Simone nodded, almost imperceptibly. In that moment he was overwhelmed with a desire to tell her everything, to tell her about Teresa-Maria and about his daughter … about all his losses. He wanted to lay his head on her breast and dampen it with his tears. To tell her everything, to tell yet another story, another secret he had never shared. A secret he, perhaps, never could. He saw his Maria’s eyes staring at him from Penelope’s face, for just a second – it was the way the shadow struck them in the starlight. But he didn’t say anything to her. The night had long passed the moment in which telling that secret, telling that story would have been possible. It had grown too late.
‘Miss Walker is waiting for me upstairs. She is my world, Mr Crepuscular, and I could never turn away from that, not even for a minute. I am lucky to be loved so well, I know that, and I am happy. She is more than I deserve, sir, much more. But I am also sorry, please believe me when I say this, Simone, I am so sorry to be unable to give you what you need.’
She withdrew her hand from under his and, standing on tiptoe, laid a single kiss on his brow before walking slowly into the cottage.
Simone Crepuscular, with his young man’s heart beating sadly and wildly in his old man’s chest, walked slowly across the garden to the shed where his bed was waiting for him. He didn’t have a watch to look at but knew that it was very late indeed, and he, perhaps, had had two too many glasses of wine that he now, really, really needed to sleep off.
Chapter 28
Bedknobs & Sunrise
He didn’t want to disturb Simon by clumping about in the shed they’d been billeted in so Simone Crepuscular decided to sleep out of doors. It was a beautiful night, still warm, and as he lay his head back on his folded hands he gazed up at the swirling universe above him. The grass that was broken by his weight was releasing its comforting, apologetic smell and he was sadly at aching ease. Until, that is, he was jerked upright by the sound of a scream.
He really hadn’t been expecting a scream.
Immediately a fearful, fretful barking burst out further down the garden. Nigel Spiggot had heard the scream too and was now expressing his disapproval, maybe trying to scare off whatever monster had caused it, by running around inside the tent and yapping in all directions at once.
With a speed that belied both his age and his size Crepuscular climbed to his feet. The scream had come from inside the house, inside the cottage – that much had been clear. He strode across the patio, banged his shin on a bench, cursed quietly, took a deep breath and opened the kitchen door. It was very dark inside, the pale moon and starlight that his eyes had grown accustomed to didn’t make any difference to the kitchen, and he paused on the doorstep for a few seconds trying to get his bearings.
There were noises upstairs, up above his head. Creaking floorboards and what sounded like sobbing. Crossing the kitchen he pulled open the inner door and found himself in a hallway. Off to one side was a door that must lead into the front room, ahead of him was the front door – he could make out the stained glass pattern of some twining roses glowing faintly in the night – and on his left, facing the front door, were the stairs. He marched forward and spun up them, taking them two at a time and in a second he was tripping over something heavy and unmoving at the top. That’s dangerous, he thought, someone could trip on that and fall all the way down. He had his usual involuntary vision of Teresa-Maria falling away from him, hands outstretched, mouth moving. If only, he whimpered, if only I could tell what she was saying to me …
But no, that’s the past, that’s over and dead and lost, he reminded himself, picking himself up from the floor, this is the now. Concentrate Crepuscular, concentrate on the now. Be useful now.
What he had tripped on, he realised, was Miss Penultimate. She was lying on the floor. Was she breathing? He knelt beside her and held a hand in front of her face. Yes, she was breathing. He sighed a relieved sigh. And look, he thought, the vein in her neck there, that’s thumping away like mad. It seemed she had simply fainted. As he stood up he noticed what hadn’t struck him before – that there was a source of light on this landing, unlike downstairs. That was how he could see these things. It made sense once he thought about it.
Behind him was a doorway, facing the head of the stairs, and he could tell that it was from through there that both the sobbing and the light was coming. He slowly turned round to look.
