The Last Pier

by Roma Tearne

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said later when recounting the story. ‘The fellow was called Lucio.’

  Kitty did not come to the funeral. She was abroad and had no forwarding address. Selwyn didn’t come either because he was already dead. So it was left to Cecily to organise everything. It was the undoing of her teacher-training course. Afterwards she was unable to concentrate on anything and had to go to the continent. But first she had the funeral to organise. She did not visit the house. She did not inform any of the relatives in Ireland. She had had quite enough of them at the last funeral. She didn’t tell anyone in the town either, although the postman found out afterwards. And she decided not to inform the church. So Agnes wasn’t buried. She was cremated.

  Cecily sat alone on a bench at the front of the altar at the chapel of rest. She sat with her eyes closed. Agnes with her eyes closed (presumably) lay in her coffin. Resting also. When asked by the undertaker what her preferences were, Cecily had asked if the hymn ‘Breath of Heaven’ could be played. They agreed, giving her a strange look.

  The priest asked her if there were any others attending and she shook her head.

  ‘They’ve gone on ahead,’ she said, but she said it so softly that the priest didn’t catch her words.

  He felt a little sorry for this lovely girl but then he looked at his watch, and sorrow was replaced by passing time.

  ‘Let us begin,’ he said, changing his voice and his glasses.

  Cecily sat quietly. There was nothing more for her to do. The steel rollers on which Agnes’ coffin rested made a tiny sound. Like a biker revving up a very small engine. They were getting ready to take Agnes through the door to eternity. Her green eyes were going with her. And her hair. And the hands that had combed Cecily’s hair and sewed the dress that Rose had worn to the tennis dance. The same hands that had baked the cream heart-shaped sponge cakes for Cecily’s birthdays, all thirteen of them, seven of which Cecily remembered quite clearly. They were about to take Agnes’ lips, the ones that used to kiss Cecily goodnight. And the arms that had given her all the hugs of her life. Including the important one at the railway station when Cecily had gone on her Long Journey. And Agnes’ voice saying, ‘I don’t care what you write. Just say if you are all right.’

  That voice was going through the door marked eternity, too.

  The canned music stopped and a man in a black suit came over and whispered to her that the next funeral was waiting to come in. When Cecily said nothing, he took her by the elbow and steered her out. It would seem the money for Agnes’ funeral had run out.

  Like a slot machine, or a candle lit inside a shrine running out. Finished. Over.

  There was no one to talk to. The voices in Cecily’s head refused to engage with the subject. In their view everything that had happened was (partly, at least) Agnes’ fault.

  Months later when she went back to Avery Hill to sit her first exam and saw the word ‘discuss’ written on the page, she wrote about Agnes’ funeral. Her tutor called her into the office and told her to take a bit of time off.

  ‘Give yourself some space to grieve,’ the tutor said.

  How much time had the tutor in mind?

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  Cecily packed up her room. She returned her library books. Then she booked a ticket on Interrail Europe. She was a rich woman now. She owned a house and a small fortune. She didn’t need Kitty any more. She thought she would revisit the land of Guilt. She knew she had a lifetime’s visa.

  Some time after the solicitor had found her and read out her mother’s will, Kitty finally contacted Cecily. The last occasion she had been in touch was just before Cecily left London. Kitty did not even know her sister had died until Cecily told her. There was a small pause when Cecily told her about the inheritance.

  ‘Sell it,’ she had said of Palmyra House. ‘There’s nothing but grief waiting for you there.’

  Kitty’s voice had come from some faraway place that she wished to keep to herself.

  ‘You’d be a fool to go back,’ she said.

  It sounded like a threat. Or a dare. Cecily didn’t care what it was. She had lived in Guilt for years. Perhaps after all it was time to visit Grief, instead?

  And now, staring in the mirror, all these years later Cecily thought she saw Rose looking at her, with a watchful expression in her eyes.

  So, you’re back, are you? Outrageous child! Come to visit the dead?

  Rose appeared to be wearing Cecily’s dress. Smart, shiftless, black. A 1960s dress worn with Rose’s effortless ease. Rose’s face on Cecily’s body.

