The other drunks cheered again. I drew myself up, pushed through them and escaped down the steep stone steps. I walked quickly past the harbour, turning round to make sure I wasn’t being followed. The sozzled group of beery fools stood on the rocky stairs, still cheering my departure, one of them starting to sing.
‘When you walk, through the storm…’
They harmonised, heads close together, locked in devoted brotherly love.
At the end of the line came a befuddled crooning. Clearly the impromptu choir had forgotten the rest of the lyrics. They all had their arms around each other now, nodding their heads, triumphant when they finally got to the bit they all remembered, the bit everyone remembers. Suddenly, after a mish-mash of mumbling, they all looked up. Together, they raised their drooping heads, looked at the sky as if they were in church and roared with sentimental fervour:
‘YOU’LL NE-VER WALK, AAH-AAHLONE.’
I walked home slowly, thinking about men, thinking about Adam. And about Danny and Joey. How much had I really understood my sons? What did I know about their private lives, their deepest worries? If I’d had daughters, perhaps I would have automatically shared their emotions, their anxieties. But my boys were not like women. I loved them both to distraction, but their DNA made them incomprehensible to me. And Adam? Oh, Adam.
The Blue Peter and its melancholy drunks faded away into the hushed harbour; the sounds of life ever more noiseless as I slipped along the quiet lanes to Hope. Once back at the cottage, I went straight to bed. I would visit Len tomorrow, and face whatever it was he had to tell me. It had been a difficult day. I hoped I could sleep.
I did, for a while.
And then I remembered why Adam thought I was punishing him. It came like a bolt of thunder. I was dreaming about Edie; I was showing her round the fairy dell at the Talland Hotel. She was in my arms, and we stood beneath a shiny silver dragonfly floating under a bush. She was chuckling. She was also talking. ‘Nanamoll,’ she said, and my heart quickened with pleasure. It was the first time she had called me anything. Nanamoll was just about perfect. ‘Nanamoll, why is Poppa Adam so sad?’ she asked me.
‘I don’t know, baby. Is he sad?’
‘You know he is, Nanamoll. It’s because he thinks you don’t love him. You DO love him though, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do, sweetheart. Of course.’
‘Then why do you blame him for when my Uncle Joey was dead in his boat?’
‘Edie, I don’t. I really don’t.’
Edie looked at me gravely, and shook her head. ‘Don’t fib, Nanamoll. You do think Poppa made Joey deaded. You told me once, when I was a baby.’
And then, stuck in my dream, Edie twined around my neck, it all came back. I remembered everything. And I sat up in bed, reached for the bottle of water on my bedside table, took a long draught, closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the woven headboard, embroidered with sunny yellow boats sailing joyfully on an emerald green sea.
I remembered. And I thought, God forgive me.
We’d arrived in Polperro that terrible April evening and moved in to Ben and Joey’s rented cottage. The first night I was catatonic, drugged up to my eyeballs with tranquillisers and sleeping pills. I had a vague impression that the next day, I was completely assaulted by other people’s theories and explanations. I couldn’t understand any of them; the only emotion I felt was a compulsion to walk. So I did, I went off, ignoring Adam’s increasingly strident instructions to stay at the cottage. I wouldn’t even talk to him, I remember that. I was completely out of it, refusing to engage in any kind of discussion. I just left him, distraught as he was, stranded on the doorstep as I moved purposefully away, completely estranged from whatever my husband needed from me; totally immersed in the son who was calling me.
I don’t remember where I walked.
I do remember, shockingly, what happened later when I came back.
Somebody fed me, I don’t know who or with what. Eventually, someone put me to bed; I insisted on sleeping in Joey’s room, hugging his sweater and his scarf, wrapping my head in his pillow. Everything smelled of him; young, tough, athletic. His odour was full of life, packed with energy; my boy’s future filled the room with his essence, full of promise and adventure. His soul was so strong; if he’d been a candle, I could have lit it and watched him materialise in the glow.
