He smiled and gave a mocking little bow. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lindsey – although there’s no need, I – ’
‘But my dear sir, there’s every need,’ I assured him. ‘In fact, I insist.’
~~~
Quiet corners were difficult to find in a hotel which was full to overflowing, but the management had opened up all public rooms in an attempt to accommodate people in some degree of comfort. Waiters were doing brisk service to and from the bar, while some judicious tipping secured us a table for dinner an hour hence. In the meantime, leaving my companion with his whisky, I went to find Alice.
I told her to be sure to have a good meal below-stairs, and, since I would no doubt be late, to make use of the bed in my absence. She said she would lie down with the quilt over her, and I agreed to wake her when I came up. What she thought of my chance encounter I do not know – possibly not very much, since the world of shipping and finance had ensured me many male acquaintances – but it would have surprised her to know the details of my former relationship with the man I was going downstairs to meet.
Not that I had any intention of revealing those details – indeed, keeping them secret had cost me a great deal over the years. For my own benefit whilst married, of course; but I had often wondered how my companion, always a friend to the rich and famous, would have fared had the matter become public knowledge.
He was probably less concerned now than he would have been, but there was still his wife to think of, the precious and inimitable Florence. She’d had her own lovers – in the courtly, romantic sense, of course. She was worshipped for her delicate beauty and worked hard at preserving the illusion of purity. Not for her the sweaty conflict of human congress, nor even, as far as I was aware, the passionless contact of the marital bed. We never met but I always thought of her as being perfectly untouchable, rather like a Burne-Jones portrait in the flesh: regular, faultless, and dull.
She was twenty when they married, but he had known her for almost two years. Oddly enough, I was also eighteen when he and I first met, and, except in the vital matter of colouring, some might say that Florence and I were not unalike. Both tall, both reed-thin, and although she had the exquisite profile – which I certainly could not boast – I had the kind of curly red hair that Burne-Jones might have died for. The kind that always attracted attention, the kind her husband admired so much.
When I thought of the intensity I had shared with him, I wondered how on earth he could have married her. But although dear Florence had no money, she did have beauty, and – they tell me – the kind of fey charm that seemed to captivate romantic young men. Amongst her suitors at home in Dublin she’d even had young Oscar Wilde begging for her hand.
Anyway, she turned Oscar down. Perhaps his wit threatened to eclipse her beauty, I don’t know, but she chose instead an older, more robust-looking man with some intriguing social and professional prospects. He was captivated by her looks, and because he was over thirty and it was about time he married, and because he could suddenly afford to, he asked her to be his wife. At least, that’s what he told me. Some years later, when the mistakes were destroying him and the fabric of his life was falling into shreds, he packed a bag, stepped on a train and escaped to Whitby.
More than two decades had passed since then. When I boarded the train in London, I would have said my perceptions were normal, yet in the last hour time had become distorted, making the distant past more real than the present. Until I rejoined my companion, that is, and found myself disconcerted afresh by his appearance.
As I took a seat beside him, he raised his glass and made some heavy-handed comment about the weather, to the effect that it had managed, extraordinarily, to bring us together once again. I felt that twice in twenty-one years hardly constituted a coincidence, and said so. He tried another tack. ‘I heard you mention Whitby – do you still live there?’
His enquiry prompted a taut smile. ‘Heavens, no – my husband and I lived mostly in London.’ At his quick glance I shook my head. ‘No, we’re not neighbours – that is, if you’re still in Chelsea? My home’s in Hampstead, overlooking the Heath.’
He chuckled then with surprise. At first I imagined it was at the distance I’d travelled in life – after all, I’d come a long way since last we met – but then he recovered himself and said ruefully: ‘Obviously, you know much more of me...’
‘Difficult not to – or rather it was, once upon a time. There was always something in the London papers.’ That was perhaps an exaggeration, but there had been enough in theatre notices and society columns over the years to keep me abreast of his activities. In hopes of discovering more, I managed to force out the words convention demanded, even though they almost choked me. ‘I was sorry,’ I lied, ‘to read about Irving, last year.’
