The Mark of Cain

by Lindsey Barraclough

  “What? The shops?” She rubs her forehead, and in her other hand the ashtray tips, spilling ash down her skirt.

  “There was a bit of bacon in the fridge yesterday,” I say, taking it off her, “and some eggs. I’ll go and get started.”

  “It’s all right, love,” she says, flicking off the ash. “I’ll do it.”

  Under the bright light in the kitchen, Auntie Kath looks washed out, the vivid lime-green of her cardigan showing up the dark crescents under her eyes. She clumsily drops large pieces of eggshell into the pan with the eggs, and almost burns the fried bread while I’m making us a pot of tea.

  When we go to bed, Auntie Kath comes up too, and won’t let me switch off the landing light.

  Music comes wafting down the landing from the clock radio on Auntie Kath’s side of the bed. I’ve never known her to play it at night before. I drift off to sleep with Bobby Vee singing “Take Good Care of My Baby.”

  “Enter.”

  My hands shake as I push open the door.

  The room is long and narrow, with no lamp lit to warm the cold grey light.

  Rows of leather-bound books to the ceiling. Dark oak filing cabinets. Religious pictures of saints I don’t know — martyrs dying serenely in a haze of holy radiance.

  Through the glass of the small sash window the snow falls gently on the netball courts, melting on the wet tarmac before it has a chance to cover the lines.

  Madame Mary Saint Bernard — white tunic, black scapular, white wimple, black veil — rises tall out of her chair behind the desk in the shadows at the far end of the room.

  The huge silver and ebony rosary beads looping from her belt to the floor click against one another as she stands.

  My hand coats the doorknob with a film of moisture.

  “Good morning, Cora. Please close the door.”

  The walls are so uncomfortably high that the foot of the large crucifix hanging behind the nun is still a good few inches above her head.

  “Good morning, Miss — Mother —”

  “Madame. Come forward.”

  “Madame — sorry, Madame.”

  In their long walk to the desk, my soft indoor shoes make barely a sound on the hard wooden floor. When I get there, I bob an awkward curtsey, having been warned I must never forget that the headmistress is the sister — or cousin, is it? — of a duke — or an earl … I don’t remember.

  My eyes flicker up, catch hers, then drop down to the parquet. My hands are now so sticky, I wipe them on the back of my gymslip.

  “Mother Anselm and I have been discussing your progress,” Madame Mary Saint Bernard says in her clipped voice.

  “Yes, Madame,” I say, my eyes fixed on the floor.

  “You have been with us at the Abbey for a week now, and I have here a report on your general progress and effort and a list of your marks.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Even taking into account the fact that you are new to the school, they are nowhere near the standard we expect.”

  I swallow, feeling sweat moisten my fringe.

  The nun shuffles papers. “Your weekend maths homework was particularly poorly done. Can you explain this?”

  I am hunched over my maths book in the kitchen table in Guerdon Hall, half listening to the football match on the radio, hearing the scuffling in the porch, throwing away the bunch of twigs.

  I say, “I ain’t — sorry, haven’t done a lot of that stuff before, Mother — Madame.”

  “Your father was most anxious to tell me how diligent you were. This was one of the reasons I agreed to take you midterm. That, and the fact that your mother is — is in an asylum. Incidentally, I have kept that information to myself. It isn’t the sort of thing you would want bandied about, I think.”

  I stare at the herringbone wooden blocks around my shoes.

  “I can assure you,” she goes on, “there are many girls who would give their eyeteeth to enjoy the education you are privileged to be receiving within these walls.”

  I glance up at her. Swallow. Look down.

  “I am also given to understand that you are making no effort whatsoever to get on with your classmates.” I hear the papers twitch. “The words I have here are sullen, morose, unfriendly.”

  She waits for me to take this in.

  “Is anyone being unkind to you?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “I am writing to your father about all this.”

  My heart flutters with alarm.

  “Look at me, Cora.”

  My eyes flick from the desk leg to the leather blotter, to her face. Her expression is unreadable, as cool as the wall behind her.

  “I understand you have a younger sister?”

