Half Light

by Frances Fyfield

Their argument was unclear, only the fuel which oiled it in the form of four tins of something from the buffet. Listening to the public rows of others made him want to close one ear and open the other wider, but the jeering accusations seemed directed towards himself although he had never stared at the shapeless protagonists in any obvious way, no more than two sneaking glances. Conscience, perhaps, troubling him. The train hummed and rocked: he had brought some work to pass the two and a half hours it took to reach the town nearest the village from which Elisabeth came, but the motion of the train was enough to prevent concentration on anything other than the argument, the tune of the hymn and the knowledge, increasing by the minute, of how little, how desperately little, he had ever discovered about other people’s lives. Passing farmland, drawing into ugly towns along with that sickening burning smell of train brakes, he knew he did not want to disembark. The hymn continued, the tape rewinding itself in his skull with all the known words of it he remembered, always going back to the beginning.

  And did those feet in ancient time,

  Walk upon England’s mountains green …

  There were no mountains, green or otherwise, and there was no bus to a place called Clayfields for over an hour.

  Francis got a taxi. He flashed by shops and through new roads, past neon-lit supermarket complexes of aggressive proportions, a high-spending, low-culture, nuclear-free zone.

  ‘Don’t get much call for going to Clayfields,’ said the driver, who seemed given to laughing at his own words. ‘What do you want there? Got family?’

  ‘No. I’m going to look for one.’

  ‘Tha’ll be lucky out theer.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He laughed louder. Francis could not see the joke. By now he was unable to control a sickening sensation of acute embarrassment, a rising flush which made his face red. What did he think he was doing on this foreign territory (he would throttle Annie for this bright idea), what was his alibi and what was he going to say? There was no glamour about amateur detecting: God knows there was little enough about the professional sort, which he had never given sufficient respect. Before this expedition he had somehow imagined the desert of the North outside its major cities to be an interlinked series of cosy little complexes, ugly but convivial, informed by familial bonhomie. Not vast tracts of isolating roads, towns mushrooming from the embers of others and taxi drivers as truculent as taxi drivers anywhere, but in the North speaking slower, with their stranger voices, the accent belying the speaker’s intelligence to the Southern ear …

  ‘I were born in Clayfields,’ said the man. ‘Oh my dear, yes.’

  Another laugh. Francis felt his heartbeat slow, race, stabilize. ‘And you live there now?’

  There was a strange sound from the man in front, an explosive chuckle. ‘Not likely. That’ll be eight pound.’

  They had stopped on a steep slope at the bottom of a street of terraced houses. Four miles from the station, when Francis was feeling the heat on his face, they had turned off a busy dual carriageway, which hummed below as the only sound in the still air. They were parked by a bus shelter with broken windows: Francis could see through the gaps to the next, identical street. Turning round to look back at the road on which they had arrived, he could see it leading downhill to a valley in the lee of the traffic, a gulley at the bottom piled with rubbish as if the whole detritus of the streets had slithered there, cars, beds, broken objects of vibrant plastic and swirling bits of paper. Looking up and beyond, there were the strange and featureless hills which were made by man, slag heaps covered and smoothed, but unable to sustain trees or crops, a barren undulation which went on and on. Francis felt exposed, threatened and bereft: he could not quite move and knew the driver watched him in the rear-view mirror as he might have watched someone poised for theft.

  ‘Eight pound,’ he repeated, grinning.

  Francis mumbled an apology, reached for his wallet, still looking out. Grey red houses, black grey road, an iron sky and the hills nothing but washed-out green growing on black, looking like weird stubble on a dirty chin. There was no real colour, the whole thing viewed through a bleaching lens, no depth, no vibrance and a terrible silence as if the rinsing-out of pigment were an ongoing process which depended upon no birds, no trees, no sign of human life. Francis met the stony, black-rimmed eyes which examined him through the mirror. He had no code of manners guaranteed to work here, no power to entertain, no officialdom to quote, and was unable to tell a lie. The taxi man was ageless, a small whippet of Northerner in a large car, his eyes rimmed with coal, a cynical face and a muscled body, response unpredictable, apart from incessant amusement. Francis constructed a brisk version of his fabled charm, thought of Philip Marlowe and his fictional ilk, smiled at this crazy comparison.

