"A drink." It wasn't a request, and that suited me.
"Rum and lime." My standard drink for the past. A safe drink, small, easy to dispose of, for I was careful (then) not to touch anything, to make sure I brought nothing back with me, other than come, which only allowed some woman somewhere a few months" freedom from childbearing; there was more where that came from.
We talked over drinks. I pretended to drink, and poured some away when no one was looking; very very occasionally for even with a companion all eyes were on me all of the time. But I tipped a little into the ashtray, into the spittoon at the side of me, and managed to spill some accidentally too.
A roll of notes appeared in my hand, as if by magic, a thick roll, solid banknotes, the like of which I had not seen before.
"Take what you want from there, girlie. Take what you want and come in my van with me."
"Let's go and look at the van first," I suggested, seeing his eyes light up; before they had held hope, now they held certainty and lust.
A sigh went round the men as we left, me with an unfinished drink on the table, another man made for it as we reached the door. A sigh that was for the man who had snared me first and for the lost chances, for they could have and should have been two seconds faster than he was.
I would have gone with any of them.
The van was parked outside, lonely, proud, shining with newness and money.
I got inside, marvelling at the spartan layout, the crude wiper blades, the clang of the door as it shut. My companion (I never knew his name) proudly crank-started it with the large starting handle, leapt in and we were away, driving out of Walchurch, an old Walchurch I did not recognise at first.
"Unusual to see a lady alone in the old Compasses, my dear."
Compasses. I remembered the pub from old photographs. It burned down in 1950-something.
"There are times when only a direct approach will do," I said, laughing. He laughed too.
"I know what you means, which is why I handed you the cash, my dear. You can take what you want, take it all, if you want. I haven't had anyone for..."
I wasn't surprised, with breath like that and so drink-sodden that no woman of normal needs would go with you.
I said nothing, but waited until we drew up in a side lane in the woods outside Walchurch, woods that were thicker and more extensive than now.
We climbed in the back, and on a blanket or two with nuts and the spare wheel occasionally hitting our bodies, we rocked the van for half an hour, him hard and fast and furious, me desperate and seeking every half inch, every thrust, every emotion sweeping through me.
But even I, at the end of half an hour, had had enough of the smell of ale and the teeth which were coated and foul. *
I said I was sore. He said thanks, it was wonderful, best he'd had in his life ever, and I pushed the money back at him.
"Just take me back to the pub," I said. "I need no money to make love."
"You be the first ever." He grinned, even more pleased as he stowed his wad of cash back into his filthy coat.
The men in the pub were so surprised you could see their eyes as I walked through the door, the man with the van holding my arm, and asked where the ladies" toilet was.
"Don't have such a thing," said the barman, "but you can go upstairs into my quarters if you like."
And I did, and the mirror was waiting, and I fled ...
"How's the boyfriend, Ab?" Linda paused on her way out the door, eager for gossip. Abbey had been so busy, snowed under with heaps of files and tapes all stacked up on the floor, she'd hardly had a moment to talk to her fellow work slaves.
"Fine, very nice, we're still going out."
"Seeing him tonight, are you?"
"No, we have a full dress rehearsal tonight for the play."
"Oh, getting close to the night, then."
"Only a week away."
"Have a good time. Hope it goes well, oops, sorry, break a leg." Linda disappeared, leaving Abbey to finish the file she was dealing with, close down her machine and cover everything up for the night.
Des was all right, very keen, very anxious to make an impression in every sense of the word! But there was still something missing, something not quite right. I think he's trying too hard, she thought, as she slipped on her coat and hurried down the stairs.
"Good night, Mr Brooks." She smiled at him as she went quietly out.
"Night, Abbey." Miles away, as usual, deep in a law book.
It was getting dark, the street lights sending down their orange light that drained colour out of everything. Cars flashed by in a swirl of light and red, and were gone, traffic lights changed with the monotony of the night stars, slow, dogged, never-ending. Shops invited her in but she resisted, hurrying homeward. Cats dropped like liquid fur onto the pavement, eyes flashing like traffic lights and were gone, a clatter of dustbin lids, the yap of a dog, the sound of feet passed her.
"Goodnight." Someone passing by, acknowledging the existence of another human being, faceless in the gloom.
There was time - just - for a quick meal and then off to the theatre for a full dress rehearsal, with sets and backdrops and everything, she hoped.
"For Glory and for Love."
Coincidence.
Of course.
Like his marrying an Abigail Brandon, like their having a daughter Guinevere.
