Someone bangs on the door.
I’m on the floor.
I roll over, crawl under the table beneath the window and curl up into a ball.
A voice crashes through the keyhole. ‘Mary love, it’s me again.’ An accent like Mary’s, but older. Choked. ‘Please open the door. Mary, I’m so sorry. I’ve done wrong.’
So have I. Because I’ve stolen the Thrashing House key from Mary. It only brought her trouble. I bury my head in my knees.
Animals sniff at the door. I hear the sound of waves washing along the beach. Gulls wail.
The voice speaks again. ‘Maybe you dun hear me knock last night.’
Scratching at the bottom of the door, dogs whine. A spider spins a web in the corner underneath the tabletop.
‘I’m sorry, Mary. It’s all mixed up, ‘ent it.’
The spider lowers itself on a thread. It has detailed grey markings on its body, it lands on a floorboard and skulks across the floor. I crawl to the front door and a splinter gets stuck in my toe. Sitting with my back against the door, I ease the splinter out, reach for the brown boots and put them on. They’re too small, but only just. I stand up and open the door.
The woman jumps back. Her three dogs growl. She’s not much younger than Mum. Skinny and sharp-faced, with a shock of hair.
I say, ‘Come in.’
She steps further back. ‘Where’s Mary?’
‘She’s not here.’ I open the door wider and say, ‘But come in.’
She purses her lips. One of her dogs whines, raises a paw. Whimpers. She walks in and the dogs try to follow her. I nudge them with a boot and shut them outside.
She tugs at a button on her dress and frowns at some embroidered napkins on the floor. ‘Mary lets the dogs in.’ She folds her arms. ‘What you throwing Beatrice’s broideries around for? Who are you?’
‘Mary said I could stay.’
She puts her hands on her hips. ‘I’m Annie.’ Her cheeks are pink. ‘Look, I’ll come back when Mary’s home.’ She glances at the floor and rubs her hands together. ‘You should pick up them broideries. No idea Beatrice’d left so many. Them’ll be worth a lot.’
‘Well, let’s clean them up.’ I snatch up the embroideries on the floor, pile them on the back of the chair. As I walk around, the boots graze my heels. I reach into the fireplace, fish out a large embroidery, I sit down in the chair. I smooth the embroidery on my lap, it has a picture of a grey cobweb on it, the detail is beautiful, silver raindrops hanging on unravelling threads … but no spider.
Annie sighs, sits down on the stool and stares at the empty fireplace. ‘Mary gave me stew. Since then, I find it hard to swallow.’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t talk to anyone.’ She grasps at a small cloudy button on her dress and it comes away in her hand. ‘I miss Beatrice. She’d have understood.’
‘Beatrice?’
‘Funny you dun know her Mam’s name.’ She frowns at me and drops her hands into her lap. ‘Dun believe the tall man were a ghost. No need for ghost trade, passing through my hands.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Look, there’s ghost trade all over the floor! You can see it. Help me pick it up!’ She leans down and picks up something invisible from the floorboards, rubs her hand over her pockets, eyes far away.
‘There’s nothing there Annie. When will the boats that go to the mainland come?’
She whispers, ‘Where’re you from? You safe, or from a dreaming?’ Her head twitches and words rush out of her mouth. ‘Glass question mark. Smash!’ She claps. Her hands fly up in the air. She rubs them together. ‘Could be doubt. Dun know what Martyn were doubting, always seemed sure enough with me. Fragile doubt. Unsure … wanting reading taught … I never knew …’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
Outside, one of her dogs howls.
Annie leans forwards and holds out her hands to the empty fireplace. She rubs her hands and holds them out, again and again, faster and faster. She mutters under her breath, ‘If the bells dun ring. Nothing goes away. Stays here.’ She prods the side of her head. ‘In here. In my pockets.’ She slaps her hip. ‘No bells in my thoughts.’ She slaps her forehead.
Two of the dogs howl.
