The Shell House (21 page)

She had pulled the clasp round to the front and was unfastening it. Guessing what she was about to do, Greg sprang forward to stop her. Too late: as he grabbed her wrist, she transferred the cross and chain to her left hand and threw it clumsily overarm into the lake. He saw her eyes shiny with tears and then the slow trajectory of cross and chain, whirling through air, hitting the water with a slap, sinking. Immediately he plunged in. Cold wetness wrapped the legs of his jeans and surged inside his boots as he snatched up the cross from the sandy bed. The water came only to his knees, but as he turned to show Faith the chain in his hand, the sand shifted and gave way beneath his feet. He overbalanced, staggered, too late to save himself: toppled backwards in a wild flailing of arms, a comic windmilling, a fall of slow-motion inevitability. He heard Faith’s shriek, and in an instant the shock of water embraced him, closed over his head, dragged at his clothes, filled his eyes and ears with coldness. Spitting, spluttering, gasping, he got his head above water and thrashed for a foothold. Faith splashed in to help him, extending a hand. His feet sank in deep as she pulled. He lurched to the bank, dripping, streaming, shaking tendrils of waterweed from his boots.

‘Greg! Oh, Greg!’ They stumbled against each other, Faith laughing and crying. They stood on the path, hugging, while a puddle formed at their feet. ‘You were so
funny
— like a gun-dog, straight in!’

‘Did you get that on camera? Shall I do it again?’

‘Oh, you’re
soaked
!’

‘Now you mention it, yes. I hung on to your chain, though. Here it is.’ He dangled it in front of her. ‘Hey, you’re going cross-eyed.’

‘Ha ha.’ She looked away with an effort. ‘I don’t want it. You can have it.’

‘What, after I’ve swallowed a couple of gallons of lake fetching it?’

‘No.’ Faith shook her head.

‘OK,’ Greg said, stuffing it into his pocket. ‘I’ll look after it till you need it.’

‘But what shall we do about you?’ She grabbed one of his hands and started rubbing it between both of hers as if he were at risk from hypothermia. ‘You’ll get cold—here, put this on.’ She fetched her fleece jacket from the bank and draped it round his shoulders, tugging it round; she picked a piece of weed from his hair.

‘You’re nearly as wet yourself.’

‘Shall we go up to the Coach House? There might be some blankets or something up there.’

He quite liked her fussing round like this, but shook his head. ‘I’m OK if you are. We’ll warm up if we carry on working—after I’ve emptied out my boots.’

‘Me too.’ Faith looked down at her soggy trainers.

They sat side by side in the grotto, wringing out their socks and their jeans. Faith was downcast again; Greg’s sousing in the lake had raised her spirits but, he saw, only temporarily. She hadn’t tried to blame him, but this
must
be his fault; he was the one who’d started questioning her faith, picking holes in it. Why had he done it? Whatever he had wanted, it wasn’t this. Noticing that she was starting to shiver, he gave back her jacket, guided her hands into the sleeves and zipped it up to her chin; then he sat with an arm round her. She leaned against him reluctantly. With hesitant fingers he pushed her hair back from her face and kissed her cheek; when she did not resist he held her closer and bent his mouth to hers.

She pushed him away. ‘Don’t! Stop it.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t want to. And you’re only doing it as a consolation. Don’t think you can make up for—’

‘I don’t. And don’t think I went floundering in the lake just to make you laugh, either.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Tell you what,’ Greg said, with complete seriousness, ‘I’ll make a bargain with God.’

She looked at him, startled, pulling away. ‘A what?’

‘A bargain. Like this.’ He raised his eyes to the curved ceiling of the grotto. ‘OK, God, are you listening up there? If you give Faith her faith back, I’ll believe in you too.’

The sun had broken through the mist while they were talking; it reflected ripple patterns on the curve of the wall. She sat shrugged into her jacket, her hands tucked up inside the sleeves; her eyes were dark and intense. She was a girl in a shell, cupped and held like a pearl in an oyster. He saw her as part of an accidentally beautiful composition: dark hair and eyes, scarlet fleece, tiles arranged behind her in swirls.

‘You can’t do it,’ she told him. ‘You can’t make a bargain with God. He doesn’t make bargains.’

‘How do you know that? Besides, you’re contradicting yourself again. You’re telling me what God does and doesn’t do when you’ve just been saying you don’t believe in him.’

