The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  ‘My mother had the same hands,’ he said. ‘Creamy smooth, long fingers like a pianist’s, decorated with rings that flashed when she spelt the shapes of words in the air. She couldn’t communicate without flapping them around.’

  Abigail’s hands stopped; she clasped them together, still, as if in prayer, looking down at them, willing him to release her. Why had she left the beach?

  ‘You don’t look like Connie.’ He sat back, exhaling rings of smoke between closed lips, his eyes narrowed. ‘Wispier, drifting through the house.’ He rested one hand on his groin, his jaw working. ‘Fussing over that pathetic bird.’

  She looked up sharply at that, felt a flash of hatred for him. Thought of that bird with its broken neck, bit down the words that were cramming into her mouth ready to fire out and be spat at him.

  He leant forward again, resting his pipe on the edge of the ashtray, his eyes not leaving hers. Then came his hand, back on her leg, his grip tightening. Her eyes widened, she could feel the muscles in her legs stiffen. She shifted a fraction, her knees clamped shut like her mouth but her eyes roving, searching his face now.

  He released her as quickly as he had seized her and her hand shot out to smooth her skirt, smooth over the memory of where his palm had been. She felt the fuzzy warmth of the room, the close atmosphere as if the sun were leaking into every crack and crevice of the house, filling the room with heat. He licked his lips, dabbing at the back of his neck with a handkerchief, and she started to panic. How would she get out of this room? What did he want from her?

  She coughed into her hand, just once, her mind filling with questions, plans to get out. The door to the house clicked and turned, announcing Connie’s arrival, and as she bustled into the room, coiffured and rosy, her handbag tucked under her arm, she started, seeing them both there in the silence.

  ‘Darling,’ Larry said, standing and readjusting his trousers, pulling the fabric up above his knees with both hands before walking across to kiss her.

  Abigail watched him put his arms around her waist, pull her towards him and give her a lingering kiss on her mouth. Connie lost the words that she had, her cheeks scarlet when he let her go, unable to look at Abigail.

  ‘Oh, Abigail doesn’t mind.’ He laughed, pecking her on the cheek, reverting to his role as dutiful husband.

  ‘Of course not.’ Connie swallowed a hiccough of a laugh, still not looking at Abigail, who sat frozen to her chair, staring at them both.

  He looked over at Abigail, meeting her gaze, seemingly gratified by the way she held it.

  IRINA

  She followed Andrew through a small wooden gate, jumping stupidly as the face of an old woman appeared in one of the downstairs windows. The woman held up one hand in a wave and Irina nodded at her. When she looked again, the sun had come out, bouncing off the glass and obscuring the view of the room inside. The door had been left on the latch and they stepped through it into a small reception area.

  The narrow space was lined with watercolours of beach scenes and delicate dried flowers, pressed and carefully labelled in simple pine frames. The receptionist was a bored-looking twenty-year-old with a goatee and a toothpaste mark on his jumper. He clicked on the computer in front of him, waiting for the page to load and rolling his eyes at the speed of the connection. ‘So slow, sorry,’ he said, without sounding it.

  She didn’t feel tired after their journey; there was something about the village that fired her up inside. The moment she lay on the bed she felt restless, as if there was someone urging her to explore. She unpacked her things, arranging her few clothes on separate hangers, lining up her bottles with gaps between them to take up more space. She stared at the room, the tiny television on brackets in the corner, the dusty pink lampshade, the curtains hooked back to show a hint of sky beyond. She could hear the odd passing car, the tweet of birds and then silence, unnerving compared with the hum of the village beyond the shop in Petworth. She thought of Patricia clucking in the shop just then, whistling round the place with a duster, finally accessing her workshop and trying to create some order in the pungent chaos.

  A knock on the door and Andrew was standing there, in a yellow shirt crumpled from his suitcase. He peeked over her shoulder. ‘Nice room,’ he commented. ‘Mine is pinker.’

  She turned and grabbed her bag and they left the B & B. The breeze had picked up and her hair was loose in the wind as she tried to draw it into a ponytail.

