Billie's Kiss

by Elizabeth Knox

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The captain told the pilot – by the by – that its seats were in the hold, where they’d be safe from the weather.’

  Geordie managed to start his voice again by complimenting Billie on her memory.

  She was impatient. ‘I’m always having to remember when people tell me what something says – trains leaving at ten after four, or best mustard seed at tuppence a pound. My memory makes up a little for my muddle about words.’ She looked back at Murdo. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind me being coarse. If Mr Macleod didn’t like Lord Hallowhulme, perhaps he did something to the leather seats. Something that required him to pull his pants down.’

  Murdo frowned at Billie. Geordie said that he thought it was very unlikely. The pilot wouldn’t want to risk his job. Surely not.

  ‘No,’ said Murdo.

  Billie Paxton kicked the leg of her chair with the heel of her boot. To cover her impatience she got up. Her face was pink. She said that that wasn’t the only thing she could think of. She could imagine another thing – but none of it was relevant. Her sentences became a series of stuttered hisses. She said, ‘It wasn’t sin or sh … shank that sip … sank that ship,’ then, recovering, ‘whether it was malice and dirtiness, or … or they went down there and liked the leather so much they …’ She trailed off, stared from Geordie to Murdo, her throat working, swallowing over and over as though she were about to be sick. ‘There’s no answer in what I saw Macleod do or what I thought he might have done.’

  Geordie started toward her, full of concern, but Billie put her hand in her pocket, found something and held it out, straight-armed, between them. Geordie saw a button made of plaited pigskin, which she gripped by its looped brass post. She held it out between her and them as a priest brandishes a crucifix at armed heathen. ‘This is a button from Henry’s jacket. It was found in Edith’s hand,’ she said. And then, pocketing the button once more, she bolted from the room. She slammed the door on her skirt, and the men heard her fall. They watched as the door opened again, just enough to free the skirt, and listened to her blunder away down the hall.

  Geordie turned back to Murdo. He was about to say he thought Miss Paxton hadn’t told herself that before telling them. But Geordie saw that Murdo had his eyes closed. ‘Mr Hesketh?’ Geordie said.

  Murdo, quietly, from some very peaceful place, possibly a grave, said, ‘Mr Betler.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t intend to precipitate that crisis.’

  ‘How kind of you.’

  ‘But it could have been better managed.’

  Murdo opened his eyes and Geordie found himself looking at Ian’s white bear. The snowbank suddenly had eyes, its breath became visible; still, it was impossible to tell what it intended until it moved. ‘Betler managed, you mean, Geordie,’ Murdo Hesketh said. For half a minute he was silent, and only stared, then he used Geordie’s name again. ‘Geordie, one minute you say “two heads are better”, then you say “you” – “you didn’t intend”. It isn’t consistent. Are we not allies? Are we not looking for exactly the same thing – a reason for Ian’s death – and redress for it? Geordie – haven’t you done sorting Ian’s affairs? Haven’t you seen him decently buried? Why are you still here? You’re not my man, Geordie. You’re Andrew Tannoy’s man.’

  ‘Well.’ Geordie was irritable. ‘I hadn’t realised I was expected to make a declaration of loyalty or to refrain entirely from criticising your manner of proceeding. Are those the terms of our alliance, Mr Hesketh? You’re being ridiculous. The fact is that you don’t want an ally. You hate help so much that Ian had to go about like a mute for these last few years. Deaf and dumb and inoffensive to your dignity.’ Geordie heard himself say all this with some surprise. He had only thought to defend himself, show some mettle. He watched Murdo Hesketh’s eyes pale, turn almost silver in the indoor light, and his lips turn white. Geordie said, quickly, ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Murdo went and sat by the fire. He put a hand up to the side of his face, shielding it not from the flames but from Geordie, who watched the orange light shining through fingers, a rosy ear, the thick, glassy hair. ‘I know what Ian did for me,’ Murdo said.

  ‘He admired you – too much, I always thought. I’ve spent the last three years on and off trying to persuade him to leave you.’

  ‘Ian didn’t drown because he admired me too much.’

