Andrew clicked a ballpoint pen on the table, “Pass me the Visitors’ Book. I’m going to have to write something.”
Henry nodded,
“Yes. It’s the utter simplicity of it that is special. “Sanctus Simplicitus” – Holy Simplicity. How did you sleep?”
Andrew helped himself to a piece of chunky toast which he buttered, cutting it in two.
“Superbly. I’m writing, ‘It almost felt as though an angel visited my room.’ He glanced at Cornelia, penned his remarks, looked quickly away before stealing half of Bosie’s toast.
“What about you Bosie?”
“Add my name beside yours.”
Andrew passed the Visitor’s Book to Gurtha,
“Your turn.”
Gurtha took the pen from Andrew and wrote, “A mysterious – possibly dangerous place.”
The book was passed to Henry who laughed at Gurtha’s entry and added his name beside it.
“I know what you mean. Did you see how steep those stairs are going up to the bedrooms.”
Cornelia, paused for a moment as she received the Book, she sipped her coffee and wrote, “A life filled with danger – needs a haven of rest. Thank you Llanthony Abbey.”
♥
Gurtha looked at Cornelia sitting beside Paddy in the art gallery, holding his hand and staring into the wood burning stove. She turned towards Barry, “Barry, we promised you a drink when we had a happy ending by finding Paddy. Stephanie would you be a darling and find the champagne and nibbles?”
Paddy pulled his hand free from Cornelia’s grasp.
“Who is this woman? I don’t know her. Can you tell her to get her hands off me?”
The room swallowed a collective gasp.
DAY 10
TUESDAY 20TH AUGUST 2013
NEXT MORNING in La Torretta whilst Paddy slept, Gurtha wondered about how he could find out if Paddy had murdered Nuala. He scanned through his memory, trying to remember what Nuala had said to him in the weeks before she was murdered. Why, he thought, did she not share her premonitions with him – rather than phone a help line? He tried to remember her exact words. He remembered a day in July. She had poured a cup of tea into a china cup dotted with pink flowers. It sat in a saucer with a fine line of gold leaf around the rim. She had placed a small piece of Madeira cake onto a matching plate beside the cup. Her translucent skin shining with light like the china cup. She hadn’t looked at Gurtha, but tapped her fingers on the white table cloth especially produced for his visit.
“Your father told me, the night before last, that he had never felt himself loved. He’s never talked to me like that before. I told him that God loved him. He shook his head at me. I knew he didn’t believe in God or God’s love.”
Nuala had looked at him, her eyes a little watery. Yet she smiled, “Then that night, I had a dream. I dreamt that he was a baby of six months old. He had to be taken care of like a baby.”
♥
In La Torreta Gurtha heated milk and pressed a Nespresso pod into the machine. It gurgled happily into a white mug.
Maybe Nuala was right. Maybe that was what was happening to Paddy. He was turning into a baby again - no teeth, no hair. Yet there was no sign from Nuala that she was concerned that he might be violent. The opposite – she seemed to be softening her attitude towards him – becoming more loving.
He waited while the Nespresso machine finished filtering a second coffee. Then he opened the wooden lid of the well in the kitchen and peered into the darkness. There was an echo below – as though the well held hostage a mysterious beast. He heard its growl reverberate off the circular walls. He smelt the damp graveyard mustiness. He imagined a beast standing– with only a head above the water line – emerald green eyes glimmering with light, flickering like fireflies, waiting for him to throw food. On the marble shelf beside him was a dish made from olive wood, holding a few coins. He took a five cents coin and threw it into the well. He counted the seconds before he heard it splash. Only one second. He listened to the hollowness arising from within the well. The dampness now reminded him of catacombs. He imagined the water hiding layer after layer of hollowed skulls. His mind felt hollow. He poured the steaming milk into the coffee, took a sip and walked to the front door, opening it to look into the valley of Soller. Far away a dog barked agitatedly. There was an intense loneliness in the harsh rhythmic hacking at the air. There was an anguish which no-one could take away because no-one knew where it came from and what it meant.
