Authors: Alison Rattle
The Madness (3 page)
Marnie limped as fast as she could to the beach steps, her stick tapping loudly on the ground. She took the steps one at a time, biting her lip in concentration, and hopped down on to the beach. She made her way across the rocks and on to the shingle, then glanced behind to see if Ambrose had gone. He was still there. He’d climbed down the steps too and was standing on the rocks staring all agog at the waves tumbling on to the shoreline.
‘That’s right, rat-boy. You stay where you are!’ shouted Marnie. ‘See how wild it is out there?’ In truth, the waves were little more than gentle curls; just as Marnie liked it. Ambrose wouldn’t come any closer. Marnie was sure of it.
She pulled off her frock and set it down on the shingle with her boots and stick. Then, wearing only her old flannel shift, she walked across the shingle till it turned to thick, wet sand that oozed between her toes. She walked straight to the water’s edge and caught her breath as the first wave broke over her legs. The water was cold enough to make her skin burn. A shudder of pleasure ran through Marnie’s body. She waded in until her shift billowed around her waist and her feet left the ocean floor. It was all perfect; just as it should be. Nothing else mattered now. It was just her and the sea and Pa.
‘Where are you, Pa?’ she shouted into the sea breeze. ‘I’m here again! I’m waiting for you!’
But the horizon was empty.
Suddenly, another sound broke through the noise of breaking waves. Marnie turned her head and saw the rat-boy’s dog paddling furiously beside her, yapping every time a wave broke over its snout.
‘Go away!’ she hissed and splashed it with the back of her hand, making it yap even louder.
‘Here, boy! Here!’ Ambrose’s voice sailed over the water.
Marnie saw him standing on the shoreline, hugging himself with his skinny arms.
‘Get ’im for me, Marnie! Get ’im!’
Marnie clenched her teeth. Why did he have to go and spoil it all? Why couldn’t he just leave her be?
‘Get him yourself!’ she shouted.
‘Please, Marnie! Please! Me pa’ll kill me if he’s lost.’ Ambrose was doing an urgent little dance, hopping from one foot to another. Marnie almost felt sorry for him. He’d get a thrashing for sure if he went home without the rat-terrier. But the dog wasn’t in any danger. It was a swimmer and would find its own way back to shore. Ambrose could worry for a while longer, she decided. Serve him right for being so nasty.
‘What’s the matter, rat-boy?’ she taunted. ‘Scared of a bit of water?’ She turned her back to him and dipped under the waves.
Ambrose’s shouts were silenced as the weight of the ocean fell around her ears. It was delicious to be alone in her own place; to feel her arms pull strongly against the water and to feel the air tight in her chest. She opened her eyes to see the watery world around her blurred in greens and blues; black thickets of seaweed stretching slimy tentacles towards her and the rocks on the seabed crusted with barnacles. When her heart began to pound in her ears and her lungs burned hot, Marnie swam to the surface and swallowed deep gulps of air. She rubbed the salt from her eyes and looked towards the shore. Ambrose had gone. There was no sign of his dog, either. Good, thought Marnie. He’d gone back home to catch some rats, hopefully. Back to the dark, dirty places where he belonged.
The sun was growing hotter by the minute. Marnie felt it warming the back of her head. Light bounced off the top of the waves, and further out, beyond the waves, the surface of the sea shone bright as a newly polished spoon. Marnie wanted to stay there all day. But she knew that soon enough the ladies would start to arrive, bathing machines would crowd the beach and she would have to spend the rest of the day helping Smoaker. She closed her eyes. Just a while longer, she thought. She wished she could stretch time so it never ended.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of barking. She opened her eyes and looked towards the beach. The rat-dog was back. It was running into the sea and back out again. Marnie paddled with her hands and looked around for Ambrose. He couldn’t be far away. He wouldn’t leave his dog. As Marnie watched, it seemed that the dog was trying to pull at something, but every time it got a grip the sea pulled it away again. The dog’s barks were becoming more and more frantic. Curious now, Marnie swam back towards the shore. As her feet touched the sandy bottom she saw the dog was nipping at something large. A clump of seaweed perhaps, or a log or a piece of driftwood? She waded closer. The dog began to bark at her now, urging her to hurry. Marnie took her time. A thought was forming in her head that made her belly flip like a floundering fish. She screwed up her eyes against the sun and scanned the beach, half expecting to see Ambrose running back to fetch his dog. But all she saw were figures on the esplanade and the first of the bathing machines being hitched to horses. She moved closer to whatever was worrying the dog, daring herself to look.
