Playing Beatie Bow (13 page)

‘Well I remember that dream,’ said Dovey. ‘I feared they had come for you.’

‘Those were only dreams,’ said Beatie. ‘But that night I had a flash, clear as day, and I knew I was no’ to die. I didna like to tell you, in case you thought I had the Gift.’

‘Whatever did you see, Beatie?’ interposed Abigail.

‘My own hands,’ said Beatie, ‘and they were a woman’s hands, and there was no ring on them, and they were holding a book, very heavy, with a leather cover. A scholarly book. And I thought then, maybe I winna be an ignorant lass all my life, but get some education like Judah, or even better. I have kept it from you, Dovey; but all must come out now with Granny so low.’

Both Dovey and Beatie seemed to have forgotten Abigail, and she herself was thinking furiously. ‘And why shouldn’t she? She’s brainy, and as determined as a little red devil. This Mr Taylor, who runs the class for promising boys, he must have a feeling for education … Perhaps if Beatie went to see him, let him know how much she has learnt, how much she longs to be properly educated …’

There was a piercing wail from above.

‘I want the chamber-pot, Dovey. Come quick!’

Beatie sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll go, Dovey, and won’t I shove his head in it if he’s doing no more than pester us!’

‘I’d like to see Granny,’ said Abby. ‘Please, Dovey.’

The old woman who lay in the small iron four-poster bed was scarcely recognisable. She had a look of ancient and unbearable fatigue, as though all strength had drained out of her. Abigail saw her eyes flickering under the silken brown eyelids.

‘Granny,’ said Dovey softly, ‘’tis Abby, come to show you she is safe.’

The eyes opened. Light had drained out of them also. The glistening vitality and intelligence, so like that in Judah’s eyes, had gone. The dark blue had faded to a bleached slate-grey. Abigail was shocked and distressed.

‘Oh, Granny,’ she cried, ‘do you feel very bad? Oh, Granny, I’m so sorry, but I just had to try to go home.’

The knobbly old hand wavered out. Abigail took it. The old woman’s grip was feeble, and yet firm. She held Abigail’s hand lightly but Abigail felt that even if she wanted to take her hand back she would not be able to.

‘She hanna the Power, Dovey,’ said the dim, rustling voice. ‘She isna one of us. But there’s something there, something … I can feel it strengthening me. Now, Abigail, isna the time for truth come? For you and for us, too, forbye. You dinna come from another country, but from another time?’

Abigail heard Dovey gasp. She told Mrs Tallisker the year of her birth, and Dovey breathed, ‘Dear God, is it possible?’

‘Hush, Dovey. Tell me true, Abigail, in that far-off time which is yours and not ours, did ye ever hear the name Tallisker, or Bow?’

‘No, never,’ said Abigail truthfully.

‘Your father’s name is Kirk? A Scottish name.’

‘Yes, but he’s half Norwegian. He was born in Narvik, and brought to Aust … to New South Wales as a baby.’

‘His mother’s name?’

‘Emma Rasmussen.’

Granny Tallisker asked the same questions about Abigail’s mother. But Kathy was fourth generation Australian, and Abigail knew of no blood strain other than English and German amongst her mother’s ancestors.

‘Yet you are the Stranger,’ murmured the old lady. ‘’Tis very puzzling, Dovey.’

‘I’m not, you know,’ said Abigail emphatically. ‘You’ve made a mistake. I got here quite accidentally. It was because …’ she stopped. She had promised Beatie solemnly that she would not ever tell that the younger girl had visited the twentieth century.

‘No, no,’ said the old woman almost impatiently. ‘You are the Stranger; there is nae possibility of mistake.’

Her voice had grown stronger. The hyacinth colour almost perceptibly flowed back into her eyes. Abigail wondered uneasily if she were withdrawing vitality from her own hand, and she tried to take it away, but could not without a sharp, rude jerk.

Suddenly Dovey spoke rapidly in the broad Orkney dialect. Abigail could scarcely catch a word except ‘aye’ and ‘Beatie’ and ‘unwed’. Mrs Tallisker was excited.

‘Then she’s not to die, my clever wee hen! God be praised for that, anyway.’

‘I have just told Granny what Beatie saw,’ Dovey explained; ‘the woman’s hands without a ring, and a book in them. And she says that is the first part of the Prophecy proved.’

Abigail was bewildered. She was not interested in the Prophecy. What she wanted to know was how Granny had known where she was held captive. But it didn’t seem the time to ask.

