by M. L. Welsh
Verity didn’t know what to say. She was a terrible person. Here was this girl, in a similar situation to herself, and she’d just ignored her.
‘I know I come across badly,’ blurted out Martha, wiping her face with a shirt sleeve. ‘I think it’s nerves … or something. I’m not as stuck-up when you get to know me.’
Verity smiled. ‘I haven’t been to many parties,’ she said kindly, ‘but Henry tells me they’re often not as good as you think they’re going to be … something about fun not being fun when it’s organized.’ She reached in her pocket for a clean hankie and handed it to Martha. ‘We shouldn’t have avoided you,’ she told her.
‘It’s all right,’ sniffed Martha. ‘I don’t make it easy for people to like me.’
‘Why don’t we go to the loo and wash your face?’ Verity suggested.
By the time Martha looked a little less blotchy, the end-of-year revue was in full swing on the temporarily erected stage in the Hunter Hall. Verity craned to look across the seats, hunting for her family, but there were no spaces anywhere near them.
As the two girls stood together at the back watching the show, Verity’s attention started to wander. Gazing across the crowd, she realized that the Blake family were all seated a few rows in front of her. Miranda was completely dwarfed by George and Oscar – both pink of cheek and blank of eye, with unruly floppy hair. Their smaller blond brother was tucked away on the other side of the Blake parents. How confident they all looked, mused Verity. As if the world were theirs for the taking.
Looking round, Miranda Blake caught sight of her and said something to her mother, who smiled superciliously. ‘Not at all surprised …’ Miranda stage-whispered. ‘If she were my relative I wouldn’t want to be seen with her either.’
Verity gripped the wooden ball – her constant companion – in her pocket. It would be more of a worry if she did like you, she reminded herself, and stared blankly at Miranda, determined not to give her the satisfaction of looking hurt. Then she raised her hand, mimicking the patronizing wave Miranda had used at the sailing club. The shrewish little girl looked furious. Verity felt a small glow of triumph.
‘You don’t seem to have spent a lot of time with your family,’ observed Martha cautiously as they shuffled out at the end.
‘No, but actually it’s been quite a relief,’ Verity admitted. Realizing how that must sound, she started trying to explain herself.
‘It’s all right,’ interrupted Martha. ‘I think I understand … It can be pretty lonely living with my parents,’ she elaborated. ‘I mean – I suppose it’s good that they treat me more like an adult, but sometimes I think they forget I’m there.’
Verity smiled sympathetically.
‘And just recently,’ said Martha sadly, ‘they haven’t been getting on very well. Sitting at the dining table through one of their “debates” can be pretty depressing.’
Verity didn’t know what to say. No wonder Martha could be awkward at times.
‘Thanks for being so nice to me,’ the new girl said as they reached the main hall.
Verity blushed, embarrassed to think that her thoughtless behaviour had contributed to Martha’s unhappiness. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said, and gave Martha a hug that was also an apology. The little girl felt so small and vulnerable, even wrapped up in her thick winter coat. Her woollen scarf tickled Verity’s face.
Martha smiled and hugged her back. ‘See you in two weeks’ time,’ she said.
It was Christmas Eve at last. The air was fresh and sharp, the sky so clear that each star, each swirl of firmament could be seen. The night was velvety silent, as, in each and every home, children went quietly to bed, anxious for this one last chance to show how good they could be.
All save Miranda Blake – who was instead proving her worth by sitting in the cabin suite of the Storm with her parents. She looked again in satisfaction at her new ivory silk dress with puffball sleeves and accompanying mulberry velvet cape. She twirled her ankles to get a better view of the matching slippers that adorned her feet. This, she felt, was entirely as things should be.
‘Don’t you think they’re pretty?’ she asked her mother, tugging at her skirts for attention.
Mrs Blake glanced down at her only daughter with barely concealed irritation. ‘Not now, Miranda. Father and I are talking.’ She turned back to her husband and continued sotto voce, ‘And the furnishings … everything to the very highest specification, Rupert.’ Her eyes darted greedily around the wood-panelled dining room, fitted with stunningly crafted lockers, decorated with the most sumptuous materials and lit now by weighted bronze lamps.
