Some Veil Did Fall

by Kirsty Ferry

  ‘Damn him, damn him, damn him,’ she complained, staring at the message. She was aware that Jon had cautiously approached her from the side and turned to glare at him. He stood there, still in an attitude of apology, clutching a piece of shiny paper between his fingers. There was an odd smell that she recognised as some sort of chemical from the darkroom and she wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Damn me?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not this time,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Damn my ex. He’s trying to contact me. Well, I won’t answer the phone to him and I won’t reply to the text. So there.’ She threw the phone down into her bag in disgust and turned to face Jon. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘I have Ella and Adam,’ he replied. ‘Not quite in glorious Technicolor, but clear enough to see them better. And I also have the photographer.’

  Becky noticed that Jon was actually holding two pieces of shiny paper, one on top of the other.

  ‘The photographer?’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘May I?’ She tentatively held out her hand.

  ‘If you say you’ll forgive me,’ said Jon.

  Becky rolled her eyes. ‘For goodness sake. You’re forgiven, okay? I’m probably the one who should apologise. Thinking about it logically, I know what you meant. It’s easier for us to communicate than it is for us to talk through Ella and Adam.’

  ‘It must have been painstaking, him trying to spell everything out,’ said Jon, frowning. ‘Really difficult.’

  ‘You’ll probably find they used proper sign language,’ said Becky. ‘Waiting while people spelled stuff out would have driven her mad. And like we said before, she could probably lip-read as well. It would have been natural for her to do that, but we’ll never know for sure. Although, looking at this made me think she was talking, remember?’

  ‘I remember. Can you see the photographer’s face?’ asked Jon. He leaned closer to Becky, pointing to the figure in the decanter. ‘She looks a bit shocked.’

  Becky felt disturbed, but in a nice way, that he was so close to her. She felt herself flush and stared at the picture, very much aware of his scent. The developing chemicals and his aftershave had, it must be said, combined to make a very attractive mixture. There was a faint smell of mint on his breath as he spoke and she found herself unable to concentrate much on the picture before her. She was aware that his mouth was moving, but she couldn’t take in the words. Instead, she transferred her gaze from the photograph to the side of his face and just watched him for a few seconds until he realised he had lost her. He turned to face her and those eyes connected with hers. She thought he said her name, and then all was lost as she closed her eyes and felt his lips on hers and his arms around her. The photographs were forgotten and Becky didn’t surface for quite some time.

  ROSSETTI

  Becky opened her eyes and the world came rushing back. Nothing had changed; they were still in the studio, still holding one another, still next to the desk with the writing slope on it. The photographs were still on the table and Jon still smelled utterly divine.

  ‘Well, now,’ Becky said. It sounded trite and pathetic, and she knew it. ‘I wasn’t expecting that to happen.’

  ‘I’m glad it did.’ Jon smiled. ‘My only issue is, was it us or them? Are you going to pull away from me now and slap me?’

  Becky shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not right now, anyway.’

  Jon reached out and carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear. He smiled into her eyes. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that all day,’ he said.

  Becky reached up and covered his hand with hers. ‘Well, you’ve done it now,’ she said quietly. She was surprised at how shaky her voice sounded. ‘I think I need some air.’

  ‘Coffee break?’ asked Jon. There was a cheeky twinkle in his eye and Becky couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Can we take them with us, do you think?’ She nodded at the photographs. ‘I really want to see them all properly. Now things are clearer.’

  ‘I think they’d enjoy a trip out into Whitby,’ said Jon. ‘Let me just get a folder.’ He tucked the pictures into a display folder and put them inside one of his bags from the studio. ‘There now; if anyone sees us, it’s a bit of free advertising.’

  Becky picked up her bag and followed him out of the studio. ‘You’re so lucky to have somewhere like this in the middle of such a busy town,’ she said, watching him lock up. ‘You’ve always got a bolt-hole.’