For Gurtha, it was as though the dog had been sent to earth to voice despair, howling from the ends of the Universe. Maybe that’s where despair and Hell were – not in some mythological fire in the depths of the earth, but in the intense loneliness and isolation where every soul found themselves alone in an infinite blackness with not even the earth to touch for comfort, or for relationship.
The dog in the valley below seemed to sense that Gurtha listened. It changed his husky bark into a long, quivering howl which rose from the depths of its innards, pushing its way past its heart to escape through the doorway of a mouth held wide open, past sharp teeth into which the next gulp of air would be snapped shut against.
Even though it was early morning, the pine needles lying on the path in front were already sending a cleansing perfume into the air. Gurtha looked to his right where a flock of white and black vultures circled – their necks long but not so long as the neck of a swan or a goose – with the edges of their wings feathered. They drifted towards him. He walked towards the gazebo, watching their hypnotic circling overhead. Three swooped lower, almost tangling their long wings with one another. They made no noise. He couldn’t even hear the flapping of wings or the squawks he was used to from the seagulls in Belfast. They were eyes watching him. What did they see? He sipped on his coffee which had gone cold. He threw it on the ground with a gesture of a sower of wheat, or was it with disgust? By the time he looked up, the vultures had gone. They now seemed more like an omen than something real. He hurried into the house to see if Paddy was OK.
Paddy managed to dress himself in khaki shorts, a white vest, blue checked shirt and sturdy brown loafers. He opened a cupboard door looking for a mug. He looked serene and smiled at Gurtha as he turned the kettle on to boil.
“Do you want a cup of tea?
“I’ll stick with coffee. Let me get you some toast.”
He poached him an egg, placing it on top of the brown toast and topped up Paddy’s mug of tea a second time. They sat at the table inside rather than go to the gazebo. Paddy sat in silence.
“What did you think of your adventure last night?” Gurtha asked gently.
Paddy searched in his shirt pocket for his Hamlet cigars.
“They were nice people. Good people. Although I don’t like that woman with the dark hair and that funny blonde plait. I would cut that off if I had a chance. It looks like nothing.”
Gurtha got up from the table and searched in Paddy’s tweed jacket for a lighter. There were two in the pocket. He lifted a brown ashtray from the shelf and sat it on the table. Paddy held the cigar to his lips, Gurtha pulled at the metal clasp, allowing a long flame to turn the end of the cigar smouldering red.
“What do you not like about her?”
Paddy shook his head.
“I don’t know. I don’t think Nuala liked her – do you?”
Paddy opened his book, flicking ash into the ashtray.
“Nuala can tell you for herself what she thinks about that woman.”
Gurtha stood up and placed a hand on Paddy’s shoulder.
“Well, you read and I’ll drive down into the Port to buy us some fish for supper.”
Paddy nodded.
“I’ll be fine here. Maybe you could get me some Hamlet – the small ones?”
“I’ll only be an hour or so.”
He looked at Paddy. He had moved to the sofa and looked relaxed; glasses perched on his nose, hands gripping his book from the Belfast library, head down, immersed. He couldn’t escape f
rom the olive grove. With the gate locked, the olive grove was well fenced in. Not a single sheep or goat had managed to find a way in. Paddy certainly wouldn’t find a way out.
Paddy asked, “Can I come with you?”
Gurtha gently insisted, “You’ll be exhausted after yesterday. You stay here and read. When I get back, we’ll have a beer together and I’ll make dinner. The front door is open in case you want to sit in the gazebo but I’m going to lock the front gate after me. No-one will bother you.”
Paddy held the book in his hands and looked into Gurtha’s eyes. Paddy’s face relaxed again.
“You go on then. I’ll be alright.”
As the grey Clio bumped its way down and around the bends towards the Port of Soller, clouds of dust puffed into the air behind him.
