Behind him he heard the faintest chink of bottles.
He spun round. The smell of salt and tar seemed to fill the attic. He heard other sounds: laughter, the faintest of voices. More clinking. He looked out to the garden, thinking they must have come from there, then back to the attic, and gasped.
In the semicircle of candles stood three shapes, almost like bodies, transparent as moths’ wings, their arms hovering around each other. An old man and a woman, but he couldn’t make out their faces, and another much younger woman with flowing curly hair.
Nathan blinked. The shapes began to circle round and round in perfect harmony, as if they were dancing to the beat of a drum or the cry of a violin, their heads flung back in delighted silent laughter.
The circling grew faster and they began to spin. The shapes became a single whirling spiral of light.
Then they slowed, stopped, separated, climbed the arc of moonlight – and vanished through the window into the garden and the dark shimmer of sky.
Nathan’s legs gave out beneath him. He sat at the desk, trembling, too frightened to move, to look round again. He spread his arms over the wood, comforted by its warmth, laid his head down. Covered in moonlight, he seemed to sleep.
He woke, minutes later, deeply refreshed, as if he had been swept out to sea, dived into its utmost depths, reached into the centre of his own being.
He stood up, looked down at his feet, at the attic floor. He stooped to touch one of the candles. The wax at its base was still warm. He could smell the sharp, invigorating cleanness of its burned wick.
And then he noticed.
The candle at the tip of the semicircle had vanished. So wherever Rosalie had gone, she had taken it with her.
Eight
Nathan stumbled back to Tregenna along darker streets. The parties were over, their guests gone, the curtains drawn, the lights out. Empty beer cans rattled in the gutter.
But the woods, more alive than ever, crawled with secret mutterings. The wind sang in his ears, colder, insistently. Clouds swept across the sky, blotting and releasing the moon. A wild cat, growling, shot in front of him, vanished into the thicket.
He reached the hotel, climbed through his window and crashed exhausted on to the bed. Strange muddled dreams swelled his mind: of terror in the woods, the shrieking owl, Rosalie’s chanting, the candlelight, her halo of bright hair. A moth-like apparition spun before his eyes, laughing as it twirled.
He woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat, the smell of salt and tar in his nostrils.
“You look tired,” Mum said frostily as he stomped towards their breakfast table. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“No.” He slumped into a chair.
“If it’s any consolation, neither did I.” She rustled her newspaper. “I suppose you think this ‘Benjamin Smith’ letter” – it was lying beneath her plate – “is a way of getting me to change my mind about moving. I have to say I’m very unimpressed.”
“You take your readers seriously.” Nathan felt the old anger begin to bubble in his stomach. “Why can’t you listen to me?”
“I do listen to you. You’re the absolute fixed-point centre of my life. You know that in your heart, but you just don’t want to admit it. I care more about you than all my readers put together.” Her hand shook as she poured her tea. “But they’re grateful to me for my help. You should see some of the thank-you letters I get. I can change people’s lives with a bit of sympathy and understanding. And I want that to continue. It’s got to continue, it’s my career and our livelihood. So don’t make a mockery of it by pretending that people write to me as a silly joke.”
Nathan didn’t answer. He wolfed his way through an enormous breakfast while Mum watched him, drank tea and messed about with a piece of toast. Eventually she said, “What are your plans for today?”
He avoided her eyes. “I’m going to Grandpa’s. I saw some paints in the art shop on the waterfront. I thought he could buy me some for Christmas.”
“Well, it’ll be nice of him if he does.” She folded her serviette. “Perhaps you’ll have the grace to apologise for your behaviour last night. I was thoroughly ashamed of you.”
“Sorry.”
“You hide away in your room, sulking like a three-year-old. You’re nearly fourteen, for God’s sake. Why don’t you grow up and act your age?”
“Don’t go on about it.”
She pushed back her chair. “I’m going to Waterberry’s Estate Agents. Would you like to come?”
Nathan stared at the marmalade. “No, thanks.”