She looks at the embroidery on my lap and says, ‘I were beautiful on my wedding day. Beatrice broidered my dress all over with silver cobwebs. My hair piled so high, I looked like my face were floating in a cloud. I got lost in my wedding dress, but I were sleepwalking, looking for home.’ She stares at her hands. ‘Not having the dreamings took. Mam died. Aw. Missed her. Aw.’ She pouts her lips like a child. ‘She died and I got the cottage and the dogs.’
She smoothes her hands over her hair and smiles at me, shyly.
Outside, all three dogs howl.
I say, calmly, ‘I’m sorry your Mum died. When will the boats—’
‘I dun know it were the dogs I were missing. Not really Mam… Dun say it out loud. Shhh.’ She puts her finger over her lips. ‘Everything were all right again, when I got the dogs back …’
She shakes herself and squeezes her neck. ‘I miss him. Cover him in kisses. Martyn.’ She cups her hand over her mouth. ‘Dun doubt I loved you the most. I miss you so much I can’t find words—’
‘Annie, please stop.’
She jumps up and slaps her hands on her hips. She says, ‘I need my dogs!’ and staggers towards the door.
I follow her, grasp her thin arm and swing her around to face me.
She glares at the battered rug on the floor.
I say, ‘What’s wrong with you? Are you mad, or is this a tangle from not sleeping? Mary said—’
She lifts up a foot and gazes at her white boot. ‘Keep-my-mouth-shut boots.’ She trips, I try to catch her but she slumps on the floor, legs outstretched.
I open the front door and her dogs charge in.
She sits up. ‘Here them are!’ Holding her hands out to the dogs she beams like a child. Three black tails wag, three tongues lick her hands, her face. She pets them, turns and frowns up at me. ‘Who are you? Where’s Mary? How did I get down here?’
Two of Annie’s dogs lie next to her, the other one rests its head on her lap, gazing up at her, its tongue dripping drool on her grey dress. She keeps her eyes on the dog, smoothing its fur with her hands. I’m in the chair opposite her. It’s as if we met just a moment ago, and the last conversation didn’t happen.
I say, ‘Mary might be a while. Maybe you should come back another time. Not today. Maybe in a couple of weeks or—’
‘What’s she up to?’ Annie frowns at me. Her fingers pinch the dog’s ears. It shakes her hands off, she kneads its jowls. It grunts, eyes glazed.
‘I don’t know.’
Annie says, ‘Write it for me.’ Her eyes gleam. ‘Write it all down.’ She leans over the dog and kisses the top of its head.
‘Can Mary read?’
‘Mary understands the letters, aye. Beatrice taught her. Beatrice liked to write things down to remember how she felt. Never knew she’d not need to be reminded, for she died too young to forget.’ She strokes the dog’s head and sighs.
‘But you …’
‘Never got to learn, were looking after my own Mam, weren’t I? She’d gotten sick.’ She looks at me sideways. ‘Mothers teach daughters.’
‘Why don’t sons learn to read?’
‘Weaving Room talk. That’s the place for it. But some of the women …’ She leans on the table and stares at me. ‘You twenty-one yet?’
Three choices. The truth, a lie, or silence.
I silently nod.
‘That’s all right. Never seen you there. Never used to think this way. Maybe it’s best to look at things upside. Or were it down … I dun fit no more.’
‘There’s a Weaving Room – if I’m twenty-one, am I allowed to learn weaving?’
‘Of course there’s weaving. But a whole lot of women together dun do just one thing at a time. All kinds of things, cloths, tapestries, baskets, sc
arves and shawls, all the cloths an’ fabrics – much is woven there. And much is talked of.’ She leans forwards. ‘Do you know about the snake ropes, left on the shore in crates?’
One of her dogs barks.
We both jump.
She coughs. ‘Never said that. Come to the Weaving Rooms. You’re of age. But if you’ve not been there for the Scattering Up, I shouldn’t speak of it to you. You might find you fit, though by the looks of you I’d doubt it. Bit too clean.’ She looks at my eyes.
I look at her stained dress. ‘What’s the Scattering Up?’
