“It’s me,” she piped up. “It’s me you want to do things to, isn’t it? Not Lorna.”
Her skin burned, not just because of what she’d said, but because she was speaking at all. A reedy little voice—a child’s voice—had no place here, amid all this adult murk and gore. It sounded ridiculous. Irrelevant. Puny. No wonder Mr. Deering looked straight ahead, as if he’d gone deaf. No wonder Lorna turned and stared at her, as if she were speaking in tongues.
Virginia wished she’d kept quiet. Jozef was staring at her as well now, and shaking his head slowly from side to side. Lorna was putting her hands over her mouth. “I’m just saying ...” Virginia bit her lip, remembering the feel of his spidery hand on her skin. “I just mean ...”
“No.” Jozef’s voice had gone husky, but he cleared his throat and stood up. “No, Virginia, please. Don’t say anything else. I won’t let you bargain with this man.”
Lorna tore her gaze away from Virginia. She seized Jozef’s waist and tried to pull him back down, but there was no holding him. Once he was up, he turned and kissed her on the eyes, nose, and lips, lingering for a moment, pressing his forehead against hers.
“Don’t go.” The words dropped like stones from Lorna’s mouth—dull and emphatic—and Jozef closed his eyes. Then he gathered up her clingy hands and laid them on her lap, as if they were a gift he wanted her to have.
Jozef started pulling a navy sweater over his head, but Mr. Deering ordered him to stop.
“Why?”
“Just do as you’re told.”
Jozef took the sweater off again and dropped it on the floor. Mr. Deering ran the gun’s snout over his prisoner’s shoulders and down his spine, in the shape of a capital T.
“Your skin is as white as a girl’s,” he said. “I’ll be able to see you better, like this, when I’m watching from the window.”
On his way to the door, Jozef touched Virginia’s arm, and she thought he was going to say something desperate, or reproachful: Take care of Lorna, perhaps, or May God forgive you.
Perhaps he thought about these things, because he hesitated for some time, but in the end, he kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, so softly and swiftly that the others wouldn’t suspect: “Remember the curlew.”
Virginia opened her mouth. She wanted to tell him that his story kept unfurling, word for word, across her mind, but her voice had deserted her and all she managed was a nod.
The three of them remained, still and silent, while Jozef’s footsteps faded down the stairs: Lorna bunched up at one end of the settee, Deering at the window with his hands tight around the gun, Virginia like a pillar of salt in the middle of the room.
After the front door had shut, their silence deepened, and it was only when Mr. Deering said, “There he goes!” that Virginia managed to stir. She lowered herself onto the creaky settee, as cautious as if she risked waking someone, and slid the parcel out of sight with her foot. Five minutes went by, and the roof slates rattled like bones in a gust of wind.
“A golden light was dancing, like a fallen star, on the edge of the sea,” Virginia murmured. “She raised the telescope to her eye and spied a great galleon, painted in rich colors, starred all over with lanterns and straining against its anchors for the off.”
“What was that?” Mr. Deering looked round, but Virginia made no reply, and he turned to the window again. Lorna hadn’t moved.
“Over the wall,” he said after a while, “and across the bumpy grass. So far so easy. Now let’s see how much your German’s love is worth.”
The daylight faded and Bracken’s blood spread across the floor. When it was too dark to see, even with the aid of the binoculars, Mr. Deering came away from the window. He fell into the rocking chair with an exhausted moan and let the shotgun slide from his hands. It clattered to the floor and slid a few inches toward the settee, but nobody bothered to pick it up. It was as if nobody cared about it, or believed in its power, and so they let it lie between their feet like an old toy.
They sat on and on through the evening without speaking a word. They sat for so long that Virginia thought they’d never move again. She imagined the attic in a hundred years’ time, and the three of them just the same, like figurines in a neglected doll’s house.
Lorna was the first to move. She sat up straight and said, “Get out of my house.”
Her tone was blank, but it must have carried some kind of authority because Mr. Deering got up immediately. He ran his palms over his jacket and moistened his lips as if to speak.
“Get out,” Lorna repeated, in the same lifeless way, and he did. He slunk away without a word. The singing wind hid his footsteps and the slamming of the front door, but they knew when he’d gone.
Virginia reached for Lorna’s hand. At first it felt cold and heavy, like a stone from the sea, but after a while it stirred, and then their fingers touched and linked and locked together.
NEW YEAR’S EVE 2015
My dear Joe,
I know it looks odd, an old woman disappearing into the marsh on a night like this. I’ve just poked my head out of the front door, one last time, and I’ll grant you it’s cold: a proper “bed, socks, and cocoa” sort of a night, as Mrs. Hill would have said. But you never knew Mrs. Hill.
It’s cold, but it’s not so very dark; I shall be able to see where I’m putting my feet. The wind has blown those low clouds away at last, and the sky is awash with stars. I suppose that’s why the snow streaks gleam so white along the wall and out on the marsh? They look like they’re lit from within, but I don’t know the science. There’s also a light on the horizon, very low and yellow, which might be a ship.
