The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  IRINA

  She pushed through the lychgate, ivy growing up the sides, two worn stone benches facing each other, onto a winding path that led to the door of the church. She moved off the gravel onto the grass, narrow lines flattened where other people had come and gone. There were newer graves, marble, stone, different names engraved, inscriptions, pots of well-tended flowers beneath them. She looked down at one tombstone and inhaled sharply as she saw the age of the boy who was buried there, feeling as if she was at the graveside of another boy.

  Irina moved on, knowing where she was headed as she made her way around the side of the church, past a beech tree, tombstones crooked among its roots, the names long faded away. Emerging from the shade, she made her way to a corner of the graveyard, the smell of freshly mown grass in the air, a seagull’s cry in the distance.

  This was the spot: a line of tombstones, some askew, some blank, some with flowers, wilting now, past their best. She was struck by the fact that all the dates matched: August 1952; understood the enormity of what Bill had told her as she padded silently down the row. At the end of the line, a little way off from the rest, she found what she was looking for.

  Her head was full of all the things she’d learnt as she stopped at the grave and read the inscription on the tombstone, partly obscured by lichen. The unknown girl who had lost her life. She lowered herself to her knees in front of it. She was sure now that something in the bureau had led her here to Lynton, that she was meant to be sitting in front of this grave. Sounds dissolved around her as she reread the words, thought of the young woman who had died that night.

  She pulled things from her bag and examined the letters. There was so much passion and energy in them. She wanted to lay them in front of the grave, but something was stopping her. She still had questions. Why were the postcards not dated? Why had they not been sent? If they’d been written by Abigail, who had she been writing to?

  She looked through the photographs one more time, the faces as familiar to her now as if they were her own relatives. She wondered at the shell, its delicate colouring, the key-ring with the threepence, the brooch. She had emptied the bureau of its secrets but she still felt there was more to discover.

  She knew she needed to get back to her mother, to face her own past, to finally tell her mother the truth.

  She stayed for a while longer, hoping the visit would help, placing the items back in her bag and reaching out a hand to rest on the grave. Going to stand, hands on her thighs, she looked down the line of tombstones once more, the date leaping out at her, over and over, repeated on each stone.

  She felt a whisper in the wind as she stood up and turned slowly back towards the village, sensing eyes on her as she left the row of graves, as she walked back out through the gate.

  ABIGAIL

  The walk down to the Pavilion was slippery and Abigail gripped the iron railings, taking care in her heeled shoes, forcing her footsteps to be smaller, lighter. The rain was bouncing off the ground in sharp bursts, sinking into the material of her shoes, her toes unpleasantly damp beneath her stockings.

  ‘This is disgusting,’ her sister said, sounding more like herself these last few days, clutching her umbrella and wrinkling her nose as she looked down at her feet. ‘They’ll be ruined,’ she commented, the suede already two shades darker than usual.

  ‘Not far to go,’ said Larry, seemingly oblivious to the violence of the rain. It abated in sections where the trees provided almost impenetrable cover, allowing only a few stray drops to make it through. The light had faded and it was more like a winter’s evening than a night in August, the sea somewhere below them a murky grey, a bank of cloud bruised and heavy above them.

  They arrived with soaked shoes, hair frizzing in the sudden warmth of the Pavilion, its foyer busy with chatter as the rest of the audience turned up, shaking out umbrellas on the steps, stamping their feet on the large bristled mat, swiping at their hair, men removing their hats.

  Abigail hadn’t wanted to go, had spent an hour hiding her red eyes under brown eyeliner and silvery eye shadow, trying to disguise the fact that she’d been crying. She had left Richard in the rain, her thighs burning as she climbed back to the house, rubbing at her eyes, as if she could erase the look he’d given her. She had never seen him like that before, expression dull, her own terrible reflection in the curl of his lip, his words biting into her. She wasn’t aware of Connie’s comments on the way down, responding too slowly to questions, replaying the day, Richard’s look, again and again.

  Connie squeezed her hand and Abigail emerged from her daze, instantly transported to another world: the glowing chandelier, the carpeted steps that led to a wide landing, doors to the theatre on either side. They were there to see Seaside Notions, a cabaret, a mixture of dancing, songs and skits, and she thought back to the times when she and her mum had gone to shows in the Bristol Hippodrome. They used to sit in the stalls, her excitement mounting as the orchestra warmed up in the pit, then the hush as the thick red velvet curtains opened to reveal an intricately painted set and the story unfolded, swelling around her so that she was immersed in the scene, lost among the warm bodies of others staring enthralled alongside her. She was looking forward to losing herself in the show tonight, forgetting things for a while, ignoring the thoughts that jostled at her.

  Larry went to pick up the tickets from the square window, squeezing past Abigail so that his hand lingered briefly on her waist. Her eyes darted to Connie, she was sure she’d seen, but when she glanced across, Connie was looking pointedly at a nearby usher, who moved towards her and handed her a programme.