I woke, sobbing. Adam was lying next to me on the bed, kissing my hair, stroking my face. I twisted away from him. I was furious that he was there, disturbing my deep communion with Joey. I wanted him to go; and I said what I had blotted out ever since. I told him that Joey’s accident was all his fault. I said that if only he hadn’t encouraged the boys to love sailing so much, Joe would still be here now. I told him, and this was a lie, that I’d heard him talking to Joey before he and Ben left for Cornwall; that I’d heard my son confide his worries about sailing to his dad. He had a feeling, he said. He thought that something bad might happen to him and Ben. He was thinking of calling the holiday off, but he was worried that Ben would think he was an idiot.
I told Adam that I’d heard him laugh Joey’s worries away, telling our son that he was being superstitious and silly. He and Ben were great sailors, really experienced. They would have a terrific holiday. These anxieties are normal, Adam said, but meaningless. The thing was to grasp the nettle, carpe diem, and get on with it.
The thing is, this wasn’t true. Joey had never discussed his sailing holiday with his father. It was I in whom Joey had confided his insecurities about the Easter break with Ben. I now remembered the conversation in crystal-clear detail; the words I’d banished from my head for five years, unable to allow myself to acknowledge that I, Joey’s mother, had dismissed his fears, and encouraged him to go on the holiday that took him away from me for ever. And until this night, I had erased it from my mind. Because if I remembered, I would have to accept that Joey’s fate was my own fault. And to have believed that would have destroyed me.
Joey’s worries were not just about sailing. Mumbling, reluctant, embarrassed, he told me that Ben was being ‘strange’. He wasn’t the same boy he used to be, said Joey. He was terribly moody; so ill-tempered at times that all Joe wanted was to get away from him. And he kept disappearing at night when a crowd of them, all university friends, were drinking together at the Red Lion in Withington. Ben was tense, restless and difficult. Joey said he wondered if his friend was taking drugs again.
This should have raised huge alarm bells in my head, but it didn’t. I’d worried about Ben for so long now; I’d been so relieved when Joey told me his friend was clean and sober; I couldn’t bear to think this boy, whom I should have mothered, and whom I had failed to mother because Adam wouldn’t let me, had screwed up his future because of a youthful experiment at university. I knew Joey wasn’t taking drugs. I didn’t feel that alarmed about Ben. So I told Joe to stop worrying. It was me, not Adam, who said laughingly that he should ‘carpe diem’. Ben was his best friend, they both loved sailing, and would watch out for each other. I told Joey it did him credit to worry about his friend, but he shouldn’t let these temporary glitches spoil their companionship. I stressed how wonderful Cornwall was, how important to keep our connection with it as a family and, so naively, I said that if Ben was in trouble, sailing in Polperro was the best place for him to heal.
I didn’t manage to speak to Joey after that. He and Ben went off on their Easter break. I did have a postcard from him, sent three days after they arrived. Thanks, Mum, it read. Cornwall is great, Polperro as much fun as ever. Having a fabulous time. You were right, as always. Ben sends love. Plus lots of love from me and see you soon, Joey.
Nothing after that, until the day I took Ben’s phone call.
I lied to Adam, that frightening night in our son’s Cornish cottage after he had disappeared, that I had overheard his conversation with Joey; I told him I had heard him insisting that our son should go ahead with the sailing holiday, despite his misgivings about Ben. Not only had I
told my husband a lie, I completely believed it. After Ben had called me in Manchester to tell me my son had disappeared, his broken boat found swept up on the rocks near Looe, my mind would not allow me to acknowledge that I bore any blame.
And so I remember, that same night, breaking down completely, telling Adam hysterically that I would never forgive him; that our life as husband and wife was over. He began to caress my shoulders, kissing me gently, telling me he understood why I was saying these things. I pushed him away and screamed.
‘Listen to me, Adam. It’s over. I will never forgive you–you pushed Joey to his death. I can no longer be your wife. How can I? You killed our son. This is it. If Joey is dead, then so is our marriage.’
And so it was. Our marriage had been over for a long, long time. It was my fault, and I’d never had the courage to face it. Life with me, having lost Joey, must have been unbelievably vile for Adam. What did he have to hope for? Why had he stayed with me for all those years? Was he hoping I’d change? Surely not. Not any more.
