Big Low Tide

by Candy Neubert

  This woman sitting in the chair opposite, her face hidden over a newspaper, her body tense. That body flavoured now by the chemistry of Gerald Vine. His wife.

  – you never answered my letter.

  – I never got any letter.

  He clears his throat; starts again.

  – any news of Elsa?

  She relaxes a little, lowers the paper, shakes her head. She tells him about the broken window; it was her, a mistake; it was nothing.

  – you say that was the middle of August? She’s been gone since before then, then. Long time. She never was one for letters, mind. Nor the telephone, for that matter.

  The wind will be blowing all right for kite-flying tomorrow, you can bet. Listen to it whushing down the flue – whumph, whumph. Brenda speaks vaguely, almost talking to herself.

  – she would have left the same time he did, you see.

  They would have gone together.

  – he? You mean...? I didn’t know. I don’t know anything.

  – well you wouldn’t, would you. He went, and she went. Like you went.

  I only went because you left me, remember.

  – does he know...

  – no! Not from me, anyhow. Probably he does, though. People know everything don’t they – ’cept you.

  She interrupts his next words with a wave of her hand.

  – I’ve been sleeping in your room.

  My room? Not our room, no, I suppose not. What does she mean? Is she offering to move out?

  – there’s Elsa’s room, I suppose.

  For her? For me?

  – no, I’ll sleep down here, on the couch. I used to, you know.

  The air is loaded with the words unsaid. I couldn’t bear to sleep upstairs without you.You left me first, let’s not forget.

  – I’m going up, then. I don’t sleep so well.

  Ah. Shame. I know what it’s like.

  Alone downstairs with the plink, plink of the tap and the susurration of the clock, he chides himself for his meanness. She cupped her hand under her belly when he spoke those last words, as she used to when it was Danny she was carrying, when they used those same niggardly, defensive voices. She’s got reason to be defensive now, God knows. From his heart a little of the old blood seeps.

  He opens the little black well on top of the Aga and shakes in some coal. He must get the phone fixed.There’ll be plenty of jobs to do around the place. He pulls the couch across from the corner, nearer to the warmth; spreads out a blanket, shakes a cushion. It’s not those jobs so much that he must do, it’s that question of absolution. He left them all – Jack, Deborah, John, the Vauquiers. Susan. Something was skimped, badly finished. He doesn’t feel so much of a free man with all that to square up.

  eight

  She’s not the same in the morning. She has absorbed vitriol overnight. He remembers this now with horrible clarity, these silences and quick retorts; he was caught off guard by her complaisance yesterday.

  – how long has the well been like that?

  – like what?

  – the big one, with the pump.The cover’s off.

  – ask the kids.

  – they wouldn’t go there. I’ve never let them. It’s dangerous.

  – listen to you! Why should you care, all of a sudden?

  – don’t be like that.

  – don’t be, don’t be. It’s my fault, is it?

  – of course not.The wood is rotten. I’ll fix up something on the top of it for now.

  He takes the hen house door off its hinges and carries it to the well. He cuts new notches and secures it with stones. It won’t last long. He must ask which of them was meddling around here. He looks back at the house.There are slates loose on the roof; he’ll get up there later.When the wind drops.The whole place could do with a coat of paint. He shakes his head.

  – Dad!

  – he’s spoiled my kite. He’s broke it.

  – I didn’t mean to. I nearly got it right.

  – what’s happened? Come and spread it out where I can see. It’s a crosspiece, isn’t it? We’ll find a bit of dowl-ing around. Look in the shed, will you? About this long.

  He calls Brenda but she will not come.They stand in the meadow with frozen ears and stiff fingers and the patched kite, trying to coax it into the air.The wind lifts it up and dumps it down, over and over. One more try, he urges. Hup! The kite twirls and jerks away like a mad thing, and drops into the top of the elms.

  – can you believe it! That’s bad luck. P’raps we can get it. Is the ladder still there by the wall? Hey, where you going, Dan? Where’s he off to?

  – jus’ going.

  – well, not now. It’s my first morning home.

  – fuckin’ell.

  – I beg your pardon, young man...

  – fuckin’ell.

  – go into the house and up to your room; don’t come down ’til you’ve mended your language.

  Oh, and there are slates off the roof, and the house needs a coat of paint.

  _____

  The man and the woman sit in the kitchen. It is a large kitchen, with a couch in the corner.You can touch the air that generations have touched in the close pores of the stone, the weave of the wood in the beams, in and out.

  The man and the woman both have newspapers on their laps. He is not reading his; rather, he lets his gaze fall on her and away quickly and back again. She is sitting like a brittle bird, her wrists thin, her fingers tight on the paper’s edge.Then again, she is not bird-like. In her compactness she seems rather to be in her coils, ready to spit.

  – who will look after you then, when your time comes?

  – I’ll go to the Nursing Home, won’t I?

  – in your flat, you can’t have... children.

  – I’m not keeping it. I’ll give it away.

  He speaks precisely, carefully.

  – are you sure?

  – yes.

  – have you arranged it?

  – no.

  – there are arrangements... papers...

  – I don’t know about that...

  – the adoption agency...

