Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  I was surprised by the informality. The Coroner addressed the family, summed up the inquiries already made, asked questions of the local constable about the finding of the body, the coastguard about the tides, and Cousin Martha, Bella and the boys about the dead man’s movements on the night he disappeared. Cousin Martha said that Magnus had left the house that evening to do some line fishing from Saltwick Nab; but, when questioned, she confessed that her husband had been involved with smuggling in the past, and that his journey that night might have had nothing at all to do with fishing.

  The Coroner’s voice took on a particular gentleness when addressing Bella, and in a quavering response she admitted following her father through town – how my heart stopped at that! – as he’d forgotten his supper and she was trying to catch up with him. But she’d been caught in the storm near the abbey and lost sight of him in the torrential rain. She said she’d been frightened for him but had been forced to seek shelter, raising the alarm next morning when he failed to return home.

  I let out a long, slow breath but dared not look up. We’d heard those violent exchanges: could it be that no one else had? But no one came forward and the Coroner did not press the case much further. In his summing up, he said that the possibility of Magnus Firth being involved with illegal activities at Saltwick Bay – such as the landing of contraband goods from Dutch or French boats – could not be ruled out. There was a possibility that he had argued with one of these dangerous characters, and might even have met his death violently – but there was no evidence for that. The strongest likelihood was that on such a night, caught in the sudden storm, Magnus Firth had simply slipped and fallen to his death. And that, the Coroner said, was as close to the truth as anyone was ever likely to get. He felt, therefore, that he must record a verdict of accidental death.

  For a moment I couldn’t breathe. I looked at Bella, but she was just as rigid as before. As the Coroner left, Isa took her arm and seemed to pull her to her feet; in the midst of the grieving family she appeared to be in a daze.

  As other folk filed out no one noticed me, not even Old Uncle Thaddeus, who went to speak to Douglas and Cousin Martha.

