Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  I would probably have forgotten the name of the Lyceum’s new production, Faust, except I had cause to remember it afterwards, just as I had cause to remember Mr Irving. Impressed at the time by tales of his extravagance, I recall being told that he’d insisted on going all the way to Bavaria – which I gathered was somewhere on the Continent – to study the style of architecture. He had to be sure, my companion said, of having the most authentic backdrops. While he was there, he’d even called their chief scene-painter over from London to make sketches of the local doorways and windows.

  Apparently, the scenery had been designed and was now under construction, while the play was in rehearsal and promising well. At that my new friend paused for a moment, as though afraid of being indiscreet, but then with a sigh of exasperation went on to complain about the expense of staging one play while another was in rehearsal.

  ‘What Irving refuses to worry about – refuses even to think about,’ he muttered grimly, ‘is money. He puts that responsibility on my shoulders. And then has the nerve to say that if I’m worried about the wages bill, then I must either juggle the accounts or go out and find additional funding!’

  His beard bristled fiercely in the lamplight. He sounded bitter, but it was as if he could say these things to me because I didn’t know these people, nor even fully understand what he was talking about. Even so, his tone and the sudden glitter in his eyes made me nervous; he was a big man, two or three inches over six feet tall and powerfully built, and I was unfamiliar with his temperament. I sensed anger and a barely suppressed frustration, a crackle of tension with regard to this man Irving that changed his demeanour completely.

  ‘Of course,’ he added tersely, ‘to him these are just vulgar details, and he mustn’t be distracted by them, not while his creative genius is at work. And he is a genius, don’t mistake me there – but raising money isn’t easy at the best of times, and just now...’ he shrugged and leaned back. ‘The public pocket isn’t bottomless, and what if the play should flop? We’ll be in hock up to our eyebrows – either that,’ he finished with a snort of exasperation, ‘or bankrupt!’

  My face must have reflected my feelings, for he gazed at me in bemusement. He laughed then and relaxed, patted my hand apologetically, and said he was just being foolish. No doubt Irving would pull the rabbit out of the hat and they’d have another classic to go on drawing the crowds.

  Changing the subject, he asked about Jack Louvain. ‘And tell me, how did you come to be his assistant?’

  That was awkward. I hated to prevaricate, and would have preferred not to go into detail, but found myself telling the truth as it stood at the time: that I wasn’t employed by Mr Louvain, except as an occasional model, and had been helping him that day purely as a friend. With heavy rain and an exceptionally high tide came the risk of flooding, and we’d been moving props and equipment out of the way.

  ‘So tell me about the modelling – what do you have to do?’

  Embarrassed, I gave a shrug. ‘Oh, nothing much – it’s easy. I just stand on the beach or by one of the boats, and Mr Louvain takes photographs.’

  Chuckling, he wanted to know more, and whether any of my pictures were for sale. I gave some careless reply, but his interest led me on until, almost without knowing it, I was embarked upon the story of my life.

  He was a sympathetic listener, drawing me out with encouraging smiles and questions. Such attention is seductive in itself, and besides, those expressive grey eyes studied my face with interest, seeming to like what they saw. Life stories inevitably encompass troubles, and I was young enough then to be indignant about mine. I found myself telling him heatedly of the sequence of events which had led to my presently unemployed situation, about the trials of my previous place and the argument with Old Uncle Thaddeus. I even told him something of how I felt about Jonathan Markway, one of the sons of the house where I’d worked, and he seemed to understand those mixed feelings too.

  The events of the day had brought Jonathan vividly to mind, and my chief concerns revolved around the fact that at present he was away at sea, facing the kind of dangers we’d witnessed that afternoon. And besides that, Jonathan didn’t know what had happened to make me lose my job. I hated to think what he would be told when he came home.

  The last of those worries might well have seemed unimportant to anyone else, but, to his credit, my companion did not dismiss them. Offering me the benefit of his wisdom, he did his best to be reassuring. After that, afraid I was being a mite serious, I managed to amuse him.