  ‘There’s a little flat above it as well,’ he said. ‘I sometimes stay the night if I’m working late or the weather is too bad to travel. It’s not much more than a bedsit, really, but it’s mine.’

  ‘Even better,’ said Becky. ‘I’m jealous.’

  ‘Hey, if you ever want to use it the offer is there,’ said Jon. Becky cast a sidelong glance at him and he laughed. ‘Not like that,’ he said. ‘Although I wouldn’t complain. I meant if you wanted a little holiday or even just some office space for your Goth write-ups.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘My landlady is very accommodating. I pay her a few quid a month and she’s happy so long as she can pop in and see me occasionally.’

  ‘Very jealous,’ said Becky. ‘Your landlady’s Lissy, right?’ She dug her hands inside her pockets. The wind was biting and squalling through the streets. ‘We might have to sit inside the coffee shop,’ she said. ‘The weather’s changed a bit from this morning.’

  As they walked her eyes were roving around the streets, looking for the girl she had spotted yesterday. There were plenty of people about, obviously, but the fair-haired girl was nowhere to be seen. ‘Oh, that’s where I intended to go!’ she suddenly remembered. ‘St Mary’s churchyard.’

  ‘We can take a walk up there later if you want,’ said Jon. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘You’ve got a business to run!’ said Becky. A gust of wind flipped her hair over her face and she shook it away. She stopped and turned to Jon. ‘I can’t let you take any more time out of the studio. Goodness knows how much trade you’ve lost this morning. It’s probably one of your busiest days.’

  There was the briefest hesitation before Jon spoke. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said.

  Becky shook her head. ‘No. Let’s grab that coffee and then you should go back and earn some money. There’s nothing else we can do until we hear from Lissy.’

  ‘You’ll not hear the phone ring in this wind!’ exclaimed Jon. ‘Not up there in the churchyard. At least if I come, she’ll ring me if she can’t get through to you.’

  ‘You’ll not hear it for the wind either,’ said Becky. ‘A poor excuse. No. I insist I go by myself. I can take some more pictures, interview some more people … do my job. Then you can do yours.’ She squinted as some raindrops started falling and blew into her face. ‘Come on, let’s hurry before it gets any worse.’

  They were lucky; a table had just been vacated in the corner of the coffee shop. Becky squashed into the space and Jon bought the drinks. He brought them over with two ham and cheese paninis and two bowls of steaming hot apple crumble and custard.

  Becky sniffed appreciatively. ‘Mmm, perfect,’ she said. ‘This is the second lunch you’ve bought me. Let me give you some money.’ She was still embarrassed about the free dinner at the hotel.

  Jon waved her protests away. ‘My treat,’ he said.

  ‘Then at least give me the receipt. I can claim it on expenses,’ said Becky. ‘I’ll say I met a local photographer in a coffee shop and bought him lunch in exchange for a story about the Goth Weekend clients or something. They’re not to know you were a friend already.’

  Jon laughed and passed it across to her. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Then when you get the cash …’

  ‘… I can buy you a coffee,’ finished Becky. She picked up the panini and attacked it hungrily. ‘I hadn’t realised how famished I was. Poor Lissy, she’s missi
ng out.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Jon. ‘She never eats lunch anyway.’ He placed the bag on the table between them. ‘I don’t want to get the photographs greasy. We’ll finish eating then look at them.’

  Becky nodded assent, her mouth full.

  It didn’t take them long to demolish lunch. The crumble was gorgeous; just the right amount of mixed spice in it and swimming in custard. She scraped the last spoonful out of the bowl and sat back.

  She smiled at Jon and picked up a napkin. ‘Time to see the photos,’ she said. She carefully wiped her fingers and pulled the pictures out of the bag.

  The first one she saw was the close-up of Adam and Ella. She stared at it for a while, trying to get inside Ella’s head, wondering what she was trying to tell her; but obtusely, Ella was absent. Becky looked at Jon, wondering whether he was sensing Adam around him. Jon, however, seemed more concerned about sourcing out a coffee refill between customers, than communicating with a man who had lived one hundred and fifty years ago. Wherever Adam and Ella were, it was apparent they weren’t in the coffee shop.