  Geordie wondered if he’d heard that right – Murdo’s emphasis on his brother’s name. That emphasis said that there was someone else who had drowned because they admired him.

  Murdo went on, directing his words to the fire. He said, ‘I want to make this clear. I don’t need your help, and I don’t want it. Ian was my friend. But I don’t want your friendship, and I don’t need it. Because we have the same goal we will inevitably find ourselves working together. But just remember: I don’t want you.’

  It was at that moment that Geordie, in a surge of pity mixed with stubborn indignation, decided that he was going to save Murdo’s miserable life. He said, ‘Very well. You can stop now. I understand you.’

  ‘Listen.’ Murdo was about to propose something. Geordie stopped him by saying he’d listen only if Mr Hesketh looked at him, and Murdo turned from the fire, conscious and ashamed of the signs of tears on his face but determined neither to hide nor show them. And Geordie saw why Ian had loved Murdo Hesketh – he saw nerve, pride independent of dignity, the man who lied to his doomed brother-in-law about his dead sister, the man Karl Borg imagined could somehow save him. Murdo was saying something Geordie had to hear. Geordie held up a hand and made Murdo go back.

  ‘Listen,’ Murdo said again, and paused to see that he had Geordie’s attention. ‘Miss Paxton couldn’t be expected to think of this. Macleod was buckling his belt and tucking his shirt back in. She said he stopped on the ladder to do it. He didn’t mean to be seen. She was the only passenger on the windward side of the ship, in the cold, where no one could reasonably be expected to be lurking.’

  Geordie nearly laughed at the image of Billie Paxton lurking.

  ‘Macleod had something under his shirt. He’d removed it in the hold.’

  Geordie lifted his brows.

  ‘It was wound around his waist. It was measured, down to the last minute, and maybe no one was meant to die – but the ship was too slow. It was a fuse.’

  SUNDAY MORNING was calm and clear. Billie left Henry under the eye of Jane Tegner, who had undertaken to read him the main stories in yesterday’s newspaper. Jane hadn’t gone to church. She said that with her back she couldn’t endure even an hour in Reverend Mulberry’s hard pews. No one had pressed Billie to attend. Perhaps they guessed she’d not find God in a church she’d only entered to identify her sister’s body.

  Billie ran down to the gatehouse. She found Alan and tried for size the half a vest she’d knitted – held it against his back. She said that Minnie should have thought of it, and he said Minnie was too busy thinking to have thought. Then he apologised – he’d forgotten about the beach. They pelted back to the castle together, and while Alan harnessed Kirsty, Billie put her knitting away and fetched the matches and paper that Alan said they’d need.

  They hurried Kirsty through town before church was out. As they passed it they heard singing – Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, Who bid’st the mighty ocean deep, Its own appointed limits keep …

  THE SUN was hot, the air still. Kirsty put her nose down and blew at the dry sand, each nostril making its own dimple. Billie could see that Alan was disappointed. On the way over they had noticed that the sea wasn’t as smooth as it had been on their last visit. But until they got down through the dunes and onto the beach they weren’t able to gauge the scale of the surf. Though the air was still, and had been for twelve hours, the sea hadn’t yet come down. Steep five-foot waves were breaking at the high-water mark. The beach was steep, too, and the waves broke close into shore once their troughs began to drag and slow and their crests to topple.
r />   Well – Alan said – they were here now, and it was a nice day with no wind so at least the smoke of their fire would go straight up and not whip around and get in their eyes. He went a short way toward the water and chose a spot where the southerly had heaped fine sand up against a tuft of dune grass. He bent the grass to incorporate it into his pyre, and over the grass and balled newspaper he made a cage of the split kindling he’d brought with him. Kindling, and a bag of dried peats. Billie told Alan that the sea she knew best was often like this – its shelved stony beaches, beaches built up with river stones and broken roof tiles. There was usually a strip of pebbles where the waves broke, on which it was possible to stand upright. But of course the larger stones were often spherical, or near to it, and, as the beach was shelved, it was impossible to walk into the water. ‘People limp, as if lame,’ Billie said. ‘Or they sit down where the surf is creaming – I’ve seen boys whose backsides are dappled with bruises from being lifted a little on each wave then dropped back down on the stones.’ She laughed at Alan’s look. ‘I was little – we were all ragged and savage – though my backside was always covered.’

