Darkwells

by R. A Humphry

  ME: And what is that?

  DADDY: That, like Gawain, we are being tested and, like Gawain, we will fail.’

  I’m sure I embellish but that was the heart of it.

  Heather skipped the next few entries which were much more functional.

  2nd April, 1982

  Britain is at war. I can’t believe it. The Captain has just told us that South Georgia has been invaded by the Argentineans. The Argentine flag flies over the BAS Station. The Falklands have surrendered. We have diverted to Port Stanley to avoid coming under attack. It is a nightmare. All of our plans are ruined.

  Mother is distraught. The calibrations are all geared to this two month window. The alignment won’t last past that and it will be decades before we might manage again. She has resolved to throw the equipment overboard so it doesn’t fall into enemy hands. I am taking down the co-ordinates but dare not write them here.

  Heather put a hand to her mouth as she read the entry. It was shocking still, even after all these years, to see the power of an event like that. To see what can happen to people’s lives after a real trauma, rather than the hysterical problems society invented for itself these days.

  The next few pages were all of Anne’s observations of Port Stanley under occupation. It detailed the bravery and steadfastness of her formidable mother and the invaluable indefatigability of her father. Then the pages started describing the fighting as experienced from the island and via a cobbled together scrying mirror. The descriptions were chillingly understated and emotionless.

  25th April, 1982

  Submarine Santa Fe sunk. South Georgia recaptured.

  1st May, 1982

  General Belgrano sunk. Two Torpedoes struck. Orange life boats scattered over slate seas.

  3rd May, 1982

  HMS Sheffield Sunk. Sleek silent birds hid low. They are going to scuttle.

  21st May, 1982

  British Soldiers at San Carlos Water. Rescue is coming.

  27th May, 1982

  Heavy fighting on Goose Green.

  And so on. It read much like a telegraph operator’s transcript of battle dispatches. Then, on June 14th her tone changed. Gone was the gloom and the spartan entries of before - to be replaced with a strong infatuation with a Royal Marine Lieutenant called William Grenville who had distinguished himself in the fighting around Port Stanley.

  Lt. Grenville is to be my Warden. I know it. I have seen it. I’d heard that the Grenville heir was strong but I never realised quite how impressive he would be. He goes everywhere with another Marine who he says saved his life. Andrew Watkins, I think his name is. A shy fellow but kind.

  Seeing Watkins’ name in the pages made it all real to Heather. She flicked ahead, skimming, unwilling to read everything but unable to put the journal down. She read about what they did after the war was over. About how they met up once back in England. She read about whirlwind romance, the breathless wonder at finding a complimentary soul. The wedding, the pregnancy and Henry’s screaming entry into the world.

  She leafed through the toil and determination of bringing discipline back to the Order, of engaging with the reactionary dinosaurs in the societies. The mysterious emotions that followed the varying results of her research and her admiration of her husband’s determination to stand up for the abandoned in the lost corners of the world. The great and small events of an impressive life held lightly in her hands. Her fingers felt a dog-eared page and she let the book fall open.

  I don’t know the date today and I don’t want to know. They finally got to Will today and there was nothing I could do to help him. Andrew was in hospital with malaria and is beside himself in guilt and grief for not being there.

  After all I have done for the societies, for the Order, I find that it was all for nothing. What future can there be when things like this can be allowed to happen?

  It is all so sordidly trivial. After all the dangers we have faced I can’t believe that it comes down to simple economics in the end. Assassins from an Oil Company? Who could have thought that, after everything? Oh Will. Oh my love, can you forgive me? I wanted to make it a better place. Oh my darling, how can you leave me like this? I can’t do it without you. Henry needs you. Our little brilliant boy. Who can he revenge himself on? The whole world?

  It was too much for Heather and she plunged ahead, turning pages faster. The neat script wavered and became scrawl.

  Henry tried something today. Something very unwise. Something that threatens us all. I managed to contain it, I hope. I wonder at the cost - have I finally crossed a line? Has the Green Knight found me unworthy at last? I doubt there will be forgiveness for me, at the end.

  I know what I have done. If any read this then I beseech you to stop here. The pages that follow may not be penned by the woman who was once Anne Grenville. Burn it, for your own safety.

  Heather jerked upright and slapped the book shut before her. Breathing heavily she replaced it on the shelf as she found it and slipped out of the room. She thanked Watkins and clicked the bracelet so fast she forgot that she was still wearing her fur-lined slippers.

  Chapter Twenty Eight: Black Swan

  The booming and bellowing thunder followed the dancing sheets of lightening at ever shorter intervals as the storm rolled in from the plains bringing winds and driving rain. The clouds broiled across the skies and what daylight they had enjoyed was expelled under the canopy of darkness. The wind howled through the ancient walls of Darkwells and sang through the swaying trees. The sleet and rain and biting cold drove the hardy souls and dogs off the towpath and the shimmering reflections of the lightening on the disturbed water of the canal was witnessed only by the miserable occupants of the narrow-boats who sipped their tea on swaying floors and stared with stoic acceptance out at the weather.

