The Silence Before Thunder

by Kathy Shuker

  Charlotte left and Jo put her fingers to her eyes, pressing them gently, then massaged her temples, easing the tension out. She hadn’t made a decision. She was beginning to wonder if it was her decision to make after all. Just at this moment she doubted everything. There was no way she could fill in for Eleanor if that was needed, tutoring a writing workshop or doing anything else her aunt usually did. Lawrence knew that too; that’s why he’d said it.

  She wandered down the hallway to Eleanor’s study. It was more Eleanor’s private sanctuary than anywhere else in the house. The room held its familiar clutter. Eleanor kept everything: every book and notebook, every interesting article or photograph of people or places. When Jo had suggested dryly - years ago - that half of it could be thrown away with no loss, her aunt had claimed it as a virtue. It was astonishing, she claimed, how often she found something which proved to be invaluable for her research, or memory-jogging, or inspiration. And this place housed her mental map, she had said, waving an expansive hand to embrace the room. ‘It’s all in here, somewhere.’

  Her mental map. So would anything here give Jo an insight into what Eleanor would want her to do? She glanced over the overstuffed bookshelves, finding her eyes drawn to familiar titles, books she had read when she used to stay here, others her aunt had let her take away. It felt like a lifetime ago. There were all the classic novels of English literature and below them the complete works of Shakespeare. There were shelves of modern and contemporary fiction and an astonishing array of arcane reference material. And countless volumes of poetry, old and new, just out of reach. Jo rolled the library steps over and climbed up, pulling one off the shelf, the most successful of Frank’s anthologies and her particular favourite, Now and Then. Flicking through the pages, a piece of folded paper fell out onto the floor.

  Jo climbed down and unfolded it. Engagement of poet Frank Marwell to novelist Louisa Dunnell was the title above a photograph of the couple and a short article. It wasn’t hard to see what Eleanor had made of it. The paper was all crinkled, as if she had tried to crush it in her fist. After a moment’s hesitation, Jo folded it back up, replaced it in the book and put it back on the shelf. That had been Eleanor’s decision. It could stay there.

  She turned away. On the desk at the centre of the room Eleanor’s laptop sat open in front of her chair while the rest of the desk was strewn with loose sheets of notes, open books and pieces of notepaper with odd jottings on them.

  Jo sat in Eleanor’s chair and allowed her gaze to wander, her mind barely noticing what she was looking at. Then one of the notes caught her eye.

  Fest Committee, Monday 26, 7.30. V Hall.

  Monday 26. That was today. A meeting about the literary festival presumably. Jo glanced at her watch. She would go.

  *

  Matthew left the house and walked to the end of the lane near the beach. It was a sunny evening with a clear, almost cloudless sky and he paused; there was plenty of time before the meeting started. He glanced round and up towards the playing field higher up the village though it wasn’t visible from where he stood.

  Harry was there, supposedly meeting up with ‘a mate’, though, as far as Matthew could tell, Harry struggled to make many friends.

  ‘Name?’ Matthew had pressed.

  ‘Clive.’

  ‘I haven’t heard that name before. Who is he?’

  ‘Yes, you have. He’s at school.’

  ‘And where are you going?’

  ‘Aw come on dad, give it a rest.’

  ‘I want to know.’

  ‘Just around.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘OK, so there’s going to be a barbie on the playing field tonight.’

  ‘And anyone can go?’

  ‘Clive knows the guy whose birthday it is.’

  ‘Barbecues are usually held on the beach here.’

  ‘The tide’s too high.’

  ‘I see. OK. But no alcohol, right? And home by eleven, latest. You’ve got school tomorrow. What about your homework?’

  ‘Done it.’

  ‘Good.’ If it was true. Matthew hesitated. ‘Do you need money?’

