Come Away With Me

by Sara MacDonald

  ‘I’m worried she might be having some sort of breakdown.’

  There was a silence, then James said gently, ‘Yes. It is possible. Try not to get too anxious. I’ll ring you back as soon I can.’

  James revved his old car and drove up the hill out of St Ives. It was the most glorious day and the bay below him glittered in sunlight. How often he had sailed with the children out of the harbour and Jenny, the youngest little afterthought, who seemed to have been born happy, would laugh with excitement: I love the sea, Dad, I love the sea. Oh! There’s nowhere in the whole world as lovely as this, is there?

  Bea used to say Jenny had been born joyful. James sighed.

  The joy had been snatched away so early in her adult life. Uneasily, he remembered their conversation last Christmas after Tom was killed.

  Jenny had travelled down with Flo on the train. The house was bursting with her sisters and their children. Both he and Bea had thought it was what Jenny needed: a time in the centre of her family where she could have all their support and love.

  It was a mistake. It had cruelly highlighted the fact that her sisters still had husbands and children, the people they loved. It isolated her, made her anxious that they should not feel guilty. Everyone had subconsciously tiptoed round her as if she had an illness.

  Jenny had taken herself off for long walks, getting up early to avoid anyone offering to go with her. She skirted the windy winter town or roamed the cliffs towards Zennor. She sat in her old duffel coat in the shelter of the rocks watching the surfers; spent hours in the tiny Barbara Hepworth museum sitting in the cold but peaceful garden.

  On Christmas Eve James had accompanied her on the cliff path to Lelant. They had taken binoculars to watch the birds on the estuary. It was a walk they used to do when she was a child. They would often set off to catch the little singletrack train that ploughed between St Ives and the Saltings.

  That day, as they walked on the long stretch of beach at Porth Kidney, the wind had buffeted them nearly off their feet. Seagulls screamed and wheeled around them, and the wind was so cold it snatched their breath away. Jenny had marched beside him, loving it, James knew, because the discomfort made her concentrate on that and not on the icy place within her.

  He had reached out to take her hand and said, his words torn and snatched by that irritating wind, ‘I feel so helpless. I want to do something to make you feel better and I’m powerless. I can do nothing.’

  Jenny had turned to him, trying to smile. ‘You’re here, Dad. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying so hard not to depress everyone, especially the children. It’s not fair on them. I would have been better working over Christmas, but I knew Bea would have a fit if I stayed in London. Really, it would be better if I got back home as soon as possible. Without my work I’ve got nothing. When I’m working I can just think about Tom and the things we used to do together, Tom and me. It’s all I want, Dad. It’s all I want. I’m trying to be jolly, but I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can’t, darling, and no one expects it. If it’s what you want I’ll drive you back straight after Christmas. But you have to face the future, not just dwell on the past. I’m concerned about your health. You’re not eating or sleeping, and it’s getting painful to look at you. I hear you roaming about the house at night. Will you let me give you some vitamin injections to build you up and something to help you sleep, just for a while?’

  They were moving up into the sand dunes to get out of the wind and Jenny turned to him. ‘Yes. OK. But don’t let me take any sleeping pills back to London with me.’

  James had looked down at her, shocked. ‘Oh, Jen, are you that depressed?’

  Jenny had been silent before whispering, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I think you should see someone…’

  ‘No, Dad. Come on, I hardly need anyone to tell me why life doesn’t seem worth living, do I?’ She had tucked her arm in his. ‘You mustn’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. I’ll get through, but I’m better when I’m working flat out. There’s no point spilling my heart out to complete strangers when I’ve got you and Mum, sisters, Danielle and Flo…’

  James had turned. ‘If only you would. If only you would weep and talk and get angry and let us comfort you, but…’

  He had stopped as her face closed against him. ‘It’s not my way, Dad.’

  She had moved off towards the wild sea, leaving footprints in the damp sand, which filled with water.

