by C F Dunn
“Moping, pining,” Matias translated without looking up. He folded the broadsheet in half, the paper rustling noisily.
“I’m not,” I said grumpily, “I’m just bored and I’ve come to inflict it on you.”
“You’re too kind,” Matias muttered acerbically from behind the paper. Elena ignored him.
“The best thing is not to think about him; you must keep busy and then the time will go quickly.”
“That’s easier said than done. He said he would only be away for a few days; where is he?” I groaned, hollow despite breakfast. Matias emerged from reading, folding the paper and thwacking it on the low table in front of him.
“Why don’t you two go shopping; that usually works, doesn’t it? Men versus clothes? No contest. I’ve got to collect something from town so I’ll take you, if you like.”
“Excellent!” Elena whooped, clapping her hands, her eyes gleaming. “Now we can get clothes for All Saints – I love shopping.”
I felt my throat itch and coughed a little too enthusiastically for it to be real.
She folded her arms. “That was pathetic, Emma, you can’t get out of it that easily. Anyway, you want to look nice for Matthew, don’t you?”
“If he’s there,” I said, petulant.
“Of course he will be.” She poked my arm. “Get your things and we will go now. Matias, hurry up, you are keeping us waiting.”
Replacing the colour supplement on the table, Matias sighed, hauled himself to his feet and reached into his pocket for his car keys.
The town offered a better range of shops than I anticipated and Elena’s boundless enthusiasm for shopping proved contagious. Despite myself, I found I enjoyed mooching around the clothes shops more than I had ever done in England. And best of all, Elena wanted to talk about Matthew.
“My doctor never kissed me,” she said. “Not that I ever wanted her to…” she added, with a bubble of laughter. She held up an orange dress in taffeta, cut short above the knee and puffed out at the hem with layers of netting. I pulled a face at the concoction.
“Good grief; I’d look like a pumpkin in that!” She crumpled up with laughter and I had to rescue the dress before she dropped it on the floor. “Yes, but he only kissed the top of my head – does that really count?” I selected a soft, blue-green, shot-silk two-piece, holding it against me for her to see. Elena looked me up and down approvingly, and I put it to one side with the others to try on.
“Of course it counts – that is why he did it, silly.” I found her absolute certainty comforting. I picked out a long, figure-hugging, teal-green dress.
“This is your colour, Elena; what do you think?”
Holding it up to her shoulders, she examined herself in the long mirror.
“Da, I like this one – Matias will approve,” she said.
“Yes, but do you? You’re the one who’ll be wearing it.”
“I love it.” She swirled the dress around herself, pirouetting on the spot. “And Matthew did give you the cell phone.” She gathered an armful of clothes to try on. “You could always call him and say you’re feeling ill again,” she suggested slyly, disappearing into a cubicle to change. I went into the one next to her.
“I could not! That would be deceitful.” Tempting – but deceitful. “Anyway, that would be crying wolf and I wouldn’t want to tempt fate.” I imagined her silently shrugging her shoulders next to me. She rattled the curtain of my changing cubicle for my attention.
“Emma, what do you think of this one?”
The sugar-pink confection clashed horribly with her skin. I didn’t need to say anything; she took one look at the expression on my face and vanished to try the next one on.
I rejected the dark-gold brocade suit almost the second I put it on. It made me feel depressingly old, like a worn-out sofa – once glamorous and treasured, now faded and ready for the skip. On the other hand, the blue-green ensemble the colour of a kingfisher’s wing fitted the bill perfectly. We paraded in front of the long mirror, critically assessing our reflections.
“I like this,” she said, tugging at the peplum of my jacket; “it reminds me of Tsarina Alexandra’s riding jacket – but in silk.”
