by Sarah Till
I'm carried away by the memory, but the poster is still in my hand. The date is the day after tomorrow in the Community Hall, and all the Council bigwigs will be there. I laugh and wonder if I should show may face myself, but I expect that even though the meeting is about me, I won't be allowed in. It seems that since I've become a bag lady, I've lost my intelligence. Somehow, the way I look seems to equate to how clever I am. I've read more books these past years in Tintagel than in my whole life, literature and history books. History about this place and how it's had an effect on people. I hear stories all the time, twisted tales of the past, bent to make us think one thing or another. Of course, I haven't been to university or college, but it apparently takes ten thousand hours to become and expert. That's about six years of normal working time. I laugh now and think I'm just about getting there.
I'm obviously in the right place to find all these things out. There's the museum and the library. The people who work there think I'm just sitting in there to get warm, or to have a rest, but I'm reading. Anything to do with the legends of King Arthur or Old England, and I'm reading it. Despite my loneliness and my solitude, I'm not doing this alone. You only have to listen to people to find out exactly what they have learnt. For example, my Dad knew the legend, the real story, warts and all. He softened it for us when we were young, allowing more lurid detail to emerge as we became adults. It's not really his fault; in the absence of a mother I expect he thought he was telling us the facts of life through the lens of a whisky bottle. And this is how our lives became shaped, we believed what we wanted to and disregarded the rest. I couldn't have embarked on this search alone, and in my second year in Tintagel I learnt more about love and life than I had in the previous forty-eight. I also began, years later, to understand my father's madness through a route I never guessed my life could take.
CHAPTER 8
I'd thought about the poster overnight, as I lay awake wondering if someone would come and kill me in my sleep and studied the charges. They wouldn't let me into the meeting because they couldn't imagine that I would have anything constructive to say. Because I had no job and didn't have my hair cut, so how could I possibly have a valid opinion? The only option would be to write a defence of my position. I wondered if Mia Connelly would be there. Maybe she would defend me, tell them I had done nothing wrong. Not that she knew about anyway. That I did have a home, of sorts. I'd sat down in the shed by candlelight and written my statement:
Elizabeth Nelson is not a vagrant. She owns Coombes Cottage and pays both Council Tax and Community Fee at this address.
Elizabeth Nelson does not live outside and even if she did, this is not a crime as long as she does not sleep on privately owned land.
Elizabeth Nelson does not beg. She has never asked anyone for food or clothes whilst resident in Tintagel.
Nor had she stolen anything from anyone, knowingly. Discarded items thrown in bins are intended for the rubbish tip and retrieving them is not stealing.
Elizabeth Nelson has never hurt anyone intentionally in her whole life. That's part of the problem. She certainly hasn't murdered the two women who have died recently.
Elizabeth concedes that she may make the village look untidy sometimes, but she is not the only person in Tintagel who wears second hand clothes and doesn't cut her hair. There are lots of older unattractive people. Will you herd them all together and throw them all out of town?
I set off on my route, and on the way photocopy the front of the deeds to my house. I pin them to the back of the letter, which I also photocopy, and put them in an envelope marked 'For the attention of the secretary of the Community Meeting'. Hopefully they would be distributed to all the committee members.
My statement was only partly true, because during the second year, for a brief time, I did sleep outside. The first summer had been bearable, with the vegetables from my garden and the food from bins, and the paraffin heater. But the winter had been grim, with the heater running out more than I would have liked to go into town to replenish it. Having a shower outside was out of the question and I began to wonder if I shouldn't bother. It was only for my weekly journey into town that I bothered to boil water and have my big-girl-wash.
The spring came as a great relief because it was light and warm. Living in a house, where everything is the same all the time, tricks us into a false sense of light. Where we start to believe that the days are the same length and have a regular bedtime and getting up time. I'd learnt to sleep when it was dark and get up when it was light, that way I made the most of my little energy. I ate root vegetables made into stew, and porridge I'd found in the skip in summer that hadn't even started to go off. I made it with water and longed for the creaminess of milk. With the new hope of the spring shoots and the birds in the garden, fluttering down to try to eat my seeds before I threw them some crumbs, I suddenly felt optimistic. I started to go into the village every day again, the wind blowing my hair free on the headland, my hand firmly on the soil, my secret safe for another year. The castle was still dark from the winter blast of wetness, and I had a wonderful sense of survival.
The tourists began to return, and I would wander down to the beach with Macy, sitting on the edges of their evening gatherings, arguing with myself about inaccuracies in their stories. More than once I'd wanted to butt in and tell them they are wrong, that magic was used as a metaphor to hide wrongdoing, or even right doing. That Morgana wasn't evil, she wasn't a witch; she was a healer. Hag, witch, woman of knowledge, experienced healer, midwife, all names given to those women of the old religion. All one of the same. But those words coming out of the mouth of a bag lady wouldn't be credible, so I listened. In fact, none of my words were ever listened to now, they hit the audience and fell into the orchestra pit. People thought I was stupid because I was scruffy. In many ways this was the hardest part of my existence, because I needed to understand why people got so worked up about the castle and King Arthur. I often listened until I fell asleep, and sometimes the water lapped around my feet before I woke up alone on the beach.
