Moon Rising (19 page)

‘But the worst thing is to
hear
it.' I whispered, peering anxiously into the depths of alleys and doorways as we passed. ‘It howls and shrieks under the windows of those about to die.
He's heard the howl of the barghest,
folks say when somebody looks not long for this world.'

‘Like the wail of the banshee,' Bram murmured, moving just as softly through the shadows, ‘which they talk about in Ireland...'

As we came into Southgate, I told him about the bargheist coach, another ghostly phenomenon, which was known to career along past the abbey, through the churchyard and across the graves, plunging over the cliff and into the foaming sea below. ‘It always appears after the burial of some local mariner – it comes to pluck him out of the earth, to return him to the deep, where he truly belongs...'

‘You mean all those grand memorials to dead seafarers are just tombstones over empty graves?' he asked, giving me a sidelong look as we crossed the road by the Markways' chandlery.

‘But of course,' I said earnestly, guiding him to the right, preferring to be challenged on folklore than about Jonathan and the people I'd once worked for.

We passed the warehouses and repair-yards, and from Southgate took the hearse road. This was the route, I explained, taken by grand funerals, since the old donkey road beside the Church Stairs was too steep for decorum.

‘Of course ordinary folk,' I explained, ‘still go on foot to church, carrying the coffin between them... Years ago, they held funerals at night, with a torch-lit procession through the town. I remember seeing one when I was young – it looked quite magical, seeing all those flaming torches moving up the Church Stairs and out along the cliff. In Bay, they still do it. But woe betide the relatives,' I added, ‘if they forget to invite somebody. No one will come to a funeral
unbidden
– and believe me, they'll carry the grudge for life!'

‘Sounds just like Ireland,' Bram chuckled. ‘But tell me, why haven't we been to Robin Hood's Bay? It's not far, surely? I'd like to see your old home.'

So I was forced to explain that if he was afraid of being recognised by London visitors to Whitby, I was equally keen not to be seen with him in Bay. ‘People might
talk
,' I said, ‘but if they don't actually see me with anyone, I can always deny it.'

‘That's like sticking your head in the sand!'

‘So – is it any different to what you're doing?' I asked.

