There was a sign attached to one of the two substantial pillars framing the long stone staircase that led up to the graceful, dignified old building. It was a large sign, bold white letters engraved on a slab of dark grey slate. It read jamaica house.
Jamie came running down the steps, a bunch of keys in his hand. He faltered when he reached me and saw how white I looked.
‘Molly?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s called Jamaica House,’ I said wonderingly.
‘Oh, Annie’s lovely old place. Yes, it’s belonged to the Trelawney family for generations. The Trelawneys were the major landowners in this part of Cornwall, very rich, very important. Two of them were successive governors of Jamaica, in the seventeenth century. That’s how Jamaica Inn got its name.’
‘I thought it was to do with smuggling rum,’ I said in a daze, my preconceptions shattering.
Jamie laughed. ‘That too, probably, but no, the Trelawney family’s ancient association with Jamaica is the real reason. The family’s not nearly as powerful now, but there are still quite a few of them about. Annie here is one of the last. She never married, had no kids, so she lives here in Jamaica House in solitary splendour. She’s a lynchpin of the village, our local historian, chairman of the neighbourhood watch, of course, and she keeps the emergency keys to the allotments.’
‘Emergency?’ I stuttered. ‘What sort of emergency?’
‘Oh, you know, in case of some drunken youths who think they’re on holiday in Rock or Newquay instead of sleepy old Polperro decide to spend the night there with a few cans of strong lager. It happens sometimes. They climb over the gate, make a hell of a noise. And it could be dangerous–the allotments form part of a small headland; there’s a sheer drop down to the sea. No one’s actually fallen over it yet, but Annie always keeps a weather eye out in the summer for drunks. She may be old, but she’s quite formidable. I’ve seen lads quail before her. She’s got a shotgun too; don’t think she’s ever used it, but these daft young yobs don’t know that, do they? Come on, I’ll let you in. It’s quite beautiful in here, in fact–they’re probably the most romantic allotments in the country.’
Still chattering, he unlocked the gate.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I followed Jamie, my mind locked onto what he’d called Annie’s emergency key. Could there have been an emergency concerning Joey? Could something have happened to him here, in these innocuous allotments? No, of course not. If Annie had seen my son here she would have talked to him, and if he’d subsequently disappeared surely she would have reported it to the police? Everyone in Polperro knew about the boat wreck, the missing boy. Annie’s possession of the key was for the simple purpose Jamie had outlined: so she would have access to the gardens if some drunken kids had climbed over the gate and needed a fearsome old lady to kick them out again. This pretty spot had nothing to do with Joey.
Except…
Jamie closed the gate behind us. I felt increasingly sleepy as I walked slowly ahead of him down a narrow paved path. On either side grew shady fruit trees, beginning to burgeon with growing apples, pears, walnuts and plums. Rose bushes perfumed the air; hydrangeas and fuchsia were lush with colour, and dotted among them were bird tables and nesting boxes. Wooden benches provided inviting places to rest, and, glimpsed through the trees, the sea sparkled like sapphires. Such a restful quiet place, full of peace like a grave-less cemetery. I startled myself with the comparison, and yet the calm tranquillity of this gated garden did remind me of Talland churchyard; it had a hushed repose. As I walked, the drowsiness I felt became stronger. I could hear the birds, I could feel the sun warm on my face, I could see the winking turquoise ocean, yet I felt I was sleepwalking.
No, this charming spot could have nothing to do with Joey.
Except I knew I’d been here before.
I heard Jamie’s voice, but distantly, muffled as if he spoke through cotton wool. He was telling me that we had almost reached the allotments. I saw a couple of potting sheds and a large greenhouse full of tomato plants and strawberry beds. I walked past these first signs of human industry, and the layout of the gardens immediately became less dreamy, more purposeful. I could see the individual plots were laid out in long strips, each of which were neatly tended and bursting with produce; carefully planted with all sorts of tender green shoots, budding kitchen delicacies, herbs, shallots, leeks, small marrows, runner beans. There were flowers, too: night-scented stocks, lavender and sweet peas climbing up canes and trellises; and amongst them idiosyncratic personal icons, small rural mementos placed affectionately on each patch: ceramic hens and cockerels, tiny pink piglets, ducks and geese and miniature baby lambs.
The whole place was enchanting–greens and reds, yellows and blues, and beyond this fecund little world the sharp intense cool blue of the sea framed a perfect picture.