  ‘But you should’ve seen old Uncle’s face when he heard I was posing for photographs on the quayside. Dressed as a fisherlass too – I thought he’d die of apoplexy! Told me I was shaming the entire Sterne family...’ That hurt still, but I pinned on a smile. ‘He’s a ship-owner, of course, and lives at Bay – has naught to do with the Whitby side. Anyway, bad end or not,’ I declared airily, ‘I’m lodging with my cousin’s family now, so I can please myself.’

  With a raised eyebrow, my companion wondered aloud what Old Uncle Thaddeus would have said had I decided to embrace a career on the stage. We both laughed then, and with the clearing of our plates he wanted to know whether I would have something other than the tea I’d asked for with my meal. He was having whisky, so after some hesitation I ordered port wine, it being the only alcoholic drink I could taste in those days without gagging. It went to my head almost at once, making everything seem brighter, more alive. As the day’s events were gone over, I found myself seeing things through his eyes. Not as something desperately sad, but like a staged drama – wild skies, wilder seas, the human element battling against it – lives saved against the tragedy of the wrecked ships.

  ‘And after all that, the clifftop graveyard – I’ve never seen anything like it. The abbey – so dramatic – if Irving could see it, he’d be thinking of ways to use it!’

  Later, as we were leaving, he said, ‘I’ll not sleep a wink until I’ve written it down – I really must come back here...’

  ~~~

  Outside, the wind seemed less angry, although the tide was well up and licking at the bridge as we crossed the harbour. On the far side, by Jack Louvain’s studio, waves were already running along the road. It was a daunting prospect, but, with linked hands, we raced across to the safety of Golden Lion Bank. At the top we turned along narrow Cliff Lane towards his hotel and my lodgings on the Cragg.

  It was a familiar route for me, although within moments I realised the main thoroughfare beyond would have been safer and more sensible. Here were few shops and fewer passers-by. To bring a strange man this way, with dark alleys to both left and right, was like issuing a direct invitation; as a warm hand slid around my waist I was suddenly alarmed. This is where you pay for your meal and the evening’s entertainment, I thought; with your back against the wall and a hand across your mouth to silence any protests.

  I’d seen enough furtive struggles in the shadows to be under no illusion about men and their desires, or their means of taking what they wanted. While delicate young ladies might be protected from the realities of life, the rest of us were not. So I tensed against his arm, urging a few more steps, bringing us closer to our destination. Nearby on the right was the entrance to Pier Lane, no more than a narrow footpath and easy to miss in the moonlight. Between here and the harbour lay the maze of steps and stairs, yards and alleys that comprised the Cragg. If I had to run, once I was in Pier Lane he would never find me, not if he searched for a week. With safety in reach I could afford to relax a little, slow my steps, give in to the excitement of the moment. And I must confess I wanted to, despite my fears.

  A little breathless, I told him my lodgings were no more than a few yards away, and that his hotel was just around the corner. As we stopped by the school wall my blood began to race. His fingers against my cheek were gentle, even hesitant, I thought with surprise, remembering our closeness earlier. He made some reference to the blow I’d delivered that afternoon, which made us both laugh, and then he
thanked me for an unforgettable day.

  It was so formal, I felt let down. Clearly, the kiss I’d been wanting and half dreading was not to be. So I tried to put an inch or two more between us, to seem as though I didn’t want it anyway. I thanked him for the meal we’d shared, and just as I was thinking how polite we’d become, he bent his head and kissed my lips. A sweet kiss, a soft kiss, an almost unimpeachable kiss from an older man to a young girl.

  Except I was eighteen years old, full of vanity and port wine, and he was an attractive stranger from another world. I wanted to know that he found me attractive. I didn’t want to have to pay over the odds for the privilege, but nor did I want to be treated like a piece of precious china. So I kissed him back with warmth and enthusiasm, and hugged him while he recovered from his surprise. I’m sure I was babbling some nonsense or other as he buried his fingers in my hair and turned his mouth again to mine, but a moment later my words were lost in the depths of a passionate response.

  I could hardly breathe he held me so close, and it seemed he released me only to enfold me closer still. I don’t think I was ever more aware of a man’s strength, yet until that moment I had been used to thinking of myself as lithe and strong. He could have taken me then and there, if he’d been of a mind, and I would have been powerless to stop him. The fact that he set me down, hugged me more gently, and on a deep breath kissed my brow and cheek and lips in a kind of benediction, was due to his restraint, not mine.