Yellow candle light fluttered and flickered. Shadows moved back and forth with the draught. Framed, through the doorway, was a wrought iron bedstead, whose curlicues cast strange shadows across the floor before him. In the bed, sheets clutched up to her breasts, face a streak of tears, was young Nancy Walker and beside her, sat on the edge of the bed red-faced and pulling his shirt on haphazardly, was his son, Simon.
*
As far as she could remember Penelope Penultimate had never fainted in her life. She was simply not that sort of woman. And yet this sudden shock, coupled with the headiness of the wine she’d drunk and the lateness of the hour, late even for her, had all combined to so knock her back that she had presented to the world a very good impression of fainting. Nor was Simone Crepuscular the sort of man given to fainting fits, by he too felt strangely attracted by the possibility.
He staggered in the doorway as if reeling from a physical blow. He clutched at the doorjamb and closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Walker,’ he said, out of ingrained politeness. But it didn’t help.
Behind him he heard movement.
At the top of the stairs Miss Penultimate had climbed to her feet, and from downstairs he could also hear the noise of someone in the kitchen. Mr Quirkstandard must’ve got up, he thought, but at least Mr Spiggot has stopped all his noise.
A hand laid itself on his shoulder and turned him round.
‘Let us go downstairs, Mr Crepuscular,’ said Miss Penultimate, her eyes dimmed.
As they descended Nancy burst into a sudden, loud shudder of tears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she moaned, between heaving breaths and violent sniffs, ‘I’m so sorry …’
Penelope and Simone walked into the kitchen where the two gentlemen were waiting for them. Quirkstandard had somehow managed to light one of the gas lamps above the sink.
‘What is it?’ he asked with a quiver in his voice, clearly distressed by seeing his Aunt upset.
‘A mistake,’ said Crepuscular, on everyone’s behalf.
‘Let’s go back to the garden, boys,’ said Penelope.
Quirkstandard led the way, opening the back door and wiping his feet on the mat before stepping outside. They righted the bench that Simone had knocked over and sat down at the table where, twelve hours earlier they had had such a civilised, pleasant late lunch.
‘You look after your Aunt, sir,’ he said to Epitome.
‘Yes, of course.’
Quirkstandard sat beside his Aunt and wrapped his arms round her shoulders. The role reversal was upsetting to him. She had always been strong and implacable, was that the word? He had never expected to have her leaning on his shoulder, weeping quiet tears into his dressing gown. He patted her absently and stroked her thick dark hair and cried a little himself. Spiggot sat on the bench and rested his head in her lap. She twined a finger through his hair.
Simone walked back into the kitchen and found Simon lingering sheepishly in the opposite doorway.
For the first time in his life Crepuscular had to bite his tongue and even more worryingly found he had to restrain the urge to step across the room and slap the boy. But he did restrain it and settled for looking disappointed.
He gestured to the front door and the two Crepusculars walked into the hallway.
The door was locked, but the key was in the lock, so in a moment they stood out in the lane. Without saying anything, without really knowing what to say, Simone pointed to the car and Simon sloped off to try to find some sleep in the back seat. The elder Crepuscular watched his stupid, unfortunate boy walk into the darkness. He walked in a straight line and Crepuscular noted
how they had all seemed to have sobered up now.
In time Quirkstandard took his Aunt through to the front room, where the dew wouldn’t dampen them, and she slept on the sofa while he held her hand, wishing that someone would tell him what had happened or what was going on now. It had been such a nice visit, up to this, and he was confused, scared and worried. Was it something he had done wrong? Had he spoiled that game they’d been playing before bed by not really knowing quite how to play it properly? They’d never played it at Mauve’s.
Spiggot dozed on the floor, shivering, twitching and half-yelping as he liked to do as and when his dreams directed. This was something normal, Quirkstandard thought, amongst all this unusual business. He’s a good friend, really the best.
Simone made his way to the bed he’d been given in the shed and failed to sleep for almost the entirety of the one or two hours it took for the sun to rise and the world to wake.