  Palmyra House, full of its heavy dusty furniture, its hunting pictures, its old books on land cultivation and horse doctoring, was silent, reluctant to give anything away. Two green-striped spiders, very small and compact, sixteen legs between them, walked the windowsill as if it were a plank.

  Cecily dabbed stale perfume on her slender wrist and instantly opened another bottleful of memories. Going downstairs she found what she had been unconsciously looking for. A hardcover notebook marked Mass Observation and two padded photograph albums. Someone, Agnes probably, certainly not Kitty, had hidden them in a drawer. Cecily could scrutinise them at leisure. She felt there was a shape to her investigations at last. Well… shape was too definite a word. The hope of a shape, perhaps? Once again the voices in her head were silent. Anticipation being a quiet thing.

  Both books were dusty. Silver fish had left fine silvery shavings on the puffed out, swollen covers. River damp and marsh air had tried to wreck their chances of survival. But Cecily was here now, ready to rescue them. Ready to pick up the clues as though they were daisies for a daisy chain.

  On Your Marks, Get Set, Go! the voices in her head yelled, screaming with laughter.

  She took a cloth and wiped the covers. Then she cleaned the little occasional table by the window and drew up a chair. Ignoring the fact that the leather binding disintegrated at her touch, some memories were like that, she opened the notebook first. Inside was a bundle tied in black ribbon.

  Selwyn Maudsley’s letters, she read. 1939–1945. She had forgotten her mother had received letters from him too. None of them seemed to have been opened except for the first one. Cecily put the bundle to one side for a moment.

  Time moved smoothly.

  She found other things behind the books in the cupboard.

  A Prayer Card of ‘The Lady Of The Sea’. (Bellamy the Skipper had told her the statue was headless now)

  A Ration Book (a prayer card of a different kind)

  Selwyn’s Anti-Aircraft Division badge (ripped off his uniform in anger)

  A brittle piece of a 78 record. (‘Goodnight Sweetheart’)

  Cecily put everything in a line on the table and stared greedily. The room was suddenly full of forgotten faces jostling for attention. A pouting pair of lips. An eyebrow raised a fraction, attached to some mysterious and long-dead thoughts.

  When a shadow fell across the garden Cecily didn’t even notice. Something was falling into place, bringing with it a terrible sense of inevitability. There was a small piece of paper, folded neatly between the unopened letters.

  Don’t trust him, was what it said. Don’t trust him, cara.

  ‘Who?’ asked Cecily aloud.

  Her fingers moved restlessly. Disappointment. What had she hoped for?

  Turning to the albums she opened first one and then the other and found herself imprinted on every face. She felt a small powerful wave swim up her throat. The terrible ghosts of her impossible-to-forget family were everywhere. She felt her voice being lifted upwards towards her mouth, carrying with it some old, hideous sound. Her eyes were ready to overflow. She looked like Rose. Had others seen this, too?

  Hands shaking, she gathered up the photographs, holding onto large chunks of precious time. The past appeared out of cold storage.

  Selwyn, driving the tractor in his shirt sleeves.

  Partridge digging furrows with two horses, straighter than anyone else could.

/>   Kitty in the garden.

  Rose, tendrils of laughter entwining Carlo and Lucio, and Franca. And Bellamy, of course.

  Cecily’s brother Joe. Ah!

  Unable to go on, unable to bear Joe’s anticipation of the years he would never have, Cecily closed both albums. But then she opened one of them again, for something was bothering her. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. Carlo and all the other Molinellos smiled, laughed as Rose laughed. And all of them, as far as she knew, were dead.

  Kitty had told her it would have been better if she had not been born. And Cecily had simply blamed herself for all those deaths.

  But she couldn’t think what it was about the photograph album that niggled her.

  Was it the images from their tennis party?

  Or the newly cut grass, telling tales of who kissed whom long ago?

  Old things, buried under whispering trees?

  Cecily paused. Then she opened Selwyn’s opened letter and a pressed dandelion clock fell out. In pieces.

  Agnes, Cecily read,

  Oh Agnes! I cannot bear C finding out. It is all I can think of. Promise me you never will tell her? I cannot bear to hurt her. Not since my brother died have I been loved so unconditionally. You know this, don’t you? We, Agnes, made our mistakes, you, I… the others… but C is still a child. Once long ago I asked something of you, which in your generosity you gave me. Now I have another request. I do not deserve or expect it of you but still, I will ask. For Cecily’s sake.

