The River Within

by Karen Powell

  For weeks afterwards the sea returned the dead, an evil-smelling, bloated tide rolling in across the shores of Donegal. Exactly ten days after the sinking of the ship, Jenny, searching through the lists in the newspaper, learned that the body of her uncle, Federico Carloni, had been recovered, dragged out of the shallows by some local fishermen. In the months that followed, she grew desperate for information about her father, trying to discover if he’d been lost with the ship, or he had been sent, like the rest of the survivors, straight back to Liverpool and then on to Australia. Another possibility was that he was still interned on the Isle of Man or elsewhere.

  She was never to know: Roberto Carloni disappeared like so many of his countrymen that year, never to reappear. In the barber’s shop, the seats stayed empty, his comb and scissors still lying where he had set them down, mid-customer, when they came for him.

  Jenny began to worry about Thomas.

  ‘They’ll want him next,’ she said to Venetia, who came to offer condolences for her uncle. ‘My little boy.’

  ‘That’s not possible, Jenny,’ Venetia said. ‘No one is interested in the children, let alone grandchildren.’

  ‘Look how Italian he is!’ said Jenny, grasping a handful of her son’s dark curls. Thomas concentrated on colouring in an aeroplane. ‘I’ve seen how they stare at him in the village, you know. They say there are informers everywhere.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ said Venetia.

  Jenny made no reply, her expression blank.

  Peter Fairweather asked to see Venetia. His wife, he said, was concerned about security at the cottage, was insisting they have new locks installed on the doors and windows. Had something happened? Venetia asked. No. Fairweather would arrange for the work to be carried out himself, he only wanted to reassure Venetia that no structural changes were to be made.

  People would always think of the winter of 1939–40 as punishing in its severity, but it was the following one that Venetia would remember. Starome, along with the other villages that sat in the shadow of the moors, had a climate of its own and 1941 brought day after day of snow, followed by harsh winds that packed the snow into seemingly permanent drifts along the country lanes. On many days, the villagers had to dig their way out of their homes, emerged blinking into the weak sunlight. Livestock was kept inside so that the fields were empty of all movement, except the occasional hare bounding across the snow.

  The confinement did not trouble Venetia greatly. She was busy, with the help of Sir Laurie, with arrangements for converting the garden wing into a hospital, did not notice Peter Fairweather’s strained look, nor that he was less exacting about his work than usual. Alexander was in bed with a severe cold and there was no thought in Venetia’s mind to tramp down to Gatekeeper’s Cottage in the snow and icy winds. She might even have avoided it, not wanting to have various foul-smelling remedies pressed upon her, with the insistence that they would cure a common cold

  She saw Jenny only once in those weeks and that was from a distance, when Venetia was on her way home from the stables. The wind was whipping up a stinging flurry of snow and she was in a hurry to get back to the warmth of her sitting-room. She spotted Jenny at the doorway of the cottage with the pram. Thomas was jumping up and down in the garden, dark curls standing out against the white backdrop. Venetia waved to them a couple of times, but Jenny didn’t notice. Venetia carried on up the driveway, her mind preoccupied with plans to reallocate beds from guestrooms to the garden wing. Her only thought for Jenny was that she would not get very far with the pram in this kind of weather.

  CHAPTER 55

  Venetia, September 1955

  She took the children out to the woods,’ Venetia said. ‘She hadn’t dressed them properly. Lennie was only in underclothes in the pram. Thomas had bare feet, the poor child. Fairweather saw them and there was some sort of fight. No one really knows why Jenny ran back to the woods, what happened at the river. She might have slipped or fallen or . . . ’ Venetia looked at Alexander steadily. ‘All of us agreed it was an accident.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell them the truth.’ Alexander stared at her with all the fierceness of youth.

  ‘Dr. Harrison said it would be better for Thomas and Lennie that way. For Fairweather too. Reverend Jones agreed to it too.’

