The Bass Rock

by Evie Wyld

  I cough into my hand. She sucks in air so that her whole body rises, then she lets it go and slumps a little.

  ‘My mother made people well when they were ill.’ She speaks as though I have asked her to tell me a story. ‘She did not have a man. Men would come to her, if they had a boil that needed lancing, or a tooth that needed pulling. Like a dog with a sharpness in its paw. At first.’

  She is quiet for so long, I think she must have fallen asleep with her eyes open.

  ‘But all those fat-arsed women of the village, jealous at their husbands finding their way to my mother, they said she was to blame for the storm and the ship going down. And they came for us. I hid in the corner of the field. Dug into the mud. I could hear them, first they shouted Tell us your name, tell us your name, your real name. Tickle her, tickle her. Over and over. Then it was not their words but the sound of them. Like men talking about how best to fix a plough.

  ‘I waited till dark and then left. I do not know what happened to my sister.’

  I walk to the table and pour her a cup of hot water.

  ‘Drink it hot.’

  I watch the movement of her throat as she drinks. She stands, makes a face that I cannot read.

  When she is gone, the fire sinks back down into itself, darkening from the edges to its centre. It could all have been my imagining.

  II

  Ruth awoke at around three in the morning, with the sensation that someone had sat on the edge of the bed and then crawled over her. In the back of her throat a saltiness, which in her dream had been of drowning. She sat up and poured a glass of water to take the taste away. Peter was absent, presumably asleep on the chaise longue in his study, where she had found him more than once in recent weeks. When she had verified that the bed was empty but for her, and the feeling must have been one within a dream, she found she couldn’t fall back to sleep. She worried about the nursery; how would it look to the boys if, on their return at Christmas, it was still a room filled with boxes from the old house? Wasn’t it best to live without reminders of that past life, to make space for new life? If she made steps towards this new life, perhaps a baby would naturally come towards her. Ought she to have been pregnant by now? Ought she at least be seen to show willing?

  She began as soon as the sun had risen. Mid-morning, Peter appeared at the door.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he said cheerily. ‘Are you starting a white elephant stall?’

  She thought she would say, I’m clearing it for a nursery, but what came out was, ‘I’ve decided I’d like a room of my own.’

  He nodded again. ‘Well, all right, Virginia, I’ll come and fetch you for lunch, shall I?’

  The photographs were the biggest undertaking. Every third one was of Elspeth. These she formed into a pile and tried hard not to look at them too closely. The woman had been extraordinary-looking in a way that suggested she was an extraordinary person. Ruth lingered a little over their wedding photograph, so different from the one on her nightstand, though at first glance so similar. Elspeth looked unfazed by the camera, she looked as though she had been caught mid-exclamation, whereas Ruth had stared hard into the lens, desperate to remember how one smiled. But the real difference lay in Peter. Fifteen years, two children, a war and a dead wife. All of it visible on his face, in the tension of his hand on a walking cane. The encased smile.

  She found an album her parents had made for her with her initials on the front. Inside was a photograph of Nanny holding her as a baby, in front of the hospital. She had liked looking at the album as a child – it had given her a terrific feeling of self-importance.

  The album documented a selection of birthdays and other milestones up until she was about fourteen, though there was one photograph, unglued in the back, of her looking morose and horse-like at Alice’s wedding. The one she chose to extract from the album to find a frame for was of herself, Alice and Antony, lined up against the nursery wall in Kensington. She could not have been older than four, which made Antony around seven and Alice nine. Nanny must’ve taken it, the three of them absorbed by a small wooden box that Antony held. Alice had her hand on Antony’s shoulder to better see what was inside, and Ruth’s fingers clasped his shirt. All three of them smiling as though the contents of the box confirmed the existence of magic. Antony’s face was lit as though the thing in the box glowed. Perhaps Nanny had set up the photograph to use as a Christmas card. She had no memory of it being taken, but she could feel the flannel of Antony’s shirt in her fist.