I thrashed around restlessly in bed, tangling the sheets into knots. When it was light I got up and made tea. I sat on the porch in the soft morning light and thought about what I must do. I should call Adam, I thought. I had much to apologise for. But first of all, I must see Len. That was urgent. He was ninety-two and in hospital with pneumonia. He might make a brief recovery, but he’d told me his time was running out; I knew if I didn’t speak to him today I would never forgive myself.
Chapter Thirty-Four
An hour later, I arrived at Derriford Hospital in Plymouth. Within minutes I was shown into a small office adjacent to Intensive Care. A small woman with a fiercely competent manner bustled in after me.
‘You’re here to see Mr Tremethyk?’ she asked abruptly, consulting a clipboard.
I blanched. ‘Um, I’ve come to visit Len,’ I said, cursing myself for not knowing his surname.
‘Len Tremethyk, yes. I’ll take you to him. He’s not in a good way, but he should be able to talk to you. Are you a relative?’
‘No, just a friend.’
The Sister pursed her lips and sighed. ‘Well, God knows the poor devil needs someone to visit him,’ she said. ‘He told me he has no family living, and his old friends are either dead or far too old to make the journey to Plymouth to see him.’
‘I’ve brought him some fruit and chocolates, if he can eat them.’
‘Well, we’ll see, although I don’t see why not. I’m Sister Maynard, by the way. Come with me and I’ll see if he’s up to a chat.’
Len lay in his narrow hospital bed, bolstered by a bank of pillows behind his head. His eyes were closed, and he was very still. His face was white and gaunt. He looked more ill than I had ever seen anyone before. Sister Maynard bent over him and said in a gentle voice, ‘Len? There’s someone here to see you. Do you feel like talking?’
He opened his eyes, which were clear and full of intelligence. When he saw me he smiled. ‘Molly. I’m glad you’re here. Just in time, I think,’ and his mouth twisted in amusement. ‘I did tell you, my dear. I knew I didn’t have long.’
I sat down in a chair beside the bed. Sister Maynard drifted quietly out of the room.
‘I’m sorry, Len. I didn’t want to believe that.’ There was no point in trying to deny what he meant. He was dying. He knew it and I knew it. He started to speak, but coughed painfully instead. I looked wildly round for the Sister, but she’d gone. There was water in a jug by the bedside. I poured a glass and held it to Len’s lips, but he waved it away. ‘Wait,’ he rasped, his voice barely audible.
After a couple of minutes he swallowed deeply, closed his eyes and gripped my hand.
‘Molly, you must listen. When you went to Jamaica Inn, you had a bad fright, didn’t you?’
I nodded, mute with surprise. I’d expected him to talk about the island, not the misty Inn on the Moor.
‘How did you know I was at Jamaica Inn?’ I asked him.
His voice was faint. ‘You were seen. I was told by another like me.’
‘Another Charmer, do you mean?’
He nodded. ‘Another old man, yes. He lives on Bodmin, at Bolventor. He saw what happened to you.’
‘What do you mean? What did he see?’ Whoever saw me must have witnessed my hysterical behaviour in the deserted field. He must have thought I was mad.
Len confirmed my doubts. ‘He saw you running away; you kept stopping and staring back over your shoulder. You looked absolutely terrified.’
Sure I was, I thought. I shivered involuntarily. Death. It was here in the room, waiting for Len. I could feel it, and see a flash of movement, a brief impression on my retina. The grotesque figure of the rotting scarecrow stood leering behind Len’s bed, its head bent down towards the old man, as if it were salivating at the prospect of bearing him away to its own stinking lair.
‘Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread…’
Startled, I realised I’d said the words out loud.
‘What was it, Molly? The fiend you saw? What shape did it take?’
‘Your friend didn’t see it?’
Len shook his head. ‘He told me you were running away from something terrible, but it wasn’t visible to him. Tell me, Molly. I think I can help if you tell me what it was.’
I swallowed, embarrassed, then remembered that the old man on the bed believed in spells and charms, believed he could heal people and keep them from harm. His thoughts, his conviction were rooted in the supernatural. Besides, he was dying; and I knew that his compulsion to help me before he passed on meant everything to him.
‘Are you afraid?’ I asked him.