“Right. Look, Nathan, I need to make one thing clear.”
“What?” With an effort he met her eyes.
“You’re moving down here with me, whatever we buy and wherever we find it. Of course I want you to like the place. But I will not have you kicking up at every opportunity like a spoilt brat.”
He scowled. “I’m not a—”
“Then don’t behave like one. I’ve done my best to see your point of view. It’s high time you saw mine.” She gathered her bag, the letter, her papers. “I’ll see you for lunch in Kathy’s Bar. One o’clock. And don’t be late.”
She brushed past.
Nathan flicked at crumbs until they spattered the carpet.
That’s all I need. A lecture over scrambled eggs. After the night I’ve had. What does she know?
He stood up and slouched over to a window. Two men were packing bags into their car, checking some papers, zipping up their jackets. He watched them but he thought about something else.
He thought about Jake Croft. About something Grandpa had said. Something nasty he hadn’t quite remembered. Maybe if he said sorry, got him talking, he could jog his memory. Maybe if he managed to get to the bottom of what was wrong with Jake Croft, he could go back to Rosalie and help her properly. It was worth a try.
And he had nothing better to do.
Grandpa opened the door. “Nathaniel! Lovely surprise. And good timing. Just baked some scones. Would you like one?”
“You bet.” He followed Grandpa across the hall, paused at the living-room door. “Gramp! The tree’s fantastic!”
“I turned on its lights when I got home last night and it looked an absolute treat.” He pulled out a kitchen stool. “Sit yourself down.” He sliced into a piping-hot scone. “Have this with blackberry jam.”
Nathan took a deep breath. “Sorry about yesterday. I was just so angry—”
“Apology accepted.” Grandpa rattled a cup and saucer at the sink. “I know how you feel—”
“Do you? It’s not just any old cottage, Gramp. It’s special because I found it and I thought I was getting things sorted—”
“I know you did. But you can’t wave a magic wand and expect a fairy godmother to come jumping out of the hedgerow. Sometimes things don’t work out the way you planned. You must stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I’m not, Gramp—”
“You have been. Life’s tough. You win some, you lose some. You can’t spend it wishing things hadn’t happened.”
“But everything’s so unfair—”
“Look.” Grandpa reached for a cloth. “When your Grandma died, I could’ve gone to pieces. I didn’t. I picked myself up and dug the garden for three days, sobbing my heart out. Then I taught myself to run the house like a battleship. I learned to cook, got out, saw friends. I go to my old newspaper office every week, catch up with the gossip, read the latest copy. I walk in all weathers, sing in the church choir. … Get it?”
“It’s different for you, Gramp.”
“Claptrap. It’s exactly the same. Grandma lives in me all the time, every minute. I love her to bits, always have. But I’ve got to get on with life, like she would’ve done. Moping, whining, making other people’s lives a misery won’t get you anywhere.”
Nathan looked at his plate. “It’s not just that Dad’s left. It’s my best friend Tom and me. We’ve always been together. Now Mum’s going to split us up as well.
”
“Friends can’t be split up,” Grandpa said swiftly. “Not if you want to keep in touch. Phone, write, send an email. All this high-tech stuff makes it so easy. You can see each other in the holidays. Love never dies – as long as you keep it alive.”
Nathan chewed the last of the scone, licked the jam off his fingers. “Gramp, last night, when we were talking about the cottage.”
“Yes?”
“You said something about Jake Croft. Have you remembered anything?”
“Damned if I have.” Grandpa sat down at the table, his bony hands round a mug of coffee. “My memory’s not what it used to be. It must have been a fair while ago.”
“How long?”
Grandpa shook his head. “No idea.” He frowned. “Quite a time.”
“And when you ran the paper, would you have written about it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t, because I was the editor of the whole thing. But yes, one of my reporters would have been on the case.”
“So if I wanted to find out about Jake Croft,” Nathan persevered, “I’d need to track down a copy of the article.”