  – no.

  – you must.

  – I don’t know how.

  For a moment he thinks he will take it, as his own. Her children are his children. He’ll keep them here, everyone. She guesses his thoughts.

  – I’m not keeping it. I don’t want it. I hate it.

  Silence.

  – I hate it.

  – I’ll find out about adoption.

  – I don’t want to see anyone.

  – I’ll do what I can.

  _____

  The kitchen at the Corbins’ exudes a different breath. It’s a granite farmhouse of the same age, low lying, a creeping thing petrified on the valley lip. But inside it’s all modern; a bright light welcomes Peter as he steps through the back door on Sunday morning after church, straight into the clatter of family, radio, dogs, a cup of tea.

  – it’s good to be here – thanks, Deborah, I will. Just the one, please.

  – you’ve picked up a bit of the accent on the other side, eh?

  – is it? Well, you should hear some of them; I can’t always be understanding them.

  – there you go again!

  – you’ve a good job, then? Boatyard, you said?

  – that’s right. It’s something different. Pay’s all right, when there’s work.There’s nothing at the moment. Big job coming up in January.

  – and it’s yours, is it?

  – if I want it.

  – and you do.

  – you know, John – it’s funny. I never thought I’d be anywhere but here. Home, and all. But over there it’s like... I can’t say. Like...

  – I can see how it might be. No memories, like.

  – something like that.

  – and you can stay with your cousin?

  – for now.There’s room.

  The two men sit at the table: Deborah moves behind them, peeling, choppi
ng, moving pans.

  – you know about Brenda.

  – we don’t know much.

  – she wants the baby adopted. She won’t stay in the house. Says she’s got enough friends in town to care for her.

  – what do you want?

  – it’s no odds. I can’t stop her.

  – maybe: you’ll be staying yourself then, with the boys?

  – I’ve given it thought. I reckon I’ll take them with me, back over there.At least for a while: see how it goes. We’ve been asked for Christmas. I think it might be best for them, to be away.

  – you mean there’ll be talk, with the baby.

  – there’s already talk, no doubt.

  – there is. She’ll take it hard, in town.

  – she doesn’t care.

  The dog pricks up its ears for a moment, but there are only familiar sounds. It’s just Melissa, there behind the door.

  – you’ll have some tea with us, Peter?

  – thanks, no. I’d best get back.You still interested in the Meadow, is it?

  – we are. The herd’s increasing; we’ll need the extra water, come summer. So it’s the wells we’d want, mostly. Then again, they go with the house, wouldn’t they?

  – they’ve been out of use since I was a nipper. Don’t see why you shouldn’t have the use of them – I’ll look out the papers. Elsa has a half share – not that she has any interest in it, mind. She gave me the legal rights to the surrounding land and verges.

  – no word from her?

  – not yet.

  – not sending out a search party?

  – I wondered, you know, if something’d happened. But she left her things all sorted out, like she planned to go for some time. Brenda thinks... well, Brenda thinks she’s on the mainland. I’ll find out if I can act in her absence. Bob Vauquier – he’ll know.

  nine

  – where’s Danny?

  – haven’t seen him.

  – Patrick! Danny up there with you?

  – no...

  – fetch him, will you? And get your hands washed for tea.

  Peter is scrambling eggs. They’re sticking to the pan. The Aga’s too hot, or maybe he’s using the wrong pan. Brenda won’t be eating with them; she takes wedges off the bread and biscuits out of the tin when she’s on her own. Peter thinks he can smell alcohol on her, but he can’t be sure. Only the cold in the upstairs rooms drives her down here to the kitchen.

  – I can’t find him.

  – he’d not be over the way now, would he? Honestly, what a time to go. It’s blowing all hell out there. Uh! I’ll have to leave this. I’ll go, Patrick; it’s dark. Done your hands? Watch the toast! I’ll be back in a minute.

  It’s gusting from the west; it’ll bring rain. He should have fixed those slates while there was a lull this morning. He hunches into his coat.The boy spends too much time over there.

  – no, we’ve not seen him all day. Melissa was over to you after dinner, didn’t you see her? She was only gone five minutes, wasn’t she, John? She came back to try on her costume for the school play.Your Danny can’t be out in this weather, surely?

  – c’mon. I’ll get my boots on. Get the big torch, will you, love? We’ll have a look round the yard. He’s a funny little chap, that one.

  Their light flashes into the garage, into the stables, between the orchard trees, the corners of the coal bunker. They can hardly hear each other in the wind. In the porch Peter speaks rapidly.

  – he must be back in the house after all. Patrick looked upstairs but – maybe he’s got into the attic somehow. He won’t come, when you call. He’s a little scamp. He must be there.Thanks, John.

  – come back if you’ve no luck. Devil of a night.

  He’s running. Back into the house, upstairs, along the passage. The trap door to the attic is shut; the ladder is not there. He can’t climb the walls. Patrick, check the rooms again, cupboards, beds, curtains, everywhere. I’ll check the shed with the torch, the hen house... oh God. The well.