‘Habit.’

‘Well, we’ll see if God wants to play.’

‘You shouldn’t talk like that!’ Faith reproved.

‘Why not, if he doesn’t exist? Who’s to mind? And if he does exist, he won’t mind a bit of straight talking, will he? Or does he only listen to
thee
ing and
thou
ing?’

‘You’re cold.’ Faith rubbed his arm. ‘Let’s get back to work.’

Greg stood up slowly, his attention caught by the EP initials in shells. ‘What if—?’

‘What if what?’

‘What if he’s
here
? Edmund?’

‘In the grotto? What are you talking about?’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that he could have drowned in the lake?’

Faith stared. ‘Drowned himself, you mean?’

Greg nodded. ‘That would explain the vague wording, wouldn’t it, if no-one knew for sure?
At the
time of the fire
. Not
in
the fire. Not on the Western Front, either.’

‘What made you think of that?’

‘Being in the water just now. What’s in there? What’s under there?’

The idea, he realized, had been prompted by Jordan’s email, though he did not say this to Faith. Jordan had tried to find his way through the bushes, in darkness, looking for a way down to the lake. Greg had not seriously suspected Jordan of having any thought of drowning himself, but nevertheless he had been uneasy, picturing it.

‘Well, he
could
have done,’ Faith conceded. ‘But why?’

‘You don’t have to look far for a reason! Shell-shock . . . unable to face going back . . . best friends killed . . . And then there’s the house! Imagine it—he comes back from the Western Front, from who knows what, for home leave, and finds the place a smouldering ruin.’

‘Mm. I suppose.’ Faith turned to look out at the water. ‘How odd if he’s in there, so close, after all the wondering we’ve done . . .’

‘It’s just an idea,’ Greg said. ‘You know when people talk about that footsteps-on-their-grave thing—a kind of premonition? That’s what it felt like, only in reverse—not the future, but something that happened here years ago. We’ll never know, though, will we?’

‘I don’t like thinking about it,’ Faith said. She reached for a damp trainer and pushed a sockless foot inside it.

By lunch-time, when they went up to the Coach House, both had dried out enough to look only mildly dishevelled, though Greg wasn’t sure his Timberland boots would ever recover. Preparations were already in progress for next weekend: tables and chairs assembled inside, and a long row of display stands showing photographs past and present.

‘There’s one I want to show you,’ Faith said. ‘Maura’s put these up—she’s in charge of the old photos as well as the new ones. But they’re precious, the archive ones, so they only come out for special occasions.’

Maura, who had pure white hair cut in a youthful style and was dressed as if for yachting, smiled vaguely at them and carried on sorting through a box. On one of her stands she had mounted photographs in matched pairs: old black-and-white or sepia, showing Graveney Hall’s former splendour, and colour prints of present dilapidation. Greg’s eyes went straight to a shot of the caryatid, full-on in blank sunlight and not as good as his own, in his estimation; but Faith was pointing to the black-and-white photo on the next panel.

‘Greg, look at this—it’s him, Edmund! I’ve seen this picture before, last year, but I didn’t take much notice then.’

Greg looked: a family of three, in a posed portrait.
The Pearson family by the Pan statue in about 1914
, said the caption in amateurish calligraphic script; and, with dubious accuracy,
Edmund Pearson was killed in
the First World War
. Mr and Mrs Pearson, stiff and formal, sat upright in garden chairs, dressed in light summer clothes that nevertheless looked restricting. Behind them was a tall young man. Greg stared, for the first time, at the face of Edmund Pearson.

‘Nineteen fourteen—so he’s eighteen, just a year older than me. He’s got three years to live.’

Edmund Pearson gazed out of the portrait. He stood behind his seated parents with a hand resting on each wicker chair-back. He was lightly-built, and wore an open blazer, no tie, and cricket trousers. His hair, which looked as if it would be light brown, fell across his forehead; he had strongly-marked eyebrows and a steady gaze. His mouth could have been smiling, but not quite; he seemed about to speak to the photographer.

Wonder if I’d like him, Greg thought, if I met him?

‘A real Mona Lisa smile,’ Faith said. ‘Find me if you can.’

‘Summer nineteen fourteen. They must have known by then that war was likely.’

