First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women (17 page)

There was more of this: page after page—it should have been revolting but it was funny. When Maria came in after her dinner, I showed her the passage, and she seemed to find it funny too.

I wondered if Mrs Hebblethwaite was the one who’d left the book out so that I’d read it; if she thought it might disgust me with women, and especially with her daughter.

If so, it certainly didn’t do what it was meant to.

Although, a few nights later I did pay the price for reading it: in a nightmare. I was watching one of those processions of the Stroven women from high above: in a tower, perhaps. As they came nearer, clothed all in black, chanting some kind of dirge, they looked up towards me. The familiar faces—even my mother, even Aunt Lizzie—were now so deformed, they paralysed me with horror. I woke up, sweating. I understood that the words from the book had taken on flesh and blood; at least, the flesh and blood of a nightmare.

But, as I say, if it was Mrs Hebblethwaite who left the book out, and if it was her purpose to disgust me with her daughter, it didn’t work. Nauseating though the words were, and frightening though the nightmare was, my body’s urges were too strong.

So, at the end of March, my friendship with Maria suddenly found itself on the fringes of a murky, throbbing area—and we became a little self-conscious with each other.

On the last Friday of the month, school stopped early, just after midday. Instead of going straight home as we’d always done, Maria asked me if I’d like to go for a walk with her. I agreed.

We set out together southwards along the shore, close together but not holding hands. Our walk was silent and purposeful though we had to step carefully: the black sands of the beach were infested with millions of tiny crabs that looked like black spiders. After a while we had to take off our socks and shoes to wade across tidal pools and little inlets that separated beach from beach. At last, we reached our destination: a cove a mile south of the town, completely hidden by the headland.

We looked at each other, then rushed together, flattening as much body as was possible against each other, tongues, hands everywhere. We dragged off clothing, startled at the marvellous whiteness of flesh and unexpected hair under the bright sun.

I was painfully conscious of the stain on my chest, but she seemed to take no notice of it.

Lying on our clothes spread over the black sand, we tried to make love. Our first effort was technically not very successful, but it was not a disappointment. We sobbed at the unbearable delight of it. And we were determined learners, with the whole afternoon before us. We tried again, and this time, got the basics right. We began to explore other possibilities. Probing tongues and fingers produced ecstasies we’d never dreamt of.

We lay tangled together, recuperating.

“I love you,” I said again and again.

“I love you too,” she said. She traced the purple stain on my chest with her fingers. She kissed the stain. “I love you,” she said.

That got us started again. By three o’clock, when we
eventually walked back to the town, we’d progressed from being apprentices to fairly skilled practitioners. We were complacent. We were sure that to know another’s body so intimately was to know all there is to know.

Who could blame us, after such revelations, for not noticing certain other signs that day: that the afternoon sun had disappeared; that the horizon had a strange, violet tint; that the mountain was like a single table leg holding up the sky?

B
UT EVERYONE ELSE
on the island had noticed.

That night, the Chapmans talked about it after dinner. Mr Chapman lit up his pipe; so did John and Jim now that they were fishermen, though Jim didn’t seem quite as keen on his.

“I’ve never seen the skies like this,” Mr Chapman said. At times, the flickering light of the hurricane lamp made his eyes appear quite steady.

“The fish seem to like it,” said John. “We’ve never caught so many: you’d swear they wanted to be caught.” He hadn’t changed much since his schooldays. He was big, pimpled, just as friendly as ever, and was soon to be married to Serena Jones who worked in the Post Office. He puffed his pipe and looked at me. “It’s a bit of a nuisance for you, eh, Andrew?”

I began to feel uncomfortable. I was glad of the poor lighting for I knew Mrs Chapman was watching me anxiously.

“I hear you’ve been walking down the beach after school,” John said.

“I think I’ll go upstairs,” I said. “I’m really tired.”

“Oh, I wonder why?” John said.

I quickly left the table and went up to my room. As I closed my door, I could hear quiet laughter from downstairs.

I didn’t see Maria all of that blustery weekend. But on Monday after school we set out for our cove, as we’d planned. The wind was now steady and strong, making white-capped stairways up the faces of the ocean swells. The beach was so crowded with little black crabs they could barely part in time to allow us past. When we arrived at the cove we threw our clothes on top of them and crushed, I suppose, thousands in the name of love.

