The Dead Woman Who Lived

by Endellion Palmer

  “That’s what was causing all the uproar,” he said finally. “Very nasty indeed, but there’s nothing left in there now. Some sticking plaster and gauze will see you right. Give it a wash first.”

  When her leg was clean, he deftly applied the gauze, sticking it down carefully, then moved back to the table, where he started to feel cautiously under the central drawer.

  “Got it,” he said with a grin, looking into the mirror and catching her eye. “There’s a sliver of wood loose under here. I’ll sort that out for you later.”

  “Thank you, Adrien,” Juliana said, and he bowed to her reflection.

  She blew him a kiss in the mirror and saw his face creased into a grin, then she stood up and cried out in annoyance.

  “What’s up now?” he asked.

  She was looking down at her slip. Where the silk had covered her leg, the fabric was puckered and torn.

  “Ruined!” she said. “Between that and the blood!”

  She broke off. Adrien was staring at the torn garment like a damned man on the scaffold. His face was still, his eyes blank, as he turned and stumbled to the bathroom, Juliana looked at him in astonishment and not a little worry.

  “I have to go, Juliana,” he stammered. “I will… I will see you later.”

  He joined her for breakfast, but made a poor meal. Juliana poured him coffee and exhorted him to eat, but he only managed toast and butter, even that looking as if it was about to choke him. She was utterly confused, but any attempt to enquire about what was wrong resulted in nothing but a mute appeal from him that she realised meant he was going to say nothing. She would have been annoyed at his sudden change of mood, but there was an undercurrent to his behaviour that worried her. Something had scared him, and for the life of her she couldn’t work out what it had been.

  He remained shut away all morning, talking occasionally on the telephone, and disappeared again after a silent luncheon. Realising that he was not coming out, Juliana wrapped up and went for a walk. The air was clean and salty this afternoon, the wind from the north-west, and she set out walking away from the town, along the cliff path, aware only of the turmoil of emotions rocking her, and a fear that there was something dark at work. Crossing the estuary by the narrow plank bridge, she set out along a way she had not yet had the time to follow. The cliffs rose up again on the other side of the river, but not to such dramatic heights as round Sancreed, and they flattened out quickly. By the time she stopped, she was almost on a level with the sea, the sand a wide stretch of gold before the water’s edge.

  She sat down on a flat rock, wrapping her arms around her shins to combat the chill wind that had whipped up. Out on The Towans, the sand slipped and whirled, the reeds bending hard in one direction and then wheeling over in the other, the thick tips whipping around like starlings in flight. The black ribs of an abandoned boat, decaying in the damp air and the constant abrasion, were etched as if in Indian ink against the soft pale gold. Overhead, skylarks wheeled and dipped, shrieking with delight at their game, the pale white tips to the undersides of their tails and wings flashing as they twirled above the scrubby grass.

  There was a sound beside her, and she looked up to find Simon Cundy standing next to her. Startled, she wondered if he had followed her here. She was uncomfortable, remembering the last time they had met. But he did not look at her, just stood on the rough ground and looked out over the sea as his hair whipped around his uncovered head. He didn’t appear to feel the cold; the guernsey was again the only warm thing he wore.

  “Do you know what happened here?” he asked out of the blue. His voice was calm; the sneer of the earlier meeting was gone.

  He glanced up as a skylark screamed overhead and swooped low, but he didn’t flinch.

  “You mean the boat?” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. She was cautious, remembering the bizarre look on his face the last time they had met.

  “No, I meant summat special,” he said, losing the smile as the bird disappeared from view, then indicated the decaying hull. “That was a storm two year ago. Got blown in and had to abandon ship. Nowt special in that.”

  He sounded bored, and Juliana thought that she had somehow disappointed him. She was curious as to what would bring him to start a conversation with her. Their last meeting had not ended on a friendly note, but there was something new in his tone with her. Perhaps he had decided that she was not to be feared.

  “So what did you mean?” she asked, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “What happened here?”

  He didn’t reply for a moment, staring out towards the horizon with his hand shading his eyes from the light. Juliana squinted out in the same direction, but whatever he had spotted remained invisible to her. Finally he turned back and squatted down beside her, his boots squeaking as he did so. She noted that he had used the new laces, looping them around the back of the ankle and through the tab before tying them at the front, country-style. Without meeting her eyes, he started to talk.

  “Hundreds of years ago, there was a farm here. Upton Barton, it was called.”

  His northern accent came through clearly on the long vowels, and he had a habit of ending his words crisply, with emphasis on the hard consonants. She turned slightly and watched his profile, the sharp nose and razor-straight jaw. He didn’t seem to notice her gaze, just looked out over the sand and spoke in his soft voice.

  “There was a farmhouse. Must have been a right good place to live. But the dunes round here were tall; some of them right tall. One night, one of the biggest collapsed, and by the next morning the house, stables, everything had been buried in sand. Nowt to show it had ever been there.”

  Juliana was shocked.

  “What happened to the people who lived here?”

  Simon shrugged.

  “They maybe got out in time. Maybe not. Not sure about the animals, though. Shouldn’t think anyone got them to safety. They wouldn’t have known what to do, poor beasts.”