  Please. Do not tell her it was I who sent the message, that I was on Foulness that night, that I had an office there. Please, Agnes.

  The writing was smudged and indistinct.

  If, as I hope, you send her away she will not hear any of the rumours, or be taunted by children from the local school. She will not be called the daughter of a spy. She will not know her father is being tried for ‘betraying’ his country.

  I don’t expect you to forgive me, Agnes, or even to understand my motives. What you or anyone thinks of me now hardly matters. Although I do not feel guilt in helping plan an invasion, the truth is I am finished. When the children told me Rose had gone to the Martello tower to find Robert Wilson I panicked. All the evidence was in the hut on the pier and I wanted to destroy it.

  It is my fault that Rose died. No one else’s.

  Cecily stared at the words.

  Selwyn Maudsley?

  Father, husband, traitor; mastermind, information-leaker? Sneaking over the airways into enemy lines. Double-dealer, hoping for a German invasion, covering his tracks for fear of discovery, hiding his secrets by setting fire to the Last Pier. Killing his own daughter, unaware that she was in there. Was it true?

  No! No!

  Please Agnes, I beg you, don’t tell her!

  ‘No!’ Cecily cried. Was that why I was sent away?

  For what it’s worth, Germany is a country I loved long ago. Do you remember the girl I knew? And how my father beat me for my association with her? How he destroyed the career of her family? She will be in this war, Agnes. I couldn’t bear that thought. This was, for me, a war that had a human face.

  Disbelief silenced Cecily. She could not think, reading was hard enough.

  That day, I went out, don’t you remember, after Chamberlain’s speech? You thought I was at an ARP meeting but in fact I was typing out a warning. And now they will splash it across the paper.

  A yellowing newspaper cutting opened out in Cecily’s hand.

  IT HAS BEGUN. STOP. I AM READY TO RECEIVE THEM. STOP. WOTAN CONFIRMED. STOP.

  This was the message sent to a sixteen-strong German crew planning a landing on Foulness beach. It was written by the double agent Selwyn Maudsley, codenamed Wotan.

  Wotan?

  That night, after I had sent the message to Berlin, I sat without expectations. Waiting for the rain to reach the coast, not knowing who else might be out on the marshes. Then, after a while, packing away the equipment, I headed for home along the causeway. I had fulfilled my obligation, done what I had so foolishly promised to do. I understood that possibly it was too late to change directions again. You were asleep and I stared at you, my heart filled with regret. What you didn’t know was that I no longer wanted Kitty. I had told her finally that when the war was over I wanted to try again with you. Have a new beginning. We quarrelled; her anger was frightening. I did not know then how I would soon pay a heavy price.

  Selwyn, her father. Protecting her.

  Cecily was motionless. Listening down the tunnel of years to the rustle of long-felled voices once heard but never, until now, understood.

  She had been watching a beetle and waiting for Tom in the den.

  They were going to make the Plan but he had gone back to the house to get his wretched logbook and his magnifying glass. Cecily yawned. It was late afternoon and the sun had bleached the empty stubble. She could smell the sweet fragrance of grass and from somewhere in the distance the sound of voices drifted towards her. The beetle opened its blue-tinged wings, rising clumsily, and flew away. Cecily closed her eyes against the glare. It was almost teatime. She wished Tom would hurry up. The voices grew louder and instantly she was wide awake, again. It was Aunt Kitty shouting. Instinctively Cecily drew her legs far back into the hollow of the den.

  ‘I loved you first!’ Aunt Kitty said, voice anguished, head thrown back. ‘Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. And you tell me now, you love her?’

  ‘Kitty…’

  ‘Oh you bastard, Selwyn, you’ll pay for this.’

  ‘Keep your voice down for God’s sake, there might be children about.’

  ‘D’you think I care? You’ve ruined my life. We all know…’

  ‘Kitty… we strayed along a path too far, we lost our way…’

  ‘You’re frightened now, aren’t you? Go on admit it, I could… I could do a lot of damage…’

  ‘Kitty, Kitty, please, it was a joint mistake. It’s over. Please don’t do anything silly about the other business. You are as involved as I am. Things change, people too. We’ve both moved on. Don’t let’s wreck more lives.’