Tuesday was more difficult as we headed for the cove again. The wind at our backs was so severe, it pushed us along as though we were running and it whipped up a yellow-grey froth that almost wiped out the distinction between ocean and beach. At our cove, the sand was too wet. So, standing upright, pressed against the lava boulders, Maria and I discovered other varieties of love-making. Walking back to the town, we had to lean into the wind and fight for breath.

I got home just as Mr Chapman was leaving the house.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asked. “The Commissioner’s called a meeting about the weather. The boys have already gone.”

I hesitated, and his eyes strobed to and fro.

“It’s at the Inn,” he said. “You can have a pint of beer.”

How could I refuse? I’d never been inside the St Jude Inn, and the smell of the beer as I passed it always reminded me of Stroven.

The Inn was crowded, but John shouted to us as we came in: he and Jim had kept space for us to stand, near the bar. The Inn was really just one big room, gloomy because the windows were painted green and the walls were covered in dark brown panelling. Hurricane lamps hung from long wooden beams. The pipe smoke was so thick, it stung my eyes. The elevated bar had above it an imported stag’s head that was missing an antler. Two bartenders were pouring pints of beer as fast as they could before the meeting began. We soon had ours.

“Cheers!” John said. The Chapmans all drank deeply, then looked at me as I took my first-ever sip of beer.

I didn’t like it. It tasted sour and warm. I couldn’t believe anyone could find any pleasure in drinking such awful stuff. But I smiled at them, as though I liked it.

“You should see the look on your face,” John said.

Glasses hammered on the tables: The Commissioner had arrived and stood behind the bar so that everyone could see him. The Inn became silent.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. His voice was a little slurred: there was a glass of rum in front of him on the bar. The noise of the wind penetrated the cracks in the Inn, so he had to speak loudly. “I had a radio message this morning that gives me some concern. As is obvious to us all, there’s a major storm out there.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the ocean. “Unfortunately, it appears we’re right in its path. I don’t want to alarm you too much, but I think we ought to start taking some safety measures. I’d be happy to hear any suggestions you might wish to make.”

This invitation brought on a general discussion about storms in the past. But only one thing seemed to be agreed upon, and was mentioned several times: that it was always wise to board up windows, so that they wouldn’t be smashed by the wind.

Then Jack Harvey, one of the oldest fishermen, spoke.

“My wife wants to know, is it still safe to take the boats out? Or should we stay ashore till it’s blown over?” he asked.

That started another discussion, with most of the younger fishermen saying they’d been out in much worse weather than this. Eventually, it was agreed that the weather itself would dictate what to do.

Mr Rigg, the sexton, raised his hand.

“You all know how my Martha can see things others can’t,” he said. He was so proud of her, no one quibbled. “She’s very worried about this storm. She says she senses something evil about it. She thinks it would be best for everyone to move into the battlements. Or maybe even leave the town and head for the mountain. That’s what she thinks.”

No one spoke against him, but a lot of the men were smiling. And when Moses Atkinson said, in his quavering voice, that he thought everyone should heed Martha Rigg’s advice, John Chapman winked at me and there was general winking. Even Mr Chapman’s eyes, swinging back and forth, seemed to wink once or twice.

The Commissioner had the last word.

“Thanks to all of you who’ve contributed to the discussion. Mr Rigg, please give our thanks to Martha. And thanks to you too, Mr Atkinson: we’ve all valued your advice over the years.” That caused general snickering. “I’ll keep you all posted as I hear reports on the radio,” said the Commissioner. “Now, let’s have a drink to close the meeting.” He held out his glass to the bartender for another rum.

“Andrew looks like he could use another beer,” John said to Mr Chapman, laughing. For my pint was untouched since that first sip.

Next morning, Wednesday, the sea was so rough the boats couldn’t go out, even though some of the younger fishermen tried. The wind was much stronger: sheets of plywood were flapping noisily on many of the houses, and looked as though they were ready to tear away. Walking to school was so hard some of the very small children were blown off their feet. In school, we’d barely sat down when the Commissioner came in. He spoke quietly to Moses Atkinson, then turned to us.