  He seemed sadder about the fate of the animals than that of the human inhabitants.

  “Has it never reappeared?” she asked. “The farmhouse? The stables? Anything?”

  “Not for an hundred years, they say. I’d like to see it,” he said, his face animated for a moment, his eyes bright as he gazed out. “One day perhaps it will come back. I would like that.”

  He sounded wistful as a boy at the thought, and Juliana was reminded of the stick of chocolate she had brought from the house. She drew it from her pocket and broke it in two, offering the paper over to him on a flat hand, like a wary rider with an unknown horse.

  “Want some chocolate?” she asked.

  Simon looked at her for the first time, frowning, then down at the sweet she was offering. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out slowly and plucked one of the pieces from her palm.

  “Yes, please,” he said, as though surprised at his own answer.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he sat down on the grass next to her, cross-legged, and the two of them sat side by side looking out over the bay, nibbling the dark squares. His acceptance of the sweet had marked some kind of trust between them. This was Jamie’s friend, she wanted to feel at ease with him.

  As they sat in silence, she could feel his body relax next to her. The sun slid in and out of the high clouds, alternately lighting and then shading the bay, its shadow play clear on the ferocious surf. Far behind them, the train horn sounded twice, the sound wailing away on the wind. That would be the stretch of rail running up to the slow bend at the estate cottages. Adrien had pointed it out on one of their walks.

  Savouring the taste of the chocolate in her mouth, she stretched out her left hand on the ground and met coarse grass, sharp yet soft, like a newborn hedgehog. Her ungloved hand played with the tips, feeling the thick blades bend under her fingers. The smell of the sea, brought in sharp gusts from the channel, was crisp and invigorating. She was beginning to enjoy herself, when Simon turned to her, his tongue delicately licking chocolate from the cor
ner of his mouth.

  “You disappeared, didn’t you? Just like the farm. No trace.”

  Juliana sighed, her shoulders tensing as she came back to her history, or the lack thereof.

  “Yes, I suppose I did,” she replied, wishing that he had found something else to talk about.

  She paused, surprised. Perhaps his insight came from his lack of regular contact with the people nearby; perhaps the solitude he preferred conferred an added insight when he did deign to talk to someone.

  “Exactly like the farm. You’re right,” she continued, nodding.

  “And you still don’t remember owt?” he asked.

  He sounded genuinely curious now, and taking a last bite from her portion of the stick, she turned to find his eyes intent upon her. The whites were clear and pale, and exacerbated the pitch dark of the irises. For an instant he seemed to be staring right through her to the hill behind and she felt a shiver run down her spine. Just now she could understand the reticence of the villagers to accept him, had he actually wanted to be accepted. There was too much mystery and magic about him for the comfort of the superstitious. She shook herself and swallowed the chocolate that had melted on her tongue without her noticing. The sweetness suddenly seemed cloying.

  “Nothing, until I woke up in Kent,” she replied.

  He shook his head slowly. “It’s right strange,” he said thoughtfully.

  She was unsure which part exactly was concerning him. It all seemed bizarre, even to her, the person who had lived through it. He sighed, finishing his chocolate and wiping his fingers clean on the grass.

  “How could you get all the way across country without anyone knowing?” he said. “Without money? Without shoes, even, or a coat?”

  He clearly knew more of her story than he was going to admit to. She said nothing, just shrugged. Those were questions she had asked herself, and been asked by others, an interminable number of times, and she was no closer to being able to answer them. But with that, he stood up, dusting down his trousers. It seemed he did not require an answer from her.

  “Thanks,” he said brusquely, and turned to go, then twisted back, adding awkwardly, “for the chocolate.”

  “Thank you for telling me about the farm,” she replied, wondering what other connotation he might have thought she would put on his thanks. He nodded at her, then gave the horizon another of those searching glances and was on the point of turning to walk back the way he had come when he looked over at her again. His gaze this time was vague, as though instead of seeing straight through her, he was looking at her through a fog.

  “This time next year, there’ll only be sand and reeds here. The boat’ll be gone, anyroad. The Towans’ll take her. What will happen to you, Juliana Creed? Will the sand cover you up again?”

  And with that he was gone. She stared after him. His words were unsettling, but she felt that there had been no malice behind them. It was more that he was genuinely unsure how things would turn out. And what he felt, he said. Jean had said it best—he had never learned to put up defences.

  Their strange conversation kept her thinking on the way home, and she dawdled along the way, with the result that she was late for tea, and had also completely forgotten that they were going out to dine at Visick House that night. She drank some lukewarm tea and made do with the sandwiches that were left over, edges starting to curl in the heat from the fire. Someone, Fancy no doubt, had left the plate close to the fireplace.

  Adrien reappeared when she was in the bath, and she hurried to finish so that he could bathe before they went out for dinner. He had been out that afternoon too, and was wind-ruffled and cold, but he seemed at least to have regained his equilibrium. He came in to kiss her before running the water, and she heard traces of a song under his breath as he splashed quickly in and out of the tub. Then the door opened into her room. He stood in the doorway, shaving soap foaming on his cheeks. He held his razor in his hand.

