by Nicola Upson
At last, Morwenna turned round. ‘If you know that, then I’m sure you know everything,’ she said with a disquieting matter-of-factness, ‘including why I’d like some time here on my own. If you want to visit Loveday, be my guest. She’s at the cottage, and I’m sure she’d love to see you. Let’s face it, she’d love to see anyone who isn’t me, and if you can keep her occupied for a bit, I ought to be grateful to you.’
It was exactly what Josephine had wanted to hear and she could have left triumphant, but her pride was reluctant to be so easily dismissed. She had told herself that she didn’t much like Morwenna when perhaps the more truthful way to put it was that she was intimidated by her – by her looks and her self-possession, by the closeness of her relationship with Archie and by the twelve years between them which separated youth from approaching middle age. Morwenna had a knack of making her feel as though she’d been caught out in a lie which she wasn’t even aware of telling – and she resented it more than she would have cared to admit.
‘Do me a favour, though, if you do go to see Loveday,’ Morwenna continued, looking back out over the lake. ‘Don’t insist on reading too much into what she says. It’s hard enough to get some peace round here, and telling everyone that I’m a battered woman isn’t helpful. If you’re going to spy, at least do it properly.’
‘You’d rather everyone knew the truth, then?’ Josephine asked, stung more by the justness of the rebuke than the abrupt way in which it was delivered.
‘I’m past caring what anyone knows.’
‘Even Loveday?’
‘Especially Loveday. She’ll be all right – she knows how to look after herself.’
Josephine had already allowed herself to be dragged further into the conversation than she had intended, and she had no wish to antagonise Morwenna by trying to tell her how to look after her own sister, but it seemed to her that Loveday was the most overlooked casualty of all that had gone on in the Pinching household. ‘Surely you don’t blame her for what’s happened?’ she said.
Morwenna looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I can see that bringing her up must have put a strain on you and Harry, but it didn’t have to be for ever, did it?’ Morwenna seemed to relax a little, and Josephine wondered what she had expected her to say. ‘Why didn’t you just wait a bit longer and start the relationship again once Loveday had left home? It was only a matter of time.’
‘Like I said to Archie, it was different after the fire. And anyway, who’s to say that Loveday will leave home? She’s hardly ideal marriage material.’ Morwenna gave a bitter laugh. ‘At least we have that in common.’
Christopher would have been more than happy to remove the inconvenience, Josephine thought, almost allowing her sarcasm to get the better of her, but she remembered in time that Loveday would not thank her for betraying that particular secret. She remained unconvinced by Morwenna’s explanation, though; if the fire had been the only reason for her rejection of Harry, surely the tension between them would have emerged much sooner? ‘What did Harry do that seemed such a betrayal of everything you had?’ she asked.
Morwenna was quiet for such a long time that Josephine wondered if she had even heard the question. A strong breeze rustled through the nearby reed beds, revealing the white undersides of the leaves on the low-hanging willows and driving the water against the floor of the boathouse with a muffled, persistent thud. She was about to repeat herself when Morwenna answered her with a question of her own. ‘You don’t think that killing our parents was a betrayal?’
‘Of Loveday, perhaps, but not of you. If you wanted to romanticise it, you could even say it was the ultimate act of love.’ She knew as soon as the words were out that she had gone too far; privately, she was sickened by the violence and selfishness of Harry’s behaviour and her opinion of him had changed very little since the first time she had discussed him with Ronnie, but making that obvious was hardly the best way to get anything out of someone who loved him.
‘How could you even begin to understand that love?’ Morwenna asked in a tone which made it clear that she had no intention of wasting any more time by talking.
‘Just because he was your brother…’
‘No, no – that’s not what I mean.’ She lifted her hand dismissively before Josephine had a chance to finish. ‘You can’t understand because you didn’t know Harry. This isn’t about some abstract question of right or wrong; it’s about him, only him, and how he made me feel. You never met him, you never heard his voice or saw him smile or felt the touch of his hand on your face, so you can never understand what it means to be without him.’
There was no argument to this, and it struck Josephine as ridiculous that she should be envious of Morwenna, but the emotion she felt as she listened to this simple declaration of love – a declaration all the more powerful for its ordinariness – could not be fooled into calling itself anything else. She had experienced it before – not a jealousy of anyone in particular, but a vague, unsatisfiable longing for a passion which she had never truly known and which she had now seen too much of the world ever to experience. How she wished she had been given the luxury of first love in peacetime, free from fear and believing that anything was possible rather than resenting the war which had taken away so many choices.
‘Look, go and see Loveday now,’ said Morwenna, surprising Josephine by moving forward to take the spare umbrella from her hand. ‘I can’t get through to her any more, so you might as well keep her happy. At least it’s one hour of the day when I don’t have to worry about her. Take her your book – she’s always been easily distracted from the real world.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ The comment had been made without malice, but Josephine – unsettled by the rest of the conversation – reacted more sensitively than was necessary.
‘It depends how far you take it, and what price you’re willing to pay.’
‘Price? That’s a bit strong for a harmless bit of escapism, isn’t it?’