  I crept out, knowing I should have spoken to one or other of my cousins, but just then words were beyond me. Instead I kept my head down and walked into the village. With no particular aim, except to be alone, I followed a familiar path and found myself gazing blindly at the tiny house where I’d spent most of my childhood.

  ~~~

  The following day replies came to two of Bram’s letters, replies that were evidently not what he had hoped for. He sighed so much while reading them that I told him he was blowing up a gale, which raised a smile of sorts and made it possible for me to ask him who had written, and what had been said.

  Unfortunately, the one from his mother in Dublin was hurtful as well as a severe disappointment. ‘She’s written so much herself,’ he commented bitterly, ‘that I thought she would understand my ambitions.’

  Sorting the pages, he read out sufficient of it for me to understand that Charlotte Stoker was calling her favourite son a fool and telling him to pull himself together before he ruined his life completely. I could hear the note of impatience in her voice as the words were read aloud. This kind of impulsiveness will be your downfall, was a phrase that stood out, while the letter went on to remind him of previous instances of foolishness, not least when he had married that girl Florence Balcombe without a proper engagement.

  It seemed Charlotte could not imagine what the Balcombes had been thinking of to allow it; except that they had even less money than the Stokers, and considered Bram to be some kind of prize. A delusion that must have been catching, she maintained, since he promptly gave up secure employment at Dublin Castle in order to become manager to a strolling player!

  As I covered my mouth to hide a smile, Bram turned to me with all the pain and anger of a small boy. ‘What is it about mothers,’ he demanded, ‘that they know so well how to hurt?’ A moment later he added bleakly, in answer to his own question: ‘Although, I have to say, she never thought much of either Florence or Irving, and made no effort to hide it.’

  For a woman of such ruthless opinions, her reaction seemed mild. To my mind, the two of them were fortunate to escape with no more than bad reports, and Bram with a written castigation; but I did wonder what she would think of me, if we should ever chance to meet.

  None of this boded well, however, and I was soon as cast down as Bram. I hardly dared ask about the other letter, and apart from telling me that it was from his friend, Hall Caine, he said no more. In all that he had quoted, I felt conspicuous only by my absence.

  I began to understand that in sharing his plans to leave London and retire to Whitby as a writer, Bram had not mentioned me at all. With that, my heart sank further. Our future together was rapidly slipping away, while Bram made no effort, spoke no word, to make me think otherwise. He did not even look at me, perched on my stool by the kitchen table, but preferred to sit tensely by his desk, smoking one cigarette after another, as he stared from the window.

  Paralysed by misery, I sat in silence. After a while I forced myself to move, but although it was sunny outside it was also blustery, and the wind made me shiver. Even the garden looked beaten. Somewhere below, hidden by a fold of the hillside, a train chugged along the line to Sandsend, puffs of smoke rising like signals to remind us both of the world beyond. For the past month we had managed to pretend that reality did not exist, but now it was pressing in on every side.

  Panic clutched, and for a moment I could have fled from there. Then I turned to see Bram watching me from the window, his expression so precisely reflecting my feelings that I ached for him. That he was also balanced between two very different worlds was suddenly clear to me; I knew I had to fight for him, using every weapon I had. Why should I feel sorry for his wife, I asked myself; what was she to me? Not even his mother felt sympathy for her – a sense of duty, perhaps, but no real pity or affection. And an abandoned Florence would hardly be allowed to starve: she had too many well-connected friends and admirers. I had but one, and I needed him.

  Lifting my chin, I forced a smile and went indoors, twining my arms around his neck and rubbing my cheek against his. The letters in their envelopes were on the desk before him, but although I dearly longed to read them for myself, I picked them up boldly and skimmed them on to the kitchen table. ‘Take no notice,’ I murmured against his mouth. ‘What do they know? They don’t understand...’

  Whereas I did, of course; or at least that was what I was trying to suggest. That I knew him better than anyone else, knew his literary ambitions as well as his sexual inclinations, and was prepared to assist in one and satisfy the other. I was barely nineteen years old and thought I was so clever, so worldly-wise. I had learned that the sexual instinct could override many others, including the sense of right and wrong; I had learned that it could cross social and family barriers, and exist between members of the same sex; and I suspected it could also destroy those whose desires were constantly thwarted. If Florence was determined to spurn him, then Bram needed me. With me he did not need to pretend; with me he could be himself.

  Determined to prove the point, like some old-style courtesan I loosened his tie and slipped my hand inside his shirt, teasing him with little nips and butterfly kisses as I worked my way downwards. My intention was to seduce him into bed where we could both enjoy the pleasures of the afternoon. He responded but made no move to rise. Instead, he made it clear that I was to carry on, and pushed me down to my knees before him.

  For the first time I felt like the whore that Bella thought I was.

  Twenty-six

  In the past, a bit of teasing with mouth and teeth had been enough to arouse him. It was part of a game to which I’d imagined we both knew the rules. So far, and no further. But this time arousal was slow. I would have abandoned the game, but he would not allow me to give up, making me carry on to the end. There were no words, no endearments, just
a terrible intensity, and that final, choking conclusion.

  Afterwards, he simply let go of me. I collapsed like a doll at his feet, then crawled aside to hide my face in my skirt. I expected some gesture of tenderness then, but he offered nothing. No comfort, no apologies. His breathing was ragged for a while, then the chair legs scraped on the stone floor, and a moment or so later he said he was going out for a walk. I heard the door close. When he’d gone, I finally gave way to tears.

