The Jeweller's Skin (15 page)

He looked down quickly.  ‘They must be lobster-pots.  That’s what they catch here, crab and lobster, it’s known for it.  Have you ever had lobster?’

A restaurant in the City, white damask cloths, Claud Stokeley choosing wine in consultation with the waiter.  ‘Perhaps,’ she said.  ‘When I was very young.’ 

‘It’s delicious; one of the best foods.  I don’t know, maybe we could get one, if it’s the season.  Come on, let’s see if we can find this house.’

She had almost forgotten there was a house to look at.  He had explained in the car, and she had half-listened, gazing out of the window: a house made from the carriage of a train; had she misunderstood?  A friend of his, someone he’d known in the war, had bought this train-house and wanted Anthony to see it. 

They walked along the sea-wall, the wind in their faces, the sea down to their left hissing softly on the stones.  She would have liked to sit still, anywhere here, and stare out at the sea, and not have to speak for a long time. 

‘There,’ he said; and it was true, there were railway-carriages, three of them, each on its concrete base, lined up along the edge of the beach, with succulent plants growing out of the shingle in front of them.  She put her hands up to her mouth in shock.  Someone opened the door - an ordinary train door - in the centre of the far one, and shook out a duster.

She began to laugh, surprised at herself, unable to stop and half-ashamed of it.  After a moment Anthony came back and put an arm round her, smiling.  ‘You like the idea, then?’

She swallowed, trying to calm herself.  Eventually she said, ‘To live in it?  Your friend wants to live here?’

‘For the summer.  He’s thinking about it.  He wants me to tell him if it’s secure.’

She laughed again, silently, rocking where she stood.  ‘I am sorry.  He wants to know - the train will not start?’

‘Come on,’ he said, and drew her along to the first carriage.  There was a little wooden verandah at the front.  They stood on it as he rummaged for the key.  ‘Or sail out to sea,’ he added, and she giggled again.  ‘Well, that’s one thing,’ he said.  ‘First time I’ve seen you laughing.’

*

She closed her eyes and pictured the great waves surging up the shingle only yards away, lifting high up and crashing and sucking down.  That was the sound, the pebbles being sucked back and thrown again as the next wave broke.  In the dark the sea would be invisible, except for this edge, like the head of some animal drawn back before it strikes, a white crest and the sleek blackness of the throat.  The noise filled the narrow room of the railway carriage.  Beneath it, close to her, was Anthony’s breathing, a faint regular sigh.  She turned her head.  He was asleep on his back, the blanket thrown off his right shoulder, his other arm flung straight out beneath her neck.

She sat up a little and pulled the blanket over him, then arranged the other corner across her breasts.  It was all the bedding they had, a tartan rug he’d pulled from the boot of the car.  She thought it had the sweetish smell of a dog.  Under her back the mattress ticking was cool and harsh.

The sea pounded and swished; it was high tide. Farther away there was a lowing sound, like a cow in distress.  They had heard it earlier, in the afternoon, a long low hooter out over the sea, which someone had told them came from a light-ship.  The lowing and the sea sound were like one thing, one creature beyond the frail walls of the carriage, something dangerous that was still at bay.  She closed her eyes again.  And the lifeboat, she thought, having just today learned about it; the men would take the lifeboat out on the rough sea, and search for anyone whose boat was missing, pull them on board and turn back towards the village.  She wondered if the fishing-boats were out, and if the sea was rougher than usual.

But there is this, she thought, and moved her head to lie on the flat of Anthony’s shoulder.  He made some sound and wrapped his arm around her.  Simply: he seemed to make everything simple.  Their picnic by the river; the afternoon wandering, exploring the village.  And sex: they had made love twice, the first time urgently, as soon as they arrived, standing just inside the little sitting room, the glass of the carriage door cold against her back; and again late at night.  Though he has never mentioned the other time, she thought. 

His body next to her was warm and lean.  Perhaps I should tell him about Violeta.  The thought brought with it a surge of longing.  Perhaps he will make that simple for me too.  He wouldn’t be shocked; he doesn’t think like that.  But was that true?  She lay in the dark, looking up at nothing.  He would say: Of course you must live together.  To make up for lost time: that was the phrase.  Perhaps the whole thing was simple after all.