  ‘I heard you,’ he said. ‘Eight pounds. Ten or fifteen if you’ll show me where I might get a drink. And have one with me. I’m looking for a family called Young.’

  ‘You never!’ The way the driver threw back his head and roared with laughter was quite unnerving. He seemed to find most things funny.

  Maria had once liked to laugh, but that was a long time ago. Now she lived in a little and limited world which had suddenly expanded to include another person if only that other person would notice. Such a good and lovely girl. You knew how good and lovely, because she had no possessions, no clothes but a smock or two, no vanities: she lived small.

  Much of the time, but not all of the time, Maria loved Thomas with an unquestioning love, compounded by fear, which was one of the reasons why the other person should notice her, because she, too, was becoming part of the family, or so Thomas said. But it was not a holy family with a saint amongst it (as Thomas had obliquely suggested), nor one where you declared who you were. What puzzled her, although she should not resent it in the least since his word was simply law, was his insistence that no one should know that she was his blood sister, and yes, she did mind that. Martha might not have minded, Agatha, Agnes and Veronica might not have minded, but she did. A bit.

  Only a sister would have looked after him sixteen years ago as she had done – more so, latterly, in the worse times of his disablement. Only a blood brother would house her as he did. There was no need to state she was his creature, not for someone who had been so loyal that she had even copied his stuttering speech, kept silent in sympathy when his own speech had been denied him, a habit she had seen no point in reversing, which made it so much easier to obey his strictures on not speaking now. But she knew what he could do. He destroyed things which were good: there were these things he could not stand, and he had got the dog to help him.

  Butler, that beast. She had been prepared to love Butler with the same lack of reserve, but the love had not lasted. He was not a good dog, but had a mind of his own. What Thomas was was a madman with a soul in danger and a mad dog: that was what she had to get across. She wanted to talk to the girl, because Thomas had given up talking to his sister, did not even take her to church any more, and that boded ill. But if she did get this across to the beautiful girl who stayed there, without a dress or a piece of jewellery to her name, who worked with the humble dedication of a nun and was so serenely beautiful – if she got anything across to Elisabeth, she would be taking a risk herself, because there was nothing outside Thomas. Nothing but this park in which she sat with its disturbing amount of space, the square with all its vagrants outside the cathedral, which she crossed by herself with less terror each time and an even greater sense of belonging.

  Thomas might just kill the girl, Maria decided. Once she had done those three paintings he had bought just before she got there, he would kill her, because she was so good and so beautiful and so like the madonnas, he would not be able to stand the presence of all that virtue and simplicity. He would do away with her, in the same way he had made away with all those paintings which used to festoon the walls when this had been their parents’ house. All those saints there had been then: perfect paintings, the sort
which Thomas could not abide and Maria adored. All he had left was three of the icons and she was supposed to be satisfied with that. Thomas, she decided, simply killed or destroyed anything which was perfect. He killed what he liked best. He destroyed, too, or jeered at, whatever Maria liked, so it followed, Maria told herself, that she should not reveal how much she was coming to love that girl. And for both their sakes, she had better try to get the girl on her side. Even if, God forgive her, she had to tell lies. No, she never told lies, especially on Sundays.

  Butler bristled. Maria was learning the symptoms now, wiped her eyes with caution while making soothing sounds. The dog was programmed to react as he did to any kind of emotional display; reaction must be avoided. He had bitten a naughty child here in the park once, although Maria had to admit, she had encouraged him. No, she did not love Butler. She had offered Butler to God long before for being not only bad, but stupid. If you gave him anything that smelt at all of food, he took it and ate it: you could have given him cyanide.