So yes, I suppose you’re bound to think it odd, but I do hope you won’t be all tragic about it. I was feeling a bit that way myself when I woke up this morning, and I even filled my dressing-gown pockets with bits and pieces to make myself sink more quickly. For one reason or another, I feel quite differently tonight and I’ve emptied my pockets again, which is why the kitchen table is so untidy.
Do whatever you like with the house and its contents, Joe. Salt Winds has served its purpose, and if you want to let it go then do so with my blessing. There’s one thing I should like you to keep, however, and you’ll find it beside this letter. I used to keep it tied up in a scroll—that’s how it was when your father gave it me—but the ribbon has frayed terribly over the years, and the last threads snapped just now as I was putting everything ready. No one other than me has ever read “Call of the Curlew”—not even your mother—so consider yourself privileged!
It was a good life the three of us had, wasn’t it, Joe? I wish I’d said as much to your mother, before she died, but I wasn’t conscious of it at the time.
Look after yourself, Jozef Leonard Friedmann, and enjoy what’s left of the whisky.
Love, Vi
P.S. Take care of Silver, won’t you? I know you’re not overly fond of each other, but he can’t have many years left, and I shouldn’t like to leave him orphaned.
The cat knows that Salt Winds is his for the night, and there’s nobody to shoo him off the kitchen table. He circles the clutter delicately, inspecting it all with trembling nostrils, but there’s nothing of interest. It’s just papers and photos, and a few pebbles.
Midnight, and fireworks flare over Tollbury Point. The cat’s ears twitch uneasily and he turns his head, but it’s only a distant rattle and a few dilute flashes that turn his eyes red and gold. He decides he doesn’t care; he’s seen it all before.
The wind has dropped, but every now and then a gust will shiver in from the sea, carrying some fragment—a feather, a straw, a grain of sand, the scent of snow, the dainty bone of a bird—by way of an offering to the house.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost I would like to thank my agent in the UK, Joanna Swainson, for her patience and wisdom, and for all her perseverance on my behalf. Huge thanks also to my US agent, Sarah Levitt, who has been so enthusiastic and supportive throughout.
Many thanks to the wonderful team at Tin House, in particular my very insightful editor Masie Cochran, but also Allison Dubinsky, Copyeditor, Erika Stevens, Proofreader, Diane Chonette, Art Director, Sabrina Wise and Priscilla Wu, Publicity, and Nanci McCloskey, Marketing.
Thank you to everyone at Transworld/Doubleday—especially my editor Suzanne Bridson—who was involved with the book in its UK incarnation as Call of the Curlew.
Thank you John Quirk, and all the Manx Litfest crew, for your interest and support over the years. Manx Litfest is a fantastic institution, and it seems to go from strength to strength every September. Long may it continue!
I would also like to thank Mark Lloyd, of Pillar International Publishing, who put me in touch with Joanna in the first place, and gave me encouragement when I needed it most.
I am extremely grateful to my friends Katherine Reed and Linda Harding, for taking the time to read early drafts of the book and for giving such perceptive and encouraging feedback.
Thank you to my Mum, Marian Barrow and my Dad, Paul Barrow—not just for reading and commenting on earlier drafts, but for giving me such a happy start in life and inspiring me with a love of books.
Last, but by no means least, thank you to my husband Christopher Brooks, without whose love and support I couldn’t possibly have become a writer.
“The Orphan of Salt Winds is a beautifully written, atmospheric novel—reminiscent of Jane Eyre with its wild, bleak setting and houseful of mysteries. As a child, the orphan Virginia struggles to understand the strange adult world of her new home at the edge of the salt marshes. As an old woman, she prepares to walk to her death in those very same salt marshes, and the tale that unfolds is bewitching and haunting. Virginia is one of the most deftly captured characters I have encountered.”
—EOWYN IVEY, author of The Snow Child and
To the Bright Edge of the World
“Wonderfully atmospheric, The Orphan of Salt Winds is the poignant story of adult intrusion into the private life of a child. Filled with unexpected twists, beautifully rendered characters, and told with great style, it will seep into your soul.”
—KEITH DONOHUE, author of The Stolen Child
“Set in rural England during World War II, The Orphan of Salt Winds is a gripping, gothic tale that explores the tragic repercussions of an observant child’s imperfect understanding of the adult world she’s been thrust into. Elizabeth Brooks’s story-telling is vivid and deft, and her characters will continue to haunt and fascinate readers long after they’ve reached the novel’s unexpected—and inevitable—conclusion.”
—JEAN HEGLAND, author of Still Time
PHOTO: CHRISTOPHER BROOKS
ELIZABETH BROOKS grew up in Chester and read Classics at Cambridge. She lives on the Isle of Man with her husband and two children.
Copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Brooks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact Tin House Books, 2617 NW Thurman St., Portland, OR 97210.
Published by Tin House Books, Portland, Oregon, and Brooklyn, New York
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Names: Brooks, Elizabeth, 1979- author.
Title: The orphan of Salt Winds / by Elizabeth Brooks.
Description: First U.S. edition. | Portland, Oregon : Tin House Books, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018041636 | ISBN 9781947793224 (paperback) | ISBN 9781947793231 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PR6102.R6628 O77 2018 | DDC 823/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018041636
First US Edition 2019
Printed in the USA
Interior design by Diane Chonette
www.tinhouse.com
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