The first thing Marnie saw was Ambrose’s hair, spread out like black feathers in the shallows. He was lying in the water, his legs pointing towards the horizon. His head was being bobbed about by the waves and he was staring right into the sun. Seawater had filled his britches and shirt, so he looked all blown-up and fat. The rat-dog was pulling at Ambrose’s shirt, playing tug-o-war with the sea. Marnie prodded Ambrose with her foot, but he wouldn’t stop staring.
Despite the heat from the sun, Marnie shivered. She’d only ever seen one drowned person before. When she was nine, she and Ma had found a woman washed ashore at Byron’s Bay. She’d still had on her bonnet and mantle, but part of her face had been eaten by fishes. Ma had said the woman must have got tired of living and had walked into the sea on purpose.
Now, in the blink of an eye, Ambrose had drowned too.
Ma had always told Marnie the ocean couldn’t be trusted. That even on the calmest of days it could send up a strong wave that could drag a person or fishing boat down to its depths. Marnie had never believed her. The ocean was the one thing Marnie did trust. She knew its colours and its moods. She knew when it was feeling gentle and she knew when it was angry. She knew when she was welcome and she knew when to stay away. But always, it made her feel better about herself.
But Ambrose hadn’t trusted the ocean; he’d been frightened of it. And now look what had happened to him. Marnie looked down at Ambrose’s pinched and mean face. It served him right, she thought. He should have stayed away.
Marnie left the rat-dog pulling at Ambrose’s shirt and limped along the beach to fetch Smoaker.
5
Marnie was amazed at all the fuss that was made of Ambrose after he’d drowned. Like he’d suddenly become someone important. His ma had wailed for hours and his pa had slit the rat-dog’s throat and thrown the body on the beach for the gulls to pick at.
Marnie watched as the village women trooped along Ratcatcher’s Row with pans of stew, loaves of bread and packets of bacon. Miss Cranston brought along a pretty-looking tart and a basket of spicy-smelling gingerbread. What a waste, thought Marnie. She was quite sure that Ambrose had never eaten gingerbread in his life.
Ambrose was laid out on the rat-catcher’s kitchen table now, in a white nightgown with his hands folded neatly across his chest. Marnie had been made to go and look, ‘to pay your respects’, Ma had said.
Ambrose’s hair had been brushed all tidy and his eyes were closed tight. It was the first time Marnie had ever seen him without snot hanging out of his nose. Ma made her step up close to Ambrose. ‘Say a little prayer for him, Marnie,’ she said. But Marnie could think of nothing to say. She didn’t want to be there, pretending to be sorry. She didn’t like it in the rat-catcher’s cottage. The curtains had been drawn and candles were burning on the mantelpiece. It was hot and stuffy and smelled faintly of fish guts rotting in the sun. Marnie couldn’t breathe properly.
More people crowded into the room. It seemed to Marnie that the whole village was in there. Some of the women muttered prayers under their breath. The men took their caps off and twisted them round in their hands. Marnie moved away from Ambrose to make room for them and stood at the back of the room, waiting for Ma. They had paid their respects; surely they could go now?
Marnie thought the village women were still praying as they filed past her to make their way outside. She heard them mumbling. But when she looked up at their faces she saw they were glaring at her, like a gaggle of angry geese.
‘Always in the water, that one.’
‘Cursed child.’
‘Not right, it isn’t.’
‘What do you expect from a bastard?’
‘Marked by the Devil, she is.’
‘Strange one.’
‘Lured him into the sea.’
They hurried out of the room and Marnie was left with a feeling in her belly that she didn’t like. She was glad when Ma grabbed her hand and took her away.