  ‘You vile bastard!’ Kitty said, again. ‘You think I’m not capable of telling your friend, Mister Wilson? How do you know I haven’t told him already? Do you know what the penalty is? For what you’ve done?’

  There was a long silence. Mister Wilson, thought Cecily, ears pricked, alert. Pinky?

  ‘Yes. But you are in it too.’

  ‘Oh no I’m not! I’ll see you rot in hell,’ screamed Kitty.

  They were only a few feet away from the den. Selwyn lowered his voice. Cecily thought her father sounded frightened. She strained to catch his words but they were moving off. So, she thought with satisfaction, she had been right all along. Her father didn’t love Kitty any more. And Kitty sounded as if she was crying. Was she going to tell Pinky that Selwyn didn’t love her any more? This would please Rose.

  I slipped under the covers, Cecily read, returning to the present.

  Lightning flashed in the room, showing me your sleeping face. I wanted to touch you Agnes, to feel some human connection in my terrible loneliness. I remember thinking, maybe there was still a chance. But while I hesitated you sighed, and turned away from me and I knew all that remained was an illusion.

  Cecily folded her father’s letter and slid it into its envelope. She closed the photograph album. Their purpose it seemed had been simply to remind her of those things she had forgotten, like the expression on Agnes’ face when she was counting punnets of strawberries. If she stared hard at the photo she could still see the stains on her fingers. How a stain could last longer than the finger itself was one of the mysteries of photography, she presumed.

  Outside a tentative sun had come out. She wanted to walk on the marshes but that could wait until her shock subsided. She knew there was one thing that had to be done. She knew but kept putting it off. At some point, she would have to visit the churchyard. To see Rose. And Joe. And Selwyn. And the rosebush th
at stood in for Agnes.

  A curlew cried out and was answered by another.

  Two echoes of a tennis ball, against a racquet. Four-love.

  She was like an invalid dreaming about her first outing. Maybe she would be strong enough, maybe not.

  She closed the albums and put them back in the cupboard. Then, because the door didn’t shut properly, she took them out again. She reached into the back of the cupboard. Someone else’s fingers had been there before her and finding what they had hidden was easy. Like a prospector finding treasure, like a fisherman, she fished out her catch. It was impossible to know a significant moment from an ordinary one. So Cecily opened the plastic folder and took out its contents. Three faded envelopes, all from Joe. She put them aside to read later. A lock of hair. Blonde like Rose’s. A ring small enough for a magpie’s beak. A piece of pink string tied in a small circle and half a child’s smocked dress. There was a small tag on the string that said Cecily Catherine Maudsley. Six pounds, one ounce.

  There was also a long, cream envelope different from the thin army ones that Joe had used. Cecily turned it over and opened it. It was a document and what looked like a birth certificate. Cecily Catherine Maudsley, Cecily read.

  Date of Birth: June 3rd 1926.

  Place of Birth: Connemara, Ireland.

  Father’s name: Selwyn Maudsley.

  Cecily eyes refused to look.

  Look! Look! urged the voices in her head.

  Mother’s name: Kitty Stella McNulty.

  22.

  THE JULY SKY changed slowly and the light seeped out, draining it of colour. It rained. The gloom over the marshes made everything seem on the point of vanishing. Sea birds appeared out of the grey air and disappeared again like props left over from a magic trick. In spite of the wideness of the sky, Cecily felt there wasn’t enough air. It was the end of summer. The wet, squelching land was full of drips and splashes. She had fled outside without thinking and she was not dressed for walking in such weather and her shoes sank deep into the sodden grass. She clutched at an invisible scarf around her throat, wanting to get to the south side of the river. She wanted to look at the half-sunken boat that had greeted her on her arrival. As she walked towards the meadow she saw only remnants and ruins, relics of other efforts from other lives. It was the chaos of dereliction. The wild heaps of iron, broken bedsteads, harrows and binders, cumbersome pieces of farm machinery, rusting everywhere along the edges of the marshes.