One particular night, the first real warm night of the summer, I'd fallen asleep early. The firelight and the voices slipped away as I enjoyed having other people around me again, and the next thing I knew I could feel a tapping on my shoulder.
'Come on, love, the tides coming in. Have you got anywhere to go?'
A pair of earnest brown eyes stared into mine, and he stood up, silhouetted by the moonlight. I hadn't really spoken to anyone in full sentences for a while, so I stood up and grunted thanks.
'It's all right, love. Don't be scared. You don't have to do that. I know what it’s like. You can talk to me, if you want to.'
It was tempting. On the whole he looked a bit scary, but who was I to judge? Even so, his face looked kind.
'I fell asleep. Must be the sea air.'
My voice sounded high and unfamiliar, and my mouth stiff from silence. He smiled.
'I'm staying up there.' He pointed towards the low cliff edge. I'm going to light a fire in one of those high caves.'
My grip tightened on Macy.
'I won't be able to get my...'
'Don't worry about that. I've got some cammo to throw over Daisy here.' He looked at his huge bike and smiled. 'Never lost her yet. You can throw some over your stuff?'
We walked up the beach pushing our companions, up the sloping path and around a corner onto a piece of scrubland below some caves. He threw the camouflage netting over Daisy and Macy and strode up the roughed-out steps.
'Have you stayed here before?'
He was kindling a fire and he rolled and lit a cigarette.
'Yeah. This is on my route. I travel round the UK with Daisy.'
'So, have you got a, you know, permanent home?'
He paused for a minute.
'Yeah. Here, there and everywhere. What about you?'
'Tintagel.'
We sat around the fire, my back is chilly but my front warm. I pull a blanket around myself and he smiled.<
br />
'Sorry, love. I haven't even introduced myself. Jerusalem. Jer, for short, or Jerry.'
He held his hand out and I wiped mine before shaking it.
'Lizzie Nelson.'
'Is that short for Elizabeth?'
'Yes.'
'Then I'll call you Elizabeth.' I smile inside and I think it shows on my face. 'What's your story, then, Elizabeth? Or are you here for Tintagel's story?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, everyone's got their own story, haven't they, the one they tell themselves? Some people have their own story inside that they live by. Some people live by the rules, outside stories in the world around them. People like us usually have either or both?'
'People like us?'
'Well, we're both alone, and both sleeping on a beach. So, I'd say that you're either here because of extreme personal circumstances, or you're heavily invested in King Arthur. Or they're tied together in some way. Something's brought you to Tintagel, hasn't it, love?'
I'd been so tied up in the day to day survival that I'd almost forgotten what had brought me here.
'Mmm. My dad used to tell us stories about this place. He'd read a lot about it. He'd tell us about Merlin and magic and Arthur and Guinevere, about love. But when we got to be teenagers and my Mum left, he started to drink. That's when it turned to infidelity and incest. Those stories had a massive effect on me. But when I began to live here, I read all the books he did, and more. I listened to everyone's stories. ‘Spect a lot of it is about growing up and realising that the magic isn't real, it's just there to cover up things we don't want to face. I guess it was true, what he said.'
Jer smiled widely.
'Yeah. I saw you on the beach, last year. Listening to the hippies. Seems we've got something in common, Elizabeth.'
I liked the way he said my name. I watched his mouth roll it round and I felt a spark in my chest, a hope that he wouldn't suddenly get up and ride away.
'Have we?'
'Yeah. We both know a bit about this place. The thing is, though, just because it's written down doesn't make it true. Sounds like your Dad was a fan of Mallory?'
'Yes. He had lots of copies of that book. How did you know?'
'Ah. Because I'm more of a Geoffrey of Monmouth's man. He wrote a different version of the stories at the same time. Very different.'
'So, do you think it all happened here, all that Arthur stuff? Do you think it's true?'
He nodded.
'Yep, that's what they say it. And, likewise, Morgana.' I froze. Just the sound of that name made me afraid. But he went on. 'You know, Arthur's half-sister? Don't see much of her in the Hollywood films about Arthur, do you, except as a bad 'un?'
I was on the brink of tears now.
'They made her evil. But I don't think she was.'
Jer touched my arm.
'Who knows? Like I said, it's stories. Thing is with stories, you can never tell if they're just someone's imagination written down, if they're what happened word for word, or if there's thought gone into the meaning. A lesson, you know?'
I look over at the headland and the castle, now only just visible in the moonlight. In my imagination the figures for the legends move around in the headland and under the castle, just like in the stories. I can see them in the golden dusk light, that place between day and night.
'Do you think they were really here?'
Jer swivelled his huge body to look out into the bay.
'Yep. I do. But history always had a grand way of looking back on itself, don't it? At the time them knights of the round table were probably just like them people who go on Jeremy Kyle, fucking their neighbours and taking other people's women. All them stories about Arthur and Morgana having a son?
