by Ann Cleeves
Sarah turned to a short, old man, dressed in a shiny green-black suit, who was sitting next to her, clapping to the rhythm of the music.
“Excuse me,” she said. “ Who is that woman? The one who’s dancing now.”
“That’s Elspeth,” he answered. “ Elspeth Dance.” He grinned mischievously. “ We did all think at one time that her and your Jim would be married. There was some that was against it, but I thought that it would be a good thing. They didn’t take any notice of me. They never do.”
He smiled at her again. He seemed not to mind that no notice was taken of his opinion or to realize that he might be giving offence. She did not know what to say, but he did not expect an answer. The Eightsome Reel was coming to an end.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked eagerly.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how.”
“Jim must teach you,” he said. “ We have lots of socials. I’d like to dance with you.”
He went off to find another partner. She saw that he walked with a limp. The reel had finished. She watched Jim. He came straight towards her, without exchanging a word with Elspeth. He stood by Sarah’s side, watching the dancers. He did not speak.
“I was talking to that old man,” Sarah said, “he seems quite a character.”
“Robert? You should take no notice of what he says. He’s an old fool.”
He realized that he had spoken sharply. He took her hand. “We have to get the Cup,” he said, more gently, he took her into the small kitchen at the back of the hall. Maggie was there, stirring a pan which stood on one of the two gas rings.
“It’s ready,” she said. “Do you want to taste it?”
“Why not?”
She ladled some of the hot liquid into a teacup. Jim sipped at it, then handed it to Sarah. She tasted it. It was hot, spicy, and very alcoholic.
“It’s delicious. What is it?”
She drank the remainder.
“It’s a secret recipe,” Jim said. “Mother made it. She’ll pass the recipe to you when our children are old enough to marry. It’s another tradition.”
“I think it’s unhygienic,” Maggie said. “ Everyone drinking out of the same old bowl. Take care that the children don’t get at it.”
“It’s the Cup,” Jim said. Sarah could not tell whether his reverence was genuine or mocking. It was on the table: a large silver bowl with a handle at each side. “No one knows when it first came to Kinness. There are all sorts of legends. It’s used at every wedding. We take it round to share a drink with every guest. It’s supposed to bring us luck.”
Soon after Sarah realized that she was drunk. Later she was to remember the evening as a series of events brought suddenly into sharp focus, and the rest, even the time before she started to drink from the Cup, was a blur of loud music and dancing people. It was like a peculiar game of musical statues, except that often, at her times of clarity, the music continued.
So, she retained an image of Alec giving his best man’s speech, leering at the guests across a laden table as he described in graphic detail what he had wished for Jim and his new wife.
She remembered Jim dancing the Eightsome Reel, poised like an African warrior with his pulled-in buttocks and bent knees, but moving only to take a woman in his arms, the woman whom everyone thought he should marry.
She remembered seeing that woman later as they went round the room with the Cup. She had a picture of Elspeth Dance standing like a statue, staring at them with blue eyes as they approached her with the drink, and remembered the conversation between Jim and Elspeth as though it were taking place a long way off.
“Hello Elspeth,” her husband said. “ I didn’t realize that you were back.”
“I thought that you were surprised to see me.”
“How long have you been home?”
“Not long. I don’t know whether I shall stay. I’m not committed to anything.”
Sarah thought that she must have been introduced to Elspeth and that they had drunk together from the Cup, but that was all part of the blur.
There was another image of Mary, dancing with Robert, the old man. Despite his limp he was keeping up with her and they were laughing together.
And another of Elspeth, standing on the stage, singing unaccompanied while the band rested. She had a deep and husky voice, and she sang a love song.
The next thing she remembered was being outside. She was alone. She was leaning for some reason against a gravestone. It was covered with furry lichen which she was touching with her finger. The sky was clear now and the stars whirled around her with the same violence as the dancing people in the hall. She felt sick and sat down. She could hear the voices in the hall, and the sea, and it occured to her that all the people for miles and miles were in the hall. She alone was outside, under the whirling stars. Except Melissa, she thought. She’s not there. And then, to spoil the image altogether, she heard the sound of running-footsteps. Then the door opened and she heard a couple of women shouting goodnight, calling that they had to get the bairns home to bed.
She had nothing more to drink. She went back into the hall and joined the dancing. It did not seem to matter now that she did not know the steps.
The last of the still and vivid pictures which she retained forever, and which sobered her, was of Agnes crying. Sarah went to find Jim. The family were gathered around Agnes, trying to comfort her, but she was shouting at them.
“What’s the matter?” Sarah asked Jim.
“It’s Mary,” Jim said. “It seems that she’s gone missing. I expect she’s back at Sandwick. Sandy’s gone to look.”
But she was not at Sandwick and there was no more dancing.
George Palmer-Jones could not enter into the spirit of the celebration. He had been to parties on Kinness before and had always enjoyed them, but tonight he found the earthy speeches, the boisterous contact, strangely shocking.
