The Madness (27 page)

I limp back down the driveway and out on to the road. Me leg is shaking so much it can’t hold me up any more. I sit on the side of the road propped up against the flaking bark of a beech tree. I stare down at the ground and before long I’m watching a line of black ants scurry through the dust from one small rock to another. They don’t seem to know where they’re going. I poke me stick into the midst of them and they scatter in panic, in every direction. But a moment later they’ve found each other again and they carry on as before, as though nothing has happened.

I stay sitting until me muscles ache and the sky turns dirty orange. Then, slowly and stiffly, I stand and walk back down the road, leaning heavily on me stick. When I get back to the cottage, Smoaker is boiling mad at me. ‘Where’ve you been, girl?’ he shouts. ‘Your ma’s been laid out on the floor all afternoon thanks to you!’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘You never came back, did you?’ Smoaker yells. ‘And your ma got so parched she got out of bed to fetch some water and fell flat on her back.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Well, she’s back in bed. As for the rest of it, you’d better go and see for yourself.’

I start walking towards the bedchamber. ‘Oi!’ shouts Smoaker. ‘Where
have
you been? Answer me that.’

‘I haven’t been nowhere, Smoaker,’ I answer dully. ‘Nowhere.’

‘Hey! Come back here!’ Smoaker’s voice lands hard on me back, but I take no notice of it as I open the door to Ma’s room and then close it behind me.

‘You all right, Ma?’ I say as I sit on the edge of the bed. There’s a candle flickering on the bed stand next to her. The flame lights up the new white streaks in her hair and throws shadows in the hollows of her shrunken cheeks. Her arms lie outside the blanket, like raw beef sausages.

‘Marnie?’ she says. Her voice is sleep-thick and blurred around the edges.

‘It’s me,’ I say. There’s a brown bottle and a spoon lying next to the candle. Smoaker must have given her a dose of her laudanum.

‘How was the sea today, Marnie?’ she murmurs.

‘It was warm, Ma,’ I tell her. ‘Plenty of bathers.’

‘That’s good.’ She sighs deeply and I think she’s dropped back to sleep. I listen to her breathing and the rattle in her chest. I wonder for a moment what Noah’s doing right now. But it hurts so much to think it that I stop and I shake Ma’s shoulder instead. ‘Ma? Ma? You’re not sleeping, are you?’ She stirs and groans. ‘I’m still here, Ma,’ I say. ‘And I want to know something. I want to know about me pa.’

‘You don’t have a pa,’ Ma slurs. ‘Told you, Marnie. Found you in a seashell.’

‘You told me that when I was little, Ma. I’m fifteen now and I need to know. I need to know the truth. Who was he? Who was me pa?’ Ma mumbles something I can’t hear. ‘What did you say, Ma? What did you say?’ I ask her.

Her eyes flick open and she looks at me. I keep quiet and wait for her answer.

‘He gave you your name, you know.’

‘Who did? Me pa?’

‘It was him that wanted to call you Marnie.’

‘Me pa wanted to call me Marnie? But who was he, Ma? Where is he now?’

‘Means from the sea, it does. That’s why he wanted to name you Marnie  …  Marnie from the sea  …  ’ Ma’s voice trails off. She takes a shuddering breath and closes her eyes.

‘Ma?’ I shake her shoulder again. ‘Ma! Tell me!’ She’s breathing heavily now. A snore rumbles from her throat. I shake her again, but I know it’s useless. The laudanum’s got her now. She’s fast asleep and I’ve got no more chance than a cat in hell without claws of waking her.

Back in the kitchen, Smoaker glowers at me over the bowl of his pipe. ‘She’s asleep now,’ I offer. Smoaker doesn’t reply. I think his anger at me has taken away what few words he has. He knocks the ashes from his pipe into the red embers of the fire and places his pipe on the mantelpiece. He leaves the kitchen and I hear his footsteps tread wearily up the stairs.

I drag me mattress in front of what remains of the fire. I lay down on me side and curl up as small as I can. I press me hands on me belly to where the pain is worse. It’s like there’s a rat inside me gnawing at me guts. There is no baby, I know that, but I won’t let Noah do this to me. He can’t make me love him like this and then toss me aside like a rotten fish. I’ll make him see that he loves me. He doesn’t need anyone else. He only needs me. It’s as simple as that.

