by Cesca Major
‘It’s an easy mistake to make, but you don’t want to be doing that. Come on,’ he said, linking arms with her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She drew back a fraction, worried about his proximity and smiling as he stopped to ensure he was on the side of the traffic; her father had always done that. The thought brought with it the sting of pain she had come to expect, perhaps faded slightly over the years but still enough to take her next breath away.
‘I used to work down on the boats.’ He indicated the harbour to the left of them. ‘Not so much work anymore.’
They bustled into a café on the corner of Watersmeet Road and Bill refused her money and headed to the counter, depositing her and his hat at a table by the window; it had a small sprig of daisies in a flowery vase and a plastic menu in italic script. She could smell toast and freshly baked bread. Large cakes were scattered over the counter in see-through domes, all thick icing and soft-looking sponge. She hoped they might have time for something sweet. Her mother’s favourite was coffee and walnut, Irina used to make them for her regularly. She thought of her mother with her insulin injections and her new diet; she needed to learn some new recipes.
She watched Bill as he ordered, leaning heavily on the counter, wiping his glasses as he talked to the waitress. Irina wanted to burst straight into her questions, devour everything he knew, or could guess, about the writer of the postcards, try to work out whose brooch it was, whether any of the items had any meaning to him. He had known a Richard and a Martin but she had left before finding out what he knew about them.
She got up to pull out his chair for him as he returned from the counter.
‘That’s my job,’ he said, but didn’t sound displeased.
She went to speak, but the waitress interrupted with two plates, a pasty chopped in half so that the meat and onion were spilling out, steam rising, instantly filling her mouth with the flavour, and a side salad that seemed more for show. Bill was already scraping his away as if it were infecting the pasty with its healthiness. He picked up one half in his hands, holding the crust. ‘That’s how they used to eat them in the mines, like a handle,’ he said, before biting into it.
Irina cut into hers with a knife and fork and earned a roll of his eyes. ‘I’m not a miner,’ she protested, which made him smile; a warmth spread through her.
‘So what happened here?’ he said, indicating her cheek.
For a brief moment she didn’t know what he was referring to and then it sunk in as she followed the path of the half-eaten pasty pointing at her face. People didn’t usually ask her so directly, not like that, and she found her mouth opening and closing as if she were a guppy fish.
‘Accident,’ she said, ‘when I was young.’ She swallowed the pasty, the meat sticking in her throat as her head screamed at her, ‘Liar. Liar. Liar.’ She licked her lips, forcing a smile onto her face as she said to him, ‘I wanted to know more about Richard and Martin.’
There must have been something in her expression, because he didn’t pursue it. As he started to speak, she realized she had missed the start, her mind still turning over his question and her reply. Her lie. It had been no accident. It had been her fault.
‘… Richard’s dad, Martin, we worked together on the boats, he were a great fellow, bit older than my own dad but younger in spirit, if you know what I’m saying?’
She nodded, back with him, imagining them in the harbour together working on the boats.
‘Then his accident, he couldn’t be on the boats anymore, his legs.’
‘What happened?’
‘He fell, between two boats, crushed them, they never set properly.’
‘And Richard?’
‘His son,’ he said quietly, putting his pasty down on his plate, taking off his glasses to rub at the lens. ‘We were friends.’
He said this in a different voice and she was already bracing herself for what would come next. Then Bill smiled, popped his glasses back on. ‘Neither of us much liked the work. I got terrible seasickness and he was always happier on dry land. You know,’ he said, looking up suddenly, ‘it’s the oddest thing.’
‘What is?’
‘I thought I saw him, a few weeks ago now, up on Lynmouth Hill. I got such a shock, he was so old. I suppose he’d think the same about me, but it couldn’t have been him, not really, it’s been more than a lifetime. Maybe you conjured him!’
She felt a little buzz of shock that somehow she had stirred things up and was making Bill see people from his past he hadn’t thought of in years.
‘So who is “A”? She seems close to the pair of them?’