  Alan grinned at her, he poked the fire.

  Billie realised that she’d laughed. Several times now. She went on to say that those who could swim – when the sea was high like this – would time their entry so as not to be knocked back into the broken water by the breakers. The trick was timing, to jump out over a lower wave and swim beyond where they were breaking. Then to tread water – sometimes for hours – going up and down and only slapped in passing by the peaks of the waves. This kind of sea was, in fact, safer, because there was no undertow. ‘See,’ said Billie. ‘The water is only white at the shore, and all along the beach rollers are coming in even furrows. And there’s no smooth patch, no false quiet of a rip.’

  Alan’s fire was going well, and noisily. The driftwood wasn’t wholly dry. It sang and smoked, but its smoke went straight up.

  Then Billie asked how Ingrid Hallow had drowned.

  ‘It was “death by misadventure”. That was what the coroner said. Lord Hallowhulme got a coroner up from Edinburgh. It was August – hot weather. She was wading and took a fall. Her skirts hampered her movements. That was what the Edinburgh man found.’

  ‘Do you think he was right?’

  Alan wasn’t surprised by her question. He said that Kissack men saw sin everywhere. ‘Believing as they do that any sin you commit you carry around your whole life. Some of them even think that God has all our sins set out for us from the hour of our birth, so that some men are born damned.’ Alan spat in the fire. He wiped his lips. Then, because, of course, he had also heard Minnie say that she thought Murdo Hesketh had something to do with her sister’s death, he went on. ‘These Kissack men want to think badly of Mr Hesketh because they don’t like what he does for Lord Hallowhulme. Lord Hallowhulme is here at Christmas and rides around town with a dray full of hampers, and he’s putting heating in the old customhouse and has turned it into a meeting hall. Mr Hesketh hires and fires and lures men away from reliable work so that the barley goes in late and the peat is cut late and is still damp in October. So of course he has to be a seducer, too.’ Alan added, ‘Minnie knows you hate him. She’s just throwing fuel on the fire. But – but you should understand that Minnie doesn’t hate him. She likes him really.’

  Billie wanted to know why, if Ingrid Hallow drowned on Scouse Beach, Alan wanted to go swimming there?

  ‘You said, “I can teach you,” Miss Paxton.’

  ‘Billie.’

  ‘I take up all offers to be taught.’

  ‘All I know is needlework, knitting, the piano, swimming, and how to cheat at cards.’ Billie said. ‘I’m sure you won’t want me to teach you all of that.’ Alan didn’t answer; he fed the fire and stood on his dignity. Billie watched him for a moment, then alarmed him by saying she was going to go in.

  She wrestled with the buttons on the back of her dress, then asked for Alan’s help, waited patiently as he fumbled, clumsy despite his small fingers. Then Billie pulled the dress off over her head, and sat down to remove her shoes and stockings. She left her hair in its long plait. It wouldn’t do any good to pin it up – it wasn’t the kind of sea you could go in and keep your hair dry. She told Alan she’d be quick, because the water would be cold. He said he’d get more wood to build up the fire. Then he ran up the beach to get a blanket from the box under the seat of the dogcart. While he was gone Billie went down to the water. She’d remembered modesty – that the moment her drawers and camisole were wet they’d be transparent. She didn’t want to embarrass Alan.

  The water was warmer than it had been the other day. A rough sea in the sun is always warmer – as if the waves chafe a little heat into each other, or the warm sun kneads warmth into the water. The sand was coarse and heavy, but packed firm so that Billie was able to wade in, braced for the waves that broke and rushed to embrace her thighs, groin, belly. Then she was where they were breaking, and she jumped in over the white, striated, pouring arch of one, arms out, straight into the gleaming green wall of the following wave. It stopped her dead, bent her back and rolled her right over in itself as it collapsed. Billie slid back up the beach feetfirst. The water parted her hair and pushed a ridge of sand up against her forehead. She raised her face. The foam was deafening, a harsh hissing. Cold water streamed out of her nose and she shouted, delight and fear mixed. She lifted herself out of the softer liquid of foam and went back into the hard water.