She was almost asleep.  She had left the asylum.  Violeta was already living with her, here by the sea, if not in a railway carriage then one of the black and white bungalows close by, with a dazzling garden.  On weekends Anthony drove down to be with them.  The three of them walked along the sea-wall, in the summer, Violeta slim in a flowered cotton dress, the full skirt flapping around her legs.  Violeta and Anthony were laughing together.  She hurried forward to catch up with them, wanting a glimpse at last of her daughter’s face.

‘It was Stan made me do it,’ Clara was saying.  ‘Not that I didn’t want to see you, I did.  But you know how bad I am about writing.  Stan said, Go on, she’ll be pleased to see you.’

‘I am very pleased,’ Narcisa said, and looked across the kitchen table at this middle-aged woman, rangy, the unbelievably fine hair now henna’d russet, the thin cheeks as lined as worn leather gloves.  ‘It is good you came.  Only in the afternoon I have not much time.’

‘That woman’s face.’  Clara began to laugh.  ‘When you said you can go now!  Hey, she’s not going to get you into trouble, is she?  You’re the boss, right?’

‘I am the boss.  I don’t know - well, I will talk to you later about it, perhaps.’  She was still astonished, feeling something trembling inside her, as if Clara’s presence removed a covering.  ‘Clara, I did not understand, tell me again.  Your husband - ?’

‘Stan’s got an old aunt in Leatherhead, and he thought he’d better get down and see her.  And David, my youngest, he’s home for a week, and the old lady always liked him.  So we came down in the van and had lunch with her, and Stan dropped me off on the way back.  David and him will have gone to the pub in Epsom, and jolly glad not to have me with them.  You know men.  Sorry, Nora, am I going too fast for you?’

She shook her head.  Clara, her husband Stan, David and what was the other one called? Dennis; and Stan’s aunt.  Clara’s life seemed extraordinary, peopled, full of events and choices and sudden journeys.  But this is how people live, she told herself.  If I had had Violeta living with me.  No, not even then.

She sat back.  ‘Clara, I am sorry, we are in my kitchen and I have not offered you tea.’ 

She busied herself, lighting the gas under the giant kettle, lifting down cups and a teapot that wasn’t chipped.  ‘There is cake,’ she said, a little doubtful.  ‘It is from the bakery, fresh.  Of course it is for the patients..’  

‘Go on,’ Clara said.  ‘We’re patients, at least we used to be.’  She sat back in her chair and watched as Narcisa cut four slices of coffee cake.  ‘I’ll tell you, it took some nerve for me to come in.  When Stan dropped me at the gatehouse, I nearly did a bolt.  Looking up the drive at all them gloomy old buildings.’

Narcisa brought the tray over with the tea-things, and laid a hand awkwardly on Clara’s shoulder.  Clara patted her fingers and went on.  ‘I said to myself, they can’t do anything to you now.  But still, Nora,’ she said, as Narcisa sat down and poured milk into the cups.  ‘I don’t know how you stand it.  I know you’ve been back here a long time and all that, but still.’

There was a pause.  Narcisa pushed the cake-plate towards Clara, who took a slice and then broke some off and ate it delicately, with a hand to catch the crumbs.  Always these elegant gestures, Narcisa thought.

‘I am used to it, of course,’ she said slowly.  The shame of Dr Bosanquet’s letter threatened.  ‘But now I am thinking about leaving.  Only what work can I get?  I don’t know.  I have only worked here, and as a housekeeper, you remember?’

‘Your two old ladies.  I don’t know, Nora, but there must be something.’  She looked around the kitchen with its stacked green-painted shelves and huge ovens.  ‘I reckon if you can run this you can run most things.’ 

‘What about you?  You are still working?’