She says, ‘After your next monthly, keep the rags, dun wash them out. Take them along at the next dark moon. That’s when you’ll swear not to speak of the Weaving Rooms to them what dun belong there. Powerful circle, is that one. You’ll not be able to talk of the Weaving Rooms to none what shouldn’t hear.’
I cross my legs.
Annie says, ‘Write Mary this letter then.’ She rummages in the drawer. ‘Ah. Here.’ She takes out a bundle of sticks of charcoal and eases one out with her thin fingers. She pulls out a thick book made of rough paper, stitched down the side with orange embroidery thread. The book is blank, with a couple of pages torn off.
She frowns. ‘Odd she’s letting you sit in her cottage, when she’s not here. What did you say your name were again?’
I slide out a chair, sit down at the table and pick up the stick of charcoal. I tap my fingers on the table. Pick at the orange stitching on the book.
Annie says, ‘Right then. Mary love, I feel right bad for knowing about the trade and not telling anyone.’ She stares out of the window at the empty horizon. ‘The tall men dun want our men to talk, and spoil the trade for them. But them never knew Martyn had told me.’
The charcoal screeches on the paper – she talks faster than I can write.
She glances at me. ‘Are you getting this writ?’
I nod.
‘I keep thinking of my Kieran. Him is stood under a tree, after the rain has been, and the tree is still raining. Tree rain falls all over hims head, turns to pure gold and fills up hims pockets. I’m so proud of him.’ She stares at my hands. ‘You never wrote that bit.’
‘I did. Just before you said it. Keep going.’ I tear out the first page, to start a new letter.
She doesn’t notice. She says, ‘The tall men said on the main land it were important to think of the future. I felt a fool for never thinking like that.’
She glances at me. ‘You’re not writing.’
I say, ‘So you never think about what you really want—’
‘Me and Martyn talked Kieran’s future all through—’
‘I don’t mean what people do – I mean the person you could be.’
‘I’m myself, pet. Can’t be another person later on. You’re born just the once, you know. I’ll lose the threads if you keep interrupting!’ She presses her palms on the table. ‘Get this down: I knew the tall men wouldn’t want me to talk. Not if them wanted to trade for more boys.’ She picks at the skin on her finger. ‘I never knew a proper secret afore, not about anything.’ She smiles. ‘I told two of the tall men I knew. Said I’d talk unless them gave me something just for me, then and there. Them gave me a whole lot of fancy foods, and some silky ribbons the likes I’ve never seen before, and I traded them on for a good amount. Got the window fixed, and plenty in to last us for the winter. And then we decided to move to Wreckers Shore, Mary – you know I need more than I’ve had. Never have been fast at knitting and the main land folks will change what them want so often. I told the tall men I wanted a pair of white boots just like Kelmar’s.’
‘Are there only two pairs of white boots? Can you dance in them? Are they hard to take off … no, that was the story about red—’
‘It’s just me and Kelmar what have them, aye. Cobbler says it’s showing no respect to the animal, to change the colour of its hide. But it’s dead by then, ‘ent it?’
I look under the table at the brown cracked boots pinching my toes. And at Annie’s new boots, pacing up and down, bigger than these ones. I ask, ‘Can I have your old boots?’
‘Shush it. I decided to tell them next time that I wanted a new white dress, made of crushed-up spun salt. After that, I were going to ask for a cloak made of woven soot and a necklace made from the tears of flies.’ She beams.
‘Lovely.’ I lean my elbows on the table.
She stops pacing and glares at me. ‘Just write, will you! So. Write this: Them brought the white boots. Not the same as Kelmar’s, as her boots are the cobbler’s after all, just painted ‘em white, she has.’ She smiles at her feet. ‘I kept these boots hid for a time, but I want to wear them, though them’re too big. Them remind me Kieran’s got a better life now, and when I doubt that, I look at them and them shine the truth of the main land back up at me.’
‘Do you really want me to tell her about your boots?’
‘Well, all folk’ve been talking of Kelmar’s, so someone’s got to speak of mine. All right. Dun put that bit down.’
‘Right.’
‘Say this to Mary: I’m all jumbled for I can’t stop the Thrashing House calling me so loud.’
