The Visitor (30 page)

‘It wasn't you,' she told them. ‘I fell, before.' Relief passed across the man's face. ‘I live near here.'

They looked at one another, the woman plucking at her sleeve.

‘Well then…' the man said.

‘We can't just leave her here, Clive.'

The scowling man was about to object when Pearl saw the painted woman give him a stern look, which cut him short.

‘For God's sake,' he said under his breath.

The woman held Pearl against the seat and then shut the car door. She got in the back and the man started the engine. The woman leaned forward and hissed in his ear. ‘I said you were driving too fast. Didn't I say? I knew this would happen.'

Pearl clamped her eyes shut as the roar began. The sickly scent was close to her again.

‘Where do you live, dear? We'll take you home.'

Where was Polly? She would answer for Pearl when she didn't feel like speaking, or if the question was difficult, but there had been no word from Polly for such a long time.

‘Dear?'

Pearl knew she had to think – it was the only way she would get out of this rattling thing – but it was such a hard question.

‘Behind the seafront.' Yes, that sounded right. ‘Carew Street.'

Finally the car stopped its jerking movement though the engine rumbled on. Pearl opened her eyes. There was a scrabbling near her, on the outside of the car. The woman had come round to open the door to help Pearl out, but Pearl's fingers were clutched so tightly to the inside handle that the man, who was still in the driver's seat, had to lean over and prise them off.

The woman took her arm and Pearl stepped onto the ground, relieved to feels its firmness.

‘There we are then,' the woman said. ‘You're sure you're not hurt? Oh I am sorry.' The man beeped the horn, making Pearl jump. The woman spun round. ‘Yes, I'm coming!' Then she turned back to Pearl, tumbling her words. ‘You'll be fine, won't you? Yes, it was just a little knock and you really were in the road but he shouldn't have been going so fast, and I am sorry, but you'll be fine.'

She was still talking as she got back in the car, more to herself than to Pearl, and the man Clive drove off with a great burst of noise before the woman had even shut the door.

People were looking at Pearl's bloody, filthy clothes, her hair a thick mass over her face. She had to get home. Taking a step there was a tremble in her legs, as if she was still sitting in the motor car. It had got its roar inside her and she would never be able to stop shaking. If she could only get indoors and sit down, away from these all these people.

Pearl got to her front door but it was locked. That wasn't right. They never had to lock their door, her and Jack. And her little plants had gone.

‘Mother?'

Nicholas was taking her arm and leading her away. Why was he calling her that, and didn't he see she couldn't go out in the boat now?

‘No, I've got to get inside, Nicholas.'

‘Mother, it's George.'

She passed her hand over the face before her and saw that it was. There was her nose and the shape of her eyes. He wasn't all Nicholas.

George looked her up and down. ‘What on earth… come on home with me. You're all right. It's all right now.'

Sixteen

Their silence at the table is tart enough to pickle beets. When the chickens can be heard distantly prattling in the yard Jack seems grateful for the sound and bestows a shy smile on her mother. Guests aren't usually asked to dinner. This month there's been barely enough food for the three of them. No one has mentioned why Jack's come. They don't need to. Pearl can feel the looks darting from her parents, so knowing in their angles. The treat of a pasty, rare in recent weeks, isn't enough to banish the dread filling her stomach. She scrapes her knife across her plate, enjoying the shriek against the good china, saved from a long-forgotten wreck.

Her father can never bear awkwardness. He clears his throat. ‘It's set fair, for the next week I should think.'

‘We could do with a drop of rain,' Jack says. ‘Might tempt the maids from their hiding.'

She won't meet his gaze. She won't make this easy for him. His cheek still holds the bloom of his fight that morning.

Her father taps out a tune on the table. ‘I've never known pilchards so teasey,' he says. ‘You know Jim Dingle, Ida's eldest?' Jack nods. ‘He sold his boat to a lad from Govenek, just yesterday,' her father says. ‘For barely a third what it's worth. He's gone to the Tregurtha to carry bags and they say his sisters are looking to go to America when they have the fare.'

‘The palace will be short of more hands then,' her mother says. ‘Not that there's much for them to do.'

‘There will be soon,' her father says. ‘We must have faith.'

Jack doesn't stop lifting food to his mouth when he speaks. Crumbs of pastry cling to his chin. ‘I heard the Wills boys are looking to sell their boat too, now their mother's so wisht. Timothy says he's no choice. And Peter Jenkins is to rent his loft out.'

‘'Tidn't right.' Her father shakes his head. Her mother puts her hand on his, capturing his tapping fingers.

‘The Lord will provide,' she says, but her voice is brittle.

Pearl's father can't raise a smile, even for her. ‘I don't blame these boys,' he says, ‘none of them that have given up. I just can't understand what's the matter with the fish.'

Jack leans forward. ‘One of the huers saw a shoal coming this way last week and a boat from Lowestoft cut right across its path, broke it up and saw it off.'

Her mother puts her hand to her throat. Her father nods. ‘I heard that too. Shoal's sorely needed. A good season would set things right again, get us back on track.'

‘An east coast boat taking food from our mouths, seen by one of our own,' Jack says. He stops chewing and stares hard at Pearl, challenging her.

Her pulse quickens and a slow burning anger creeps up her chest, threatening to clamp her breath.

‘But what if there's something else making the pilchards leave?' she asks and hears Nicholas inside her head. ‘What if it's us and not the east coast men?'

All three stare at Pearl but she doesn't give way, thinking of Nicholas facing up to Jack and the Pengelleys that morning. Heat floods her face but she doesn't look down.

Her father returns to his pasty, tearing it apart. ‘That's ridiculous, girl. What are you thinking? Morlanow's fished for pilchards for hundreds of years, hundreds. There's always bad seasons. Not unheard of for them to run together like these last few.'