‘I’m still at the laundry.’  She laughed.  ‘I’m as bad as you.  I went there when I got out of here, and I’ve stayed ever since, except for a few years when the boys were little.  It don’t pay much, but it suits me, to be honest.  Stan says I could stop, but I don’t know that I want to.  I don’t see you there, though, Nora, you’re cleverer.  Though you were pretty nifty in the ironing-room.  Do you know, Nora, it’s nearly thirty years?  Can you believe it?’

They drank tea, both of them, Narcisa in her white apron and overall, Clara with her long elegant limbs, her pink blouse.  Soon she will have to go, Narcisa thought.  Perhaps it is better not to start to tell her.  Still she felt Clara would know what to do; or better, she would know what to feel about it.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Clara said.  ‘If you like I’ll ask Stan to keep an eye out.  For a job, I mean.  You know, he’s got his own business, he’s a builder.  He does get to hear of things sometimes.  What is it, though; has it started to get to you?’

Narcisa spread her hands.  ‘Oh, it is - I don’t know.  Many things.’ 
Tell her,
she ordered herself, but it seemed too much.  She looked quickly over at the kitchen clock.  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Clara, I will tell you.  You are my friend, you know what has happened.’

‘I should think so,’ Clara started, then stopped herself, leaning forward, elbows on the big scrubbed table, her long hands pressed to either side of her face.

‘It is Violeta.  My daughter.  She has written.’

‘Violeta’s written to you?  Nora, you’re kidding!’

You see, some part of Narcisa reprimanded; most women would be excited.  ‘She wrote to the asylum.  She said I was a patient in 1916 and did they know where I was.  And of course they did.’

‘Oh Lord.  Did she get you into trouble?’

‘Perhaps.’  She thought of Dr Bosanquet, his plump hands fingering the blue envelope; his own accusing letter.  ‘Certainly this makes me think, do I want to work here?  Before I have never wondered.  But Clara, it is not that.’  She held onto the teacup with both hands, trying to explain.

‘So what have you said?’

She looked up.  ‘Clara, you will think I am a stupid woman’ - a bad mother, she wanted to say, but couldn’t - ‘I have not written.  I do not know what to say.’

The door opened; June Ragless’ blonde head appeared.  ‘All right, June,’ Narcisa said.  ‘Five minutes.’  The two women waited while the door creaked back.

‘I thought it was what you always wanted.’

So Clara knew that.  ‘It was, wasn’t it?’  But not enough, she wanted to cry out.  ‘But she is not a child now.  She is thirty.’

‘Nora, you’ve got to write to her,’ Clara said, and held Narcisa’s wrist.  Above her wedding ring was a little delicate one, with a blue stone.  ‘Honestly.  You’d never forgive yourself.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, and brushed the cake crumbs into the palm of her hand.  ‘Clara, I do not know what to think.  If she was a child, yes, but a grown woman?’  She took the crumbs over to the bin, and came back to her chair.  ‘I cannot imagine it, meeting her.  What will happen.’

‘Well, I don’t know either.’  Clara smiled for a moment.  ‘I always wanted a daughter myself, and look what I get, them two ruffians.’  She looked out into the expanse of the kitchen.  ‘I don’t know.  Family’s family, after all.  I mean, she’s not just anyone.  Even if..  Anyway, she’s your kid, Nora, she’s bound to be lovely, ain’t she?’

She could hardly say it.   ‘But if she is angry?  Really angry with me?’

‘Come on, Nora, she’s not going to all this trouble just to tell you you’re a nasty old cow, is she?  Maybe she’d be a bit upset, but you’d explain.’ 

‘I do not know why she goes to all this trouble.’  But there she had shocked her friend; she had gone too far.  She laid her hand over Clara’s for a moment.  Then she moved to stand up.

‘Have you got to go?’  Clara asked wistfully.  ‘I know, I should have warned you.  Then maybe you could have made a bit more time.’

‘Clara, tell me..’  but what exactly was the question?  ‘You have been happy?  With Stan?’

Clara stood, and looked round for her coat.  ‘Well,’ she said finally.  ‘What can you do?  He’s a good man.  If I hadn’t been in here - you never know, do you?’

