Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘Oh, he kissed you, did he?’ Bella said with sudden reproof. ‘Did you like it?’

  I thought about that, smiling, remembering the prickliness of rough tweeds, the feel of his beard against my cheek, and the wonderfully privileged smell of tobacco and whisky and freshly laundered linen. Touching chilly fingers to my own lips I knew that he’d stirred me, and if the events of today were never to be repeated, they would not be forgotten.

  I knew also that Bella would not understand, so I stretched out on the bed beside her, and said with satisfaction, ‘Yes, it was nice. And so was he. And what’s more,’ I added with a sly smile, ‘it wasn’t a bit like kissing a dead cod!’

  It was a joke between us, one of Bella’s most disparaging phrases, generally accompanied by a shudder of distaste. In spite of that, she was never without admirers. I thought my comment would make her laugh, but it didn’t. She simply pulled a face and asked: ‘Did he offer you anything?’

  I was shocked by the implication. ‘No, of course he didn’t! Why should he?’

  ‘Why?’ she repeated, as though addressing a simpleton. ‘Because most of them think we’re fair game, or haven’t you noticed? He bought you a meal – maybe he thought you were part of the bargain.’

  The fact that such thoughts had gone through my own head a short while previously did not make me any the less angry. ‘Well, he didn’t,’ I declared, ‘he wasn’t like that. Anyway, why are you being so hateful, Bella? It was only a bit of fun – I thought you’d enjoy it too.’

  ‘What, second-hand?’ she scoffed, sliding off the bed and feeling for her shoes on the floor. ‘It’s bad enough first-hand!’

  With that she went, banging the door behind her, leaving me stinging at those unexpected barbs. I was so astonished by her reaction I could do nothing but stare after her, going over the conversation in my mind, looking for the point where it had gone awry. It must have been my fault, I decided at last; perhaps I’d been too full of myself and the evening’s success, although I couldn’t think why she should be so provoked. We’d shared experiences before, laughed at male vanities, bemoaned men’s heedless cruelties; I was Bella’s confidante and sympathiser, and would do nothing willingly to hurt her.

  Mystified, more than a little hurt, I snuffed the candle and lay stretched out in bed. After a while I began to ask myself other questions, such as why Bella should be so contemptuous. Was she jealous? There was no need – she was a striking girl, with glossy brown hair and rosy cheeks, attractive in anyone’s book. For some reason, though, she thought little of it, while I was just the opposite, looking for my ideal in most of the men I met. In those days I longed to be admired, but I was tall and angular, with a mass of red hair which generally seemed to attract more jests than compliments. I blamed the Sternes for my height and build, as I did for most of the ills in my life. They were all long-limbed and square-shouldered, the majority with sun-bleached hair and eyes that seemed drawn to the horizon, as if perpetually in search of a sail.

  Perhaps a large single sail, I used to think in my more impatient moments, atop a dragon-headed longship, bringing their long-lost relatives from across the North Sea. Ten centuries might have passed, but anyone meeting Old Uncle Thaddeus out on the cliffs could have been forgiven for thinking the Viking raids were more recent events. For all his years he was a tall and imposing figure, and, with his thick white hair and flowing beard, resembled nothing more closely than an old Norse chieftain. All it needed was chain mail and a horned helmet to complete the image.

  The family origins went back a long way, as Thaddeus Sterne was fond of repeating. Not even he could say how far, but Sternes were certainly in Bay at the time of the Dissolution, when Whitby Abbey was stripped of its lands and possessions. Local records had them down as fishermen and boat-owners – as they were still – and generations of intermarriage had not blunted minds or bodies to any noticeable degree.

  The majority of the men were as able as they were clever, and I never knew one who was not a good seaman, although not all chose the sea for a living. The women were staunchly independent, known for a certain stoic endurance as much as for their good teeth and regular features. By and large they were handsome but serious, women who understood about living in a largely female community, helping each other out whenever they could, and bringing up children without a man in the house.

