‘It’s slippy,’ she says. ‘Let me help.’
She pulls me up. At the top, I don’t let go.
‘Are you getting this too?’ I say.
She nods. The rain and sea spray wash over our faces. The wind sends buffets to blow us from the rocks.
‘He’s still moving,’ she says, holding my hand tight.
‘No, he’s already here.’
I nod ahead to the entrance of the cave on the other side, where Morag and William are standing. We pick our way down the rocks and scale the pebbled slope beyond, and I feel myself falling, almost there, almost…
…The sun is back and I’m looking down at a little girl pointing her camera up at me. She’s wobbling in the sand, trying to get a steady shot. I hear a boy’s voice, Rupert’s.
‘Lucy, put that thing down.’
He makes a grasp for the camera, but Lucy snatches it away, giggling. I feel myself speaking.
‘You should let her play, Rupert, she’s not doing any harm.’
‘James, look!’
I look up and there he is, the young boy bounding up the rocks inside the cave.
‘There’s a tree through the rock. It must be the roots, James! Have you ever seen such a thing?’
I feel a swell of concern. He’s too high, he might…
The world flashes to a grey, cold version of itself. William is standing on the ledge, beside the tree looking down; then I’m back, back on that sunny day, now with my brother looking down. Rupert is climbing too.
‘Billy, be careful!’
Morag is still ahead, watching me, willing me on. I walk past her, after Zoe, take the steep slope, and…
…We’re there, the four of us, in the cool shadows of the cave with the Atlantic’s huge tongue lapping behind. Rupert is carving something with his knife.
With a tremendous wash of surf, I’m back with Zoe, Morag and William surrounding the tree roots. In one hand, William holds two pieces of paper from Schmidt’s tin, which lies open on the rock. His other hand rests upon the wood, and when he moves it I see the mark. It’s been there all my life, but I’ve never noticed it before. I trace my finger around the initials.
WC, JC, LS, RS.
The drip, drip of memories bursts into a flood, and my mind is filled with the life of James Cooper, a young boy in a different time with a brother to look after.
Billy. William, this ragged man, my brother from another life who grew up and lived through a century hoping to find me. A young boy in a war who remembered so many other lives that he could not keep them inside.
‘Billy.’
His face floods at the sound of his name, and I can see the years of frustration fall away, drifting from him like a soul released. He nods and smiles, and I remember the smile so well that it hurts. And my face crumples, and tears leave my eyes, and I lower my head to his, and he does the same, and for a long time we stand there with our foreheads touching and our eyes closed. And though he does not say a word, all I can hear is his voice, saying Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry as he gives me the papers he is holding.
One is a sketch, the other a letter.
And we remember.
COVER YOUR EARS
Cornwall, 1940
LUCY KNEW THE PATH through the forest very well by now, but the snow made it more difficult to spot the natural landmarks they used to navigate. Just when she was beginning to think that she might be lost, she spotted a robin sitting on a clump of snow halfway up a small tree. She gazed up at it. It turned its head this way and that, making little robin twitches. She thought she could make out the tiny tremor of its heart ruffling its red feathers. Then it sprang into the air and fluttered off, knocking off a good portion of snow from its perch.
She smiled as she saw the signpost to the crags. It meant she was very close to Schmidt.
‘Thank you, Mr Robin,’ she said. The sound of her own voice in the silent wood sent a shiver of excitement through her.
She soon found the bramble bush — now so bloated with snow that it looked like a Victorian wedding dress around the tree stump — and pushed her way through. There she found Schmidt asleep, looking quite peaceful. The snow-covered bramble bush had made an igloo around him. The light inside was dark and blue, and it felt warmer than outside. She stood over him, watching him in sleep and wondering what he was dreaming.
Then she raised her camera and held him, captured in the tiny frame. She waited for her breathing to still and the picture to steady. Then…click, and she lowered the camera.