‘The Prophecy,’ explained Mrs Tallisker, ‘is for each fifth generation, when it is so ordered that the Gift is at risk. This is the fifth generation from my grandfather’s time, when there wunna a Tallisker left but himself, after the Stuart wars in Scotland. Tell Abby the words, Dovey, the while I catch my breath.’

Dovey said in a low reluctant voice, ‘It is in our Orkney speech, but it means, “One to be barren and one to die.” ’

‘Well, goodness,’ said Abigail, ‘I can’t see that that’s so bad.’

‘See, Abigail,’ explained Dovey, ‘I am the sole child of Granny’s son Robert Tallisker who drowned, God rest his soul. And of the bairns of my Aunt Amelia, four died young. Of those who can hand on the Gift to the future, there are now no more than four.’

‘You, Judah, Beatie and Gibbie,’ said Abigail thoughtfully.

‘And of those Beatie is to be barren and will not hand on the Gift,’ said Mrs Tallisker.

‘But you don’t know that!’ protested Abigail.

‘The ringless hand,’ reminded Dovey. ‘She saw it herself. She will not wed, and will be childless.’

‘I think it’s absolutely repulsive,’ cried Abigail, ‘talking about people as if they were part of some superstitious pattern. It’s all right for Beatie not to marry if she doesn’t want to, don’t you see? But that means one of the rest of you will die.’

‘And die young,’ said Dovey.

‘Don’t you care?’ cried Abigail. ‘Why, it might be you! It might be Judah!’ Then realisation struck her. ‘Gibbie! You believe Gibbie’s going to die, don’t you?’

‘It might well be the poor little one,’ said Dovey gently. ‘He hasna made headway since the fever, and it is now seven months since he sickened. His little bones are like sticks, and he hasna put on an ounce, feed him up as we may. But on the other hand, Abigail, it may be myself, as you say. It is your coming that will decide.’

‘I’ve nothing to do with it!’ cried Abigail. ‘I came here without wanting to and I want to go home. I’ve a life of my own, and I want to live it. My mother, I miss her, don’t you understand?’ she said chokily. She thought fiercely, ‘I won’t cry, I won’t.’ She waited for a moment, and then said quietly, ‘I’m not your mysterious Stranger. I’m just someone who came into your life here in some way that’s a riddle to me. But I have to go home, I don’t belong here. You must see that.’

‘We canna let you go,’ said Mrs Tallisker. She had relinquished Abigail’s hand and was sitting up against her pillows. Except for her sunken eyes she looked almost like her own dignified strong self again.

Abigail glowered. ‘I’ll run away again and again till I find the place where I came into this horrible century; and I’ll go, I swear I will.’

‘But we canna let you go until you have done whatever it is the Stranger must do to preserve the Gift.’ Dovey was distressed. ‘Oh, dear Abby, it may only be for a little while and then we will help you go to your own place. We do understand what you feel, that you long for your ain folk, but we canna let you go … you are our only hope, you see.’

Abigail said unbelievingly, ‘This thing … is it so precious to you that you’d do this to me? It … isn’t Christian.’

‘The Gift is not Christian,’ said Mrs Tallisker. ‘But aye, you have it right, girl. It is so precious to us that we would keep you here for ever if this were ordained to be so.’

‘Judah wouldn’t let you!’ burst out Abigail. ‘He’s got some gumption, he’s a seaman, a grown man …’ But she could see from their pitying faces that Judah believed in the Gift as strongly as they did.

‘Either they’re all dotty, or I’m dreaming,’ thought Abigail. Her knees wobbled. ‘But I’m not dreaming. I’m here, in a little Victorian cottage full of oil lamps and iron pots and funny clothes and paintings of people who lived before Queen Victoria was born. It’s real, more real than Magpies, or anything.’

At the thought that she was trapped as efficiently as she had been in that gloomy cavern of the Suez Canal, she sniffed dolorously.

‘I can’t go my whole life without seeing my mother and father again,’ she whispered. ‘And truly you are mistaken. I’m not this Stranger of whom you talk. I didn’t have anything belonging to the family. I wasn’t even wearing anything unusual: just my green dress.’

‘Aye,’ said Mrs Tallisker, and her voice was so tender, so loving, that chills ran up and down Abby’s spine.

‘My dress? That had something to do with … ?’

All at once she remembered the dream-like conversation she had heard that first terrible, confused, and painful night. Dovey and Granny. Whispers. No mistake. Pattern. Not a needle set to it yet.

She cried, ‘Not the dress, the crochet!
The crochet!
’

She saw by glancing from one to the other that she was right.

