Blackground

by Joan Aiken

  Now the track widened, but, from my viewpoint, became much more difficult: descending the cliff on a steep slant it degenerated into a sandy, tussocky slither, shaly underfoot, and such handholds as there were, limited to furze and low-growing brambles.

  “Would it be easier for you to sit down and slide?” asked Zoë.

  “No it wouldn’t,” I croaked, sweating, though the day was cold.

  She went ahead, walking sideways and supporting me by a firm grip on my forearm.

  “Do take care! If you go over backwards —”

  “I’m just fine,” she said. “I’ve been along this path several times. And I do a lot of yoga.”

  She did walk with a beautiful smoothness and balance.

  When we reached the foot of the cliff she said, “Okay to sit down along there, I should think,” and I dropped, with infinite relief, on to a pile of the dry seaweed and dirty sand which always accumulates at the tops of beaches. Ten yards away from us the sea — high tide — scrunched and scuffled on sand that had already been washed clean.

  “Just turned,” said Zoë. “Luckily for us. It won’t come any higher. But that means that Dos and Stav won’t be able to get along this way with the beach buggy for half an hour.”

  “But why — ?”

  “Listen!” she said. And then I heard what she meant: a resounding Crump up above us, behind the height of the cliff. The gulls shrieked affrontedly and rose in a swarm, circling over our heads. Below us the ground vibrated slightly and a few fragments of earth and rock fell on the shore a hundred yards away. Two minutes later there came another crump, and then another; twenty or so altogether, at regular intervals.

  “Tuesday, ten-thirty,” said Zoë, looking at her watch. “Long-range firing practice. Every week.”

  I remembered Ty looking at his watch; before, in the car. Before he had lost it.

  “What ammunition do they use?” I asked, feeling a little queasy.

  “Oh, nothing very lethal! It’s what they call ‘anti-personnel mines’,” she said. “They are made of compressed peat. It’s queer — isn’t it — that if you call human beings personnel, it becomes perfectly in order to shoot at them with slabs of compressed peat.”

  “What would the compressed peat do to you?”

  “Well I don’t imagine it would do you any good. It’s fired from quite a long way off, remember.”

  “So those straw things are really targets?”

  “That’s the idea,” said Zoë. “Of course they weren’t expecting you to be sitting in among them.”

  We both stayed silent for a while after that. The sea murmured to itself, gradually withdrawing; the waves folded and unfolded their lace-white ruffles on the grey sand. Like Masha’s tatting.

  “Why would Ty want to kill you?” Zoë finally said. “Is he mad?”

  “I suppose he must be.” I thought of Jas and Jim. Which of them had planned this, Jas or Jim?

  “It seems so pointless.”

  “The thing is, I didn’t turn out as he planned.”

  “You don’t kill someone for that.”

  But Ty apparently did.

  “What gave you — how did you happen to come looking for me?”

  “Odd Tom brought down your note. And he seemed in a tremendous taking about you. Sophie was there too, but neither of us could properly understand what he was saying. Only he kept waving his arms and pointing along the cliff —”

  “It was extremely kind of you,” I said, “to come looking for me. You took a big risk yourself.”

  “I knew the timing,” she said. “And the scene. I’d been along here before.”

  Another silence settled around us. I felt abysmally embarrassed; quite as drowned in guilt and shame as if I’d been caught stealing some old lady’s life savings. The way people feel, I daresay, upon release from kidnapping or hijacking. After a while I managed to mutter, “If you could possibly keep this between ourselves? Not mention it to anybody?”

  “But suppose he tries again?” Now she did sound disapproving. “You can’t just sit there and let him!”

  Why not? I thought. What a simplification for both of us. But, of course, Zoë was right. I didn’t want Ty to become a murderer. It would be so bad for his image. And though in plenty of ways and for many reasons I’d be glad to have my troubled existence put period to, I do hate being taken by surprise; I’d find it too nerve-wracking, waiting for Ty to make his next pounce, like that awful game we used to play at school, Grandmother’s Footsteps, where you try to creep up behind somebody, and they suddenly whip round and grab you. I didn’t fancy the role of either creeper or grabber.