  ‘She will be all right, won’t she?’ Alexander said.

  Venetia thought of Lennie in her torn nightgown and bare feet, that glassy expression. She did not know. It was Thomas that everyone had kept an eye on. Thomas who looked so much like his mother, who had, they thought, inherited her volatile nature. All these years Fairweather had fretted over his son, placated his every mood, while Lennie sat silently by.

  ‘She needs to rest.’ Venetia wanted to walk again. She set off along the ridge at a fast pace, despite the heat. ’I’ve seen too many people die over the years to dwell on the past, Alexander. My parents, my brothers. Your father. We owe it to them to get on with all the things left to do, not feel sorry for ourselves.’

  ‘Helena will be all right, of course?’ Alexander said, almost repeating himself. ‘I’ve not always been kind to her, mother. I don’t know why. I don’t know what to do.’ He shook his head, stared out across the horizon. ‘I did a terrible thing.’

  ‘You are not to blame, Alexander. I’ve told you what the doctors said about Fairweather, and none of us could have known that Lennie would become so distraught. These things run in families sometimes, though all of us had hoped . . . ’

  ‘I saw him picking those roses and I knew.’

  ‘Fairweather?’

  ‘Danny. I saw him picking them and I knew straight away they were for Lennie.’

  Venetia stopped. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I killed him, mother.’

  CHAPTER 56

  Danny, July 1955

  Who’s that?’ Sharp across the darkness, a voice came from the river path, where it looped just before the Stride.

  Only yesterday he’d stood here with Lennie. Danny didn’t know why he’d come back or how long he’d been standing on the river bank, his skin cold, his muscles stiffened. He was broken up inside, pieces of misery and pieces of happiness coming to the surface and then drifting away again. He was joyful and wounded and he did not want to move. He felt as if some part of his body had been shattered and that he must assess the damage before shifting and making everything worse.

  ‘Masters, isn’t it? What the hell are you up to?’

  He knew, even before the figure emerged from the gloom.

  Alexander Richmond—golden-haired, taller than he remembered. All lean angles too. Plain, well-cut clothes. Danny felt clumsy standing there, like a carthorse next to a thoroughbred.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Danny said.

  ‘Huh?’

  For a moment Danny almost expected him to say that this land they stood on belonged to Richmond Hall, to him, but any lord-of-the-manor air disappeared as Alexander came closer. When he spoke he sounded more like his father, Sir Angus: ‘Oh well, you can do what you want, I suppose. Gave me a fright, that’s all.’

  ‘Nothing to be frightened of here.’ Danny stood his ground as if a dispute over it meant something.

  ‘Well, I know that, of course.’ Irritation crept into Alexander’s voice. ‘Not much of a welcome home from an old friend but never mind.’ He took a little bow and gave a theatrical wave. Danny could smell whisky on him, understood now that he was quite drunk. ‘I bid you good night, young Masters.’

  If there was mockery in his words, it was faint. Something harmless at most. It was the wave though, the hand swirling too close to Danny’s face that did it. His skin felt too sensitive, the lightest touch would harm him.

  ‘Get off me.’ He pushed at Alexander’s chest. It was fine-boned, like a peacock’s or some rare game bird’s, not thickened as his was by labouring.

 
‘What the hell’s your problem, Masters? Lost your manners for some reason?’

  ‘I’ve manners enough for them who deserve them.’

  Alexander peered through the darkness. Focusing wasn’t coming easily to him. Danny waited for a blow, a shove, something that would make everything simple.

  ‘Get yourself to bed if I were you,’ Alexander said. ‘You’ll feel it in the morning.’

  The elder boy stepped back onto the path, turned away, putting distance between them.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ Danny called after him. ‘I came here to get roses for Lennie.’

  Alexander stopped. Danny could feel the tension in him and relished it.

  ‘How could you know about the roses?’