Faith’s father Mike came up to them, all smiles. ‘How are you two getting on with the scrub-bashing down there? Got you hard at work, has she, Greg? I’ll come down later and see for myself. Good to see you again. No better news about Dean, I’m afraid—awful business. Thank God you were here with your friend, though I should disapprove, strictly speaking, as you were trespassing, all of you. But come and have a look at this! We’re all very excited—’

On one of the tables the local newspaper was spread out: two of the women were bending over it, exclaiming to each other. Ushered towards it by Faith’s father, Greg read JOE’S CENTURY, and the sub-heading LOCAL PENSIONER CELEBRATES 100TH BIRTHDAY. There was a photograph of a withered old man, beaming gappily by a huge birthday cake. Greg immediately recognized the cake as one of his mother’s; he’d seen her icing the words
One Hundred Not Out
, and packing it in its ribboned box ready for delivery to the old people’s home on the edge of the common. Nothing exceptional about that had struck him at the time, but Mike Tarrant urged him and Faith to read the article, and one of the women said to the other, ‘How astonishing!’ as they moved away.

Greg read:

It was a hundred candles and a telegram from the Queen for
Mr Joseph Baillie, oldest resident of Oak Grove Retirement
Home, last Saturday. Sprightly Joe enjoyed a birthday bash
with fellow residents of the Epping home, where the
Foresters Brass Band played golden oldies while Joe blew
out the candles on his cake.

‘Joe’s a bit of a golden oldie himself,’ quipped Hazel
Thorne, matron of Oak Grove. ‘He’s always in good spirits
and he thoroughly enjoyed his party. It’s amazing to think
that he’s lived in this area all his life. What changes he must
have seen!’

Joe Baillie was born at Graveney Hall, near Epping,
where his father was employed as head gardener. Joe,
whose two elder brothers were killed in the First World
War, also worked in the Hall gardens until the fire
which destroyed the mansion in 1917. Later, Joe worked
as station gardener for London Underground on the
Epping—Ongar line (now closed), a job which he held
throughout the 1939—45 war and until his retirement. For
most of his working life he lived at Toot Hill, near Epping,
until the death of his parents. He never married and has
no living relatives.

‘Joe’s marvellous for his age,’ said fellow resident Mrs
Elspeth White, who is due to celebrate her own hundredth
birthday in June next year. ‘I hope he’ll still be around to
help me blow out the candles when my turn comes.’

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Faith’s dad. ‘I’m going to visit him—see if he’s fit enough to come for Open Day. He could be our guest of honour; we might even get him to say something. If his memory’s good, he can give us all sorts of information about the gardens and the household. Old people often do have the most marvellous memories, especially of things that happened years ago. I’ll make a tape recording and transcribe it for our records—I bet we’ll get something to put in the next guidebook. This is such a fantastic find. And to think he’s been there all these years, a couple of miles down the road, and we might never have known!’

‘Mike, do you know where those boards are, for the entrance signs?’ someone interrupted.

‘Oh, yes, I’ll come and show you—you’ll need the key, and be careful of the stepladder.’

Greg and Faith looked at each other.

‘He was here—he must have known Edmund!’ Faith exclaimed. ‘Oh, why didn’t we think of that—there still being someone alive who was here at the time!’

‘Because you don’t really expect people to live to a hundred and stay in the same area all their lives,’ Greg pointed out.

‘We’ve got to go and see him! He might know what happened!’

‘Your dad’s going, and if he gets his way the old codger’ll be here next week.’

‘No, on our own! We’ve got to ask him about Edmund. We can’t ask him that in the middle of Open Day. We need to get him to ourselves. Tomorrow, after school? I’ll ring first and make sure it’s all right.’

Greg couldn’t match her urgency. ‘What are you hoping—that he stood by the lake and watched Edmund drown himself?’

‘He must be able to tell us
something
,’ Faith insisted. ‘Give us some clue.’

‘Well, OK.’

Greg glanced back at Edmund in the photograph, framed, frozen and caught. Edmund in 1914, who did not know the dates of the Somme or Passchendaele, who had never seen a tank or heard of mustard gas, who had no idea what
over the top
would come to mean.

Instead of cycling straight home, Greg took the longer route to Jordan’s house. He had no idea what he was going to say, and was almost relieved when Jordan’s dad, Stuart, told him Jordan wasn’t at home. But Jordan had been out all day, no-one knew where, and his father was anxious, Greg saw.