  He shines his torch on the pump, on the well head. Nothing has changed since he covered it with the hen house door yesterday morning.The big stones on top are in exactly the same positions, yes, they are.They’ve held, even in this wind. He still has a liminal image of the boy down there, and tells himself to be rational. Nobody could be down the well and replace the lid with stones on top. Get a grip on yourself.

  In the kitchen he opens his hands in a gesture of despair. Brenda looks at him with blank eyes.

  – is there anyone else he could’ve gone to? Patrick?

  – no. I can’t think.

  – the church? Does he ever go there?

  – no.

  – it’s worth a look.

  – shall I come?

  – stay with your mother.

  Peter shouts into the dark church and crawls on his hands and knees under the altar. He’s shouting for Danny and for God but he’s on the wrong track towards understanding either of them.

  _____

  A house of worship would not attract Danny; he has never thought to enter one by himself. He is drawn, now that his legs are long enough to take him, over the fields and down towards the west. On mornings bunked off from school and afternoons when no one has looked for him, he has ventured further and further from the top of the island to the coast. Not to the sea but the nooks and crannies of the land, the dolmens on the headlands and the cottages where the fishermen sleep over their shifting sandy beds.

  On the sides of old walls he watches the strange pale beetles move like fossil things, slipping into cracks to wait out another few ages of man. He’ll not leave this place for anyone – Melissa has warned him about their plans. He’ll dig himself into the cracks and then let’s see if they can make him go.

  The weather understands him.The wind yells between the stones like a yell he feels coming up inside.The sky is black and rushing and flying horses thunder over his head. He can step up into his chariot any time and gallop away.

  _____

  At ten o’clock that night John and Peter talk about calling the police. But it’s not the way of country people, Brenda is adamant, no police.They agree reluctantly that the child is one to run off; it’s his nature. Some kids wouldn’t dream of it, but that one... He’ll turn up somewhere.Yes, of course.We’ll wait until first light.

  Go to bed, Peter tells his neighbours. What can you do? Melissa watches with wide blue eyes from the top of the stairs. Go to bed, Peter tells Brenda and Patrick. I’ll stay awake, in case.

  Perhaps he does sleep, on and off. He goes out several times, flashing a light uselessly into the darkness. He fills the coal scuttle, he paces around the kitchen, lifting things, putting them back. He finds a pile of unpaid bills stuffed behind the clock. When a burst of rain hits the window he imagines small white limbs in the wet earth.

  ten

  Early morning brings John Corbin, coming down the drive with a Thermos of coffee.TheVauquiers are out in their car already, searching the lanes. Best not to tell too many folk yet. Don’t panic. He looks at Peter’s face and sees that his friend is beyond panic.

  – should I go to school today, Dad?

  – hm? Oh, it’s you, Patrick. Sorry.

  – should I?

  – yes, I should say so. Do you think so? Yes.

  As Patrick eats his cornflakes the green Ford swings into view. On the back seat there is a bundle huddled into the corner under a blanket.As his father reaches for him, Danny opens his eyes and lets out a long wail.

  – no!

  – come on, my boy.

  – no!

  – let’s just get you inside. Holy Father, this child’s half frozen.

  They talk in low, urgent voices over his head while Danny sobs. John is despatched to phone for a doctor and returns with a message from Deborah; bring Danny over, if he wants. She’s warming the spare room for him. It might be better to have him over there where there’s a phone.

  – look, he’s asleep.
r />   – knocked himself out, more like.

  – poor little mite.Where on earth...?

  – in the corner by Sebire’s place.Wandering about like an elf. Said he spent the night at Bash’s.Think he did?

  – come on. I’ll carry him.

  – praise be.

  – thank God you found him, Bob.

  – aye, well.You can’t get far away on an island, can you?

  – you have any brandy, Peter? Looks like you could do with some.

  _____

  Peter doesn’t know how the man came to be known as Bash. It’s lost in time like most of the old fellow’s mental faculties. Even these, no one can exactly determine. Bob Vauquier says that his name is in the records as Abelard Ozanne.

  Patrick has gone to school. Danny is tucked up in bed at the Corbins’; Brenda is having a bath. Peter crackles with fatigue, but he couldn’t sleep. He puts some change into his pockets – there are a few calls to make from the phone box, and he’ll go the long way, past Sebire’s.The walk will clear his head.

  The air, after the last night’s storm, would clear anything. It smarts in his eyes and sears in his lungs.What a lather, this last three days. How good it would be to live a plain and dull life again. How deceptive they are, these old grey walls of drowsing farms.

  It’s not so far, if you know the back ways. He had imagined the boy staggering around half the night on his five-year-old legs, dropping from exhaustion. Dying of exposure, even. But sheltering at Bash’s is a likely explanation.

  It’s a lovely island, sure enough. Look at the lily meadows, flooded now, with the water table so high. There’s the stream running under the road where he and Elsa used to float sticks.Years ago.There’s Gavey’s bull, in the field.Always a bull in that field. Different animals, but there’s always one there. Nice to see a bit of sun coming out for a change.

  Peter rounds the corner.There it is, look at that. Only a bungalow; must have been a neat little place, once. Look at the green mould running down from the windows, and the guttering all off.The hedges nearly meet across the path.