How pagan they are still, he thought, as Alec swung his partner about him, exposing a layer of underskirt and a stockinged leg. They pretend to be Christian, but when they’ve had a few drinks, they still behave like loutish Norsemen.
He wondered how much of his disenchantment was caused by his lack of decision over his future. He had retired. Why should he again put himself into a position when his time was not his own? How could lie indulge in? his passion for ornithology if someone else was paying him to work for them? He was determined that he would come to a decision by the end of the holiday, and seemed unable to put the problem from his mind.
Sylvia got up to dance with Sandy. She smiled at George as she made her way on to the floor. He took no notice of her. He knew that she wanted him to dance with her and that she thought he was being unfriendly. Let her think what she liked. If she wanted to make a spectacle of herself that was her business. He preferred to be a little dignified.
The chairs and tables had been moved to the sides of the room to prepare for the dancing, and he sat, squashed in a comer by a pile of coats. He was still sitting there when Mary found him. She held by the hand a thin, pale boy of about six or seven.
“This is Ben,” Mary said. “He’s come to stay on the island, at the post office. His mummy’s called Elspeth.”
George said unconvincingly that he was pleased to meet Ben.
“I can’t tell you my secret yet,” she said. “ It wouldn’t be a secret if Ben heard it, and he doesn’t like being on his own. You haven’t forgotten that you promised to dance with me?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll dance with you later. Not now though.”
She seemed satisfied with that and dragged Ben away.
Suddenly George felt irritated by his own churlishness and he stood up. He went to sit by Jonathan Drysdale, the only other guest who seemed not to be participating with any pretence of enjoyment. Sylvia was dancing now with Kenneth Dance, and was moving as deftly and gracefully as any of the island women. The two men watched her for a moment. She knew that she was being watched, and enjo
yed it.
“You don’t dance, then?” George asked, for something to say.
“No. I don’t seem to be able to get the hang of it.”
“Sylvia’s very good.”
“Yes.” He seemed please by the compliment to his wife, then said: “ She says that there’s nothing else to do here.”
“She’s not happy on Kinness?”
“She was at first. She was the one who was most keen to live here. She’s always been very interested in crafts. That was her subject. At art school. She had all sorts of notions of having a small workshop, perhaps with a loom, doing her own spinning and dyeing, but it never came off.”
“Why was that?”
“I’m not quite sure. There were a lot of obstacles. The islanders were very wary of outsiders. That was seven years ago, and they were even more narrow-minded then than they are now. They thought that we were wicked because we wouldn’t go to church. Things have changed a bit. At first I thought Maggie was quite enlightened. She had a few new ideas, and because she was one of the family they had to listen to her. But even she’s caused problems lately. It’s hard going at times.”
“Have you thought of leaving?”
“Yes, of course I’ve considered it. But I’m in the middle of a study of the black guillemots.” For the first time since he had arrived on the island George saw Drysdale show some animation. “I’ll need at least another two years to get any meaningful data. It would be lunacy to go now.”
“But Sylvia wants to leave?”
Jonathan shrugged.
“She’s bored,” he said. “ I don’t think she likes to admit it. She was so excited about coming but if I got another job she would be immensely relieved.”
It was not until the Cup had been passed several times around the room that Palmer-Jones remembered his promises to Mary.
He looked over the floor. Most of the dancers seemed to be drunk. Sarah was stumbling through a dance with Jim. They were both laughing. Her white dress was grubby at the hem, and she had taken off her shoes and was moving in bare feet. Sylvia was giggling, trying to drag Jonathan to his feet to join her. George felt pompous and straight-laced.
The band stopped then. There was a break in the proceedings and more home-made cakes and scones and biscuits were laid out on the table at the back of the room. George thought that perhaps Mary had been helping to prepare the food in the kitchen and he went to find Maggie.
“Have you seen Mary?”
“No. Little madam. She was supposed to be giving me a hand. What that child needs is a spanked bottom.”
Her freckled face was red with exertion and her sandy hair seemed to have lost its perm. George realized that he had not seen Maggie dancing.
“It must have been hard work,” he said, “ organizing all this. Not much fun being stuck in the kitchen all evening.”
“Oh well,” she said. “I don’t mind. At least I wouldn’t mind if it was appreciated. But Sandy and Agnes spend so much time bothering about that spoilt brat that they don’t get round to considering other folks.”
“So you don’t know where Mary is?”
“She’ll be hiding somewhere. She does that quite often when she’s after attention.”
So he thought no more of it, and enjoyed Elspeth’s singing.
Agnes had been drinking from the Cup, too, so it took her longer than it would otherwise have done to realize Mary was missing. She had told the girl to go to Maggie to help prepare the supper, but that had been a while before the interval. While they ate and while Elspeth was singing she presumed that Mary was in the kitchen. She congratulated herself even, that her daughter had obeyed her. There was a lot of coming and going. Some of the women were taking younger children home to bed, and the men went outside to drink from illicit bottles of whisky and relieve themselves.