  “No, I can’t let him,” I agreed sadly. “But now I’m aware of his intentions, don’t you see, I can tell him I know, and that will stop him, won’t it. If he knows I know, and that other people may know —”

  “Stop!” said Zoë. “It sounds like those awful books by Henry James. I never could make head or tail of them. But, I suppose, if you let Ty know that, if something bad happens to you, I shall go screaming murder to the police —”

  “Oh, I won’t bring you into it,” I said quickly. “I’ll just say ‘someone else’—”

  “Ah, look.” Her voice held considerable relief. “Here come the chaps. I gave Odd Tom a note for them. They’re very good — I knew they wouldn’t be long.” The relief, I thought, was due not only to our rescue but to the termination of this awkward dialogue. Zoë stood up and waved to the Greeks.

  It was not really a beach-buggy they drove, but a kind of bulldozer.

  “Zoë!” I got to my feet and gave her a hug, embarrassed but warm, “I’ll never forget what you did. It was —”

  “Oh, pooh. Forget it.” But she laughed; the awkward moment eased. The two cheerful Greeks brought their cumbrous vehicle to a halt and lifted me aboard.

  In ten minutes we had rumbled back along the beach to Glifonis harbour.

  X

  PAT LIMBOURNE CAME quickly into the kitchen of Number 2 where Shuna was inventing an algebra jigsaw-puzzle. Odd Tom had cut the pieces for her, and she was making up values for them.

  “Do you know where Aunt Elspeth is?”

  Shuna looked up with wide eyes at Pat’s tone; but her own life was so packed with occupation that she seldom pried into the affairs of adults; she said, “Out in the garden. On the top terrace,” and returned to her calculations.

  Pat strode up the rock steps and found Elspeth up-ended among a patch of infant vines. She said abruptly: “Olga’s dead.”

  “No!” Shocked, Elspeth sat back on her heels and, with an earthy hand, pushed the cloud of white hair from her eyes. “How?”

  “Some of the Greeks found her. Down on the shore. There’d been a landfall — you know how treacherous those cliffs are — she was found underneath a lot of clay and shale. Dmitri saw her foot sticking out.”

  “Oh, my lord,” Elspeth muttered. After a moment she added: “There was no sign of any other person? She was by herself?”

  “Apparently so. Looking for fossils, the Greeks assumed.”

  “She did say something about fossils — I heard her,” Elspeth remembered. “Oh dear — how dreadful. Poor silly Olga. Not a good advertisement for Glifonis.”

  “Fortuneswell certainly won’t be pleased,” Pat commented drily. “Lucky it was his office who recommended her.”

  Elspeth’s brow puckered. She said, “It’s queer, though.—When was her body found?”

  “Half an hour ago. But it must have been there all night. There’d been a couple of tides.”

  “She wouldn’t have gone hunting for fossils in the dark.”

  “Hardly,” agreed Pat in a neutral voice.

  “So when could she have gone?”

  “Well, I suppose the coroner will work it out. There’ll have to be an inquest, obviously.”
r />   “Oh, dear.—Well, I’ve told Shuna dozens of times to stay away from those cliffs,” Elspeth said distressedly. “So this will be an object-lesson. Do you think the child will be very upset?”

  “Can’t say. Olga was all over her—but I don’t really think it was reciprocal.”

  “No, she likes Cat Conwil better,” Elspeth agreed. “But Olga had known her mother —”

  “Let’s not get sentimental. Shuna isn’t even aware of that.”

  “No, I suppose you are right. Oh my goodness, what a horrible thing to happen here. Bother Olga. That girl always was a trouble-maker. — I suppose I had better go down and clear out her house,” she added. “If I know her, it’s probably in a horrible state —”

  Pat looked doubtful. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait till the authorities arrive? You aren’t supposed to meddle with dead people’s effects.”

  But Elspeth was determinedly collecting her gardening tools into a wooden trug.

  “Who’s dead?”