“I suppose you would.” Grandpa looked at him doubtfully. “Why are you so interested?”
Nathan flushed. “The day after I found the cottage, I went back to write down the ‘for sale’ number. I bumped into Jake Croft in the garden. He nearly beat me up.”
“Did he indeed!” Anger flashed in Grandpa’s eyes. “And how is finding out about him going to help?”
“It just is,” Nathan said firmly. “Call it unfinished business.” He rushed on. “At school we’re doing this project on local news and how you can research it. I thought I could kind of combine the two.”
Grandpa hesitated. Then he said, “I’ll let you into a secret. Guess what’s lurking in my attic.”
“What?”
“Thirty years’ worth of my newspaper.”
“Gramp! You’re joking!”
“I’m deadly serious. Every so often Grandma would threaten a clear-out. I’d rush up and tidy the St Ives Recorder into their proper years, dust them, arrange them in their box files. I never let her throw them away.”
“You mean I could look through them?”
“I reckon you could.” Grandpa gave his lopsided smile. “So! The Henry Gorst Archive will finally serve its purpose! … There’s just one thing, though.” He touched Nathan’s shoulder. “I hope you like spiders.”
“Good grief!” Grandpa said. They had climbed the rope ladder into the attic and stood blinking in the half-light. “It’s even more of a mess than I remembered. … Mind you, I don’t suppose I’ve tidied anything away since Grandma died.”
Nathan picked cobwebs from his hair. “Can I look at the Recorder up here?”
Grandpa ran his hand along one of the walls, found a switch and turned on a naked overhead light. “It’ll be a lot quicker than carting the files up and down that rope ladder!” He moved over to a corner. “The collection starts here, on the left-hand side. But you won’t need to check any of that until at least here.” He dragged a large green box file from a shelf. “Why don’t you start with this?” He dumped the file on the floor.
A cloud of dust swirled into Nathan’s eyes. “Right.” A steely determination filled him. “Thanks, Gramp. Leave me to it.”
“Let battle commence.” Grandpa disappeared down the ladder. White wisps of hair bobbed for a moment from the floor. “If you need me, stick your head out and yell.”
“Right, Nat.”
Nathan heard Dad’s voice.
“A lesson in research. Don’t just plunge in and muddle through. Think it out. Look at one whole newspaper and work out its format. You’ll find the interesting articles in the front, with stuff like letters and editorials in the middle, and sport and all the ads at the back.
“If Jake Croft was a bad boy and got into big trouble – enough for Grandpa to remember something nasty – then it’ll probably have made headlines. Not necessarily front-page news, but something meaty on pages two or three.”
Nathan knelt on the floor, opened the box and pulled out the first newspaper.
“And don’t read anything properly. It’s tempting to get involved with the items of news. Just skim-read the headlines, fast as you can. Look for the name Croft and nothing else. Keep going.”
January. The headlines described vile weather, a storm at sea, the stalwart work of the RNLI, a wrecked ship, lost lives. Mourners stood by the shore as rain poured down on them, their tears at one with the elements.
He flicked the paper open and scoured its format. Yes: he could limit himself to the first couple of pages – at least the first time round.
An hour later he’d checked twelve box files and was none the wiser. His back ached, his shoulders throbbed, his knees were sore, his hands grimy with newsprint. He closed his eyes. Black letters sparked in his head. He stared around the attic.
Nothing, Dad. Not a shred. I’ll have to go back over my tracks. Either check everything again or start a year earlier.
“Stick with it, Nat. Patience usually pays off in the end. Where will you start this time?”
Nathan craned his neck at the sagging shelves. I’ll go back a shelf. I may have to try again tomorrow. I’ve got to meet Mum at one o’clock and before that I want to go to the art shop with Grandpa.
He stood up, stretched his back and shoulders, flexed inky fingers, brushed the dust off his jeans. He dragged another two box files from the shelf.
Come on, Mr Croft. I know you’re in here somewhere.