  “I’ve invited Jamie and Didi to come and stay for a week or so,” he said, turning back to the mirror and starting to draw the blade down his face. “Take a proper holiday. Helena will be back too. I thought it would be nice to have the whole family here, together.”

  Juliana turned to him, surprised. They had seemed to be making such progress together. Now, after his funny turn this morning, he was proposing to fill the house up again. His vacillations were confusing her, but she didn’t want to rock the boat. They had made such progress together. She said nothing, watching as Adrien carefully scraped the last of the soap from around his mouth.

  She watched him splash in the clean water for a moment, then passed him a towel without thinking. He took it from her with a smile, and it occurred to her that she had done this countless times before, and would do so again. The simple thought soothed her. They had all the time in the world to discover each other again.

  “Do you mind?” he asked suddenly. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  She shook her head.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “I said before that this house needs people in it, it needs noise and mess. It will be fun. When do they arrive?”

  “By Friday evening at the latest, I expect.”

  She squeezed his arm.

  “I’ll get onto it first thing. In fact, I’ll nip down right now ask Ada to make sure the beds are properly aired.”

  By the time they reached Visick House, where the Cundys lived and Bob had his surgery and dispensary, Juliana was excited at the thought of guests. Fancy had been keeping her distance in icy politesse since they had sparred over the housekeeping, and Juliana thought that it might be easier all round to have company. She admitted that she was looking forward to Jamie’s return, too, perhaps a little more than she should. Adrien’s behaviour towards her had steadied a great deal, but was still erratic. Most of the time he was attentive, fun to spend time with, even affectionate. But his habit of turning distant and cold, frowning in that inward way he had, inattentive to everything surrounding him, was maddening.

  Dinner with Bob and Daphne was as much fun as it was noisy. Four of the boys were leaving for school in the next few days, and the house was full of trunks and clothes, cricket bats and pads, and all the other detritus of school living. Besides being the doctor’s wife and keeping house for a multitude of males, Daphne bred dachshunds, and the dogs seemed to be everywhere. Juliana was a little alarmed at the beginning, greeted by a mob of excited boys and dogs, but ended by enjoying herself hugely.

  She got on especially well with Charlie, the oldest at sixteen. He was allowed to stay up for dinner, unlike the other boys, and sat with her afterwards, pouring coffee and showing her his stamp collection. He was very proud of it, and pointed out the Chinese ones she had provided herself.

  She peered at the stamps. They did not look familiar. There was a junk with full sails and a steam train in the background. A man cutting rice. Geese and dragons. The colours were delightful, rich purples and reds and greens.

  “They’re not like our stamps, are they?” she said. “Not like English ones at all.”

  He looked at them critically and shook his head.

  “No. They’re more unusual. The English ones are just everyday. These are much more interesting.”

  He looked at her.

  “Like you,” he said, his voice rising a little. He looked rather surprised as he said it, and went red. She was astonished, but charmed at the same time.

  “That’s a lovely thing to say, Charlie.” She was touched by his sincerity. “I shall think of that whenever I feel out of place here.”

  The evening ended shortly afterwards, and they drove back from Visick House through a fine mist, laughing over their evening.

  “All those boys. And all those dogs!” she said, as they entered the house. “How do they survive it?”

  They stood in front of the fire, and warmed themselves for a moment. The air was cool, and the rain had been the soaking kind.

  “It’s a madhouse,” he agreed. “Daphne is obs
essed with music and dogs, and between those and being a doctor’s wife, she has little time for anything else. You did see it at its worst, though. Generally it is a little calmer, but with all the boys at home…”

  “Yes, but the boys are all well-mannered. I’m sure they are perfectly awful sometimes, but they know how to be obedient and respectful. And fun, too.”

  “You and Charlie seemed to be getting on well,” he said.

  Juliana gave him a secretive smile.

  “We were. He’s going to be a lovely young man. You might have to watch out in a couple of years.”

  Adrien laughed, and pulled the scarf from her head, tossing it aside. He ruffled her hair.

  “I shall keep you so busy you don’t have time for Charlie Cundy. Look, your hair is a little damp. It’s the mist—it gets everywhere. Let’s get it dry.”

  He smoothed it out and turned her round so her back was to the fire, gently rubbing her hair in the warmth.

  “You always got on with the boys. Played cricket with them, and taught Charlie to play poker, which he took to like a duck to water. Daphne was not sure about it, but Bob said would probably see him through university, if he didn’t get arrested first.”

  Juliana stood and looked over the room, to her reflection in the old oval glass that hung on the opposite wall. She frowned at herself, seeing the pale face frowning back, then looked thoughtful.

  “Charles said such a sweet, funny thing to me tonight. He compared me to the foreign stamps I gave him years ago. Said that I was like them. More interesting and not so everyday.”

  She was almost talking to herself, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the gentle touch of Adrien’s hands in her hair. She jumped when she heard him reply.

  “That is an interesting comparison. That child sees deeper than he ought to at that age,” he replied. He bent his head and spoke softly in her ear. “He’s absolutely right.”