  What was the thunder saying? Heather wondered. What spell did the spiderweb cracks of light write on the foaming glass of the skies? “I think it’s clearing up,” she offered, peering out of the porthole where the rain was running down the glass in streaking rivers.

  Her mother snorted with scorn and glanced up from her crossword. “Clearing up? I think I’m having second thoughts about selling this boat.” The kettle clicked off and Heather moved away from the window to top up their pot. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to get to work in this. Makes me miss the booth.”

  “You’d never have worked the booth in this.” Her mother liked to play the martyr as often as she could. Heather liked to prevent her.

  “That’s just my point, love. Now I am an office slave I have no more freedom than a battery hen. Work, work and work is all they care about. When I ran the booth I could have just stayed here all day.”

  “Or gone to the pub.”

  “Exactly.”

  “In the driving rain.”

  “They have a fire.”

  “It is further to the Bear than to your office.”

  “Oh yes. The Bear is a mighty distance coming back, but not so far when you are going to it.” Heather poured the tea and her mother heaved herself up from the table. “Well, I better start getting into my wellies,” she said as she peered out of the porthole. “I think you are right, it does look like it’s brightening up.”

  #

  If anything it got worse. Heather saw off her grumbling mother, who had to lean into the wind and driving rain to make any headway, and then started to get ready herself. Kim had left a message asking her to meet Sean in town. He was upset and Kim thought Heather might be better at finding out why. Whenever Kim tried they would descend into an argument within seconds.

  There was a bright flash followed by a deep rumble that resonated in her bones. The weather was truly awful. She pulled on her new waterproof jacket and divested herself of her watch and the jade bracelet, which she put in her bedside drawer with care. She didn’t want it to get soaked and ruined. She pulled on her boots, put up her hood and dove into the squall, which had just claimed the ‘For Sale’ sign as its latest victim. Heather strod
e past it as it cart-wheeled down the tow-path towards town.

  #

  She met Sean in the Beech and Bramble which was empty of customers. He looked desperate; wrung out and bleary eyed. If he wasn’t Sean, who was tough and mean and edgy, Heather would have said that he had been crying. He tried for a smile when Heather sat down but it came out as more of a grimace.

  Heather decided that she was in no mood for a slow introduction. “What’s wrong, Sean? You look like hell.”

  “Thanks, Heather. I see you still have your gentle touch.”

  “Come on, spit it out. What’s happened? Is it your brother again?”

  “No, no. Thank god. It’s nothing. Just me. Just the usual shit. All stupid stuff,” he said into his hands as Heather stared at him. A bored looking waitress took their order.

  “Ask him about his applications,” the whisper suggested. “Ask him about his secret hope.”

  “Sean? Did you get news from Bristol? Is that what this is about?”

  Sean nodded and lowered his head to the table and sighed. “I went for an interview,” he said into the wood, not looking up.

  “That’s great!” Heather said on reflex and then cursed herself. “Oh, no. It’s not great is it?”

  “No.”

  Heather sighed. This would be unpleasant. Bristol had been the university that Sean had wanted to go to the most. He had made big noises about Manchester but everyone knew that his heart was set on Bristol. He didn’t like to admit it because it conflicted with the image Sean had crafted about himself, one of hating anything that might even come close to being construed as ‘posh’. Apart from Henry, that was.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, gratefully receiving the steaming cup of tea from the waitress. Sean was quiet for a long time and Heather wondered if he was going to clam up into his shell. He hadn’t spoken to anyone for a week when Manchester had declined.

  “They screwed me,” he said. “The whole thing is designed to screw people like me.”

  Sean described to Heather how excited he had been to get the letter asking for an interview. He had kept it a secret so he could surprise people when he was accepted. He had prepared for it for weeks. The trip up to Bristol had only confirmed his desire to study there.

  “The interview is constructed to intimidate,” Sean told her. “They bring you through these grand old buildings which are designed to overawe. They sit you down and ask you questions that you can’t prepare for, unless you have some sort of tutor.” Sean smiled bitterly. “Maybe if you’re a Darkwells boy, who lives in mansions and deals with teachers who are the same as these professors – maybe then it’s not such a nightmare. I tried to tell myself that none of it mattered but it was hard, very hard and so I fluffed it.”

  “Oh, Sean.”

  “It’s not fair, you know? The teachers at my school don’t give two shits. They churn out their lessons and live for the holidays. Why not? Any inspiration they had has been sucked out of them by all the bad kids who don’t give a fuck and they can’t get rid of. The kids who are smart get beat up. And even if you really try, like I did, you really go for it; you find that you are not so smart after all. That what you thought was the summit was only the glass ceiling of poverty. That’s the real low blow. How was I supposed to know that my teachers were slack? That as soon as I had reached ‘good enough’ they turned their attention to the weak? Is that what we want to have? A society where everyone levels out at mediocre?”

  “I thought you were a socialist,” Heather commented, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Bollocks to that. I want a pure meritocracy. Burn the whole thing down and let’s start afresh. It’s the inbuilt disadvantage that I rail against. Since we can’t lift everyone up to the level enjoyed by the princess of Darkwells then we should bring everyone back down to zero. If we all start from the dirt then only the truly deserving will succeed.”