But later, when the dancing started again, and Maggie joined them and asked angrily why Mary had not been in to help, she began to get anxious. She began to ask if anyone had seen the girl, shouting to be heard above the music. When no one could tell her where Mary was, she went to find Alec. He was dancing with Sylvia Drysdale. It was a waltz and he was holding her very close, but Agnes did not notice that.
“Mary is missing,” she said, prodding his back to get his attention. “You must go and look for her. I will tell your father. You must both go.”
“Mother,” he said, yelling with exasperation and to make sure that he was heard. “ She’s always going missing when no one’s taking any notice of her. I’m not spoiling my evening to play her silly games.”
It was then that Agnes began to cry.
“You don’t care about her,” she sobbed. “ You’ve never cared for her. She’s my daughter and I’m proud of her. I love her. You don’t understand. She needs all of your help, but you don’t understand.”
They gathered around her. They thought that it was the drink that made her maudlin. “She’s not used to it,” they said. But because of who she was they humoured her. Sandy went to Sandwick to see if Mary was there. When he returned to say that she was not, the party broke up. They began to search the island.
Kell was the northernmost croft on the island. It was a mile from the nearest house. At the back of the house rose the mountain where the skuas seemed to fight with sheep for land. The back of the house was always dark.
Melissa sat in the kitchen. She was remembering the dance they had on the island when she came with James. They had been married on the island. They had been married in the church. She had told him that she had no faith but he said that it did not matter. Everyone was married in church. He did not believe her when she said that she had no family to invite, but he did not press her.
Sandy and Agnes had been married just a few years before and were very happy and lighthearted. They had made her feel welcome and wanted. They had been great friends, the four of them. Later she and Agnes had become pregnant at the same time, and when she lost the baby Agnes had been the person who had given the most comfort. It pleased her to know that life continued, and her sister-in-law’s swelling belly was a sign of hope that she, too, could carry a baby again. But although there were other pregnancies none of the babies survived and as Agnes’ family grew, Melissa became bitter and distant.
She knew that she needed help. But who on Kinness could give it? There was an elderly nurse, a spinster, who played the organ in the church and taught the children in Sunday school. Could she go to her and say:
“Help me. I can’t bear my husband to touch me”?
The nurse had never been touched, seemed to know nothing of frustration or desire.
In England there would be places to go, people to see—sympathetic doctors, marriage guidance counsellors. Once, a long time ago, she had suggested to James that she should go south to seek advice, but he had been hurt.
“I can look after you,” he had said. “I can care for you. You don’t need other people.”
Now he would be glad for her to go, but it was too late. She was frightened to go to the south of the island where most of the houses were gathered. How could she get on an aeroplane and go to England?
I’m ill, she thought. I live too much in the past.
She heard the door of the storm porch banging. She hoped that it was the wind but she knew it was James.
He was still holding the powerful torch he had been using to search for Mary. She blinked and covered her eyes with her hands.
“What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?” he said. As usual irritation and concern were mixed. “The engine’s still on, you could have put the light on. Besides, it’s very late. You should be in bed.”
“Yes. I didn’t notice the time.”
She’s getting worse, he thought, I must do something, get a specialist from the mainland maybe. But the last doctor from the mainland had given her tranquillizers and she had not taken them.
She stood up. She was wearing a dressing gown and as she stood up it fell open, so that he could see her neck
and the top of her breast. Her skin looked very white in the light of the torch.
She saw him looking at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m off out again,” he said. “ I’ve just come in to get changed into warmer clothes. Mary is missing. I doubt if she’s strayed this far up the island, but I said I’d look on the mountain. Don’t wait up or me. It’ll take a while.”
But he was still looking at her.
“I love you,” he said.
As he walked out of the door, and the chill air hit him, he thought: it’s not love I feel for her. It’s lust. Then he thought: there are worse sins than lust, and he went out onto the island.
Chapter Four
When Sarah woke the bedroom was bright with sunshine. She had a hangover. At the instant of waking she thought that she was still in Cornwall. The clarity of the light was the same. Then she felt the headache and remembered where she was. She stretched. She supposed that there was no hurry to get up but she wanted to explore the island. She wondered if Jim had made any tea. There was no noise in the kitchen. She got out of bed and put on a thick jersey on top of her nightdress. The lino felt cold on her feet. There was no one in the kitchen. She plugged in the electric kettle to make tea but there was no electricity. The fire in the range was out and the grate had not been cleaned. How thoughtless of Jim to go out so early without showing her how to light the fire. She tried to remember if he had said anything, the night before, about intending to go out, but at first she could only recall the images of the party. She remembered Agnes sobbing, and the men deciding to search the island. Then it all came back to her. She had walked back with Maggie and the boys, and she had gone to bed alone. She went into the bedroom. There was no sign of Jim’s suit or his smart shoes. He had not been home. For a moment the image of Jim taking Elspeth in his arms to dance returned, and there was a sickening moment of suspicion. Then she told herself that she was being foolish and that there must be some other explanation for his absence.