Trio

by Sue Gee

  My love, my sweetheart . . .

  Next weekend, they were going to the coast, their first trip together.

  Everything these days had such markers: first kiss, first meal together, first trip to watch seabirds and seals. And walk out to Lindisfarne, perhaps. The last time he’d gone had been with Margaret, and at first, when Margot suggested it – ‘I haven’t been to Lindisfarne since I was little’ – he’d had a sliver of doubt: could he do this again? Then he looked at her happy face, and kissed it, and began to feel happy himself at the prospect. Absurdly happy.

  Was someone calling his name? He turned from the window. They were. Something was happening across the room. In this crowded, noisy place, it wasn’t always easy to hear when boys knocked at the door, and they weren’t made very welcome when they did: this was a sanctum, the one place where you could draw breath—

  ‘Coulter?’

  Duggan had turned from the open door. Steven could see McNulty, grown six inches in the Easter holidays, standing like a telegraph pole beyond it, very white.

  Moffat, he thought, putting his cup on the sill. It’s Moffat, and he pushed his way through the throng and the smoke, and out into the corridor.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In Miss Aickman’s office, sir. She’s phoning Dr Maguire.’

  No one was allowed to run in the corridors, ever. They ran.

  In her poky little office, Miss A. had put three chairs together, side by side, and Moffat was lying along them, his head on his folded blazer, his feet dangling. He was so thin you could see his ribs through the worn white shirt, and his eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were huge and sunken. He was gasping.

  ‘Hello, young lad.’

  Beside him, as he took Moffat’s feather-light hand in his, Steven could feel McNulty’s tension turn to relief: Mr Coulter was here, he’d make things better.

  But how could I not have seen? he asked himself, squatting down in the gap between desk and chairs. How could I not have noticed? It must have half-killed this boy to come into school each day, to sit in his place at the back and try to take notes, to keep up, to turn in those skimpy essays.

  He knew why he hadn’t noticed, or had chosen not to see, and everything else fell away. And as Moffat tried to turn towards him, and tried to smile, another face turned towards him from her pillow, and he felt himself go cold.

  ‘You’re a good lad,’ he said at last. ‘Soon have you right.’

  ‘Sir.’ It was a whisper.

  ‘Dr Maguire’s called the ambulance,’ said Miss Aickman, hovering at her desk behind them. ‘It should be here soon.’

  He could hear her trying to sound ordinary and calm. ‘That’s good.’ He could hear himself doing the same. ‘Where’s Mr Straughan?’

  ‘He’s with an invigilator, I think.’

  Out in the corridor the bell for the end of break began to ring. The Civil War was waiting. He told McNulty to go to Form Four and tell them he’d be there in a little while, to get out their books and read quietly.

  ‘And then you’d better get back to your form,’ he said, as Moffat’s gasping breath went on and on. ‘What do you have now?’

  ‘Maths, sir.’

  The bell stopped ringing. ‘Off you go.’

  ‘Sir – sir, can I stay? Till the ambulance gets here?’

  Steven felt Moffat’s hand in his give the lightest pressure.

  ‘You’d like McNulty to stay?’

  A nod, another gasp.

  ‘Come back, then,’ he told McNulty, and got awkwardly to his feet, banging his back on the desk behind him. The open door was suddenly filled with Straughan, his black gown all at once a terrible thing, as if to tell them what they already knew.

  By lunchtime it was all around the school. By the end of the day, it was over.

  Straughan came to the staffroom as the three-thirty bell rang out, everyone in there getting their things together, the door banging open and shut as staff from the last class, the last examination, came in with a sigh of relief, and stopped short at the sight of him, towering and sombre. The call had come from the cottage hospital. Tomorrow, at Assembly, he would tell the boys.

  Out in the Square they were letting off steam, as usual. Steven stood at the bus stop, watching them tussle, throw punches, loosen their ties, though they weren’t supposed to do that until they got home. He saw the usual knot of boys gather round Frank’s oh-so-cheerful red Imp, saw Frank shake his head, drop in his bag, drive away. Unheard of. No ‘Hop in!’ No toot-toot on the horn. They stood gazing after him.