  The rhythm of their lives was in tune with the seasons and the demands of men who were away from home for eight or nine months of the year. It seemed to me that this had always been so, and it chafed at me like some kind of manacle. Perhaps if my Scottish mother had lived a little longer I would have seen things differently; but my background wasn’t altogether of the established pattern, so I didn’t feel part of it, despite being raised by a woman who was a Sterne through and through.

  As a girl I couldn’t bear the idea of being stuck on the same bit of beach as aunts and grandmothers and great-grandmothers before me. My need was to strike out, make my own footprints in the sand; and yet, ironically, I came in the end to a destiny that was very much part of what the Sternes were about. It was just that I travelled by a different route.

  Grandmother, being a Sterne by birth as well as by marriage, was not short of relatives or moral support after my father and grandfather were lost at sea. If nothing else, the women of the family understood tragedies like that. They could be kind and helpful in their humourless fashion, but philanthropists they were not. Most would have starved rather than borrow money from a relative. That was lauded as a virtue, of course, but there were two sides to it, and it was hard being on the wrong one, especially in winter, when food and fuel were low.

  With the loss of the Merlin our small branch of the family was suddenly orphaned and penniless. It was hardly a novel situation, which is probably why it excited less concern at the time than perhaps the victims felt it warranted; after all, investing in shipping can be a risky business, especially when the venture is inadequately backed. I’m sure there have been many heroic gambles which have paid off handsomely, and a few foolhardy ones too; but there have been many more foolhardy failures, and the tale of the Merlin is probably one of the latter.

  My father and grandfather, sailing as Mate and Master, were joint owners of the trim little schooner and a sizeable part of her cargo, which was tantamount to putting every egg in the same basket – something I would never do. But times were different then, and who knows what levels of need or desperation drove them to it. There’s no denying that success would have made them a fortune at that time of year, but an unexpected and particularly ferocious storm put an end to their lives as well as their hopes. It had long-lasting and far-reaching consequences for everyone.

  My mother, who was living in Whitby and expecting her third child, went into labour within hours of receiving the news. The poor little baby lived for a day and a night, while Mother took a week to die of childbed fever.

  My brother Jamie and I were too stunned to know what was going on. We knew our mother was ill, and I knew that dead meant gone, but Jamie always thought she was coming back. He was four and I was seven, and the only home we had known was in Whitby. After the tragedy, everything had to be sold in an attempt to meet the demands of creditors, and we were taken back to Robin Hood’s Bay, to my father’s family. It was a place we had merely visited, and all those people who said they were related were much less familiar to us than our old friends and neighbours on the Cragg. Father was usually away most of the year, so his absence was not unusual, but Mother’s going left a huge hole in our lives that no one attempted to repair.

  In those early days Grandmother seemed a remote and somewhat grim figure, but now, looking back, I imagine she was numb with grief and shock. Somehow – and I was too young to grasp this at the time – somehow she coped with the loss of her husband and only son, a daughter-in-law who may not have been all she would have wished but was still family; huge debts, and the sudden responsibility of two young children. It was hard for us to accept an
unsmiling stranger in place of the pretty, laughing, loving young woman who had been our mother. Unfortunately, by the time Grandmother was ready to take comfort from our presence instead of regarding us as a burden, we had become set in our reserve and our view of her had become fixed. She was my grandmother and I was her namesake, but I cannot say I ever discovered what she was like as a woman. It was a shame then and it grieves me still.

  She always said we could not expect charity from our relatives. Old Uncle Thaddeus, who had buried two wives and had no living offspring to support, would have given her his last penny had she been willing to accept it, but she always refused. I didn’t understand at the time, and it was never put into words, but they were first cousins and she’d married his brother. Whether he’d always hankered after her I don’t know, but I imagine she was concerned to keep a respectable distance between them. She did not want anyone – relative, friend or enemy – suggesting that Damaris Sterne was taking advantage of such a wealthy and influential man. Or worse, that he was paying her for something that would not stand scrutiny.