  At three, Peter came out of his study and knocked on the door frame. He whistled. ‘Goodness me. You’re really getting things in order, aren’t you, old lady? Come, come, lunchtime. I can hear the ham curling from here.’

  After lunch, which Betty always put out at twelve sharp, regardless of when they wanted it, they wrapped themselves in scarves and coats and crossed the golf course to the beach. The tide being low, they turned left to walk around the point and faced into the wind, which held the smell of tar. Peter had a small flask of brandy, and he passed it to her.

  ‘How’s work today?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh –’ he made a sound of great weariness – ‘there’s just so much to do. I expect I’ll have to go back to London for a week or so before Christmas.’

  ‘I see.’

  He looked out towards Fidra. The sky was growing overcast. The lighthouse keeper would turn on his lamp early tonight.

  ‘Yes, very boring altogether.’ Ruth passed his flask back, he drank again and then put it away. They linked arms.

  ‘While tidying earlier I came across several photographs of Elspeth. I’m a little unsure of what to do with them.’ She kept her eyes trained on her feet so as not to trip over seaweed, and so she only felt a light tensing through Peter’s body.

  ‘I dare say I ought to keep them.’

  ‘Oh, of course, I wasn’t suggesting—’

  ‘No, quite, but perhaps I should put them away in a drawer for when the boys are older.’

  ‘Quite, of course.’ What she wanted to say was that she didn’t mind him looking at them himself, but she could feel the discomfort it was causing him. ‘Betty’s niece arrives next Sunday,’ she said instead.

  ‘Ah yes. Remind me of her name?’

  ‘Bernadette.’

  ‘Bernadette. Rather grand name. Or perhaps her father was named Bernard. Where is the father by the way?’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘I get the feeling it’s a bit of a sensitive area. Given Betty’s sister’s situation.’

  ‘Her situation?’

  ‘She lives in an institution. I gather she’s rather disturbed.’

  ‘Is she? Why didn’t I know this?’ There was an edge to his voice that made Ruth start. She had told him – could picture them at the dinner table.

  He had seemed completely at ease about it.

  ‘I did mention it, over lunch – it was lamb and boiled potatoes.’

  ‘I would have remembered. I’m only concerned for my children – what if this thing is passed down? Do we know why she ended up there? Can we find out?’

  Ruth felt a rising panic about the idea of having to tell Betty that Bernadette in fact could not stay with them.

  ‘Look, it’s not anything like that—’

  ‘Anything like what? I can’t believe that you’ve invited this person to live with us, and it turns out she’s a maniac.’ There was a tone to his voice she’d heard him use on the telephone with the office. It was a surprise to be on the receiving end of it. Perhaps she hadn’t been clear. She found herself unable to speak, and after a period of silence, Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m under a lot of pressure; I mustn’t blame you.’

  It was again hard to speak, because the idea of him blaming her for the surplus of pressure was terrible. She placed a hand on his arm instead. She felt apologetic, but something else, too – ruffled might be the correct word.

  Before she could think of the right words, Peter sa
id, ‘Christ alive – I suppose that’s your vicar friend.’

  Looking into the distance, Ruth was surprised to see a man stand up from the water’s edge. She had at first taken the immobile black outline for a rock, but now the reverend was striding towards them, his hand already extending to shake Peter’s, a broad smile on his face that showed teeth.

  He started speaking when still too far away for the sound to reach them, and so began a soft jog in order that his voice could be heard.

  ‘Well now, look at this – it’s the mysterious Mr Hamilton. Finally we meet,’ and then he was close enough to shake Peter’s hand.

  ‘Hello,’ said Peter very politely, not an ounce left of his previous mood.

  ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you.’

  ‘Oh, well, likewise, I’m sure.’

  The reverend turned to Ruth and gave her a nod and a smile.

  ‘Are you fishing?’ she asked.

  ‘Fishing for what?’

  ‘I mean, I noticed you were rather hunkered down over there. I wondered if you had a line hidden away?’

