by Susan Sallis
Suddenly from Smeaton’s Pier came a burst of colour. They both stiffened, thinking it was a distress rocket. Colours poured from it; red at first, then enormous green droplets settling into golden rain.
‘My God.’ Ned looked at Gussie across the darkening room. ‘It’s the third of November, the Saturday before November the Fifth! It was in the paper – they’re doing the firework display early this year so that the children can stay up late!’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Can’t go to bed early now!’
Another rocket shot into the sky, closely followed by spurts from smaller ones. He stood up and peered sideways through the parlour window.
‘Everyone’s out there …’ His voice petered out as a cheer went up, and then applause. ‘I haven’t been home for Bonfire Night for, well, ages!’
Gussie put down her mug and went to the window. Another rocket soared up and they both laughed as they heard children screaming with mock terror.
‘It’s as good as the Millennium display!’ Gussie said.
‘Won’t last as long, though.’
They had all been together for the Millennium and it had been a night to remember.
‘Grab your coat, Gussie. Let’s get out there before it’s over!’
‘Are you up to it?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘No.’
They hunted for hats and scarves, and went down the steps on to the wharf. People greeted them warmly as if welcoming them back from the awfulness of their grief. When the show was over – as it soon was – they declined invitations for drinks at the Sloop and went back into the house, certain that everything was going to be ‘all right’ now.
‘It’s a bit early but let’s hibernate as from tonight, shall we?’ Gussie suggested.
Kate had decided years ago that they would ‘hibernate’ in the cellar from January to March. It had been converted into a flat for Mark and was warmer than ‘the rest of the house put together’, besides being completely accessible for the wheelchair.
Gussie hung up her woollen hat. ‘We can watch the little television and I can start on the angels.’ She always decorated the whole house with paper angels every Christmas; but never as early as this.
Ned said contentedly, ‘Sounds good. In that case I’ll get the supper. Are there sausages in the freezer?’
‘There are.’
They grinned at each other comfortably and went downstairs to the kitchen. Then the phone bleeped in the hall to tell them someone had called them and left a message, and they both did an about-turn and went to see what it was. Gussie got there first, by which time, for some silly reason, they were both laughing.
Jannie’s voice came into the tiny hall loud and clear. ‘Where are you? Ring me back. As soon as you get home.’
Gussie picked up the receiver and keyed in one, four, seven, one then three. It rang twice then Jannie’s voice said, ‘Thank goodness. The traffic must have been awful – have you only just got in?’
‘No. It was nearly five o’clock by the time we’d got the car on to the Island and unloaded—’
‘Five o’clock? Why didn’t you phone me? I’ve been worried sick! Where have you been?’
Gussie looked at Ned. ‘She’s been worried about us.’ Then to Jannie she said, ‘We didn’t think. We saw you into the house so we knew you were safe … we were having a cup of tea and we realized they were doing the fireworks early this year for Guy Fawkes’ Night and we went down on the wharf to watch them.’
‘Oh, are they doing the same here? Let me just look.’ There was a pause then she said, ‘I can see stuff somewhere by the cathedral. Nothing here. I’m too far from the campus really. Oh, I don’t mind; I never liked the noisy ones. And it’s always so cold just standing about.’ She sounded wan.
Gussie said, ‘Darling, are you OK? We should have phoned to check on you but—’
‘You didn’t need to check on me, as you just said yourself. But you should have phoned to let me know you had got home safely. I really was worried.’
‘Sorry. Really sorry, Jan. We’re missing you and didn’t want that to come across the phone, perhaps.’
‘I’m missing you. Terribly. But I’ve got to get used to it. And I’ve already phoned Hartley School and confirmed my visit. It’s the week term ends so I can come straight home from there.’
They talked for a while longer, then Gussie gave the receiver to Ned and went on downstairs to get the sausages from the freezer and then find paper and scissors.
Soon, Ned came into the kitchen and feigned astonishment. ‘Jannie was worried about us! Is that a first?’
‘Probably not,’ Gussie said peaceably. ‘But we often don’t mention things that matter. We must phone her every day. We have to keep in touch.’
She was still convinced that all would now be well.
