‘It didn’t sound like that.’
At the same moment, there was another burst of gunfire. ‘Anselm, listen!’ Leo said.
We stood there without speaking, listening to the silence. It drew out so long that my heart slowed. Leo did not move. Eventually I dared to light the lamp. I went to the back room and turned over the cold ashes of the stove. They did not need turning, but I wanted to make a noise, because I knew Leo wanted silence. I cannot explain it. He was far away, and I wanted to bring him back.
‘Anselm, shh,’ he said. ‘Listen again.’
I listened. A drum was beating somewhere. It came closer and faded again on the faltering breeze. ‘What is it?’ I said.
‘I don’t know.’
I was afraid suddenly, and I didn’t know why. It was not the noises in the darkness outside – it was the way Leo was standing transfixed, as though they held him prisoner. The music was coming closer. Across the street, someone opened an attic window. I started towards the front window.
‘No,’ said Leo. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
I followed him. The living room was in darkness; the last traces of the fire were dying in the grate. Through the narrow window over the stairs, I thought I could see lights moving. Jasmine’s door was ajar, and she was still asleep, lying sideways across her bed with her thumb in her mouth. The light of the streetlamp lay across her face. Leo went in and closed the curtains. The drumming was quite clear now, in spite of the rain and the wind outside. Men were chanting something over it.
‘What are they saying?’ whispered Leo.
‘It’s too far away to hear.’
He watched the lights moving. The men were passing our street by a wide margin and marching towards the castle. We watched them until they were lost in the rain and the darkness. Dawn was approaching now. The eastern sky was a dull grey, and the wet tiles of the houses gleamed. ‘You should get some sleep,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly morning.’
‘What do you think it means?’ said Leo.
‘I don’t know.’
He was standing frozen again, in front of the window. I touched his arm, and he started. ‘Try and get some sleep,’ I said.
‘What if they come back?’
‘They won’t. Not now that it’s daylight.’
‘Anselm, what do you think they were doing?’
I shook my head. I did not know either.
I did not sleep again that night. There were too many thoughts in my mind, chasing quickly on each other. And from the creaking of the living-room floorboards, I could tell Leo was still there, pacing up and down in the dark. Apart from the gunshots and those chanting men, I could not help thinking of Harold North. I knew he was dead; we all knew it. But I had never properly considered the pain it caused Leo not to be sure.
Before Mass, when the city was still cold with the early morning shadows, there was a knock at the side door. It was Mr Pascal, with the newspaper folded under his arm. ‘Well, well,’ he said, coming in and shaking the dust off his boots. ‘And did you hear the gunshots last night?’
Leo was lighting the stove, but he straightened up now, hitting his head hard on the stove lid.
‘What gunshots, Mama?’ murmured Jasmine.
‘It was nothing,’ said Leo.
‘Jasmine, go upstairs and get your boots,’ said my mother.
Jasmine ignored that. Mr Pascal glanced about the shop as if settling for a long stay. Then he unfolded the newspaper and spread it out on the counter. It was a tradition with him to bring it into the shop nearly every morning and lecture us on the contents, and we had never been able to think of a way to dissuade him. But today was different; today there was something in it. The front page was half taken up with a line drawing depicting men with torches and rifles marching in ranks past the castle rock.
‘Look,’ said Mr Pascal, pointing to several different places in the text. ‘Militant members of the Imperial Order … rebel government officials … illegal rally.’
‘What do they want?’ said Leo.
‘They want to take over the country,’ said Mr Pascal. ‘Listen here: “Shots were fired and a disused shop burned. The police moved in after a local trader alerted them to the situation. Sixteen arrests were made.”’
The newspaper had all the spelling mistakes of a rushed morning edition; they must have reprinted it in the last hour.
Jasmine was clambering onto a chair, trying to see over my mother’s shoulder. ‘Mama, Mama!’ she whined, tugging my mother’s sleeve. ‘What does it say?’
‘Nothing important,’ said my mother. ‘Come on, put on your shawl. It is nearly time to leave for Mass.’
