Tidetown (41 page)

When Perch awakens she is immediately aware that something is wrong. She has trouble focusing and deep inside her chest she feels flooded, as if she is drowning. She closes her eyes, sits up in bed, then opens her eyes again. The room flits in and out of focus as she falls back on the pillow, only to jolt back upright to vomit a noxious torrent of bile from the depths of her belly. All but choking, she staggers from the bed to the basin of water by the window. Looking up into the mirror on the wall, her hair a tangled mess matted to her face, she is horrified to see purple spots on her chin and lips. She vomits again and then collapses to the floor in a spasm.

‘My saviour,' she cries out in a hollow voice, writhing in pain. ‘Save me.'

She looks along the line of the wooden floor to the corner of the room. There in the shadows, as if hidden from view, she sees the crouching figure of the Archangel, his voluptuous wings enwrapping his body and head, golden feathers shimmering in the first light of the day.

‘Joy,' she murmurs, ‘… joy. You have not forsaken me.'

The raging fires of the Mayoral Mansion, lit to hold disease at bay, are out of control. By morning the building will be a sizzling wreck, charred and beaten.

The mayor is settled in the back of the coach, mumbling to himself, clutching close to his chest his battered briefcase of bonds and bank drafts. His eyes are wild and bloodshot, the cold sweat on his brow a clear indication of his need for a laudanum draught.

Joshua stands by the open door of the coach. ‘We will be on our way very soon, Your Honour. Never fear, while all else crumbles I will be ever by your side.'

He looks back to the house where Mrs M and Hoppy are struggling with Angelica in the doorway. ‘I do not want to go with him!' she hollers, straining against the two who hold her by the arms. ‘I want to be with Perch, with the Archangel!'

Mrs M, stronger by far than her young charge, bustles her forwards. ‘Come, Miss Angelica. Your father is waiting and there is a long journey ahead of you.'

Hoppy does his best to assist, but is uncomfortable at the prospect of handling his young mistress. Anna brings up the rear with two bulging suitcases which the footman takes from her and, in a single movement, hoists to the top of the coach.

‘Come sit beside me, princess,' pleads the mayor reaching out to his daughter, who only just resists the temptation to bite him on the wrist. With one further heave and a push, Mrs M wedges Angelica onto the worn leather seat opposite her father. Running from the door, Fraulein Rumple puffs and pants towards the coach, her hair falling around her face, her heaving bosom all but popping from her corset. She jumps aboard, sending the springs of the coach into a spasm, and plops down next to her paramour. She takes him by the ears and plunges his head to her chest. ‘Bury yourself, my duckling. Worship at the throne of motherhood.'

Coming up for air, the mayor is sent into ecstasy by Hoppy presenting him a small flask. ‘The elixir of life and the soft bosom of all love,' he shrieks as he greedily gulps down the laudanum. At which Angelica lets out a blood-curdling scream.

Joshua slams the coach door closed and then jumps up into the driver's seat. The mayor takes a mighty swig from the flask, rips the mayoral chain from his neck and throws it through the open window into the mud below. ‘The desperate sameness, the desperate sameness,' he sighs.

Mrs M reappears from the kitchen, screeching and hollering ‘Fire! Fire!' just as the upstairs windows pop from the intensity of the heat, and flames lick and curl around the frames.

‘Climb aboard, Mrs M, my very fine woman,' yells Joshua. ‘And for the question on your mind, if not on your lips, and in my sweet anticipation of cherry pie and Scotch broth on tap, the answer is,' he howls at the top his voice, cracking his whip, setting the team of horses off on a trot towards the kitchen door, ‘Joshua is willing, very willing indeed!'

‘But the washing?' pleads Mrs M, tugging at her apron strings, fully aware of what Joshua is offering.

‘Plenty of time for it to dry,' says Joshua, noting the increasing heat from within the building.

Mrs M clambers aboard, taking the space next to Angelica, squashing her mistress against the side of the coach.

Hoppy and Anna look on as the coach, with the mayor, the deputy, the cook and the daughter, trundles up the lane, with a clunk and a clatter, away from Tidetown, never to be seen again.

‘Come on Stigir. A hop, skip and a jump.'

The pathway along the hillside is well trodden. Years ago, I myself walked up to the top to enjoy the view and to collect the blackberries that were plump and plenteous in the hedgerow. On one such trip Brother Moses spoke of the importance of keeping an open mind, of being always teachable, and respecting everyone's beliefs. “How can we be sure of anything? It's so complex”. I remember him saying. “We are merely apes in suits of clothes trying to understand the mysteries of the universe”. As we make our way to the back gate of the monastery I think of Perch and the huge responsibility and burden of her certainty. Stigir looks up at me. He's either praying or else he's hungry.

