A Year of Marvellous Ways (16 page)

Dr Arnold shook out a clean white handkerchief and said, Excuse me. A day of ghosts, I’m afraid. Or should I say memories? People prefer memories to ghosts, I think.

The clock chimed.

She delivered Douglas, you know.

What? said Drake. But how? I don’t—

Douglas was my stepson. I engaged myself to mother
and
child. His father had been killed in the First War. That’s how, Mr Drake.

There are many more things I would like to say, said Dr Arnold. But it’s a question of time. Your time, obviously because you have given me so much already and my gratitude is beyond anything. But there is something I’d like you to see. Something interesting, I think. Something I wished I had seen before. Maybe it would have helped. I don’t know.

And Drake said that for once he had all the time in the world.

30

T
hey were quiet by the time they reached the
Museum. Drake let the doctor go on ahead while he stood outside in the falling dusk. He needed time to think about the strange coincidence of Dougie Arnold, time to think about everything the doctor had said to him. He lit a cigarette and watched the ebb and flow of people along River Street. So many lives. All unknown. Drake looked back up to the building. He flicked the cigarette into the gutter and with a heavy feeling in his chest, climbed the steps expecting nothing.

He had never entered a museum before. The close hush of the building was a surprise, a strange comfort. The air was cool, the mood strangely profound. As a church should be. He thought about Marvellous’ quiet declaration on the Night of Tears. I have faith in you. That’s what she’d said.

His footsteps echoed across the ornate stone floor and the fall of his London tread sounded clumsy in the vaulted room as he made his way to the staircase, to the level above.

Dr Arnold was waiting for him. He led him into a small gallery on the right and took him over to a painting on the far wall. Light snaked over his shoulder and lit the face in front.

Here she is, he heard Dr Arnold say. The young woman William Ways fell in love with. This, I believe, is our mermaid.

Drake became aware of his every breath. Aware of every beat of every pulse at his neck at his wrist in his groin in his heart. He noted the size of the frame ahead of him, absorbed the beauty of the face staring back at him, eyes deep and black and sad. An evening sun had caught her right cheek, enriching the dark honey and brown tones of her skin.

Drake turned to Dr Arnold and before he could speak the doctor said, Not what you expected, is she? Imagine her
here
, Mr Drake. Imagine people’s fear, their incomprehension. Their
suspicion
.

There were some free men and women back in the American South in the 1850s, Mr Drake. I have done my research. Not common, but not rare either. But whether she was free or whether William Ways bought her freedom we can only speculate. Her desire to swim – to
cleanse
, if you will – is not that hard to understand, given what probably happened to her. A form of baptism, you could say. Purification by immersion.

Drake turned back to the canvas. Globules of water diamonds hung upon her brow, masking a scar. Her hair, dark and dripping, running down her back. Her bosom, heavy and full. There was gold around her neck, a small shell box too, holding her daughter’s calling. But there was no smile, no song on those thick reddened lips, merely history; a history stolen and brought across seas and sold to the highest bidder. Those lips that had launched a thousand sailors had buried themselves into the neck of William Ways like a prow full steam into waves, and he had promised her freedom and she had given him life. The boathouse was there behind, and the river, full and bloated, nibbling at her hem, teasing her with her not-nice history whispering, Wash it off. Wash
them
off. And those eyes would not let him be.

For here she was:
Lady of the Sea
, Approx 1857. Artist: Alfred Warren. Donated Anonymously.

For here she was: the missing piece that matched the smudged outline, etched upon a boathouse wall by smoke and time. A false window to yesterday.

31

T
t was late, dark when the car pulled up at the
top
of the meadow. Drake got out, waved as he watched the doctor pull away. He sat down wearily on the milestone and looked at the dowsing rod. It held everything he had heard today and everything he had seen, and it felt heavier than when he’d first held it. He hadn’t wanted to take it, but the doctor had insisted. Said you never really own things like this, you merely borrow them.

Come on, he said to himself, no more tonight. And he rolled up his trousers and made his way through the wet grass. He’d decide what to say to old Marvellous when he saw her in the morning. He was too tired now to come up with a story, because today had been a day when he just couldn’t lie.

As he came through the trees he saw that a lamp had been left outside his door. How had she known? Every gesture weighed heavy and he wanted to go straight inside and smoke and drink more but he heard her call out his name and he could never refuse her calling. He left his suitcase outside by the steps.

When he entered the warmth of the wagon, he could barely see her under the pile of blankets, and what he could see was just two large eyes full of longing.

Here, said Drake, peeling her glasses away from her head.

Must have fallen asleep, she said.

Yes, he said.

Waiting for you to get back.

I know.

Silence.

You went to the barber.

I did.

You look nice. Very smart.

Then she pointed to his hand and said, What you got there, then?

He lifted the dowsing rod into the light. The old woman ran her hands across the grain.

Is it one of mine? she asked.

It is. You gave it to someone a long time ago.

I did?

Yes. Four years or so after the First War. A doctor came to see you. Do you remember?

A doctor?

Yes. A Dr Arnold? The man I took the letter to?

The old woman’s eyes clouded.

I don’t think I remember him right now, Drake.

That’s all right.

I don’t have to, do I?

No, you don’t. You really don’t, and he pulled the blanket up high.

I was thinking, said Drake.

What?

I don’t think I’m going to leave. I’d like to stay –

I’d like you to stay –-

– for as long as I can, if that’s OK.

The old woman nodded and smiled. She reached across and patted his hand.

Ten days till Christmas, she said. Have you thought about what you’d like?

No I haven’t.

I was thinking you need a crab pot.

Do I?