He took the postcard from her once more, turning it this way and that as he read the words again, slowly this time. His mouth formed the letter ‘A’ as if he were running through the alphabet and trying to find the right connection. Perhaps it had been another friend of theirs? An Alistair or an Andrew? She shook that name from her immediately, she didn’t want to think about him. She felt strongly that the writer was a woman.
‘Did he have a girlfriend?’
‘Was he stepping out with someone? That’s what we called it then.’ Bill chuckled, seeing her expression. He thought about it, raised one finger to his lip, his eyes scanning the air above her as he recalled those days.
‘There was a girl,’ he said. ‘She was new to the place, I remember that.’
Irina found herself edging forward in her chair. A couple of letters had hinted that she was new to the village, as if the writer was remembering finding their way around the place.
‘Abigail,’ he said suddenly, seeming far younger than his eighty or so years. ‘There was a girl called Abigail. It was years ago, mind. I might be mistaken.’
He wasn’t: she knew it. The moment he said the name, Irina felt a tingle in her limbs, a tiny shock, as if someone somewhere had switched her on. That’s right, it seemed to say, that’s the name.
‘Abigail.’ She tried it out, slowly rolling the name over in her mouth. She felt a spark of recognition and was certain. That was the girl, the girl who had written the postcards and letters with such warmth. Abigail, who seemed so full of life, so open and generous.
‘I didn’t realize she knew Richard and Martin. I’m amazed Richard kept that to himself, he was always one for talking…’ Bill chuckled as he said it, Irina feeling her toes curl in excitement. Then Bill stopped, a line appearing between his eyebrows. ‘I haven’t thought about that name in an age, they used to say… Well, we shouldn’t go into all that – what did you want to know?’ Bill asked, seeming to wrench himself back to the little café.
‘When do you think she was writing?’ Irina asked. ‘When were they courting?’ Her voice stuck on the old-fashioned word and she suddenly wished Andrew were there to nudge her with a smile. There was no address, no dates to go by, just the words ‘Lynton’, and the fact they were all written in the same hand.
‘Well it must have been the start of the decade, before it all, because Richard left after that.’
‘Before it all?’
‘Things changed after 1952.’ He tapped his lips with a short-stubbed pencil.
‘Why was that?’ she asked, frowning as she thought back over her history. It was the year before the Queen’s coronation, but beyond that she was blank.
Bill looked up, his eyes widening in surprise, as if the answer were perfectly obvious. ‘That was the year of the flood,’ he said simply, glancing again at the front of the postcard.
‘Flood?’ she repeated.
Bill stared at her, nodding. ‘You been living under a rock here? A terrible thing. Lynmouth was never the same again.’
‘How do you mean?’
He took the last bite of his pasty and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘I think you’d better come and see something.’
MARY
Joe was already in the pub before her shift started, sitting on a bench at the bar staring into his tankard. She moved around him, wiping down the surfaces, restocking glasses, checking the barrels. She imagined briefly that his eyes were following her around the room, exaggerated the sway of her hips, snatched glances at him through lowered lashes. She had wanted to fool herself into thinking he might be interested, but she couldn’t forget the way his eyes lit up when she pulled out the latest letter from Abigail, the wistful way he spoke about her, reminding her of the time she’d played carols on the upright before Christmas, when she’d dragged them all out of the pub to look at the full moon, hugging herself as she stared up into the navy sky.
Abigail had always been the one to turn heads; she had something about her, in an arched eyebrow, a snatch of laughter, a touch on a stranger’s arm. She shimmered. That was the word; everything seemed a bit brighter with her. Thinking about her now gave her an ache again. She had saved the money, had written to Abigail telling her she’d arrive on the fifth of August, felt her shoulders lighten with the thought that soon they’d be together again, that life could begin again, as if she’d just been treading water, waiting for things to start.