  Instead, she gave up her home and rented a tiny house just off the Square, taking on a variety of domestic jobs which were fitted into the requirements of the day. She was generally respected for that, and we were certainly well looked after, better clothed and fed than many children in the surrounding area. But what I remember most is the bare, scrubbed poverty of those years, and a longing for human warmth. Even while I sat on the broad stone wall and stared out to sea, I longed for the familiar smells of the kitchen at home, the big easy chair, like a nest before the fire, where Jamie and I would sit on Mother’s knee listening to stories.

  There were no easy chairs in Grandmother’s house; easy chairs, she said, were for invalids and old men. The only chair with any padding at all was an upright one, and that was Grandmother’s. Woe betide Jamie and me if we sat in it.

  After a while, probably when Grandmother was beginning to recover, she started to tell us stories, not so much of mermaids and water-sprites, but mostly of her family, the Sternes. We heard of their travels and adventures, connections with Cook and Nelson, and even one who was part of the escort that took Napoleon to Elba. If her intention was to give us a sense of identity she certainly succeeded, but in the course of it she fired Jamie with such a desire for exploration that nothing less than Her Majesty’s Navy would do. He was off fishing as a boy, stowing away more than once to escape going to school, and eventually, thanks to Old Uncle Thaddeus, he was allowed to go into the Navy with something approaching good grace. If not, he would have run off anyway.

  Given her ideas on gentility and our general lack of funds, the most she could do for me was to teach me things that she trusted would be of use one day. Housewifery, of course; simple accounts, elocution and good manners. In her youth she’d travelled extensively with my grandfather, and learned enough of French and German to carry her through. The phrases she taught Jamie and me went with the kind of history and geography not always taught in schools, but they were relevant to a seagoing community which earned its bread trading with northern Europe and the Baltic States.

  She expected me to marry and obviously hoped I would marry well – although she must have wondered at my chances. I know she made every effort to introduce me to all our relatives within striking distance, in the hope that one day such connections would pay off. As they did, eventually, although perhaps not in the way she envisaged. At the time I found it humiliating, since neither of us had the clothes to impress, and I was one of those girls who just kept on growing.

  Despite my prickly nature – or perhaps because of it – she had me trained as a lady’s maid by the Misses Sterne who lived a couple of miles inland. In return for their training, girls received board and lodging for six months and tuppence a week pin money. If they were any good – and most were by the time they’d finished – they received decent references and were introduced to a respectable employment agency in Whitby.

  I had two posts through the agency, my first as under-housemaid in a large house north of Malton, then after that as lady’s maid to a doctor’s wife in Middlesbrough. It was not a good place, and when Old Uncle Thaddeus wrote to say he was concerned about my grandmother’s health, I was glad to come home at once. There, I discovered to my chagrin that Grandmother had been unwell for some time, typically keeping this fact to herself. She was virtually confined to the house and could no longer get up and down stairs. When I would have remonstrated, she said with an echo of her old sharpness: ‘It’s no good – I’m an old woman now and this body’s about worn out.’

  Remembering, I found myself smiling. It sounded as though she was about to discard the old, worn-out shell for something bright and new; and then I thought about it and hoped she was right.

  I’d arrived home in mid-December. Over Christmas the nights were so bitterly cold I stacked the fire regardless of cost, to keep the cottage warm. One night, I remember going upstairs and falling asleep at once, only to wake in the early hours, shivering and wondering what was wrong. The air was like ice, and when I went down I found the fire out and the kitchen door standing open. Snow was drifting in across the threshold, while out in the yard it was an inch deep. At first I didn’t see her. Against white walls, in her nightdress and covered in snow, she might not have been there. Not until I went out with the intention of looking over the broad, protecting wall, did I see her, huddled at the foot.

  She was frozen and barely breathing, and, if she was conscious of me at all, gave no sign. Somehow I managed to get her inside and into bed. The fire was barely smouldering but the fire-bricks were warm, so I took one out and wrapped it in a blanket to place at her feet. Sometime later I was able to boil a kettle and make tea, and by then she’d wakened. Trying not to sound anxious or even bemused by what had happened, I asked if she remembered going outside. I thought it might have been a need for the privy, but she shook her head at that.

