Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘I can’t touch anything...’ His voice broke on a note of distress and he turned away, shaking his head. As I reached out to comfort him, he said again, harshly: ‘I can’t touch anyone, don’t you understand? Everything is forbidden to me. I can’t even hold my wife . . .’

  His pain overrode my own. I didn’t understand, but I heard the words marry you and can’t live without you and responded at once. He couldn’t marry me, but he wanted to: that was the main thing. I felt a great surge of love and gratitude and, in that moment, would have willingly laid down my life for him. I hugged him fiercely and reassuringly, while his mouth sought mine and we kissed with such intensity that I was dizzy. For a moment he broke to gaze down at me, to caress my throat and jaw, and then he was rubbing his thumb over my chin and lower lip, forcing it down, biting into it, thrusting his tongue so deep into my mouth I could hardly breathe. I felt the stinging flow of blood and heard the plea to bite into his lip. I struggled but he held me fast, breathing hard as he forced his mouth on mine again.

  The bitter-sweet metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, I realised he’d bitten hard into his own lip, so that his blood and mine were flowing together. For several moments, as sheet lightning lit up the horizon, it seemed we were melded together in shock; and then as I coughed and swallowed and retched, he picked me up as easily as though I’d been a child, and set me down on a grassy slope.

  ‘You’re mine now,’ he whispered soothingly, kissing and caressing me gently, ‘and I’m yours, always and forever. I’m part of you, just as you’ll always be part of me – nothing and no one can change that.’

  As I shuddered and drew back, thunder muttered not far away. He was keen to make love, but I wanted none of that. Pushing myself free, I wiped my lip and scrambled to my feet. About to render a verbal lashing, I was stopped in mid-breath by the sound of voices.

  I listened hard, trying to determine how close they were, and suddenly, as odd words became clear, I realised I knew them. My lips froze, my hand gestured Bram to be silent; Bella and her father were coming this way.

  I strained to hear what was being said, knowing Bella was raging yet striving to suppress it, while her father was trying to ignore and outpace her words. We were already some yards from the path, but as Bram stood up I gripped his arm and dragged him with me behind a patch of bushes. ‘I know them,’ I hissed, ‘so for heaven’s sake keep quiet!’

  Although they were still some way off, their voices carried; Magnus’s voice, raised in protest, rivalled the approaching thunder. ‘You’re daft – touched by the moon, ye silly little bitch! Now get on home if ye canna leave me be – I’ve work to do!’

  ‘Not till you promise to leave her alone!’ There came a low, unintelligible growl of words, followed by Bella’s voice, raised to a shriek: ‘You bastard! I’ll kill you! You’re evil, rotten, spawn of the devil – how does God let you live?’

  Lightning flashed, brighter now, and Bram’s eyes glittered at me through the darkness; then, closer, came a yell of rage, followed by shrieks and curses. A scuffle was going on, out there on the cliff, but we could see nothing.

  There was a deep rumble of thunder; then all went quiet, and that was worst of all. I could feel the pulse thumping in my throat, and Bram’s grip, almost crushing my wrist. A sudden torrent of abuse from Bella set us both breathing again; Magnus barked some retort, and I could feel the sweat standing out on my skin. On the tail of another rumble I thought I heard something else – a cry, a scream, perhaps – but it seemed far off and I couldn’t be certain.

  I stood up then, trying to make out where they were, what was happening. Peering hard enough to make my eyes ache, I could see nothing. The sky lit up, but succeeded only in blinding me. I stumbled in darkness down to the path and, with Bram on my heels, set off in pursuit.

  We were both rocked by the ferocity of that argument, fearful of the outcome as much as the imminent storm. But more than anything else I was frightened for Bella, and Bram seemed to understand that. We hurried along, watching the cliff edge, scanning the path as best we could. The wind sprang up, a sudden gale off the sea, accompanied by cracks and flashes overhead and huge, thumping spots of rain. Within moments we were drenched, battered and blinded by the downpour, deafened by the noise.