  Six women huddled under the awning outside, commenting on the rain, laughing behind their hands as they shook their heads. The sound of the rain and the sea, insistent and unforgiving, seemed to merge and their laughter was lost to the outside, snatched away within seconds. The foyer felt calmer, everyone bathed in a sepia glow, earrings and necklaces flashing in the light, lipstick brighter, teeth whiter.

  They moved through to the auditorium, a general quiet descending as they shuffled along the row to their seats. Abigail tried to ensure she was sitting at the end, next to her sister, but somehow Larry had lingered, made a quick greeting to another Lynton councillor, and he guided them along, placing himself in the middle of the sisters, a hand on the small of her back so she was forced to arch away. Her sister looked at her sharply then and colour flooded Abigail’s cheeks as she sat, burying her nose in her programme, wondering where Richard and Mary were at that moment, together no doubt, in the snug sitting room. For a brief second she felt a sliver of jealousy that they were together, then loathed herself for it. She realized with a terrible sinking feeling that perhaps Richard didn’t care anymore.

  In the breaks they could hear the insistent patter of the rain, still falling outside like a far-off soundtrack, a record player whirring with no record. When the next scene started up, the singing drowned out everything and Abigail could forget the person next to her, leaning towards her, his breath hot on her neck and cheek, a mix of mint and pipe smoke, as he commented on the performers, offered her a humbug from a paper bag. She refused, her body pressed desperately against the other arm rest.

  The show hadn’t been going for long when there was a gasp as the lights went out, the whole theatre plunged into darkness, a shot of laughter in a row behind her and then, when it was clear the place had lost power, voices rising everywhere. She was about to ask her own question but was silenced by a hand, firm on her thigh. She froze, feeling his fingers grip the inside of her leg, so high, stroking slowly with a thumb as, in a clear, calm voice he asked, ‘What’s that?’

  Her sister somewhere to her right. ‘The power’s gone. The power.’

  Clucking voices behind her merged. ‘There’s a storm… We should have stayed… I wanted… I know you wanted… Sorry, can I get out… This is horrid… That’s my coat… I’m sorry…’ The voices f
aded in and out as she tensed her thigh, aware only of his hand. A roll of thunder brought her back, the rumble seeming to surround the building, hushing everyone for a moment, but then the voices started up again, louder now, panic injected into some of the questions. ‘We can’t just sit here in the dark… How awful, do you think it will have to be cut short…? This weather, it’s been hopeless all month, this rain…’

  The performers were exchanging muttered whispers on the stage and then a man with a huge voice started to sing before words from someone behind the scenes caused him to come to a stop.

  There was a voice from the back, loud over the hubbub, and the hand lifted from her thigh as soft candlelight shifted the room from black to a dark grey, faces now half in shadow, outlined in the light.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry to be cancelling tonight’s show, but I’m afraid due to the inclement weather we are unable to resume the production. If you could kindly help those around you to leave, we could start from the back row. I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience.’

  There were apologies as people stepped on strangers’ coats, fussed over handbags, readjusted hats, shook out umbrellas. There was mumbling at the management, the sudden cancellation, they’d been enjoying it, would they get a refund? It all seemed rather silly as they tutted and sidestepped along the rows into the aisle, the light not good enough to stop people from tripping, arms on elbows, guiding. The damp heat made Abigail’s head feel clammy, the smell entering her nostrils and turning her stomach.

  She was grateful to emerge into the foyer, jumping at a sudden flash of lightning which fired up the scene outside for a second before everything was plunged back into darkness. A couple of ushers were standing holding candles as they moved through the foyer, but there was an eerie silence as people picked their way carefully down steps, held out hands for someone elderly, or stood hovering at the top, looking into the street outside.

  She was shocked by the amount of water on the road, the drains no longer able to cope, the road a stream of water. The darkness made it even more disconcerting. It seemed the whole village had lost power, the effect of the storm, no doubt, another enormously sonorous roll of thunder drowning out the other noises for a moment.

  She had drifted to the doorway, the dark sea ahead of her. She could hear the churning sound of the waves over the persistent drumming of rain, the moans and talk from people escaping into the night, heads down, bowing under umbrellas, hopelessly soaked within a second.

  ‘We need to get up Mars Hill.’

  ‘It’s dreadful out there,’ Connie said, her mouth puckered as if she’d just tasted another of Edith’s burnt offerings.

  ‘Well we can’t stay here, it isn’t going to stop,’ Larry said, shaking out the umbrella and holding it up. ‘Get under, Abigail. You too.’ He steered her again with one hand on her back and they left the Pavilion, Abigail stepping out from under the umbrella, happier to feel the rain wetting her scalp and running down her neck than to smell Larry’s damp tweed, feel his hand tightening on her. Her hair was plastered to her head in seconds.

  It was worse than she had thought, the darkness so disorientating. Connie had stopped still, crying out at her shoes, her coat, her voice faint in the howl of the weather. Abigail had started to shiver; she moved past them, calling behind that she would wait for them both in The Rising Sun, gasping as she continued down the pavement, water running over her shoes.