  ‘Sir?’ Hindmarsh and Wigham were walking up beneath the trees. ‘Sir, how’s Moffat?’

  ‘I expect we’ll hear tomorrow.’ That was the truth, after all.

  He could see McNulty walking slowly down the hill with Mather, saw Mather’s arm go round him. McNulty would guess, surely. Surely they’d all guess. The bus pulled up, and he got on, his limbs like lead, and no boy came to sit near him, as he gazed out over the sunlit hills, and the clouds sailed calmly by.

  The long track up the moor felt endless. Not since the days after Margaret’s death had he felt himself walk more slowly, even in snow, even in mud. Above him skylarks soared to the limitless sky, their song an ecstasy. On other afternoons this summer he’d heard and rejoiced in it, alight with happiness himself. Now he could hardly bear it.

  Oh, the indifferent world. Margaret had died, and in spring the birds sang on. Now it was the turn of a boy not yet fifteen. Who else might tuberculosis claim? Could there not be some kind of test, some warning?

  In his pocket, today’s letter, picked up from the box when he got off the bus, offered the prospect of comfort, but also, for the first time, filled him with anxiety.

  He could tell Margot of Moffat’s death – if she hadn’t already heard of it from Frank – and he knew she would be sad, gentle and kind. But how could he tell her of the feelings it stirred in him: the pity and sorrow for that lost young life, but also the echoes, the terrible surge of old grief?

  Not so old, not really. What was a year and a half?

  Perhaps she would guess. Perhaps he need explain nothing. Perhaps he could lie in her arms. Or would she be hurt, and draw away? Then what would he do?

  He came to the top of the track. Ahead stood the cottage, its small square windows shining in the sun. Distantly, on the clear summer air, he could hear the shouts: ‘Quick march!’ but he couldn’t see the men, and all around him the sheep were cropping the turf, as always.

  Saturday afternoon, the sun high and the sky most ardently blue. For a long time they drove along the coast in silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Steven said at last, and put out a hand. ‘Just can’t stop thinking.’

  ‘I know. He was the nicest boy.’

  ‘And the bravest. McNulty, too – he’s very cut up. But still—’ He let his hand rest on her lap. How good that felt. ‘We’re together. We’re going to have a good day.’

  ‘We are.’ She put her hand on his, then slowed down as they came to Bamburgh village. Ahead stood a church on a rise.

  ‘St Aidan’s,’ he said. ‘Grace Darling is buried there.’ And he began to feel a bit better, in command of facts again. Home ground.

  ‘I know,’ said Margot, changing gear. ‘Everyone knows about Grace Darling, don’t they?’ She remembered a picture in one of Miss Renner’s school books: a stormy night sky, a girl and her father rowing like mad towards a shipwreck, the beam of the lighthouse sweeping across the waves. That was when they were doing heroines. Grace Darling, Florence Nightingale, Marie Curie. Who else? There’d been an awful lot of heroes: Frank had been mad about Robin Hood.

  ‘Shall we stop for a minute?’ Steven said, as they came to the church, and she drew up alongside. They got out, walked up the long sloping path through the churchyard, stood looking about them. Gulls flew over the tower. ‘
This church,’ he said, putting his arm round her, ‘was founded on the site of the Saxon church where St Aidan died. Did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Do you know about St Aidan?’

  ‘Not much. Go on.’ She pulled her straw hat from her bag. ‘Mr History Teacher, as George would say.’

  And he put on his teacher’s voice, up at the blackboard, chalk in hand, eyes in the back of his head.

  Oh, poor Moffat.

  ‘He was an Irish missionary, but lived on Iona, I can’t remember why. King Oswald invited him over in 635, and he lived on the Farne Islands.’

  ‘Surely it’s only sea birds.’

