Ms Talmur gags suddenly and gropes in her pocket for her hankie. She turns her head away and I gaze in horror at the swarming mass of dank vegetation at our feet. The soil is a moving mound of brown and green slime. It is crawling with maggots.
‘Merciful heaven!’ Professor Miller drops the sheeting. ‘I do apologise. I had no idea it had reached that state.’ He ushers us away.
He doesn’t seem to have noticed that the poison has spread. Now that the tree is down everything around it is dying. Decay is creeping out from its base in an ever-widening circle. The grass edges of the nearby avenues are turning brown. Further down the wall the tiny spring flowers wedged in the rocks have lost their blooms.
‘Strange to have a tree like that,’ I say as we walk back to the gate, ‘just the one planted there.’
‘Not really,’ says Ms Talmur. ‘It’s an old custom in this country, to plant a single rowan. There’s one growing by the door of practically every croft house in Scotland. They are supposed to deter evil spirits.’
And now it’s gone.
She laughs, a shrill cawing, like the rooks in the tall trees of the wood. ‘Call me superstitious if you like. I’ve already told Solomon that I’m the seventh child of a seventh child, and perhaps that makes me more sensitive to atmosphere. I don’t know. But I tell you this,’ she wraps her coat more tightly around her, ‘I don’t like this place, Professor Miller. It may be fascinating to you, but I don’t like your graveyard at all.’
We go through the gate at the end.
‘I don’t know how Amy got in.’ Professor Miller stops to re-lock the padlock. ‘I mustn’t have secured this properly.’
I watch him do it. He doesn’t seem the type of person who would be careless enough to leave without fastening the padlock. Then I remember something. Last night the teenagers had said the gate was padlocked, yet when I came from Peter’s house it was lying open. Who or what wants the gate left unlocked and why?
‘Don’t you have any workmen here today?’ Ms Talmur asks as they move towards the cars.
‘No, and perhaps not for some time. There may be a problem.’ Professor Miller pauses for a moment or two. ‘Oh, I might as well tell you. It will be in the local newspaper this week anyway. It’s almost certain that smallpox victims were interred here. I will have to do a search of the Burial Register in Glasgow before we commence exhumations.’
Ms Talmur shivered. ‘The disease can’t still be active, surely?’
‘Probably not. There were bodies of over a hundred years old removed from a graveyard at Christchurch in Spitalfields in London fairly recently. When the virus was taken from the smallpox scabs it was found to be non-viable. However, one can’t take risks where public health is concerned. So, we will have to make the area more secure before we can begin opening the graves and moving the cadavers. Perhaps erect a fence and employ security guards. It appears that youths hang around here after dark.’
No more they don’t.
‘I thought there was a night watchman,’ I say casually.
‘There was . . .’ he hesitates. ‘Silly superstitions. He packed it in the other night. Said he heard noises, saw things. Out of a bottle probably. Then his dog ran off. A big mangy brute of an animal. He said he wasn’t staying without it.’
Before she climbs into her dad’s car, Amy runs over. Ms Talmur bends and kisses the top of her head. But it is to me that the child comes, flinging her arms around my waist and hugging me close. The two adults watch, smiling. They don’t hear what she whispers.
‘Thank you, Solomon, for saving me.’ Her little face is peaked and anxious.
‘I’ll drive you home, Solomon,’ says Ms Talmur.
Before I can say a word she has take my rucksack and put it in her car.
‘We’ll call at the school first and tell the staff that Amy is quite safe,’ she says. ‘I can’t imagine why she wandered off like that.’ She stops before she turns the key in the ignition. ‘Can you?’
I stare straight ahead out of the car window. It is raining again. I take a deep breath.
‘There is something wrong in that place,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says slowly. ‘Yes, I do agree.’ Still she does not start the car. Her fingers clench the rim of the steering wheel. ‘And it’s more than just our imagination, isn’t it, Solomon?’
CHAPTER XV
‘Thanks for the lift.’ I’m out of the car fast, but she is faster. She is up the path and at the front door beside me.
‘I want a word with your dad.’
