Virginia buttoned her coat slowly and in silence, listening for the buzz that was bound to erupt in the sitting room once they’d gone—otherwise why had they been dismissed? But there was nothing; no sound at all.
Given the vastness of the views from Salt Winds, there was surprisingly little space for playing outdoors. If you went out the front door, as the children did, then you could either hang about in the circular drive, where the Deerings’ car was parked, or you could squeeze down the path between the house and the seawall. This would bring you to the back garden, which comprised a few square yards of scraggy grass, an overgrown hedge, a toolshed, and a row of terra-cotta pots, where Lorna and Mrs. Hill struggled to grow herbs.
They circled the big black car for a while, admiring it in silence. Virginia managed to touch it, quickly, while the other two weren’t looking, leaving a fingerprint on one of the rear wheel arches. Immediately she wished she hadn’t, because Mr. Deering was bound to notice, and even if he wasn’t cross he would think about her as he polished it away with a soft cloth and know she’d been curious.
Mr. Rosenthal was still working in the fading light; they could hear the whizz of the grinder at the back of the house. If he really was a German, then Virginia would be interested to see what he looked like; there was no point denying it. His tricycle stood to one side of the house, a large black machine with an integral trunk at the back and a sign that read Rosenthal Knife-Grinding and Repairs. Virginia watched as Theodore pinged the bell a couple of times and tried to open the lid of the trunk, but Juliet wasn’t interested; she just swung herself up onto the flint wall and sat facing the marsh, her book open on her lap.
Virginia seated herself on the wall beside Juliet—not too close—and tried to imagine what it would be like to be gifted with poise, not to mention a red beret and a proper bust and an age ending in -teen. She glanced sidelong, without moving her head, as Juliet searched for her place in the book, but the printed words flicked past, impossible to catch, let alone decipher.
Theodore clambered onto the wall, too, and began pacing up and down, touching the girls’ backsides with his foot every time he passed behind them. At first Virginia feared for her navy coat and shuffled closer to the edge, but this just goaded him, and he started prodding the base of her spine each time he went by. Virginia tried to grip the wall, but her mittens were slippery and the stones were smooth, and she couldn’t find any purchase. Theodore Deering obviously didn’t know—presumably he’d never been told—about the dangers of Tollbury Marsh; about how a body could sink under that earth, slowly and inexorably, like an insect in a pot of glue.
“Don’t!” she shouted, the next time he stopped behind her.
“Stop it, Pugface,” said Juliet vaguely as she turned another page. Theodore kicked his sister by way of reply, leaving a dusty shoe-print on the back of her coat. Juliet frowned dangerously and closed her book. Undeterred, Theodore plucked the red beret from her head and flung it over the wall. It landed on the marsh, a few yards out, suspended on a tussock of grass.
“All right,” said Juliet calmly, setting her book down on the wall and getting to her feet. Her curly hair, unconfined by the hat, flickered across her face. She seized her little brother by the wrist and held on to him with an implacable stillness, while he floundered like a landed fish. Virginia swung her legs over and jumped down on the safe side of the wall before running across the grass and standing to watch with her back against the house. The sister and brother looked like actors on a stage, backlit by the winter twilight.
“You’re hurting me!” Theodore squealed.
“Go and get it,” said Juliet.
“Oh no!” Virginia cried, pressing her hands to her mouth. “You mustn’t make him! It’s dangerous! He’ll drown!”
Juliet took no notice, but Theodore stared at Virginia and began to cry.
“If you don’t go and fetch my hat,” said Juliet evenly, “I’ll break your arm. No, really, I will.” And as if to prove her intent she wrapped the fingers of both hands around her brother’s wrist and stuck her elbows out, as if preparing to snap the bone. Theodore’s face ran with tears and snot, and his wet mouth gaped as he nodded his acquiescence. Juliet released him and he lowered himself onto the marsh, whimpering like a puppy.