  To my astonishment, for it was unlike her to be fey, she said she’d gone in answer to my grandfather’s voice, calling to her from the cliffs. But when she went out she realised that he was aboard his ship in the bay. Unable to reach him, in her disappointment she sank down against the wall. ‘I suppose I was dreaming,’ she murmured wistfully, ‘of when we were young...’

  Aware of my own helplessness, I felt a frisson of alarm. I sent for Old Uncle Thaddeus, and he came at once to sit with her. As he left, I could see by his contorted features how much he’d always cared for her. To my shame, I can still recall my embarrassment.

  Since my feelings for him were at best equivocal I found myself resenting him. He had always admired her, respected her, and by comparison I felt I was judged and found wanting. Whether he was aware of my childishness or not, he sent for Grandmother’s closest relatives and, as she deteriorated, I was grateful for the help the women gave me. It was agony to hear those rasping breaths, impossible to persuade her to drink more than an occasional mouthful of water. In the evening of the following day she gave up the fight and passed away.

  For her sake I was relieved. I shed a few tears, remembering to leave the door open as I went outside. It was frosty and starlit, very still over the water. There were a few fishing cobles coming in, but I found myself – foolishly, no doubt – scanning the bay for the sails of a schooner. White sails against a dark sea; my grandfather’s ship, perhaps, waiting to ferry the departing soul of Damaris Sterne to a longed-for reunion.

  Foolish or not, remembering that night brought back a wave of grief so strong it caught me unawares. I was young then, and ten months seemed a long time, long enough, surely, to get over such a bereavement. But the silly spat with Bella had touched a well-spring somewhere, and I found myself crying for what seemed no reason at all.

  Six

  Expecting to wake early, I had hoped to get to the station to check train times, so that I could plan a chance meeting. It was not to be, however. During the night the storm finally blew itself out, and we were all so exhausted
after a week of hardly any sleep at all that the entire household slept on like logs. When I finally poked my head out of the jumble of shawls and blankets, the sun was up and shining from a clear blue sky, the gulls were crying, and someone in the house was frying bacon over a wood fire.

  My stomach, which had no right to grumble, complained as though I’d not eaten for a week. Although there was little chance of bacon for me, I hurried through my ablutions with cold water and a sliver of carbolic soap, and hastily dragged a brush through my hair. Fortunately my best winter skirt and bodice had not been worn for some time and were dry, whereas everything else smelled of wet wool and seaweed.

  Magnus Firth rarely spoke to me directly, but just as I was hoping to skip through the kitchen with a light word in passing, he blocked my way with his foot and demanded to know where I had been the day before. I glanced at Bella, bent over the fire, but she only shrugged. Her father was at the table, hunched over a breakfast that made my mouth water.

  ‘So where were ye?’

  ‘With Mr Louvain,’ I said quickly. ‘Helping him get pictures of the wrecks.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard,’ he said. Dipping chunks of bread into the fat on his plate, he handed them to the waiting children. ‘I heard you were seen with a fancy stranger.’

  Why it should be any concern of his, I could not imagine; but was afraid to say so. Unwashed and unshaven, with his shaggy black hair and thick, powerful arms, he was the kind of man to make any woman nervous, and he certainly had that effect on me.

  ‘A visitor,’ I said. ‘Mr Louvain wanted me to show him round.’

  For a long moment, Magnus Firth eyed me narrowly. ‘Aye, well, just ye remember – we’ll have no bastard bairns in this house.’

  I felt myself flush from breast to scalp, more with fury than embarrassment. ‘You’ve no right -’

  ‘I’ve every right,’ he stated aggressively. ‘I might not be one of your grand Sterne relations, but I’m your cousin by marriage, and you’re residing under my roof, missy, dinna forget that.’