‘Wake up,’ she said. ‘I have carrot tops.’
Schmidt opened his eyes and looked up at her, the machinery of his brain clicking into place. Eventually he rolled onto his back. Lucy took a breath, but stole herself against the fright. His eyes were sunken, and the skin of his cheeks was drawn tight over the bones of his face. His forehead was pale and cracked, like his lips.
‘Lucy,’ he said, voice dry as dust. ‘Good morning, my princess.’
He eased himself up on his elbows and looked around.
‘Snow,’ he said. He picked up a handful of snow from the ground and held it out to her. ‘Snow, Schnee?’
Lucy nodded with excitement and knelt down. She pulled the meagre offerings from her bag and handed him three carrot tops.
‘For soup,’ she said. She mimed a bowl and spoon, then rubbed her tummy. ‘Mmmm.’
Schmidt smiled. He inspected the pale, orange stub and took a nibble.
‘Mmmm,’ he said, rubbing the expanse of parachute above his own stomach. He coughed and lay his head against the tree. Lucy sat back in the snow and brought her knees up to her chin.
‘Lucy,’ said Schmidt, shaking his head. ‘Lucy, Lucy, Lucy…’
He pointed outside of the bush.
‘Rupert…’ he said, pointing outside of the bush. ‘Is Rupert outside?’
Lucy shook her head and placed her hands flat together against her ear, miming sleep.
Schmidt frowned.
‘I remember. And James? Billy?’
‘What do you mean, you remember?’
‘They will come. They will come, Lucy.’
He looked away.
‘How did he know?’ said Lucy. The words were small and cold.
‘Who?’
‘Billy. How did he know you were here?’
Schmidt smiled.
‘Because he remembered too.’
‘But I don’t understand. He’s just a boy. What could he remember?’
‘He remembers being me. He doesn’t really understand yet, but he will. And do you want to know something else?’
Lucy nodded.
‘I can remember things too.’
‘What things?’
‘Endless things. I remember this day, but as somebody else.’
Lucy hid her smirk behind the sleeve of her jumper.
‘That’s silly,’ she said.
‘I know it sounds that way, but —’
He stopped, blinked and looked out of the shelter.
‘I’ll prove it,’ he said. ‘Wait, listen carefully. Do you hear anything?’
Lucy held her breath and raised her face to the tree canopy. The forest was the quietest thing in the world. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, melting dew and the creak of wood and snow.
She shook her head. Schmidt’s eyes widened.
‘Cover your ears, Lucy,’ he said. ‘Something’s about to happen.’
Lucy frowned, but before she could protest an enormous thundering sound exploded from the forest behind them. She shrieked and covered her ears, turning just in time to see a brown blur of hooves and hide galloping past. She watched it clear a fallen tree, landing lightly, dancing left and right before disappearing into the darkness of the forest until all she could see was a white tail twitching.
Lucy got to her feet, fast breaths fogging the air.
‘A deer! But how did you know?’
‘Because I remember.’
‘I still don’t under
stand.’
‘I know, but you will.’
Schmidt’s smile vanished, and for one terrible moment Lucy thought it might have taken him with it. But then he coughed and stirred.
‘Lucy, please, I think a very bad thing is about to happen. You should leave me.’
Lucy shook her head furiously and stood up.
‘No, we’re looking after you. James doesn’t want to, but I think we should. What bad thing? What’s going to happen?’
‘That I can’t remember, Lucy. I can’t, but…James.’
He closed his eyes on the name, face trembling with urgency.
‘Please, Lucy, try to understand, you need to leave.’
Lucy took a step towards him.
‘No. I’m not leaving you.’
There came noises from the forest — branches snapping and Lucy’s name echoing in her father’s voice.
‘Daddy!’ she gasped.
‘Go, Lucy!’
‘No, I shan’t!’
Two more steps and she was by his side. Schmidt tried to push himself up the tree, away from the girl.