  “Yes, Madame. Mimi — Elizabeth. Sorry, she’s Elizabeth.”

  “Well, if I’m expected to take Elizabeth in the future, as things stand now that would be a vain hope. You have until the end of term to improve this situation. If things remain as they are, I will have no choice but to ask your father to find you another school after Christmas. I will be writing all this in my letter. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  My legs go weak. A letter to Dad. I swallow, slide my eyes to the bookshelves.

  The volumes stand perfectly vertical: The Cistercian World: Monastic Writings of the Twelfth Century, The Life of Bernard of Clairvaux.

  Four whole shelves of Sorrel and Brassock’s County Records. Brown leather spines. Gold lettering.

  Vol. 3: Wrayness Hundred inc. Merham St Michael & Merham St Peter, 1498–1600.

  Vol. 11: Lokswood Hundred inc. Corsey Island, Longcreek, Gitting & Whitestone, 1710–1807.

  Vol. 20: Daneflete Hundred inc. South Fairing, North Fairing, Bryers Guerdon & Hilsea, 1409–1519.

  Vol. 21: Daneflete Hundred inc. South Fairing, North Fairing, Bryers Guerdon & Hilsea, 1520–1625.

  “Cora — are you paying attention?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  She glances at the books, then back at me.

  A small moment of warmth.

  “Do you like history?”

  “Yes, Madame. I’d rather have done it than geography, but there wasn’t no more room in the class — me coming late an’ all.”

  My eyes steal their way back to Vol. 21: Daneflete Hundred … 1520–1625.

  Again she follows my gaze. “Do you live in that area?” she asks, then runs her finger down a paper on the desk. “Ah yes, Bryers Guerdon. You must be our most distant pupil.”

  “What — what’s a Hundred, please, Madame?”

  “It’s an old administrative district, Cora, somewhere in size between a parish and a county. We are most privileged to have a complete set of Sorrel and Brassock’s here in the Abbey. The only other whole set is in the County Archives.” She moves over to the bookshelf and places a long slender hand on one of the spines. “These books are most valuable, containing copies of a wealth of historical documents, important letters and deeds, trial records, that sort of thing. Hardly a week goes by when I am not contacted by an academic or historian requesting permission to resource material in one or other of these volumes.”

  She strides back to the desk.

  “From time to time we even afford sixth formers who are studying A level history the privilege of accessing these books under supervision. It is a great honour, and a measure of the quality of the education we provide here at Wrayness Abbey.”

  My eyes linger on Vol. 21 …

  “Which reminds me,” she continues. “A week from today, Wednesday the fourteenth, we have Prizegiving. You know what that is, I take it?”

  I return to her still, pale face.

  “No, Madame.”

  “Why am I not surprised? It is a ceremony in which our high achievers are awarded prizes for conspicuous attainment and scholarship. Traditionally girls in the fifth form who are not members of the school choir act as stewards, showing guests to their seats and handing out programmes… . Cora?”

  “S-sorry,
Madame. Sorry.”

  “I have already added your name to the list of stewards, Cora. It will begin at half past seven, and your uniform must be spotlessly clean and pressed, shoes polished, hair neat and tidy. I expect your complete commitment and shall be watching you most carefully. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “And I would prefer it if you do not engage in conversation with guests; in fact, do not open your mouth at all. Just smile and indicate seats by gesture. Lazy enunciation is unbecoming in an Abbey girl, and other parents may be shocked to hear we have a pupil who speaks as you do. From now on you should make an effort to improve your diction. Take note of the pronunciation used by the other girls in your class and practise at home until you have rid yourself of those appalling consonants and ugly vowels. You are dismissed.”

  “Yes — yes, Madame.”

  She remains standing, still and upright behind her desk, while I make my way to the door, my face hot with humiliation. I fumble for the doorknob, slippery in my clammy fingers, turn it at last, and sidle into the corridor, mercifully empty so I am spared the shame of anyone seeing my flushed cheeks.

  Half a minute after I leave Madame Mary Saint Bernard’s study, the dinner bell clangs throughout the building, from staircase to classroom, from gym to cloakroom.