Once again, she felt like a child whose ignorance was being tolerated under sufferance as Morwenna smiled and said: ‘I remember Archie telling me a few years ago about someone he loved who used books and make-believe to keep the world at arm’s length.’ Too surprised to speak, Josephine stared down at the redundant barge, where the rain was making a valiant but forlorn attempt to revive the wilting flowers, and tried not to resent the fact that she was being placed in opposition to Archie by someone who had no idea about the relationship they shared and who was a complete stranger, to her at least. ‘He called her his Lady of Shalott,’ Morwenna added, ‘because she only ever looked at life in a mirror. He didn’t mention any names, but I’m assuming that was you?’ Still, Josephine said nothing; she was too busy trying to take in what she had just heard. It was stupid of her to be hurt: she knew how Archie felt – he had accused her of being an escapist often enough to her face – and she had never assumed that he wouldn’t discuss her with other people, but somehow – perhaps because it was with Morwenna, perhaps because she had not expected to have it thrown back at her like this – it felt like a betrayal.
‘It hurts when someone destroys your trust, doesn’t it?’ Morwenna said. ‘When you find out that some sort of bond has been formed behind your back, and suddenly you’re on the outside, looking in. Perhaps that answers your question about what Harry did to betray everything we had.’
She walked a little way up the bank, but stopped when Josephine called her back. ‘It’s funny, but when Archie was talking to you about me, I don’t suppose he realised how similar you and I are.’ Morwenna looked questioningly at her. ‘Harry was your way of keeping the world at arm’s length, wasn’t he? As long as you could believe in the fantasy of that relationship, you hardly had to engage with reality at all.’
She was rewarded with a nod of acknowledgement and an ironic smile. ‘That’s the trouble with mirrors, though, isn’t it?’ Morwenna said. ‘They break far too easily, but perhaps that’s just a
s well.’ This time, it was Josephine’s turn to wait for an explanation. ‘Well, aren’t you sick of shadows?’ Morwenna asked, turning to go. ‘I know I am.’
Morveth Wearne stood under one of the vast pine trees that formed the thickest plantation on the western side of the Loe and watched the two women on the opposite bank, safe in the knowledge that she could not be seen – by them, or by anybody walking behind her along the track which led to the church and on to the sea. She found it hard to believe what she was seeing: one conversation at the Minack last night had made it clear to Morveth that Archie’s London friend was far too sharp-witted to be safe company for any of them at the moment, and she would have thought that Morwenna had more sense than to engage. In any case, Loveday shouldn’t be left alone for long; anyone could drop by the cottage and talk to her, and both Archie and his friend were perfectly capable of piecing together more than they needed to know from a carelessly made remark. More anxious than ever, Morveth decided to finish what she had set out to do as quickly as possible, then go and sit with Loveday until Morwenna returned.
Still she watched, though, unable to tear herself away. Her left hand picked nervously at a loose piece of cotton which dangled from the garment in her arms; the coarse brown fabric felt rough against her skin as she tried to gauge the tone of the exchange from the women’s body language, but it was impossible from this distance. Perhaps she should walk round and interrupt, but it would take her a good twenty minutes to reach them and by that time the damage might be done. Anyway, she thought, looking down, she could hardly carry this about the estate in full daylight; it had to be disposed of immediately. Burning it would be too risky – the police were bound to comb the area sooner or later, and a fire would leave traces behind; no, it had to be put out of sight in a place where no one would ever find it. When she looked up again, Morveth saw that Morwenna had left the boathouse and was now walking off in the direction of the Helston Road; Josephine watched her go, then turned and went back into the Lodge. Relieved, but still wondering what had been said, Morveth made her way quickly along the bank, through the bluebells and moss-covered tree trunks, and round to the deepest part of the lake.
The group of jackdaws sitting sociably on the roof of Loe Cottage seemed to Josephine to be an unfittingly high-spirited reminder of the night before. She watched their activity as she walked up the lane to the gate; one bird was perched on the rim of the chimney pot, periodically thrusting its head downwards until a puff of black smoke sent it to join its friends on the ridges of the thatch. Their characteristic doglike yap filled the air, high-pitched and insistent. She had read somewhere that jackdaws were once regarded as omens of doom; if that were true, they had chosen their meeting place well.
Loveday was looking out of one of the upstairs windows. Her face brightened as soon as she saw Josephine and she waved, then beckoned her inside. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable about letting herself into another woman’s home, Josephine put her head round the door and called a tentative greeting. ‘Loveday? Is it all right if I come up?’
‘Of course it is.’ The voice was too close to have come from the bedroom, and a few seconds later its owner appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a white cotton nightgown with her long blonde hair tied back in a single plait, and looking even younger than her fourteen years. She was paler than usual, but Josephine was glad to see that there were no other signs of illness. ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ Loveday said, smiling broadly. ‘I’m so bored of lying in bed, but Morwenna says I’ve got to stay there.’
‘Quite right, too. Your sister told me I could come and keep you company for a bit,’ she added, keen for Loveday to know she wasn’t doing anything wrong. ‘Personally, I can’t think of anything more idyllic than lying in bed all day and doing nothing, so think of it as a treat and make the most of it while you can.’