  ‘Where to?’ Andrew asked. He too seemed filled with renewed energy now that they were there.

  ‘We need to find someone old,’ Irina said.

  ‘Seems like a solid plan.’

  She gave him her best withering look and he threw back his head and laughed, tucking her arm into his as they set off. She peered up through her lashes, feeling her body lean into his, an urge to snuggle into his chest like she always had in the past. Then the jolt as she remembered why they were apart; she pulled back a little, pretending to tie her hair again as she removed her arm.

  They passed a shop crammed with sheepskin slippers, woven baskets, postcard racks. A café with a young waitress taking a family’s order, a bored barista on his phone next to a large stainless-steel coffee machine. The town hall, steps leading from the pavement up to its double doors. There was an old stationer’s opposite, a dated, dusty shop with an old-fashioned bell that rang as it swung open. The entrance was narrow, filled with stacks of yellowing newspapers, brochures and pamphlets piled messily on top of each other so that Andrew was forced to remain propping up the door, standing on the solitary stone step, one foot in, one foot out.

  It wasn’t a big shop. A large printer littered with more paper sat in the centre of the room churning out copies, a strip of light moving across its surface in a rhythm. On the shelves were an assortment of commemorative mugs and old toy-train carriages in every colour, crests painted carefully on their sides, tracks heaped in piles. A middle-aged man in a cardigan, three large beige buttons down the front, looked up as they arrived. He peered at Irina over tortoiseshell glasses, brow furrowed as Andrew sidestepped in behind her, almost sending one of the towers of paper flying.

  ‘Can I help?’

  Irina felt her mouth freeze up as she went to speak. Fumbling in her handbag, she pulled out the postcard, the letters ‘Lynton’ in bold on the front. ‘I found this,’ she stammered, ‘in a bureau, a drawer. I wondered, well…’

  She wasn’t exactly sure what she wondered. Did she imagine the man would leap up and instantly recognize the handwriting? Remember the exact client that he’d sold this postcard to? She knew they were on a wild goose chase, with no real idea what they were looking for, but still she found herself holding her breath.

  The man had taken a step towards her, skirting round a wire rack that contained an assortment of envelopes in different sizes. ‘Come on then,’ he said, holding out his hand for it.

  She thrust it into them, a sudden flare of hope that everything would fall into place. He looked carefully at the front, tracing the image with one finger, a small smile on his cracked lips.

  ‘It was never posted.’ She gestured at it pointlessly, her arm dropping a fraction as she watched him read the back. She could see the words without looking: ‘Forgive me’. She wondered again who ‘A’ was. The handwriting had an energy to it, as if the two words might fly off the end of the card. ‘I wondered when it was written. It’s hard to tell really, without a postmark.’ She knew she was babbling now, knew she should stop to take a breath and let him speak. ‘It’s a lovely old postcard, don’t you think? I adore the image, it’s so romantic.’

  ‘Well, the village has changed a bit,’ said the man, unclear as to what both of them were doing there in his shop or perhaps disappointed by the lack of business. ‘That pub has long gone, it’s a gift shop now.’

  Andrew tried to peer in the direction he was pointing but was impeded by t
he stack of papers.

  ‘So do you have any idea who sent it?’ She knew the moment it was out of her mouth that this was an absurd question. How could he possibly have any idea? The overwhelming task ahead of them made her voice wobble with disappointment. ‘I know it seems impossible, but we are desperate to know more about it. Anything, really, might be a help.’

  The man stared at the card again, as if another look might solve all her problems. Then he shook his head decisively, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the first idea.’

  She knew it was idiotic to feel so disheartened. What had she really been expecting? She turned to shuffle out of the shop, her face just inches from Andrew’s chest, so that it seemed she was about to hug him. He opened the door wider to let her out, setting off the bell once more. She placed one foot on the stone step outside.

  ‘You might,’ said the stationer as an afterthought, ‘want to see Bill in Lynmouth. He’s been around longer than anyone, might be more of a help. He lives next to The Rising Sun.’

  ‘Is that a Devon term?’ Irina asked, her forehead wrinkling.