  ‘He had a little place there in 635. A little hut or something.’ He drew her to him. ‘On Inner Farne. Anyway, he was a good man, I think, gentle and kind. He used to walk everywhere, just getting to know the farmers and labourers. Christian civilisation in northern England really began with him. And St Cuthbert, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ She kissed his cheek.

  ‘And do you know where he died?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Leaning against the wall of that Saxon church.’

  ‘Like an old sheep.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He drew her closer. ‘Do you want to look inside?’

  ‘Have we got time?’

  ‘Probably not. Not if you want to get out to Lindisfarne and back.’

  ‘I do. Kiss me.’

  People were walking up the path behind them. His lips brushed hers. ‘Shall we drive on? Have a look at the castle on our way?’

  Bamburgh’s great stone keep and mighty walls towered on the promontory over everything: sea, sand dunes, village and farmland.

  ‘The capital seat of the Kings of Northumbria,’ he said, as they drove slowly past. ‘Founded by King Ida in 547. Most of what you see now is eighteenth and nineteenth-century. But if you go inside, you can see the medieval dungeons.’

  ‘Have you brought your boys here?’

  ‘I have. They loved it. One day I’ll take you properly.’

  They had wound down the windows, and the hot sea breeze blew in. Out at sea the sun glinted off the lighthouse Grace Darling’s father had kept, and a million birds wheeled over the Farne Islands, shrieking.

  ‘Let’s stop.’ Margot pulled into a verge, and they walked down to the harbour.

  A motor boat just back from a trip was easing its way up to the wall, and the salty air was full of petrol fumes. They shaded their eyes, looked out at the towering rocks, every ledge crammed with birds, more ever circling above the waves.

  ‘Herring gulls, black-backed gulls, kittiwake and cormorant,’ Steven recited. ‘Guillemot and puffin.’

  ‘You know everything.’ Margot slipped her hand into his.

  ‘I know almost nothing,’ he said. How good it felt to have the sea air on his face. He squeezed her hand. ‘Dates and birds and moths and things. That’s it, really. I know nothing about music at all.’

  ‘It’s all I know about. I spent my whole youth practising scales and arpeggios. Great swathes of ignorance hang about me. George and Frank soaked up facts – especially Frank – but we—’

  The motor boat was being tied up, the ferryman helping passengers clamber out.

  ‘That were grand!’

  ‘I want to see a puffin,’ she said. ‘A puffin and a seal.’

  ‘I’ll try and arrange it.’

  They went back to the car, baking in the sun. The leather seats were almost too hot to touch.

  ‘Go, go!’

  Down came the windows, in came the salty breeze.

  The tide was far out, and the level sands stretched for miles towards the island. They parked on the sea front, one of only a handful of cars, for how many people could afford them? Most people came to this stretch of the coast – this beauty spot, as Steven’s mother called it – by bus. That was what he and Margaret had done, years ago, holding hands as they rattled along. Now, Margot’s sleek little sports car stood out amongst the few Austin Sevens.

  ‘We’ve got about six hours to get there and back,’ Steven said, shading his eyes against the glare. ‘Will we try?’

  ‘We will.’ Margot pulled her straw hat down further, shading her neck. ‘You need something to protect you, too,’ she said, as they walked down on to the shore.

  He pulled off his jacket and slung it over his head. ‘How’s that?’ He peered down at her from beneath it, feeling a trickle of sweat run down beneath his collar.

  ‘You look like an animal in a cave.’

  ‘I am an animal in a cave. Come here.’

  They stood against one another on the sand and he tugged the jacket over her head, too, enclosing them both in darkness. Their mouths sought each other, his hand went round her neck, drawing her closer, closer, and then her hat slipped down and the whole thing became hot and impossible, and they laughed and drew apart.

  ‘My darling one.’

  Children ran past them. Hand in hot hand they set forth.