  As James joined the dual carriageway he said a silent prayer. He loved all his children equally, but Jenny had been a complete surprise to both him and Bea, and he could still see and hear in his head the funny, happy little curly-haired child she had been, lifting her skirts and running, laughing, through the safe shallows of her childhood.

  NINETEEN

  Ruth was playing Bach on her CD player: Eva Marton singing ‘Ave Maria’. It depressed Adam, sitting in the window seat looking out at the creek. Usually he loved the piece, but today it made him sad and restless. He was not enjoying this holiday and he had been looking forward to it for weeks.

  Today, for the first time it seemed as if the sun might come out. There was heavy dew glittering on the edges of the grass outside. It would still be cold, he could feel it in the air. He jiggled his knee up and down, wondering what he would do today.

  Ruth sat behind him at the table going through some papers for a lecture. Next time they came he thought he might ask if he could bring Simon or Dave from the orchestra with him. As he sat there the sun broke through the mist and cloud, and lit up a patch of clear blue sky and glimmered on the full tide enticingly. Adam felt his spirits lifting.

  He knew why he was depressed. His early mornings had been spoilt by his fear and he despised himself. He had never been afraid of going out into the dark mornings on his own before. Half the excitement of it all was the mystery of the creek at dawn, but that had been before…

  He felt his skin prickle on the back of his neck at the memory of it. Before the ghost had come to haunt him. Then the other voice, the voice that smirked at his nerdiness, whispered, Ghosts don’t live in camper vans.

  Adam looked up to find his mother watching him.

  ‘What is it, Adam? You’re very quiet and you didn’t go out this morning. Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Well, something’s wrong.’

  Adam got up and walked round the room, lifting things and putting them back without seeing them. Half of him wanted to tell his mother about being spooked and the other half didn’t want to admit it.

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ he asked finally.

  Ruth looked relieved. She smiled at him. ‘No. What’s spooked you?’

  ‘When I go out in the early morning I feel as if I’m not alone. I feel as if someone is following me. I never really see anyone, but it’s like I feel them there, watching me. I want to turn round all the time as if someone is behind me and sometimes I see a black shape of something in the darkness.’

  Ruth stared at him. ‘That’s why you didn’t go out this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ Adam was suddenly angry. ‘I know it sounds stupid, Mum. I know it sounds sad, but it’s the first time I’ve ever felt scared in my whole life and that’s the truth.’

  Ruth got up, came over and squeezed in on the window seat with him. ’Creeks are terribly eerie, you know. We’ve been enveloped in mist nearly every day since we arrived. It’s no wonder you’ve felt scared. When you go out it’s still as black as pitch, with nothing but those mournful waders crying. I’m not surprised you see shapes in the dark. Get up later, when it’s lighter. What birds can you see in the mist and dark?’

  ‘It’s not so dark when you’re out there. Anyway, we’ve been coming here for years and I’ve always got up early to go out and I’ve never been scared before and…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Forget it, Mum.’ Adam got up. ‘The sun’s out. I want to get out there and fish.’

  ‘What we
re you going to say? Come on, Adam, tell me.’

  ‘Only…that when I go out in the early morning there seems to be a camper van parked by the boats, or at the other end of the creek. You know, further on from where that special school is.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I sometimes see this dark shape getting back inside and driving away. I’ve gone up to my bedroom and watched.’

  Ruth’s face changed. ‘There’s nothing very ghostlike about a camper van, Adam. So what are you saying? That someone is following you in the early mornings?’

  Adam didn’t answer. Then he said under his breath, ‘I don’t know, Mum.’

  Ruth got up and the sun streamed in through the window. ‘Right, Adam, I don’t want you going out on your own in the early mornings. If you see this camper van again, come and tell me. Is it ever here during the day?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but we’ve been out quite a lot. Once I thought I saw it at Perranporth when we were there, but I could have been wrong.’