His face became still; his voice heavy with sadness. ‘Yes, it was a great shock – although he hadn’t been well for some time... Ironically, it was his farewell tour – we were in Bradford, at the Theatre Royal – he was playing Becket.’ Looking into his glass, he said quietly: ‘I still miss him. We were friends, you know, for over thirty years.’
Exasperated by his loyalty, I had to turn my glance away. With a sigh that just might have passed for one of regret, I said: ‘Yes, great friends, I remember. But how he used you!’
He bridled a little at that. ‘Irving was a great man – the greatest actor of his generation. I was privileged to be close to him.’
‘He was certainly a great actor! And you served him well,’ I agreed sardonically, ‘far beyond the call of duty. But what did he ever give you, for heaven’s sake, other than the chance to watch him nightly from the wings?’
‘We were friends,’ he declared, turning his shoulder. Clearly, the subject was still a painful one.
I found myself wondering if Irving’s flamboyant style had landed them both in trouble; but when he faced me again he was wearing a determined smile. ‘Let us talk of other things. You, for instance. You seem to know all about my life, while I know nothing of yours. What is it that takes you back to Whitby?’
There was such irony present – in the fact of our meeting and its circumstance, even in his sudden curiosity – that I wanted, quite desperately, to laugh. Mad, hysterical laughter was bubbling away inside me, and I was almost afraid of what might happen next. I considered making some excuse and returning to my room. There, at least, I could pretend that nothing mattered. It was over, done with, all in the past; I was a middle-aged woman, a wealthy widow; no longer an impulsive and impressionable girl. And my adversary was no longer young, but approaching sixty. So why did I tremble when I looked at him? Why did those grey eyes continue to remind me of things best forgotten?
It was perhaps as well that our table became available. Over dinner we were obliged to discuss – I was about to say, less contentious subjects, but for me, in his company, most things were contentious. I don’t recall what we ate, only that there were several courses, and by the end of it my stomach was too heavy to suffer from any kind of nervous rebellion. I drank more than usual too, which for once was more steadying than otherwise. I was able to talk about my life with equanimity, relating the story of how I’d met my husband, the decade of challenge and excitement I’d enjoyed while working with him in the City.
When I met him, Henry Lindsey had been a childless widower, and, much to his regret, we had not been blessed with children. But that, as I explained to my companion, did not grieve me overmuch; I preferred the challenge of charter parties to children’s parties, and lucrative cargoes to lace-trimmed cradles.
It was a practised little speech, but, thinking it frank and original, he was both impressed and amused. There was a certain amount of truth in what I said so glibly, and although the unvarnished facts were much less palatable, this was not the place to divulge them. For the time being it was enough for him to know that I was childless. But that was another reason for envying the inestimable Florence. She might have hated sex and disliked her husband – as he’d once c
laimed – but at least she had his son.
The shortage of tables for dining meant that we were encouraged to take our coffee elsewhere. At last we found a pair of wing-back chairs in a corner of the reading room, and a young waiter keen to earn his tips. He kept up the fire and made sure we were well supplied with coffee and spirits, especially after midnight, when many people had retired to their rooms. I could have done the same, but the coincidence of our meeting gripped me as much as it did my companion. Having once broached Pandora’s Box, we found it impossible to shut the lid. To my surprise as much as my dismay I realised that the details of our affair had not been forgotten by him, and that he could recall incidents and events just as well as I.
The intimacy of those hours after midnight brought everything back. Shadows and secrecy, whispered confessions, fears and passions so powerful they seemed still alive. The memories were unsettling and the pain of them made me angry; although in some respects I think my anger was an advantage, since it took the edge off caution and brought out levels of honesty that might have shocked anyone else. Perhaps they shocked him too, but I’d kept a seal on my tongue for long enough. It did me good to say what I thought, to allow myself free rein with never a care for the consequences.