Nancy did not come downstairs but sat up in the armchair in the bedroom watching her thoughts parade in front of her. She had a good view out of the window and a little later saw the sun rise, and a little after that finally slumped into an unpleasant, shallow but dream-filled sleep.
Chapter 29
Church Bells & Breakfast Conversations
Morning brought with it little sense of peace. Miss Penultimate woke early. She dried her eyes before splashing them with cold water and drying them again. Then she carried the sleeping Epitome out and laid him down in the tent where he’d been meant to spend the night.
Her head ached and her mouth felt thick with the accumulations of the morning. She thought, with sour distaste, of the number of men who had traipsed and tramped in her cottage during the early hours as she swirled a cupful of soapy salt water round her mouth. She had never expected a weekend like this. She was temporarily unable to attach an accurate label to the state of her feelings. She knew, however, that they weren’t good.
Simone Crepuscular had also risen early. He was sat beside the river, a short way away, clutching his head between his two large hands which were leant, in turn, between his knees. He was specifically wondering just why the world had chosen this morning to be so damned bright and noisy – even the earthworms seemed to be chewing their mouthfuls of soil with particular vigour. There should be some peace on a Sunday morning, he thought, in such an ostensibly Christian country as this one. Surely. And then the church bells began braying across the fields and he clutched his hands closer over his ears.
Penelope sat on the bench outside the kitchen door smoking her pipe. She hadn’t picked it up for some months, after Nancy had complained that it looked like a pretentious affectation and made the cottage smell like an old man’s cardigan. She’d hoped the tobacco might soothe her, but she found it to be of little help. She tapped the bowl too often on the table, fiddled incessantly with her matches and had been biting down so hard on the stem that not only had she cracked it, but she’d also given herself a sort of preliminary toothache, a muscular warning, as it were, incipient numbness presaging the pain soon to arrive.
She didn’t feel like breakfast and didn’t go indoors to make herself any. Besides Nancy got shirty if she touched the frying pans without asking. The kitchen really had become her domain and Penelope was usually sent upstairs with the newspaper or some maps when dinner was being prepared. Penelope wasn’t even sure she knew where everything was kept anymore, but since she didn’t want any breakfast this wasn’t a problem.
As the sun crept higher in the sky the day drew on. She sat a while longer, occasionally chewing absently on the end of her little finger. The trees swayed in the small breeze that shifted round the foot of the hills. The church bells were still chiming and that sound, at least, was something distant and unconnected to her thoughts, which was what she needed more of. The local vicar had called on her once, shortly after she’d moved into the cottage. Having attempted to fulfil his duty of care to a new parishioner he never came back. Penelope almost smiled at the memory of him scurrying away up the lane, coat tails flapping indignantly in the wind. She didn’t care much for the church (or the Church), but its bells had always fitted into her ideal of an English countryside, so she had mostly refrained from writing stern letters about them to the local press, bishop and MP.
*
Later on Crepuscular came back to the garden, having finally grown tired of watching flotsam float by and his head finally having shrunk back to something close to normal size. As he stepped into the garden he was followed by eleven faint peals from inside the church’s belfry.
He sat down at the table beside the kitchen.
Miss Penultimate didn’t look up at him as he approached, or as he sat, but once he was settled she spoke.
‘How could she do it?’ she said quietly, possibly to him, possibly to the garden at large, or possibly simply as the continuation of a conversation she’d been having all by herself. There was a flint edge to her tone – it was knapped, a bit ragged, but still painfully sharp.
Crepuscular went to lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, not really sure what else he could do other than listen, but she shrugged it aside before it even touched her.
Now she looked up at him. Her eyes were in shadow where the few stray strands from her dark fringe fell across them.
‘Oh, it’s you. Ahem. I’d appreciate it if you could all leave as soon as is practicable, Mr Crepuscular. Thank you for bringing my nephew for his visit, but I think there is nothing much left for us to do here. I fear Sundays are awfully dull in the country.’
‘Madam …’
She stopped him sharply with a glance and then followed his eyes round as he looked up and over her shoulder.