Like the feeling of wanting to go home, except that home wasn't this poky little flat with a door which stuck in the damp, but a huge draughty castle with tapestries and stone stairs, with fine carved wooden objects and handmade furniture, with dogs which welcomed her (how did they know?) and a pageboy who thought she was a ghost. Why else did he run so fast?
"Come on," she told herself. "No time for all that, there's things to be done!"
But the thoughts persisted, even as she ate a swift microwave meal, snapping the radio off in annoyance. Lately the music had begun to irritate and annoy her, no matter what it was. She had tried Radio 3, and Classic FM, but even the lilting strains of the more gentle composers clashed and grated on her ears. She changed clothes for the evening, an easy slip-off dress so she could slip into what felt best - the purple dress with its huge lace collar and full skirt.
The theatre was half-dark when Abbey arrived, carrying her purple dress and button boots, her hair already pinned up ready to disappear under the cap. She hurried to change, and then took a long walk around the building, trying to find the places which had been built from or on top of the original castle walls. With modern plastering and possibly plasterboard in position, it was hard to find the exact spots, so she gave up looking and went by touch instead.
Here and there coolness reached out to her; here, this whole wall was surely once castle. Or was castle stones. It spoke to her of misty twilights, of the sadness of autumn, of the chequerboard fields she could see from narrow leaded windows. It filled her with the strangest homesickness she had ever felt.
The long corridor from the dressing rooms to the stage: cold and damp, here, and here ...
"Oh, my God! You're doing it again!" Abbey spun round at the cry and ran to Jim Melville's side. He had gone white, hands shaking, leaning against the wall.
"Sorry, Mr Melville, I was... just walking along." She blushed, hoping he wouldn't notice.
"You were just like that lady in purple, floating along there, following the old castle walls, they do say."
Abbey stiffened. It was the first time she had heard such a tale.
"Is that the legend, Mr Melville?"
"It is." He gulped a few times, massaged his heart, stared at her in the semidarkness. "They say the lady comes along here, along the castle wall, goes up the stairs and disappears."
Of course she does. I went to the mirror and never came back.
"I'm so sorry. I never meant to frighten you like that."
"It's all right. I oughta get used to you people dressed like that while this damn play's going on!"
"Bit too close to the gho
st, is it?" she asked, almost playfully.
"Damn right. Even the name of the play gives me the shivers. Wish I knew what was going on around here." He pushed himself off the wall and went on down the corridor. "Stay on the stage, Goodwife Manderson!"
Abbey went cold all over.
When Alfred said it he used his upper class accent, and made it sound... trivial.
Jim Melville said it with a more colloquial sound, and it could have been Danverson.
Manderson.
Danverson.
Who wrote this play, anyway?
Even the name of the play gives me the shivers. It hadn't affected Abbey, until she had visited the church and seen Josiah's tomb.
I don't understand.
I don't understand anything that is going on, I just feel...
I am in the wrong place at the wrong time.
So, I will go and be Goodwife Manderson for an hour or so, until the charade is over.
Until I find a way of becoming Goodwife Danverson forever.
She wondered where that thought came from.
The Georgian lord was fun.
A bit of a dandy, with powdered wig and silk breeches, ribbons and orange water, he talked in an affected voice but had the stamina of a stallion. The mirror sent me back to his grounds where I walked in solitary splendour, my skirts long and elegant, whispering around me as I strolled beside his lake. He soon saw me, that "I'm available for sex" sign flashing like neon through the summer afternoon. He crossed the lawn in huge strides, his coat flying free, his wig threatening to become a casualty of speed.
"Madam." He bowed and I curtsied - I'm getting good at that.
"Sir."
"Welcome." No questions asked. Another oddity; no one really asks, no one says "How did you get here, why are you here, why aren't I having you thrown out?" they just accept. Mirror magic, of course.
"Could I persuade you to take some refreshment?"
"That would be most kind." We walked into the huge house, hall and rooms hung with expensive oil paintings that would fetch a fortune today, sombre ancestors glared down from flocked walls and gilt frames.
Servants scurried to his command, eyeing me strangely but saying nothing; well-trained, they were. Tea was brought in delicate cups you could almost see through. I was almost scared to touch them.
I think the sign must have been flashing, for no sooner had he drunk his tea and I had scarcely touched my lips to mine, than he suggested a game.
Of hide-and-seek.
Of all things! *
So we played hide-and-seek around this huge house, with many rooms and galleries, with staircases and closets, kissing and touching and struggling with one another until we finally ended up in his bedroom, windows flung wide to the cool fast-approaching evening. Somewhere across the fields came the wail of a huntsman's horn; nearer, the scent of lilac drifted in to coat the air with sweetness and sensuality.
We stopped hunting and he found me and we fucked for ages. One of the best, my Georgian lord, one of the best.