  ‘Right, no. If you’ll forgive me the eccentricity, I was only praying, I’m afraid. I like to come down and listen at the water’s edge – listen for long enough and you hear Him talking back through the waves.’

  There was a long silence. Reverend Jon Brown began to laugh. ‘I do apologise, I tend to become rather exuberant after a long session by the water.’

  Ruth smiled and looked down. She inhaled sharply. ‘My God, your feet.’ He had no shoes on, the toes bright yellow and deep purple at their roots, the tops of his feet white and stark. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘My goodness, man,’ said Peter, laughing, ‘you really are an enthusiast.’

  Peter and Reverend Jon Brown laughed together for some time. When the laughter threatened to die down the reverend started it up again, until finally he bent over so that his hands were on his knees and let out a high-pitched groan. He was quite a few years older than Ruth had first imagined. The weathered rumples on the back of his neck attested to that. Peter shot her a look that made her bite her lip for fear she would start laughing too.

  Reverend Jon Brown sprang up, sea spray flying from his hair, and he combed it back with his hands. ‘Oh dear me,’ he said, ‘I’ve been out here too long. It’s just . . .’ He held his arms out and gestured to the sky, the sea and the air.

  ‘Quite,’ said Peter, smiling in a way that Ruth knew meant it was time to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, Reverend, while we’ve got you here: our girl Betty attends your service, I believe?’

  ‘Indeed she does, God-fearing as they come is young Elizabeth.’

  ‘And her sister too?’

  ‘Oh, Peter, I really don’t think we can—’

  Though Peter carried on. ‘It’s just that we have Betty’s niece coming to stay with us, and apparently my lovely wife mentioned this, I didn’t hear her, but it seems Betty’s sister is in an institution?’

  Reverend Jon Brown nodded, his mouth a little open, eyes watchful.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ He said it slowly and calmly, like the foam had washed out of him. ‘About you taking on Bernadette.’ There was a pause. He gave the impression that they ought to have first asked his permission. The reverend wiped his nose hard on his hand and sniffed violently. ‘Right. Right, that’s very good of you. Betty didn’t say.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite a recent plan. She’s coming next Sunday.’ Ruth tried to gauge Peter’s reaction to this. To say it out loud felt valuable. Peter looked unperturbed, and so that was encouraging.

  ‘And I just wondered if you knew – if you would give us some indication of what the matter is with the mother? It’s just I’m rather concerned for my boys, you see.’

  Ruth felt a hot bolt of shame as Peter asked the question, and also at the realisation that she wanted to know, too.

  ‘I quite understand, Mr Hamilton. You don’t want young Bernadette walking in on you in the night and murdering you with a kitchen knife, that’s quite understandable. No. I don’t think she’ll be up to anything much like that.’

  A little pink rose in Peter’s face. ‘No, I didn’t think—’

  ‘Of course it’s perfectly natural to want to protect your children, Mr Hamilton. But the thing to remember about people is, the truer to their nature they get, the more the animal in them comes out, the more innocent they become, and so the closer to God they get. That Mary, she just came a little too close to her animal to be around people. But the pup’s not to blame. Oh no.’ He seemed now to be talking to himself.

  Ruth cleared her throat.

  ‘Righto!’ The reverend clapped his hands loud enough to startle both Ruth and Peter.

  ‘Right, yes, of course,’ said Peter as though the man had talked complete sense and put his mind at rest.

  ‘How are the boys, Mr Hamilton? Full of stories of pitches and wickets, I imagine.’

  ‘Hmmm, yes, very much so.’

  ‘I’ll be heading off now, I think,’ said the reverend. ‘I’ve got a bird in the oven back home and I intend to feast upon her.’ He started to walk backwards down the beach, waving and talking as he went. ‘Goodbye to you both. Mr Hamilton, it has been a pleasure meeting you, and I look forward to seeing you one Sunday, or if not, at the winter picnic, which you are too kind to be hosting.’

  Once he was out of earshot, Peter took out the flask and drank.

  ‘My God,’ he said, ‘the man’s rabid.’