♥
That first holiday after Llanthony Abbey dictated the way their relationship developed. Henry and Cornelia typically found a holiday home somewhere. Andrew and Bosie were no longer invited – only Gurtha. The year after Llantony they rented a house in a small hamlet outside of Saint-Beat in the foothills of the Pyrenees.
The three of them drove the final stretch of the journey climbing into the mountains. Gurtha sat in the back of the car watching Cornelia. Her skin paper thin and white. Her hair cut into a thick black bob sleek like seal. She wore a pink ribbon tied around her neck fastened with a gold heart. He felt waves of peace flood through him as though he was at home. Outside, poplar trees whizzed by like thick feathers tickling the sky. Cornelia talked but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. It didn’t matter. He listened to her words the way you listen to a babbling stream. He didn’t feel a need to say anything. He wished that the journey would never end.
It was dark by the time they arrived at the hamlet. There were two or three houses apart from their chateau which stood on a small mound, silhouetted against the starry sky like a small castle in a fairy tale. A wrought iron gate opened onto a jasmine covered terrace. In the darnkness the sweet, musky smell of honeysuckle and jasmine hung in the air. As Henry searched his pockets for the keys, Gurtha looked over the wall amazed to see a two hundred and fifty foot drop. He sat on the cold stone watching Henry. After looking over the wall, Cornelia put her hands over her eyes, shouting,
“Don’t sit there – it’s dangerous.”
Gurtha leant back, swung his legs up and lay on the top of the wall, looking at the stars.
“I don’t think we’re going to have another incident like Llanthony do you? What amazes me is that when I look at the stars instead of looking down, I don’t feel afraid. If I were to look down, I would be terrified.”
Cornelia took hold of his jacket, gripping it tightly.
“Don’t be silly. Get off the wall.”
As Henry turned the key in the lock of an arched wooden door, they heard the noise for the first time. It sounded as though someone was breathing heavily nearby.
“What’s that?” Cornelia stepped back from the wall and looked up at the shuttered windows.
“It sounds as though it’s coming from inside the house.” Gurtha was now on his feet, standing beside Henry who was wearing a white Panama hat with a black ribbon, white shorts, a Polo t-shirt rather than his white shirt and cravat, knee length white socks and open-toed sandals. He placed a finger on his lips, tilted his head to the left and listened.
There was not a sound at first and then all three heard it again. It was distinctly the sound of deep breathing – a relaxed breathing – as though someone was soundly asleep. But there was no-one to be seen. The noise seemed to be coming from just above the first floor window. It was outside, not inside.
Henry whispered, “How curious.” Gurtha moved towards the opened front door.
“Let’s investigate. It could be coming from the bedroom. There could be someone inside.”
Once inside, Gurtha marched towards the downstairs window of the sitting room. He pointed at a door covered in black velvet, “It’s the room above this one. The entrance has to be through this door, but how strange.” He tried to turn the brass door knob but the door was locked.
“Oh please don’t,” Cornelia whispered in a high pitched voice, as if afraid that someone might hear.
“Why have they covered the door in black velvet? It’s sinister … creepy … Satanic.”
Henry calmly placed his Panama hat on the kitchen table.
“I don’t think so my dear. That is an over reaction. I think bed is called for and we will investigate in the morning. There is always a rational explanation. Don’t you agree, Gurtha?”
“Nuala would be open to other possibilities.”
“Like what?” Cornelia dropped her handbag on the sofa beside the window.
“Exactly like what? Now I’ll never sleep.”
Gurtha laughed.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Gurtha’s room was at the end of a long corridor. He opened the door and moonlight fell onto a panelled wooden floor. The moon was full, rising from behind a craggy black mountain which lay still, like a spiky iguana, on the flat valley floor. He threw open the window and drank in the warm scented air. Frogs croaked to his left, beside a lily pool. A breeze unexpectedly swept through the garden below and then disappeared. All was still again. He left the windows open and sat on a patchwork quilted bed, wondering what the night would bring. There was no sign of Cornelia until early morning. There was no knock at the door but he heard the handle turn. He glanced at his watch; it was five in the morning.