  For a long time they walked in silence, watching the gulls wheel by, or bob on the distant waves, watching the little fishing vessels out near the horizon. There were other people walking – a summer Saturday, everyone carefree, in sun hats and frocks and rolled-up trousers. Far ahead, the rocky island waited, a grassy slope rising steeply to the castle, a little picture-book thing, after mighty Bamburgh. The sun beat down.

  Nothing in all this could be further from the image of a boy stretched out on a few wooden chairs, gasping for breath, but in the darkness of the jacket draped over his head and shoulders, it was what Steven thought of, as they walked. He couldn’t help it. And then – here was Margaret beside him, her long hair blown by the breeze, on another summer’s day.

  ‘Go on,’ said Margot, after a while.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me about the castle?’ She stopped, tugged the jacket aside. ‘You’re miles away. Aren’t you?’

  ‘A bit. I’m sorry.’ He took a breath, kissed her. ‘Well. The castle was just a fort, originally, built to keep an eye on the Scots in the sixteenth century. When it fell into ruin they used stones from the Priory to rebuild it – Henry VIII, Dissolution of the Monasteries. Did you do that at school?’ He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Henry and Elizabeth I and James all had a hand in it, but then – what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She was serious and sad. ‘I don’t care, really. I just wonder—’

  ‘Don’t. I’m a bit cut up, it’ll pass. Now, if you leap forward a few centuries, as we historians like to do, you’ll find the owner of Country Life commissioning Lutyens to turn the whole thing into a family home.’

  Margot smiled. ‘Darling Steven.’ She stroked his face. ‘Darling Steven,’ she said again. ‘I’m so sorry. Poor Moffat. Poor you.’ And then they walked slowly on.

  ‘My father loves Country Life,’ she said after a while, and they both began to laugh.

  ‘I know – I saw all those piles. Have you told him about us?’

  ‘I think he’s guessed. If you say you’re going to spend the day on the coast with someone—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think he’s glad. I think so.’

  At last they came to the island, and walked across to the shore. The stones were lovely enough to take home: round, smooth, washed and washed by the tide. Steven slipped a small one into his pocket. Then they climbed the endless steep slope to the castle, panting by the time they got to the top. Margot pulled out a little flask of water from her bag and they drank and drank.

  ‘Let’s go inside, let’s get cool.’

  Quite a few other people had the same idea: they queued for their tickets and plan and went into the hall.

  ‘Goodness. It’s like a church.’

  Stone pillars, stone floor, whitewash. Everything,
as they walked through, was simple and plain: stone, brick, slate. Every now and then a wall was gloriously painted: green, Prussian blue. They wandered from room to room, soothed and uplifted. Cupboards, chairs, tables and a huge four-poster bed were all dark wood, oak, mahogany, polished and bright.

  ‘The best possible Arts and Crafts,’ said Steven. ‘My father would love it.’ They climbed stairs, looked out of traceried windows to the sea, walked into a gallery.

  ‘This is the music room,’ said Margot, taking the plan. Like everything, it was airy and beautifully kept: pictures, an oak wall cupboard, a little stage set on a patterned carpet.

  ‘But no piano.’

  ‘No, but Suggia’s played concerts here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Guilhermina Suggia – a cellist, Portuguese. She’s old now, but Diana’s heard her, I think. I think my father took her. Ages ago.’

  ‘You didn’t go?’

  ‘Not that time. Shall we go down?’

  They descended the stairs, and then more stairs, right down to the dining room. A huge fireplace, a bread oven, an iron range polished to within an inch of its life, Windsor chairs.

  ‘But this is the remnants of the fort,’ said Steven. ‘See those vaults? They’re supporting the gun batteries.’

  In the scullery a tiny window over the sink was overhung by some kind of contraption.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s where they operated the portcullis.’ He made a gesture. ‘Down it comes. Bang.’

  ‘You should be a guide.’

  ‘I’m your guide.’

  They brushed lips as a family came in through the door.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Me, too. Let’s have tea.’

  Outside, they walked into the village, found a crowded little café, sank on to hard wooden chairs.