“Now girls and boys, I don’t want to alarm you. But I’ve had a radio message that isn’t good.” The smell of rum was spreading around the room. “So I’d like everyone to go straight home again, and this time, stay inside. School won’t open again till the worst of the storm is over.”

Maria and I walked home together with the wind in our faces. It was so fierce now, we could barely talk: my lips were flattened against my teeth.

When we got near The Motte, I saw her mother watching us from the window.

“I suppose we won’t be able to meet till the storm’s over.” I had to shout at Maria over the noise of the wind. “But from our house, I can see the top floor of The Motte. If you can come to the window, we can still wave to each other.” That sounded very romantic.

“Oh, yes,” she said.

“I’ll wave to you at three o’clock tomorrow, and every day at three till the storm’s over,” I said. The door opened, and Mrs Hebblethwaite stood looking at us.

“Come inside,” she called to Maria. “You. Just go away!” she said to me. From the way she looked at me, I knew I’d never be able to go far enough away to please her.

W
HEN
I
GOT HOME
, Mr Chapman and the boys and I staggered down to the beach where his boat was drawn up. We had to wear coveralls and balaclavas, for the wind was whipping up the sand on the beach so violently, it could scrape the skin off exposed flesh. We unstepped the mast of Mr Chapman’s boat, then we helped some of the other fishermen, so that by noon all of the masts had been unstepped and the boats were drawn up high on the beach, like pairs of shoes.

At three o’clock, I climbed up into the attic and went through the door onto the widow’s walk. I looked towards The Motte, and there was Maria at the window of the top floor. We waved and waved, and blew kisses till she disappeared. I longed for the storm to end.

On Thursday, the rain began: a fine warm rain that wouldn’t have been too unpleasant but for the wind. We boarded up the windows after breakfast, then Mr Chapman went to a special meeting at the Commissioner’s Residence. When he came back, he said that according to the most recent radio report the centre of the storm was heading directly for St Jude. Some of the islanders, apparently, didn’t trust their houses and were moving into the battlements. One or two families were following Martha Rigg’s advice and were leaving the town altogether and heading for the mountain.

“What about the Riggs? Are they taking Martha’s advice?” John wanted to know.

“No,” said Mr Chapman. “They have to stay and look after the graveyard.”

Whether he meant that to be funny or not, we all laughed.

I went up to the widow’s walk at three o’clock to wave to Maria; but it was no good. All the windows of The Motte were boarded over. I waved anyway. I kept myself busy reading, or playing card games with the boys. As night came on, the hurricane lamps swayed and the thick wooden beams of the house groaned the way they must have once in stormy seas.

By Friday morning, the wind was a constant howl, joined now by the clatter of the rain, which was no longer fine, but heavy and hard. At breakfast, I noticed how Mr Chapman, who would normally have regarded this sitting ashore watching rough weather as a luxury, looked worried. For at times, the ground beneath us seemed to rumble, as though the island were shifting on its moorings. Mrs Chapman had stayed in bed with one of her headaches. Sophie, the Siamese, became my friend at long last. She tried to sit in my lap, or she wanted to lie in my bed: as though she now felt safer with me than with the others.

At noon, the wind was screeching and the rain hammering the house. Through the spaces between the boards over the windows, we couldn’t see much, the rain was so heavy.

Then, at precisely two o’clock, the awful howling of the wind let up. The rain tapered off. I’d been lying on my bed reading, with Sophie beside me, when the wind died. So I got up and climbed the ladder to the attic. I lifted the heavy wooden bar from the door to the widow’s walk, pushed it ajar and went outside onto the platform.

I might have been standing in some huge cathedral with black columns all around, and a blue stained-glass dome above.

I looked around the town and was shocked at what the storm had already done. The roofs of every house in sight,
including our own, had been partly ripped away. So many panels of plywood siding were missing from the buildings, they looked as though it was a deliberate, patchwork design. What was even more shocking was the way the land had been scoured. There were no trees, no gardens, no lawns, no soil, no outhouses, no garden sheds—only the black lava base. The Motte and the battlements seemed to have held up well. But the main street was a shallow river. The flagstaff of the Commissioner’s house was snapped, and his entire house seemed a little tilted to the west. As for the beach, it had been gouged away by the waves. Not a fishing boat was to be seen. The concrete dock was almost entirely crumbled.