by Cesca Major
Even when she was ordering sausages from the butcher’s, scanning the newsagent’s window for advertisements, passing the idle boats in the harbour, looking out over slate-grey water. Even then, with the house high up and hidden from her, she could feel his eyes on her, watching.
Maisie’s brooch became a talisman, warding off evil when she wore it, the discreet bump under her cardigan the only sign it was there, but she could feel it, sometimes raising a hand to finger the outline of it, hard and reassuring. She felt cocooned in a protective layer, it made her feel bolder, meeting Larry’s gaze at dinner, answering her sister in a too-loud voice, sitting straighter.
She didn’t tell Richard of course, embarrassed when he caught her flinching at his touch on her arm, something uncertain in her voice when he asked what was wrong, her eyes slipping from his face as she replied. She had asked him once what he knew of Larry, kept her voice light, a mundane question in a string of others.
‘Have you had dealings with him? What’s his reputation?’
Richard shrugged. ‘The folks up in Lynton tend to keep themselves to themselves. There’s no real cause for them to come down here.’ Then he added, maybe to please her, though he didn’t notice her face change, her eyes darken, ‘Heard he’s on the up, a councillor and a businessman. He’s not interested in fish, that’s for sure. He’ll take good care of your sister.’
He wanted to reassure and she nodded emphatically, worried her smile was too thin, that he would delve deeper if she overcompensated, a throwaway smile, a light laugh. ‘He will.’ She injected the two words with as much warmth as she could muster. They didn’t speak of him again. Not until that last night.
She was in the garden when Larry found her, where the lawn sloped away as if it were cascading through the trees to the sea below. The days were long and she had been reading, the sun almost lost to the line of trees in front of her, creating long shadows that reached her bare feet as she rested her head back in the deckchair she had dragged out.
His hand on the top of her head forced her eyes to look up. She lurched forward and was pushed back down in an instant, dropped into the curve of the deckchair, her knees too high, awkward, her skirt slipping to reveal her garter. She snatched her hand back down. She’d been holding the brooch, examining the face as if she could reach through history and talk to the woman in the small oval. She wasn’t holding it anymore.
‘What’s this then?’ He plucked the brooch from the ground, holding it out between two fingers, an eyebrow raised.
She leant forward in the deckchair, wanting to cry out, to knock it from his hand, but she felt her chest tighten, her breath freeze as she watched him turn it over and back in slow, minuscule movements. She tried to keep her face set, went to shrug nonchalantly, as if the brooch were nothing to her. He’d guessed it, though, a victorious smile emerging on his face, a languid lick of his lips as he peered at the silhouette on its front.
‘Who is she?’ he crooned, moving in front of her, one finger outlining the face, a face that Richard loved, the profile so important, and now his finger smeared over it, his tone mocking.
‘No one.’ The words came out in a half-whisper, clumsy. She couldn’t move her eyes from his hand, the brooch held by its pin, flipped back and forwards, as if he knew he were a cat playing with a mouse.
‘You won’t mind if I take it then.’ His hand closed over it and his eyes met hers, daring her to challenge him, daring her to say no.
She reared up pathetically out of the chair, standing awkwardly. ‘Please don’t…’
‘So not no one then.’ He examined it for another few seconds. She felt her pulse throbbing at her neck.
‘What would you do to get it back, I wonder?’ His lip curled as he said it.
She tasted sour milk in her mouth, her stomach churning involuntarily. Her eyelids flickered with the thoughts rushing through her, trying to see her way out, trying to answer this, to end things. She pictured Richard’s face back in the cottage when she had accepted the brooch. She remembered the way his eyes had rested on her, satisfied she would be a careful guardian of something so precious. His greeny-gold irises had focused on her.
Larry, impatient now with her silence, repeated his question, taking a step forward so that he was standing over her, forcing her to crane her neck up, his face unreadable surrounded by the darkening sky, a wash of purple haze.
What would she do? What did he want? She swallowed, eyes fixed on the ground to her right, focusing on a patch of clover. Perhaps if she pleaded with him? She looked up, eyes wide and tried to smile, tried to placate. She took on an expression that she had seen her sister use, her voice higher as it came out, girlish, she hoped.
‘It’s just a trifle. Silly really.’ She stopped, then a small laugh. ‘But I’ve grown fond of it.’ She was careful not to put too much into her voice, clamping her tongue between her teeth. She felt her palms dampen, looked up at him through her lashes, then coyly to the ground.
He leant forward, his mouth brushing a loose strand of her hair. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he whispered.
Her eyes were on the brooch, still in his hand but now within her reach. Could she seize it? Scrape her fingernails down his arm, force his hand to open and release it? Her head was awash with these thoughts, thoughts that mingled with a spicy scent.
He put his free hand around her waist, pulling her into him roughly. ‘What will you do for it?’ His fingers gripped her side, she could feel his breaths coming faster, the noise loud in her ear.
She wriggled then, ashamed to feel him harden between his legs, the realization freezing her. ‘What would my sister say?’ she asked, desperate to remind him who she was. It didn’t seem to help.