Her mother lays her hands in her lap and turns her face from her food, as if too disgusted to finish it. ‘You'd be better keeping your half-formed notions to yourself, Pearl. Others know better than you.'

‘East coast men have got to be stopped or this winter will be even worse than last,' Jack says. ‘Master's trying to keep word about this last frightened shoal quiet, and those with him.' Jack doesn't miss a beat but he's conjured Nicholas into the room, nonetheless. ‘And after what happened to my nets.' The trump card's played.

‘What about them?' her father asks, as Jack must have known he would.

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring such bad talk into your house.' Jack does a smart job of looking contrite but Pearl can feel his need to tell. Her palms sweat. Her head is light.

‘Oh, don't mind that,' her mother says. ‘Can't be helped in these wicked times. What happened to your nets?'

Jack licks his lips. ‘Well, they were ripped. Deliberately. East coast men, I'm almost certain.'

Her father thumps his knife handle on the table. ‘Of all the low tricks. They're keeping decent folk from eating.'

Jack nods sadly. Pearl opens her mouth to mention the likelihood of the hake ripping the nets but he cuts her off.

‘Of course the Master, or rather Nicholas Polance, doesn't want to fire any tempers.' Master's making a profit by foreign boats putting in here. Tillotsons won't lose out through him.'

And the Tillotsons won't stand any nonsense from Morlanow, Pearl thinks. Beneath the table she presses her nails into the flesh of her thigh.

‘We must stay united,' her mother says. Jack continues to gobble his pasty, the slyest hint of a smile playing on his lips. Pearl feels the toe of a boot nuzzle her ankle.

She shoots her chair back from the table, making it screech across the slate floor. ‘I've got to help old Mrs Pendeen. With her shopping.'

‘Now?' Her mother stands too. ‘But you've not finished your dinner. Jack's come special.'

She tries to get a purchase on Pearl's wrist but Pearl pulls herself free and nips to the door. She forces her voice to be light while grappling for the catch.

‘I promised. I'm sorry. Jack… sorry.' The wind bangs the door shut behind her.

Up the street towards the cliff, in the opposite direction to the seafront. If she sees Nicholas now she will more than likely bawl her eyes out in front of half Morlanow. Past the drapers with its taunting ribbons; past chapel and its bolted door; past a flock of pupils from the art school; past a young man on a bicycle, carrying his sketchbook to the front. On and on, climbing higher and higher up the rough track road. The houses thin and scrub grass rises on either side. A motor car bumps along towards her, heading into the village. Pearl doesn't stop. On the flat of the hill she joins the cliff path. She wants to walk free of Jack, and herself.

The lie came to her lips in an instant, as ready as breath. Will her mother ask old Mrs Pendeen about her shopping? The lie itself is out of her now, twisting through Morlanow. And with it twist Jack's words at dinner, and Nicholas's:
There's a packet expected
,
she'll take us
. Pearl pictures their three voices as nets cast into the water, drifting with the tide.

She stops as Govenek appears. Houses stretch back from the water's edge rather than huddling against it as Morlanow does. Still, it's an ugly place, Govenek. Even in summer the sunlight is weaker here, as if seen through a dirty window. New, misshapen buildings fill the streets and a towering warehouse rises at the village's heart. There is work to be had even though the train doesn't pass through and no visitors come. There isn't a proper harbour or seafront, and there's no stretch of beach; the pilchards won't stray along its craggy shore. The mackerel fleet berths in a sheltered but shallow cove that often dries out, leaving the boats stranded on their keels. It's harder to live there than in Morlanow but Govenek's men have lightened their burden. They hold fast together. They fish on Sundays.

The horizon is a blue streak across the pale sea, giving the trick of land close enough to sail to. Pearl imagines a packet ship surging to another world with two passengers safe in the bows, their hands joined together.

Seventeen

She wakes just before the sand scatters against her window, anticipating the moment the grains leave his hand. Nicholas is waiting for her. She can feel his patience through the thick cottage walls, knowing it's him without having to look down to the street below. Jack wouldn't dare be so bold and Nicholas has nothing to lose.

With little thought and as easy as telling the lie about old Mrs Pendeen, Pearl gets dressed, pulling a black shawl over her head and shoulders. She carries her boots and keeps to the far right of each stair where the wood creaks less. The front door doesn't betray her, slipping soundlessly closed.

Since she went to bed the sky has clouded over, trapping the fug that clung to the day. The gas lamps are lit and dawn is far enough away that darkness is still heavy between the pools of light. She sees a flicker in the shadow by the pump. Nicholas slips into sight. Barely five feet of cobbles lie between them but Pearl is on the edge of a plunging drop. If she moves towards him now there will be no going back.

‘You're out late,' she says. How easy to say these words.

‘So are you.'

She's warm beneath her shawl but pulls it further over her face. She moves towards him and takes his hand.

She knows where they need to go and leads the way. Witch Cove is between Morlanow and Govenek but far enough from each that they can talk in safety. They walk into the deepest part of the night, side by side for as long as they can, and only letting go of each other's hands when they're on the narrowest stretch of the cliff path. Every so often Pearl turns round to see that he's still there. The dry air is full of the sweetness of wild thyme. She fills her lungs with it, for courage.

On the descent to the cove Nicholas breaks into a run behind her, propelling her down the last few yards so that their feet crash onto the pebbled beach and their bodies are wrapped together.

‘Steady! You'll have us both over,' she says, then is suddenly aware of their closeness. She moves a few paces away, pulling off her shawl and smoothing her skirt.

Nicholas moves his hair from in front of his eyes and grins.‘Nothing can break you, Pearl. Your bones are granite.'