  ‘It’s no secret,’ said Danny. They were face to face again. ‘Lennie’s the only one that likes them, always did.’

  ‘Well, she’s quite capable of picking them for herself, you know. No need for you to go to any trouble.’

  ‘Someone has to look out for her.’ Danny had started, it was too late to turn back again. ‘All alone, she is, up at that cottage. It’s not right.’ The taste of her seemed still to be on his tongue, his ears still ringing with the shock of what had happened between them.

  ‘How on earth can it be any business of yours, what Helena does? It’s nothing at all to do with you.’ Alexander’s voice was sharp again but Danny recognised the beginnings of fear in it.

  ‘I love her.’

  And there it was, laid down between the two of them. The truth sounded too simple. Like a child he was, a village idiot with not a drop of poetry or learning in his blood. Alexander would have found the right words, he was sure of that.

  ‘You love her.’ There was laughter somewhere in that voice. Danny felt the heat rise in his face. ‘Helena?’

  ‘No-one calls her that!’ He had to stop him, stop Alexander from making her into someone else, not the girl who had lain down in the woods with him last night.

  ‘Just to be clear. Is she aware of this passion of yours?’

  Careful. He had to be careful.

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘I see.’ Even in the shadow of night, Danny could sense the other boy relaxing. Alexander sounded like his father again. ‘Well look, I don’t mean to be unkind, but Helena really won’t have thought of you in that way. You always did say things straight, which is good, but I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  Alexander wagged a vague finger at him. ‘Now Hattie Merriot’s a different thing altogether. I heard her talking about you back at Easter.’

  The friendliness finished him. In that moment Danny understood that he never had a chance: he was just an apprentice carpenter with wood dust ground into his soul. What had happened with Lennie was an accident which she would have regretted the moment it was over.

  ‘You don’t deserve her,’ he said miserably.

  ‘Not really for you to decide, is it?’ said Alexander. ‘Helena’s a good girl and she’d be kind to you if she knew. That’s why I don’t want you bothering her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. I never have.’ It was a lie, but it felt like the truth. What happened couldn’t be reduced in that way, turned into something ugly.

  ‘Good.’ Alexander nodded. His voice was still cool but even in the darkness Danny could sense something unsure in it, some weakness beneath the surface threatening to break through. ‘I’m thinking of marrying her, so no point you wasting your time hankering after her. I’m only telling you because I always liked you, Masters.’

  His love, all his precious and fine feelings reduced to hankering! And the arrogance of Alexander, talking about marrying Lennie so casually. As if he had any number of choices and might as well settle upon her as anyone else.

  Danny took off his jacket, threw it on the ground.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ said Alexander.

  ‘I told you, you don’t deserve her.’

  A bark of laughter. ‘Surely you’re not going to beat it out of me?’ Alexander took a step backwards and held up his hands in mock-submission.

  ‘No.’ Danny took a step back himself, bent to pick up his jacket which, only a moment before, he’d dropped to the ground. Suddenly he was too tired, wanted only to go home and sleep beneath the cottage eaves. Not to think until morning.

  A blow caught him in the ribs as he stood up. Light and fast it was, not enough to wind him, but the shock of it caught him off guard. Alexander was staring at him as if he himself couldn’t believe what had just happened. At least Danny had an excuse now. He drew back his right fist but before the punch formed, Alexander connected with a second blow, this time to Danny’s stomach. He wouldn’t have felt the pain, even if the punch had been a practised one, but it was just enough to make him step back, instinct kicking in. One foot back and then the other, second foot finding nothing. It took only a second to understand that he was on the edge of the river bank, his arms flailing, trying to find his balance, trying to create some forward momentum so that he could grasp at something. Grass, stone, water, all rushed by in a blurry mess. And then the roar of water in his ears. The world turned black.

