rut with that wastrel visitor in the Dower House.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Lorelei’s voice was shaking, her heart thumping. She just wanted to be away from him, but she knew she had to edge around him to gather her hairbrush and comb from the dressing table.

  ‘Oh, yes you do,’ he said. She made a move, and this time, he did manage to catch hold of her arm and hang on tightly.

  She gave a little startled yelp and tried to shake his clawing fingers from her flesh. ‘Get off me!’ she shouted. ‘Do not touch me. Don’t ever touch me again!’

  ‘Oh no, I bet he’s doing enough of that for both of us!’ yelled Walter, pushing his face right up to hers.

  Lorelei felt sickened as she saw the bloodshot eyes and smelt the stench of alcohol on his fetid breath. ‘Leave me alone!’ she yelled, shaking her arm so violently he managed to lose his grip and reeled drunkenly, staggering to get his balance back, tripping up over the white dress he still held onto.

  Lorelei, her arm numb where he had grabbed it, took advantage and ran past him, tossing a few more things into the carpet bag. What she hadn’t managed to pack and what she couldn’t send for, she could easily buy. Of course, she would have to be careful about the address she had the belongings sent to – oh, it was too difficult to think about right now.

  Still, a trunk of clothing was already in the carriage; she had seen to that before Walter had roused himself enough to realise she was back. She wished she hadn’t left the art exhibition programmes, her most precious things, at the Dower House. She hoped that Julian would remember to bring them. Everything else, she thought, looking quickly around the room, was expendable.

  She had a momentary fluster when she remembered her wooden paint box and the picture of Julian – but really – she was going to live with him, wasn’t she? Her stomach fluttered and, she reasoned, she could always buy new paints. The thought of trying to squeeze past that obnoxious, slavering creature again to retrieve her paints and the picture from the cupboard turned the fluttering into nausea. No, best to leave them behind.

  ‘I’m going,’ she said. ‘I shan’t be back and I shall send for the rest of my things in due course. If you want a divorce, I will be more than happy to oblige.’

  She turned and half ran out of the sitting room. She was aware that Walter let out a roar and stumbled along behind her shouting. Judging by the rustling, dragging sound following them along the corridor, he still had hold of that bloody gown. Well, he was welcome to it. It reminded her too much of the fancy-dress ball, despite the fact she had worn it for her photograph on the rocks.

  She had rescued the photograph and the ring from her life at Sea Scarr, and that was all that mattered.

  Walter hurried along the corridor after Lorelei, furious at her. He shouted obscenities until he could shout no more, and became more and more agitated when she resolutely ignored him.

  The whore swept down the staircase, carrying that bulging carpet bag, and walked out into the foyer and he had the awful image of himself scurrying like a lapdog behind her. God! If the servants saw him … He’d done enough begging and crawling at her feet and it sha
med him to remember any of it. The bitch! The whore! That disgusting creature he despised yet yearned for … NO! No, he didn’t. He mustn’t. He hated her.

  He had a brief glimpse of a carriage – his carriage – waiting on the gravelled drive as she pulled the door open, and he saw a footman bow to her as she alighted. As the door started closing on itself, Walter picked up the nearest thing, a priceless vase bursting full of flowers, and hurled it at the opening. The vase smashed and shattered onto the floor and as the puddle of water began to spread over the black and white tiles, he, Walter Scarsdale, Lord Scarsdale of Sea Scarr Hall, turned and marched into the library.

  He should never have allowed himself to fall for that witch. That little bitch had tricked him into marriage with her fluttering eyelashes and her innocent demeanour. And yet, she was no better than a prostitute. He didn’t care to know how many men she had been with; it sickened him to even try to work it out. And that photographer was the latest on the list.

  And to think, he had welcomed him into his home the night of that ball.

  Memories flashed into Walter’s mind of Mary Percy – Florence’s mother and the woman he had tried and failed to impress for years, and the anger and frustration grew; a tight ball that strained at his chest muscles. Mary Percy was the one he had really wanted. If only she had yielded herself to him. Imagine, if they … He felt himself break out into a cold sweat and staggered over to the little table near the fireplace.

  On it was a decanter or two of good brandy and a set of glasses. Walter made a grab for one of the decanters, but it slipped out of his clutches, splintering on the floor. A pain shot along his arm and he gasped. He stared down at his hand, which no longer seemed to belong to him. The he realised he was still carrying that bloody dress. Well – it could go in the fire. He tried to toss it into the grate, but his co-ordination seemed to have vanished and he didn’t quite manage to get the whole thing in.

  He got enough of it in though. Enough for the flames to lick at the fabric and start burning along the seams and the skirt; enough for those flames to reach the rug where the skirt lay, half in and half out of the fireplace.

  The flames were big enough to sniff around the library and find the shattered decanter and follow the trail where the brandy had soaked into the rug and splattered up the bookcases and onto the books.

  The flames were also large enough to curl around Walter, who lay on the floor senseless, one hand clutched to his chest, his eyes staring sightlessly up to the ceiling.

  His last thought before the heart attack claimed him was not of Mary; neither was it of his mistress and nor was it of Sea Scarr Hall.

  Bizarrely, it was the negative, black and white image of his beautiful whore sitting on a rock in the cove, wearing that God-forsaken dress and laughing at him as he held the shotgun up and blew apart the glass plates she was etched upon.

  Her hair had looked blonde and the dress had looked black and she was perched on a giant white thing as black-tipped waves washed up onto the grey beach.

  She truly did look like the Angel of Death; a Siren upon a rock, luring the next man who thought he loved her to his demise …

  Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry,

  And up her rock, bare breasted, comes to die …

  Julian had packed all his belongings and was ready to leave. It hadn’t taken him long. He was, after all, simply a summer visitor and he had only enough items to last him for his holiday. What had taken up most of his time was the securing of his camera equipment, and the careful storage of all the photographic plates he had taken of Staithes and the artists and the coastline. Those, and Lorelei’s catalogues.

