Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  After suffering a stroke, he was unconscious for twenty-four hours.

  That lightning strike had come as a great shock to him, who’d always been so fit; and it explained much about the change in his appearance. His speech and general faculties were mostly unimpaired, although for some time his mobility had been badly affected. He said he’d always been too busy to notice the passing years, but in the last twelve months had found time to muse on the past, to consider his mistakes as well as his successes.

  Florence, he confided, had shown unexpected strengths. His illness had brought them closer together than at any other time, and it was apparently thanks to her that he was walking again. She had nursed and bullied him back to health and strength, and, when things were at their worst, refused to let him give in to despair. I was pleased about that, if a little envious, and even found myself sympathising with her. Now Irving was out of the way, she had Bram to herself, and was evidently determined to make up for those difficult early years.

  But, as Bram said, one thing Florence could not get over was Irving’s will. When his estate was settled, out of more than £20,000, there were no tokens of appreciation for his oldest friend and colleague. Not so much as a memento to mark the years they’d shared at the Lyceum.

  I too felt very angry about that.

  Fifty-two

  On the high ground inland the sun was shining on snow, we could see it from the road. Last night’s fog was still clinging to the clifftop, veiling the abbey ruins at ground level, so that turrets and gables seemed to be floating on a milk-white cloud.

  The cab dropped us on Abbey Plain and at once were in the heart of it, veiled and cold and aware of a hard frost underfoot. Pulling my mantle up to my chin, I looked up at the ruins and shivered, asking myself whether this visit was such a good idea, after all. I remembered that first night with Bram, the bold way we’d trespassed, and the brazen way I’d encouraged him to take my virginity. I wondered what on earth had possessed me.

  I glanced at Bram. He too was looking up at the smoky, mist-wreathed abbey; then he turned to me with a quirky, conspiratorial smile. I felt my own lips twitch, and, as the cab creaked away, we entered the churchyard together for the first time in more than twenty years. Apart from the cold it felt right, familiar, as though we’d been here only yesterday – or just a few months ago, last summer perhaps. Rimed with frost, the path looked treacherous in places, although the sexton had been out, scattering salt.

  Since our last visit a tall new cross in the old style had been erected to commemorate the Anglo-Saxon poet Caedmon. We paused to view it, then continued along the path. Here and there we diverted to read the old favourites, memorials to long-dead explorers and master mariners who had sailed from the harbour below; and those seafarers dead in foreign places, whose wives and children had learned to endure the years alone. I thought of Jonathan then, squeezing my eyes tight shut against the sting of memory. Later, I thought; later, when Bram has gone, I will go to the chandlery, ask after him...

  A slight stirring of air made the fog patchy, while here and there the sun broke through with dazzling beams of light. Across the way, the roofs and chimneys of the Royal Hotel kept miraculously appearing and disappearing like some castle in a fairy tale, but the grey chill between seemed ever-renewable. From where we were, it was impossible to see the sea, or to know where the cliff ended and infinity began. Despite Bram’s assurances that we were safe enough on the path, I was afraid he might be tempted to stray. Ignoring his protests, I clung to his arm.

  ‘But I just want to see whether I can find that old table tomb,’ he insisted. ‘There was a seat nearby, at a bend in the path – and the path divided what must have been two parts of the graveyard. Don’t you remember? Where the old cholera burial ground would have been?’

  He pointed ahead to the ghostly outline of a public bench that stood beside the path. Beyond it, to the right, I could see several upright stones illumined like soldiers on parade, but to the left was a blank wall of mist. As he strode confidently towards it, I had the most powerful sense of disaster.

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed, leaping forward across the grass to grab his coat. As we stopped dead, I could see that no more than a yard or two of level ground remained. In front of us, the crisp white grass ended abruptly.

  We stood there, trembling with shock, for several seconds. Then, very carefully, we edged back along the path. The bench, where Bram had so often waited for me in the past, provided most welcome rest. ‘How long,’ he murmured softly, ‘do you think it’s been like that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said carefully. ‘Small sections keep falling all the time.’