Loveday protested good-naturedly, but led the way back to her room. The stairs, which went up from the ill-fated kitchen, came out on to a long, dark landing, and Josephine could not decide whether the claustrophobic feeling it gave her was due to the physical structure of the cottage or to her knowledge of what had gone on there; probably the latter, she thought, because the house itself was surprisingly spacious inside. Three doors led off the landing, and Loveday headed for the one at the very end, giving Josephine a perfect opportunity to glance into the other rooms on the way. The first was obviously Morwenna’s and was notable only for being slightly untidier than the rest of the house, but the second – stripped completely bare, even down to the curtains at the windows – stopped her in her tracks. Of course grief affected people differently, but this utter eradication of Harry from the sisters’ lives only strengthened her belief that he was guilty of something more terrible than his parents’ murder – more terrible in Morwenna’s eyes, at least. An image flashed into her mind of Harry and Morwenna by the boathouse on that last morning; it was not something that she could ever have seen – she didn’t even know what Harry looked like – but it held the intensity of a memory, and she wondered again about his death. How or why was beyond her, but – having glimpsed this emphatic denial of a life – she had no doubt that Morwenna would certainly have been capable of her brother’s murder.
‘In here,’ Loveday called impatiently. Her room was small but cheerful, with ceilings which sloped almost to the ground and shiny black floorboards, covered in rugs worn so thin that the animals embroidered lovingly on to them were barely recognisable. On the mat nearest the bed, a horse peeped out from a hot-water bottle which had been cast aside onto the floor. The bedclothes themselves were entirely white, giving a pure, almost virginal quality to the room which was straight out of the stories of romance and adventure that filled the shelf above the bed. Clearly, Loveday’s tastes inclined towards the heroic: Malory, Kipling and Rider Haggard rubbed shoulders with Ouida and Stevenson, and Josephine was pleased to see dog-eared editions of Conan Doyle and Trent’s Last Case – her own offering might pale in comparison, but at least Loveday found the genre entertaining. Apart from the book jackets, the only other colour in the room came from a bowl of bluebells which stood with a water jug on the white bamboo table by the bed, the delicacy of their lavender flowers belied by the strong, green scent which filled the room.
Loveday patted the bed, and Josephine sat down. ‘Here – I’ve brought you something to read,’ she said, handing over Archie’s copy of The Man in the Queue. Kif, she had decided, was a little too bleak in its outlook for an impressionable fourteen-year-old; there would be plenty of time for Loveday to find out that the world was rarely a fair place. The girl took the book eagerly, but her face fell as she looked at the jacket. ‘Is something wrong?’ Josephine asked, concerned by Loveday’s obvious disappointment.
‘No, no – of course not,’ she said, smiling bravely. ‘I just hoped it might be one of yours, that’s all.’ Realising that she must sound ungrateful, she added: ‘I’m sure Gordon Daviot’s very good, though.’
Josephine laughed. ‘That’s one of my secrets – except it’s not much of a secret any more. It is mine – I just had it published under a different name.’ She opened the book and showed Loveday the title page, where there was an inscription to Archie, signed in her own name. ‘There – that proves it.’
‘Won’t Mr Penrose mind you lending me his book?’
‘Of course not,’ said Josephine, who had no qualms whatsoever about raiding Archie’s library, particularly today. As far as she was concerned, he could curl up with his bloody Tennyson and leave her alone to polish her mirror. She smiled sweetly at Loveday. ‘He’d be pleased to know you were enjoying it.’
‘I’ll keep it safe for him,’ Loveday promised, tracing the lettering on the jacket thoughtfully with her finger. ‘Why wouldn’t you want people to know you’ve written a book?’ she asked. ‘I think it’s a wonderful thing. If it were me, I’d have my name as big as possible on the front.’
‘Not if you lived in Inverness, you wouldn’t,’ Josephine
said, smiling.
‘Why? Aren’t the people very nice?’
‘It’s not that. It’s just that as a family we’ve always preferred to keep ourselves to ourselves, and that’s not necessarily the best way to make yourself popular in a small town. Everyone already thought I was a little odd because I refused to take part in the endless round of going out to tea, and I didn’t want to make it worse for myself by being seen to do anything as queer as writing a book. It was stupid of me, really, but I thought I could keep the two things entirely separate.’
‘But they found out?’
‘Yes. The play I wrote was a bit of a hit, and that scuppered me completely. And you’re right – calling myself Gordon Daviot wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. It seemed a nice tribute at the time, but it gets me some very strange looks and I dread to think what they’ll be saying about me in fifty years’ time.’
‘Who was it a tribute to?’
‘Someone I used to know. It was a long time ago now – I was only a few years older than you. Daviot is a small village a few miles from where I live now – about the same distance as Penzance is from here. I used to go on holiday there every summer with my parents, and that’s where I met him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Oh, he’s not around any more.’
‘Did you jilt him?’
Reluctant to start a conversation about the war and what it had meant to her, Josephine smiled. ‘No. In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that he jilted me.’
Loveday looked petulant. ‘I’ve jilted Christopher,’ she said.
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because he’s ignoring me. He hasn’t spoken to me since Sunday.’
‘Does he know he’s in your bad books?’