He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He heard his own breath turning shallow and more rapid. He felt Cornelia’s lips against his. She gently rested her lips then against his cheek – as light a touch as a butterfly settling on a rose petal. He couldn’t pretend anymore. He opened his eyes and she slid under the sheets and slipped her arms around his shoulders, laying her head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. He reached his hand to touch her and felt the smooth silkiness of her nightdress. He took his hand away quickly and placed it on the cotton sheets. Cornelia rolled onto her back and placed her hands beside her. They stared together at the ceiling, listening to the birds breaking the silence of the night with intermittent cheeps. Cornelia whispered, “Do you believe in such a thing as perfection?”
Gurtha felt this mouth dry up and his words came out in a crackled way, “I do.”
He heard Cornelia sigh deeply before asking, “What is it?”
“It’s a moment of freedom.” Gurtha closed his eyes. He was not thinking about what he was saying.
“Freedom from what?” There was stillness in Cornelia’s body beside him, which made Gurtha feel as though time was collapsing into itself, disappearing into a vortex.
“Freedom from wanting anything to be different. Letting the moment be.”
“Like now?”
Gurtha smiled, “Yes, like now.”
Cornelia twisted the blonde plait on her shoulder.
“My sister, Amelia, was perfect. Not like me.”
Gurtha’s voice was soft and gentle.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened to her? I would like to know.”
Cornelia shook her head on the pillow.
“Nobody knows, you see. How can you talk about something that you don’t know?”
They lay together in silence for almost thirty minutes, before Cornelia left the bed, without saying another word. He heard her feet pad across the floor and the door clicked closed as Gurtha breathed deeply. There was a hint of her scent in air – herbiness, like rosemary and thyme roasting in a summer sun, with a slight whiff of mint. She was a sacrament for him.
Over breakfast they ate fresh baguettes which Henry had discovered in a patisserie in a village a few kilometres from their hamlet. Cornelia sat very straight in a Van Gogh-like wooden chair. She had placed a pink bow in her hair, which made her look even more child-like. She was dressed completely in white – with a long flowing skirt and a sleeveless white blouse with rippled layer
s of fine silk. She ate her bread with her lips closed. She stared straight at him as Henry served coffee. Gurtha couldn’t make out what her eyes were telling him.
Cornelia jumped to her feet as though she had suddenly remembered something.
“Let’s find out what made the noise last night.”
She took Gurtha by the hand and then caught Henry’s hand and pulled them both behind her, laughing as they burst through the front door, turned left past the lily pond, onto the terrace studded with crimson geraniums.
“Sschuuhhh. Listen.” Cornelia continued to hold onto Henry and Gurtha. She looked up towards the rooftop.
There was silence. From the silence emerged the sound of breathing – a deep husky breathing.
“It’s still here.” Cornelia dropped the hands of Henry and Gurtha and covered her face.
“What is it?”
As she asked the question there was another sound of stirring in the air – a movement of form – quickening into life. All three now looked upwards and witnessed the slow flapping feathered wings of a snowy owl circle three times around them before taking a course of flight towards the iguana mountain in the distance.
“The wise old owl – it’s a good sign,” Cornelia whispered, staring at the owl until it disappeared from sight.
There was a day towards the end of the week, when Henry had a cold and chose to sit in a café and read while the others went canyoning. Cornelia momentarily returned to her energetic old self. She and Gurtha scrambled into wet suits at the bottom of the iguana mountain and then, with the help of a guide, they climbed the mountain. The path became increasingly narrow. At times there was only enough space for one foot to be placed in front of the other. To stay on the path, they had to hold onto plants growing out from cliff edges. Cornelia moved quickly, without hesitation, whereas Gurtha could feel his stomach tightening and his breathing rasping at the back of his throat. Cornelia looked around at him and laughed, “Don’t worry; we definitely won’t be coming back down on this path. It will be easier in the water.”
The Secret Wound Page 13