  ‘He doesn’t appear to have even brought his shoes with him,’ said Ruth. There was no bundle of clothes anywhere along the beach. ‘I suppose we ought to head back, so that we’re not just staring at him as he goes.’ But they stayed a moment longer. There was a curious lope to the way Reverend Jon Brown moved.

  ‘What do you suppose his true animal is?’

  ‘A very odd fish, I’d say,’ Ruth said, and they both laughed and Peter handed the flask to her and she took a swig, and then they turned for home, the disagreeable air of the previous conversation swept away into the sea.

  ‘Do you suppose your vicar has a thing for grog, by any chance?’

  ‘One can only hope.’

  It took four days to clear the room. She used the large cupboards in the bedroom to store the things that did not fit neatly within the house but she was too sentimental to abandon altogether. Once she’d finished, Ruth sat at the small desk she had had Betty help her lug up from the drawing room. She had positioned it by the window, and decided against hanging curtains. Curtains were for a nursery, to block out the light, a nursery was warm and sleepy. The unfiltered light of her study was brisk and unsentimental. She placed a sheet of paper in front of her and wondered what she was now supposed to do with it. She adjusted the angle of the photograph of herself, Antony and Alice, then flung open the window and let in the cold air. From the desk drawer she took a pencil. She held the pencil, squeezed a little too tightly, bent low to the paper, to draw or to write, she wasn’t sure. Something in her vibrated. Something contracted. An urge just below the skin. A seagull shrieked away her thoughts as they came to her, and she stood up and closed the window firmly so that it rattled in its frame. The house was silent again, but still nothing came to her. Why should it?

  She put the paper away, and took out the book she was reading, an Austen novel from her schooldays, but the words the characters spoke either enraged her or bored her, and several hours later she found herself staring out of the window towards the Bass Rock while the sky blackened around it. She looked up at the doorway, sensing Peter’s presence, ready to spring into a justification of why she was sitting with her feet on the desk in the dark, but no one was there. And then it felt he had come into the room after all, and was just about to rest his hands on her shoulders, and she jumped a little in anticipation, but again no one was there.

  Ruth turned on the lamp and brushed herself down as though she might have collected dust in the few hours of quiet stillness. What on earth she had bee
n dwelling on she couldn’t imagine. She looked at her room, neat and ready for something, and wondered if they ought to try again to have a baby instead. She felt the long blank passage from her throat to her gut.

  I

  If I am going to stay for any length of time, I have to find something proper to sleep on and under. My first thought was to sleep at the top of the house in Mrs Hamilton’s study, because sleeping in Dad’s childhood bed feels too much like an endurance test of emotional problems. Deborah has tried to suggest a lady artist might paint in the study by setting up one of Mrs Hamilton’s easels by the tiny window, with a wonky lighthouse on canvas propped on it. I have a sudden memory of when I was small and found her slumped on her desk asleep, a cigarette burned right down to the filter in her fingers. And how she’d woken very suddenly and seen me there, and shouted Get out! And I close the door, my heart thumping, and turn my attention to bedding.

  My sleeping bag is brittle-feeling and gritty with sand as though the last time I used it I’d gone for a swim and got into it wet. Deborah had expressed her distrust in an email exchange while I was in London, when I informed her I would be house-sitting on a more regular basis. She said that unfortunately she’d had to throw away my celery, as it touched the back of her fridge and was producing ice crystals, which made the fridge messy. It is the little things, she said in an email, that make the big difference where prospective buyers are concerned. She asked that I return the bedding, folded, to the wardrobe after using it, and that if I needed to run the washing machine, to please do so at night and be sure to remove any drying items before leaving the house. Her sort of buyers, apparently, didn’t like the idea of any living occurring in a house they might like to purchase.

  Of course.

  And I know we have the mobile signal issue in that house, so I’d really rather know that all issues of cleanliness are taken care of at all times, because I can’t always give you an indication of when I’m arriving.

  I can check my messages if I climb the wall, I wrote back.