Until I went to Castle Danverson. Danverson Castle. Whatever and whichever.
Castle Danverson.
My first visit was in midwinter, snow thick everywhere, deep and obscuring, the view from the windows distorted by the blanket of white, by snow piled on narrow sills. It looked magnificent, trees holding up their snowy branches, fields pristine white, no tracks, no tractors, no mud.
From every sconce hung mistletoe and holly, ivy wound around the shields and pikes which decorated the walls, a huge log burning with vicious strength and sending sparks of blue green and purple into the hearth. The scent of green growing things, of sap and fertility. Midwinter feast, Christmas in all but name. I mingled with the guests, many of them wearing heavy clothes, for even with the Yule log the castle was cold. They drank mulled wine and mead, toasted His Lordship and mentioned in passing his great loss, and how he was coping with it. I mingled and spied His Lordship, caught him looking at me but stayed well out of his way. Made friends with his dogs, petting them, getting huge adoring eyes and paws on my dress, but they were fine animals, and soon responded to a loving touch and a soft voice. It was the first time I had gone back to the past and not found a man.
I knew who I wanted, but I was afraid of him, afraid of approaching him, afraid of what he might say if he found out who I was.
I was simply afraid.
For the first time ever.
I found no man to fuck with, despite many casual invitations and hands resting on arms, a look that could not be ignored. I turned them all down, wanting only one man, and not having the courage to approach him.
I finally slipped away and found the mirror in a drawing room framed by tapestries, and sent myself home.
Frustrated and lonely.
How did the mirror know to send me back to a midsummer ball next time? I went back a week later - in his life, six months later - and saw him again, the small beard glistening in the sunlight filtering through the leaded windows, carrying with it the scents of summer, apple and grass, rich-growing land and vibrant herds, horses galloped for the sheer love of it, rolled in the thick grass in their paddock. Birds hunted and sang, animals prowled the perimeters of my Lord's land.
Guests were happy and smiling, enjoying the celebrations. Ladies wore Saint John's wort corsages, and the dogs jumped around me as I walked near the great hearth. I felt at home and yet I lacked the confidence or the courage to approach the one man who attracted me.
Oh he looked, time and again he looked, casual, offhand, but he never approached me and never so much as a word passed between us.
I went to the drawing room very soon and disappeared out of his life.
I thought forever.
And then Alfred Fitzpaine came to the theatre with a script in his hand, written by a local historian, he said, called For Glory and For Love, and the words tingled down my spine and I knew I wanted to be in it. I knew it had something to say to me, if not to the audience who would come.
We voted to do the play, and he accorded me instantly the role of Goodwife Manderson.
I could relate here and now the words, the role, the part I play, but it is small, relatively insignificant, for Stevie and Charles have the main roles. Stevie and Charles play the roles...
I would play if I were Lady Danverson.
And it took me until today to realise that my part, my character, is close to Danverson in sound and spelling.
Where have I been all this time not to see it and feel it before?
And the ghost.
Oh yes, the ghost.
Poor Jim Melville.
This is no longer a book, is it? If it ever was. It's a commentary, a record in case I never come back. So let me put it all down.
I went to a midsummer ball at Castle Danverson, wearing red and black and a lot of courage.
Lord Danverson approached me: we talked. I knew this time I could not and would not give way to my cowardice, so I went to his room and waited.
And he came. I stripped off the red-and-black dress, threw it to one side and we ... made love. And I know this is the first time I've written that in this entire commentary so far,
but with him it was not simple fucking, with him it went deeper than that; he touched a deeper chord in me.
We made love for some time, good love. He was hard and firm and good and knew how to pleasure me. He made me cry out with pleasure, he made me claw at the bedhead and coarse linen sheets with pure joy for the feelings he wrought in me with his thrusting cock and his fingers, his tongue and his whole lean body. The beard tickled in secret places, the muscles rippled and moved under my fingers, and it was good.
And I know I pleased him. Yet he pulled me off the bed, bound my wrists with a girdle from his robe, and sent his page, the same one who had directed me to his room in the first place, to get a birch.
Which confused me.
I knew nothing of such things. I knew nothing of pain and pleasure. I knew nothing of a
birch which was a bundle of whippy twigs tied together with a handle and which he used with devastating force on my bottom, my thighs and my back. I broke free of my restraints, I looked in the mirror and -
Came back here, naked and sore.
It was only when I went to the next rehearsal and Alfred mentioned Stevie wearing the red and black that I realised I'd left something of critical value in the past, something out of its time, with machine stitching, and machine-made lace. I had to get it back.
Time of Her Life Page 11