By noon we crest the hill that leads down to the monastery. From up on the ridge I can see the causeway. The tide is receding laying bare the reef and coral with its rugged stone pathway that links the Island of Good Hope to the mainland. Stigir trots along at my heel, stopping every now and then to sample a new smell or to make his mark. ‘Not long now little fella. There's the place.' I wonder if he feels the same sense of homecoming, that tingle of anticipation, as I do.

She opens her eyes, exhausted as she is. The trauma has subsided. She feels the sores on her face that attest that she has not been dreaming. She looks to the corner of the room and the shadow is empty of form.

‘The potion,' she murmurs, crawling on all fours to the case where more phials of the vaccine are stored. Lifting the lid she reaches in and pulls out one of the thin glass bottles. Breaking the seal and easing the cork from the stem, she drains the liquid, choking and gagging at the effort. The medicine is syrupy and sweet with a bitter, acidic aftertaste. Perch slumps down beside the casket, trembling with a fever and an ache in her head that is almost too much to bear. She drops the empty bottle by her side and then takes another, then another, drinking the sickly liquid, belching and reeking. Never has she felt more alone, more powerless. A wave of nausea overtakes her and despite her best efforts the liquid and bile spew from her, soaking her nightdress, spilling onto the bedroom floor.

‘Drink more,'
comes the voice of the vision reappearing in the far corner of the room. She strains to look, but her sight is blurred. There are flickers in the shadows; there are rustlings in the walls.

‘Wings of an angel,' she murmurs to herself.

So she drinks and she is sick in turn until every bottle is emptied and she lies hopeless and delirious in a sea of her own making, dozens of tiny bottles marooned in the shallows, not one single message among them.

SEVENTEEN

‘Is there a man, whose judgment clear can others teach the course to steer, yet runs, himself, life's mad career, wild as the wave.'
– Robert Burns

When Brother Saviour sees me walking across the orchard he squints and raises a hand to guard his eyes from the sun.

‘Oscar?' he says incredulously, ‘is that you? Oscar Flowers, after all these years?'

As I come closer he opens his arms in greeting and hugs me tight, slapping me on the back for good measure.

‘Yes, I'm back,' is all I can say.

‘I was just on my way to the greenhouse,' he replies, ‘to check how the saplings were faring and here in front of my eyes is an oak sprung from an acorn! You may have grown to be a fine young man, but I would have recognised you anywhere.'

He steps back, holding me tight by the shoulders. Stigir lets out a sharp bark. He too wants to be remembered. The Brother ruffles his ears and strokes his back.

‘The very good companion. By his master's side as ever.'

Brother Saviour gestures to a bench I know well.

‘It's a nice bright afternoon, made brighter by your coming. Rest here and I will bring you some refreshments,' he says, then walks towards the kitchen.

Sitting with Stigir on the bench under the shade of the copper beech tree, the smells, the sounds, the quality of the air take me back to my time here before I left for the wide-open seas. Even though I'd been found guilty of assisting in the murder of Mr Fishcutter, even though the Brothers knew I had been part of a religious cult, they welcomed me wholeheartedly when the court sent me into their care. I was embraced, I was taught, I was nurtured, I was loved. I was given the time to be a child after a childhood where childishness was hard to find. Now back here, in this very place, my feelings are of contentment, of connection, of being safe and welcomed.

‘Oscar!' shrills the voice that jolts me from my revelry. And when I look up it is the unmistakable figure of Mrs April hurrying towards me. She is gasping and laughing and crying all at once. I stand up to meet her and she hugs me close. This woman who held me so often when all seemed lost, now holds me tight when all seems found. Stigir runs around her ankles and she lifts him up and lets him lick her face. He's so excited she can hardly hang on to him. ‘My favourite little dog in the world. Back home too,' she says as he nuzzles into her hair and slobbers on her neck.

As I look up Brother Saviour is standing close by with a tray of sandwiches and juice.

‘I said I'd bring you refreshment,' he says. ‘And here she is!'

‘When the abbot said you were here I could hardly believe it,' says Mrs April, persuading Stigir back to ground level.

‘The abbot?'

‘Ah, yes, young Oscar. There is much to tell. Time waits for no man. And indeed you are one!'

For the next two hours we sit in the vestry. Stigir is curled at my feet, comfortable among old friends. Mrs April holds my hand and I can feel such love, such kindness from her touch. On the shelves around us are time-worn communion vessels, folded liturgical clothes and assorted vestments. In the air is the smell of dust and history. I tell Mrs April and Brother Saviour my story of voyages and war, of spice trails and friendships. They tell me of the plague and the Fishcutter twins, of corruption and of new arrivals from near and far.