‘There’s always been money around the Storm,’ her husband replied in a baritone rumble deepened by the liberal and regular application of port and cigars.
A thought occurred to Mrs Blake, and she turned to her daughter again, smoothing her dress and pinching her cheeks to bring a colour to them. Miranda smiled at the attention, trying to catch her mother’s eye.
Mrs Blake ignored her. ‘Don’t mess this up, Miranda,’ she said briskly. ‘We’re relying on you.’
Miranda stared at her reflectively, thinking of the dozens of visits she’d already made to the Storm as part of this charm offensive. ‘Of course not,’ she replied efficiently. ‘You can rely on me.’
Abednego came silently into the room. Today he wore a soft white shirt and an emerald jacket. The gold jewellery in his ears and on his wrists and neck shone brightly against his ebony skin. ‘The Mistress is ready for you now,’ he said.
Miranda’s parents headed for the doors that led to the heart of the cabin suite, Mrs Blake struggling to hide her anticipation.
Abednego’s handsome almond-shaped eyes glinted with tears as he watched her push her only girl child eagerly in front of her. A minnow to catch a shark, he thought to himself sadly as he closed the doors regretfully behind them.
For Villainous Usage, Christmas Eve was a less stately affair. He sat quietly on his own, eating a bowl of broth and thanking his lucky stars Mother was out. The last few weeks had been a time of bitter frustration for her, and consequently of uncomfortable anxiety for all in her vicinity.
The window of the front room shook as the door swung open violently. Villainous shrank back in his chair. But the black mood that had dogged Mother over the last six weeks seemed to have lifted.
‘There’s a second packet ship,’ she announced jubilantly, with a slight slur that made it obvious she’d discovered this news in the Spyglass. ‘The Lady Georgia is to be followed by the Helmingham.’ She pinched Villainous’ pustule-ridden cheek. ‘Tardy Paul has said we can borrow his rowing boat.’
Villainous waited to find out why.
‘We must go directly to the Storm.’ Mother swung an arm out in the general direction of the harbour. ‘If I can just talk to Abednego a while longer, I’m sure he’ll remember how profitable the old days were, and see sense. We can’t miss this one. It’s meant for us.’
Villainous’ ferret-thin face went a little pale. ‘Approach the Storm uninvited?’ he said. ‘Are you sure, Muvver?’ His mind crowded with rumours he’d heard of the sometimes fatal manner in which the Storm dealt with unannounced guests.
Mother swayed towards him. Her eyes were having difficulty focusing but the menace could still be clearly felt. ‘We must go there now, son. And you will row me.’
Villainous reflected that a death later on the Storm might be less inglorious than one in the cottage at the hands of Mother. ‘I’ll get my coat,’ he said.
But Mother was not to need her passage to the Storm, for there on the harbour, as Villainous helped her down the narrow street, was Abednego himself, assisting Miranda Blake and her parents out of a tender. It was dark now, and the inky black water lapped gently against the quay.
Mother Usage hissed with righteous indignation. She pulled herself up to her full rotund height and bustled along as fast as her weight would allow in the direction of her quarry.
‘So it’s like
that, is it?’ she demanded of the Storm’s captain. ‘Only got need for such as the Blakes?’
‘Really,’ Mrs Blake whispered disdainfully. Not too loudly, because even she knew that Mother Usage was not someone to cross.
‘There was a time when our plans were acceptable,’ Mother carried on full throttle. ‘What’s changed that you can turn us away so high and mighty? Just one storm,’ she demanded angrily, so lost in her ill temper that she gave no thought to the captain’s reputation. ‘Just one to bring us a little good fortune.’ She squared up to him, her short round body contrasting with his tall lithe figure. ‘Surely we are owed that?’
A spark of fury flashed in Abednego’s eyes. He seized Mother Usage and gripped her tightly by both arms. ‘You have your son,’ he said with a chilling passion.