  In the absence of Adam and Ella, Becky studied the photograph of the decanter. She saw the figure of a young woman, her hand raised as she leaned to the side of a box-like thing, which Becky assumed was the camera. From the little she could make out, Becky found the girl’s expression highly amusing; she appeared to be half-shocked and half-laughing.

  ‘Brilliant work,’ Becky said to Jon, as he came back to the table with another coffee. ‘I wonder who that was?’

  ‘It wasn’t cheap to get a camera like that,’ said Jon. He had obviously been more interested in the way the camera was portrayed than the girl who sat beside it. ‘So it had to be someone wealthy.’

  ‘We know it was Carrick Park just by looking at that coat of arms.’ said Becky. ‘Maybe tonight we need to scope out the fireplaces in the hotel and try to find a match and go from there.’

  ‘So you’re inviting me back to the hotel again, are you?’ asked Jon. ‘Well, it’s a good job I left my overnight things in my room.’

  ‘The very same overnight things you must keep in your bedsit?’ said Becky. ‘You just happened to grab them after you framed that photograph last night; very convenient.’

  ‘Very observant,’ said Jon. ‘It may indeed have been like that. And I didn’t have far to travel back if it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Lucky for you they had a room,’ replied Becky. ‘And it’s my job to be observant. Well, I must say I’m looking forward to tonight, then. Maybe I was a detective in a previous life.’

  ‘Maybe you were Ella in a previous life,’ said Jon.

  Becky shuddered. ‘I hope not,’ she said.

  ‘It’s like that old poem,’ said Jon. ‘The one by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Something about soulmates, and about being here before.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know the one you mean. “I have been here before, but when or how I cannot tell”,’ said Becky. ‘And then it’s something about knowing the grass beyond the door, I think.’ Her voice tailed off as she realised just how powerful the words were. It was all a bit too much like the experience she had had at the hotel; seeing it as it had been and recognising it of old.

  ‘The bit I liked best, however,’ said Jon softly, reaching out for Becky’s hand, ‘was when he said, “You have been mine before”.’

  His words did something to Becky’s insides and she felt the electricity zing up through her fingertips as he touched her. She shook her head, unable to speak, but he must have read something of it in her eyes, because he quirked that funny little smile again and let her hand go. He unfolded something from his pocket and looked at it, then put it back. He carefully spelled out the word later and winked.

  ‘Jon!’ Becky’s voice must have been louder than she thought as several people on the neighbouring tables turned to stare. She felt herself flush scarlet. ‘At least you’re getting better at it,’ she managed more quietly.

  ‘Did you understand it?’ he asked.

  ‘I most certainly did,’ she said. ‘Look, I’m going to the churchyard now before the weather gets any worse.’ She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll head back to the studio,’ replied Jon. He stood as well and they skirted around the other customers, Jon clutching his coffee cup as if his life depended on it. ‘What will you do later? Do you want a lift back to Carrick Park with me? I assume so, as your car is still parked up there.’

  ‘I’ll come back to the studio,’ said Becky. ‘I doubt I’ll be very long. I just want to get a feel for the place, see if I can find any interesting people wandering around the graveyard.’

  ‘There will be plenty of interesting people wandering around the graveyard,’ said Jon. ‘They flock there.’

  ‘Jon, can I ask you something?’ Becky said, eyeing the coffee.

  ‘Anything you like,’ he replied.

  ‘Didn’t you used to be a smoker?’

  ‘What?’ The question had clearly taken him by surprise. ‘I can’t believe you can remember that. I was very discreet. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re pretty much addicted to caffeine now,’ she said. ‘And you weren’t discreet about smoking at all. We used to watch you in the garden when you lit up, we could see the tip of the cigarette glowing and we used to laugh at you. I was just wondering if this coffee addiction is a nicotine replacement thing.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Jon. It was his turn to flush with embarrassment. ‘I gave up a couple of years ago. I seem to have drunk a lot more coffee since then. I’m surprised I’m not constantly wired.’