  I felt shamed by what had taken place, and couldn’t imagine he felt anything more than contempt for me. That scoured my pride as well as my affections. I blamed myself, and wept some more; but at last I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to wash my face and mend the fire. Then I filled up the water boiler so that I could take a bath.

  Thinking things over, I turned to look for Bram’s letters in the hope of reading them, but even in his haste he’d remembered to pick them up, and their absence was like another insult. I told myself I hated him; but then it came on to rain. At first I was pleased, but the rain continued steadily and heavily, and after an hour I was worrying about him being out on the moors alone, envisaging him not only soaked to the skin, but slipping down some hidden ravine, injured and helpless.

  It was a grim evening, but I was sorry not to have my work at the studio as a distraction. I paced the kitchen, peered anxiously from the window, and kept trying to estimate how much time had elapsed since Bram’s abrupt departure. Finally, I set about preparing our Saturday meal of rabbit stew. I wasn’t hungry, but it was something with which to occupy myself; and anyway, when Bram did come home – and I told myself he would, of course he would, my imagination was simply working to excess – he would need something to eat. Curiously, in extremity I did all the things a good Baytown wife would do. And when I’d bathed, I even sat down to wait.

  Darkness closed in early, and when he still failed to come home I began to feel afraid. What if he really was injured? Whom should I contact? I didn’t even know in which direction he’d gone. Watching from the window I found myself thinking of Florence, for the first time sympathising with her, since I could imagine her sitting alone, as I was doing, wondering where Bram was, whether he was safe, and whether she would ever see him again.

  She must have done that every night for the past few weeks, I thought, feeling wicked and remorseful and in receipt of my just deserts. And what of the boy, Noel? Did he miss his father at tea-time, when Bram was usually home to play for an hour while Florence entertained her friends? Even now, was he praying for his return?

  It was unbearable. I was so exhausted I went to lie down. I didn’t imagine I would sleep, but sometime later I was disturbed by movement and a light in my eyes. Confused, squinting, only half awake, I saw Bram at the edge of the bed, turning to give a sheepish smile as he undressed. As he leaned towards me I caught the smell of beer and tobacco, and even in my confused state I realised he’d been carousing somewhere while I’d been waiting for hours, not only torturing myself over the rights and wrongs of our relationship, but about whether he was alive or dead.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, it’s late, but I bumped into Jack Louvain, and -’

  ‘You’ve been at the studio all this time?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all – been around town, in a few of the pubs, talking to some of the fishermen. Marvellous fellows, I must say -’

  ‘But I thought you’d gone out for a walk,’ I protested, scarcely able to credit such callousness, scarcely able to enunciate the words. ‘I thought -’

  ‘Yes, but it started to rain, and I could see it was set in for the night, so I came back through town, and that was when I bumped into Jack. He suggested we have a drink together, and well, you know, time just disappeared...’

  Grabbing the patchwork quilt I did not so much turn over as fling myself away from him. I was so furious, I could feel my heart pounding and eyes pricking, but I would not let him see.

  ‘Oh, come on, Damaris,’ he said, as though the fault was mine, ‘don’t be peevish – one evening, that’s all. I’ve said I’m sorry, but a man needs a bit of male company sometimes, you know.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ I ground out between gritted teeth. ‘I was worried about you. I thought...’ Unable to say what I’d thought, I finished resentfully: ‘Anyway, I made your supper –it’s on the hearth.’

  For answer he reached out to caress my shoulder. I thought he was going to find his ruined meal, but a moment later he was leaning across the bed and pulling me towards him. ‘I’d rather have you,’ he murmured huskily, sliding a hand under the bedclothes and feeling for my breast.

  I was upset and he’d clearly been drinking; nevertheless, a variety of reasons told me not to object too strongly. Unwilling to drive him away again, I responded with a sulky kind of acceptance when he said he was sorry for what had happened earlier. I wanted to be loved and reassured, but even as I tried to draw him down beside me, he stripped the covers back and pushed my thighs apart. It was not at all what I had in mind, but after a moment or two I could see that he was going to fail. I murmured something to the effect that it didn’t matter, and raised my arms to embrace him, but he forced them up, above my head, and with a sudden bitter groan turned to my naked breasts, sucking at them and biting in anguished frustration. Since I was not in the least aroused, the pain of this assault was not alleviated by any kind of pleasure. He bit again, harder, and it was like being stabbed. With a convulsive jerk I cried out and threw him off, kicking him as I rolled away and covered myself up.

  It sobered him and he muttered an apology. I calmed down eventually, clinging to the far edge of the bed, persuaded to stay by a chilly sense of exhaustion and his fervent promises to leave me alone.

  I must have slept, since dreams brought me to the surface again. Erotic dreams in which I was being caressed by a faceless but persuasive seducer. Faceless because he was behind me, his mouth against my neck and the curve of my shoulder, his member hard and nudging rhythmically at the gap between my thighs. Then dreams became reality, and I was half giving myself up to this sleepy, sensual exploration, until that slow approach became a more serious offensive against unfamiliar places. One hand took hold of my throat and jaw, while the other grasped at the waist. He forced his way into me with short, sharp, ferocious thrusts. Tearing pain twitched every nerve-end, paralysing, turning everything to panic. I fought, bit, thrashed, in order to breathe, in order to be rid of him; but I felt impaled, pierced to the vitals, my shrieks reduced to a strangled protest. Within moments he was done, the gasping release of his climax scoring the agony of my humiliation.