Virginia covered her face with her hands, conscious that she must do something, but unable to move or speak. She waited for the shouts of terror and the hungry sucking sounds, and as she waited she framed the questions that Clem would be asking later on, and tomorrow, and for years to come: Why didn’t you tell them? Why didn’t you call us? Why didn’t you stop him? These questions would become her lifelong companions, pacing around in her brain hour after hour, like prisoners in an exercise yard, and for a split second she had a presentiment of the dreariness, the sheer tedium, with which they would go on tormenting her, even when she was grown-up; even when she was an old, old woman with white hair. The prospect of such a life sentence was overwhelming, and she bent double, crushing her face against her fists.
“Thank you, Pugface.” Juliet’s voice floated over Virginia’s anguish, like a bird over the marsh, so light and faraway that it hardly registered at first. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Let’s hope there’s no damage; it’d be a pity to have to spend your birthday money on a new one.”
Virginia straightened up and tried to breathe normally. Juliet was sitting on the wall, turning the hat in her hands and squinting at it to check for marks. Satisfied, she put it back on her head and stuffed stray locks of hair under the rim. Theodore was standing beside her with his hands in his pockets, scuffing the ground with his heel and scrutinizing Virginia through narrowed eyes. His shoes weren’t even muddied.
“Thank you for coming,” Lorna said, again, as they gathered in the hall. She’d already said it twice. “Lovely to see you all.” She had a kiss for Juliet, a kiss for Theodore, and a hesitant glance for Max, which didn’t discourage him from grabbing her hand.
“Lovely,” he echoed. “Let’s meet again soon.”
Clem leaned against the kitchen doorway, chewing his lower lip and keeping his distance from the farewells. Virginia could see Mrs. Hill behind him in the darkened kitchen, getting ready to leave for the night. Even though her hands were busy hanging up damp tea towels and unknotting the strings on her apron, she never took her eyes off the group in the hall. When Max Deering touched cheeks with Lorna, Mrs. Hill pressed her lips together so tightly that her mouth became a fine line, the cutting edge of a knife.
Perhaps it was just as well Mrs. Hill wasn’t watching from the same angle as Virginia, and couldn’t observe the light wink off Mr. Deering’s signet ring as he squashed a paper into his hostess’s hand. No doubt it was fortunate she didn’t see the smoothness with which Lorna received it and slipped it inside her sleeve.
“Hang on, Vi.” Clem stopped Virginia on the stairs as she made her way to her bedroom. The noise of the car was fading down the lane and everyone else had melted away; now she wanted to do the same. Salt Winds felt different after the Deerings’ visit, as if they’d left something of themselves behind, or taken something away. Virginia thought she’d go upstairs and read, and wait for the feeling to fade.
Clem placed his hand over hers. “I just want to explain something,” he began. “Something Deering said.”
He was going to tell her about Tollbury Marsh again, and how it would eat her up if she set foot beyond the flint wall. She sat down on the stairs, resigned to it, and Clem looked up at her through the banisters, like a prisoner. She wasn’t sure she could trust what he said anymore, and it was a strange sensation—much worse, and more surprising, than not being able to trust Lorna. On top of that, she kept wondering about the paper in Lorna’s sleeve and whether she had a duty to mention it.
“I know I go on about it, but I don’t want you thinking the marsh is safe. It’s true I’ve been out there myself, but that’s because I grew up with it and it’s in my blood. I know Tollbury Marsh; I know it li
ke the back of my hand. But even I wouldn’t venture far, and nine times out of ten I wouldn’t venture at all. It’s about understanding the weather, the tides, the mood ... not just understanding those things, but feeling them ... Vi? Are you listening?”
Virginia nodded awkwardly, with her chin on one hand. She was listening as she gazed out of the window at the space where the car had been and toyed with her lower lip. Or at least, if she wasn’t exactly listening, the sound of Clem’s voice was deep inside her mind, tugging away at her thoughts.
“It’s just ... Vi ... I don’t want you thinking I told you lies, or even half-truths.”
Mrs. Hill had left the house by the kitchen door, and now she was wheeling her bike down the lane toward Tollbury Point. Mrs. Hill knew what was what, and how the world worked, and where the truth lay. You could tell by the way she faced the night, with a shopping bag on either handlebar and a headscarf tied stoutly beneath her chin.
“Vi?”
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m listening.”