In the doorway of the kitchen stood the most bedraggled little thing. A creature of pity and remorse, in this moment, and in this moment alone, no longer beautiful. If she’d been held under the pump and drowned like a kitten she couldn’t have looked more sorry for herself. Her eyes and cheeks were puffy and raw, her dress was unironed and just pulled on, her hair was still down and uncombed. Her hands were held out, weakly, as if in supplication, and although her mouth opened nothing came out of it but air.
‘Nancy, oh,’ began Penelope, standing up as if she had just uttered a complete sentence.
Simone looked from one woman to the other, feeling suddenly peculiarly uncomfortable. This wasn’t a feeling he had felt often enough to ever grow accustomed to. He’d always, throughout his long travels and even sat at home, fitted in wherever he’d ended up, bending just enough (metaphysically) to still be himself but to also be just what was wanted. But right now, right here, he felt as if he didn’t belong, as if something were unfolding that he had no right to be party to.
‘Nancy,’ Penelope began again. It wasn’t at all clear what she wanted to say, nor how she wanted to say it. There was a wobble in her voice, but it wobbled along a razor’s edge; a blunt, cold razor. Rusty. Her hands moved under their own compulsion, floating in the air before her breast, one hand tugging at the fingertips of the other, as if they might come off with the appropriate twist and reveal the answer to her prevarication. In her thoughts she cursed those hands – showing her up like that. But then – oh! – those thoughts, what were they all about? They raced here and there, through and across all the years that she and Miss Walker had known each other, holding up the pictures of unexpected happiness here and then crunching them up; holding up images of sadnesses and arguments there and all those obstacles they’d overcome, and then crushing them up too, before her eyes, as if they’d been of no point.
Her lip trembled.
A noise came from between Nancy’s lips, which could have been, ‘Ma’am.’
And then something inscrutable snapped, some tipping point was reached and Miss Penultimate tumbled free down the other side.
She slapped Nancy across the cheek, leaving a red glow in the shape of her hand. Besides the expected and impulsive stagger Nancy didn’t move. She didn’t lift a hand in response; she didn’t
even lift her eyes up.
‘How could you? How dare you? How, Nancy, how? Just tell me that. What made you do it? Why?’ – these are a tidied and ordered sample of the sort of questions Penelope threw at her young companion, battering them like hailstones against her breast. They’re neatened and condensed and rationalised on the page, but in that Arundel garden, through that warm Sunday lunchtime, her railing took longer, was less ordered, much less thought through.
Nancy sat down, slumped down, on the doorstep under the rain of questions. It seemed to her to be a torrent, to be a physical beating. She became weak, feeling put upon and, staring up at the wrath pouring down on her, could only open her mouth, gasp at the air, scrabble to get some into her lungs and say, again and again, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and ‘Love,’ although what she meant by this latter statement, whether it was a noun or a verb, a command, request or plea, was unclear.
Simone Crepuscular was distressed and deeply saddened by the scene. He understood human emotions as well as the next man (or probably better considering Quirkstandard had just woken up and was emerging from his tent) and knew how deep they could hurt. He still had an empty space at his core.
‘Auntie?’ Quirkstandard cried, though not loud enough to break in above her own shouting. Crepuscular saw he had tears on his cheeks, which in turn had grown ashen.
‘Never before has a man set foot in that house, and now what is it? A cottage of sluts? Is that what you’ve made it?’ This still shouted, still rambling, still much less coherently stated than writing it down must make it seem. Penelope had never been so angry before, never been so hurt. This burnt her insides, this twisted her heart, thinking that Nancy had been touched by a man, might even have enjoyed it, had done it for some inscrutable reason she couldn’t fathom just to hurt her … well, hurt her she had. It was as if she’d taken a fistful of shards, hot from some gigantic symbolic kiln, and thrust them into Penelope’s guts, twisting them once for despair and twice for desperation. What was this?
The Education Of Epitome Quirkstandard Page 24