by Sarah Perry
‘I can’t find my prayer book,’ said Joanna with dignity, not understanding what she’d done and deciding to be offended.
They were laughing still when the congregation arrived to take their minister by surprise. Will went to the porch to greet them as Cora tried once or twice to catch his eye, like a schoolboy wanting a conspirator, but could not: he’d pulled up the drawbridge. The serpent’s pew was in a dim corner where she would not be seen, and reluctant to leave the cool quiet church, she thought that she might stay a while.
The small village summoned up a hearty congregation: there was almost (she thought) a kind of festival air, or the good humour brought on by the prospect of a common enemy. Unnoticed in her seat, she heard them whisper of the Trouble, and the serpent, and something seen the night before when the moon had been full and red; certain crops had failed early; there was yet another sprained ankle. A young man who rivalled Ransome for blackness of suit and graveness of aspect put out his hand to any who passed his pew, and made remarks about the Judgment, and the Last Times.
The bells ceased tolling, the people fell silent, and William crossed the nave. When he reached the pulpit steps, a Bible beneath his left arm and (so Cora thought) a look of shyness about him, the door was flung open and there stood Cracknell. He was preceded by such a long dark shadow, and such a powerful smell of damp and mud, that a woman who’d forgotten her glasses shrieked ‘It’s here!’ and clutched her handbag to her breast. Evidently enjoying the effect, the old man paused on the threshold until he could be certain he’d been seen, then walked to the front of the church and sat with folded arms. He’d put on another coat above the mossy one he always wore; it had a fur collar, in which earwigs scuttled in alarm, and many brass buttons.
‘Good morning, Mr Cracknell,’ said William, without surprise: ‘And good morning to you all. I was glad when they said unto me: let us go to the house of the Lord. Mr Cracknell, once you’re comfortable, we’ll begin with hymn number 102, which I know is a favourite of yours. We’ve missed you, and your voice.’ He reached the pulpit, and closed himself in. ‘Shall we stand?’
Cracknell, scowling, considered sulking in his seat and refusing to join in, but had always been admired for his sweet tenor and couldn’t resist the melody. Since he’d already broken his resolve not to darken the church doors in protest at the hand the Almighty had dealt he might as well be hanged for a goat as for a kid. The loss of Gog a few days before (found tipped on her side, her yellow slotted eyes rolled back in horror and no wound anywhere) had given him a new resolve: the Trouble was no rumour conjured out of air and water, but had flesh and bones, and was nightly creeping nearer. Only that morning Banks reported having seen something black, slick, just beneath the water’s surface, and up at St Osyth the day before a boy had drowned on a clear day. For the life of him Cracknell could make no link between the small sins of a small village and divine judgment, but divine judgment it certainly was; and if the vicar wasn’t going to give the call to repentance he’d best do it himself.
Fortunately for the Reverend Ransome, Cracknell had chosen a seat warmed by a shaft of sunlight, and between the spring heat and his two coats he sank into a slumber that punctuated the collect with his snores and murmurings.
From her dim corner Cora watched the congregation bow for prayer and stand for song; she smiled at babies held over their mothers’ shoulders and pawing at children seated behind; she heard how the preacher’s voice altered a little as it moved from prayer to verse. Beside her on the wall a scuffed plaque read David Bailey Thompson, Choirboy 1868–1871, RIP; and she thought: Was it that he lived or sang only those three brief years? At her feet the parquet floor lay in the pattern of a herring-bone and the pale wood glowed, and all the stained glass angels had the wings of jays. Something in the second of the hymns – the melody perhaps, or a line or two half-remembered from childhood – touched a place she thought had scarred over, and she began to cry. She had no handkerchief, because she never did; a child saw her tears in astonishment and nudged its mother, who turned, saw nothing, and turned away again. The tears would not stop, and Cora had nothing but her hair to wipe her eyes; only the preacher from his white stone vantage point saw her; saw the deep breaths with which she tried to suppress a sob, and how she tried to hide her face. He caught her eye and held it, and his look was one she could not remember having ever received from a man. It was not amused, or acquisitive, or appalled; had it in no hauteur or cruelty. She imagined it was how he might look at James or Joanna, if he saw them in distress; yet could not have been, because it was a look divided between equals. It was brief, and his gaze moved on, out of delicacy and because the music had ended, and since it was too late to conceal her disgrace Cora let the tears fall.