  ‘No.’ The man’s laugh turned into a hacking cough, so that he couldn’t get the next sentence out quickly. ‘It’s a pub. Here, I’ll give you directions, it won’t take long.’ He plucked a stray piece of paper from the top of an unsteady pile and drew a rudimentary map as Irina turned bright eyes back to Andrew, who looked equally excited.

  There were signs pointing down into the village, but Andrew dragged her across the road, curious to see the clifftop railway. For a flash they were back on one of their holidays, he was ready to pull out his mobile and take a photo of her, to snatch up her hand while talking about something he’d seen. For that flash nothing had changed, they’d stayed together, she’d spent the last few months waking up to him on the pillow next to her, his crumpled, open face smiling sleepily at her as she offered to bring him a coffee. For that flash it all seemed possible again, as if nothing had happened, as if they were just a normal couple.

  He bought the tickets – no green stubs but a simple paper receipt – and they waited in a small queue for the carriage to trundle up the cliffside. It was powered by water, one carriage moving up the cliff as the other moved down it at the same rate. Andrew was reading the pamphlet, throwing facts over his shoulder about the engineering. ‘So this is it, the first of its kind… Opened in 1890… It’s powered by water from the West Lyn river, hundreds of gallons.’

  She smiled at his enthusiasm, his thirst to always find out more, to understand things. She was so pleased he was there with her and for a second she was certain that they were going to find the answers they’d been seeking.

  They stepped into the carriage and moved through to the back door to stand on a metal balcony, the rocks falling away beneath them, water running down the middle of wooden tracks. Irina felt momentarily dizzy as she looked out over the rocks and trees on the cliffside to the strip of sea that remained a steely grey, cloud obscuring the horizon. They started to descend, Andrew making the same squeak of pleasure as a seven-year-old girl nearby. Irina rolled her eyes at him before nudging him quickly in the shoulder. He shrugged innocently and looked back out as they sank lower. Then, with no warning, she felt the same cold from earlier steal over her, a sudden breeze, she thought, although she couldn’t see the trees reacting to anything. Andrew glanced at her sharply, which only made her skin break out into goosebumps again. And then it was gone, as if it had never happened, and they passed the halfway mark and dropped into the village. Irina glanced quickly up to her left, sensing movement, but all she saw was a canopy of leaves, perhaps the hint of a red roof through them, a chimney stack.

  The moment they reached the bottom and entered Lynmouth, Irina felt as if she was surrounded by the sea: the stench of dried-out seaweed, the salt on the wind that coated her, settled in her hair. They walked along the promenade, the wide paving mostly empty of people, the odd walker, a dog straining on a lead, a bench that sat in an alcove facing the water. The waves smashing gaily against the rocks, throwing up surf, the droplets snatched away by the wind. Strands of hair broke free from her ponytail and tickled the side of her face. She put up a hand to tuck them behind her ears, feeling surprised by the ridges on her skin, as if she’d forgotten they were there.

  They passed a shop crammed with beach gear, spades and buckets dangling hopefully on hooks, baskets full of wetsuits and swimwear, a rack of postcards showing Lynmouth on sunnier days. A window, slid open, a faded list of ice-creams for sale sellotaped to one side. Past the headland, a tower with a metal brazier on top, and the harbour with one or two rotting wooden boats moving with the waves, faded buoys like bald pink heads poking out of the water. On their right the pavement split into two, one branch veering steeply upwards, above the streetside wall, connecting a row of cottages. The Rising Sun sat squarely in the middle, a painted line above the door claiming it was established in the seventeenth century. Small, square, mullioned windows and a large thatched roof that seemed to overwhelm the ancient cottage.

  Taking a breath, Irina knocked on the cottage next door, ivy climbing around the small porch, clinging to the house and inching towards the window. The lights were off and Andrew cupped his eyes to peer through the pane, shaking his head as he backed away.

  ‘No one there,’ he said, stating the obvious. He sounded as deflated as Irina felt, her excitement punctured, her shoulders drooping. All this way for nothing. ‘Drink?’ He indicated the pub next door.

