The Shell House

by Linda Newbery

  Greg shook his head. ‘They’d have to knife someone before the Head would get off his backside. Anyway, it’d only make them worse.’

  ‘Be careful, though,’ Jordan said. ‘Trouble waiting to happen, they are.’

  Mrs Hampson’s book Shot at Dawn had an index listing all the First World War soldiers executed for cowardice or desertion. E. Pearson was not among them. Indeed, Greg would have been surprised to find him; if he’d been there, he’d also have been on the Commonwealth War Graves website. Some of the tales were appalling—men with nerves shot to pieces being dragged before firing squads, and even one account of a boy being executed while he was still too young to have legally enlisted. Greg was relieved that Edmund Pearson had been spared such a fate. Perhaps Faith’s researches had been more fruitful.

  She rang him that evening. ‘Meet me after school tomorrow?’

  Greg didn’t want her turning up at the gates again. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where we went last time? The Casa Veronese?’

  ‘OK. See you there then, at the CV, round four.’

  The following day he parked his bike and stood outside the Italian restaurant to wait for her. A brisk tapping on the glass surprised him, and he turned to see her already seated inside, chatting to the waiter. As soon as Greg went in, the waiter went back to the kitchens, as if they were young lovers desperate for privacy. But they weren’t alone this time; there were two other customers, women with carrier bags full of shopping, who sat at the table nearest the back.

  ‘Well?’ Greg said. ‘Did you find something?’

  Faith gave him a reproving look. ‘Hello, Faith, how lovely to see you, and have you had a good day?’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah, yeah, that as well.’

  ‘You’re really into this hunt for Edmund Pearson, aren’t you?’

  ‘Thought you were as well.’ If she was going to start being difficult, he might as well order something. He was ravenous; he snatched up the menu to see if he could afford anything to eat.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Faith conceded. ‘I am, now. You’ve got me intrigued. I’ve already ordered, by the way. Cappuccino, OK?’

  Greg nodded. ‘Are you going to tell me, then?’

  She took a notebook from her school bag. ‘We didn’t find much. Births, yes. Edmund Henry Gibbs Pearson, eighteenth of March eighteen ninety-six, Graveney Hall, son of Henry Gibbs Maynard Pearson and Elizabeth Mary Pearson. Baptized thirtieth April. No wedding. No death.’

  ‘Oh.’ Greg felt flattened with disappointment. ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘We found the deaths of both parents. It took us ages.’ Faith turned a page. ‘His father, April nineteen thirty-seven; mother, January forty-eight. She was seventy-three when she died—lived right through the second war. And we looked carefully for any other Pearsons, but the ones we found obviously weren’t anything to do with our lot—not at the right time, anyway. The Pearsons seem to have died out with Edmund.’

  ‘With his mother, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes. But Edmund would have been the one expected to produce the next generation. That’s what I meant. And there wasn’t a next generation, not at Graveney. But we didn’t stop there. Dad had the idea of going along to the local newspaper offices, to check the story about the fire. They’ve got microfiche going back donkeys’ years.’

  ‘Good thinking. And?’

  ‘Here’s what it said. Basically the same as the guidebook—and look.’ She pointed to her notes. ‘It was extremely fortunate that, the fire having broken out during daylight hours, no-one was injured. “If the fire had occurred at night there would surely have been fatalities,” said the Chief Fire Officer.’

  ‘So he couldn’t have died in the fire,’ said Greg. ‘Can I have a copy of that?’

  ‘No problem. I’m going to type it up on my computer, for the exhibition. I’ll do a print-out for you.’

  The waiter brought the cappuccinos; Greg explained about the Shot at Dawn book, and what Mrs Hampson had said about gravestones. ‘Another dead end.’

  ‘And here’s another one—I nearly forgot.’ Faith leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘You know you were asking about the chap who wrote the book? I asked Dad. He died six months ago—he was in his nineties.’