“It looks Edwardian; I always like that style.” I half-turned so that I could see my profile and then twisted a little more to see my back. The jacket flared over my hips, longer at the back than the front. Silk-covered buttons started just above my bust, and continued down, pulling the jacket in tight and emphasizing my waist. A broad revere revealed my collar-bone, rising to a high collar which framed my face and offset the copper of my hair. The long, plain skirt gently followed my curves, making me feel flattered and feminine; the outfit was eminently suitable for what was deemed to be one of the college events of the year; I just wished Matthew would be there for me to enjoy it.
“I hope they have shoes to go with this – matching the colour will be a nightmare otherwise,” I mused.
“They do,” Elena assured me from her cubicle. “It is a pity we have to wear our gowns as well.”
“You’re joking! I thought I’d left all that behind in England.”
“No, no. The Dean is very particular; we all have to wear gowns.” She poked her head out from behind the curtain. “Didn’t I tell you before?”
“No, you neglected to tell me that part,” I said dryly.
“Oh, da…” there were sounds of a struggle with clothes as she pulled a jumper over her head. “You know that Shotter takes this very seriously.” The struggle ended and she reappeared looking slightly dishevelled but happy. A horrific thought suddenly occurred to me.
“Staahl will be there, won’t he?”
Elena shrugged apologetically, “He has to be – we all do, it is expected. And Sam.”
“I’m not afraid of Sam.”
“Staahl can’t do anything, Emma – not with everyone there.”
“He doesn’t have to do anything; he just has to sit there and… loom.” And make me feel guilty, I thought glumly.
Elena stifled a snicker.
“Glad you find it funny,” I glowered.
“Sorry, it sounds odd – loooom. Shoes next, yes?”
“Shoes,” I agreed.
By the time we were fully equipped, Matias was halfway through his second cup of coffee when we joined him in the deli.
“Successful?” he called, eyeing our bulging bags as we bumped our way to the table by the window.
“Da.” Elena dumped her bags on the floor.
“What are you going to wear?” I asked him as I sat down, gratefully flexing my throbbing feet to ease them. He scratched the back of his neck.
“Tux, evening suit, that sort of thing – it’s pretty formal. Are you two eating?”
We plumped for two of the house specials, for which I paid, reminding Elena that I owed her from the diner. When I thought they weren’t looking, I took out the slim mobile from my pocket and checked it surreptitiously.
“She does that a lot,” Elena smirked. “Emma’s in lo-ve,” she taunted. I shot her a withering glance.
“I am not. I just miss his company, that’s all.” Annoyingly, they both laughed.
I wrinkled my nose as the tang of Matias’ coffee wafted in my direction and ordered tea instead and then concentrated on consuming the squidgy part of the burger while my friends discussed All Saints and I didn’t, my thoughts elsewhere. Elena suddenly prodded me.
“He looks like Matthew.”
My head shot up. “Who does? Where?” I asked, trying to see who had caught her eye.
She pointed and my heart leapt. A young man of about twenty or so, leaned against a lamp-post while he talked on his mobile, his bright-gold hair severely cropped until no more than wheat-stubble through which he habitually ran his hand as he talked.
Elena grabbed my arm. “Don’t you think?” she whispered eagerly.
Similar in colouring, the boy’s face had the same well-defined features, with a balance between beauty and strength for wh
ich models went under the knife. And when he laughed, his mouth turned up in just the same way as Matthew’s, so in that instant, I could almost believe it was him. But his shoulders were heavier-set, and his movements not as graceful.
“I see what you mean,” I conceded. “But he’s not. Are you sure you don’t know why he’s not back yet, Matias? He doesn’t seem the sort to break his word.” And I sighed without realizing I did so until Elena puffed her cheeks, looking like she had caught mumps. I became so engrossed gazing at the boy as I tried to picture Matthew that I hardly noticed him flipping his phone shut, looking up towards the deli, and right at me. For a brief second I could have been looking at Matthew’s eyes, then, just as quickly, he turned his back and walked away towards the end of the street, where he turned the corner and was gone.