  ‘I suppose Lucy’s tomb could have disappeared years ago?’ When I nodded, he squeezed my arm and said, ‘Thanks for stopping me. I was so sure I knew where it was.’

  ‘It was the fog,’ I said bravely, but some instinct in me was aware of an uneasy presence, the ghost of Irving perhaps, or even the restless spirit which had given birth to the novel he disliked so much. I wish I’d left it there, he’d said to me last night of that disturbing tale, amongst the tombs of the east cliff.

  ~~~

  We were both chilled through. It seemed a good idea to take refuge in the church, whose interior I knew less well than I might have done. Despite those ancient walls, I’d resisted the place while living here, out of a stubborn dislike for established custom as well as an insistence on pleasing myself. Yet I felt the atmosphere embrace us with welcome as soon as we entered.

  The interior was less like a place of worship than like an old sailing ship, crowded with box pews and ancient galleries, and a mass of eighteenth-century furnishings. There were plain leaded windows and a shallow roof with skylights, which had surely been fashioned to withstand the ferocious northeasterly storms. I had a feeling it would be here until the cliff collapsed from under it, and even then that it would sail, like a well-founded schooner, across the seas to eternity.

  We found an open pew and seated ourselves gratefully, eyes taking in the detail all around. I chanced to look down, and saw the strong, clear lines of a small brigantine carved into the woodwork. There was such power and liveliness there, it brought a smile to my lips; Bram’s too when I pointed it out.

  ‘Who do you think carved that?’ he asked. ‘A small boy with a new penknife, or a budding naval architect?’

  ‘A bored and frustrated shipbuilder,’ I said, feeling my voice tremble between laughter and tears, ‘in the middle of an interminable sermon!’

  We laughed then, softly, while Bram squeezed my hand. He turned to gaze at me with quizzical affection, and I saw that he was moved too. He’d begun to ask me something when suddenly, behind us, a door closed. We both paused, breath halted, before turning to see who had entered the church. But no one had.

  The porch was deserted. Outside, no one was visible and the fog was rapidly disappearing, sinking like fluffy meringue to the level of the rooftops below. I told myself that we’d not closed the door properly when we came in, although it seemed a feeble excuse for such a physical occurrence, and strange not to see the visitor walking away. I was uneasy, but after glancing round, Bram said it was probably nothing. Anyway, he wanted to have another look at the edge of the cliff, to see for himself that Lucy’s tomb had disappeared. The sun put a different complexion on things, but even so I was reluctant to venture forth again.

  We walked with care to the far end of the graveyard, viewing the surrounding area from various angles until we were sure that the main fall had been some time ago. The old tomb was long gone, which was a relief, but from below came the surge and pull of the tide against the rocks, sounding with all the regularity of a heartbeat.

  In the cold, still air we stood in silence, a little apart, like mourners beside an open grave. Bram shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other and tugged at the brim of his black felt hat. After a pause he said slowly: ‘Is possession too strong a word? Or was it just an unhealthy fascination?’

&nbs
p; Remembering his state of mind then, and the times we’d spent here, fingers tracing the wind-scoured stones, I understood what he was asking. For a while the dead had been part of our lives, the creatures of the night had stalked us in the moonlight, and old superstitions had been reborn; blood had taken on new meaning, and I was still the victim of paralysing fear whenever I cut myself. I didn’t like graveyards, and I never walked in the moonlight.

  With an effort, I said, ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s over. They’re all dead, including Irving. You’re free, and so am I. We’ve survived.’

  ‘Yes. And now Lucy’s gone, too.’

  ‘Are you sorry?’

  ‘No, not a bit,’ he said decisively. ‘Relieved, I think. Unburdened – yes, that’s how I feel, as though a great weight has gone from me. I’d like to think of the sea carrying it all away...’

  That pleased me too, but still I stood there, listening to the sea, watching the mist as it dispersed in the sunlight. ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘that name you gave her, in the book?’

  ‘Lucy Westenra?’ He gave me a broad smile and squeezed my hand. ‘Didn’t you guess? You spotted so many things, I thought you’d have worked that one out. Lucy – light. Westenra – rays of the westering sun...’

  ‘Oh.’ I smiled at that, picturing the sunsets here, understanding at last the surname which had always mystified me. ‘Oh, yes, I see...’

  As I glanced up, still smiling, in the distance I noticed a man in black watching us. Shadowed by the church, he was too far away for me to distinguish his face, but there was something disturbingly familiar about him. Something that made my heart race in apprehension. Was he real, or a ghost?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bram asked as my smile faded.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said abruptly. ‘Shall we go?’ But when we turned the man had gone, which disturbed me even more. All at once I was keen to be back at the hotel, where blazing fires and hot coffee might dispel these lingering fears.