‘He’s out just now.’
‘I’ll wait.’ She follows me into the house. The living-room door is open and he is slumped in front of the telly.
‘Mr Morris.’ She goes right in and stands in front of him. He leaps up, stuffing his shirt into his trousers. He is grey and tired, but he’s had a shave. Or rather, tried to. Small cuts fleck his skin, his face pitted with the permanent roadworks of life.
‘Ms Talmur,’ she holds out her hand. ‘I’m a teacher at the school. We met earlier. Remember? I collected your son this morning. I would like to talk to you about his school work.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he says. Instant charm on his tongue like clotted cream. ‘Solomon’s told me all about you.’
Bad move, Dad, this one’s very sharp.
‘I doubt it,’ she says crisply. ‘I only met him yesterday.’
He barely breaks his stride. ‘Nevertheless,’ he says, ‘I’m sure a lot came of it.’ He shakes her hand enthusiastically. ‘Sol, put the kettle on, would you?’
He turns to her. ‘Any time you want to talk, I’m here.’ He lowers his voice. ‘His work might not be so good at the moment. Been a bit difficult for both of us over the last months. We’re having to cope on our own now.’
‘Many people do, Mr Morris.’ She goes on quickly, ‘And I’d rather Solomon remained in the room. This is about his life and he must be told what is happening.’
My dad’s eyes narrow. He has a close, foxy look on his face. ‘And what, exactly, is happening?’
‘Solomon, your son –’ she turns to me. ‘Solomon,’ she says my name quietly, ‘has severe learning difficulties. In fact,’ she raises her voice, ‘he can scarcely read or write.’
My dad smiles. A great big open welcoming grin. ‘You’re new. Aren’t you? We’ve been through all this lots of times with the school. It will work out in good time. Children mature at different rates. He’ll catch up soon enough.’
‘No, he won’t,’ she says. ‘And I can hardly believe that no one has told you this before. He won’t.’ She stares up at him until he is forced to meet her gaze. ‘HE WILL NOT CATCH UP. He will never acquire basic reading skills. Not without special help and a lot of extra work.’
There is a great silence in the room.
Then my dad laughs. An infectious happy sound, full of merriment and promise. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he says. ‘So dedicated and concerned, but you mustn’t worry so much. We’ll get there in the end.’ He slips his arm around her shoulder. ‘Come and have some tea.’
But this is no Hamelin child following the Pied Piper. She slides away from him at once and turns again to face him.
‘Will you listen?’ she asks him. Then she turns to me. ‘Or will you?’ She speaks to me directly. ‘Solomon, you have a problem. You cannot deal with it until you recognise that you have it. I can help you, but only if you accept that you need help.’
The truth lies like a stone between us.
‘Leave the boy alone.’ Dad comes over and stands beside me. ‘We’ll manage fine by ourselves. We always have.’ There is a touch of desperate bravado in his voice. ‘Eh, Sol?’ And he punches me gently on the arm.
I’m watching her face. She’s looking at my dad. His charm has slid right off her and lies like soiled silk at her feet. And suddenly I see him with her eyes. A big bumbling man in a drab room, bluffing his way through life.
She set her face and then speaks clearly and distinctly. ‘
Mr Morris, I notice that in this, your living room, there are no magazines or books. I find that . . . unusual.’ She glances around. ‘Not even a newspaper.’ She stares hard at him. ‘I want you to think about what I have said. I am asking Solomon to come to me for tutoring. It may be too late for you. Solomon’s life is just beginning.’
His face is open with shock. As he struggles to reply, she leaves. He goes into the kitchen. I follow him. He tears open a soup packet. Empties it into a pan. Adds water. Little dustings of powder spill on the worktop, the cooker, his shaking hands.
‘Got the chance of some work tomorrow,’ he says, beating nervously with a spoon at the lumpy mixture. ‘Might be a good few weeks in it too. Weather’s picking up. I love being outside when the nights get shorter, and the evenings stretch out, long and warm. It’s so beautiful, the smell of spring flowers, the promise of summer.’