At the end of the service, her good humour recovered enough that she was able to laugh at herself and at the damp marks on the front of her dress, Cora kept her seat until Will was safely crowded at the door with well-wishers and children. She had no real objection to being seen in her sadness, but was afraid she might be offered pity, and would rather bide her time until she could make her way back to Martha and the safety of her ammonites and notebooks, which had never once made her cry. Deciding it was safe to leave, she slipped out of the pew at its darkest side and encountered – plainly awaiting her – Cracknell in his fur-collared coat.
‘How do,’ he said, delighted at having startled her. ‘A stranger in our midst, I see. What’re you doing here in them green boots of yours?’
‘I may well be a stranger,’ said Cora, ‘but at least I was on time! Also: my boots are brown.’
‘Right enough,’ said Cracknell: ‘Right enough.’ He flicked an earwig from his sleeve. ‘You’ve heard tell of me I expect, and quite rightly too, since the Parson over there’s an especial friend of mine and one I cherish somewhat having little else left worth the cherishing.’ He gave her his hand, and his name.
‘Ah – Mr Cracknell!’ she said: ‘Certainly I’ve heard of you, and of your loss last night. I am sorry – a sheep, was it?’
‘Sheep, she says! Sheep!’ He chuckled, and looked about for someone to share in her stupidity, and finding only the jay-winged angels above him bellowed at them ‘Sheep!’ and laughed a little longer. Then he stopped, as if remembering something, and leaned forward to grasp her by the elbows. His voice dropped, so that quite unconsciously she leaned in to hear him better: ‘They’ve told you then? They’ve told you and you listened well? About what’s out there in the Blackwater by moonlight and lately I’m given to understand by daylight, too, since it was noon when the St Osyth boy got taken and no clouds passing? They’ve told you, and you’ve seen it yourself perhaps, heard it perhaps, smelt it perhaps, like what’s on my coatskin now and on your skin also I’ll be bound …’ He drew nearer; his breath had on it both fish and decay; he pressed her deeper back into the shadows. ‘Oh I see you know, Oh I see you know: you’re afraid aren’t you? You dream of it, you listen for it, you wait for it, you hope for it …’ and having struck truth where he least expected it brought his mouth very close to her and crooned: ‘Oh what bit of wickedness it is, knowing the judgment’s coming and knowing there’s nowhere to hide and in the end you hope for it don’t you, you hope for it, you can endure it so long as you see it – might it be here now even, you think, having crept up over the threshold while we all bent our heads?’ The shadows thickened – the air grew chill – from a little distance Cora heard William Ransome’s voice; she searched for him, and could not find him. Cracknell swayed before her, obscuring her vision, crooning ‘Oh he don’t see it, he don’t feel it, he can’t help – no good looking over there, no good’ll come of that.’
‘Let me go,’ said Cora, touching her scarred neck, recalling what she’d said to the rector as they’d sat together where she stood now: I know punishment, I’ve learned how to stand it. Was it punishment she sought – had Michael so mistreated her she hoped for others to do the same – was she malformed now, misshapen, having been pr
essed and moulded so long? Or was it really that she’d sold her soul and must honour the transaction? ‘Let me go,’ she said, and put her hand on the pew to steady herself, and found it wet. Her hand slipped; she stumbled against Cracknell and felt the oily pelt of his coat, with its reek of salt and oyster – he stumbled also, and in steadying himself raised up his arms; his long coat opened and spread and showed its leather lining, black, greasy, with the flap of wings. ‘Let me go!’ she said, and the door opened, and there stood Joanna at the threshold, letting in the light, and Martha with her, and they were saying ‘Who shut the door? Who let the door shut?’ – and Cracknell fell into the pew, saying that really he was ever so sorry, only it had been a troublesome few months, what with the one thing and the other. ‘I’m coming,’ called Cora, then saying it again to be certain her voice came without breaking: ‘I’m coming, and we’d better rush, if we’re going to catch our train.’