Ned was in the cavernous Scaife studio engaged in the apparently endless task of sorting out Mark’s earlier work, separating some of the Scaife paintings for storage, generally tidying up. He and Gussie had been at the cottage, just the two of them, for over a month, and he had needed to get away from Gussie and think through his plans before he broached the subject of his visit to California. It was only when he came upon one of Mark’s paintings that he realized the sheer impossibility of the whole scheme. How on earth could he have considered for one moment leaving Gussie alone in Zion Cottage? Had he thought that she would go back to her flat in Plymouth and start up again? She had handed over her latest project so that she could stay with Jannie and himself and, as far as he knew, had no more enquiries waiting.
He propped the canvas against the wall and stood away from it. Then he took another step back and folded his arms. The painting was very much in the style of the Newlyn School: a small girl, perhaps six or seven years old, wearing a red gingham dress, a single plait already halfway down her back, ankle-deep in the sea; her back was towards the painter as she stared at the horizon. He knew it was Gussie. The plait identified her but also her stance, weight on her left leg, hands entwined and beneath her chin as she gave serious consideration to what was before her. If she had been older and he had been with her, he could well imagine his own voice asking what was taking her so long to look at the sea and sky. And she would probably have said – as indeed she often did say – ‘Daddy told me. You have to look at things and let them soak into your head. Proper, like. It takes a long time.’
Ned said aloud, ‘How can I leave her?’ He clenched his hands, put them to his chin and went on staring almost in imitation of the painting. Then he added, ‘Ever.’ His hands dropped automatically and his eyes widened, startled and then horrified. He whispered, ‘Gussie … oh my God. Gussie. She’s my sister, for God’s sake!’ And then he picked up the painting, put it behind a pile of others and returned to Gerald Scaife’s rendering of the Island as a giant penis thrusting into the sea. He went on talking aloud as if to Scaife himself. ‘Can’t say I like this one, Gerald, but some of your big works are pretty wonderful. I have to admit.’
A voice behind him said, ‘Yes. They are, aren’t they? He was before his time, of course, but now … things have changed.’
Ned turned quickly and cricked his neck. He held on to it, screwing up his eyes. ‘My God! You gave me a fright!’ His heart was pounding; had this knowledgeable stranger heard everything?
‘No knocker on the door, I’m afraid.’
‘But the damned thing screeches like an owl when you open it and I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘I eased it open gently. I came to St Ives to see Gerald Scaife’s stuff and can’t find a soul who knows a thing about it. Then someone pointed out the studios and said there might be someone doing some cataloguing – I think he said cataloguing.’
‘Old Beck. I told him I was going rat catching.’ Ned looked at the stranger. ‘Joke. Sorry. I’m a sort of relative of Scaife’s. What can I do for you?’
‘You can allow me to take photographs. I represent a collector. My name is Bellamy. Andrew Bellamy.’ Ned took the proffered hand
and the man said, ‘I won’t be in your way. The Cape Cornwall painting is up for auction with others from the Trewyn collection and if I could get The Island to go with them, my client would be happy. Very happy indeed.’
Ned felt himself withdraw. This man wanted to buy Gerald’s painting? He had never quite understood about the ownership of Gerald’s work. It had belonged to Zannah, Gussie’s renegade mother, but had she let her ex-husband have the remaining pictures when she gave him the studio?
Ned said, ‘Actually, I don’t think the Scaife paintings that are still here are for sale. I’m not certain, of course. If the Trewyn collection is being sold off, perhaps … I really can’t help you.’ He felt an urgent need to get back to Gussie.
‘I’m on my way to see Zannah Scaife. Scaife’s daughter, you know. She is still alive, of course.’
‘She lives abroad, I’m afraid. She moved years ago.’
Andrew Bellamy was already adjusting the lens in an expensive-looking camera and nodded at this information. ‘France. Somewhere in Provence,’ he said absently.
Ned turned back to the stack of paintings and adjusted them so that he had another glimpse of the small girl with the plait who was staring at the view that had so inspired her grandfather. He tucked it in safely and said, ‘I have to be going now, Mr Bellamy. And I need to lock up.’