  Before the corridors fill with rushing feet, I hurry out through the nearest door into the snowy playground and head round the back of the refectory to the small yard outside the entrance to the kitchens, where they keep the huge metal bins.

  It stinks of cabbage and chocolate sponge.

  I lean my head against the brick wall in the corner, out of sight. My stomach churns. I feel dizzy, and hungry. The snow dissolves the moment it touches the hard ground but clings like sugar to the tufts of grass sticking up around the bottom of the walls.

  As the headmistress’s words buzz and spin in my head, I try desperately to swallow down the lump rising in my throat, to squeeze my eyes so the tears won’t come. But I can’t stop them. They spill out, stream down, and bite into my cheeks as they cool in the icy air. I have no handkerchief, scrub my eyes and nose on the hem of my pullover, then rub my freezing hands hard together.

  There is a clattering noise. The green door is pushed open by the back of a plump woman in a white overall and netted cap. She struggles with two buckets full of slops.

  Quickly I wipe my eyes with my palms, lower my head, and turn away. She empties the buckets into one of the big bins, then mutters, “You’ll catch your death out ’ere, love.”

  As the door clunks shut behind her, I notice, through watery eyes, the crates stacked nearby, full of the small milk bottles given out at playtime. Among the empties are a couple left unopened, still full. I take one from the crate, brush the powdery snow off the cap, press it in, then gulp down the icy milk so fast it hurts. I put the empty bottle back and wipe my face again.

  My stomach aches with crying.

  The snow eases off, but the cold has crept through my pullover and under my blouse to my quivering skin. I blow on my numb fingers and stamp my wet, throbbing feet in their soft indoor shoes.

  I wait and wait, tense and shivering, until I can bear the cold no longer.

  Slipping round the corner, I sneak into the cloakroom on the other side of the refectory, push my outdoor shoes on over my wet stockings, and pull on my coat, scarf, and hat. Skirting round the high playground wall, I open the heavy wrought-iron gate and head up the road to the bus stop.

  Beyond the shoreline at Wrayness, the dark, heaving waves are tipped with ragged white curls. Overhead, steel-grey clouds threaten more snow. I try to imagine what that might look like, snowflakes whirling over the sea, but the bus turns inland and I don’t find out.

  I think of the other girls settling down to afternoon lessons, searching in their desks for the right exercise books — blue Maths, pink English, or green Science … ah, yes, it’s Wednesday afternoon — yellow French, followed by brown Geography. Desk lids will be clunking down, the books spread open next to the shiny-lidded fountain pens, sharpened pencils, wooden rulers, and smooth, clean rubbers.

  In the bleak fields between Daneflete and Bryers Guerdon, the snow has settled in the hollows between the lumps of mud or collected around the tufts of wiry grass. It is much colder here than at Wrayness.

  I get off the bus and walk towards the turning.

  A few white flakes fall gently on my navy coat sleeves and touch my shoes before melting. By the time I reached Glebe House, the snow is dusting my coat and must be making quite a layer on the crown and brim of my hat.

  Glebe House stands solid and confident behind the black railings of the tall gate, protected by sturdy trees and bushes, the snow already rounding and smoothing them like iced cakes.

  I make my way down the hill, stand where the road parts, and look down the Chase.

  The large flakes form a flimsy curtain, parting to reveal the way to Guerdon Hall, then drifting back together.

  As I move on, my mind cloudy with worry about the headmistress’s letter, I see something blue coming in my direction, hear someone walking awkwardly, in the wrong footwear for the weather. I draw back slightly along the track to All Hallows and stand still as still, half hidden by the hedgerow.

  It’s Auntie Kath, in her shiny court shoes, ankles twisting all over the place on the slippery stones. She must be going up to North Fairing to collect Mimi from school.

  For a second I think I might go and join her, but she’ll ask why I’m home early, and will see that I’ve been upset — all too difficult, so I stay where I am and watch her. Then, as she passes quite close to me and I see her more clearly, I’m glad I didn’t come out. She’s holding one of Dad’s big hankies up to her face, looking nervously all about her, making whimpering noises, and crying.