  He had given Harry a ten pound note but was already regretting it. What would the kid spend it on? But was he safer not having money? The lad would be sixteen soon so he had to give him a bit of slack, didn’t he? And when Harry had been taking drugs back at their old home, he had managed to get them from somewhere even when he’d had no money, and being in debt for drugs seemed an even worse scenario. Matthew regularly tried to look into his son’s eyes, checking his pupils to see if he had been taking anything, or watched his movements and listened for any change in his speech. He’d seen no sign recently and hoped the issue had been caught in time. Sophie would have known if there was a problem, but Sophie wasn’t here. And if she had been here, there wouldn’t have been a problem.

  He carried on walking, following the turn of the lane at the end of the beach and heading up to the village hall. Most of the committee were already there. He took a seat at the table and sat back, wishing it over. With Eleanor Lambe in hospital, he expected the festival to be a non-event anyway; they’d have to cancel it. The chairperson, Nancy Turner might be running the committee but Eleanor had been the motor behind it. And Nancy was unusually late. Minutes slipped by and the volume of chatter swelled.

  Then Nancy walked in alongside a young woman with a guarded expression and a swing of dark, bobbed hair. She wasn’t one of the committee.

  ‘Evening everyone,’ said Nancy. ‘Sorry I’m late. We were talking.’ She smiled at her companion. ‘Can I introduce Joselyn to you? She’s Eleanor Lambe’s niece from Sussex. She’s also the daughter of Candida Lambe, the novelist. Anyway, she’s staying up at Skymeet since this terrible accident - I’m sure you’ve all heard about it. I bumped into her outside and she has the latest news about her aunt. Jo?’

  The young woman stayed on her feet and talked briefly about her aunt’s condition. She was obliged to field a few questions which she did succinctly but without giving any more away, then sat down opposite Matthew. He formed the impression that a great deal was being left unsaid.

  ‘Jo is here to find out more about the festival,’ said Nancy, ‘by proxy, you might say, for her aunt. She herself is a book editor and no stranger to the publishing world.’

  ‘So the festival is going ahead?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘I think it would be premature to cancel at this moment,’ said Nancy. ‘We’ve got so far with planning it already and money has been spent. Eleanor had already booked a number of speakers - I was just discussing that with Jo actually. The caterers are booked too. It’s my opinion we should go ahead and keep the situation under review.’ There was a general muttering of agreement. She glanced back up the table at Jo. ‘Unless we hear otherwise.’ She embraced them all with a regal smile. ‘Shall we put it to a vote?’

  The vote went with Nancy. It always did.

  Matthew sat back and resigned himself to a long evening. He had been enlisted because in his previous job he had been a computer programmer and they needed his expertise to create a website for the festival, an event which they hoped would be the first of many. The evening dragged. Without Eleanor, they skirted over the issue of speakers but discussed programmes, posters and tickets, banners and bunting, sponsorship money and advertising revenue. It had been decided that a concert would close events on the Saturday night, something inclusive to a wide audience, and someone had been tasked with getting local performers involved and organising it. Matthew barely heard a half of it and had to keep stifling a yawn. Occasionally his gaze roamed to the woman opposite. She looked pale and drawn but seemed to be listening intently, her eyes flicking from one speaker to another. He wondered that she could find it so interesting.

  It was twenty past nine by the time the meeting closed. Matthew noticed Joselyn slip quickly away before anyone could speak to her and it wasn’t long till he followed suit, glad to leave.
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  The sun was setting and the light danced with pink and gold. With the cove facing west, the sunsets here could be magical. Matthew kept his gaze on the sky and headed for the slipway then down onto the sand, wishing he’d brought his camera. He knew from experience that his phone wouldn’t do it justice. The tide had turned and, though water still covered the beach, a strip at the top rarely got wet. He stopped and rested his back against the wall, waiting in the half light. The sun was still a pale golden orb, low in the sky, lightly touched with a wisp of violet cloud drifting along the horizon line. He could just pick out the tiny silhouette of a ship way out in the channel.

