The Kissing Gate

by Susan Sallis

  She said, ‘Nothing has changed, my darling. Has it?’

  He looked at her, letting her fill his head. ‘So much has changed, Gussie,’ he said. ‘So much. Mum and Dad have gone. Jannie is married. And you – you are free. I am free. We are not related except by our love for each other.’

  He stood up creakingly, pulled her up too. The evening sun, setting into the sea at Porthmeor, found a crack in the huddle of cottages and beamed into the old fish cellar. Ned’s hair was an orange aureole around his head and to her he looked like the little boy she had met on the beach over twenty years before.

  She said nothing, looking at him as he was looking at her, with total absorption. The sun shifted and highlighted the crock of mackerel and the bread, rough-cut by Ned half an hour before. It shone on the two discarded bananas and then the fruit bowl with its pale grapes from the vineyard started by Gussie, its bright red apples from an orchard near King Harry Ferry. It shone on the nets still drying as they had dried in the time of Philip Nolla.

  They kissed. Slowly and tentatively they kissed as if tasting wine.

  His hands moved from her shoulders and cupped her face. He whispered, ‘My darling girl, I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Is it going to be all right?’

  ‘How can we know that?’

  He smiled and his colourless eyes glinted in the last of the sun. ‘Shall we risk it?’

  Through her exhaustion she felt a strange sensation and recognized it as excitement. She said, ‘Like the time we sat on the sea bed and let that enormous wave go over our heads?’

  ‘We could have drowned.’

  ‘We would have been together.’

  Her words dropped into the room one by one, assuming huge significance.

  She reached up past his hands and drew his head to hers. She said, ‘Yes. Let’s risk it, Ned.’ And she kissed him without shame.

  Much later she made tea and they drank it, and looked at the bananas and laughed together. They were both filled with wonder and could not stop touching each other as they moved around the kitchen clearing up for the night. Every small action was new and special. Gussie felt physically light.

  She said, ‘I won’t bother with the angels just yet.’

  And he said, ‘OK. I agree to that. We need to get used to this before Jannie and Robert come home. Then perhaps the angels …’

  ‘All right.’ It was as if they had solved an enormous problem. They kissed and she outlined his face with her new feather fingers. Then, with great care, he undid her plait and spread her hair over his hands again and again.

  Before they slept he murmured, ‘Tomorrow we have to do something special, something really important.’

  She smiled, eyes closed. ‘Of course.’

  He said, ‘Yes, but what I meant was …’ he kissed her ear, nose and then mouth, drew a breath and said, ‘… we have to find those glory gates.’

  ‘Thank goodness. I thought you were going to say something else.’

  ‘That too.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘You don’t like heights,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Neither do you now.’

  ‘No.’

  She felt a familiar tremor of fear. ‘Is this part of the risk we are taking?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘OK.’

  She kissed him and thought he was asleep. Then discovered he was not.

  Twenty-three

  NED WOKE AT two o’clock. For a split second he was shocked by Gussie’s presence and then, with a rush, he remembered everything. He lay on his side, head resting on elbow, gazing at her face with sheer wonder. For so long they had been ‘out of bounds’ for each other, as Gussie had so succinctly put it. And now, they were not. It was so simple yet so complicated and amazing. If that word – amazing – meant going through a maze then it was the only word for them.

  He looked at her dark lashes, crescents above her cheekbones. A long strand of dark hair lay across her mouth and as she exhaled it moved and she twitched. Tenderly he moved the strand and could not resist kissing her lightly. She seemed to smile. And as he looked, he was filled with a terrible grief. During that wonderful evening, they had barely mentioned what she called ‘the incident’ at Bamaluz Point. The realization of what they had now had pushed everything else away.

  Now, as she lay there next to him, his love for her seemed to intensify the horror of what had happened. He stared down at her. She was unique, wonderful, he should have protected her and he hadn’t. This was what he couldn’t bear. That she had been abused and he had done nothing. He had to do something. He could not just lie here and do nothing. He had to get up and do something.