She came round the table, in her smart red coat, with the belt and the fur collar.  ‘D’you like it?’  she asked, and twirled on the spot.  ‘Stan bought it for me for Christmas.  Black market, of course.  So you see.’  She stepped forward and hugged Narcisa.  The fur brushed against Narcisa’s nose.  ‘Next time,’ Clara said, ‘we’ll do it properly.’

They walked to the door.  ‘Go on, do it,’ Clara said.  ‘And let me know.  Promise?’

Rosaleen Shaw was out in the corridor, looking stern.  ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Humphreys,’ Clara said suddenly in a loud, strained voice.  ‘You’ve been most helpful.’  Then she winked at Narcisa and strode off towards the entrance.

*

She had cycled into town, to the draper’s shop.  It was a long time since she’d done any sewing; it would be good for her to start again, she’d thought, looking at Clara’s pleated skirt.  Perhaps it would calm her.

The assistant waited impatiently for her order.  She was a young woman, with marcelled hair, thin in her navy-blue uniform.  ‘No,’ Narcisa said, ‘that is not the colour.  Will you show me a darker blue, please?  I think it is called ultramarine.’

Reluctantly, the girl opened the drawer, and took out another card of bias binding.  Narcisa held it against the swatch of fabric.  ‘Yes, that will be fine.  Now I need some cotton, the same.’

She was edgy, she thought, coming out of the shop.  Perhaps it was the unfriendly shop assistant.  She usually enjoyed shopping for sewing things.  She was putting her purchases in the bicycle basket, when someone came half-running across the square towards her: a tall woman, gawky, holding on to her hat.

Of course it was Shaw.

‘Oh, Cook.’  She was out of breath.  ‘I’m so glad I caught you.’

Narcisa forced herself to be polite.  ‘Miss Shaw, good morning.  Is there something wrong?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’  She rested a hand on the handlebars; Narcisa flinched.  ‘I just wanted to tell you.  It’s about that patient, Washbrook, wasn’t it?  There’s going to be an enquiry.  Young June and I have been asked to give evidence.’

So Sister Healy had acted after all.  ‘Good morning, Mrs Humphreys,’ a man’s voice  said beside her on the pavement.  She turned and nodded, but whoever it was had moved on.

‘Well,’ she said eventually, ‘it is a good thing that they take it seriously.’

‘Absolutely.  Though of course, you know my opinion.  Still, I suppose it will show the others.  I just hope June doesn’t get it out of proportion.  You know these young girls, how excitable they can get.’

But you’re excited too, Narcisa thought.  She straightened the bike, so the woman had to let go.  ‘Thank you for telling me.  Do you know when this will happen?’

‘I think it’s Thursday morning.  We may miss coffee duty, I’m afraid.’

‘That is quite all right.  It is important for you to take part.’  And I’ve disappointed her again, she thought, getting into the saddle and waiting for Rosaleen Shaw to move away before she could start.

*

Back in her room, she sat down on the bed, still with her coat on, and put her head in her hands.  It was Clara, she thought.  Clara is a good kind woman; but that is the problem.  She cannot imagine why I have not written.  What did she say?  ‘You’d never forgive yourself.’

She stood up slowly and hung up her hat and coat.  There was something else that came back to her.  ‘She’s your daughter, she will be a nice woman.’  Something like that.  And she means it, she thought, wandering through her room, from the door to the long window and back again.  She believes I am good like her, and Violeta will be.

From the next room, she heard the creak of floor-boards.  Her neighbour, the laundry-mistress, must be off sick.  Then there was the sharp sound of water.

Anger rose in her throat like nausea.  I cannot bear it, she thought, and almost shouted.  I cannot bear it.  To be living listening to some stranger pissing. 

My daughter will be like me: that’s what Clara thinks.

Perhaps Violeta is mad already.  A patient in an asylum.  Or has been.  Perhaps she’s become like me, a bad person.  A woman able to abandon her own children.

Clara, she thought, longing for comfort; but Clara was more distant than before.

I cannot meet her.  It is too much.  I will choose not to see her, and get on with my life.  I have lived without her; I do not need her now.

She stared out of the window, restless, angry.  From the farm she could just hear a cow mooing, on one long note, like a patient howling.