Yes, I’d been here before. I wandered up and down the gravel tracks between each plot, and as I did my sense of ease and contentment began to falter. I grew cold under the hot sun. Something was wrong. Something was waiting for me, and suddenly I knew what it was. I didn’t want to look but I had to. There was no escape.
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread…
There was a rickety old fence running along the bottom of the allotments. I was surprised it looked so broken down; everything else in the kitchen gardens was sturdy and pristine. Beyond the fence shimmered the sea, and for a moment I saw that it had altered; it had become dull, dark and ominous. The rippling waves had disappeared. The surface was sluggish, moody, threatening. It surged towards me, urging me, telling me, forcing me to look. My eyes followed a breaking wave, topped not with crisp white surf but scummy grey dirt. The billowing ridge moved west, dragging its grimy muck with it, pulling my eyes towards where it finally disappeared under the headland. As it vanished, a spume of black sludge, thick with slime and mud, rose abruptly from the water. It hovered in the sky above the cliff like an exclamation mark, a sign. When it sank back down into the hellish depths from whence it came, it dragged my eyes down with it. I blinked. And there, right in front of me, leaning drunkenly against the sagging fence, was the scarecrow. My frightful fiend, dry, broken, and clad in black, come to haul me down below, come to take me to the monstrous lair in which it held my Joey, trapped and desperate in an infernal underworld.
I screamed. An inky jet of clammy mucous, stinking of rotting fish, blew in from the ocean, coating the scarecrow in a viscous jelly. It covered my face, my hair, leaving on me a foul stench of decay, a noisome stink forced from an abyss of pain.
I fainted.
When I came round, I was lying on the grass. Jamie bent over me, cushioning my head, feeling my pulse. I didn’t remember where I was or what had happened, but it felt as if I’d been here for ever.
‘Molly, Molly, you fainted. It’s OK. You’re all right now. But what happened? What did you see? What scared you?’
I remembered the slime, the vile jelly that had covered my face and hair, the awful stench. Surely Jamie could smell it too? And then I realised I could smell nothing but roses, stocks and lavender. I sat up abruptly, Jamie catching me as my head started to spin again. I put my hands up to my hair. It was clean, silky. There was no foul stuff clinging to my head or face.
I heard rapid footsteps coming down the path, and Annie Trelawney appeared, her face creased with concern.
‘Goodness, Jamie, what on earth’s happened?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I was watching you from an upstairs window, and I saw your friend collapse.’
‘It’s fine, Annie, don’t worry. She just fainted; she’s coming round now.’
The two of them hoisted me to my feet and guided me to a nearby bench. Annie handed me a bottle of water. ‘I grabbed it from the fridge when I ran downstairs. Drink it. It will make you feel better.’
Gratefully I took the bottle and drained it. Jamie looked worried. ‘You’re shaking badly, Molly. What on earth happened?’
I shuddered. ‘Didn’t you see?’ I appealed to him. ‘You were right behind me, you must have seen it.’
‘Seen what?’ asked Jamie helplessly. He shook his head. ‘Molly, I saw absolutely nothing; just the gardens and the sea beyond the headland.’
‘No, no Jamie. The… the thing I saw. The THING.’ I was shouting, struggling to get to my feet. ‘It’s over there. Look!’ Jamie grabbed me, but not before I’d managed to shakily turn round. I pointed a quivering finger at the fence, the rotting, dilapidated…
The strong, neat and immaculately maintained fence preventing unwary visitors from straying too close to the cliff edge; the heavily padlocked gate bearing a stern notice: DANGER. DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT. THIS AREA IS NOT STABLE AND LIABLE TO SUBSIDENCE.
My shaking finger moved to the left, my body following my hand, until I saw…
… a scarecrow. A scrappy old effigy clothed in tatty black rags; a perfectly ordinary, everyday scarecrow, with perhaps a slightly malevolent face, but really frightening enough to scare only birds.
I collapsed back onto the bench. I turned my head back to the frightful fiend of my imagination, now transformed into a pathetic figure even a child would laugh at. And I looked at the sea behind it, glittering and bright once again.
‘What’s the matter, dear?’ This was Annie. ‘Did the old Ancient Mariner give you a fright? Goodness, he’s so decrepit now the birds even perch on his head. We only keep him out of sentiment, because he was the first scarecrow we put up when we dug the allotments. That’s why we called him the Ancient Mariner, because we wanted him to be really scary, constantly telling the damned birds to clear off. We’ve got quite a few scarymen now, as the children call them, but he’s the original.’ She waved her arm around the gardens, and I saw she was right. There were half a dozen or more scarecrows spread out over the land, festooned with scarves and jumpers in bright colours. Only mine wore black.