  Danny surfaced seconds later, gasping at the cold. He could see Alexander high above him, crouched down on the river bank. His mouth was moving, an arm reaching over the edge, but Danny couldn’t hear. The water pulled him down again. The second time he surfaced he was further downstream. He could no longer see Alexander. His head dropped back, he could see the black sky above, the stars that glittered cold. He went under, came up again, then struck out with all his strength, with everything in him that was young and alive and full of hope, pulling blindly towards the river bank with one arm, then the other. He could hear his legs thrashing wildly. His head turned from side to side, seeking out air, but the water wanted him and would not let him go. Danny made one last effort and then the river took him for its own.

  CHAPTER 57

  Venetia, September 1955

  At least I think it was my fault.’ Alexander said. ‘At first I was pleased because I’ve never had a fight in my life. The only time it nearly happened was when we were kids and Danny himself stepped in, so I never knew if I was man enough. But then it all got mixed up in my head after we found his body. Did you see him yourself, mother? I can’t remember. Seeing him like that made it all real again.’ He frowned. ‘But also less real, just a bag of flesh that had nothing to do with anything alive.’

  ‘You’re saying you fought with him on the river bank?’ She must think logically.

  ‘I’d been travelling back from Greece for two days, drunk rather a lot waiting for a train in York. I suddenly wanted to see Helena very badly, so I walked from the station rather than call for the car. That’s when I saw him.’

  ‘I don’t understand. The roses could have been for anyone . . . ’

  ‘No. The villagers all think they’re cursed or some such nonsense. That’s what we used to say when we were kids. Only Helena liked them. Besides, the fool told me exactly what he was doing when I asked. Said that I didn’t deserve a girl like her and that I was to blame for neglecting her!’

  ‘Such a quiet boy always, I can’t imagine . . . ’ said Venetia. ‘I’m presuming you haven’t told anyone else about this. Anyone but me?’

  Alexander shook his head as if trying to knock his thoughts into some kind of order.

  ‘The problem is that I’ve thought about it and dreamt about it so much that I can’t work out what actually happened.’ He gazed at her, shook his head once again. ‘He said something about Helena being better off with someone who would look after her properly, or words to that effect. I remember his hand on my shoulder and not being able to bear it, being so enraged. I knocked the roses out of his hand and I think I pushed him too, but I can’t be sure now. He might have stepped back of his own accord. We we
re on the edge of the bank by that time, then he was gone, quite suddenly. It was almost as though he’d done it on purpose, mother, as a joke, was waiting just below the bank. Or that the water had risen up for a moment because it was racing beneath us the whole time we were struggling . . . None of it makes sense except that all at once he was in the river. I could have helped him but I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t fetch anyone?’ A stupid question. She already knew the answer.

  ‘He didn’t look like he wanted it. I can’t explain. He’d left his jacket on the bank. I hung it on a tree, came home.’

  ‘You would both have been killed,’ Venetia said. ‘No-one goes in the river that close to the Stride and comes out alive.’

  ‘So you think it wasn’t my fault, after all?’ Alexander held her gaze urgently. ‘You think he must have fallen or didn’t care that much about living? Everyone knows that Helena loves me.’

  Little fists beating against a door.

  ‘I can hardly tell.’ She hesitated. Alexander looked as if he might bolt at any moment, like a startled horse. She needed to think straight. Poor Danny was dead in his grave, with only his mother left to mourn him. Nothing could change that fact. What comfort would Mamie Masters take from the knowledge that her son died in misery, sick with love for a girl he could not have, the result of a pointless skirmish on the river bank? Wouldn’t it be better to go on thinking it just a drunken stumble, the water closing over him before he even realised that he’d lost his footing? ‘It was a terrible thing that happened, Alexander.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I always liked Masters, you see, when we were small. The other boys from the village kept away because of who I am, or else were too keen to be friendly. Thomas was no different than now—always looking for something to be upset about. Danny was straightforward though, never afraid of me. That’s why he couldn’t help but tell the truth that night. You know, you might marry before Helena and me.’