  Downstairs it was as if all colour had been leached out of the kitchen; the moon was doing its best but it was grey rather than silver. He opened the top half of the door and leaned out, sniffing the air. Same door, same air, but completely different. He thought of Gussie asleep upstairs. Unbidden came thoughts of Bellamy … Before he pushed her off the cliff had they slept in Gussie’s bed … or, worse still, in his parents’ room? The hatred and the guilt grew, side by side. He tried to shut out images of the man. Pushing the woman. There was an overhang of rock on the edge of Bamaluz Point. She must have been standing there; if she had been anywhere else her fall would have taken her into the cliff itself; she would have been killed. He dropped his head on to his arms and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to eliminate the picture of Gussie crashing from rock to rock. The image refused to go.

  He shoved open the bottom half of the door and took the steps to the wharf in one leap. He jumped down on to the harbour beach and went into the water, wading out to where the first of the boats bobbed gently. He held the mooring rope to steady himself; the water was up to his waist and, in spite of the spell of hot weather, was bitterly cold. He stood there, gasping, Bellamy forgotten.

  And, suddenly and unexpectedly, Zannah came into his head. Zannah Scaife, Gussie’s mother, who had left home when Gussie was eight years old, yet left no hatred behind her … Why was that? Until a very few months ago, Ned had hated Victor for leaving his wife and son. Victor had wanted – had chosen – to become an outcast. And in a strange way so had Zannah. And now, Zannah was dead.

  The sea rose up his chest and lapped into his mouth and he shook his head impatiently.

  Rory had been distraught when he phoned. Of course he had: Zannah had died just half an hour before he made the call. He said that her death had released him from his promise. And then, because Ned had been unable to speak, he had hammered the stark words yet again down the phone. ‘Don’t you get it, boy? Gus was pregnant and she wouldn’t get rid of the baby so he shoved her off the cliff at Bamaluz Point and thought he’d killed them both, and that’s why Zannah did the same to him. She isn’t the crazy, heartless mother you thought she was, is she? Is she, boy? For God’s sake – are you still there?’

  Ned made a sound somewhere between another gasp and a scream, then he pushed himself under the water, the keel of the boat knocked his shoulder and he fell sideways and floundered helplessly for a moment before finding his feet again. Spluttering, he stood up and began to wade back to the shore. He was shivering. That was good because he could no longer hear Rory’s voice in his head. He stripped off his sodden shorts and top in the yard and flung them over the clothesline next to Gussie’s towel and swimsuit. His heart ached at the thought of her swimming from Porthmeor beach this afternoon. On her own. He grabbed the towel and wrapped himself into it and went back into the warmth and security of the kitchen.

  Gussie had been right about hatred: it was insidious, poisonous. He could feel it in his veins. He made tea and drank half a cup. On the shelf above the nets something caught his eye and he ran his hand along and brought down two old half-crown coins, some mackerel spinners, and Mark’s ancient and worn kitchen knife, which he had always used for whittling.

  There was another
voice talking to him now. It was his mother. It was Kate saying gently, ‘Why don’t you do a Joanie doll, darling? Come on, sit by the fire and I’ll find you some wood. You know it always calms you down.’

  There was no fire and no wood, but he had the knife. He lit the gas stove and left the door open, hunted around and could come up with only the wooden wedge they used as a doorstop. He sat at the table. After a few moments, he began to whittle.

  Gussie woke at six and had forgotten nothing. She too propped her head and gazed down at the dear familiar face that was somehow quite different, almost new to her. She began to kiss it, little butterfly kisses that grew in intensity until he stirred and flung his arms up to the bedhead.

  She whispered, ‘Wake up. It’s the most beautiful morning. We could have a swim before breakfast. Nobody will be about. We’ll have the harbour to ourselves.’ He made a sound and wrapped her around with his arms. Her mouth was next to his ear. ‘Then we can come back to bed, if you like. Swim first?’

  ‘Already had swim.’ She could barely discern the words. ‘Need sleep.’

  The arms were heavy and she lifted them gently away from the back of her neck and held them while she kissed him again. ‘I’ll get the paper and bring the local news. Sleep on, my darling. Sweet dreams.’ She kissed him again and slid out of bed, crossing his arms on his chest. She nodded; he even looked like a saint.