Yes. Because the shops keep running out of food.

That’s true.

So you never go hungry.

A crab pot it will be, then, said Drake. Night, Marvellous. And he stood up to go.

What you going to get me? she said.

I don’t know yet. He smiled. What would you like?

A surprise.

All right.

It better be good, mind, she said.

It will be. I promise it’ll be unforgettable.

Promises, promises, she said.

Night, Marvellous.

When Drake got to the door, Marvellous said, That dowsing rod. It won’t find you water, you know. Only love.

Drake stopped. He went back to the bed, leant over and kissed her for the first time.

What’s all this then? she said.

But he had no words. He would never have any words for what happened that day, and she held his hand and whispered, It’s all right. And that between them would be enough.

32

I
n a forgotten chapter torn from time, a key turns
loudly in a lock and a young doctor – newly married – is shown into the fading light of a grey room. A woman sits on the bed. She is not yet old but she looks old, fiddling with a shell box hanging about her neck. The air is still. About her, scores of model boats cast adrift on the brown institutional floor: boats of various sizes, some complete, many not, made by love and a careful eye, and the secret component of endless time.

The woman sits patiently, shudders as the raw December night whispers across her skin. She is naked beneath her yellow coat. Time passes, somewhere the tide rises. The moon shifts across the bars, and as night slips in, so her fear slips out.

She is slow off the bed. The young doctor attempts to go towards her but he is held back. The woman crawls towards the wall, feels in the dark for the rugged line where wall meets floor. Her fingers reach for the joins between the brick. There it is. She gently pulls at the ragged strips of stuffed paper until the brick slips out free. She lies on the floor now, her face pressed close to the opening where a faint draught crawls across her cheeks, across her brow. She breathes through her nose, sifts through those other smells until she finds the one that will take her home.

The salt is thick in the air, the river high. She swallows hard as her mouth waters. Heavy with the weight of longing her lids close, just in time for her to stumble through the trees to where the water is still, to where the ripple of riversong breaks the surface as it escapes from the depths of time. And it calls her and she hears that song, the song of Return.

The young doctor kneels down by her side and whispers her name.

She looks at him and sees no one.

33

I
t had been years since Drake had allowed himself
to remember a boyhood Christmas in the pub.

He used to help dress the tree and make paper chains until his tongue was dry. And late at night when the pub was locked, he would come downstairs, and the men gave him sips of booze and drags of their cigarettes but only when his mother or Mr Betts weren’t looking.

And he remembered the old women in the snug drinking port and stout, and he always thought that Mrs Betts looked like a glass of stout in her black dress and her small white lace cap, but he didn’t tell anyone.

And they were good memories.

And there were women there too, women who walked the streets. They were tired of the poverty, tired of the scarcity of food, and tired of men, but they were kind. His favourites were Iris and Lilly and he thought they were lookers and they always made a fuss of him, draping their arms over him, marking him with the scent of their strange love. At night they changed their names to Peaches and Cherry because in the darkness that’s when flowers turned into fruit.

Mr Toggs played the piano and sometimes Drake sat next to him to press a key, but mostly he sat next to him and sang. And everyone cheered when he sang, and his cheeks reddened but that may also have been from the sips of beer and whisky. But whatever it was, it was a good feeling, seeing all those smiling faces and listening to those singing voices and looking out the window and seeing the comfort of those grubby streets outside. And Drake thought that life was magical and his life was the best life ever, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t have a father that Christmas because when it came to the Christmas pudding and he found the silver threepenny bit in his mouth, he didn’t wish for a father like he usually did. He wished for that day to last for ever. Just him and his mum. And that day for ever.

And that was a good memory.

He stared at the photograph he had tucked away in his wallet. She was a good memory again, his mum. He hung the dowsing rod above the doorway, decorated it with a long sprig of berried holly. Slipped the photograph behind the rod. Happy Christmas, Mum.

Drake placed a log on the low flame. He stood up and looked at the smudged outline above the hearth, and he saw again the mermaid’s face, how she would have watched over William Ways, over the boathouse and their life. He went to his suitcase and took out the picture collage of a man’s face. It was easy to smooth, the paper was soft. He pressed it against the outline on the wall – it was a perfect fit. He held a candle to the fire until the wax was soft and pliable, and he broke off four small rounds and pressed each to the corners of the picture. Stuck the picture against the outline on the wall, it framed it well. He stood back. It looked right. In a boathouse on a stranger’s shore in a forgotten creek, it looked so very right.

Who’s that? asked Marvellous.

Drake turned with a start. Jesus, Marvellous!

Who’s that? she asked again.

And he looked back towards the picture and for the first time in his life, he told someone.

It’s my father, he said.

How I imagined him to be, he said. Daft, eh? I was nine when I did it. When I asked my mother the questions. What colour were his eyes, Ma? What colour was his hair? How was his mouth, Ma? What about his nose? And I asked and didn’t stop until she gave me the answers. I didn’t know how hard it must have been for her, being made to remember something she probably wanted to forget. And when she went downstairs to the pub to earn extra money I cut up old magazines she’d been given and took parts of faces that matched her answers. Until I was left with this. With
him
. I just wanted something like everyone else had a something. I wanted a face that would watch over me when I slept. Because I wanted what my mother had. Because she was only ever happy when she slept.

The boathouse creaked.

I have his hands, though, said Drake, looking down at his fingers. And do you know how I know that?

Tell me.

Because they weren’t my mother’s, and Drake turned to her and smiled.

And you have his eyes, said the old woman looking at his smile.

He turned again to the picture.

Yes, he said. You’re right. I
do
have his eyes.