‘She’d wouldn’t say a thing.’ He said it so matter-of-factly and in that moment she knew that was the truth and she wondered if she would ever feel as lonely as she did then.
‘I can’t… I won’t.’ She wriggled again, releasing herself from his grip, tripping over the leg of the deckchair so that she stumbled and had to right herself. She stood on the lawn unable to speak, one hand on her chest stilling her breathing, her eyes trained on his, convinced he would lunge at her again.
But he didn’t. Instead, he took one last look at the brooch and then at her, a sneer forming on his lips as he moved his gaze slowly from her feet to her head. ‘You think I’m interested in you?’ he said. ‘You’re pathetic,’ he spat. Then, after a pause, ‘She’s ugly.’ He tossed the brooch at her feet.
She dropped to her knees as she watched it fall, all pretence gone, snatched it up, closing her hand around it, wanting to rub at it, wipe him away. Tears filmed her eyes but she refused to cry, refused to give him that pleasure.
He was already walking back towards the house, his jacket tight across his shoulders, swatting at an insect in the air, not looking back. She didn’t need to see his face to know that he was smiling. She could have sworn she saw movement at the French windows; someone had been looking out at them both, someone had been there. She clutched the brooch to her chest, remaining on her knees as the sun finally disappeared, bleeding into the tree line and letting the shadows creep all over her.
She hadn’t realized she was shaking until she was back in her room, both hands pushing the door closed, spinning round to press her back against the wooden panels. She caught herself in the mirror on the dressing table, her skin wan, her lips cracked, something in her eyes that hadn’t been there that morning.
She felt it now, the walls of the house closing in on her, the valley beyond pressing down on her. She was trapped here, in this room, in this house, in this corner of Devon. The tears came then, pitiful sobs that made her body convulse, forcing her to clamp both hands over her face to try and stifle the noise. She thought of her life in Bristol, memories now cloaked in a rosy glow, clattering along cobbled streets with Mary, spooning warm fish pie
into her mouth, waving her fork around as she swapped the day’s news with her mum, her appraising gaze. She cried for those times, for Mary’s face when she left, for her mum’s inert body in that sepia room. She cried until she had nothing left, hugging her arms around herself in the absence of anyone else to comfort her.
She needed to get out. She would leave, she would run away. Seized by this sudden thought, she got up from the bed, scrubbed at her eyes, her face a mess of angry blotches. She scribbled a letter to Mary, the start of plans, persuading her to come, persuading her they would go somewhere together. She didn’t linger over details, she didn’t question whether it was the right thing to do, she just wrote, spilling out her need to escape in ink, the words scrawled and messy, words scratched out and replaced. She needed to get out.
IRINA
She felt as if she had been away for weeks not hours. The moment she pushed open the shop door, the familiar smell of beeswax, wood and polish enveloped her like a parent’s hug. The bell seemed loud in the space and she navigated her way through the shop, noting a couple of new pieces packaged up and stacked against the wall ready for her to take a look at. They hadn’t let her stay past visiting hours; she would get back to the hospital first thing.
She stepped through the beaded curtain into her workshop. As predicted, Patricia had been in there. Piles of shavings were heaped into corners, the floor covered in dry brush marks, the worktops cleared, tools lined up on the draining board in the corner of the room. The mirror was sparkling, the windows recently cleaned, the evening light giving everything a lilac sheen. It should have felt warm, familiar, but in the corner the bureau lurked, its bulky presence an unwelcome extra person. She found herself staring at it, unable to turn her back as she shuffled to her apartment door, reaching behind her to put the key into the lock before stepping inside.
It seemed the bureau’s influence was leaking beneath the gap in the door, slowly spreading up the staircase, across the hall landing and into her apartment. She scooped up Pepper the moment she pushed open the door, pleased to bury her face into her soft fur and feel the healthy throb of her heartbeat, her ribcage pulsing with life.
She clattered through the apartment, opening cupboards and slamming them again, turning on lights, the television, the radio, wanting to be surrounded. She stared at the telephone on the side table, imagined picking it up and calling him. She had been so rude to Andrew. She would have to phone and apologize. Why did she always have to be so unpleasant to him? It was incredible that he still wanted to see her. She felt a momentary warmth as she thought back to the clifftop railway, the closeness of him on that narrow metal balcony, as if they were still together. She couldn’t call him, not tonight.
Should she phone Bill? He had thrust his number into Andrew’s hand, asking him to let him know how she was. She had registered it all in a far-off way, as if it were happening to someone else. What had he been about to say? He seemed to have known the two men mentioned in the postcard; she was sure he would be able to shed more light on things. She worried then that she had frightened him a little. Her reaction to her mother’s collapse had been extreme and Bill had pushed out his chair and stood up as she gabbled at him, as Andrew helped her out of the pub.
She felt better as the evening wore on, got sucked into some reality show with Z-list celebrities doing humiliating things. She had a glass of wine in her hand; she would see her mother again tomorrow.