I blink. I can’t focus. It’s a stranger who stands in the kitchen, who walks between the cooker and the table putting soup into bowls and buttering bread. He clatters the dishes noisily.
‘Reminds me of a time I was on one of the islands. Eriskay, I think it was. We were laying the new gas pipe line, and what a laugh we had one night. Talk about a joke. I’ll tell you a good one. This particular night, you see, we had just started to unload the –’
‘You can’t read.’
He slurps his soup, breaks off a bit of bread and stuffs it in his mouth. ‘Don’t be daft.’
It’s all so clear now. Why he never helped me with the letters or the words. He didn’t know how to.
‘You can’t read.’
‘Course I can.’ He picks up the soup packet. ‘Chicken and leek soup. Another winner from our country kitchen. To prepare three brimming bowlfuls, simply add one litre of water, bring to the boil and simmer gently for five minutes.’ He tosses it on to the table. ‘Satisfied?’
Set a thief to catch a thief, takes one to know one.
All his life he’s been doing what I do with reading. Only, he’s been doing it longer, so he’s much better at it.
I sit back in my chair and fold my arms. I keep my eyes on his face. ‘Ingredients,’ I recite. ‘Water. Cornflour. Leek. Chicken. Flavourings. Salt. Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil. Flavour Enhancers. If this product disappoints in any way, please return the packet, stating why, where and when purchased and we will send a refund. Statutory rights unaffected.’
I lean forward and pick up the soup packet. I throw it at him. ‘You can’t read.’
He doesn’t answer.
‘The stories . . . all the stories.’ My voice is breaking. ‘You made them up.’
‘What if I did? I –’
‘You make everything up!’
‘Sol, don’t be like that. Don’t look at me like that.’
But he’s talking to an empty chair.
CHAPTER XVI
Now.
All the colours are in my head, whirling and spinning and clashing together, my mind a broken kaleidoscope of red and green and gold.
I charge upstairs and hurtle into my room.
I tear down the posters, rip the fantasy from my ceiling and walls. Pull off silvered unicorns and pale princesses. Turreted castles fall. Elves and goblins, bright cartoon characters, things of his imagination and mine. I’m going to kill them all. I drag down brilliant-hued jungles with blue and yellow gaudy parrots. Trample them under my feet. Stand on the crumpled paper, crush and grind the tarnished dreams into my worn brown carpet.
Lies. Lies. Make-believe and fairy tales. Now the truth is here. The walls of my life, drab, torn and graffitied.
And the grey comes flooding in. Up into my nostrils, rolling through me like a sea fog. Into my life. Into my dreams. Cold and dismal, thin vapour slipping around me as I walk. And I’m looking for someone and calling their name. Some wailful thin and reedy voice answers me. Faintly mewing and carrying me forward to find its owner. But there’s nothing I can do. There is a pit before me, crawling with vermin and worms. I cannot help. I cannot.
And the next day the dream is still with me. In Watkins’ morning reveille its tendrils are still wrapped around my brain.
I am cold. By lunchtime I am shaking and ill.
Peter is sent with me to the medical room to sit out for an hour. My arm aches but there is no itch, and when I pull back my sleeve to look at the wound there is barely a mark on my skin.
And as I do so, she passes by. Did I know she would? The medical room is just by the staffroom door.
She tuts. Presses her cool hand on my arm. ‘Nothing there now,’ she says. She pulls my sleeve back down. ‘I’ll get you some tea.’
My heart is crashing inside my chest. Rhythms of panic cascading through me. She comes back with the tea and sits while I drink it. Peter gets up, walks to the window and looks out into the playground. Ms Talmur takes the mug from my fingers and sets it down on the floor. Puts her fingers under my chin and holds my head, searching my eyes.
‘Well? Shall I speak to the Head? Get you out of class to come to me for tuition?’ She lets go abruptly and my head drops down.
Then . . . I nod.
‘Thank God for that,’ and she’s gone.
‘Way to go, Sol,’ says Peter softly.
So, now, I’m in the infants. If it wasn’t for Amy I think I’d have chucked it right off.