‘It all makes sense in my view,’ said Mr Pascal, lighting a cigarette and turning to address Leo. ‘The new Alcyrian government are criminals; they effected what was no more than a military coup, and yet no one has been able to bring them to justice. So now the New Imperial Order wants to do the same thing in every country on the continent. And it gives those old supporters of Lucien something to hope for. They say this will be the hardest winter for a long time, and not only that, they say—’
But whatever else they said was interrupted by another knock at the door. It was Michael and his parents.
‘Did you hear the gunshots?’ Mrs Barone asked my mother as soon as they were over the threshold.
‘No, we were asleep. But Leo and Anselm did.’
‘Why won’t anyone tell me what’s happening?’ Jasmine was demanding, tugging my sleeve now.
‘Hush,’ said my mother. ‘Go and put on your boots.’
Mrs Barone was questioning Mr Pascal anxiously. As the only possessor of the morning edition of the newspaper, he knew more than even they did. Mr Barone said nothing, just shook his head and ran his hands over his hair. He looked very old and helpless standing there in the doorway. Michael touched my shoulder. ‘Are you going to Mass today?’ he said.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Some people aren’t.’
‘Who?’
‘The pharmacist is refusing to leave her house.’
‘Is the city dangerous?’ Leo demanded, looking up from the newspaper.
‘No,’ said my mother. ‘It will be fine. We’ll go to Mass.’
Leo caught hold of her arm. ‘Maybe we should not …’
‘We are going to Mass,’ she said.
As if in answer, the church bell began to chime. ‘Jasmine, get your shawl,’ my mother said. ‘Leo, Anselm, put on your boots.’
Leo looked as if he would argue, but he did not. He just went and got his boots in silence.
‘I dare say there is nothing to fear,’ said Mr Pascal. He sighed, refolded the newspaper, and got up to leave. He was not religious and neither was Michael, but the rest of us set out. Leo kept a firm hold of Jasmine’s hand all the way down Trader’s Row. He did not need to; the city was deserted. There was no sign that anyone had been marching in the streets the night before. And yet I had never seen it so quiet either.
My grandmother was waiting for us at the church door. The sun had risen just high enough to cross the roofs of the houses, and a few birds were hopping about in the dust. The fountain was the only sound in the empty square. Jasmine broke free of Leo’s hand and ran over to the edge of the pool. The horse statue was broken; it had never recovered from the revolution, and now the water sprayed only intermittently from its mouth, making arcs in the still air. A few people were hurrying through the church doorway. ‘Come along,’ said my grandmother, and we followed her. The church was half empty.
‘Papa, you keep yawning,’ Jasmine whispered as we stood side by side in the pew. She elbowed Leo, and he started and raised his hymn book higher. My mother smiled at that. The light fell through the stained-glass window in rays and carved deep lines in the corners of the priest’s face. Father Dunstan was not much older than my mother and Leo, but he looked like an elderly and distinguished man as he proclaimed the Gospel. I could not concentrate. My eyes were aching with too little sl
eep. I watched the dust spiral in the rays of light. My grandmother listened tensely to every word, as though she would be examined afterwards, and every time I looked away, she nudged my shoulder hard and tutted. By the time the service finished, my shoulder was aching from it.
After the service, my mother went to speak to Father Dunstan, and Jasmine dragged me out into the square. ‘Watch me!’ she said, scrambling onto the edge of the fountain and running in circles with her arms outstretched. I watched, but I was thinking of other things. The city had come out of its silence at last. People passed occasionally, in their best clothes or in rags as their luck decreed. There were even a few wealthy couples in open carriages. ‘Is Grandmama coming for Sunday dinner today?’ Jasmine demanded, coming to a halt in front of me.
‘Yes,’ said Leo. ‘Apparently she won’t be dissuaded.’
He had come up beside us without my noticing. His face was colourless from lack of sleep; it made his grey eyes darker and more piercing.
‘Papa!’ said Jasmine, and leaped into his arms. He caught her and set her down.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We should start for the graveyard.’