  Irina shrugged, feeling petulant, wanting to stick out her bottom lip and sit on the floor, wait for Bill to come home from wherever he’d gone. Maybe he was just in a nearby shop? Or maybe he was visiting relatives miles away and wouldn’t be back for days.

  Andrew had obviously clocked her change of mood; he nudged her on the arm. ‘We’ll find him,’ he said with a smile.

  The Rising Sun was empty aside from an elderly man sitting by the window nursing a pint of ale at a table covered in water rings. He shifted his glasses up with one finger as they pushed through the door, both dipping their heads automatically as if they would hit them if they stood up straight.

  The long, thick beams of the pub seemed to be holding up a sagging whitewashed ceiling and Irina had the strong sense that at any moment the whole place could collapse on top of them. As they approached the bar she noticed the barman, mouth agape, circling a pint glass and staring at her face before remembering himself and walking down the counter towards them. As he took their order he couldn’t resist another look, his cheeks reddening as their eyes met. Irina battled the urge to cover her scars with her hand or hair, tried to look dignified and stop the watery sting at the back of her eyes.

  ‘Why were you sniffing around out there?’ the elderly man called out, looking up at Andrew.

  ‘We were looking for someone. Bill,’ Andrew replied, handing over a note to the barman.

  The man’s face changed, a subtle widening, a half-smile.

  ‘You’re Bill,’ Irina guessed with a laugh, joy bubbling in her stomach.

  The man looked at her, a brief pause as he took off his glasses, wiped at them with a handkerchief. ‘I am as long as you don’t want money. If you want money, Bill tragically died last week.’

  ‘We don’t want money,’ Andrew said, crossing the carpet of the pub and holding out his hand. ‘We’ve been sent down the hill to see you.’

  ‘That old codger in the stationer’s sent you, did he?’

  Irina started in surprise.

  ‘He sends everyone with questions down to me,’ he explained softly.

  Irina wondered then who else had come asking.

  ‘Well, come on then, sit down, sit down.’ He motioned to the chairs at his table.

  Irina picked up their drinks and brought them over. Pulling out a seat, she dived immediately into her handbag, handed him the
postcard and watched as he flicked it back and forward, scanning it.

  ‘It’s from the fifties…’ she began.

  Bill turned it over, frowning as he took in the two words, then flipped it back, tracing the cove on the front, the letters of ‘Lynton’ in bold.

  ‘We didn’t really have many dealings with people in Lynton back then.’

  ‘But it’s so close.’

  ‘I know it seems strange, but the villages always kept themselves to themselves and we had everything we needed down here, didn’t need to go up there. There was a sort of pride in it, I suppose, but now we need them, we don’t have the infrastructure anymore.’

  Before she could ask why not, Andrew had asked, ‘Do you want another?’

  He’d indicated the near-empty pint glass and Irina was pleased when Bill nodded. Andrew left them to go and order at the bar and she felt a rush of gratitude. He had always been like that when they were out, settling people, quietly ensuring everyone else had what they needed. She was hopeless, distracted by conversation or drawn into her own thoughts so that by the time she raised her head the moment to notice had long passed. She realised she’d been staring at his back as he departed. Bill raised one rather bushy eyebrow at her and she found herself looking down into her lemonade to avoid his gaze.

  ‘So do you think you might know? Well, could you guess? I think they were new to the village,’ she said, aware she was babbling now but knowing this was true. ‘It feels as if they were writing as an outsider somehow.’ She sensed his eyes on her and shifted in her seat. ‘There was this comment…’ She pulled out another postcard. ‘About a Richard and a—’

  ‘Martin.’

  She looked up at him with enormous eyes. ‘Exactly.’ Holding her breath, she watched Bill’s face, his eyes lowering, the light fading.

  ‘I knew a Martin,’ he said slowly, turning to look out of the window. The grey sea beyond, a gull sitting on an iron railing opposite, perfectly still. ‘And his son, Richard, I knew him too.’ He shook his head, not seeing Andrew as he put the pint of ale down on the table in front of him. ‘Still hurts,’ he added, reaching for the drink.