  ‘OK. If I see it I’m going to investigate. Where are you going to fish?’

  ‘Down by the old barn at the head of the creek. That’s where the locals fish. I’m not nervous in the day, Mum.’

  Ruth ruffled his hair. ‘I know you’re not. In any case there are plenty of people walking dogs out there. If it’s any comfort, Jenny and I used to spook ourselves down here as children…and you know it might just be another birdwatcher.’

  ‘Yeah, it could be. I’ll go and get my fishing stuff.’

  ‘I’ll bring lunch down to you. We’ll have a picnic.’

  His mother was rummaging in the cupboard for old newspapers when he came back. He could feel her watching him as he walked down the path. As he turned the corner he glanced across at the space where people parked their cars. There was no van.

  Adam knew his mother would come straight out here as soon as he disappeared, just to make sure. In the sunshine his fears seemed far-fetched and childish, and he wished he hadn’t said anything.

  TWENTY

  I walked the narrow path through the reed beds at the far end of the creek away from the houses. Today the sky was clear blue, cloudless, but the cold bit into me. As I walked, the sun began to reach through my coat and warm me. I felt as light as air, as if I were floating along, as if my feet were not touching the ground; as if I were moving very fast covering the ground without effort.

  I stopped at the small bridge where the water tumbled into a small waterfall to join the creek. Long, long ago Jenny and Ruth played Pooh sticks here. Jenny and Ruth? Longago children, happy and carefree. Pictures of them floated across my mind.

  What am I doing here? My heart beat so fast it hurt. I tried to think, but my mind would not clear. I went on walking. I walked on down the path and came to the only cottage at this end of the creek. I remembered it. It used to be derelict, now it was a renovated modern house with a double garage. Strange, it looked, on the edge of the woods; out of place, as if someone had dropped it in the wrong spot by mistake.

  I stared at it, remembering the crumbling stone walls with heavy clumps of ivy clinging to the cracks, and a roof that had caved in and was covered with moss and flowers that grew in the sills. The ruined house never got any sun and neither did this ugly modern house, which looked dark and unloved despite the yellow paint.

  I passed it quickly. The path turned to the right and led through the woods. I climbed up the chiselled steps cut into the tree roots on to a higher path that ran above the creek. The trees grew close here, close and dark, and I felt myself melting into them, gliding over fallen brown pine needles as soft as cotton wool until I was at one with the trees, as if I were tree and shadow.

  The creek glittered at a steep angle below me and I heard singing. Clear through the wood someone was singing in a high, childish voice although the words were lost to me. When the singing stopped there was a smattering of clapping, then a pause and someone started to play a recorder. Slowly I made my way towards the sound.

  The trees grew thinner by a clearing and beyond it there was a small gate in the middle of a hedge. The sounds were coming from the other side. I moved towards the gate and saw the old manor house, which stood on a steep slope facing the wood and creek. A lawn sloped down to the latch gate and not far from the gate, on an even patch of grass like a small terrace, a semicircle of people were sitting on chairs playing musical instruments.

  The terrace had been made to catch the early morning sun. The people were swathed in coats and scarves. They were making a lot of noise and seemed excited. Then I saw they were children. The recorder player stopped and made an awkward bobbing bow, and the others put down their instruments and clapped.

  I watched them. I saw something was wrong. Their movements were disjointed. They seemed unable to keep still. Some children got up and ran around in circles, their limbs flaying out at odd angles.

  A man with a beard called out, clapped his hands for order. He got the children sitting down again and a tall, lanky boy started to play the violin. He played beautifully. The music was haunting and the children swayed and rocked to the sound. He played for two or three minutes, then his concentration suddenly went and he stopped mid piece and stared straight across into my eyes.

  The sudden silence shivered, unbroken. I held his eyes and grief rose up in me like an echo. His fear was mirrored in me. I felt the form of his fleeting, terrifying confusion.