  ‘Only six months ago? If only we’d got onto this sooner! We could have talked to him. If he was ninety-something, he might even have been around when the house burned down and when Edmund disappeared—’

  ‘But the book doesn’t make it sound like he ever lived there or worked there. Anyway, he was a bit gaga towards the end, Dad said. Alzheimer’s.’

  Greg rapped an impatient drum-roll on the table. ‘Oh, this is hopeless! We’re getting nowhere.’

  ‘But we’re eliminating things as well. We know Edmund’s not listed as dead in the war. We know he wasn’t executed for desertion. We know he didn’t come back here.’

  ‘We think he didn’t. Or if he did, he didn’t die here. So what are we left with? Believed killed, that’s what we’re left with. Where we started.’

  After a moment of silence, Faith pushed back her chair. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the common. Just for half an hour. You could leave your bike here.’

  Well, all right. He wasn’t in a hurry, it was a warm afternoon, and he hadn’t got much homework.

  The common was the farthest end of Epping Forest, Green Belt land that saved the Essex countryside from being swallowed up in the sprawl of Greater London. From here, rides and paths led off into thickets of ancient woodland, where the ground was strewn with beech leaves and threaded with streams. Greg and Faith walked past the old timbered cottages at the town end and along to where the common widened, by the cricket pitch. If they carried on, alongside the main road to London, they’d see Graveney Hall facing them on its shoulder of higher ground.

  ‘I’ve been thinking again,’ Greg said, ‘about why I can’t believe in God.’

  Why had he opened his mouth? He’d told himself not to get into this kind of pointless discussion. She looked at him. ‘OK, let’s hear it.’

  ‘It’s the heaven and hell business. Not just that I don’t believe in hell—all those medieval pictures of people being pitchforked into fires and tormented by devils. I don’t believe in heaven either. It doesn’t make any sense to me.’

  ‘But those pictures only show human ideas, human fears. I don’t believe in hell that way either. Hell to me is being cut off from God’s love. But that wouldn’t be a punishment so much as my own choice—my own chosen punishment—because I can have God’s love if I choose it. Heaven—you don’t believe in it because you can’t begin to imagine it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. You might as well say you don’t believe in black holes because you can’t see them. They’d have been unimaginable a hundred years ago. There are things we just can’t know.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not logical to put it the other way round—it’s beyond us to imagine something, therefore it must exist. And why should heaven exist? What’s the point of having an imaginary world that’s better than this one? Surely the point is that we ought to do a better job of looking after the world we’ve got, because it’s all we’ve got—not kid ourselves there’s going to be something better afterwards.’

  ‘But Jesus talked about heaven,’ Faith objected. ‘And Jesus doesn’t lie.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t deliberately lie, but who was Jesus anyway?’

  ‘He was the Son of God,’ Faith said in a tone that admitted no doubt.

  ‘He said he was.’

  ‘He was. Would he have said so otherwise? Are you calling Jesus a liar?’

  ‘How can I know if he was a liar or not?’

  ‘He said, Before Abraham was, I am. I think those are the most beautiful words in the Gospels. Not I was — I am. Am always, for ever.’

  ‘How can you prove he was telling the truth?’

  ‘Because He always told the truth. He said I am the way, th
e truth and the life. His resurrection proved it—He rose from the dead, He ascended to heaven.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. Everything has to obey the laws of Physics.’

  ‘According to you. Materialist!’

  ‘According to physicists. I don’t know nearly as much about Jesus as you do—’

  ‘You can find out!’

  ‘— but obviously he did exist—at least someone called Jesus existed, who was a wise and clever man, a good leader, and obviously very charismatic. But just a man.’

  ‘Yes, just a man because that’s what God chose for him! But not just a man.’ Faith stopped walking. ‘What you don’t understand is that I’m not only talking about someone I’ve read about in the Bible. I know Him. And He knows me.’

  ‘OK, then—what does he look like?’

  Faith gave him a look of exasperation. ‘Does it matter what He looks like?’

  ‘It might. You tell me. Could he be the same Jesus to you if he was ugly or disfigured?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but He isn’t.’