The man laughed and fitted the leather cover over his camera. ‘You certainly do! I like to think my property is safely protected!’ It was a joke, of course. Then he added, ‘Shall I be seeing you at the Trewyn sale, Mr …?’ Ned said nothing and the man went on smoothly, ‘It’s scheduled for the end of January. That’s two thousand and two, of course!’ He laughed again. Ned had no idea what he was talking about; he did not laugh.
‘Afraid not,’ he said. ‘I’m scheduled to be in California early next year.’
He heard his own words and wondered if they were true.
Bellamy stepped outside on to the sandy path that led directly down to Porthgwidden Cove. He looked around him.
‘Bit bleak. Time of year, of course.’
Ned rarely disliked people so instantly. ‘You’re not looking at it properly. It needs to soak in,’ he said.
Bellamy laughed again; what was so funny this time? ‘I think we’ll both be soaking it in tonight, old man. This is known as a sea fret, I believe?’
Ned fiddled with the padlock on the corrugated iron door and ignored the man who, thank God, was already moving off, but still called over his shoulder, ‘See you in the Sloop later?’ And when there was no reply he stopped and said unexpectedly, ‘I think a friend of mine came from St Ives. August Briscoe. Do you know her?’
Luckily in that instant the sea fret decided to change into a downpour so the man could not have seen Ned’s face.
‘No.’
Ned passed him and started up the hill instead of making for the wharf. The man immediately disappeared into the rain but still Ned pressed on and came to Zion Cottage by way of the maze of backstreets.
No lights were on and the rain drove into the yard from the sea. Further up the terrace of cottages three children were singing ‘Hark! the herald angels sing’ beneath a streetlamp. One of them held an umbrella, which, as Ned unlocked the kitchen door, turned explosively inside out and blew into the darkness of the harbour. He closed the door behind him and clicked on the light, smiling at last. The big kitchen was warm and Etta’s old range glowed reassuringly. There was a note on the table.
Ned, mackerel in the side oven. Have yours when you’re hungry. I might be a bit late. Rory called again. Reckons he’s going to auction off the house and all its contents and go to live with Zannah! Ring me at Trewyn if you need to. See you later. From Big Sis!
He pulled one of the kitchen chairs close to the range and sat down to read the note again. He had not realized that the condescending Andrew Bellamy had meant that the whole of Trewyn House was to be sold. Surely Uncle Rory should have consulted Aunt Rosemary first? Why had he told Gussie? Why had Gussie gone back with him? How did Andrew Bellamy know Gussie?
Ned was suddenly anxious. Rory was unpredictable and reckless too. Had he taken Gussie over in his boat or his car? Either was potentially dangerous. Ned looked at the note again, the rounded letters … He thought of the girl with the plait and remembered her vulnerability. His eyes were stinging. He threw the note into the fire basket, scraped back his chair and went upstairs to the telephone.
Thank God Gussie picked up the phone the other end; he couldn’t have faced Rory.
‘Listen, Sis. I’m going to the Island car park to get the car. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
‘Oh, Ned, would you mind? Rory’s trying to tell me that he’s only selling up so that he can go and live in France with my flipping mother!’ She imitated Jannie’s voice and tried to laugh but he could tell she was near tears.
‘Is he drunk? Why did you go with him?’
‘I don’t think he’s drunk. He wanted to show me something. Rosemary’s clothes. The story was that he chucked all her stuff out and locked the door against her. But he’s kept her clothes – her wedding dress, everything. He wants me to have them.’
She was crying properly now and Ned felt his own eyes fill with anger at bloody Uncle Rory. And at Andrew Bellamy, who was a snake in the grass and knew his sister.
‘I’m on my way, Sis. Hang on. Oh,’ he swallowed, ‘before I forget, do you know someone called Bellamy? Andrew Bellamy?’
A pause, then explosively, ‘What are you talking about? Didn’t you hear what I just said? Rory did not throw out Rosemary’s stuff. He wants me to have it.’
‘Sorry. Sorry, Gussie. Put your coat on. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘Haven’t taken it off.’ She sounded cross, but not upset any more. Just annoyed at his irrelevance. ‘It’s like a tomb in this place. The sooner he gets rid of it and leaves Cornwall the better.’