  Absently, Maria took from the bosom of her coat three or four of the letters she had been given to post over the last fortnight. The rest were in her room. Butler liked the smell of beef casserole. Without such scents he would not have been so easy to convince: she had dipped all letters in the gravy of one of those half-eaten, mushy, frozen meals on which Thomas seemed to thrive. He could eat only mush, because he could not handle knife and fork, while this crazy dog would eat dusters. No wonder they were both so cross; they needed so much. She handed one of the stained envelopes to Butler as if it were some kind of tasty morsel, teasing him with it. What did a plain and simple girl want with letters, anyway? St Bernadette, St Agnes, St Theresa never bothered with letters: they were too busy. Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever. Butler took the stiff parchment envelope, chewed, swallowed some, spat out the rest. It would probably make him sick. He might then bite her. Good.

  ‘Why, Thomas, why? Why did you lie to me?’

  There were two prerequisites for making Thomas talk, apart from her own courage. One was that the talking, however banal the content had become, should be initiated by him in the room where she worked. The second was that all voices should remain muted. Although she had lost the habit of shouting, it was harder, now, to keep the voice from ascending.

  ‘All the paintings, Thomas, they were not collected by your mother and father. They were collected more recently than that. I know by the auction stamps on the back. You know auction houses do that, don’t you? They stamp the date of the sale on the back of the canvas or the frame, and I am perfectly capable of turning round some of the pictures on your walls … Nor was the equipment in this studio left behind by someone who came and went: it is mostly new, and no restorer has all new equipment unless he is a dilettante in the game, someone you would not have used Otherwise we all have our little eccentric bits which are peculiarly ours, to service our individual methods. And then you gave me the illusion of freedom, which I followed because I wanted to believe, but I know, I do know, that you are taking steps to stop me from leaving. I think I have played into your hands, but what game you play, I do not know. Tell me, Thomas, do you hate me so much? Did you think I lied about you to make them do as they did? If you are who I think you are?’

  It had hung in the air since yesterday, the hatred, crackling since breakfast, ever since he had seen her look of despair when the door was barred against her. Elisabeth cursed the blindness which had prevented her from seeing in Maria’s ugly face that daily aspect of fear, that bold reluctance to come back again into the lion’s den, although she had no illusions now about the limitation on Maria’s choices. The regime was now perfectly clear.

  ‘Why, Thomas, why? Is it because you know how valuable these paintings may be? Do you think I’d leave and bring back burglars? Do you think I’d bring back thugs from dealers to take advantage? You’re not so helpless. Can’t walk far without some sort of stick, but you’ve the strength of an ox. More brain, though. You might spit as you speak, but you know what you want. Which I do not.’

  She had removed the rugs from the floor, in case they should be damaged and also to give herself the advantage of knowing when he passed across the threshold from carpet to wood. His steps across the wood, still honey blond like in the picture which had been part of her seduction here, were small and precise: step step click, step step click, carrying a different stick. Waiting for Maria to come back with the dog before going out himself, he had given up pretending. The sound of the stick rang like a death knell: her bravery faded between heart and mouth.

  ‘I collected the paintings for myself, originally,’ Thomas began. ‘First I had tried to sell my own work, but once I was left with only one eye, I could see, perversely, that I was never going to be any good and no one wanted paintings by me, least of all myself. But you do not need to be an artist to love a painting. I started to collect the anonymous. I was always going to be anonymous, so it seemed appropriate. I thought of you even then, imagined that would be a touch you would like. You’re a very honest girl, wouldn’t ever go for the greedy investor. Then I saw you and it changed everything. I had the stroke and dwelt with dreams of you, and, once I could, I bought from the dealers you dealt with, I sent you pictures to restore, I watched, I listened to what people said.’

  ‘Thomas, what do you want from me?’