Mother Usage felt her courage draining – from the pit of her stomach and down her legs – as if it were a physical fluid.
‘You have your son, and you are safe,’ he repeated softly.
Mother gaped at him, a soft squeak of fear her only sound.
‘That is fortune enough,’ Abednego concluded.
Chapter Thirteen
Christmas Day dawned crisp and cold. There was no snow, but the sky was a swirl of icy white, with the peculiar glow that told you it must be one of the shortest days of the year.
At midday Abednego, captain of the Storm, sat at the head of a heavily laden table and watched his crew – the closest thing he had to a family – celebrating.
The meat platter groaned with roast goose, duck, beef, pork and pheasants, edged by little partridges. Buttered chestnuts vied with sage and bread stuffing, baked figs and jellied fruit sauces, while large bowls of vegetables steamed quietly (mostly ignored – save for the roasted, fried and mashed potatoes). The eating and drinking would go on all day.
The men were only just beginning to tuck into the plentiful supply of port and rum, but already spirits were high and toasts were being made.
‘To the Mistress,’ came wafting across the air amidst cheers and jeers. A handful of those with instruments had started to play, and Abednego heard snatches of song:
‘She’ll cover you in diamonds, she’ll crown you with gold, she’ll drown you in pearls but you’ll pay with your soul …’
His mind wandered back to the celebrations of his childhood … some happy times among the memories. He recalled the day when his older sister had received her beloved peg doll – the shiny, worn figurine that now spent every day in his pocket.
His uncle had been drinking since the morning – sitting out in the street with the other neighbourhood men and a cask of wine, playing cards, talking nonsense and having stand-up arguments with the local harlots.
Abednego had adored his sister, Abigail. Since their parents died she had been both mother and father to him, always happy to hand over food from her own meagre portion to assuage his rumbling stomach. Always there to dart in front of their uncle when he tried to beat Abednego.
He had saved all year to buy that peg doll, scraping aside a fragment of coin here, another there, until he had what he needed; until his uncle demanded the hard-won money for more drink. But Abednego stood firm and refused.
His uncle gave him such a hiding he couldn’t sit down for a week. But he wouldn’t say where the money was. And when his uncle grew bored of hitting and cursing, Abednego crept off secretly to the shack of the lady who sold the peg dolls, and carefully selected the prettiest one for his sister.
Abigail was enchanted by her new toy. She was the envy of her friends. Her smile shone so brightly when she held the little wooden mannequin … Abednego could still see it now. It had been worth every cut and weal.
Underneath the table he pulled out the doll and stroked one of the scraps of faded material, so worn now it was as soft as velvet. To continue his life as a sham … or to lose it with honour? This was the question that had churned around his head since that fateful day in Wellow library.
For Verity, Christmas was simply yet another day of snipes and barbs, of difficult conversations and oppressive moods that brooded over the house like a cloud. But for the moment at least, she was hidden upstairs brushing her hair and enjoying a minute’s peace from Grandmother.
Giving up on the task of making herself neater, she nearly jumped out of her skin to find her elderly relative waiting on the landing. Suddenly Verity felt herself pinned against the wall. Even through her alarm, a little voice in her head wondered how someone of Grandmother’s age could be so strong. But looking down, she realized that the old lady was a foot away from her. She was being held up by something she couldn’t see or hear. Her clothes and hair were pressed back as if she were walking through a gale. Her throat constricted with fear, her mouth held shut. This can’t be happening, it can’t be happening, she repeated to herself in reassurance.
‘Did you like your presents, Verity, my dear?’ asked Grandmother, in a voice that was obviously intended to carry downstairs.
Verity looked at her. The old lady’s appearance was terrifying: her skin as dark as ancient wood; her face so sunken that all her features had practically disappeared – no eyebrows, no cheeks; just the shape of a covered skull, with scraps of long dry hair in patches on her scalp.