She topped Joe up, moving back behind the bar, pulled on the barrel tap to fill another glass, her mind busy with steamers and beaches and sunshine and foreign languages. She couldn’t help grinning as she tapped at the till and wiped the surface.
‘You’re happy, Mary,’ Joe commented, raising a glass her way.
She looked at him, feeling her chest expand. ‘I am.’ A small laugh burst from her. ‘I absolutely am.’
ABIGAIL
Abigail hadn’t the strength to reply and say no and as the fifth crept up she wondered just what she was going to do. Mary in the house? She wouldn’t allow it. She fretted, played with the fraying sleeves of her cardigan. Where could she take her? How would she explain?
She hadn’t left her sister’s side since Connie had returned home, white-faced and even thinner, her eyes filling with tears when she thought Abigail wasn’t looking. She had tried to hug her, but her sister froze in her arms, her body stiff as Larry watched them both. Connie was quieter than normal, silvery strands at her temples, her face unusually bare. They seemed to spend days in the living room, rain streaking the French windows, Edith bringing them endless pots of tea. Larry appeared, making Abigail slosh the liquid, move across the room to sit at her sister’s side. Connie, observing her, a small frown creasing her forehead as she looked at her husband, then back at Abigail.
She wouldn’t bring Mary to the house. The day arrived and she met the coach, bundling Mary down into the shade of a line of trees, along the path that ran next to the East Lyn river. Recent rain meant it was patchy with puddles, their shoes sticking and sucking at the earth, specks of mud flecking their calves as she kept up the pace, Mary shifting a carpet bag on her shoulder.
‘Wait,’ Mary called from behind her. ‘Abi, stop!’ she huffed.
Abigail didn’t slow up, pulled at a gate and beckoned her to follow. They were walking behind the cottages, the small gardens empty, sheets hanging, billowing in the breeze that wafted down the valley, the sound of a baby crying from the upstairs window of Richard’s neighbours. She pictured Beth rocking him back and forth, whispers in his ear, soothing nonsense so that his eyelids drooped and he slept, a fist curled tightly on top of her chest, his breathing calm. Abigail almost wanted Richard to look out of his bedroom, to see her and Mary so that she could share her secret. Instead, she continued on, with Mary straggling behind her, taking her out of the village to the path that led into the trees and up onto the flat stretch of the moors where Richard’s cottage stood, smiling crookedly at them from its perch overlooking the valley.
Mary was holding her sides, red in the face, one hand up to fan herself between snatches of words. ‘Some of us aren’t used to hills like these.’
‘It’s Park Street, just with a lot more trees and fewer shops.’ Abigail laughed, feeling lighter now that they were out of the village and away from prying eyes. She ran over to her friend, grinning like a lunatic as she seized her in a hug. ‘It’s good to see you, Mary.’
Mary shook her head, her breathing laboured. ‘What’s going on, Abi?’
It was too soon to tell her everything and she didn’t want to cloud the moment. ‘Come on,’ she said, hauling Mary’s bag up and carrying it the rest of the way. ‘We can talk there.’
‘At your sister’s?’
She stopped abruptly on the path, Mary stumbling into her. ‘We’re not going there; we’re going somewhere else.’
She could sense Mary’s questions all the way up the path, felt her eyes on her as she deliberately remained two paces ahead, moving the bag from shoulder to shoulder, her hair sticking to her dampening forehead.
They arrived at the cottage, the door snagging as she put a shoulder to it.
‘Who lives here?’ Mary asked, holding her bag to her chest and stepping into the dark interior.
Abigail turned and took a breath. ‘Right now… you do.’
Mary stood staring at her, slack-jawed, looking around the space as Abigail fretted over lighting the edge of the paper, the wood taking a while to catch as she blew on it. She had spent an hour scrubbing the table, the floor, but the room still seemed dingy and rough and she felt her toes curl inwards as Mary moved around it, running a finger along surfaces, half-opening her mouth and then closing it again.