  ‘Observant, see?’ said Becky. She tapped the side of her nose and winked. ‘I’ll meet you later, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. He brushed her lips with his. ‘Take care and don’t talk to any strangers.’

  ‘Again, that’s my job,’ she said, turning away from him as she pushed her hands into her pockets again.

  It was a very grey afternoon. Deep down, she hoped that she would see the blonde girl up at the church. She was one stranger she was determined to talk to, and she wasn’t going to let a bit of rain and wind stop her.

  ST MARY’S

  St Mary’s churchyard was even greyer than the town. At least in the town there were cafés and shops and museums to dart into. Becky thought longingly of Jon’s cosy studio as she trudged through the churned up mud of the churchyard. St Mary’s itself gleamed seal-like behind her, under its grim sheen of rain.

  Becky read a few of the gravestones and took several photographs of visitors; surly youths and giggling girls who were scattered among the tombs, the place an eerie amalgam of vampires and Victorians. Yet the one person she was anxious to see wasn’t there. She knew deep down that it was maybe wishful thinking, but she couldn’t keep from checking all the faces of the tourists, trying to spot the girl from the funeral procession.

  After an hour or so, and several interviews later, Becky decided it was time to give up. Her hair was uncomfortably flattened to her head, separating into rats tails somewhere around her shoulders. She walked over to the low wall and looked down onto the harbour, where a small boat with ragged bunting tied to the mast was cutting through the choppy water. One last picture, she thought, and she would head back. She would ask Jon if she could use the room above the studio to get some work sorted out while she waited for him. If he didn’t have a computer up there, she could always write in her ever-present notebook. She smiled to herself, as she focused the camera out to sea, thinking how thankful he’d be if she turned up with a couple of coffees and …

  ‘Becky?’ She felt a hand on her arm and jumped.

  She whipped around, the moment out at sea lost. ‘Seb? What on earth …?’

  ‘I knew I’d find you.’ He smiled at her, hideously over-confident as always. His carefully styled floppy
hair was still about twenty years out of date. He had always seemed to base himself on a younger Hugh Grant; it was only after they had split up that Becky had realised he wasn’t as bumbling and sweet as his Hollywood counterpart had always been in those films. Seb was, to be honest, rather unfeeling and self-centred. It was the way he rolled, he had told her once. Draw them in, make them tell him their stories, then sell it. He worked on a celebrity magazine, famous for its star gossip. Seb was the best interviewer they had and always managed to interview the starlets. Abigail had been a starlet. Well, she had been a reality show contestant on some nonentity channel that had about fifteen viewers, but the principle was the same. Whichever way you looked at it, Seb had been unfaithful: end of.

  ‘How’s Abigail?’ Becky almost choked on the name. She itched to curl her hand up into a fist and punch him right on his perfect jaw.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Seb easily. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘She used me to meet a few people in the industry. I think she was doing some work in PR last I heard. Or shagging a footballer. I can’t say for sure.’

  Becky made a noise of disapproval and turned back to the North Sea. ‘My heart bleeds,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want to speak to you. Go away.’

  Seb somehow moved in between Becky and the wall. Slithered in like a bloody snake, thought Becky. Damn him, damn him, damn him. He had obviously decided that she had to listen to him now, at least. She clamped her lips together, determined not to engage in conversation and determinedly looked out over his shoulder, trying to make the point that she was ignoring him. She held the camera up and fired off a few shots, knowing all the time he was there, just waiting for her to make eye contact.

  ‘You didn’t answer my texts. Or my calls. Or the doorbell,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to her distaste. A gust of wind roared in off the sea and whipped his words away.

  Becky still refused to look at him and continued taking random pictures. She half-wondered how many pictures of damp seagulls and scruffy dogs on the beach she could actually use.