  Shuna had wandered into the garden carrying a sonar measuring tool. “I’m going down to help Father Athanasios measure out his graveyard,” she said. “Who’s dead?”

  “Olga Laszlo is, I’m afraid,” said Pat. “The Greeks found her body under a fall of rock at the foot of the cliff.”

  “She must have been digging about for fossils.”

  “Well, we warned you not to. Now you see why,” Pat said flatly.

  “Yes. Anyway Father Athanasios will be pleased. Now he’ll have somebody to put in his graveyard.” Impressed by this possibility, Shuna wandered indoors again.

  After putting away her garden tools among the skis and crossbows in the shed, Elspeth followed, and found Shuna carefully marking an enclosure “Cemetary” on the map of Fridayland.

  “Do you want to come down the hill with me? I’m going to tidy Olga’s house and you can go on to the church.”

  “All right.”

  As they walked down the causeway, Shuna inquired, “What happens to people’s brains when they die?”

  “Their souls go to heaven,” said Elspeth firmly. “And the physical part of the brain dries up and turns to dust. And all the things they have invented or written live after them — like Shakespeare’s plays and Einstein’s theories.”

  “I’m going to invent a new mathematical theory that will live after me,” said Shuna. After a moment she added, “What will it be called?”

  Elspeth, whose mind was preoccupied with many problems, suggested, “How about the Fridayland Theory?”

  “No!” Shuna’s voice was disgusted. “That’s silly! Fridayland is just a game!”

  “So it is. Well; let’s wait till you’ve completed your theory before you give it a name.”

  “All right.” Mollified, Shuna inquired, “So, has Olga’s soul gone to heaven?”

  “I really couldn’t say,” Elspeth replied rather grimly, turning in at Olga’s front door.

  XI

  A COUPLE OF Greeks, Dionisios and George, carried me up from the beach as far as the Ladies’ house. There I asked them to put me down, as I wished to use the telephone. They did so, promising to return and carry me the rest of the way whenever I sent for them. Then they hurried back down the hill. There had been some kind of commotion taking place by the harbour, at the other end of the beach, and they wanted to be in on it. The Greeks usually had some kind of commotion going.

  I hobbled indoors, finding the front door wide open and house empty. This must mean that the Ladies were not far away, but provided, I thought, an excellent opportunity for me to phone Ty. Tactful and considerate though they were about retiring to the front room while one held a conversation, their presence so close at hand gave rise to some constraint always; and what I had to say this time was definitely not for the public ear.

  It took me a while to find the local telephone book, buried under a mass of seed catalogues, old newspapers, plastic carrier bags, and hanks of garden bast. With regrettably unsteady hands I finally dialled the number of the Close Hotel.

  “Close Hotel, good afternoon?”

  “Can I speak to Lord Fortuneswell?”

  “Who?” said the bored young voice and continued a conversation. “Well, I said, if he can’t come then, why can’t he come later? And do you know what she had the nerve to say? — Who’d you say you wanted?”

  “Lord Fortuneswell.”

  “Fordsall? Haven’t got anyone of that name.”

  “Fortuneswell.”

  “What?”

  I spelt it out. “F for Freddy, O for orange —”

  “Oh, Fortuneswell. Why didn’t you say so? Room 12, hold on . . .”

  A long, long pause, with clicks and rattles. I waited, my hands sweating so badly they could hardly grip the receiver. The pain in my back was dire. I wondered if I would be able to speak at all. Sometimes my throat dries up entirely and I can only open and shut my mouth like a goldfish. (Mercifully, it has never done that on stage.)