  At least, he thought wryly, his time here hadn’t been a complete waste. It made him go hot and cold to think of what might have happened to all those negatives in light of the fate of Lorelei’s pictures.

  Remembering that brought his gaze to the shotgun which was propped up by the door. He hadn’t put that back into its case. No; that would stay out until he and Lorelei had left Staithes and were safely in the carriage on their way to wherever. If Walter was capable of shooting those glass negatives, then there was no knowing what he might do to Lorelei.

  Julian thought back to when he had first seen her swimming, to that collection of bruises around the top of her arm, just like a set of fingerprints: Don’t worry. A wave took me too close to the rocks.

  Some bloody wave.

  Julian was desperate to head up to the Hall and collect Lorelei; to protect her in some way and bring her safely to the Dower House. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Instead, he picked up the gun and walked down the steps onto the beach. He would wait for her there on the shoreline – then at least he would be visible to her when she came down the winding path and she would see that he was ready for her.

  Julian had seen the family carriage go up and down that road during his stay – it was the only route to the Dower House, then it curved up again and climbed the hill towards Staithes. He looked in that direction and remembered Lorelei coming down there and slipping. Had it really only been a couple of hours ago? Not even that, perhaps. He stared at it and simply couldn’t comprehend what had happened since.

  As his mind turned over the bizarre shift in fortune, he heard a crash from the bathing machine behind him.

  Julian swung around and pointed the gun in that direction. ‘Who’s that?’ he demanded. ‘I’m armed and I’m not afraid to use it.’

  More crashing and thudding. Then a bang. Then the door flew open and he cocked the gun, pointing it at the wooden creation.

  ‘Please. D-don’t shoot me,’ came a quavering voice; a very young, very terrified voice.

  The dirty, tear-stained face of a young girl appeared at the door. ‘I’m a friend of Lady Scarsdale,’ she said on a sob, ‘but I’m not causing any bother, I promise.’

  ‘What the hell?’ Julian didn’t immediately rush forward, but he lowered the gun and stared at the girl.

  She was in a considerable state of disarray. She was flushed and her fair hair tangled, while her eyes were too bright. Beneath it all, Julian recognised the visage of the girl who had been the star attraction at the ball he had attended at Sea Scarr Hall and the young lady who had enjoyed so much cake at her farewell tea party.

  ‘Florence?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Or Florrie. Lorelei sometimes calls me Florrie.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing in there?’ snapped Julian.

  ‘I escaped from London. I wanted to come back. I love Archie and I don’t want to be a debutante anymore. Oh, it’s horrible down there and I hate it. I wanted Archie. So I came back. I wrote to Lorelei and I told her I was going to leave. I was going to see her, because I know she’ll help me and she’ll talk to my mother, and—’

  ‘Sir?’ The door opened a little wider, and a tall, gangly young man with too-long reddish hair stepped out of the bathing hut, looking equally guilty.

  ‘Archie?’ Julian stared at the young man. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘It’s just as much my fault,’ admitted Archie. ‘She wrote to me and we arranged it. We arranged to meet here. I’m so sorry, Sir.’

  ‘We didn’t mean to be in here so long, but we heard gunshots and we were terrified to come out.’

  ‘And Florrie has hurt her ankle,’ added Archie, ‘because she slipped on the dunes.’

  ‘It does hurt quite tremendously,’ said Florrie. ‘It’s very puffy but I daren’t take my boot off.’

  Julian was exasperated; he wanted these youngsters out of the way so he could watch for Lorelei coming, but he couldn’t just leave them. They were innocent children, in love, completely unaware that he was about to elope with Lady Scarsdale. And what a Society scandal that would make. Plus, one of them was injured.

  Julian thought quickly. ‘Look – Lorelei will be here soon and we’ll sort this out before we go to watch the fishing boats come in – so I can take some photographs. Let’s get inside the Dower House, and we can at least get yo
u some food, and try to see what’s wrong with your ankle.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ Florrie edged out of the bathing hut and stood awkwardly on the top step. ‘But I don’t think I can walk all the way to the Dower House.’

  ‘Lean on me, Florrie,’ said Archie, gallantly. ‘Let me take you in my arms.’

  ‘Good God,’ muttered Julian again, turning away and raking his hand through his hair. He did not need two love-struck children in his keeping, today of all days. ‘All right,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘Take it cautiously. You don’t want to damage your foot any more. I’ll get some soup heating for you, while you make your way across.’ He prayed that it wouldn’t take long to set the stove and prepare the bowls for these two uninvited guests. And he guessed it would be a good idea to get a doctor at some point as well.

  His mind was spinning as he ran across the beach and climbed the steps into the Dower House. Perhaps the youngsters could come with them as far as the nearest town. Then they could try to find a hotel and a doctor and hopefully leave them there. Or maybe they could deposit them at Archie’s house and the boy’s mother could deal with them. He sighed again.

  What a bloody day.

  He also prayed that he wouldn’t miss Lorelei coming down towards the cove in the carriage while he was looking after the youngsters in the Dower House.

  Lorelei did not miss the sight of the Dower House appearing as the carriage trundled down the winding road towards the cove. In fact, at the very point where she knew she would catch her first glimpse of the place and remain invisible for a few seconds to the occupant of the house, she pulled the window down and leaned out so she could look for Julian and remember the wonderful sight of her future waiting for her.

  And it was precisely at that moment where she wished she hadn’t seen him at all.

  Two dark figures were standing in the shadowy entrance to the beach hut, their arms around each other locked in an embrace.