Annie was looking thoughtful. She glanced up at Jamie. ‘Do you think we could get her back to my house?’ she asked. ‘She needs some sweet tea and a rest.’
Hooking an arm under mine she pulled me up. Jamie did the same, and the three of us walked unsteadily back to Jamaica House.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Annie’s living room, or ‘drawing room’ as she called it, was delightful: big, with enormous bay windows looking out to the sea, and, at the back, to her beautiful garden. Light streamed in, illuminating the polished wood floor and shimmering on the huge cut-glass vases filled with flowers on every surface. The house smelled of roses and beeswax. She made me lie down on a red sofa. There was another, this time midnight blue, on the opposite side of the fireplace, and deep armchairs upholstered in white and pale grey scattered around in the window recesses. She plumped cushions behind my head, and covered me with a silver-grey fur throw. I protested, saying I was warm enough, but Jamie shook his head and said in fact I felt icy. It was the shock. It was the shock, too, which prompted Annie to make me drink a glass of brandy. Brandy again, I thought. I’ve never drunk so much of the stuff until I came to Cornwall. I’m always freezing or in shock here; I was tired of it. I wanted Adam. I wanted to go home.
Jamie pulled up a chair while Annie was out in the kitchen making tea. ‘Molly,’ he said quietly. ‘The scarecrow you told me about, the one you thought you saw at Jamaica Inn. Did you see it again in the allotments? Is that what made you faint?’
I closed my eyes. Tears welled up. I felt foolish, drained. How could I possibly make sense of what had just happened? I had had another episode of madness. I had no idea where it came from. What was happening to me? I felt wrecked, out of control. Jamie was right. I should see someone, perhaps that therapist he’d mentioned before. But right now I couldn’t bear to talk to him, or anyone. I’d had enough.
Annie came in with the tea. I sat up, and drank her very sweet hot brew. Together with the brandy, it worked. I stopped shivering, feeling warmth steal through my body. My heart stopped thumping. I almost fell asleep.
Annie’s hesitant voice roused me. ‘My dear, Molly–it’s Mrs Gabriel, isn’t it?’ I opened my eyes. Annie was looking at me, gently and with profound sympathy. I saw Jamie’s head jerk up and he stared at Annie.
‘Yes, Molly Gabriel, that’s right,’ I said, wondering how she knew my full name. Perhaps Jamie had told her.
Annie continued, ignoring the doctor’s intense gaze. ‘I don’t want to be intrusive, Molly, or upset you, but I remember you now. You used to walk past this house every day; it was a few years ago. I was usually sitting in the front garden reading, and I watched you go past. I would always say hello, but you never replied. You seemed in a world of your own.’
‘Yes, I suppose I was. I’m sorry if I seemed rude but I don’t think I was aware of anything or anyone back then. People have told me I used to walk every day, but I have absolutely no memory of it. I’ve blanked that whole period out. I don’t remember you at all, I’m afraid.’
‘But you remembered the allotments?’
‘Not really.’
Annie looked puzzled. ‘But you stopped today and asked Jamie to get the keys. Surely you must remember that you’d been inside the gardens before?’
‘No–it’s just that Len told me to look for the padlocked gate. So when I saw it today I thought that must be what he meant.’
‘Len? Do you mean Len Tremethyk?’ she asked.
I nodded. ‘Yes. I went to see him in hospital yesterday, hours before he died. He was very ill, but he told me I must find the gate, and that it would be padlocked but it would open for me. He said I would find what I needed inside the area it guarded. He’d asked me about the scarecrow, you see…’ Weary, I trailed off. I was too tired to explain about Jamaica Inn, and too horrified to link what I’d seen there with what had happened in the allotments. Jamie leaned forward.
‘She’s very tired,’ he said to Annie. ‘I think I should get her home.’
‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘I knew Len very well, and I think I can help her. She needs to know what’s going on.’
I burst into tears. ‘Yes. Oh yes. Christ, I need to know what’s going on, why I’m being driven mad with dreams and visions. It just happened again. I can’t bear it any more.’
Jamie looked reproachfully at Annie as he handed me a wad of tissues, but she carried on.
‘Len was a Charmer. Did you know that, and what it means?’
I nodded again. ‘He told me about it.’
‘How did you meet him?’ Annie asked.