  ‘You don’t know that! And I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I know I don’t know. But I know what I believe. There was that computer-generated thing in the papers—it looked nothing like Jesus in paintings, but that’s been rubbished. Is it coincidence that so many painters have given Him the same sort of look, the Light of the World look?—you know what I mean, the famous painting?’

  ‘It’s not likely, though, is it, that he’d have looked like that? The real Jesus was a Middle-Eastern Jew. Why would he have white skin? What we get is Jesus made to look European, because we think the son of God would have to look like us.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Faith insisted.

  ‘But think about it! The son of God we get from artists is young and usually good-looking. There’s this painting by Salvador Dali, The Crucifixion, and it’s almost sexy. I mean, it would be from a female point of view. This real body stretched on the Cross. It’s like a bondage photo or something. There’s a kind of masochism about it. Hey, I’ll get up here and die for you, and you can have a good look and get a thrill. ’

  Faith grimaced. ‘Oh, don’t! That’s a horrible way of putting it! Crucifixion was the most horrible torture.’

  ‘I know. But you look at the painting, then tell me if the Crucifixion would mean the same to you if Jesus was old and ugly.’

  ‘So? That’s Salvador Dali. People can do what they like with the image of the Crucifixion. It doesn’t change the truth of it.’

  ‘The truth is that a man was crucified the way hundreds and thousands of criminals were crucified by the Romans. People get what they want to believe. Jesus is a myth. The real Jesus, whoever he was, has been made into a myth.’

  ‘No. To you He is,’ Faith insisted. ‘That’s because you’re putting up barriers. You’re closing your mind.’

  ‘That’s what you always say when I don’t think the same as you.’

  ‘You’re entitled to think whatever you want, because God has given you free will.’

  ‘That’s another whole argument,’ Greg said. ‘Let’s not get into that.’

  ‘Some other time, then. We’ll put Free Will on the agenda.’ Faith linked her arm through his. ‘I like talking to you.’

  ‘Why?’ Greg asked, rather startled by the arm-linking; it seemed out of character.

  ‘Because.’

  Relieved that she hadn’t taken offence this time, he made no move to detach himself. ‘I didn’t mean to get into all that again.’

  Faith smiled but said nothing. He knew what her interpretation would be: she saw herself as missionary, him as the reluctant convert. She was welcome to carry on believing that if it avoided conflict. She didn’t seem to understand that sometimes he enjoyed arguing for its own sake. They had reached the farthest end of the common, where the open plain met the shrubby edge of the forest. The long grasses were end-of-summer bleached and there were ripe blackberries in the bramble bushes beside the path they had chosen. ‘Nothing to collect them in today,’ Faith said, looking. ‘Anyway, Mum’s had her blackberry binge.’

  ‘When is it, this Open Day?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Sunday week. You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘What would I have to do?’ he stalled.

  ‘You could help me sell stuff. The jam, and postcards and guidebooks. It’d be fun.’

  ‘I might,’ Greg said, wary of her idea of fun.

  ‘When I say fun, I mean it’ll be a lot more interesting for me if you’re there. Greg . . .’ She stopped walking, pulling him to a halt.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘You know what I was saying the other day about boyfriends?’

  ‘What? Have you met someone?’

  She laughed nervously. ‘I’ve met you, stupid! Do you . . .’ She looked away; he saw the rush of blood to her cheeks. ‘Greg, you do like me, don’t you—a bit?’

  ‘ ’Course I do. Would I spend all this time arguing with you otherwise?’

  She flashed him a sidelong, almost coquettish look. ‘You don’t show it.’

  ‘Show it how? What do you want me to do?’

  ‘What do you think?’ She dropped her school bag, turned to face him, looked up at him; he felt her fingers curling round his hand.

  ‘Are you kidding? What about your rules?’ he said lightly. ‘No sex before marriage, that’s what you told me.’

  She stepped back, eyes wide, appalled. ‘I didn’t mean that! Is that what you thought? It doesn’t have to be all or nothing, does it?’

  ‘I thought we were just friends!’