  ~~~

  When the time came for Bram to collect his luggage and say goodbye, it seemed too soon. We’d had two days of each other’s company, two days of intensity in which sorrow and anger had been turned to greater account; two days of atonement for all the wrongs of twenty years before. I felt soft, weak, wrung-out, but at the very last, I didn’t want him to leave me, didn’t want to be alone. He knew me so well, and with him there was no need to pretend. I even wished – but no, it wouldn’t do, even to wish. Better to leave things as they were. I think we both knew, without it needing to be said, that he and I were part of some other existence, never destined to be together in this.

  Aware of the bond between us, we came together naturally, with understanding this time, and affection. Reminded of our first embrace, I clung to him, and his arms tightened around me. I felt the softness of his beard as he rubbed his cheek against mine, and the warmth of his breath as he kissed me; he felt safe and familiar, a proverbial rock in my ocean of uncertainty, and I didn’t want to let him go.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he whispered, ‘but you don’t want me, my dear – not now.’ He kissed me again with tender affection, and then, like a father to a daughter, put me from him firmly and said: ‘You’re young still, and beautiful – and you have so much living yet to do. For goodness’ sake don’t waste yourself on widowhood. Go to Australia – see your brother and his family – enjoy your life!’

  ‘I will – I promise!’

  All at once I felt guilty for not mentioning Jonathan. Next time, I promised Bram silently; when I’ve found him, then I’ll tell you...

  I managed to smile, even to laugh a little at my own sentimentality as I wiped away a tear. ‘But we’ll meet again,’ I said, ‘in London. I’ll let you know my plans.’

  ‘Be sure you do,’ he said with mock severity. ‘Remember, I have your address.’

  And with that we parted. I watched from the balcony as he left the hotel. He looked up and raised his hat to me, waved from the cab, and then he was gone. Not for ever, not this time, but when next we met it would be as friends, not lovers and no longer enemies. It was right, and it pleased me.

  Fifty-three

  With Bram’s departure, Alice was inclined to fuss, but there was barely time to rest. I had Old Uncle’s funeral to attend in Robin Hood’s Bay, and knew I had to keep moving. It was either that or sleep, and sleep would have to come later. I set off to walk along the harbour, enjoying the sun, feeling the pull of old memories, and wishing I had the rest of the day to myself.

  Passing the fish stalls on New Quay, I paused briefly to gaze at the rows of cod and turbot, inhaling the wonderfully fresh salty smell and wondering why I’d hated it so much, once upon a time. But then I looked at the raw red hands of the girls and women minding the stalls and felt the agony of their chilblains through my fine leather gloves; saw the perpetual anxiety behind their smiles, and knew how fortunate my life had been.

  The cold blurred my eyes as I stood there by the harbour rail, listening to the voices, to the cry of the seabirds mingling with the sound of sawing and hammering from across the water. I breathed the scent of steam and wood shavings and wet canvas, and thought anxiously of Jonathan. It was hard to turn my steps towards West Cliff station and the waiting train, when all I wanted to do was cross the bridge, go into Markways’ chandlery and have my questions answered.

  The station was busy, and I found myself examining the faces of several black-clad men and statuesque women, looking for my Sterne relations. I spotted three or four, we bowed to each other as a matter of course, and later walked in a loose kind of group from Bay station to the house at Bank Top.