  Feeling soft and slightly dazed, I would have clung to him; but clearing his throat, he pushed me gently away. ‘Go on now, Damaris – time to go home!’

  I was halfway across the road when something made me turn. Be blowed to good manners, I thought; I couldn’t just let him go like this.

  ‘But, sir, I don’t even know your name...’

  The sudden flare of a match lit his smile. ‘Abraham,’ he replied. ‘But my friends call me Bram...’

  I saw the glow of a cigarette, his hand raised in salute; and then he was lost to the shadows. I listened to his footsteps as he climbed the hill; listened until they faded into silence.

  Five

  On the way back to the Cragg, suddenly, like a pool overwhelmed by the tide, my mind was a swirl of impressions, the day’s events crowned by an evening so unreal I hardly believed it. Was this me, Damaris Sterne? Had a stranger from another world really listened to me, confided in me, kissed me?

  The words repeated themselves over and over until I was more than half-convinced I was in love, so dizzy with delight I even missed the turn to Bella’s house. Retracing my steps, I tried to pull myself together. What would she say when I told her? I couldn’t wait to share the wonder, crisis, luxury and – yes, fear. There had indeed been moments of fear, not just for the ships and lifeboat crews, but personal fear up there on the east cliff, with the wind howling and this strange man laughing at the danger...

  No wonder I’d been afraid as we came up the lane.

  When I reached the house, my excitement was dashed again. The fire was out, the kitchen cold; wind was whistling in the chimney and an icy draught made me shiver. The house seemed deserted. I wondered where Bella and her mother could be. The younger children were probably in bed, although it was still too early for the menfolk to be back. It was Saturday night, when most fishermen were driven to congregate in the nearest taverns; more so when the weather was bad. An unfortunate habit when funds were low and families in need; what made it worse was that Bella’s father had an inclination to violence when he’d been drinking. Nights like that, the rest of us kept out of his way.

  It was not a failing confined to Whitby, I knew that; nor indeed to any particular community. Magnus Firth wasn’t even a local man, he was from Orkney, with a tendency to mutter and growl which made him difficult to understand. Old Uncle Thaddeus said the man was a bully and his wife Martha a slattern; what’s more, they were several rungs below me on the social ladder, and I had no business living there. In essence he was right, but I found his opinions offensive.

  Anyway, Martha Sterne had been my father’s cousin, and in the early days I thought her much misjudged. She’d been a fine-looking woman once, with something of an education, and I often wondered how she’d come to marry such an ignorant man. She didn’t talk about that, but she did like to talk about my parents, especially my mother. I hungered for information about her, who she was and what she was like when she first came to Whitby, a wild Scottish fisherlass of nineteen with an incomprehensible tongue and a captivating manner. The story went that she’d charmed my father within days, and they were married less than two weeks later. But in Robin Hood’s Bay, my father’s family was neither captivated nor amused.

  So, instead of living in Bay, the young couple had settled in Whitby, where my father had introduced his wife to his cousin Martha, who had also married ‘outside’ and incurred the family’s displeasure. In speaking of those days, Martha managed to imply that she and my mother had been close; certainly, she’d befriended her when she was all alone and my father at sea. Six months ago, when I’d been in need, her daughter Bella had befriended me, and I felt driven by a fierce sense of loyalty to defend them both.

  I’d always seen my father’s family as critical and unbending, stern by nature as well as by name, in little need of affection and undeserving of sympathy. Yet that night, for the first time, I began to discern that they’d had certain standards which commanded respect. Standards of conduct that may have been exacting but, in a strange way, made for a sense of rightness and safety. After my evening at the White Horse I found myself longing for the company of people with discipline and good manners; for a clean house with whitewashed walls and scrubbed tables; for an array of polished utensils, and a cheerful fire of driftwood crackling in the grate.

  I lit a stub of candle and looked around, seeing dusty boards and grubby walls, tattered furnishings and what seemed a perpetual stack of unwashed pots in the scullery. In that moment, I experienced such a powerful wave of nostalgia for my grandmother’s house, I could have wept.