‘Yes, Sis.’ Ned pretended to be meek. He put the phone down and left for the car park. He was relieved. She did not know Andrew Bellamy. And Rory was leaving Cornwall. Ned told himself that just in case Rory did go to live with Zannah Scaife, Gussie must be persuaded to visit her mother soon. Dear Gussie … darling Gussie. She had always looked after her younger brother and now it was his turn to look after her. He smiled into the sea fret as he unlocked the car. Nothing unnatural about that. They would go their separate ways for a while and then be together again.
Nine
AT THE OTHER end of the line, Gussie held the telephone receiver in its cradle as if she expected it to fall to the floor. In the December twilight the reflected colours striping the hall from the stained-window glass were muted. Ever since Rory had shoved open the massive door and ushered her inside Trewyn House she had felt this sense of imminent decay. The curtains and upholstery and the squares of carpet were all faded and dusty; she had thought suddenly that probably nothing had been done since Rosemary left. Intentionally or not, Rory had let the house preserve her memory. Like Miss Havisham.
She had said things like, ‘You don’t sell a house because it needs care and attention, Rory. Anywhere you go will need that. You can’t escape house maintenance – not ever!’
He ignored her shock and surprise at his decision to ‘get out once and for all’ and just pointed out various evidence of decay. Then he took her upstairs and said, ‘Never mind all that. I brought you over to look at Ro’s things. She said she never wanted to see them again and I could chuck them into the sea. But when I saw you, when I dropped in – ’ he guffawed loudly, remembering his leap over the handrail and into the yard – ‘I knew they’d look good on you. You’ve got a look of all the bloody Briscoes. Plus a dash of Zannah. A hint of her craziness. Ro could be crazy, but Zannah was kind. And Ro was not.’
Gussie knew then that he was drunk. She shouldn’t have come with him, especially in his speedboat. But there had been something pathetic about him. She sighed sharply.
‘You need me to walk down memory lane wi
th you, that’s it, isn’t it? Or do you want me to tell you about New York and the awfulness of it all?’
‘I heard you’d got some kind of a tape recording. A father’s last message to his daughter. Something like that.’
She looked at him with disgust. By this time they were standing in Aunt Rosemary’s room, which presumably had been his as well at one time. The other rooms smelled musty but this one was different. She noticed sprigs of rosemary tucked into the mirror surround.
‘It was for all of us, and it was from them both – Mum and Dad.’
He erupted. ‘Why do you call her Mum? Her name was Kate and she was not your mother.’
‘Oh, Rory, she was my mother. Zannah insisted on me calling her by her name. Kate gave me the choice and I chose to call her Mum. And I loved her far more than I loved Zannah. So be careful what you say.’
He looked wild at that. Gussie remembered her father once describing Rory as ‘uncontrollable, like a pirate’, and at that moment he did look like a character from Treasure Island.
‘You loved that – that – Hausfrau better than Zannah Scaife? For God’s sake go over to France and see Zannah! You’ve forgotten your own mother, wrapped in domestic cotton wool all these years: the difference between a nice cup of tea and a glass of champagne!’
‘Shut up!’ Gussie held up a hand and heard the phone ringing in the hall. ‘That will be Ned. I left a note. Excuse me.’ She leaped down the stairs two at a time and could have wept when she heard Ned’s blessedly familiar voice. She wanted to say, ‘Come and take me back to Zion Cottage and let us stay there for ever,’ but then he said something that knocked everything else out of her head. Andrew. Andrew Bellamy. Andrew was in St Ives and looking for her. She stared down the dark hall; the coloured stripes had gone. Ned made a sound on the other end of the line and she’d snapped at him before she could stop herself. Then Ned said, ‘Get your coat on, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’ And she told him she hadn’t taken it off because it was so cold. She put the phone down and stood very still.
Rory came down the stairs a step at a time, leaning heavily on the banister. She registered this and remembered again his vaulting over the handrail at Zion Cottage just before the three of them had left for New York. He was such an old fraud.