'Eugh.'
Jer laughed loudly.
'Sorry. Not a very nice subject. But I'm used to talking like this with my crew.'
For the first time in months my mouth turned up at the edges. The was Jer said 'crew' was like an ageing rapper, someone who was unfamiliar with a word but said it anyway. But it was cute, the way he said it.
'Crew?'
'Yeah. I'm a Hell's Angel.' He turned around and showed me an emblem on the back of his waistcoat.
'Ah. The angel tattoos.'
'So, you did see me? I wondered. Last year.'
'Yes. I was just getting used to it here. I'd only been here a couple of months then.' I almost launch into the reasons I came here, but it's not the time. 'So, are you an ex-Hell's Angel, or current.'
'Current. Only I don't really go to any of the rallies any more. Not on my route. Not any more.'
I laugh.
'I've got a route. Around the village and the headland, then onto the beach. Keeps me sane.'
'Mine's Land's End to John O'Groats. I do it all in a year.'
I felt a slight panic as I realised that at some point he'd continue on his route. But he put his arm around my shoulder and my body stiffened.
'Don't worry, I'm not trying it on. I just need a friend, Elizabeth. Just someone. I just need to feel skin sometimes. Is that OK?'
I nod and he pulls me down onto the blanket, the flames lighting our faces. We lie there in silence for a long time, both staring into the flames, and then I speak.
'Do I repulse you?'
He snorts.
'I could ask you the same question. The way I see it is that we've both taken our own paths. I'm not familiar to Anti-perspirant Weekly and you don't read Hairdressing Today. But what does it matter? It's about what's inside. I'd wager that you've been hurt badly more than once in your life, and so have I, so let's leave it at that.'
Finally, I rested my head on his shoulder. The warmth from his body radiated through me and it was like a drug, sending me into a kind of sleep I hadn't ever experienced before. Stan and I hadn't been big on touching; he's preferred to stay on his own side of the cool sheets. Of course, we had sex, it was only to be expected, but between there was no intimacy. It was sex or nothing. Now, here with Jerusalem, it was more than that. Not love, not possession or obsession. It was just warmth and now, the feeling of another human being. I wondered about the shed for a while, and Macy, and the garden, which would need watering, but I could do that tomorrow. Eventually I slipped into a deep sleep, my breath even with his baby snores.
I could really do with having Jer here now to talk to, to ask what he thinks about the gold object and Dad's madness and the murders. He'd tell me honestly if I was imagining it all. He isn't here, so my next best thing is to find Andrew and to ask him why John wanted Mum's trinket. I post the letters through the door of the Community Hall, ready for the meeting tomorrow, and think about what will happen. Alice would be there and she would no doubt stick up for me, but what would happen if they did decide that I had to leave the village? Could they do that? I decide to raid the skip just in case I can't come back for a while, and head over to the back of the supermarket. It's a bumper day, and load Macy up with out of date tins and some bread. It wouldn't last me very long, and I would run out of paraffin. Still, no point thinking about that right now. I needed to get on, up to the headland. I think a lot about Jer and what he said to me, about the stories; it was as if something had suddenly clicked into place. He would be the first one to say he didn't have it all worked out. He always says that the more you learn, the less you know, and that people like Julia Scholes are more troubled inside, more unhappy, than me and him put together. But he was right. Those stories from my father had woven their way into my own and somehow taken over, until I was drawn back here to Tintagel. And I'm not the only one. The more I think about it, the more I think Dad's stories are something to do whoever is looking for my missing object, who wants it so much that they would kill someone. I stand on the headland now, my headscarf blowing in the wind. That's the real magic going on in all our lives, the stories we believe and allow to join with our souls until they are part of us, good or bad. For me, I had the legends and Tintagel, overlaid with my own expectations of motherho
od, and now my daily struggle for survival. For them, they were concerned with greed and possession. To me the twisted gold meant a connection to my Mother; to them it was something valuable that they needed to possess. Enough to kill.
I've been pushed into a bottleneck of my own stories and pushed out the other end as a bag lady who has something precious. Is this what people mean by fate, that we are a product of our own beliefs? Maybe I wasn't strong enough to resist my father's stories. I loved Andrew so much and wanted to be such a good mother that I didn't see his dislike for me grow and I cultivated that story. Was my daily struggle another story I could choose to end? I couldn't see how, but I had an inkling in the back of my mind that Jer's influence on me had something to do with all this. Do you have to drill through pain to get to joy? He's the king of the clichéd saying, but if he was here now, he would no doubt tell me that that if you haven't hit the pits you can't appreciate the heights. But, despite me thinking I see him every day in the village, another figment of my addled imagination, he's not here now, and I'm alone. Two people are dead and the meeting is tomorrow. Then I'll know my real fate, as always in other people's hands. But the one thing I can do is go to Andrew and ask him what why the twisted gold is so valuable to someone. Surely if I tell him it's a matter of life or death, he will see me?