‘It calls?’ I stare at her.
‘Still is.’ She clasps her hands over her ears. Her eyes seem terrified. ‘Maybe now I’ve said it, it’ll stop calling. Walk down the beach when you’ve read this, I’ll watch at the window for you – we got to stick together you and me. Let’s talk soon, even if you’re angered?’
‘Do you want to sign it?’
She whispers, ‘Just write my name. Annie. Dun think I told you that.’ She walks to the front door. ‘And you’ve still not given me yours.’ Her dogs spring up, tails wagging, and follow her outside. I close and lock the door behind her and read the letter:
Dear Mary,
I knew about trading boys before other people did.
I knew I had to keep it a secret or the trade would be spoiled.
So I blackmailed the tall men and got the windows fixed and we were going to move house.
The tall men brought me some nice things (including boots that don’t fit) and I had some lovely ideas for pretty things that are impossible to get, but good to dream about.
I feel guilty.
I think the Thrashing House is calling me.
Talk to me on the beach if you’re angry,
Annie.
I open the drawer in the table, pick through scraps of folded fabric, stray embroidery thread ends. Taking out a piece of blue thread, I tear the letter out of the book and tie it up.
I stroke the next blank page on the empty book, sit down and write:
Once upon a time there was Annie.
Annie had three black dogs.
One called Blame.
One called Shame.
One called Guilt.
She hid behind Blame, Shame and Guilt, so no one would see her. The three black dogs snapped at anyone who came near her. Annie smiled to herself, thinking how their teeth frightened everyone else away. She fed the dogs and loved them and would never part from them. Made them blankets from the warm ash in her fire, pillows from the thickening slops in her cooking pots. Gave them soft sleep and a beach to run along.
And all was well.
No one could see who she really was because she was too busy taking care of the dogs. And the dogs were the most interesting thing about her. She was certain of that.
But one day she cut her thumb while chopping potatoes for stew. The dogs caught the scent of blood and acted like the animals that they really were.
So they turned on Annie, and Blame, Shame and Guilt killed her dead. They lived happily ever after, known only as ‘The three black dogs who killed their mistress’, which they thought suited them much better. They smiled with all of their teeth.
The end.
I might have days, weeks, here, staring through the thick glass of this window at distorted waves that wash in and pull out, with no boats blurring through, no way back to the
mainland, my heart beating out, Soon, let it be soon.
Please let a boat come, to carry me away.
No brother, no mother, no father, but behind the door between other coats hangs a small child’s coat, a man’s wool hat and a woman’s shawl. On the back of one of the bedroom doors is a nightdress, an embroidery across the bodice of a tree with curled branches. Mary said her father was an old worn boot. I’m sure that’s what she said. I look at the boots pinching my feet. They’re old and worn. I whisper at the left boot, the one that hurts the most, ‘You’re not her dad in disguise are you?’
And of course it doesn’t answer.
I write in the book:
There’s …
A boot for a father.
A thrashed brother.
An injured daughter.
A dead mother.
I stole the Thrashing House key.
The wind blows so cold that it curls up the trees.
No one is here in this cottage but me.
Everyone is gone. Will I be next?
It could be this cottage itself that makes people vanish. My own disappearance could be being plotted. The fireplace could be considering how best to sneak up and swallow me. The chairs want to ambush me, break my bones with their legs. I should plan for this attack, arm myself with knives from the kitchen, hide myself underneath that trapdoor in the floor, unless the trapdoor is planning to guillotine me … I should run … but I can’t stop thinking that this is a cottage where four people once breathed and slept and cried and laughed and ate and lived. And don’t any more.
But it doesn’t feel empty.
I’m being watched. My spine prickles. Someone else is here in this room. I spin round. My breath catches in my throat.
A woman kneels on the chair by the empty fireplace, her arms folded on the embroideries piled on the back of the seat. She stares at me, intently. From the dark hair, pale skin and the deep blue of her eyes, the resemblance is clear; it’s Mary’s mother.
‘You’re dead,’ I say, before I can stop myself.
Snake Ropes Page 17