  Quietly, slowly, I move back and back again, keeping close to the hedge, watching Auntie Kath making her awkward way towards the hill, hoping she’s too upset to notice my footprints. I turn and see I have come quite a way down the track. It is narrower than I remember; the light covering of snow clings to the grass spreading into the road, softening the edges so it’s hard to tell where the verges begin.

  There is no sound but the dull creak of my shoes as I walk towards the church.

  The lychgate is smothered in a jumble of purplish brambles, stinging nettles, and thorny briars, on which a few shrivelled rose hips still hang. A vicious barrier of barbed branches has grown up where the old wooden gates used to be, so dense I could not have passed between the pillars. Oddly, a young tree has sprung up in the middle of them; its thin arching branches, still bearing tight bunches of red berries, scramble under the roof, little by little pushing up the mossy tiles with their tiny probing shoots. I take one of the thicker boughs in my fingers and shake it. The snow wafts from it like a cloud of flour through a sieve.

  I walk on and try to open the metal gate to the churchyard, having to push at it over and over, wetting my chilly hands. At last it gives. The grass has grown quite tall under the lower bar, and it showers my shoes with snow as it springs back.

  Farther up, the path near the church porch is a stack of bricks and a heap of sand. A few of the bricks have tumbled down, and the dull orange sand has blown about and spread itself over the flattened grass and among the tombstones. A rough stake-and-wire fence runs from the corner of the tower wall across the entrance to the porch and down the length of the building. A crudely painted wooden sign is tied to the fence with a piece of frayed string — DANGER KEEP OUT.

  The falling snowflakes start to thin.

  I glance to my left. In the Guerdon plot is an upright gravestone overhung by the branches of the old elder tree. The gravestones and crosses round about are leaning, half buried, knotted with ivy, unreadable, but this stone is plain grey and starkly new, only matching the others with its capping of light snow.

  I stare at the stone for quite some time, then step over the low wrought-iron railing and approach it through the l
ong grass. The snow is slowly melting, leaving a thin layer of icy water over the wet leaves, brown, golden, and red, that have settled against the stone.

  IDA GUERDON EASTFIELD

  I am utterly unprepared for the blinding shock of sudden grief that engulfs me at the sight of Auntie Ida’s name. With a groan, I drop to my knees on the cold wet grass and find myself choking and shuddering as flood upon flood of tears overflow my eyes and course down my cheeks, unchecked and unwiped, through my trembling fingers and onto the grass. I would not have believed I had so many more tears left in me. I wrap my arms around the gravestone, as if the hard, unyielding slab were Auntie Ida herself.

  … This then, is Ida Guerdon, the woman who wrenched him back through the portal of the lychgate and ripped him out of the world.

  I am drawn to the flesh that last touched his, find my way into this grave, squeeze in with the humpbacked coffin flies through the fine cracks in the wood of her casket, and see her lying there, her waxy shell unspoiled by the worms and burnished beetles. If it were not for the stillness of the silken veil that covers her face, I might have thought she was only under the spell of sleep in this wet, uncorrupting mud, and that it was the weak, distant murmur of her blood that I sensed on the air beyond the hammering of theirs.

  But no blood runs in these cold limbs.

  So peaceful is she that I lament, because she is clearly at rest, while I am not.

  And so it must be — as long as Guerdon hearts continue beating — one now so close that I can hear its drumming against the stone above.

  As I cling there, wave after wave of half-smothered memories pour into my head in sharp, livid colours and with harsh sounds. In the bitter-cold November churchyard I seem to feel again the intense heat of that terrifying summer, see Long Lankin shriek for the last time, see the little ghostly children, and, kneeling beside Auntie Ida’s motionless body, not more than a couple of feet from the spot where she lies now, look up to see Roger wiping tears from his filthy cheeks with the heel of his hand.

  I remember his face at last.

  I gaze in horror at my reflection in the piece of mirror wedged behind the water heater over the sink. Pete comes through the kitchen door and hoots with laughter. Dennis and Terry run in to swell the merry gathering, and they all stand there, roaring with mirth.