The night passes slowly. I watch the thick black of it change to a milky grey and then to a dull yellow before I leave me mattress to build the fire and set the kettle to boil.

63

The Journal of Noah de Clevedon

Clevedon. APRIL 10th 1869, Saturday

I hope I have put the matter of Marnie to rest now. I showed Arnold her letters declaring her passion for me. He found the whole situation highly amusing of course, until I pressed upon him the potential for disaster should Father, Cissie or indeed Lord Baird hear word of it. He was uncharacteristically serious for a moment, for which I am grateful. ‘It is simple, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘You must station yourself within earshot of the Grand door. When the bell rings you must answer the door while I distract whichever maid is hurrying there herself. You tell this wench, in no uncertain terms, to put a stop to her nonsense or you will have no choice but to set the authorities upon her.’

I have to say his plan worked beautifully and the girl eventually left. As luck would have it, everyone was in the garden when she screamed at the door. Thank God! I don’t know how I would have explained that away. They say we are all entitled to a few mistakes in life. I hope I make no more like that. I will wait with apprehension to see if another letter arrives before I can fully congratulate Arnold and myself.

We organised a sketching party this afternoon. A picnic was laid out for us in the meadow by the top woods. Paper, paints, pencils and easels were set out for our convenience and a more pleasant few hours you could not have wished for. Cissie insisted on using me as her subject. I did not complain of course, for it was the perfect excuse for me to stare at her beautiful face and milky shoulders without interruption.

I am to speak to Lord Baird tomorrow. The time has come, and although I am sure the outcome will be successful, I cannot help the nerves that are churning in my stomach. A glass of wine before bed to settle my thoughts, I think!

64

Broken Shells

It’s quiet this Sunday morning. There are few people about. The air seems hushed, the sea is calm. Maybe it’s because it’s early or maybe it’s because I’m calm meself. I know now that I haven’t tried hard enough to reach into Noah’s heart. I have to do better. I can’t let anything get between us, not even Noah’s own words. I’ve got to be the strong one now.

The sea has tossed its memories up on the tide line; broken shells, twisted salt-bleached wood, brittle fish bones, a dead gull and tangles of black seaweed. Me heart tugs as I look at the mess of it. Me own memories are down there on the beach too: me screams when Ma dipped me under the waves for the first time, the mark of me stick deep in the shingle, me sandy footprints on the stone steps, the salt of me sweat melted into the ocean, strands of me hair floating on the surface, mine and Noah’s laughter blowing in the wind and the sweet, sweet taste of him on me lips.

I feel like I’m saying me goodbyes to the best friend I’ve ever had. But me heart lies another way now. It doesn’t belong under the glossy surface of the sea any more or in the spit of foam in the curl of a wave. It belongs in another place, away from the sea, past the esplanade, beyond the village and as far away from the sea as you can be in Clevedon. It belongs up at the manor with Noah. So I turn me back on the ocean and I walk away.

I let meself quietly into the church. The congregation are seated and I check for the gleam of Noah’s hair amongst the Sunday bonnets and oiled heads. He is seated at the end of the third pew from the front. I step back out of the church and close the door behind me. I am content he is there.

I stand in the churchyard listening to the din of voices from inside singing hymns. I wait quietly and patiently and soon the wooden doors swing open and the God-fearing of Clevedon waft out into the spring sunshine. I stand with me hands clasped in front of me and I lean gently on the cracked stone of a moss-covered grave. I see the girl with the dark hair first, then Sir John and Lady de Clevedon and Noah’s friend – the one with the fair hair and wicked glint in his eye. Then I see Noah. But I don’t move. I stand still as the gravestone with me gaze fixed upon him. I know he sees me when his face flushes red and he presses himself to his fair-haired friend and whispers something in his ear. The friend darts a look at me and hurries Noah away down the pathway towards the waiting carriages. Poor Noah. He thinks he doesn’t want me, but I know he does.

I pull meself away from the gravestone and limp past Reverend Strawbridge, who is deep in conversation with Sir John. I let meself back into the church and breathe in the dank stone smell of it. It’s empty now and the tap of me stick echoes in the silence. I walk as far as the third pew from the front and pick up the hymn book that’s resting on the small shelf in front. The book Noah’s just been holding. I press me hands around it, sensing the touch of him flowing into me. I slip the hymn book into me pocket and smile. It’s comforting to feel the book bang against me leg as I walk back to Ratcatcher’s Row.