  Again she jumped, turned herself this time in the trough between one wave and the next and rose up, cut the crest with her shoulder and swam out. She was soon out of her depth, still near the loud water but now in a procession of whole leaning waves. The sea was terribly cold – as forceful as she knew it was, a force she had the measure of, and adored. But the cold was draining. She knew she should go in.

  She jumped up with each crest to crane out to sea, looking for a worthy wave, one to carry her in, one she’d let turn her around again and spit her out on the beach. She saw it, gleaming and growing, streaked with foam. One wave had joined another, the foam formed by their collision. Billie saw that the wave would break before it reached her, it was already tilting sloppily. The trough it pushed before it was too deep, the water at its base dragged back while the crest kept its old open ocean speed. Billie took a deep breath. The wave collapsed, trapped air bursting through it. Billie was flipped. Her plait unravelled, she felt her hair clinging to her bare feet as she went over, her eyes open, in a world without geometry or fixtures or gravity, just green light and churning power. Her knees scraped the sand. Then she was seized; someone caught her and lifted her out of the water.

  MURDO HESKETH was on his way to the alginate factory. He was quite sure that he wasn’t the only one at this end of the island who had failed to keep the Sabbath. It was always on Sundays that tools or lumber disappeared from the site. He’d look in. Besides, his horse needed the exercise.

  Murdo emerged from the biggest gap in the sand hills and found Kirsty and Minnie’s dogcart. He saw that Alan Skilling had already attached to it a horn salvaged from James’s sunken automobile. Murdo stooped and gave the horn a squeeze to rouse Alan, wherever he was, and to see if the horn’s voice had survived. It still had water in its rubber bulb. It made a spluttering fart – not enough sound to summon anyone.

  There was a fire on the beach, topped by a plume of thick smoke. By the fire was a pile of clothes. Murdo’s eye caught movement of an unwatery sort at the waterline. He saw Billie Paxton, in her underclothes, drenched already, her head hanging, weighed down by wet hair. He saw her marching into the sea. He kicked his horse, galloped her down to the water, into the water – where the animal baulked, not liking her footing, the mobile surface of a broken wave clawing back the reaching foam of the wave before it. The horse turned despite Murdo’s urging and was soon out where only her hooves were wet. Murdo stood up in the stirrups and scanned the sea. He saw Billie, white cotton, pale flesh, and
red hair, but mixed into the green water, churned under, drowned already.

  Murdo jumped out of his saddle and into the waves. He forged forward wading and swimming to grab hold of Billie. He lifted her up and turned toward the shore. A big wave slapped his back, hips to neck, and pushed him under. He felt Billie Paxton’s hair stream up around his wrists. She was under him, his knees were either side of her body. The wave passed and her face emerged from its racing water. Her eyes were open, smooth and glazed in a face blistered with bursting bubbles of foam. She spat out seawater at Murdo and climbed, crawled, wriggled out from under him.

  Murdo struggled up again, snatched her around her waist and carried her up the beach and away from the water. ‘No,’ he said to her. He put her down by the fire and kept hold of her. ‘I’m not going to let you,’ he panted.

  She was difficult to subdue, small but flexible and – in her state of mind – unmindful of the possibility of injury. She writhed, and he adjusted his hold as carefully as he was able. She coated herself in sand and, as her skin and clothes became gritty, Murdo’s grip became firmer. Finally, she bit him on the arm. But he was dressed for June on Kissack and she only managed to close her teeth on cloth. Murdo was reminded of Karl. He heard the tendons in her jaw click as she bore down hard. She glared up at him, her brow creased. Then she let go and lay still. ‘Alan,’ she said.

  Alan Skilling was beside them, his arms full of driftwood. He dropped the wood to circle them, he was trying to explain something, or to intervene.

  Murdo rounded on him. ‘What do you think you were doing?’ He’d seen the boy – a moment before he jumped from the saddle and into the sea – one arm around his firewood, and one hand covering his mouth.

  Alan said he’d dropped the box lid on his fingers when he’d fetched the blanket from the cart. He was sucking them.