Chapter 14
All Saints
The guilty Serpents, and obscener Beasts
Creep conscious to their secret rests…
ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618–67)
ALL SAINTS’ DAY MARKED THE EVE OF the new season, the precipice on which balanced the end of summer and the beginning of winter – the season of sleep and the long death. In Cambridge, while children trick or treated their way around the town under the watchful eyes of their parents, several of the colleges marked the last day of October with a service in one of the chapels – Christian light against pagan dark – where those of us so inclined sang hymns in celebration of life. The college at Howard’s Lake had long upheld the tradition of celebrating All Saints, and the Dean determined to perpetuate the ritual with all the nuances of class and status he could contrive.
Preparations were well under way, and still with no word from Matthew. The mobile lay mute next to my bed, and night after night I fell asleep watching it, willing it to ring. To fill empty waking hours, I spent time making my bare apartment into more of a home with a few soft furnishings bought while in town. There was part of me – long dormant – that hungered for a home and not just a place to sleep. It had not bothered me until now when I saw what Elena achieved and understood the investment she made in terms of her relationship with Matias; a solidity surrounded them, a permanency which I neither had now, nor attained in the past. Improving my apartment helped a bit, but the empty hole returned and nothing I did filled it.
I rarely dreamt, my sleep deep and restful for as long as I remained unconscious; but that night I woke gasping with my heart racing and a film of sweat across my brow. I sat up and bent over trying to catch my breath, my head blazing with half-seen images, words and phrases that spun in the whirlpool of my sleep-drenched brain.
Lynes.
I knew I had seen the name before in a memory lodged on a long-forgotten shelf at the back of my mind.
The air bit my bare feet as I crossed the cold floor to find the transcription of the Richardson journal I brought to the States with me – back to where it originated over a hundred years before. I had spent so long studying it over so many years that I hadn’t needed to refer to it in a long while. Now, there was only one word I wanted to find and, more importantly, the context within which it was written.
Laid out on single sheets of paper, the transcription had been bound with thin, red ribbon. Now faded, it passed through two holes in the margin like an antique version of a treasury tag. I pulled the sheaf of papers out of my portfolio and took it back to bed. The heating switched off, cold night air penetrated the room, and I huddled into my coat to keep warm.
Ebenezer Howard’s familiar scratchy handwriting scrawled across the pages in front of me like an old friend. His transcription began when Nathaniel Richardson reached the embryonic colony with his family. Page after page recorded their daily life: the search for land, planting of crops, near starvation, animal attacks and the death of his daughter. Somewhere in all that life, Richardson mentioned his former employer and the family which his had served for several generations.
The sun had risen behind a dense layer of cloud when I found it. Half obscured by a smudge and with part of the “L” missing where one of the margin holes punctured the paper, the name “Lynes” leapt out. Its context unremarkable, insignificant – the bland reference to when “Master Lynes lived” was nonetheless enough.
I didn’t bother with breakfast. I almost ran along the tree-lined path to the library, welcoming the warmth generated by exercise after the cold night’s labour. Thawed frost glazed each leaf as they lay dying on the branches. Without a persistent wind, they would linger there, a remnant of autumn, until the weight of winter snow overwhelmed them, and they fell.
I held a part-formed idea in my mind as I entered the hush of the building. The librarian’s desk stood empty, although the lights were on and the doors unlocked. I didn’t wait, but immediately made for the lift, impatiently pressing the button for the lower floor in which the archives were kept, willing the lift to hurry.
The quiet hum of the climate-control system welcomed me into the vault as I punched in the four digits of the code I recalled from my first visit. Feeling like an intruder, I made straight for the shelves, located the only one that interested me, and pulled out the box. Then I did something I had never done before, something I abhorred in others and would no doubt loathe in myself: I picked up the journal in its bag and, without hesitation, tucked it into the inside pocket of my coat.