I go to the backyard first and take Noah’s handkerchiefs from under the firebrick. I slip the squares of cotton and silk between the pages of the hymn book and put it back in me pocket. It’s good to have these parts of him so close to me.

I go about me chores quietly. I give Ma an extra dose of laudanum. I think as it’s Sunday she deserves some proper rest. I boil some potatoes and put some bacon to spit in a pan of fat. I sweep the kitchen floor and sew a patch on one of Smoaker’s shirts. He sits in his chair by the fire and sucks on his pipe. We don’t speak. With Ma away in the bedchamber there isn’t anything to say between us.

We eat our supper in silence and then I take some broth through to Ma. She manages a few mouthfuls, but most of it dribbles from her chin on to the blanket underneath, which is already crusty with past meals. ‘I got meself a man, Ma,’ I say. Her eyeballs roll under her thinly stretched eyelids. I think she’s listening. ‘I got meself a proper man, Ma,’ I say again. ‘He’s handsome and kind and he loves me. Did you hear me? He loves me. He don’t care about me leg. He just loves
me
.’ I pick up her hand. It’s cold and clammy. ‘Are you listening, Ma?’ I ask. Her fingers twitch and I know from somewhere deep inside of her she can hear me. ‘I told you about him before, Ma, but you didn’t believe me. It’s Noah, Ma, from up at the manor. Do you remember me telling you? He’s a proper gent. I thought I was with child. Cos we did it, Ma, right on the beach, we did. I’m not, though. Having a baby, that is. But it makes no difference to anything.’ I let go of her hand and put me fingers on me lips. If I close me eyes and think hard enough I can remember exactly how his kiss felt. Soft and warm. Like going home to somewhere I never knew I had. I shiver and open me eyes. ‘Anyway, Ma,’ I say, ‘you’d best get yourself better. I’ll be bringing him here to meet you soon.’ Her eyes flicker again under her closed lids. But this time I think she’s just dreaming.

When I go back to the kitchen, Smoaker has taken himself to bed, leaving behind only the whiff of his pipe smoke. It’s not quite dark yet. When I go outside the air is trembling silver under the freshly risen moon. It makes for an easy walk up the road to the manor. I pass through the iron gates and keep to the shadows as I near the old stone walls. Me heart is thudding hard. Not because I’m afraid of being caught, but because I’m near to where Noah is. Round the side of the manor, just past the door to the kitchen, there’s a line of washing hanging limply in the late evening air. Someone will get into trouble for not taking that in. I move away quickly, leaving behind the sounds of servants hard at work. I know exactly where to go, and soon I’m there, by the big lighted window. I hold me breath as I peer inside and I’m not disappointed. They’re all in there; the fancy ladies and the dapper gentlemen. Some are gathered by the fire, others are lounging in soft velvet chairs. There’s the girl with the dark hair. This time she’s dressed in a powdery-blue silk with a cascade of white flowers in her hair. She looks a vision and a shard of envy stabs into me heart. There’s the fair-haired young man. He’s leaning against the fireplace stroking his moustache. His mouth is stretched into a silent laugh. And there’s Noah. I lean against the cold stone and fix me eyes on him. All the others fade to nothing; their faces, their jewelled gowns. Even the glow of the fire becomes a distant haze. There’s only Noah now. Noah and me. Just being here, being this close to him, is enough for now.

I stand there for an age. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I watch Noah’s mouth move. I watch how the candlelight turns the brown of his hair a coppery orange. I watch him tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear. I watch him take a sip of golden liquid from a glass. He seems as happy as I have ever seen him. I watch his hand holding the glass and his other one reach down to rub the top of his wolfhound’s head. I see how his face softens and his eyes shine as he bends his head to murmur something to the hound. Me hands clench into angry fists. I want to go in there and shove the thing out of the way. Noah’s smiles and caresses are only for me. It makes me skin crawl to see that animal taking what is mine. I’m glad when it finally sidles off and moves out of me sight. I stay there, close to Noah, until a door in the room opens and Noah and the rest of them leave. I want to hurry and check the other windows to see where they’ve moved to, but I know it’s time I should go back now. It’s late and the skies have darkened. But it’s of no matter. I’ll be back tomorrow night and the next and every night after that. I’ll keep on coming until Noah belongs to me.