  The gathering for Thaddeus Sterne’s funeral could not have been more different from Bella Firth’s. Honour had been done to his memory by following all the old traditions. Every blood relative was invited, together with friends and colleagues, and representatives from all the families in Bay. Food and refreshment were available throughout the day for the funeral guests, who dropped in to talk, commiserate, and eat and drink until the time came to leave for the service.

  About three o’clock the procession started to form. The coffin was lifted onto the sturdy shoulders of six male relatives. The long line of mourners followed on behind, winding their way up the steep incline from the house to the little church a mile away.

  There must have been at least three hundred people. It was like a medieval pilgrimage. I had forgotten the feeling of pain and humility, that sense of doing honour to the dead. For me it was not just honour to Thaddeus Sterne, but to the whole of my family: mother, father, grandfather and grandmother.

  Before, I was too young, too ignorant, I had not understood. I did now. And Thaddeus Sterne in his ninetieth year was the last of his generation. We climbed the hill at sunset, we crowded into and around the little church, and we heard him lauded and applauded as a grand old man who had not only served his time before the mast but lived through five reigns, from George III to Edward VII. He had been shipmaster, shipowner, author and local historian. We knew that he would be greatly missed, not just in Bay, but in the wider community beyond.

  I bowed my head in acknowledgement. In the shipping world I had discovered Old Uncle’s reputation for astuteness, and, while I’d never done business with him personally, I was often pleased to claim a connection. After my marriage we hadn’t met again, but we’d corresponded from time to time. Mr Richardson said he’d always asked after me, and had seemed proud of my achievements as well as vastly amused by them.

  But he’d been a hard old rogue, amusement or not, no matter what plaudits they heaped upon him. An old Viking at heart, I thought as everyone flooded out into the midwinter dusk. As we prepared to follow the minister to the appointed place in the graveyard, there came a sudden flare of light. Torches were lit, at least a score of them, blazing against the coming night, lending an unexpected air of pagan joy to the final goodbye.

  Cheered by the warmth, by the flickering lights, it seemed there were fewer tears than smiles o
f triumph as we saw Thaddeus Sterne into the ground. Even the earth which followed was scattered with a hearty sound. Remembering the hand he’d had in my early life, I bade him a silent if rueful goodbye.

  As I turned from the grave, a man behind spoke softly into my ear. ‘If you ask me, they should have taken him to the Wayfoot at high tide – laid him in his boat with the sail set, and thrown the torches after him...’

  The comment followed so closely on what I’d been thinking, I shivered with the aptness of it. Half amused, half afraid, I turned to see a thin face and lively dark eyes. His clean jaw and sweeping black moustache almost disguised his identity. Almost, but not quite.

  Rooted to the spot, I felt myself begin to smile; I could hardly believe he was real. He took my arm then, with a firmness that proved his existence beyond doubt, and led me apart to where purple shadows disguised even the stunted trees. For an eternity we gazed at each other, and then he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. Fiercely, deeply, even angrily, until he remembered where we were and broke away. As for me, I was beyond speech, in a world of stunned, delighted acceptance, where words were unnecessary.

  The train was crowded, too crowded for conversation. He looked at me from time to time but mainly kept his eyes on the window for the short journey to West Cliff. It was probably fortunate. My smile, I’m sure, was far too revealing. Then it was into a cab for the short distance down to the Royal Hotel. What the reception staff thought as I asked for my key I hardly dared to imagine, since I’d walked out the door with one man that morning and was now arriving after dark with another. But I was past concerning myself with such trivialities.

  He remembered Alice, and when we reached my suite had the wit to lock the bedroom door before casting aside my raven’s-wing hat, loosening my hair and divesting me of my clothes. I didn’t protest and he barely spoke, but even in my bemused and delighted state I was aware of his tension as he stripped me down to my chemise, a self-control that contrasted alarmingly with the dark glint in his eyes. He didn’t hurt me, at least not intentionally, but his grasp was firm and his intentions clear. After all the restraints of the past couple of days, I found his forcefulness intoxicating. Within moments we were naked on the bed, and, with few preliminaries, making love with single-minded intensity.