In a bid to keep her head, Verity focused her attention on the pretty brooch Grandmother was wearing. It had an enamel centre with a picture of a dark-haired woman against a starlit backdrop, surrounded by a delicate gold frame set with pearls. Verity stared at it, desperately trying to concentrate on something that was real and solid. But still she felt cold fear trickling through her. This can’t be happening.
‘It’s terribly rude to ignore your elders, Verity,’ said Grandmother.
Suddenly Verity heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Unable to twist her head, she strained her eyes to the right and realized it was Father. Relief flooded over her. Now at last someone would see Grandmother in her true colours.
He stopped opposite Verity, but did nothing. Verity stared imploringly at him, still unable to speak. In reply he gazed at her as if she were a curiosity. He reached out to pat her cheek, then inspected his hand in wonder.
‘You are quite a bad-mannered little girl, aren’t you?’ continued the old lady.
Verity mustered every ounce of will to force out a reply. ‘Yes, Grandmother,’ she answered politely, then felt herself slide to the floor, the mysterious force releasing her.
Her grandmother gazed at her contemptuously, then bent down and pressed her face very close to Verity’s. She looked furious, as if she would very much like to hurt her but couldn’t. ‘Soon …’ she whispered, almost as if it were a promise to herself.
Verity’s father went to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Outside, the wind rattled the hallway window.
On Boxing Day morning Verity closed the front door behind her. Hardly daring to breathe, she walked quietly down the path, terrified that at any moment she might be called back in. Then, at the corner, she ran: ran as fast as her legs would carry her to get away from the brooding place that her once dull but benign home had turned into.
‘Happy Christmas,’ said Henry cheerfully, wrapped in a newly voluminous scarf and hat, both presents from his mother.
Verity said nothing.
Henry pulled a face. ‘As tough as you expected?’
‘Slightly worse actually.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me about it?’
Verity shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ she said emphatically.
Henry stared at her thoughtfully. Things must be pretty bad, he reflected.
Priory Bay was closed for the next fortnight but Verity was desperate not to spend that time at home. And it didn’t seem fair to force herself upon Mrs Twogood again.
‘Six bored brothers and my dad,’ said Henry, rolling his eyes. ‘When I’m not being used as a punchbag, I’m having my ear clipped for back-chat.’
The air was bitterly cold, with a sea wind that cut y
ou like a knife. Verity would happily have sat outside to freeze, but by midday she had to concede that her toes were painfully numb and her cheeks stung like fury. Even the usually hardy Henry was starting to look despondent as they sat together in a little wooden shelter on the seafront. The wrought-iron bench was so cold you could feel it seeping through your clothes from the second you perched on it.
They said nothing for at least five minutes, staring out at the churning grey sea instead. Henry had managed to cover up his face with the new scarf so that all you could see was his grey-blue eyes. They looked dejected. Verity felt really guilty. She knew he was just keeping her company.
‘Why don’t you go home? I’ll just hang around a little bit longer,’ she lied.
‘ ’M OK,’ said Henry, trying to sound like he was. ‘Why don’t we start walking again?’ he suggested.
Getting up from the seat, which was definitely making her feel worse, Verity looked despairingly back up at Wellow and rolled the strange wooden ball around in her pocket for comfort. She’d still not mentioned it to Henry. Sometimes that made her feel guilty, but she couldn’t bear the idea of him dismissing the effect it had on her – or, worse, insisting that she return it. She carried it everywhere with her now.
She wondered what the Gentry would have done when expelled by their enemies. She was pretty certain Rafe Gallant wouldn’t have settled for wandering around miserably in the cold. Then Verity spotted a familiar building. Of course: sanctuary.
‘The library,’ she exclaimed. ‘The library might be open. We could go there.’
Henry looked at her as if she’d just suggested they take a walk into a lions’ cage. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he said quickly.
Verity pulled a disbelieving face at Henry’s bibliophobia. ‘You don’t have to read just because you’re there,’ she said. ‘It’s Christmas. If it’s open, there definitely won’t be anyone else in it.’ Spotting his hesitation, she pressed her point home. ‘It’ll be warmer than out here. Why don’t we just give it a try?’