We went every week after Mass. Half our family was buried there – Grandmother Margaret, and Grandpa Julian, and Leo’s brother Stirling. Aldebaran’s grave was a mass of flowers that Sunday. We left shilling bouquets on each of their graves and stood for a long time at the end of Stirling’s while Leo studied the worn inscription.
‘Did you know?’ Jasmine said, tugging my sleeve. ‘Did you know, Anselm?’
‘Did I know what?’
‘Stirling is twenty-four.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Stirling had died when I was still a tiny baby, and now he had been gone twice as long as he had ever lived. Leo stood on the end of the grave for a long time without speaking. ‘Come along, Leonard,’ said my grandmother eventually. ‘It will be three o’clock before we start dinner at this rate.’
She marched ahead of us, the scarf about her head tied stubbornly tight and her heeled shoes clicking. The sunlight threw the chaos of the shop into relief, and my grandmother tutted when she saw it. ‘Dear me, it gets messier every week,’ she said, folding her shawl and going to the stove. ‘Give me the potatoes, Maria. Let me do it.’
‘I can manage,’ said my mother.
‘You shouldn’t, in your condition.’ My grandmother lit the stove and sent Jasmine out to the yard for water, then started the potatoes boiling. My mother fried a piece of pork, cutting it into slices to make it go quicker, which caused my grandmother to shake her head again. Leo picked up an oil lamp from the cupboard and polished it absently with an old rag.
‘So there is going to be another war,’ said my grandmother. ‘That’s how it looks, with these vagrants marching about in the streets and the king refusing to leave his castle. I must say, I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘Is there going to be a war?’ said Jasmine.
‘No,’ said Leo, ruffling her hair.
‘Anselm, do something,’ said my grandmother sharply. ‘Don’t just stand there.’
‘He is – he’s setting the table,’ said my mother.
It was true, but I did not say anything. My grandmother straightened the plates and shook her head. ‘When do you go back to school?’ she asked me.
‘September. If I go.’
‘What do you mean, if you go?’
‘If I go back to school and don’t stay and help Papa in the shop instead.’
‘Help Leonard in the shop?’ she said. ‘But surely you want an education?’
‘I have an education,’ I said. ‘I’ve been at school for ten years, Grandmama.’
‘What future is there in secondhand trading?’
I did not know how to answer that, so I kept quiet. My mother began serving up the food. ‘Our family was meant for better things,’ said my grandmother. ‘If poor Julian was still with us, he would turn over in his grave.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Jasmine. ‘You said if he was still with us, he would turn over in his grave; that doesn’t make sense.’
A silence followed. Then my mother laughed out loud. ‘Come on,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘Your food is going cold, Mother.’
My grandmother ate slowly, stabbing each potato with her fork as though she had a personal grievance against it. Jasmine ate her dinner under the table. She had done that since Aldebaran died, and none of us questioned it, but today my grandmother kept leaning back in her chair to frown at her.
‘Light the lamp, Anselm,’ said my mother quietly. It was growing darker; already the brief sunlight had faded away. Clouds banked over the city, shutting out the light from Trader’s Row. ‘This weather,’ said my grandmother. ‘You can never rely on it.’
Silence fell again. It was broken when Jasmine dropped a potato and crawled across the floor after it. On her way back under the table, my grandmother cornered her and caught her by the wrist.
‘Let me go!’ said Jasmine at once.
‘Stop that noise. You are to sit at the table until you have finished your food. Do you hear me?’
‘Mother, don’t nag her—’
‘It is bad manners. Jasmine, do you hear?’
Jasmine tried to struggle free, but my grandmother kept hold. There was a silence while Jasmine glared. Then the lamp in my hands began to tremble. ‘Hey, Jas,’ said Leo warningly. ‘Jasmine, stop. Anselm, put that lamp down!’
The lamp exploded as I dropped it. Leo swore and threw out his arm to shield my mother’s face. My grandmother let out a shriek. ‘I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to!’ Jasmine said.