  The man with the beard touched his arm. So soft were his words to the boy that I could not hear them. The children rushed from their chairs and surrounded the boy. They threw their arms round him, making small noises of comfort and encouragement. They patted and stroked and keened to him until he jerked back into life.

  I turned and ran back into the closeness of the trees. I followed the path of soft pine needles as it wound back down to the water and into sunlight. It felt as if the boy’s eyes followed me into the shadows. What am I doing? What am I doing? Someone tell me.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Adam and Ruth took the path through the woods. This route was quite new and part of a Job Creation scheme. It didn’t lead anywhere but meandered in an arc above the water and came out where the awful yellow house now stood.

  Not many people used the new route, they preferred to stay on the open creek path rather than enter the shade of the trees, but it had been a boon for the Manor House, a school for autistic children. The children and teachers could now wander through a little latch gate straight on to the creek.

  As they passed the gate Ruth and Adam saw a semicircle of chairs with musical instruments lying abandoned on them, looking poignant and incongruous.

  They walked in a circle and came back to the old barn where Adam had been fishing without success. They sat on a bench and finished their sandwiches and apples in the sun. Adam checked his line. Not a bite.

  Ruth held her face up to the thin warmth of the sun while Adam took something revolting off his line and put something else on to the hook and cast again. He was humming and Ruth smiled, feeling relaxed.

  ‘OK,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘I’d better go back to the cottage and garden. Heaven knows when we’ll be down again. I’ll see you later, hon.’

  Adam turned and grinned. ‘Don’t bank on fish for supper, will you?’

  ‘You’ve still got time!’ Ruth felt relieved that he was happy again.

  Walking back to the cottage she saw that the best of the day was nearly over. Clouds hovered and the persistent mist was going to roll in again. She could almost feel its damp hand touching her face and coming up through her feet. She hurried to get her plants in.

  Adam was fishing just beyond the ivy-clad barn. He had been fishing for a long time as if he were determined to catch something. I watched him from the trees, just inside the wood where the pine needles were dry. Ruth had gone and Adam was alone again. I stared at the back of his head. It was so familiar, the angle at which he held it, the shape of it, the way the hair grew, just like Tom’s. I loved wa
tching him.

  There were no walkers on the paths and the sun was sliding in and out of cloud. The warmth of the day would soon slip away.

  Adam placed his rod between two sticks and turned. He looked up into the wood where I was sitting and he shivered, pulling a sweater over his head in a swift movement. Then he turned quickly back to his rod, fiddling with the bait on the end of his line. I saw that his shoulders had suddenly become hunched and tense, his movements nervous.

  My throat caught. A pulse beat painfully in my head. He knew he was being followed and watched. I was frightening him.

  I shivered too. The boy playing the violin had hurled me back from some strange place. His eyes, staring straight into mine, had registered the bewilderment of a life he could not quite grasp; a world where everyday actions become a constant battle with fear.

  I recognised, for a bleak and startling instant, the dark and lonely place he inhabited. A place where you can no longer control your thoughts or your actions or judge them. A world where it is impossible to relate to anyone; where the simplest decision is too difficult. In the boy’s eyes I caught a brief reflection of myself and with horror realised I might be going out of my mind.

  I was following and scaring the one beloved person left to me. Ruth and Adam had walked past me as I lay among the fir needles while the fragile rays of the sun touched my face. I could have called out, almost touched them, but I did not. I had trembled with wanting to shout, Help me. Help me.

  Now I knew there was only one thing I could do. I could not leave Adam frightened. I must reassure him that no one wanted to hurt him, let him know it had only been me following him. Only me.

  I picked up my coat and moved out of the wood across the deserted path to the small windowless stone barn. Pressed against the wall, I looked at him through the gaping hole. I was so near to him. I would call out to him in a minute. I would call out that it was only me, Jenny, but somehow it seemed hard to find my voice as if it had disappeared inside me.