Bit by bit the darkness swallowed Mrs. Hill.
NEW YEAR’S EVE 2015
Virginia slips the chain, wriggles back the bolt, and braces herself for a rush of cold air. She will have to confront the girl, warn her off, threaten her if necessary. The day will not unfold as it should while someone is sitting outside Salt Winds. She’s tried banging on the windows, first with her knuckles and then with her stick. She even managed to force a downstairs window open and shout into the wind, but her voice amounted to little—the creaking of a rusty hinge—and the girl didn’t notice.
Virginia props the door open with the umbrella stand, and a flurry of snow blows across the hall floor as she sets off. It’s worse being outdoors by daylight. Nighttime had given the curlew’s message an aura of mysticism, draped the house and marsh in glamorous darkness, transformed the streetlights of Tollbury Point into distant planets. There’s none of that now, at half past eight in the morning on the last day of December. As Virginia winces her way down the front steps, one by one, she’s pained by the withered dandelion leaves poking up from the gravel, and the flattened lager can that’s blown in from goodness knows where and landed on the verge. Today shouldn’t be like this. Today has nothing to do with weeds, or litter, or moody teenagers.
As she approaches the wall, all she can make out is a bony back and a jumble of dark hair. Earlier on, the girl had been staring out at the marsh, but now she’s bowed her head onto her knees, as if she’s dozing. How old is she? Fourteen? Fifteen? The girl’s youth frightens Virginia. Their worlds are seventy years apart. It’s too big a gap. Virginia will say one thing and the girl will say another, and neither will understand a word.
“I need you to go away!” Virginia speaks slowly, batting at the whirling air with her free hand. “Please! Go away!”
The girl swivels her head as Virginia reaches the wall so that her cheek, rather than her forehead, is lying on her knees. Other than that, she makes no response, registering the old woman’s voice without appearing to know, or care, what it means. They stare at one another doubtfully.
The snowfall is petering out again. There’s never quite enough snow on Tollbury Marsh; never enough to throw a dazzling tablecloth across the flat vista and effect a transformation. Virginia has seen proper snow in the States, and in Germany, and of course that winter they spent in Switzerland, but it doesn’t happen here, at home. Tollbury snow might freeze you to the marrow of your bones, but it’s a measly affair to look at: an impure whiteness shadowed by dirty clouds, stippled with grass tips and stones and pools of mud. It’s never the kind of snow you regret spoiling with your footprints.
“Go away!” she repeats, helplessly. The child’s gaze is pink and she has obviously done a lot of weeping, but she’s stopped for the time being. She’s worn herself out. Virginia was expecting antagonism, but the girl has barely enough self-will to lift her head. If Virginia could somehow haul her to her feet, turn her in the direction of the lane, and order her to walk, she would probably obey—though her legs would likely crumple within a few yards.
“Who are you?” Virginia demands. A sudden gust flutters their snowy hair and clothes, and they shudder in unison.
“I’m so cold,” says the girl. Her voice, like her eyes, is wet and raw with tears, and she sounds like a much younger child. She sounds almost like a toddler, moaning about the nasty wind as if it were someone’s fault; as if it were someone’s duty to act.
“What are you doing here?” Virginia persists, but the girl has retracted like a snail, her head and knees wrapped inside her dark-blue denim arms.
“I’m so cold,” she cries quietly into her knees as she rocks back and forth. “I feel like I’m going to die.”
It’s enough to try the patience of a saint. Virginia, conscious of being no saint, grinds her stick against the hard earth. “Then you’d better come inside and warm up.”
There’s nothing gracious about the offer; it’s a calculation, pure and simple. Which will be the worse distraction? Watching the child down a mug of tea in the kitchen while she calls her parents and waits to be fetched? Or glimpsing her body from every front-room window, hunched on the flint wall and turning bluer by the second? Virginia can’t think of a third option. She feels she’s been cornered, and the injustice of it creates a hollow feeling in her chest.
“Come on then, hurry up. You’re not the only one.”