It took a moment for him to answer. ‘No,' he said slowly, ‘I suppose not...'

~~~

Saltwick was not much more than a mile away, and the moon was up, so we continued in that direction. The little cove looked magical, sheltered and pretty, dark waves touched with silver as they rolled gently to the shore. It was hard to believe the place had once been a hive of industry; much less the scene of fierce battles during the time of the press-gang.

Several rough paths led down to where the remains of an old jetty made it a good place for swimming during the day, but the cliffs were dangerous and honeycombed with holes from the long-dead alum works. A lively trade in smuggling was said to go on from here, which made another reason for keeping away after dark. Nevertheless, having clambered up and down those cliffs innumerable times, I felt I knew them well enough, and on such a bright night did not seriously expect to run into smugglers.

The tide was on the ebb as we descended to the beach, but we found a smooth dry ledge where we could sit and eat a picnic supper. I'd brought soft bread and a crumbly local cheese, with pickles and ham and a fresh-dressed crab. For too long I'd lived on a diet of oats and fish and poverty, and it pleased me that Bram relished good food and took such delight in my enjoyment of every meal. He liked me to feed him things, licking my fingers one by one; and then he would feed me, popping choice items into my mouth like a parent with a baby bird, watching me eat and drink with avid interest, kissing my mouth and making love to me amongst the debris of a meal.

He was relaxed and sensual then, breathing in the scent of my hair and skin, caressing me with tender affection. That night we'd barely finished eating when he reached for me, pushing back my skirts to caress my warm, bare legs. There was no need for him to say what he wanted; I found his eagerness contagious, and moments later we were feverishly seeking the best way of making love in that deserted but far from comfortable place.

There was shingle underfoot and the sand was wet; we tried one way and then another, almost gave up from laughing so much, and then his mouth was warm again on mine, his tongue licking at lips and teeth, and suddenly we were serious and in need of satisfaction. With a moan of desire he turned me around, against the rocky ledge, lifting my skirts from behind. I felt him probing between my thighs, and a moment later he was deep inside me, filling me completely, thrusting hard against my womb in a coupling that forced the breath from my body. It was painful, even a little alarming, since I could neither move nor protest; but it was undeniably exciting and I came to climax almost as he did. Only as sense returned did I become aware of the painful imprint of his teeth in the curve of my neck, and a stinging in hands and face where I'd grazed myself against the rock.

Unaware, Bram took me in his arms with fierce affection, rubbing his cheek against mine until a wincing cry brought the grazes to his notice. At once he was full of apology and regret, licking blood and grit from my cheek and palms, kissing the place where his teeth had marked my neck. ‘I'm sorry,' he whispered again, but somehow it was too much, and his attempts to console were disturbing.

I found it easier to banish unease with activity. Springing up, I began to strip off my clothes. ‘Can you swim?' I challenged, laughing at his astonishment. ‘Race you to the Nab!'

As he struggled to his feet I ran into the sea, striking out at once before the shock could halt me. I swam across to the Black Nab and paused to catch my breath, pushing back the hair from my face as Bram swiftly crossed the intervening distance with smooth, powerful strokes. He was an excellent swimmer and I was impressed, but equally determined not to show it. As he reached for me I laughed and eluded him, slipping back through the water to cross the little bay. But as I turned to look, the sky was already paler, the moon fading as it dipped towards the horizon. Everything was still and silent in those moments before dawn, and I knew it was time to leave, before some passing fisherman caught sight of us playing the fool, or before an early and less understanding visitor reported us for worse.

‘You look like a mermaid,' Bram said, coming up beside me and shaking water out of his eyes.

‘In that case, you must be Neptune!' I retorted, tweaking the red-gold hairs on his chest.

For that he pinched me, and chased me back to the shore, where we stood laughing and gasping with cold and effort. In the dawn light he looked magnificent, dangerous, less a sea god than an early Viking raider. Watching water dripping from his muscular frame suddenly I wanted him again, had to kiss him, touch him, press my body to his until his arousal matched mine. He entered me then with an extraordinary ease and coolness that excited us both, making love with slow and satisfying concentration. It seemed to go on forever, until I locked my ankles around his waist to urge him on, and he flooded me once more in a long and shattering climax.

Afterwards, relaxed and limp, I felt myself collapsing like a rag doll. Sleep tugged as we lay against each other on that rocky ledge, until gradually I became aware that it was fully light and the sun was coming up. Across the eastern sea, almost like a benediction, a glorious sunrise turned everything to molten gold, shimmering until we could barely look.

But we gazed transfixed until the sun rose clear of the horizon, until that brilliant light left us both alarmed by the prospect of discovery. I should have swum again to cleanse myself, but there was no time to linger and I was reluctant to break the bond between us. For once I wanted to hold him to me and never let him go. A foolish and sentimental notion and part of me knew it; but if my skin was salty it was mostly warm and dry. I told myself it was silly to get wet again.