  At last I heard a ringing, then a click. Then a voice, familiar but calm and remote: “This is James Tybold, Lord Fortuneswell. I am out at present. If you care to leave a message, wait for the tone . . . ”

  I felt both deep disappointment and profound relief. There need be no confrontation, thank heaven. I could just leave my message and withdraw. And yet, and yet, in a way I was sorry not to be able to tell him face to face — ear to ear —

  “James?” I said. “Listen, this is Cat speaking. I didn’t — I didn’t wait to study your conceptual art.” (Choosing my words with some care, because, after all, anybody may play over a taped message.) “I’m back in Glifonis now, at Miss Morgan’s house. Listen, James: don’t bother about me! I think I know what’s in your mind, but — honestly — it isn’t worth while. You see, all you need to do is wait. I’m, I’m not well, not at all well. Can you understand what I’m trying to tell you? The wrong thing, the really wrong, dishonest thing I did in marrying you, the crucially important fact that I did keep from you, was that I’m ill, not at all in good health. In fact I suffer from so many terminal illnesses that you could use me for a medical textbook. I know I shouldn’t have kept this from you — but, well, that’s it. So — so you see, it’s just not worth your while taking any action — like, like divorce, for instance — it would just be a lot of needless scandal and publicity. You don’t want that — do you? And I — I don’t want you doing something that you’d have a lot of cause to regret . . . Okay? Do you understand me, Ty? I’m not going to be around long enough to make what you planned worth doing. Love, Cathy,” I ended, and replaced the receiver with wet, shaking hands.

  Only then did I realize that Miss Morgan had pottered in from the next room and was stuffing a bundle of laundry into the capacious washing-machine.

  “Poor, poor thing,” she was muttering, half to herself, half to me, “Still, there’s no sense leaving dirty washing down there in the house — is there?” Her pleasant wrinkled face was all drawn sideways with bother and worry. She had not, I thought, in huge relief, paid the slightest attention to what I had been saying.

  “Hallo, Miss Morgan, I’m sorry, I just walked in and used your telephone —”

  “That’s perfectly all right, my dear, that’s what it’s intended for. Oh, by the way, there was a message for you earlier — somebody phoned and we went and looked for you, but you weren’t at home, so he said he’d ring back later.”

  “Who was it? Not — not my husband?”

  “No, no,” said Miss Morgan. “I’d know his voice. This was a man, but he didn’t leave his name.”

  “Joel, perhaps. Or Randolph.”

  The child Shuna came in carrying a black plastic gadget that looked like a massive, complicated torch.

  “Father Athanasios has gone into the church to say a lot of prayers for Olga,” she reported. “Honestly, I don’t quite understand
him. Because he says that Olga’s talking to God now, so, if she is, why does he need to say prayers for her?” She turned to me. “Do you think Olga’s talking to God?”

  I stared at her in petrifaction.

  “You hadn’t heard?” said Miss Morgan.

  “No — ?”

  “Olga got killed,” Shuna told me.

  “Killed?” I could only just squeeze the word from my dry throat.

  “The cliff fell on her. She must have been down at the bottom, looking for fossils.”

  “How awful,” I said slowly. “How awful.”

  It couldn’t have been a coincidence; could it? Two of us in one day — if Odd Tom hadn’t warned Zoë — if Zoë hadn’t come and dragged me away —

  “So, do you think Olga’s talking to God now?” persisted Shuna.

  I thought of Papa. Don’t interrupt, Catherine, I am talking to the Lord.

  “Frankly, no,” I said sadly.

  “If she is, God’s listening to a lot of malicious tittle-tattle,” muttered Miss Morgan. “Now, Shuna, it’s time for your piano practice. Go upstairs, and let me hear plenty of scales and exercises before you start the Italian Concerto. A lot of scales.”

  “All right,” said Shuna equably, and pattered off up the stairs. A rattle of capably played exercises followed.

  Miss Morgan said to me: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that you hadn’t heard about Olga.”

  “That’s all right,” I answered mechanically. “It was just such a shock — I — I’d been out on the cliffs, I suppose at the time when they found her, taking a walk with my husband.”

  Miss Morgan stared at me. She said, “I don’t think that was very wise.”

  “No. It wasn’t. But it turned out all right.” Or it will be all right, I thought, when he gets my message. Absently picking a paperclip out of the fruit-bowl and putting it in my pocket, I asked her, “Could you be terribly kind, Miss Morgan, and just give me a hand back to my house? To tell the truth, I feel a bit bushed.”