In fact, the girl is trying to obey, but it takes some effort to uncurl her frozen limbs and slide down from the wall. Her clothes don’t amount to much: a gauzy white shirt under a thin jacket, and jeans that leave her ankles bare. For a moment, Virginia fears that the short walk to the front door will prove impossible, and that she’s going to have to phone Joe for help, but it’s not so. The girl winces and hobbles a few steps, but that’s all it takes to get her young blood flowing and her body supple. They walk to the house arm in arm, though it’s not quite clear who’s supporting whom. The girl isn’t carrying anything—no bag, no purse, no coat—but there’s a flat rectangle wedged inside the pocket of her jeans. A phone? There’s some reassurance in that. It proves she hasn’t simply dropped from the sky or crawled out of the marsh.
“Do you have a name?” Virginia asks, because it’s instinctive to want to know, but she regrets the question as soon as it’s left her mouth. She shouldn’t be asking things like that today. Today is for snapping links, not forging new ones.
“Sophie,” the girl replies, her voice brimming with tears and shivers. Virginia wonders what she can offer, other than tea. Brandy would be the thing, but there isn’t any brandy in the house. There might be some whisky. She remembers drinking whisky a few Christmases back, and not liking it much.
They find the hall floor a mess, flecked with snow and sand and bits of dry grass, and Virginia moves the umbrella stand aside so that the door can swing shut behind them. The gusty, whistling noises fade, but they don’t disappear; Salt Winds is not—has never been—one of those cocoon-like houses that shield you from sight or sound of the bleak outdoors. There are too many drafts about the place; too many empty fireplaces; too many rattling windows. It’s not a house that welcomes guests, though Virginia hasn’t worried about that for a long time. Nobody calls anymore, except Joe.
Not that she’s going to start worrying about it now. Why should she? The girl—Sophie—is standing by the hall table looking lost and otherworldly, like an unattended princess. She seems too absorbed by her own troubles to pay attention to Salt Winds or its owner. Virginia is tempted to poke her with the stick; give her bare ankles a thwack; surprise her out of herself. Instead, she straightens out the crumpled rug for fear the child will trip. Those slip-on shoes are thinner than ballet slippers; they’re so thin that you can make out the shape of the girl’s feet, the curves of heel and instep, the delicate struts of the toe bones. Their soles are peeling off too, which is hardly surprising when you consider she’s walked down the lane all the way from Tollbury Point, if not farther.
“Come and sit.” Virginia takes Sophie by the elbow and steers her into the kitchen. In Mrs. Hill’s time the range would have been glowing and the black kettle would have been simmering on top, and there’d have been no better place to warm someone up. These days, the kitchen is probably the coldest room in the house. The microwave sees plenty of use, as does the electric kettle, but the range hasn’t been lit in years—decades, probably—and in wintertime, the big window is wet with condensation. Mrs. Hill would have hated that.
Virginia’s winter coat is hanging over the back of one of the chairs, and she shakes it out and tucks it around the girl’s shoulders. After that, there’s the kettle to fill and tea bags to find. Oh, she shouldn’t be doing this; it’s all wrong. Back to front and inside out. She’s supposed to be putting things away this morning, switching the electrics off, emptying the fridge. She stops a moment and holds on to the back of a chair, ready to weep with frustration. Sophie slumps into a seat, her eyes lightly closed.
She’s pretty. Or perhaps she’s just young? At Virginia’s age, youth and beauty look like much the same thing. The old woman has an urge to reach out and brush the wet tangle of hair from the child’s face, but she resists.
Virginia finds the whisky bottle on its side at the back of a cupboard, behind a tin of baked beans and a packet of powdered soup. It’s three-quarters full—perhaps a bit more—and over the years it’s acquired a greasy coating of dust. Virginia’s arthritic fingers twist and scrabble at the cork for some time before it comes loose, and when she sniffs at the opening the fumes tickle the back of her nostrils. Goodness knows if it’s within its sell-by date or not, but even if it makes the child sick, it’ll surely warm her up. Virginia pours a good couple of inches into a teacup and tops it up with hot water from the kettle. On second thought, she pours one for herself as well. The taste is better than she remembered, and she likes the way it scorches her insides; perhaps she’ll drink some more tonight before she leaves the house for good.
The Orphan of Salt Winds Page 5