  ‘I want to look after you in the way that no one ever looked after me. Abdication, that’s what it was. Apart from a constant diet of religion and a house full of hideous religious art, there was a sort of neglectful spoiling for me. Let the boy do what he likes. If he thinks he’s a latter-day Van Gogh, let him think it, be it, live what craziness he pleases. At least when you were a child, you had your guardian angels, did you not? Oh, I got my education, but I was left to drift. Without talent.’

  Thomas stood before one of the low windows. He did not move a muscle, or change the direction of his eyes when she threw back her head with a snort of laughter. The hysteria made the sound drunken: she started and could not stop. Only then did Thomas cross the room. Adept with the tip of the ferrule, he scooped up a tiny amount of the paint on her palette on to the tip of the stick.

  ‘If this is flake white, be careful. Highly poisonous. You cannot kiss a painting full of lead. The stuff of cosmetics for dead ladies. I told you, just the three paintings. Won’t take long, will it? After that, go if you must, with my blessing. Just these three. You make me repeat myself like the teacher I was. You may as well stay for now, where else would you go?’

  She had checked her laughter, nodded. His face broke into an unearthly smile. He took off the smoked glasses and rubbed them on a silk handkerchief. ‘Good. I’m glad you agree. You owe me that.’ She opened her mouth to speak again. Thomas waved his wicked-looking stick, casually, teasingly. ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘We won’t talk about it now.’

  Francis had lost the embarrassment, that rising hysteria which afflicted him in the taxi. Instead he felt drunk, but doubted if that sensation was anything he could call an improvement. The beer was execrable; so was the pub. It was small, dark, plastic and hung with Christmas decorations which he imagined for one dizzy moment as a fine piece of forward thinking for early November until he realized they must have been in place for at least eleven months. The dust betrayed the tinsel into something lazy and still, an addition which aimed to be festive all the year round. This place could make a fortune once there was a vogue for ugly, 1990s, festive memorabilia. As it was, the only souvenir of another age was the man beside him laughing all the time, none of that braying sound a comfort.

  ‘You want the Young family? Well, you can have ‘em. Now then, lad, listen, it was ever such a big laff, the best we’d had in a month let alone the year. Down the road, three from the end there, that were the Young family. Young! That Mrs Young was never young since the day she were born, poor cow. She was right for him since he must’ve been old when he was five. This was a pit village then.’ He waved expansively, as if
there had been a time when this pub had been lively and these streets a metropolis.

  ‘A mining village, to you,’ said the man, more kindly. ‘And of course everyone worked down pit. Not he. He had something wrong with one of his legs, limped a lot, got a job on the surface, white collar, foreman, like, carried a stick. We most of us never liked the surface men, especially not him throwing his weight around and quick with the orders, so no one sympathized that much when he got himself landed with three kids and his mother and father and all under one little roof. They’re small, these houses, small and very dark inside, they face the wrong way for daylight: you can see from what’s left, and none of them Youngs, apart from the mister, was what you’d call tiny. He ruled it like an army camp, he’d been in the army, see? The place was clean as a whistle, no waste, no mess, never a dog or cat, especially a cat, Mrs Young said she couldn’t abide the smell. I think the kids queued up for jobs and food, they were organized every minute of the day, even bathtime, I heard; can’t have been any secrets in that house. He was a bitter man, was Ernest Young, nothing ever good enough, wore his white collar like a saint. People like that expect the earth; they never, ever get enough. I tell you, he frightened me.’

  The taxi man took a long pull of his beer. Francis tried to follow suit but found the beer disgusting.

  ‘I don’t know why Ernest pinned all his faith in that daughter, but he did, from the start. More than he ever did for his sons, which was odd, but then they turned out thick as planks while she had brains. You’d have thought she’d be spoiled like the youngest often are, but oh no. Drilled, dawn to dusk, like one long parade ground, all to make sure she were going to go as far as she could, no letting up. She was the one, that girl, always the one.’ Another pull of the pint. He looked down at it in surprise. Francis went to get another, feeling the scrutiny of the woman behind the bar. The place was empty: he felt uncomfortable.