‘There’s that boy,’ chants one. ‘The one who broke things and shouted. Why is he back?’
‘To help me,’ says Amy, at once, ‘cos I’m new.’ She slips her little hand into mine and I sit down beside her.
Oh, do I need courage, the courage of a lifetime. For a lifetime.
She scatters coloured beads in her counting tray, amber, amethyst, turquoise and red. They glitter and roll. Her chubby pink fingers grasp them and place them deftly in number order. I try to copy her, watching her slyly with a sidelong glance. She giggles as she sees me.
‘No cheating, Solomon,’ she whispers. ‘It’s got to be YOU that does it yourself.’
And I try.
I really do.
And does it work?
Maybe one time in ten.
‘Better than none at all,’ says this witch of a teacher that I have now, as she displaces the beads and sends them scattering in disorder across the table.
‘Now try letters,’ she flicks out a set of cards.
I feel my face flush. They are printed in extra large type and illustrated with babyish drawings.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Please try to be patient and go along with this for the moment, Solomon. I need to find out what you can and cannot do.’
So I put the dog with the longest tail, and the one with the biggest ears and the shortest legs where they have to go. And I put the ice lolly and the igloo and the snowman together beside the word COLD and the iron and the chips and the fire with the word HOT.
‘Now we’ll try some letter order.’ She puts down a bundle of interlocking alphabet letters and writes out the words she wants us to make.
The child beside me absorbs the information and moves on. I repeat the task six times and the seventh time I get it wrong. I seem to have no ability to remember the order in which the letters have to go. No power of recall to help me get it right each time.
I glance at Amy. She is frowning in concentration, tongue between teeth. She reaches for another card and as she does so the sleeve of her blouse slides back. There is an angry red weal on her wrist.
‘What’s that?’ I ask her.
She touches it with the fingers of her other hand. ‘It’s sore,’ she says.
‘How did it happen?’
‘I think . . . in the graveyard yesterday,’ she says. ‘I scraped it on the branch of the dead tree.’
My voice is dry with fear. ‘Didn’t your mum notice when you got washed last night?’
She thinks for a minute. ‘It wasn’t there last night.’
I look round for Ms Talmur. As I stand up to call her over, the school bell rings. The infants
have an earlier dismissal time. She is sorting out the wee ones’ bags, bundling them into their jackets. Professor Miller is at the door for Amy. I see them talking together. Then Ms Talmur beckons to me.
‘Professor Miller will be working in the central archives office in Glasgow for an hour or two. He wants to know if you and I would be interested in going there after school today. They have uncovered some material relating to the burial ground and the history of this area. He thought we might like to have a look at it.’
I help her clear up the classroom. The blobs of modelling clay, the bits of paper. This time next year these kids will have learnt their letters, know so many words, move forward to the next class.
Where will I be?
‘Right.’ She puts her coat on. ‘Let’s go. We’d better stop off and let your dad know where you’ll be.’
‘He’s out,’ I say.
She raises an eyebrow.
‘Honestly, he is. He got some work, and left a message with a neighbour to say he’d be very late and I’d not to wait up.’
God! I must have been daft not to notice. All those times, instead of writing me a note he’d leave word with someone to tell me. ‘Your dad was in too much of a rush today,’ Mrs Gilmore would call across the garden as I left for school. ‘Said to tell you.’ Then she’d trot out whatever message he’d given her.
Now I remember. His birthday cards. He drew pictures on them. A big X and then lots of cartoons of him and me. I used to show them round the class. Dead proud. Thought they were special. Didn’t realise it was because he couldn’t write a message.
Once, after Mum had left, when I came downstairs the milk boy was in the kitchen. Dad was making him a cup of tea while he filled in some form for him.
‘Scalded myself,’ he waved a bandaged hand under my nose. ‘Devlin’s very kindly being my secretary this morning. Have a bacon butty, lad. Need to give you an extra big tip at Christmastime.’
And the boy went away happily chewing his sandwich, both of us fooled.
Whispers in the Graveyard Page 6
