by M. L. Welsh
Verity said nothing. She hadn’t been expecting a completely new kit, but Mother’s suggested mish-mash of items sounded like just the sort of thing her fellow pupils loved to laugh at.
‘It’s not as if you’re going to take up sailing full time, is it?’ Mrs Gallant smiled brightly.
‘Quite right, Felicity,’ Grandmother agreed, turning to smile nastily at Verity. ‘I should find another hobby if I were you. Something that’s a little easier to master.’
Verity bit her lip. ‘I’m still going to need deck shoes,’ she said quietly. Mother was obviously keen to avoid any further shopping, but she couldn’t see how she would manage without them.
Poppy stepped in to defend her sister. ‘That’s right,’ she said, beaming winningly at her mother and grandmother.
‘Verity absolutely needs them. She’ll damage the wood of the dinghy otherwise. Which wouldn’t look good at all, would it, Verity?’ Verity shook her head earnestly in thankful agreement.
Mrs Gallant sighed quietly. She looked across the street. Inspiration struck. ‘Joliffe’s,’ she announced. ‘Joliffe’s will have something – and they’re right here.’
Verity hesitated. She did love Mrs Joliffe’s shoe shop. It was such a beautiful art deco building, with a curved walnut staircase and an intricately tiled entrance. But most of the stock seemed to be left over from the same era.
Mother sensed Verity’s doubt and overrode it. ‘There’s nothing for it, Verity. Joliffe’s will have to do.’
‘Goodness me.’ Mrs Joliffe smiled kindly as she took Verity’s foot out of the measuring device. ‘Up another size.’
‘What a shame,’ said Grandmother. ‘Delicate feet are such an asset to a young girl, I have always found.’ Verity wondered if it was also a blessing to be really good at making hurtful personal comments.
Mrs Joliffe returned with two rather faded pairs of deck shoes for Verity to try on. Even to Verity’s untutored eye they looked old-fashioned.
‘Do you have anything newer at all?’ she asked hopefully.
Grandmother had been watching her silently for the last few minutes. Something appeared to be on her mind. ‘Little Verity wants a pair of shoes that will help her look the part,’ she said suddenly.
A small flame of hope lit up in Verity. ‘That would be quite nice,’ she admitted.
Casting her eye around the shop, the old lady gazed up the high shelves, where piles of boxes were stacked on top of each other. ‘That pair,’ she said, with astonishing eyesight for someone of her age. ‘Aren’t they in Verity’s size?’
Mrs Joliffe looked at the dusty box indicated. ‘Those styles would probably be a little out of date,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Nonsense,’ said Grandmother. ‘The picture looks quite charming to me.’
Verity was astonished – even she couldn’t see the illustration from this distance.
‘Well, there can’t be any harm in trying them on,’ said Mrs Gallant as Mrs Joliffe fetched them down.
Verity gazed in horror as they emerged from their box. They looked like something that might have been constructed by someone who had never seen shoes before and had only read a description of a moccasin in a hurry. In fact, they looked more like a pair of leather Cornish pasties than an item of footwear.
‘They’re not very flattering,’ said Verity quietly as she tried them on. Just looking at them made her stomach shrink with fear at the shrieks of laughter they would provoke.
Mrs Joliffe started to take them off and pack them away. ‘Not what a young thing like you wants, are they?’ She smiled reassuringly at Verity.
‘But what is wrong?’ demanded Grandmother, putting a hand on the box.
‘I think I might prefer one of the other styles,’ said Verity with a careful smile.
‘They seem perfect to me,’ snapped Grandmother. ‘I have to admit I find it quite hurtful …’ she continued with a little quaver in her voice. ‘My first day as a guest and already my advice is unwanted.’
Verity stared in disbelief. Why was Grandmother so determined that she should have these hideous shoes?
‘Not unwanted,’ said Mrs Gallant hurriedly. ‘No, I was just about to say that they’ll be really quite practical. Won’t they, Verity?’
Verity looked at her with alarm. ‘Mother, I’m not sure I want them,’ she said at last.