Ten minutes later, Nathan found Jake Croft. He’d made front-page headlines after all. The photograph startled him: Croft’s face, younger, more powerful. His smile, threatening, almost malicious, leered from the page. He wore no hat this time: his straight dark hair fell in thick strands over his forehead.
I’ve found him, Dad!
“Congratulations, Nat! What does the article say?”
Nathan blinked as the words danced in front of his eyes: the headlines he’d hoped for and yet, somehow, the news he’d been dreading to find. His hands started to sweat. He sat back on his heels, clutched the faded yellow paper to his chest.
Please God, don’t let them mention Rosalie.
He began to read:
OWNER OF CROFT’S BOAT YARD ARRESTED
Mr Jake Croft, the owner of Croft’s Boat Yard, was charged yesterday morning with receiving stolen goods. Customs officials, who swooped in a dawn raid on the yard, found a large haul of expensive French wines and tobacco in a boat Mr Croft had been repairing for a client. Mr Croft has refused to reveal his client’s name.
Mr Croft has protested his innocence. He claimed that an old acquaintance had a grudge against him and had planted the goods. He said he could not be held responsible.
Croft’s Boat Yard, which has been in Mr Croft’s family for several generations, will be closed until further notice.
Mr Croft’s wife, Moira, a well-known Cornish painter, who has a ten-year-old daughter, said she was devastated by the news. “I shall fight every step of the way for my husband’s release. He would never get mixed up in petty smuggling. Croft’s Boat Yard has always had an impeccable reputation. There has been some terrible mistake.”
Nathan slammed the paper shut, threw it into its box and dragged the files back to their shelves. His mouth tasted of ink.
He stared down at his feet, where a clutch of more recent newspapers sat waiting to be filed. Automatically, he gathered up a bundle and shoved them on a shelf, coughing at the swirls of dust. He bent again for a second pile – and stopped.
Staring up at him was a photo of a woman so like Rosalie it made the breath catch in his lungs. She had the same slender face, the cloud of pale hair.
Nathan shivered. Those whirling shapes I saw last night – the younger one. That was Moira Croft. … So I did see ghosts. … I can’t wait to tell Rosalie. …
He crouched over the paper.
LOCAL ARTIST FOUND DEAD IN M
YSTERIOUS CLIFF FALL
Moira Croft, a well-known local artist, was found dead yesterday morning on the cliff plateau at the bottom of her garden. Her twelve-year-old daughter, Rosalie, is said to have found her, although the exact circumstances are still unclear.
Mrs Croft’s husband, Jake Croft, formerly of Croft’s Boat Yard, is currently in France. Every effort is being made to trace him and bring him home.
Moira Croft will be much missed. She lived all her life in St Ives and established an excellent reputation, both here and abroad. A small exhibition of her work was held at the Tate St Ives gallery last year.
A full obituary will appear next week.
Nathan picked up the paper and squashed it into the pile on the shelf. He’d found more than he’d been looking for, he thought bitterly. He’d tell Grandpa about Croft’s Boat Yard – but he’d keep the stuff about Moira Croft to himself.
“Any luck?” Grandpa was stirring a pot on the stove.
“You could say that.”
Grandpa looked at him. “Heavens, boy, you’re filthy.”
Nathan slumped on to a kitchen stool. “Ever heard of Croft’s Boat Yard?”
“Of course! Now I remember!” Grandpa handed him a wet flannel. “Here, wipe your face. … Famous yard, traded on the coast for donkey’s years. Jake Croft inherited it when his father died. Not a bad little business, but Croft got involved with some shady dealings, became greedy, blew the lot. The police closed the yard down. Lots of people lost a lot of money. Big money. It costs a great deal these days to build even the smallest boat.”
“You mean Croft was guilty?”
“Seems like it. They made him a bankrupt. He got eighteen months in jail, if my memory serves me right.”
Nathan looked up at him. The dust of the attic, the taste of ink and now the heat of the wet flannel made his stomach churn. “What happened to the yard?”
Girl in the Attic Page 7