  We seemed an impossible distance from home, but another sheet of light showed the Black Nab, and a marionette figure ahead in the rain. It had to be Bella. The sight urged us on. We caught another glimpse of her across Abbey Plain, and then, with a stitch in my side, I begged Bram to ease his steps. I’d had some idea of catching up, talking, finding out what happened, but I abandoned it. I knew she was safe, that was enough. I preferred not to think about Magnus.

  At the top of Kirkgate Bram barely hesitated, dragging me straight into the Duke of York, where the Russian seamen had been welcomed the year before. I dare say we must have looked equally in need as we stood on the threshold. It was already after midnight and the landlord was on the verge of closing, but he produced a towel and a bottle from under the bar. With little more than a raised eyebrow, he handed over two generous measures of the best French cognac instead of the drinks we had ordered. Bram was mystified until I nudged him and said to ask no questions.

  We sat in silence, not looking at each other, too battered to speak. But with the brandy warming my blood, I realised what Magnus Firth and Bella were doing up there on the cliffs, and on a night with no moon. Warmed even more by relief, I had to restrain a smile. While the boys took out the coble and provided an alibi for Magnus, he and Bella would have been making their way to one of the hidden coves between Saltwick and Bay, to meet a boat, probably one of the Dutch coopers, bearing a lucrative cargo of gin and tobacco with no customs clearance. The dutiable goods would no doubt be hidden somewhere in the cliffs to wait for transport inland on some other dark night – or that would have been the plan.

  The storm may have changed things, but Magnus Firth wouldn’t be dead, not when the devil looked after his own. Knowing him, I imagined he was still there, waiting for the boat while sheltering in a nearby cave...

  Twenty-three

  Bram had been pestering me about Robin Hood’s Bay, and against my better judgement I’d agreed to take him there next day. After our soaking on the cliffs, however, and the hours we’d spent talking before a revived kitchen fire, I thought the visit would be postponed. But the rain had stopped before we went to bed and when we woke the sun was shining. Bram’s mood seemed equally sunny. It was as though the events of the night before had never happened.

  To my surprise he was up early, cooking breakfast, and saying his writing could wait; it was a shame to waste such a glorious day. Since I was just as eager to put the night behind us, I pinned a smile on my face, stood before the mirror, and prepared myself to face a difficult few hours in Bay.

  Once more taking the path along the cliffs, I was glad we’d breakfasted well. There was a searching wind blowing in from the sea, ruffling the waves far below and the heather above, reminding me that I’d walked this way too often before on an empty stomach, particularly the previous winter. From the twin headlands of Robin Hood’s Bay ahead, right round to Saltwick Nab and Kettleness behind us, the seas were busy with billowing sails. Pink and buff and brown, skimming their way northwards to the Tees or tacking down to Scarborough or the Humber, or even to the Thames. The sea was there alongside us, impossible to ignore, and even though we pretended to be studying the style of sails and rigging, hazarding where the ships were bound, what they might be carrying, I’m sure we were both thinking of the night before.

  I’d told Bram about the Firths as we were drying out before the fire, hesitating at first over the worst details, simply because I couldn’t find words to describe what Magnus did to his daughters. It was Bram who used the word violation, and that seemed to express everything. He was appalled, but somehow less shocked than I’d imagined; he was even able to explain why Magnus Firth had never approached me, and why Bella was being passed over fo
r her younger sister, Lizzie. It was a regrettable fact, he said, that some men preferred young girls. But for a man to violate his own daughters was truly unforgivable.