‘I don’t think they suit Verity,’ Poppy agreed supportively.
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Gallant, who had seen the determined glint in her mother-in-law’s eye and was anxious to avoid a scene. ‘They’ll be fine.’
Turning to Mrs Joliffe, she smiled and handed over the objects of dispute. ‘We’ll take them,’ she said.
That afternoon Verity made her usual trip to the library, books in hand. In truth she’d been pleased to get away. Grandmother had been there less than a day, but already Verity felt her presence in the house like a physical weight.
‘Verity,’ a lone voice shouted as she reached the top of the undercliff path again. She looked up with a grin to see the unmistakable figure of Henry – wrapped in a woolly hat, scarf and gloves – waving in her direction.
‘How was your morning?’ he asked.
Verity’s heart sank at the very thought of it. ‘Awful,’ she said. Then, remembering that Henry didn’t know, added, ‘My grandmother arrived unexpectedly last night.’ She realized that the latter wasn’t any explanation of the former, but in a way it was.
‘You don’t get on well then?’ asked Henry. ‘Can’t please everyone in your family,’ he added philosophically. ‘Bitter experience has taught me that.’
‘I’ve never met her before,’ said Verity, not quite able to believe the strange train of events herself. ‘Mother says she’s the wife of father’s father, but they’ve never mentioned her. She just appeared on our doorstep. I don’t think Mother has met her before either.’
Henry looked surprised. ‘That is unusual – even by the standards of elderly relatives. What’s she like?’
Verity considered this point. ‘I’m not too sure yet. She seems a bit …’ She paused, trying to think of the right word. ‘She sort of demanded my bedroom,’ she said eventually.
‘I hate that,’ Henry sympathized. ‘Every time anyone comes to stay I’m always first to be booted out of my bed and put on the rubbish camp-bed downstairs and it’s—’ But before he could continue with a theme that was clearly very dear to his heart, Verity remembered the conversation that had been cut short at Alice’s house.
‘When I was making tea,’ she interrupted, ‘you asked Alice about someone called Rafe Gallant: my grandfather, you said. But Alice changed the subject.’
Henry looked at her. ‘Well, yes …’ he said slowly. ‘He would have been your grandmother’s husband. Your father’s father; and leader of the Gentry.’
Verity gawped silently for a couple of seconds, processing what Henry had just said.
‘Crikey.’ He grinned, obviously surprised. ‘Your family really don’t like to talk about it much, do they?’
Verity knew about the Gentry of course. Who didn’t? They had been as much a part of Wellow as the cliffs, the harbour or the sea. They had made Wellow. Almost literally. But they’d always been referred to in the past tense. As something that once was, but had finished. Not as a part of her family so close it was within living memory.
‘My grandfather was the leader of the Gentry …’ said Verity slowly. She was astonished. How could her new friend know more about her family than she did?
‘I’d always heard his wife was dead though,’ Henry continued conversationally, as if such revelations were an everyday occurrence.
Verity thought of her parents’ lifelong dislike of questions. In her mind she recalled a flurry of fleeting whispers; of comments that hadn’t made any sense and conversations that had been brought to a halt when she entered the room. ‘I mean … it’s not a surprise that I have a grandfather. I knew that … somehow. I just don’t know anything about him.
My parents have never spoken about him at all.’
Henry shook his head in sympathy at the unfathomable ways of parents.
‘Why haven’t they ever said anything? Why didn’t I ask more?’
‘I expect your dad just wants to pretend it never happened,’ commented Henry consolingly. ‘When my parents won’t discuss something, it’s as if the words don’t exist. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to bring up the subject of motorbikes, and it’s as if they can’t hear a word I’m saying.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s as if I’m not even talking …
‘A lot of people feel pretty ashamed about the Gentry now,’ he went on sympathetically, remembering what he was supposed to be talking about.
Verity didn’t understand. ‘But why?’
‘Because the Gentry didn’t stop at smuggling, did they? There was a craft, a skill to it. But some wanted more money and an easier way of getting it, so they began wrecking.’