  Downstairs a damp towel was hung over the door of the gas oven, a pile of wood chippings lay on the table and next to the two bananas was a Joanie doll. She stared at it. It was nothing like the traditional dolls. It was so fragile that she did not touch it.

  She unbolted the two doors and went outside. His T-shirt and shorts were still dripping on the clothesline, and her towel had disappeared. It must be the one on the oven door. She grinned. He had gone through a stage in his teens when he had delighted in midnight swims. He had brought school-friends home with him and they had gone in together, waving their trunks above their heads, imagining themselves to be very daring indeed. She pictured Ned, waking at the stroke of twelve, fizzing with excitement after their lovemaking, plunging into the sea fully clothed, stripping off with some difficulty and trying to wave his soggy shorts and shirt like twin banners of triumph and joy.

  She gathered up the clothes, went back inside and through to the laundry room – literally dug out of the cliff – and hurled them into the washing machine, then added her towel from the oven door. She was still smiling as she went along the harbour to get bread, milk and newspapers.

  Ned appeared when she was on her second cup of tea. He looked dishevelled.

  He said, ‘I’m wrecked. If this is going to happen every night I’ll have to go and live in Sweden with Sven.’

  Gussie poured tea for him and produced toast from the toaster like a conjuror.

  ‘If you will go for midnight swims in the buff, you must expect to feel wrecked.’ She met his eyes and spread her hands. ‘Nothing to do with me. Here I am, as fresh as a daisy, having managed to do without a swim or a session with Dad’s knife and our doorstop!’ She grinned. ‘I think you need a few lessons about Joanie dolls, my love. They’re meant to be handled – handled by children – quite roughly. That poor little creature hiding behind the fruit bowl wouldn’t last five minutes with a normal two-year-old!’

  He sipped his tea gratefully and grinned back at her. ‘Couldn’t sleep so got up and had a dip – absolutely freezing, it was – and sat by the oven doing some whittling to calm me down, and all I get is criticism!’

  ‘Sorry, darling.’ She went to the hob and removed a saucepan. ‘There are two eggs in here, probably a little hard-boiled but sustaining if we’re on the trail of the glory gates.’

  He watched her decapitate the eggs and remembered Conrad’s enormous breakfasts. And the dog.

  ‘D’you fancy having a dog?’

  She put the egg cups in the middle of two plates and placed them carefully on the table. ‘Not really. But if it’s one of those things you’ve always wanted, then let’s go for it.’

  ‘Not enough room, probably.’

  ‘Probably not.’ She looked at him. ‘Is anything wrong, Ned?’

  ‘Not now.’ He reached across for her hand. ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘Well, the Joanie doll and the swim …’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘I slept so splendidly, my love. Was it because I gave all my worries to you?’

  He pulled her nearer, leaned over and kissed her. ‘No.’ He kissed her again. ‘As a matter of fact, what you said about hatred was true. I got rid of it, came back to bed and slept like a top.’

  She relapsed into her chair again. ‘Oh, Ned, I’m sorry. I wish there was something we could do to wipe it all clean.’

  ‘I’ve done it, love.’ He picked up the carving from last night and placed it between them. ‘And if we find that special kissing gate, that will be the icing on the cake!’

  They started on their eggs. Gussie touched the wooden sculpture gently, then picked it up. ‘It’s much stronger than it looks. And …’ she glanced up at him, ‘… it’s a baby! It’s a proper baby, curled up like a kitten!’

  ‘A baby still in the womb. In the foetal position.’ He grinned. ‘It’s for Jannie, of course.’

  ‘Jannie?’ Gussie put her spoon down with a clatter and stared at him, astonished. ‘Jannie would have told me! If she’d had the slightest suspicion she was pregnant she couldn’t have kept it to herself!’

  ‘I doubt whether Jannie knows. Bessie told me.’ Gussie looked at him with an open mouth. He said defensively, ‘You know very well that Bessie Beck can forecast a pregnancy with amazing accuracy! She told me when we walked down towards the headland at Zennor on the day of their wedding.’