I explained about Queenie and how she invited him to dinner at Hope’s cottage. Annie looked eager and interested to hear more, but my strength was exhausted. I looked pleadingly at Jamie.
‘Will you tell her everything, Jamie? Everything I’ve told you?’
‘Molly, I can’t. You’re my patient. It’s confidential.’
‘But I’m giving you permission. I want you to tell Annie everything. I think Len knew I’d meet her; that’s what he meant when he said the gate would be unlocked for me. He knew Annie would be the one with the key. He knew she would be the next link.’
‘Link to what?’ asked Jamie, worriedly.
‘I don’t know; the next link in the chain. Please, Jamie. I’m so tired, but I’m begging you to be my voice, to tell Annie everything I’ve told you.’
And so the story began again; Joey’s disappearance, the wrecked and empty boat. My anguished walks along the cliff that I’d obliterated from my memory. Our return to Cornwall after five years, and my reluctance to come back. My strange dreams since we got here, and my compulsion to visit Jamaica Inn, where I saw a foul vision of such evil that it unhinged me. My conviction that I must discover what had happened to my son, that I was being guided along a path. My move to Hope’s little house so I could be alone to concentrate on him; and finally our walk today, my behaviour when I saw the gate, and my odd drowsy demeanour inside the gardens.
Annie listened intently. When Jamie had finished
she asked me to tell her exactly what I’d seen at Jamaica Inn that had so terrified me. I told her. She sat back in her chair and nodded to herself. She poured us all another cup of tea, and then began to talk:
‘Molly, the reason I know who you are is that I first saw you on your walks five years ago, the ones you have forgotten. Everyone in the village understood your terrible grief, and why you were so silent and self-absorbed. No one could get through to you. You wouldn’t talk to anyone.
‘I watched you walk past my house every day; then, one day, I was just coming out of the allotments, and the gate was wide open as you were passing. You stopped, and started to walk towards it. I was pleased, actually. I thought you wanted to speak to me at last. I thought you’d let me show you around the allotments and talk about the stuff we grow there. I thought a chat might do you good, take your mind off things for a moment.’
Annie sighed. ‘That was very silly of me, but I had no idea how deeply you were wrapped in grief. I held the gate open for you, and you walked right in past me. But you took absolutely no notice of me and began to walk through the gardens towards the sea. I followed you; I was frightened by your silence. You walked as if you were in a dream, straight on through the allotment strips. You were quite a bit ahead of me by then; I kept back because I didn’t want to intrude. Then, to my horror, I saw that you were making for the fence sealing off the headland. Someone had left the gate open, and you walked straight through it, and on towards the cliff edge. You got right up to it, and then you stood and swayed, backwards and forwards. I was petrified, convinced you were about to throw yourself off. I walked very quietly up behind you. I thought if I startled you, you might jump. And then, just before I could grab you, you turned round. I’ll never forget your face. You looked straight through me–I’m convinced you never even saw me–but you certainly saw something, and your eyes were full of terror. I swung round to find what had scared you so much, and I realised you were staring at the Ancient Mariner. I suppose he looked a bit more threatening in those days. We used to have annual competitions every Hallowe’en for the most terrifying scarecrow, and the previous year the local kids had gone to town; they gave him a really nasty mouth, and new eyes–pearlised silver buttons that reflected the light of the sky and sea, so they changed constantly. They were quite eerie. And you were walking late that day, it was early evening and the light was strange; the Mariner’s eyes looked like they were moving. I jumped myself when I saw them. And it was quite windy, and his arms were blowing about; I could hear the twigs snapping. Suddenly there was a big gust of wind and it pushed him forward. He sort of lunged towards us. I could have sworn he’d moved but it was only the wind. And I looked back at you and you’d gone white with terror. I thought you might faint, and that would have been so dangerous, you were so close to the edge. I managed to grab your shoulders, and I tried to get you to snap out of the state you were in. You looked like my little brother used to when he was sleepwalking. I spoke to you gently so as not to scare you, and I said something like: ‘It’s all right, it’s only a scarecrow, it’s only the Ancient Mariner.’ And you looked at me as if I was mad and pushed me away. And then you were sick; you vomited on the grass and before I could get to you, you started running. I chased after you but you ran so fast I couldn’t catch up. By the time I got to the main gate you were a long way up the path, still running, going back to where you were staying in the village I presumed. I didn’t go after you; I just went home. I’m an old lady, not used to running and scarecrows that look as if they’re moving.’
I Do Not Sleep Page 17