  “Now you sound like an anarchist.”

  “Maybe I am,” Sean said in defiance. “Maybe I think that something has gone terribly wrong and we need to start again. Social mobility? What a joke. The rich get richer and smarter. The poor stay poor and get thicker. And the few poor people that make it rich are the worst of all. They have no interest in levelling the field. They just enjoy their position in the hierarchy of oppression. Look at Max bloody Bolton. A bigger betrayer of the working class I can’t imagine. Isn’t that the sad truth of it? That so long as we can aspire to lord it over others we won’t change anything.” Sean sighed again and rubbed his face. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a failure and am upset.”

  “It’s not that bad, Sean, come on, don’t be such a drama queen.”

  “Isn’t it, Heather? What else am I going to do with my life? Spend it stacking shelves in a supermarket and saving up for lads’ holidays to Magaluf?”

  Heather was quiet for a moment, debating with herself.

  “The boy can help,” the whisper suggested. “Offer it to him.”

  “Sean,” she said, taking her friend’s hand. “Don’t get angry. Please hear me out. Do you want me to talk to Henry? Wait, just listen. His step-father knows people. We talked about it a while ago. He might be able to help, to do something.”

  “I can’t believe what I am hearing. You want to get me in the back door using your wealthy boyfriend? Have you heard a word I’ve been saying? Do you know me at all?”

  Heather’s green eyes flared, the edges brightening from green to blue. “Sean, shut up. Henry is my friend, not my boyfriend. He is your friend too. What I heard is whining about an unfair system. I agree with you. It’s broken. So what’s the harm in using what tools you have? Can you fix anything by stacking shelves? Will you miss out on everything you should be doing next year because of a point of principle?”

  Sean glowered at her and looked on the point of arguing but then slumped back in thought. Heather left him to it. After a long moment he raised his eyes and nodded. “Thanks Heather. Please ask him.”

  #

  Heather left Sean and spent several sodden minutes waiting for a bus to take her to her college. She had been away for too long and now felt guilty and was determined to make an effort to at least see out what remained of her year. The corridors were as cluttered as ever and Heather picked her way through and into the studio where her classmates’ projects were lying about in various states of completion. She smiled and waved at one, a serious boy called Jasper who was quite a gifted artist. She wandered over to peer at the wide canvass that he was working on. Jasper nodded his permission and stepped back. He had the gift of being able to paint in almost photographic realism; which he applied in highly stylised fantasy works. The effect was as if a dead Dutch master had taken a handful of LSD.

  On the canvas was the depiction of a gargantuan swan hovering over a cowering girl wearing a thin, translucent dress. Heather could almost feel the great wings beating over the staggering girl. The swan had seized her neck with its bill and one massive webbed foot clutched at one of the girl’s thighs. The swan glowed bright against the dull colours and there was something dragon-like in the reptilian set of its eyes. In the background was the dull glow of burning cities and a broken wall.

  Heather whistled in appreciation. “I remember this one from class, Leda and the Swan, Right? Very good Jasper. I like the sack of Troy, that works well. Is that Agamemnon?”

  Jasper nodded. “I’m not that happy with him,” he complained. “I think he ruins the perspective.”

  “No, no, it’s fantastic, Jas. Well done. I can’t believe you did all this so fast! I haven’t been away that long.”

  “I had to rescue your Mrs Havashim costume from Donna’s hen party.”

  Heather laughed as she made her way to her cubicle. “Thanks Jas. That would have been a disaster.”

  He waved it away as nothing and concentrated back on his work. Heather settled down and started getting her desk in order. It felt good to be back in the studio, she realised, better than she remembered.
Soon she had a needle in her hands and thread between her teeth and was back in the intricacies of her abandoned projects.

  #

  Her phone buzzed on the desk and Heather saw that it was her mother. She answered, propping the phone up between shoulder and ear while still working.

  “Yes mum?”

  “Heather love, I’m so glad I’ve caught you,” her mother said, her voice excited. “I’ve just had some wonderful news! Someone just bought The Black Swan! Can you believe it? The agent rang me just now and apparently there is a buyer willing to pay up-front today. The guy needs someone to show him how to start it and prove that it moves. Can you go back down there and show him? The agency said it was one of your mates from Darkwells.”

  Heather felt a shiver of joy as she listened to her mum prattle on. This was followed by a twinge of irritation. Henry; the presumptuous, wonderful fool. She might throttle and kiss him at the same time.

  “That is fantastic mum. I’ll run back now.”

  #

  The storm had worsened as she had worked. The lightning strikes were more frequent and much closer. The thunder was deafening. The wind assaulted her in little blasts as she fought her way down the tow-path. It tried to strip her waterproof off her and tore her umbrella out of her hands. None of which dampened her spirits. Henry Grenville. Was there nothing that he couldn’t solve? Anything that he couldn’t make better? She was certain that he would be able to do something for Sean, that strings would be pulled and some justice would be restored.