  In that light, Bella’s rage – even the worst of her curses – became understandable. A matter for sympathy, we both agreed. Nevertheless, we were both wondering at the outcome of that argument.

  ~~~

  We kept on towards Bay, coming out on to the road below Bank Top. The descent was steep as it swept down from there, but just as it seemed the road could become no steeper without being vertical, the chimney-pots and red roof-tiles of Baytown appeared, apparently growing out of gorse and grass at the very edge of the cliff. Gulls wheeled and hovered above the rooftops, while the cobbled road fell yet again, to become a street of shops and houses, with footpaths leading off to either side.

  It felt strange to be back home again, but I knew Bram would appreciate the miniature streets and tiny, cheek-by-jowl houses that made up Baytown. To me it was still the hidden, secret place of childhood, a maze of delights and constant surprises, of sunny, south-facing windows and back walls hunched against the cliffs and the weather; a place of hide-and-seek and games of catch-me-if-you-can.

  In part at least. But where houses clung together for protection, the inhabitants were close neighbours indeed, and, while they might have prided themselves on being staid and upright citizens, not all were above listening to gossip. For that very reason I’d been apprehensive about going there, especially with Bram. The word would go round that young Damaris Sterne had been seen in company with a gentleman, and somewhere a connection would be made with Newholm and housekeeping. Before the day was over, no doubt Old Uncle Thaddeus would have had his worst suspicions confirmed.

  For all Bram’s concern about being seen with me, that morning he gave no sign of it. He was ready to be charmed by Baytown, by what he called its ancient and romantic character. He insisted on seeing everything, so I led him into the maze, past high stone walls and whitewashed cottages, up steps and through archways to all the surprise views I remembered. A mass of rooflines, a curving expanse of sea dotted with ships and fishing boats, all appeared in their minute variations like a series of framed pictures. It was a place popular with photographers and artists alike, particularly watercolourists, who seemed to enjoy setting up their easels in the least convenient spots.

  Like every other visitor, Bram wanted to know why, when Robin Hood was supposed to be an outlaw of forests more than a hundred miles inland, he had given his name to this place on the coast. So I told him the forests were vast in ancient times, and anyway, the legendary outlaw had been summoned by the Abbot of Whitby to assist against a persistent band of Viking raiders. Robin and his men had defeated the raiders and earned not only a royal pardon but the right to reside by the sea at Bay, which place then took on his name to distinguish it from the older township, inland at Fyling. Nearby were the mounds known as Robin Hood’s Butts, where his men had practised their archery.

  With a teasing grin, Bram said the story was just about unlikely enough to be true. I was glad it appealed to him, but couldn’t enjoy his good humour. I was too concerned about whom we might meet, and the closer we came to the Wayfoot, the more my anxiety increased. We passed the shops and the lifeboat house, pausing where the cobbled street became solid rock, a natural slipway into the sea. The tide was just on the ebb, beach and rocks still covered, but within the hour we would be able to walk along at the foot of the cliffs, searching for fossils and shells. It was the sort of thing visitors did, the sort of thing we could do without being remarked upon.

  But Bram had different ideas. First of all, having spotted the Bay Hotel standing squarely on its rock overlooking the beach, he dismissed my objections and insisted on going in for coffee and hot buttered scones; and then, while perusing the scene from that vantage point, suggested we might hire a boat for an hour or so. It was something else visitors did, but local people did not.

  I felt conspicuous approaching old Fred Poskitt to ask would he take us out for a trip on the water. But having decided to assume the role of local guide, I’d have felt worse letting Bram make the enquiries. As it was, I had to undergo old Fred’s exclamations as to my sudden reappearance, all the enquiries regarding my health and present situation, and whether I’d been to see Mr Thaddeus. Of course I had to say I intended calling on him later, adding that I’d been very busy doing two or three jobs that summer which left me little time for visiting.

  All the time I was silently cursing Bram, who was winking at me from behind Fred’s back, but as the old man pulled away from the beach, he was soon distracted by the view. Mainly hidden from landward, Baytown made a pretty sight from the sea. I turned to look from time to time, although having no parasol I had to pull down the brim of my bonnet to shade my eyes. With my eyes half shut against the sun, I was aware that Fred was glancing behind occasionally, in the manner of all oarsmen; but then he looked, and looked again, and although his rhythm barely changed, we were both aware that something untoward was happening. Gulls were wheeling over a particular spot, their raucous cries drawing our attention to a group of three cobles just offshore.