‘Wrecking?’
‘Luring ships onto the rocks – to smash them to pieces – then helping yourself to whatever is washed ashore. And ignoring all the people who are dying – or killing them if they get in the way,’ said Henry.
Verity was stunned. It sounded horrific. ‘You think my father did that?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, he’s too young, for a start. No, I just meant that Wellow tends to be divided between people who see the time of the Gentry as the town’s finest hour and those who consider it a pretty shameful episode.’
Verity stood there quietly. Henry realized he’d gone too far, as usual. ‘Would you like to come back for a cup of cocoa?’ he asked.
Verity paused for a second. Her mother would prefer it if she went straight home – straight home to sit quietly on her own in the front room and read.
‘It’s a bit of a squash, and quite noisy, but Mum’s a great cook,’ continued Henry anxiously, to fill the silence. ‘Or do you have to get back for your grandmother?’
That settled it.
Verity smiled. ‘Cocoa would be lovely.’
Verity followed Henry through the kitchen door as he took off his hat, ruffling his hair to get rid of the static. His mother was at the oven, her ample frame protected from the hazards of baking with a blue apron.
‘Hello, cherub.’ Mrs Twogood beamed in greeting, turning round to plant a kiss on his cheek.
‘Mu-um,’ Henry protested, wiping his cheek furiously for fear of telltale flour residue.
‘Brought a visitor, have you?’ she asked cheerfully.
Henry stared in reproof at his mother’s shameless pretence of not knowing who Verity was. ‘Mum, Verity; Verity, Mum,’ he muttered.
Mrs Twogood smiled warmly at Verity, then took both hands in hers. ‘Just as I thought, half frozen. A nice hot drink and some biscuits – that’s what you need.’
Verity smiled instinctively.
‘ ’S there any milk?’ asked Henry, inspecting the larder.
‘Some fresh from Aunty Jean,’ said Mrs Twogood as she put a kettle on to boil.
Verity leaned against the dresser. The pressure of her weight caused a small piece of paper that had been tucked away under a shelf to fall down onto the counter. She picked it up. Pinned to it was a sprig of dried rosemary, and written on it a peculiar verse:
‘Protect us, oh lords, from the Mistress of the Storm,’ she read aloud. ‘She who roams this land and would take what is not hers. How unusual,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
Henry looked at it in shock. ‘It’s a Gentry blessing,’ he said, taking it from her to examine. ‘For gullible idiots. Don’t know what it’s doing here.’
Mrs Twogood moved briskly over to snatch the blessing from her son’s hand.
‘For nitwits … and my mum,’ said Henry, realizing who must be responsible for the hidden slip of paper. ‘Does Dad know that’s in the house?’
‘Can’t do any harm,’ said Mrs Twogood defensively, tucking it back into place.
‘Can’t do any good either,’ said Henry.
‘What’s a Gentry blessing?’ asked Verity, intrigued.
‘The Gentry spread rumours and stories to scare people and keep them in their houses. They had a real gift for it. Made out they had supernatural powers; that they could control the weather, control the sea … protect people. That sort of thing.’
‘Really?’ asked Verity. Henry clearly didn’t approve, but she was charmed.
‘It was just a load of mumbo jumbo to control the credulous,’ he said dismissively.
‘The Mistress of the Storm?’ Verity ran a finger along the words of the blessing. Somehow the name rang a bell.
‘One of their most famous scare-tactics: she was supposedly a witch who protected the Storm. Now she’s more of a fairy tale.’
‘How exciting,’ said Verity, thrilled at the sound of it.
‘Complete rubbish,’ said Henry authoritatively.
‘So, were the Twogoods part of the Gentry?’
Henry nodded. ‘Until they got into murdering and stealing, yes.’
‘That’s enough now,’ interrupted Mrs Twogood, handing Henry a plate of biscuits. ‘Your dad’ll be back any minute.’
Henry grabbed a rectangular wooden box inlaid with different coloured squares from the kitchen table. ‘Do you play backgammon?’ he asked Verity.
Verity rolled the dice.