‘Of dying?’ he replied. I nodded. ‘No. Why should I be?’ Len smiled; then was overtaken by another coughing fit. This time he sipped the water I proffered.
‘The process is difficult–harder, much harder than I thought it would be. Not a lot of dignity in bedpans at my age. And it’s painful, though the morphine helps at night. But death is a physical event, it’s not quick and it’s not pleasant. No point in fighting it, though. It’s easier if you open your arms and embrace it. As for afterwards, what’s to be frightened of? Nothing, Molly, believe me.’
He looked hard at me; then closed his eyes again. It was a long speech for a man whose lungs were barely capable of allowing him to breathe. He drank more water, and seemed to doze for a minute. Then he was suddenly alert and focused. ‘Molly, I won’t get to see the island with you now. But you must go; you must face it. Not alone, though. Take your husband with you. You will need him.’
‘But when I go, what will I find?’
‘Nothing at first, perhaps. Not immediately. You won’t understand straightaway. But seeing Lammana is the first step; the rest will follow. Your son’s friend is important, I think. That should come next. Molly, I’m drifting off. I can’t talk any more. You must go.’
I stood up obediently, but Len immediately became agitated.
‘No, no. Not yet.’ He muttered to himself, trying to lift his head up off the pillow. I put my hands gently on his shoulders and guided him back into a comfortable position. He coughed and spluttered, breathing as deeply as he could, a painful, shallow dry-throated rasp the only sound he could utter for a moment.
‘You must tell me about the Inn. You have to say what you saw.’ His voice was low and desperate. ‘I need to dispel it, you see. I need to exorcise it. I can’t go before I’ve done that. I can’t leave it hanging over you; I must help. This is all I know.’
I felt his desperation, and was ashamed of my unwillingness to confess my weakness, my mental frailty.
‘It was a scarecrow,’ I blurted. ‘It was evil, horrible, malicious. It stared at me, and then it… it moved, staggered; it pointed at me. I’ve never been so scared in my life.’
Len, his eyes closed now, sighed and nodded. ‘It pointed? Had you ever seen it before?’
‘No, never.’ But even as I spoke, something shifted in my head.
There was a change in my perception, a long-forgotten memory. Something danced before my eyes; a hazy, indistinct shape, surrounded by a blue-grey blur. That was the sea, I realised. And as soon as I half-glimpsed it, the apparition vanished. My skin crept with embarrassment. What imagined horror had I just glimpsed? A figment of fancy, surely, just the dim shadow of a lost childhood nightmare.
Len was staring at me. He closed his eyes once more. His lips moved in a rapid silent prayer. Was he praying because he was so close to death, I wondered? Should I go?
Then I knew the prayer was for me. It was an incantation. Len was casting a charm. He was asking the God he was so sure of to help me through him. He was a vessel, a channel, bringing me enlightenment and succour, as he had tried to bring others afflicted by illness or distress throughout his life.
The prayer, or spell, came to an end. Len lay silent, his breathing shallow, his eyes shut. Then he opened them and looked at me. It seemed as if he stared into my soul.
‘Walk from Polperro along the coastal path to Talland. You will not need to go far. Look for a gate close to the beginning of the path. The ground is rough and stony beneath your feet. The gate is old, dark wood, to the right of the path. It is padlocked, but you will find it opens for you. Walk into the place the gate guards. The sea lies beyond. You will find what you are looking for.’
I stiffened with fright. My heart was thumping. Would I find Joey behind that gate? Is that what Len was trying to tell me? I leaned forward, urgently calling his name. But he was finished. He had nothing else to say.
There was a rustle behind me. Sister Maynard, ever vigilant, touched my elbow, signalling that I should go. I leaned over and kissed the old man’s papery cheek. ‘Goodbye, Len. Sleep tight. God bless.’
I walked to the door, paused and looked back at this gentle man, so full of wisdom and kindness. The morning sun caught his thin white hair. A darting silver beam of light played softly around his head, caressing and stroking his tired face. That darting gleam, that merry glow; I remembered a grave-strewn hillside, a soft darkness shot through with dancing rays of starlight. I remembered my vision of Joey’s funeral, and I suddenly knew where I’d seen Len before he came to the cottage.
I Do Not Sleep Page 15