Her father’s voice was louder now, and she heard Rupert’s too beneath it. They were near the bush. She bent down and leaned towards his face. He smelled of things dying, but she closed her eyes against it and put her arms around him.
‘Lucy, please, you must not…’
‘Lucy!’
Her father’s voice was near, pushing through the brambles behind them. Schmidt tried to push Lucy away, but her hands were clasped tightly around his neck, and he was weak.
Mr Sutton burst into the clearing, sending a shower of snow falling around them. He stopped in his tracks and took in the scene — the parachute, the uniform, his daughter in the clutches of an enemy soldier. With a burst of effort, Schmidt managed to tear Lucy’s hands from his neck, and Lucy staggered back. Rupert grabbed her and pulled her away.
‘Da, wait,’ said Rupert.
‘Mr Sutton, please,’ said James.
‘Stand back,’ warned Mr Sutton as he raised his gun. James edged away towards the clearing.
‘Daddy, no!’ cried Lucy, squirming in Rupert’s grip.
Just then Billy burst in through the brambles holding up his father’s letter.
‘James! James, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I have something for you to read, please, I—’
He stopped and looked around the clearing, his eyes finally landing on Mr Sutton’s shotgun.
‘Mr Sutton. What are you doing?’
‘I said stand back,’ said Mr Sutton.
‘No!’
Without thinking, Billy stepped forwards and put one hand on the barrel of the gun. At his touch Mr Sutton jumped in fury, pulling the barrel high out of his reach. With a roar he shoved the boy sprawling into a tangle of bramble branches.
Still James found himself backing away, even as his brother lay struggling in the thorny bush.
Mr Sutton cocked his gun. Time seemed to slow as he raised it, and the pale, wounded man turned his face to James, mouthing his name with a smile.
But the smile faded as he noticed a movement. James noticed it too. Billy was on his feet, legs shaking, eyes on the barrel. Schmidt raised a shaking hand.
‘Nein!’
But Billy had already sprung forwards onto the parachute.
James’ mind seemed to empty. All he could see was the space between him and his brother, opening up as the gun barrel swung. It was a horrendous space, far too wide and dreadful a distance for a boy to be from his younger brother.
He was supposed to be looking after him.
Clear of thought, he leaped. He leaped with every muscle in his body stretching for his brother, and as that dreadful space between them closed, the shot rang out, deafening everyone in the clearing, and killing James and killing Schmidt, and leaving young Billy screaming, and Lucy standing, arms out, frozen in time and looking at a crumpled letter buried in the reddening snow.
MR COOPER'S LETTER
Lasswick, Present Day
MY DEAR BOYS,
I have never been very good with words, but this is one of those times when they are important, so I have to try hard.
The world is full of words and ideas. Some are good, some are bad. I can tell you now, boys, I have had some bad ideas in my time — extremely bad, proper stinkers — but I have had some good ones too. Like marrying your mummy, there, now that was a good idea. And having you two as my sons. Fantastic ideas. The best, in my opinion.
I met your mummy one spring morning in Camberwell Market. She was carrying apples up the street, but there were too many in her basket and they kept spilling on the floor, and every time she picked them up, more kept falling out. A few people were laughing at her, and I thought — that’s not right, I’ll help her.
I couldn’t see her face because she was so busy with her apples, but when I’d got them all back in her basket for her, we stood up and faced each other and she said ‘Thank you, Mister.’
I hope you don’t mind if I say that it was what you might call a ‘moment’. A breeze blew by us, ruffling her curls and making ripples on a puddle at our feet, and the light from it shone on her face, making bright ripples like waves on a beach. She was only 19. I was struck dumb, to be honest, boys.
You should learn to watch out for those moments. They are important.
Anyway, there I was looking at this beautiful girl, and I just didn’t know what to say. So I bought one of her apples. She found the best one for me — right big and shiny, red on one side green on the other. I turned it in the sun and then, suddenly, I had a good idea.