  ‘Why? I never said so.’

  ‘Thought you preferred it that way.’

  ‘Because I’m a Christian?’

  ‘OK, because of that. And because I’m not.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I have to go into a nunnery! Couldn’t we . . .’ She came close again, touching his arm. Awkwardly, because it was easier than talking, he put both arms round her. He bent his head; her face turned up to him eagerly. Their mouths met. He could tell she wasn’t used to being kissed, not like tarty Tanya, who had been all probing tongue and thrusting chest. Faith held herself quite still, as if she didn’t know how to carry on breathing. He held her gently, aware of the slenderness and strength of her body, and the clean fragrance of hair and skin. Inhibited by her innocence, he made the kiss a rather perfunctory one. What if someone from school was watching? What if her mum came along in search of fruit for jam? He stood looking over Faith’s head to where the broad forest track, marked and churned by hoofprints, dipped away from the common between holly thickets. She stood close and silent as if expecting something more. He released her, giving her shoulder a little pat as he might pat a well-behaved dog: dismissive.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She looked up at him in dismay. ‘Aren’t I—aren’t I any good?’

  ‘It’s not your fault. I don’t know—it feels weird.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t feel right, kissing you.’

  With a small sound of exasperation, Faith turned away. Greg stayed put, hands thrust into his pockets, looking down at the depths of trees behind trees that dipped and rose with the fall and swell of ground, and at the first leaves turning toast-coloured, as if scorched. He had messed this up, as he seemed to be messing up everything. He hadn’t wanted to hurt or upset her—again—but he had.

  Into his mind, vivid and disturbing, slipped the moment yesterday morning in the changing room when Jordan had turned and looked at him. It had only taken an instant, but there had been a sort of connection. An exchange, an unspoken understanding. He had stared openly at Jordan as he stood there naked; he had gazed for too long, and Jordan had seen and not minded. Jordan’s glance had seemed to say: I know. It’s all right.

  God, what am I thinking? Is he—am I—does he think—do I—

  He swung round. Faith had gone: she was striding away round the edge of the cricket pitch, back towards the town. He thought of yelli
ng, running after her, but stayed where he was and watched her go.

  Gaia

  Greg’s mental snapshot: In the swimming-pool changing room, Jordan stands beneath the shower, his back to the viewer. Water bounces off his head, shoulders and upraised arms. His body is slender and strong; his wet skin gleams in the artificial light. He is washing himself unselfconsciously, not knowing he is being watched.

  Greg watched Faith stomping along the edge of the common and out of sight.

  It was her fault, wasn’t it? She’d started this. They were becoming good friends till she’d spoiled it. Let her go off in a huff if she wanted to. If he ran after her and said he was sorry, she’d get the wrong idea again.

  Wrong? Right? Which was which? How could you tell?

  Greg heard Dean’s taunt: ‘You’re gay!’ Well, I’m not, Greg thought. Definitely not. I could have kissed her properly if I’d wanted to.

  Kids said that quite meaninglessly. Unless Dean could read Greg’s mind better than Greg could read it himself, and sort out the muddle, he couldn’t possibly know.

  Know what? What is there to know?

  Greg walked back slowly, kicking at leaves, thinking about Jordan. I am not gay, he told himself. Not even remotely. Just because I—

  Just because he’s always on my mind. Just because I’d rather be with him than with anyone else. Just because it’s enough to be together, not even talking. Just because he obviously likes me the same way.

  Again Greg thought of that glance, of what had seemed like a current running between them. But what had Jordan actually said? Hi. Ready in a couple of minutes, if you don’t mind hanging on. Definitely not the words of someone who had just experienced a blinding revelation. Male bonding, Greg decided, that’s all. He picked up a conker that gleamed among fallen leaves, and put it in his pocket for the cats at home.

  All this seemed so utterly stupid by the next day, that Greg couldn’t believe he’d given it brain-space. After lunch, when they both had a study period in the library before Physics last thing, Jordan said: ‘How about this evening?’

  ‘What?’