There was a silence while the glass dislodged itself from every corner of the room and fell shivering to the floor. Jasmine started to cry and ran to Leo.
‘It’s all right,’ he said shakily. ‘No harm is done.’
I raised my hand to my face. There was glass in my hair, and a faint line of blood was running across the back of my hand. I rubbed it off absently. Hot oil was spilling out of the lamp, ruining what was left of the varnish on the table. My mother cleaned it off with a pile of rags and threw the glass-encrusted potatoes into the stove.
‘Well!’ said my grandmother. ‘I think after that performance, Jasmine, you should spend the rest of the day in your room.’
‘It’s not her fault,’ said my mother.
‘Maria, the child did it on purpose. She wilfully broke that lamp!’
‘She didn’t do anything wilfully, Mother.’
‘I did!’ said Jasmine through her tears. ‘It was my fault, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know why you tolerate it!’ said my grandmother, getting to her feet. ‘The child’s behaviour is already out of control. If poor Julian was here—’
‘Poor Julian doesn’t come into it!’ said my mother. ‘Jasmine, go outside and wash your face.’
‘Papa, come with me,’ Jasmine murmured.
I got up and followed them too. When Jasmine came back out of the bathroom, my mother and my grandmother were arguing loudly enough to rattle the loose side window. Leo lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly with his eyes closed. Jasmine sniffed intermittently, and we waited.
‘No one trusts them. She will come to a bad end unless she stops this nonsense!’ my grandmother was shouting. ‘If you would just discipline her, Maria—’
‘How do you discipline powers out of a child, in the name of heaven?’
‘She runs about doing exactly what she likes. Letting her eat under the table—’
‘She’s upset. We are all upset. It’s been less than a month since Uncle—’
‘It’s long enough. And as for Anselm, I can tell that boy is going to go wrong. I’ve been telling you so for years.’
‘There is nothing wrong with Anselm. Don’t you dare talk like that about him!’
‘They need firm treatment. You are their mother!’
‘I have brought up my children in the way I see fit!’ my mother said,
her high-class accent catching up with her. ‘Just like you did.’
‘What is that supposed to imply?’
‘Nothing. I’m not implying anything—’
‘If you are not careful, Maria, they are going to turn out exactly like you!’
There was a silence. Then my mother shouted something else, but Leo spoke quickly over her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave them to get on with it.’
Jasmine gave a token smile and put her hand in his. We crossed the street and sat down on the bench in front of the pharmacist’s shop, where an old tree cast its spindly shade across the pavement. Starlings were settling in the branches, though it was still early. Outside the empty shop on the corner, the pharmacist’s two small sons were playing soldiers in their Sunday clothes. Leo lit a cigarette and watched them clutch their chests and expire in the mud of an imaginary trench. Since the newspapers had been full of rumours of war, they had developed an obsession with fight-ing. ‘Can I go and play with Billy and Joe?’ said Jasmine.
‘Go on,’ said Leo, ruffling her hair. ‘But not soldiers.’
‘Not soldiers. I know.’
We watched her cross the hard mud of the street, walking very elegantly, the way my mother did, as Billy and Joe broke off their game and came to meet her. There was a pause; then they began throwing stones against the wall, ducking every time and shouting, ‘Freedom! Death to the old regime!’
Leo shook his head and lit another cigarette. ‘Not soldiers,’ he said. ‘Revolutionaries. I don’t know where they pick these games up.’
The gusting wind carried a few words to us:‘So bloody-minded!’ came my mother’s voice, and ‘You are a fine one—’ came my grandmother’s. As we sat there, Michael appeared at the corner of the street. He ducked to avoid Billy and Joe’s stone throwing, patted Jasmine on the head as he passed, and crossed the road towards us. He was wearing an old hat of his father’s that he thought gave him an air of distinction, but the material was worn so shiny in places that you could almost see through it. He had stuck a red feather in the band. ‘Anselm,’ he said. ‘Come to the Royal Gardens. My father has been lecturing all afternoon, and I want to go out for a walk.’
Voices in the Dark Page 4