  Then he realised he wasn’t alone. Joselyn was there too. Unmistakeable - the bob of her hair was distinctive. She was sitting down on the sand almost touching distance away, her knees drawn up, hugging them, watching the sea.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  She turned her head briefly. ‘Hi.’

  The sun slid closer to the horizon and deepened into apricot. The sky around it was softest pink and the clouds burned purple. Matthew wondered if he should speak. He glanced down at the girl again; she seemed wrapped up in a world of her own. Maybe if he spoke she would think he was coming on to her and he didn’t want that.

  He stayed silent and watched the sun drop, watched the way the colours intensified, the pinks to reds, the apricot to a flaming orange, and the whole bowl of the cove: the sand, the water and the rocky sides, lit up like a cauldron of fire.

  ‘Flirting, fondling, melting, melding,

  Steeps the sun in the skymeet sea.

  It’s a fury of fire and flames and passion,

  Or is it rejection and a broken heart bleeds?’

  Matthew turned his head. The young woman had said the lines out loud. He wondered if she had intended to.

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘Oh they’re not my words,’ she said hastily, getting to her feet. ‘Frank Marwell wrote them.’

  ‘Right.’ The name rang a vague bell. ‘So is that where the name Skymeet comes from?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned her head to look at him. Her face reflected the fiery glow from the sea and rocks. ‘Frank has a way with words. Words are like pictures, after all.’

  He stared at her and swallowed hard. ‘I suppose so.’

  She turned her face away, looking back to the sea. Already the fire was extinguishing, the red glow deadening and mutating to purple and grey.

  ‘I’m sorry about your aunt,’ said Matthew. ‘Nice lady.’

  She turned again, frowning. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

  ‘Matthew.’

  ‘I’m Jo. Do you know her, Matthew? I mean, to talk to?’

  ‘A little. She comes into my café sometimes and always makes time to speak. She asked me to be on the committee in fact.’

  ‘Did she? Nancy implied that the festival was her idea but I got the impression tonight that my aunt was the prime mover.’

  He produced a wry grin. ‘Nancy claims credit for a lot of things but your aunt had the original idea. I remember her talking to me about it. What’s your point?’

  ‘Oh nothing. I’ve just caught someone out in a lie. Which makes me wonder what else he’s been lying about. And why.’

  It was too dark now to see her expression clearly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’ve helped me to a decision.’

  She left and he shrugged her remark away. Trudging home, he glanced automatically up the hill towards the playing field but didn’t dare go up to check on the boy; he risked damaging the precarious peace they had established.

  He didn’t expect to think of Jo again but several times her remark came back into his head that night. Words are like pictures. Sophie used to say that.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday morning dawned grey and overcast. Cloud had pushed in overnight and a light mizzle hung in the air. Jo walked to the edge of the paving on the eastern terrace and tentatively stepped onto the shallow grassy slope beyond, looking down. From here, all she could see was the cliff rising from the other side of the beach. There was a line of large angular stones placed at intervals near her feet, markers that the ground would soon fall away, the coarse grass, gravel and wild flowers giving way to bare stone and an abrupt and dangerous drop to the rocky shore below. A couple of shrubs grew there too, softening the edge. Jo was twelve when Eleanor had taken on this estate and on her first visit she’d been sternly warned not to go close to the edge. She was no fool; she had paid attention.

  Now she took another couple of steps as far as she dared and peered over. Way down, she could see waves lapping on the far side of Eleanor’s personal beach and could smell the salt. It was just after eight o’clock and the tide was in. It really was private down there, barely visible except from certain places in the garden. If she looked to her right she could see, beyond the undulating headland and treetops further on, a glimpse of the sea horizon. Eleanor walked in the gardens most evenings - or used to - and would pause occasionally to enjoy a particular plant or flower or savour a view. And she liked it down on this terrace. There was a favoured wooden seat and several huge terracotta pots accommodated cordyllines and phormiums. It was a sheltered spot and had a Mediterranean feel.