Abigail made them both tea with lemon, heating the pan over the fire she’d built, revealing two Eccles cakes she’d bought in the village. They took their mismatched plates and cups out into the garden, which was littered with weeds, dandelions and flowers of every variety. It was an incredible sight and she enjoyed watching Mary’s face as she took it all in: the wild borders shot through with bright colours, the sea dancing with light as the sun smashed through the clouds before dipping behind them again, the colours faded and mute, always changing.
It was a strange day, the sun hot when it emerged, and they sat feeling the full heat of it on their cheeks, faces tilted towards the sky as they breathed out, sipping at their tea and wiping crumbs from the Eccles cakes off their skirts. The grass itched under their legs, sweat now collecting under Abigail’s knees and armpits. She didn’t want to leave their spot, she felt carefree once more, as if she and Mary were back on the Downs in Bristol, without a care in the world. She plucked a daisy from the ground, tucking it behind her ear, telling herself all this would work.
‘So, tell me,’ Mary said cocking her head to the left, her feet stretched out on the grass.
Abigail removed the daisy from behind her ear, tugging at each petal until she was left with just the green stalk. ‘I didn’t want you staying at the house.’ Her throat moved up and down as she swallowed.
‘I can see that.’ Mary laughed, clearly trying to lighten up her friend. ‘I wanted to see the peppermint chaise longue.’
Abigail didn’t return the smile and Mary’s mouth turned down too, her voice lower as she took her friend’s hand. ‘Just say it. What’s happened? What is it?’
Abigail took a breath, her chest rising with it, filling her with the confidence she needed perhaps. Then in a rush, as if she were expelling it, she said, ‘It’s my brother-in-law, it’s Larry. Well…’ She looked away, a frown on her face. ‘I don’t want you living there.’ Her neck felt hot and she flapped her hands like fans in front of her face.
Mary had started a fraction, her eyebrows shooting up. She licked her lips, a nervous tic that Abigail had forgotten about until that moment. ‘He’s violent?’ she asked in a slow voice, watching Abigail’s reaction as she said it, glancing at her bare arms, as if expecting to see faded bruises, finger marks.
‘No, he’s not violent.’ Abigail was speaking carefully, every syllable a struggle. ‘He’s… He’s something else.’ S
he felt the blush creep into her cheeks and looked away, out at the horizon, the solid line of Wales in the distance, not wanting to look back at Mary.
‘What’s he done?’
Abigail paused for a second. ‘He is… It’s small things sometimes, but, well, the other day he tried to… He was going to…’ She glanced up at Mary, not wanting to speak the words, but one look at her friend and she was transported back to Bristol, to all those times they had shared every thought. The desire to finally say something allowed it all to burst out in a great rush of fits and starts. She told her everything, the looks, the feelings, ending with Larry pinning her to the couch, how she’d run.
‘I’m frightened,’ she admitted, staring at the grass, tears pooling in her eyes before she swiped them away. ‘Stupid, I know. I know it sounds… Well, I know nothing…’
Mary knelt up and shuffled across to her, leaning down to wrap her arms around her, resting a cheek on her hair. ‘It’s not nothing.’
Abigail’s body juddered as she felt Mary’s comforting hug. ‘How silly.’
She felt Mary’s body stiffen. ‘It’s not silly.’
Abigail pushed her away, tried to smile, to laugh, dabbing at her eyes and wiping her nose. ‘I’m a mess.’ She took Mary’s hand, squeezed it tightly. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’
They looked back at the house then, the roof caved in in one corner, the tiles missing, broken on the floor around it, the cracked glass smeared with years of grime.
‘I know it’s not perfect,’ Abigail said, the worry creeping back into her voice, ‘but the weather is warm and I can try to bring some more things. It won’t be long and we can make a plan.’
Mary looked around her, one eyebrow raised. ‘Can you stay with me?’
‘Soon,’ Abigail reassured her, her voice firm, ‘we can leave. Exeter perhaps. I can find work as a secretary or a typist. I’m a little rusty but I can learn.’