  ~~~

  Trying to ignore the grimness, I headed for the stairs. The house was old, built two or three centuries before in typical old Whitby style, at a time when seafarers’ homes were stacked against the cliff like boxes, mostly only one room deep but four or five storeys high. Like ships inside, with spiral staircases linking each floor, oak-panelled walls in almost every room and square-paned windows overlooking the harbour. My room at the top had the smallest windows but the best view, and was the thing I liked most about living here.

  I climbed the stairs, creeping past the first two landings, up to my eyrie beneath the eaves. The tiles lifted and clattered with every passing gust, doors and windows rattled, and, in spite of its position against the cliff, with every good blow the house seemed to shake. It had been a week of storms, and with high tides and heavy rain inland it was no surprise the harbour was flooded. From my window I could see most of it below the bridge, turbulent waters silvered by moonlight, the bridge itself a narrow line dashed by spray. Closer, between Tate Hill and the East Pier, the black hull of the Russian ship, the Dmitry, was being pounded by breakers. Even above the wind I could hear it shifting and grinding in protest.

  Picturing the rescued seamen, I remembered a warm hand at my waist and the strength with which Mr Stoker had held me. I hoped I might see him again one day; more than that, I stared hard at the moon and earnestly wished for it.

  I was still moon-gazing when I heard steps on the stair. As I turned, Bella burst in, breathless and dishevelled, her cheeks flushed from the day’s excitements. ‘Damsy – where did you get to all day? I was starting to think you’d been swept off the pier! I’ve been looking all over – where’ve you been?’

  She gave me no chance to reply, but flung herself down on my bed and at once began to tell me that a German barque had broken free of its moorings on the Bell Shoal, threatening to take half a dozen others with it; two ships had been wrecked on the beaches, and now ther
e was a force of floodwater sweeping downriver which everyone said would carry the bridge away for certain.

  ‘And it looks more than likely, I must say. There are whole trees and a dead sheep jammed underneath, and they say two little bairns and an old woman from Ruswarp have been drowned already -’

  ‘I met up with Jack Louvain,’ I said, not wanting to hear about drownings. ‘I was helping to move things out of the studio, when we heard about the Mary and Agnes. Mr Louvain wanted to take pictures, so...’

  I told her of our struggles on the cliff, but when I mentioned the lifeboat she interrupted again, big-eyed and earnest, telling me the town was abuzz with argument. Not just about the launching rules but whether the coxswain had done right in that aborted rescue attempt. Some said rules were rules, and a good cox wouldn’t let impatience turn his judgement, but others – Bella’s father amongst them – thought the lifeboat committee had a cursed cheek to question the ability and bravery of a man like the coxswain.

  Courage was not the point, I knew that. ‘Were you there?’ I asked Bella.

  ‘No, I was helping up at Spital Bridge.’

  ‘Well, I was there, and all I can say is, he frightened me near to death. He should have waited, gone further out. I was so worried, trying to see the lifeboat lads were all right, I nearly went over the cliff – would have done, if it hadn’t been for – well, the gentleman who was helping us out.’

  ‘What gentleman?’ she asked suspiciously.

  So then I had to explain – and it was gratifying, I must admit – all the day’s adventures and near-catastrophes, followed by supper at the White Horse with the gentleman from London.

  And then there had been those kisses on Cliff Lane...