I left the library feeling the eyes of every book on my back and, holding my usually well-developed conscience in abeyance, slipped back into my room before most of the college woke.
Black and accusing, the journal faced me on my desk, yet the shame I should have felt failed to materialize. I did not intend keeping the book, only borrowing it for as long as it took to transcribe the rest of the volume; for although not mine, the information locked inside it belonged to me: my inheritance, my life – and I wanted to release it. I searched around the room for somewhere to keep it until ready – somewhere secret, somewhere safe.
The long bench-cushion ran innocently beneath the length of the arcaded windows. I located the end, examining the seams. The top of the pad had a rolled and reinforced edge. I picked at the bottom seam with my nail, loosening the stitches, gradually working them until I could wriggle a finger through the hole I made, and I could open a gap wide enough to slip the journal through.
Only when the journal was securely hidden in the bench-pad, with the edge of the curtain falling in folds over the end of the cushion, did I sit back and feel the reality of my crime, adrenalin seeping from my veins allowing the guilt to flow in its place. The hiding place looked innocuous enough, except that it screamed “thief” every time I glanced at it. By this one act I had made a stranger of myself and of my conscience.
I went through to my bedroom and lay on the bed, shutting my eyes against the world, and I must have slept for a while because – when I woke – the sun bronzed the snow-capped summits with evening light. I tried to sleep again, but there could be no respite from the remorse creeping in around the edges of my defences. Eventually I gave up and went into the kitchen to find something to eat.
I half-heartedly munched on an apple while I tried to reconcile my conscience, wondering how Matthew would react if he knew what I had done, when Elena rattled at my door wanting help with make-up.
“Aren’t you getting ready yet?” she queried, as she came through the door wearing only a very short dressing-gown and looking like a long-legged colt, her new dress over one arm.
“Why, what time is it?”
“It’s five-thirty and we have to be there at seven for drinks.”
“It can’t be!” I gasped, checking her watch and finding her right. “Give me a minute to have a shower and then we can do our make-up together.”
“Matias is not going to know what’s hit him when he sees you,” I complimented her when I emerged some time later from the bathroom to find her dressed and ready.
She smiled impishly. “I have it all planned; he won’t escape.”
“Poor man, I ought to warn him.”<
br />
“Don’t you dare, it’ll spoil my fun,” she giggled. She tilted her head on one side, “You look… amazing!”
I looked down at what I could see of myself. “Is that ‘amazing’ good or ‘amazing’ bad?”
Elena ruined the elegant pose previously adopted by putting both hands on her hips like a fishwife. “You are so silly sometimes, Emma. If only you could see yourself as other people see you…” She flapped her hands, for once lost for words.
“That’s what I’m afraid they might do,” I said sombrely, thinking about this morning and wondering if people would see the guilt I felt written all over my face, which no amount of make-up could hide.
“I give up on you,” she said with a little more drama than strictly necessary. “Are you not wearing your cross? You look sort of… naked… without it.”
My hand flew to my throat and in a moment’s panic, I thought it lost. But it lay where I left it.
“Forgive me,” I whispered, and put it on where it belonged, and where it would stand sentinel to my soul.
It was already dark by the time we made our way to the reception room to meet for drinks before proceeding to the Great Hall where the dinner would be held. We went the long way rather than risk the open ground of the quad. The first of the Halloween revellers were just getting started and the students considered academic staff fair game. From the safety of the cloister, we watched a pumpkin run past, pursued by Dracula waving a string of firecrackers at the fruit’s waggling posterior. From all around the quad, figures in varying degrees of costume emerged, and their voices – intent on mayhem – echoed within the confines of the college walls. We quickened our pace.
We arrived earlier than anticipated to a nearly empty room. I scanned it immediately, hoping to see Matthew; he was not there, but then – to my great relief – neither were Staahl nor Sam. I swung my gown around my shoulders.
“Do I have to wear this all night? I’ll boil, and lobster clashes terribly with freckles.”