Stella stood at the rectory window, watching children cross the common and hide between the branches of Traitor’s Oak. She’d coughed for much of the night, and slept very little, dreaming when she did that someone had come to her room and painted everything blue. The walls had been blue, and so had the ceiling; in place of the carpet were blue tiles vivid with light from the window. The sky had been blue, and so were the leaves of the trees, which bore blue fruit. She had woken distressed to find the same old roses on the wallpaper, and the same old cream linen curtains, and sent James out to pick bluebells from the garden. These she ranged on the windowsill with violets she’d pressed and dried in early spring, and the stem of lavender Will had once put on her pillow. She felt a little hot, though not unpleasantly; and while the bells tolled she carried out a ritual of her own. Touching each bloom with her thumb she said, singingly, over and over, ‘Lapis, cobalt, indigo, blue,’ but later could not explain why.
II
TO USE HIS BEST ENDEAVOUR
APRIL
George Spencer
c/o The George Hotel
Colchester
1st April
Dear Mr Ambrose
As you see, I write from an aptly named establishment in Colchester, where I’m staying for a time with Dr Luke Garrett, who you may recall introduced us last autumn at a dinner in Foulis Street given by the late Michael Seaborne.
I hope you will forgive my writing to you, and seeking your advice. When we met, we spoke briefly about recent Acts of Parliament designed to improve living conditions for the working classes. If I remember correctly, you expressed dismay at the lack of speed with which the Acts are being made into policy.
In recent months I’ve had an opportunity to learn a little more about the problem of London housing, in particular the crippling rents imposed by absentee landlords. I understand that the work of philanthropic charities (such as the Peabody Trust, for example) is of growing importance in combating the problem of over-crowding, poor accommodation and homelessness.
I am keen to find appropriate ways to make use of the Spencer Trust – I know my father anticipated that I’d do more than simply fund an extravagant lifestyle – and I am very anxious to secure advice from those more knowledgeable than me on how this might be done. I am sure you are already fully aware of the issues, but nonetheless I enclose a leaflet from the London Metropolitan Housing Committee for information.
I have recently become acquainted with proposals aiming to supplement existing provision of new accommodation for the London poor without placing moral duties on inhabitants – rewarding the ‘good’ with safe and healthy homes and leaving the remainder to their squalor – but rather to bring our fellow men out of poverty with no conditions attached.
I will be in London again in a week or two – if you can spare the time, may we talk? I’m only too aware that in this matter, as in most, I am very uninformed.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
GEORGE SPENCER
Cora Seaborne
c/o The Red Lion
Colchester
3rd April
My dear Stella,
Can it really have been only a week since we met? It feels a month, at least. Thank you again for your hospitality and kindness – I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten so well, or so happily.
I write in the hope I might tempt you up here to Colchester one afternoon. I’d like to visit the castle museum, and thought perhaps the children might come too: Martha has taken such a liking to Joanna that I feel quite jealous. There’s a pretty garden, too, with plenty of blue flowers to please you.
I’ve enclosed a note for the good Reverend, together with a leaflet I hope he’ll find interesting …
Write soon!
With love,
CORA
By hand
Dear Reverend Ransome –
I hope you are well, and write to thank you all for your hospitality and kindness. I am so glad to have met you under more auspicious circumstances than before.
The oddest thing happened soon after we met, and I wanted to tell you at once. We took a trip to Saffron Walden, in order to look at the Guildhall, and visit the museum. Such a lovely town, it would redeem Essex in anyone’s eyes: I could almost be persuaded there was the scent of saffron blowing up the streets. And what did I find, in a bookshop on a sunny corner, but this (see enclosed) – a facsimile of that original pamphlet warning of a flying serpent. STRANGE NEWS OUT OF ESSEX, it says: a true relation, no less! One Miller Christy has taken the trouble of reproducing it, and for that we must be thankful. There’s even an illustration, though I must say nobody looks very scared.