  ‘Summat caught in t’nets, I’ll be bound.’ He rowed on, while Bram and I stared at the distant fishermen. Sunlight dancing off the waves made it impossible to see what had brought them together. ‘Storm last night,’ Fred declared, ‘so’t could be owt – bit o’wreckage, most like...’

  A feeling of dread overwhelmed me. Bram and I had been talking earlier about tides and currents, about that southerly sweep from Whitby, and the knack wreckage had, within a few short hours, of fetching up in the Bay. Dragging my gaze away from the cobles, I asked about the quality and quantity of salmon being caught that season, and managed to keep on the subject of fish and fishing for several minutes. After that, I could endure it no longer, and made the increasingly choppy motion of the waves an excuse for asking him to return to the shore.

  The three cobles were ahead of us, and by the time we beached I felt genuinely sick. I had a horrible suspicion as to that fouling of the salmon nets, and, from his glance at me, so did Bram. We saw people gathering by the Wayfoot, gazing at an ominous shape laid out on the slip.

  ‘Drowned man,’ old Fred muttered flatly, as he grounded the boat and helped us ashore. Bile leapt to my throat as I saw the body. The worst thing was trying to pretend we did not know who it was. But I had to look, had to be sure. No good leaving it to Bram, who would have kept me behind him out of a misplaced sense of chivalry. He’d never set eyes on Magnus Firth, and I wanted to be certain.

  It seemed to take an eternity to cross the beach. I felt my boots crunching on sand and shells, I felt the squelch of seaweed underfoot, but could not take my eyes from that group by the slipway. The gulls, determined and beady-eyed scavengers, were already alighting and taking a bold interest in the dead thing lying there.

  Ghastly and somehow shrunken, his body looked so much smaller than I remembered, more like that of a dead seal than a man. But then I drew closer and saw his face, blanched, bloodless, streaked with weed and mucus, and marked by strange purple lines. From nose to mouth and between the brows, they made a hideous caricature of his face; but it was him, no doubt of that. Besides, I recognised his Whitby gansey, as would others too. Where so many drowned, the patterns were specific, to make identification easier.

  I felt no grief for him, but had a light-headed moment of unreality in which I seemed to be looking down on everything from a great distance. I saw one of the herring gulls, a massive adult with a beak like bamboo, stride purposefully forward between the seaboots to take several vicious, darting pecks at the head before being kicked away by one of the fishermen.

  Giddiness was replaced by horror, and as my gorge rose I had to turn aside to be sick. Bram was solicitous where I would have preferred to be ignored, but fortunately a constable from the police station arrived, distracting everyone’s attention. Fred Poskitt took pity, said we should go before officia
ldom started asking questions no one could answer; otherwise, we’d be there for the rest of the day. Needing no second prompt, I thanked him and made for the slip.

  Bram was shocked, like me wondering about that argument. We did not need words – one glance was enough. Was it an accident, we asked ourselves, or had Bella pushed him deliberately?

  Left to himself, I think Bram would have lingered, no doubt returning to the hotel with other visitors to watch proceedings from the bar. I thought it morbid, but with a wry downturn of the lips, he said his friend Irving would have been fascinated. When in Paris, he liked to visit the morgue, to study the facial expressions of the dead.

  Revolted, I strode away up the bank, needing distance and fresh air. There was a shop halfway, where I bought some mint imperials to sweeten my mouth. As Bram joined me, we continued uphill towards the station. With a swish of steam a train arrived; it departed, chuntering, and a few minutes later the road was busy with a lively throng of visitors. I longed to tell them to avoid the beach, but, as Bram said, for many the discovery of a dead body would be extra excitement. Nothing personal to them, nothing to get upset about – except as a reminder, perhaps, that death waits for everyone, and sometimes in unexpected places.

  He was probably right, but I kept wondering why I felt so weak about the middle, as though the breath had been punched out of me. I’d feared Magnus Firth, even hated him a lot of the time. I might have been forgiven for being pleased at his death, but I was not even relieved; indeed, I was shocked, more fearful than ever. I could no longer fool myself that the storm and that violent argument were part of a nightmare. Seeing Magnus Firth dead on the beach proved it was real enough. And raised some frightening questions.

  Suddenly, Bram gave a muffled exclamation and said something I barely caught until it was too late. He stopped, while I turned and glanced back in confusion, to see him smiling and raising his hat to two elegant ladies in pastel dresses and pretty hats. The elder of the two was a regular visitor to Whitby; I recognised her as the wife of Mr du Maurier, the artist. In the very same moment, to my dismay, she cast her eyes over me. I felt naked, seen through, judged and found wanting, and knew that no matter what Bram said or did to cover the situation, this woman would not believe him. In one glance she had seen what she wanted to see, and needed no further proof.