  To Jo’s left, tucked into the angle between the rocky headland and the rear wall of the cove, were the wooden steps which led down to the beach. There was a handrail close in against the cliff wall on the left and a single wooden post on the right. The first few steps were shallow and easy, then they turned a little, following the line of the rock, becoming steeper. Years ago a rail had been added to the lower section on the right.

  Jo glanced back along the terrace then down to those first few steps. Eleanor had fallen from somewhere around here though it was hard to understand how she could have slipped from the terrace. She would have had to go beyond the marker stones and then some. Perhaps she was trying to see something in particular on the beach and slipped on damp stone?

  Jo crossed to the beach steps. It was more likely that Eleanor had slipped from here, near the top. The steps were very steep, more like a ladder; Eleanor, like most people, turned and descended them backwards. Perhaps in turning, she had lost her footing and so ended up in that thicket of now cut and crumpled brambles down there on the tiny ledge, a miraculous escape from certain death on the rocks below. Unless, of course, she had chosen to do it. If she’d wanted to fall, she could have done it from almost anywhere. Jo shook her head; she couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.

  She turned away and jumped as a figure moved out from under the rose arch nearby. The arch broke a line of clematis covered trellis and led into the next ‘room’ of the garden and ultimately out to the front.

  ‘Vincent,’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here? If you want to see Lawrence, I imagine he’s still in the annexe.’

  ‘I’m sure he is. He has no life really. But it was you I came to see. I’m sorry if I gave you a fright.’

  Now she understood. He was in the garden to avoid bumping into Lawrence who rarely strayed into the main garden but was often in the house. And with all the shrubs and hedging to the side of the property it was possible to reach the gate to the private gardens without being seen. In any case, Lawrence’s apartment had its own small fenced garden which was a secluded fortress in itself.

  Vincent came closer, smiling in that way he had as if he possessed some secret knowledge, still wearing his trademark bow-tie and waistcoat.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  She had never felt comfortable with him. A little older than Eleanor, Vincent had been closer, if anything, to her mother. She had seen him at parties, drunk. She had seen him after parties, flat out on the floor, bristle-faced and dishevelled. He used to carry sweets in his trouser pocket, the old-fashioned kind you bought loose in a white paper bag. God knows where he got them from. As a child she would take o
ne when offered but pretend to keep it for later. She couldn’t bear to think of it coming out of his pocket.

  ‘Is this where it happened?’ he said now, moving across to cautiously look over the cliff. He shuddered theatrically and backed away.

  ‘What is it, Vincent?’ she repeated.

  He smiled genially. ‘Well, Joss darling, I wondered if you’d come across a little manuscript of mine? In Eleanor’s study, I expect. That’s where she was when I gave it to her anyway.’

  ‘No, but I haven’t really looked through her study,’ she said coolly. ‘It’s not my business. Anyway, I have had other things on my mind.’

  ‘Of course, dear. I understand. Only it’s rather an exciting little venture we were going to do together - a play I’ve written based on Eleanor’s novel, Mr Ridge Might Know. You must remember the one? It’s come out rather well. But, since Eleanor isn’t in a position to look at it at the moment, I thought I’d have it back. I’ve got a producer lined up, you see.’

  She considered his studiously casual manner. Eleanor was a loner when it came to her work and she had never been of a mind with Vincent; it was a stretch of the imagination to see them working together.

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘And Eleanor agreed to this, you say?’

  ‘Certainly. She was looking forward to seeing it on stage. It’s such a tragedy, what’s happened. The Lord moves in mysterious ways.’

  ‘Indeed. Still, it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to do anything about the play until Eleanor’s better, would it? I’m sure there needs to be an agreement in writing for such a venture - unless you’ve already got one?’

  He looked surprised. Clearly, he’d thought she would be a soft touch, Candida’s little girl.

  ‘No, Eleanor didn’t bother with things like that, not between friends.’