I may have railed against fate, sitting there in my chair by the fire, but my companion had the grace not to remind me that others would have given much to be in my shoes. Mostly I was aware of that, and in bad moments had only to think of my cousin Bella to be profoundly thankful; but just then that was no consolation. Bella was dead, which was another reason to be angry. If the Fates had to have their sacrifice, I demanded of the man by my side, why did it have to be Bella? Why couldn’t it have been her twin, Isa, lying there in her shroud?
Isa, dead, would have been a matter for rejoicing. Difficult or not, I knew I would have returned to Whitby under far worse circumstances than this, just for the pleasure of dancing on her grave.
Those sentiments, expressed so vehemently, did surprise him. He’d never forgotten the consequences of my friendship with Bella; what he did not know was how Isa came to be involved. To anyone else those details may not have been important, but he was part of that time, and suddenly I was as eager to tell him as he was to listen. I’d shouldered the burden alone for more years than I cared to recall, and wanted rid of it. Let him feel the weight, I thought; let him wince and stagger while he studied the options. And let him try to decide what should be done to redress the balance.
Two
There was need to remind him of the day we met. He’d always had a passion for the sea and storms, and I know he remembered that one in Whitby, because he wrote about it so vividly in that strange book of his. Under all the embroidery of a novel, events were much the same – the storm, the Russian ship, the wrecks. The great black hound, of course, was the legendary Whitby barghest, the one we’d talked about amongst all the other legends and folk-tales that abound along that coast.
As I recall, the excitement began around the time of low water, which would have been about two o’clock that afternoon. What shipping we’d seen that week had mostly passed on the horizon, beating well out to sea to avoid being driven inshore by those northeasterly gales. The coastguard had spotted a brigantine in trouble just off the Nab – far too close and coming closer. I knew it couldn’t be the Lillian, a ship in which I had a special interest: it was too early in the season for her return from the Mediterranean. Even so, straining to see her lines more clearly, I felt anxiety grip like a claw.
I discovered from a harassed coastguard that she was in fact the Mary and Agnes of Scarborough – but there were still men and boys aboard, precious to someone, in danger of their lives. Wondering about the lifeboat, at last I saw it being wheeled out to the slipway; but at that, like flies to a carcass, people were suddenly gathering to watch. Experiencing a moment’s contempt, I turned back to the task in hand.
That day I was working with Jack Louvain, and, because of the exceptionally high tide, we’d been transporting vital photographic equipment away from the quayside shop to his private rooms. By the time he’d decided to stop and take photographs, the piers and cliffs – which in truth were places to be avoided in weather like that – were thronged with sightseers.
Battered by the gale, fighting against it, loaded with camera and tripod and precious glass plates, we struggled to a suitable vantage point on the west cliff. The wind pushing us back inland was equally determined to drive the ship ashore, and it soon became clear that the Master of the brigantine had given up the battle and was making for the harbour. Whether or not this was a wise move remained to be seen, since huge waves were battering the pier ends and breaking over the lighthouses on either side.
On the clifftop we could barely stand. Mr Louvain had me hanging on to the tripod while he attempted to set up the camera for a view of the ship coming in – perhaps successfully between the piers, or more dramatically against the rocks. Either way, he was determined to capture a photograph, if only I could hold the camera still.
Below the slipway, the lifeboat was standing by, ready to launch from the beach. Folk were protesting, saying it should be out there already, offshore, where disaster was just a hairbreadth away. I could have told them there were rules to be obeyed, that a ship had to have struck before the boat could be launched, but I’d neither the breath nor the inclination to argue. For a moment it seemed all would be well, but then the brigantine was swamped by a massive wave. She came up wide of the harbour-mouth, beam on, helpless in the face of that howling gale. Jack Louvain was yelling at me to keep steady, but I was already on my knees under the tripod, trying so hard to hold it down that everything was clenched, including my teeth.