I thought: If this apple tastes as good as it looks, then I’ll ask her out dancing. I have no clue where that idea came from boys, I really don’t. Sometimes the best ones just jump out at you.
Anyway, I took a bite and what do you think? Was it tasty? It was. It was the tastiest apple I had ever eaten. So I asked her out, and she said yes, and later we got married. Good ideas, see? They jump out at you — you should learn to watch out for them too.
But there’s bad ideas too. And right now there are some men in the world who are having them. Their ideas are about how some people are worth less than others, and that the strongest of us should rise above the rest, and if you’re not strong enough to rise then, well, then you’re not fit to be in the world at all.
But you and I know that they’re wrong, don’t we, boys? They’re wrong. It’s up to the strong to look after the weak. So that’s why we have to stop these men. That’s why we have to fight. That’s why I’m leaving you for a little while.
Now, I can’t tell you for sure whether everything about this war is a good idea or not. All I can say is that I’m going to do my best to look after myself and my friends, which is what I’m going to ask you to do as well.
Look after yourself, look after each other and look after your mum while I’m gone. And more than that, look after everyone you meet, whether you think they’re good or bad. Because it doesn’t matter what some people say — you cannot just look after yourself. That’s not how it works.
You’re going to have a lot of ideas yourself in your lives, and I suppose what I’m trying to say is that you need to know which ones are good and which ones are bad. I believe strongly that it comes down to one simple thing — good ideas come from thinking about other people. Bad ideas come from thinking about yourself.
The truth is, I’m a bit scared, boys. But being scared shouldn’t stop you from doing the right thing. Being scared shouldn’t stop you from listening to the good ideas. That’s where being brave comes from.
So don’t waste time on yourselves, my boys. Think about other people. Look for the good in them, and try to understand the bad.
And above all, my darlings, be kind. You must always be kind.
Love from Daddy.
MISSED CALLS
I STARE AT THE words, my hands shaking.
‘This was meant for me. For James.’
I look up at Will
iam. His face is turned to the sea.
‘But he never read it. He was killed.’
‘Shot,’ says Zoe, looking at Morag. ‘By their father.’
‘It was an accident,’ says Morag.
‘That must have been what your father was talking about, the stories about the cover-up in the village.’
‘So that’s what William’s been trying to do all this time. Find me and give me this letter?’
‘It ate him up,’ says Morag. ‘Along with everything else.’
A blast of wind lifts a stack of papers from Schmidt’s tin. Morag jumps to catch them, but William stops her with a grunt and an outstretched hand. He waves them off, as if they are of no consequence, and they flutter away in the surf. One by one they land in the water and slowly carry away with the tide. Each one is a face sketched in pencil. The features melt as they soak into the sea.
I look down at the second sheet. It is of a face too, faded, rough, yet undeniable. I pass it to Zoe.
‘It’s you,’ she says. ‘How did he know Stanley Mordant’s picture would be your trigger?’
‘Because James saw it once, and he was afraid. I remember. He was afraid because he saw something in it too.’
We sit for a while in the cave, sheltering from the storm. None of us says a word.
‘We should head back,’ says Zoe at last.
We leave the cave, scale the rocks and traipse back along the beach. As we reach the steps to the harbour, something makes me reach for my father’s phone. I open the lid and my heart flips. The screen reads three missed calls from the shop.
‘Shit.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It was on silent. He’s tried to call.’
We race up the steps.
‘Stay with William,’ I shout to Morag as we cross the harbour. My heart dives as we reach the shop door and see the black wing of a Bentley poking from around the corner. I peer through the mottled glass. There’s nobody inside. The earpiece of my father’s telephone hangs by its cord.
Time moves slowly. I open the door and let it shut as gently as I can. Zoe is behind me as we stand, listening. The only sound is the repeated three-beep arpeggio from the slowly spinning telephone.
The Other Lives Page 29