The mornings were glorious, with a blue, misty haze over the sea that spread upriver like a magic spell. The hedgerows were in full green leaf, with great creamy fronds of meadowsweet and cow parsley edging fields and footpaths across the cliffs. Below the Saloon the sands sported a brightly painted crop of bathing machines, and young children in pinafores appeared daily to dig trenches and build castles with all the dedication of apprentice engineers.

Around the harbour, naked urchins dived in and out of the water, while life and work went on as usual. Steam tugs towed barques and brigantines in and out with every tide, and cobles went out fishing. Each time I was in town, I scanned streets and quays for familiar faces, well aware that my time with Bram was precious, that I was hugging it to myself and didn't want it spoiled or besmirched by any ill-judged comment. In short, I didn't want to have to defend the indefensible.

But I was growing rapidly more attached to him, and this was borne in upon me one Saturday afternoon, as we were coming up to midsummer's day. It was particularly hot, and I was helping Jack Louvain with an important photographic appointment at a big house near Dunsley. We'd agreed to meet outside the pub at Newholm, and when I arrived I half expected to find Jack inside, enjoying a pint; but, like the red-faced boy he'd employed to carry equipment up from town, he was seated outside by the village pump.

‘It's water for me,' he said wryly. ‘Clients don't care for the reek of ale - especially those who summon photographers to their houses!'

When we arrived they were finishing a picnic lunch under awnings in the garden. It was a benefit in one way, since everyone looked replete and good-tempered, but it necessitated much straightening and cleaning up before we could begin. Mothers tugged and wiped at the little ones, while the grandmother fussed over the seating arrangements. Who should have precedence next to her husband – it was his birthday, after all – and which child should sit on whose knee.

Biting back an urge to interfere, I turned my attention elsewhere. The design of the house was plain in the extreme, but the enclosed rear garden was a delight of arches and arbours, swagged with trailing ivy and heavy-headed roses. Through tall windows opening into a sitting room I could see carpets and easy chairs, polished tables, pretty ornaments and a pianoforte decked with photographs. They were beautiful things, but it was what they represented that struck me so forcefully.

Bram's home with Florence must be like that, I thought, not just a little two-roomed cottage with a tiny scullery and stone floor. All at once I was seized by shame and envy and a sense of despair. Bram could never give up such surroundings for the bare simplicity of what we shared at Newholm, and yet, almost without realising it, I'd become used to playing house with him and wanted it to go on.

At this time of year it was all right –
charming
was the word he used – but it couldn't possibly compete with servants and a house in London, especially in the depths of winter. I was fooling myself if I thought it could.

With a forceful nudge, Jack muttered under his breath, ‘Get them into some kind of order, for heaven's sake – we can't have the tallest and the shortest stood together, no matter what Grandmama says about age and precedence. And get that child on to somebody's knee before it falls over and starts screaming. Otherwise we'll still be here at midnight!'

I was glad to do as I was bidden. My thoughts were pointless and painful, so I thrust them aside and organised the children instead. Jack and I worked together until the pictures were taken and he was satisfied, and then, having consumed plates of cake and welcome glasses of lemonade, we gathered up the equipment and made our farewells. We'd been out for hours and I thought we would go straight back to Whitby, but he said the light was just at that interesting point; and anyway, he had some extra plates from the sitting which were just begging to be used.

The lad he'd brought with him was dragging his feet, and I was feeling the strain, but Jack was adamant. So we made our way down to the beach at Upgang, where the old Mulgrave Castle Inn, with tiled roof askew and chimneys leaning, stood perched on the very edge of the cliff. It was catching the evening light against a darker sky, and from below there was a wildness and drama about the place, as if it were defying the elements still. And maybe hiding within its walls the dutiable kegs and silks of days gone by.

But although the old smugglers' rendezvous had been closed for a year or more, I suspected it was still used by certain of the fishermen for short periods at dark of the moon. Its dubious reputation hung on, as it might cling to an old rogue until the day of his death. But all it needed was one more winter, one more ferocious storm to undermine the shale, one more prolonged period of frost, and the old inn would be no more.

Jack managed to get a picture from the beach before the incoming tide made the angle impossible, and, having climbed back up, was insisting on a pose from me when I saw Bram coming down from the direction of Newholm. He was happy to find us, happier still to watch Jack working with me, insisting on knowing all the technical and artistic details involved in the taking of such a photograph. Being tired and hungry, I was not best pleased; all I wanted was to go home.

I fidgeted unhappily, while Jack seemed intent on explaining everything to his new pupil, even to the extent of letting him view me – upside down, of course – through the camera's great fish-eye lens. With an intelligent audience he wanted to show off, and started talking about composition and the art of making pictures with a camera. Gritting my teeth, I moved here and there as requested, while the two men fussed over shadows and focus and the angle of my limbs against the weathered walls of the inn. But my misery produced frowns and Jack wanted wistfulness for this photograph, so I had to straighten my face and think about something I was longing for, like passionate kisses for tea, and strawberries and cream for supper.