Watch out for it, won’t you? No man bested by a sheep could expect to triumph over such a foe.
Sincerely,
CORA SEABORNE
William Ransome
All Saints Rectory
Aldwinter
6th April
Dear Mrs Seaborne
Thank you for the pamphlet, which I read with amused interest and return here (John thought it another colouring book, I’m afraid, while James entertains himself designing a crossbow to defend the household). I promise as faithfully as my collar allows that if ever I see a monstrous serpent with wings like umbrellas clacking its beak on the common, I’ll trap it in a fishing-net and send for you at once.
I enjoyed meeting you. I am often nervous on Sunday mornings and you were a welcome distraction.
Will you stay in Colchester long? You are always welcome in Aldwinter. Cracknell has taken a liking to you, as have we all.
In Christian love,
WILLIAM RANSOME
1
In the last week of April, when all the Essex hedgerows were white with cow parsley and blackthorn flower, Cora moved with Martha and Francis into a grey house beside Aldwinter common. They’d grown tired of Colchester and the Red Lion: Francis had exhausted the landlord’s store of Sherlock Holmes (marking inaccuracies in red ink and improbabilities in green), and Cora had grown dissatisfied with the town’s civilised little river, which could certainly conceal nothing larger than a pike.
The memory of her encounter with Cracknell – the saline scent on the collar of his coat, how he’d conjured from dark corners the waiting beast in the Blackwater – had made her restless. She felt something awaited her over in Aldwinter, though whether she sought the living or the dead she couldn’t quite say. Often she thought herself childish and credulous to be in pursuit of a living fossil in (of all places!) an Essex estuary, but if Charles Lyell countenanced the idea of a species outwitting extinction, so could she. And hadn’t the Kraken been nothing but legend, until a giant squid pitched up on a Newfoundland beach, and was photographed in a tin bath by the Reverend Moses Harvey? Besides all that, here was the Essex clay beneath her feet, concealing who-knew-what, biding its time. She’d go out walking with her coat’s hem muddy and the rain on her cheek and say, ‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t be me, and shouldn’t be here: Mary Anning knew nothing about anything until a landslide killed he
r dog.’
News of the grey house standing empty on the common had come from Stella Ransome. She’d gone to Colchester to buy bolts of blue cloth and said, ‘Won’t you come to Aldwinter, once you’re tired of the town? The Gainsforths have been looking for tenants for months now, but only someone very strange would go out there to live with us! It’s a good house, there’s a garden – summer’s not long off; you can hire Banks to take you out on the estuary: you’ll never find your serpent on the High Street!’ She took Cora’s hand, and said: ‘Besides, we want you near us. Joanna wants Martha, James wants Francis, and we all want you.’
‘I have always wanted to learn to sail,’ said Cora, smiling and taking Stella’s small hands. ‘Will you put me in touch with the Gainsforths, and vouch for my good character? Goodness, Stella, your hands are hot: take off your coat, and tell me how you are.’
Francis, listening from his newly favoured position under the dining table, approved thoroughly: the move to Colchester had given him new kingdoms to conquer, and he was ready for more. He’d exhausted the town’s small store of treasure (the gull’s egg he’d blown and preserved, the silver fork which Taylor had let him take from the High Street ruin), and shared his mother’s certainty that something was waiting on the Blackwater marsh. In the months since his father’s death he had become (he felt) more or less an adult himself: neither Cora nor Martha attempted any more to cosset or coddle him, and certainly he never asked for it. His tendency to arrive unbidden in the night or early morning, watchful at the door or window, was long gone – he didn’t know why he’d done it, only that it was no longer necessary. Instead he grew self-contained and contentedly silent, and bore their Aldwinter visits with good grace. The rector’s sons treated him with an amiable contempt that suited him perfectly: on the two occasions they’d met the boys had ranged across the common and exchanged perhaps a dozen words in several hours. ‘Aldwinter,’ he said, trying it out for size: ‘Aldwinter.’ He liked the three syllables; he liked the declining cadence. His mother glanced down at him and said, with relief, ‘Would you like that, Frankie? There, then: it’s settled.’