‘Take it, take it!’ I muttered desperately, knowing the ship had two chances – either she would roll again and not right herself, or she’d be forced to strike the shore. Praying for the latter, I opened my eyes long enough to see her being lifted bodily by the next wave, and another, as she was swept towards us; but I was not prepared for the unearthly sound as she was driven sideways on to the beach. There came a terrible, deep-throated grinding, topped by almost human groans of protest as every timber jarred, as planking splintered and canvas cracked, and seas gushed over the decks.
Whether Jack Louvain got his picture or not, in that moment I neither knew nor cared. My hands were still clamped around the tripod but I was too shocked to hold things steady. In common with everyone else I simply watched in horror as masts and spars collapsed and the ship sank into the pounding seas. Along the beach, the lifeboat was launched from its cradle into the foam.
As such things go it was dangerously poor, a case of haste and frustration almost causing another disaster. Those first minutes were agonising. Most of the crew were known to me; two were close neighbours. I crawled forward to see them fighting the waves. Relying on the force of the wind, maybe I was leaning out too far; the grass was slippery with spray whipping up from the beach.
I remember peeling wet strands of hair from my eyes; I remember my irritation as Jack Louvain shouted at me. Looking back I saw in the crowd behind me a man with a red beard, glaring so ferociously I thought I must know him. In my momentary confusion I almost slipped, but in the next instant he had my arm and was dragging me back from the edge.
He was tall and well-built; well-dressed too, but that didn’t curb my fury. How dared he interfere? How dared he grab me like that? Jack couldn’t have cared less. His concerns were to capture a record of wild skies, wilder seas, and that broken ship with her crew struggling to survive.
It seemed we were all fighting just then, the Iifeboatmen having a time of it, their boat pushed back by both wind and tide. They’d barely rounded the second nab, and were still a hundred yards from the brigantine when the boat grounded in the shallows, and oars were smashed with a crack like guns going off. In that moment of astonishment I freed myself. I was so angry I delivered a punch to my captor’s midriff that made him grunt, probably with more surprise than
pain. Even so, it jarred my wrist. We glared at each other in furious antipathy; then, with arms that were like iron bands, he simply lifted me out of the way and addressed himself to the problem at hand.
Speechless with rage, I watched as this man in his fine tweeds crouched down on the muddy grass. While Jack Louvain changed plates he held everything steady with apparent ease. I wanted to beat them both over the head – preferably with the tripod in question – but my attention was distracted by cries from the beach. Folk were descending by the cliff path, wading into the foam, making every effort to re-launch the lifeboat. It was an impossible task – the boat had to be abandoned. But at least the men were safe, which was more than could be said for the crew of the brigantine.
While a breeches-buoy was being rigged, we moved closer to the wreck for better pictures. It seemed to take forever, and the light was not good, but finally the apparatus was secured and Jack got busy as the first man was pulled ashore. He was just a boy really, more like a drowned rabbit after he’d been dunked a few times in those crashing seas.
Of those that followed, some were so exhausted they had to be carried up the cliff path, and one looked so inert I thought he was dead. As they brought him past on a makeshift stretcher his hands and face looked waxen; there was even a skein of seaweed around his neck like some travesty of a rope. The sight struck me with horror. When I looked again at the brigantine, I saw my mind’s own ghost-ship, the Merlin of Whitby, wrecked off Tallinn with the loss of all hands. All, including my father and grandfather, drowned in the icy Baltic seas of early spring.
I was just seven years old.
It was like the rekindling of an old nightmare. Shivering convulsively, for a moment I could have been sick. I doubt Jack Louvain noticed, although his new assistant did, and, mistaking the cause, was suddenly bent on ushering me to the warmth and shelter of the Saloon. Although a mug of hot tea would have been welcome, I had no desire to be escorted out again by those who were ministering to the needs of shipwrecked mariners. In the scheme of things a local girl, muddied and bedraggled, was of no concern at all.
Moon Rising Page 2