  ‘What did you just say about old wives’ tales?’

  ‘Darling, it’s different when you know the old wife personally, like we know Bessie. D’you think Jannie will like it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think she’d rather be the one to tell us, don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He looked so crestfallen she had to stand up and lean over to kiss him again.

  ‘Listen. Let’s keep the baby up on that shelf by Dad’s knife until she tells us. Then you can produce it and tell her you knew it would happen.’ She sat back down with a bump and picked up the tiny carving. ‘Oh, Ned, it’s sweet. Now that I know it’s Jannie’s baby it seems to look like her. Tiny but strong. Oh, Ned.’

  ‘Are we going to have children, Gus? It doesn’t worry me one way or the other but I thought I ought to get into doing more carving if – you know …’

  She pulled the cushion from behind her back and threw it at him. Then she sat on his lap and they discussed their future family. When they got as far as names – ‘I’m not keen on Victor really but—’ ‘Victoria would be marvellous for a girl’ – Ned remembered something and started to laugh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I keep hearing things, Gus! Now I can hear Dad saying how much he disliked hypothetical conversations – p’raps this and p’raps that – d’you remember?’

  She too laughed and nodded, then told him that she had something definite to say. ‘News from the Fishermen’s Lodge noticeboard. No more pink cauliflowers, just the bus timetable. There’s a bus leaving for Polgarrick at eleven fifteen, returning at three fifteen. That will give us time to go into Salem’s when we get back and talk about Zannah’s funeral. Or should we do that first?’

  ‘Let’s go for the eleven fifteen bus. It’s our day. Our special day, Gussie!’

  There were four slices of toast in the rack and Ned slapped them together with cheese between and put them in a plastic box with a jar of pickled onions. Gussie found some apples. He put the lot in his backpack and stood before her, saluting. And then, very tentatively, he leaned forward and kissed the end of her nose. It was a particular kiss. The kind of kiss he had given her so often in the past.

  She laughed helplessly. ‘Ned, are you testing the water? What is the result – am I yo
ur sister, or your lover?’

  He smiled at her and thought of something else Rory had said just last evening on the telephone: ‘It’s bloody obvious that you and Gus are made for each other – marry her, for God’s sake!’

  He said, ‘Yes … I think I was testing the water. And the end result is … we are everything to each other. Love is … well, love. That’s what has come from this past year, Gus.’

  ‘Love conquers all?’ She was still gently mocking him.

  ‘Yes. Truisms are called truisms because they are true!’

  He pulled her to him and held her tightly. ‘We are so lucky, Gus – extra lucky. Because we know that. In our bones we know it. It’s so easy for us to be everything to each other – that’s how we’ve lived our lives. It’s as if Mum and Dad knew, right from the beginning, that we would always be together.’

  Gussie held on to him and closed her eyes. She knew that this moment was precious for Ned and she must never forget it. She consciously registered the smell of the sea in summer, the squawking of the gulls. She sensed that Ned was coming out of a dark place and taking her with him. She opened her eyes and made a note of the tiny Joanie doll, and the bananas; nothing special. And then, just for an instant, she had the strangest optical illusion. Something swung past the window that looked out into the yard with its crisscross of washing lines … It looked as if the yard was full of paper angels.

  It was midday when they got off the bus high on the moors above Zennor. The driver called after them warningly, ‘Three fifteen from Penzance, my ’andsomes. After that the route goes along the Lizard and you gotta change at Truro – take you best part of two hours!’

  ‘Three fifteen from Penzance it is!’ Ned called back. He crossed the road after Gussie and immediately clambered on to the milestone, balancing his backpack on one shoulder. He shielded his eyes and saw the usual patchwork of fields, thrusting rocks, thistle heads floating upwards, a mine shaft fenced off, and to the left of it the broken engine house of Wheal Tregowan. He saw instantly what was interesting about this view. Three or four miles down the sloping fields, where the sea chopped off the land and eventually melted into the horizon, the small headland known as Bamaluz Point pointed like a finger back towards St Ives.