  ~~~

  I hated him. In retrospect there was a certain satisfaction in having bitten his forearm deep enough to draw blood, and elbowed him so hard in the stomach that he doubled up in pain. But that did not answer my disgust at what he’d done, nor my sense of shame that I’d acquiesced to such an extent that he felt entitled to go on treating me like a whore. This time he did not apologise, but simply shook his head and murmured: ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

  Hurt and angry though I was, part of me believed him. But I could no longer lie there. Shivering, I retreated to the kitchen. My whole body ached. I felt used and soiled and in need of privacy. Streaks of blood indicated the loss of another kind of virginity. Not one I had been aware of; but a violation even so.

  Had I been alone, I would have drawn some water in order to soothe my hurts, but day was dawning and the sea was waiting at the foot of the hill. I reached for the dress I wore about the house; it slipped on easily over nothing at all. Taking a towel and a shawl, I walked out, leaving the door wedged open on the flagstones.

  Less than a mile down to the beach, and I walked it blindly with no thought except to plunge into the cold, cleansing waves. The tide was high, showing no more than a few yards of firm, dark sand. Shivering in the chill, I discarded my things behind a rock and dashed into the grey water, striking out at on
ce with strokes that took me far from the shore within minutes.

  The cold was numbing and I embraced it willingly; but my attempt to outrun pain was foolish with the currents sweeping down from Kettleness and out into the North Sea. As the sun came up beneath a low ceiling of cloud, I realised how far out I was, rising and falling on a long swell, and how far down towards Whitby. The windows of the Saloon were glinting in the sunrise; I saw brightly coloured bathing machines drawn up under the cliff, and suddenly all that I had ever envied and despised about the elegant and exclusive west cliff was very dear to me.

  I felt the hot, bubbling rise of panic and quelled it fiercely, forced myself to discipline every breath and make every stroke count. As I turned for shore the distance looked impossible; more than once the ebbing tide seemed to be taking me further out. Swimming steadily and aiming for the railway bridge at Upgang, I knew the currents would probably bring me ashore nearer to the Saloon, but I dared not let them sweep me past the piers – or even close to town. Half drowned and naked on a Sunday morning at the beginning of the holiday season really would cause a scandal. I could almost see the faces of the pious on their way to early service at St Mary’s, breathing hard as they climbed our local Hill of Difficulty with its 199 steps, staggering a little at the news, rushing to find a vantage point to see this naked young woman dead on the Scaur. Would they rush to cover me up? Would they think my death accidental or deliberate? Would they believe anyone could be so brazen as to swim without a stitch of clothing – or so stupid as to go out on an ebb tide? Such an event might even make headlines in the Whitby Gazette.

  Ridiculous thoughts, but they kept my panic at bay.

  Oddly enough, I did not think about Bram until I was almost within reach of the shore, when every breath was like a knife wound, and the effort of swimming made my limbs feel like lead. I did not know how long I’d been in the water, but thought about an hour, an hour in which some people would be up and about, no matter what day of the week it was. Being Sunday, at least no cobles were out fishing and no collier-brigs unloading from the beach. Faced with death my nudity had been an amusement but, within reach of safety, all at once I was anxious not to be seen. I swore to myself that I would never, ever, swim again without a costume of some kind, be it only a shift between me and a charge of indecency.