‘Don’t listen to their tittle-tattle,’ Ma said. ‘It’ll all blow over soon enough.’
Back at home, Ma gave Marnie some bread and jam for supper. There was no butter because, as Smoaker kept saying, ‘a drowning’s no good for business’. He was right. Not a single bathing machine had been hired since Ambrose had drowned.
‘It’s only been two days,’ Ma said. ‘You know those London ladies. They’ll have taken fright, that’s all. It’s what folk are saying round here we have to watch out for.’ She glanced at Marnie, then leaned towards Smoaker and whispered something in his ear.
Marnie licked the jam off her bread and thought of the basket of gingerbread and the pretty tart. She wondered if they were still on the doorstep next door, or if the rat-catcher’s wife had already taken them in.
‘Now, Marnie,’ said Ma as she came over to clear the table. ‘Me and Smoaker think it’s best you keep out of the sea from now on.’
The lump of bread Marnie had been chewing on shot to the back of her throat. She coughed hard.
Ma thumped her on the back. ‘We’re not saying you had anything to do with the accident Marnie, but all the same … You know what folks are like round here with their superstitions and the like. You’ll be blamed for every storm and every bad catch.’
Marnie swallowed the lump of bread. What did Ma mean, she couldn’t go in the sea any more? It wasn’t her fault the stupid rat-boy had drowned.
‘But … but I need the sea,’ Marnie said quietly. ‘How will I ever be cured if I don’t bathe?’
Ma sighed heavily. ‘Don’t be daft, girl! The sea’s not going to cure you of the polio! It’s made you strong and healthy, but it’s not going to stop you being a cripple. You’re stuck with that leg, Marnie. You’re old enough to understand that now. There is no cure.’ Ma looked relieved, as though she had got rid of a particularly vexing problem. ‘Now, mind what we tell you and no more bathing. It’s the business we have to think of now.’
Marnie heard Ma’s words but she couldn’t make sense of them. No cure? Stuck with being a cripple for ever? She felt as though a hand had gripped her around the throat and was squeezing harder and harder. It was Ma who believed in the sea-cure. It was Ma who had told her the sea would make her strong and healthy. It was Ma who had made her believe a miracle might happen.
Had it all been a lie?
No, thought Marnie. She couldn’t believe that. It had to be true. Ma was scared, that’s all. She was scared of the other village women and their vicious gossip. She shouldn’t listen to them. What did they know? They’d called Marnie a bastard when it wasn’t true. Ma couldn’t mean what she was saying. After all, why would all the rich ladies come from London to take the cure if it didn’t work? They all believed the sea would rid them of their ailments. Marnie believed in the power of the sea too. It
would
cure her one day. She knew it. Bit by bit, day by day, her leg would grow straighter and stronger until one day she would throw her stick away for ever and run as fast as the sea winds across the beach.
Later that evening, Marnie went outside to use the privy. After she’d finished, she poked her stick into the pile of ash that she’d just soiled. Then she crept around to the rat-catcher’s back doorstep and stuck the end of her stick into the large pan of soup that had been added to the offerings. Lastly, she swiped at the basket of gingerbread and sent the squares of cake rolling along the dusty ground.
6
Tucked under the blanket that night, with Ma snoring loudly at her side, Marnie tried to remember a time when she’d been like everyone else. She hadn’t always been this way. She knew that.
‘You were only five,’ Ma used to say to her in rare gentle moments. ‘It was the worst of times. I thought you were going to be taken from me for ever.’
Marnie squeezed her eyes shut and saw a bed in a room with yellow walls. It was cool in the room; the shutters were never opened and a candle burned all day and all night. She remembered heavy, aching pains; in her head and neck, under her arms and in her legs. She remembered cold wet cloths on her forehead and the hot stench of herself when she soiled the bed. She remembered a plain-faced woman in a black dress and lace collar with her hair coiled tightly at the back of her head. On days when the pains weren’t so bad, the woman would bring books into the room, and a slate and some chalk. Although Marnie’s fingers could barely hold the chalk, the woman taught her how to scratch out letters on the worn black slate.