‘The pattern … the grass of Parnassus …’

‘It is a common bog plant in Orkney,’ said Dovey.

‘The initials,’ breathed Abigail. ‘A.T. Not Anastasia Tassiopolis but Alice Tallisker … I don’t know what to say. That crochet – you designed it, you made it … but not yet.’

Mrs Tallisker nodded. She had wearied again. The small vitality she had absorbed from Abigail seemed to have leaked away now that Abigail herself was trembling and shocked.

‘The crochet brought me here in some way; it was a sort of link between me and Beatie … and you’ve burnt the dress, so now I can never get back, never.’

She felt very much older than fourteen. She felt like an old woman.

It was like the terrible lostness and helplessness she had felt when her father went away. The empty place inside her had swallowed her up. She got up to leave the room. Dovey tried to stop her, but Abigail’s stony, hating face made her recoil. She went downstairs, with Dovey limping after her.

Mr Bow looked up with surprise from the marble slab where he was moulding liquorice babies.

‘What in the name of fortune are you doing, girl? You’re still in your night-rail!’

Abigail looked down without interest at her stiff calico nightdress. It struck her then that this was the kind of clothing she would always wear until she was an old woman and graduated to a flannel gown and a baby’s bonnet nightcap like Mrs Tallisker. That was if she survived scarlet fever, cholera, plague, and all the things she had not had shots for.

‘Fortunately I have had my polio injections and my smallpox inoculations,’ she remarked politely to Mr Bow. The man looked flabbergasted. He wiped his hands on his apron and led her gently away from the door. He put his sticky hand on her forehead, and said anxiously to Dovey, ‘Would she be sickening for something, walking about this way in her shift?’

Dovey tried to put her arms around Abigail, but she pushed them away. ‘You pretend to be kind, but you’re cruel. Your father died and your mother died, and you know how hard it is. But you will keep me away from my home and my friends and my mother and I’ll never see her again.’

She felt that somewhere inside her she was sobbing broken-heartedly, but outwardly she was calm.

‘I can’t trust any of you, except Judah.’

She thought then of Judah as a rock in the wilderness. His strength, his frankness and plainness of speech, his understanding of Beatie’s longing for education – why else should he be teaching her Latin, and geometry, too, for all Abigail knew?

‘Abby, Granny wants to see you. Please come.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘It’s about your dress.’ Dovey faltered. ‘I told you an untruth, Abby, and verra ashamed I was. But Granny thought it best. Your dress was not burnt, ’tis hid away, safe as houses.’

Abigail leapt up the stairs two at a time. She burst into Granny’s room. Beatie was helping the old woman into a clean wrapper. Abigail’s rage was beyond bounds. She opened her mouth to yell at Mrs Tallisker, but the old woman looked at her steadfastly. It was if she were being engulfed by those blue eyes. Her anger melted, and she said, gently and politely, ‘Is it true that my dress was not destroyed?’

‘True indeed,’ replied the old woman tranquilly. ‘And when you’ve done what you were sent here to do I shall give it back to you, and you can return home.’

‘But I don’t know what I have to do,’ said Abigail desperately.

‘It will show itself in time,’ said Granny.

Abigail begged and pleaded, but Mrs Tallisker was adamant.

‘The Gift is more precious than you, or any of us here. It munna be more than a couple of days before we know what you must do.’

‘Tell me what it is and I’ll do it!’ pleaded Abigail.

But Granny shook her head. ‘That we dinna know, child. But it will reveal itself.’

‘Why don’t you know, if you have the Gift?’ cried Abigail.

‘Because I’m old and the Gift is leaving me –’ replied Granny with dignity, ‘as is the power of my sight and the strength of my hands. If I could still heal would I not make poor Gibbie as strong as his brother?’

‘All very well,’ thought Abigail contemptuously, ‘but how did you know I was in that warehouse, tied up and helpless?’

‘Because you called me, child,’ answered the old woman readily, ‘and I sent out my mind to search for you.’

Distantly the voice of Gibbie could be heard, cheeping wretchedly.

‘I’ll see to him,’ said Abigail to Beatie. She was half-way up to the attic before she realised that Mrs Tallisker had answered a question she had not asked aloud. She shuddered. Did Judah believe all this stuff? Did Mr Bow?

Gibbie was lying back on his little bed, looking holy. Abigail looked at him critically. No doubt of it, he was a miserable whitebait of a kid, as flimsy within as without, she had no doubt. He opened one eye a slit and peered at her through his eyelashes, and began to wheeze dramatically.

‘Don’t waste your theatrics on me,’ said Abigail.