Her eyelids were drooping as she scanned the channels for something else, a last mouthful of wine in her glass. A gust of cold air made her turn her head towards the door and the voices on the television were drowned out by an enormous crash from her bedroom, as if her wardrobe had fallen down, her clothes and belongings scattered. The noise had been so loud, it was as if something had pushed its way through the walls of the house. She lifted her legs off the floor, the last of the wine slopping onto the sofa, a noise escaping from her mouth. She stayed in the pose for a few seconds, slowly lowering her legs onto the floor as the temperature rose.
Her heart was beating hard and she wished Pepper was there with her. She didn’t want to get up and go and look, but she knew she had to. She stood up, putting the wine glass down on the table and then wishing she had something to hold onto.
Creeping forward, she checked the hallway before walking into it. Nothing had fallen over: the side table was full of the usual clutter, a line of shoes, a row of hooks with coats, all exactly as she’d left them. The door to her bedroom was down the corridor to the left. It was closed. She hadn’t been in there since returning home. She wondered what state she would find it in.
She swallowed, glancing back at her mobile on the sofa and wondering if she could phone Andrew. Pepper appeared in the doorway, making her start. She lifted her into her arms and walked forward slowly. She couldn’t phone, not after the way she’d left things. She was here alone and she would have to deal with it. Something had fallen, that was all. She was just scaring herself. A brief thought: that she was edging closer to discovering the truth behind the bureau and that this had stirred things up somehow; that this would only end if she could find out more.
Reaching out for the doorknob, her palm felt slippery on the metal. She lifted her chin, tried to inject confidence into her stance. She pushed, the door swung away from her and she stepped inside. The cat twisted in her arms, digging her claws in, legs stretched, body tense, hissing as she leapt down onto the floor and raced back into the living room. Irina moaned, feeling lost and alone.
The room was dark and Irina quickly switched the lights on, convinced she would see her things strewn on the floor, maybe some broken furniture, a collapsed shelf.
There was nothing out of place. The room looked exactly as she had left it. The bed was still crumpled in the same place, the cat’s sunken imprint in the throw at the end, her books lined up neatly on the shelf over the desk. The wardrobe stood in the corner, perfectly upright, and the chest of drawers with one top drawer slightly open seemed to be the same.
She walked round the bed, still certain that she would find something. She went to the window, wondering if she’d been mistaken and the noise had come from outside. Perhaps someone had had a terrible car accident near the flat? There was nothing there: a couple walking, a streetlamp leaving its pool of light. It must have been outside, she reasoned, despite the little voice in her head insisting it had come from in there. She silenced the voice, trying to ignore her clammy hands, hairs standing to attention on her arm.
She went to leave the room, taking a last look round before reaching for the doorknob. As she turned to close it, from the corner of her eye she saw it. Her bedroom wall, smashed, a gaping hole through to the street, the garden laid bare, her belongings spewing from the room, the window frame splintered and bent at an odd angle, the bricks exposed, half-fallen away. She spun back around to the wall. The neatly painted wall, a framed picture of a field of poppies, the cushions plumped on the window seat, the glass blank. There was nothing wrong with the wall at all, yet the image followed her all the way to the living room, made her sleep curled up on the sofa under a throw, with the cat clutched to her. It appeared in her dreams that night, she could feel the wind ripping through the hole and around her, her skirt billowing, her legs and arms cold, and her face, unscarred, not her, wide eyed in the broken fragments of mirror opposite.
RICHARD
He hadn’t told her where they were headed, simply that she was to find some sturdy boots, heeled shoes wouldn’t do. They met at the top of the village, the river tumbling through the trees somewhere behind them, the houses like a line of crooked teeth poking up towards the sea beyond. The temperature had dropped in the last couple of days and she arrived in a thick winter coat. She pulled it around her, the wool damp, tiny droplets sticking to every strand. She licked the water from her lips, rain misting everything, coating everything with a sheen of water, clinging to their skin like an outer layer. The b
ottom of his hair beneath his hat was curling over the collar of his wax jacket. He had brought along his mother’s waterproof cape that she had often taken on walks.
‘Come on, Abigail Lovatt.’ He smiled, handing it over with a bow.
She threw it on, getting the ribbon at the throat stuck in her hair so she couldn’t fit her head through it. ‘Get me out of this thing,’ came the muffled response as he reached to tug it gently over her, her face appearing, hair askew, cheeks red, a head out of nowhere; a face he wanted to cup with both hands, so precious.
Instead, he straightened up, laughing as she did a slow rotation in front of him, like she was at a coming-out ceremony.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked for the tenth time, knowing her questioning would get her nowhere.
He enjoyed her exasperation as he again refused to tell her. ‘Patience is a virtue.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Clearly.’
He felt better the higher they climbed. She had seemed nervy again when they’d met, peering over her shoulder in the direction of Lynton and flinching when he went to hand her the cape. Sometimes she reminded him of one of Exmoor’s red deer, liable to race off into the undergrowth at any moment and never be seen again. He felt it was his job to keep her there, try to anchor her to the moment, to him.
They walked up the path that led into the trees. She was getting slower to respond, her answers briefer the higher they climbed, and he enjoyed shouting questions over his shoulder, laughing as she clutched her sides, not able to speak from the slight stitch that was making her gasp between choked laughter. ‘Stop… asking… me… questions…’