‘Another double,’ groaned Henry in disbelief. ‘Are you sure you don’t know how to cheat at throwing them?’
‘Beginner’s luck.’ Verity grinned, moving two more of her counters off the board.
‘You can have too much of that, you know,’ said Henry, trying – unsuccessfully – to get back into the game by landing on a point Verity hadn’t covered off.
‘Do you know where my grandfather is now?’ asked Verity, keen to get back to their former topic.
Henry shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said, passing the dice to her. ‘I just know he left Wellow a long time ago.’
‘Did he go because of … because of the wrecking?’ Verity continued, a little anxiously.
Henry pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure. I know it was about the same time.’
‘Biscuits,’ exclaimed a disembodied head, peering round the door of the Twogoods’ sitting room. A second appeared just inches below it. Both displayed shocks of straw-coloured hair.
‘My brothers Percy and Will,’ explained Henry resignedly.
Percy – the eldest of the three – strode into the room and extended a hand towards Verity, while simultaneously snatching a biscuit from Henry’s plate. ‘Miss Gallant. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. You seem to have appalling taste in new friends but we shan’t hold that against you.’
Verity grinned in silent bemusement as Percy expertly fended off his outraged younger brother and proceeded to eat the stolen contraband.
‘How long’s your grandmother going to be staying?’ Henry asked, more to change the subject than anything else.
Verity felt her happiness deflate a little. ‘She hasn’t said.’ Just thinking about her elderly relative made her feel flat. ‘I don’t think she’s very keen on me.’ Saying it out loud made her feel even more unpopular than usual.
Henry gazed up as if pondering one of life’s great mysteries. ‘Sometimes people take a sudden and inexplicable dislike to me,’ he said. ‘Which baffles me – because I’m fantastic.’
His two brothers hooted with derision.
‘Fantastically annoying, don’t you mean?’ said Percy, pummelling Henry to the floor in response.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much,’ said Will. ‘Lots of old people have peculiar views on all sorts of things. Hoarding buttons, going to the shops in your slippers …’
Verity smiled at him, appreciating the sentiment. She leaned against the sagging sofa with the threadbare arms. It didn’t match the other chairs in the room, but she didn’t notice. She didn’t take in the brass fire ornaments, which had been polished so many times they’d lost a significa
nt amount of detail, nor the wool rug that had come off worse in a tussle with some moths. All she could see was that it was happy and it was noisy. Would her own home be more like this once the baby arrived?
‘Perhaps Mother will have a boy …’ she wondered out loud.
‘Is she expecting?’ asked Percy.
Verity nodded.
‘Better hope it’s not,’ he advised. ‘I can tell you firsthand that there are few things more irritating in life than a younger brother.’
Will noticed the backgammon board. ‘You’ve missed a trick with those spare counters over there.’
‘Verity doesn’t need any more help,’ yelped Henry indignantly. ‘She’s only been playing two minutes.’
‘Well, in no time she’ll be wiping the floor with you, won’t she?’ Will started to show Verity what he meant.
It was the end of the day at last. Verity’s mind was still churning with curiosity and excitement about the mysterious and inexplicable events of recent days. She was looking forward to losing herself in her new book. Safely tucked in bed, her wooden ball clasped in her hand, she turned to a section titled ‘Control and Punishment’:
And she used her power to box him about the head till he was driven near mad with the torment of it. ‘Release me,’ he begged. But she would not. The sight of his suffering served only to make her more satisfied at her own cleverness. ‘Let that teach you to deny me,’ she told him. And she had peace in her cruel and covetous heart, as much as a cruel and covetous heart can ever have peace.
Sitting with her knees up, the reading lamp casting out a warm glow, Verity felt cocooned from the world. Funny how the sailing match tomorrow no longer seemed so daunting. She knew it was silly, but holding the ball seemed to make her feel better, as if it were lucky.
Downstairs, her mother opened the door of her husband’s study. By the time he’d returned home last night she’d been asleep. So – given their tacit agreement not to quarrel in front of the children – she’d had all day to rehearse this conversation.