  She arrived there in a steaming mess, to be met with more red-cheeked, sweaty faces, people huddled in corners, waiting in groups by foggy windows to face the outside. Boats were smashing into each other in the harbour and a couple of the older men were frowning as flashes of lightning illuminated the mess and splintered wood. For the first time Abigail felt a cold fear shiver through her, one hand reaching up to the pane of glass, leaving finger marks on the surface. She thought of Mary and Richard in the cottage, the rivers rushing past them.

  Larry arrived with Connie, drenched and shivering, her pale face and livid red lips smeared from the rain, her mascara leaving marks on her cheeks. She was holding onto Larry’s arm like a life raft, wide eyed and starting to tremble. Abigail pushed her way towards them.

  ‘We need to get back home,’ Connie said. Abigail could see the whites of her eyes and held out her hand for her. She dropped her key on the floor, the threepence piece glinting as Abigail picked it up.

  ‘I…’ The noise was unbelievable, a distant crash making her prick up her ears like a deer about to leap away. ‘I…’ She couldn’t admit to where she wanted to go, but she needed to see if Mary was alright. She wanted to be with her, check she wasn’t frightened. She sent up thanks that Richard had brought her down from the cottage; she couldn’t imagine what the place would look like tonight, the pans and buckets for the leaks hopeless against this onslaught.

  They loitered in the doorway, jostled by others not knowing what to do and which direction to go in, linking arms.

  Larry looked at the road outside. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, indicating Mars Hill.

  There was silence for a moment as a huge crash further up the valley seemed to block everything else out. There was a whimper from a woman sitting perched on a bar stool clutching a handkerchief to her mouth, a glass of brandy untouched in front of her. Abigail tried to smile at her, but her face was stretched with worry. She had to check on Mary and Richard.

  Larry and Connie went out into the darkness, down the steps. Abigail followed them, then as they turned to climb back up the hill, she veered the other way, back down towards the high street, gasping at the cold, feeling water run around her shoes, her ankles, shocked that the road had turned into a stream, wondering for a moment whether she had made the right choice. She could hear her sister calling for her, shouting her name into the night. She couldn’t see her from that distance, already lost in the rain and the wind.

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ Abigail called, the words snatched into the wind. She had made her choice.

  It was impossibly dark and the sounds were enormous in the pitch black, tearing, screeching. Abigail’s hair was plastered to her forehead, her eyelids struggling to stay open as the rain pounded down on her. She was drenched, moving slowly now, pausing to cling to a lamppost, clutching a rail as she continued down the high street.

  The six women Abigail had seen clustered around the Pavilion steps could just be seen up ahead, moving through the churning water that used to be the high street, a faint row of figures momentarily picked out by a flash of lightning, all linking arms as if they were a chorus line. It was a comforting sight and she focused on them as they made progress up the high street, to one of the hotels no doubt. The water was deeper now, washing around her feet, spattering up her calves. Then there was movement, more sounds, close, loud, wrenching and thundering, voices calling, shouting over the rush of the water, and they were no longer all walking. One of them had fallen.

  Abigail watched in horror as she saw her tumble into the flooded river running alongside them, twisting, one arm loose, her hand up to cling onto something, anything she could seize, being swept down towards Abigail. She lost her, disorientated, the pale arm no longer visible, the familiar houses and shops jumbled for a second in the thick darkness, then a glimpse again, hand, hair and she was turning towards her, trying to find a way to reach her, to get something for her to grab, watching as if in slow motion as she passed her.

  Up ahead, two lights moved steadily down the high street, impossibly green. They drew nearer, throwing a ghoulish glow across the scene, shapes taking form as she realized they were the lights from a motor car that was now rolling down the high street in the water, lights submerged as if it were an underwater monster. Abigail couldn’t look away as it made its way down, bumping slowly along as if it were being driven by somebody, disappearing into the rocks and the river, the lights suddenly extinguished. For a moment she thought she might b
e lost as she looked to her right, expecting to see a shop up ahead, the landscape entirely altered. Another flash of lightning made her skin break out in goosebumps; the carcass of a sheep swept by, a jumble of trees, rocks ahead, the river wider and higher, the roar all around her.

  She looked up, sucking in all her breath as something reared out of the darkness and came towards her.

  IRINA

  They were sitting opposite each other in the apartment, the peach curtains pushed back, exposing the narrow stone balcony, the car park just below them. Her mother had brought down the Yahtzee set and Irina felt as if it could have been any time on any day in the last ten years. Her mother’s medication was lined up on the kitchen counter behind her, the notes from the hospital clear, cartoon diagrams and leaflets walking them through this new world.

  ‘It’s nice to be home,’ her mother said, throwing a dice. ‘Oh, a two. You start.’

  Her mother looked up at her, but Irina didn’t take the dice. She swallowed slowly, the strength she had felt on the drive back from Devon to Brighton ebbing away. She had wanted to face her own past, finally lay open her own secrets.

  Her mother took a tentative sip of her tea. ‘Irina,’ she said, reaching forward, placing a hand over her daughter’s.

  Irina dragged her eyes up, looked her mother in the face. Her hair needed cutting, the ends of her normally neat bob were curling under.

  ‘What you said to me before, in hospital, about that day…’ Her mother’s voice was scratchy, each word a struggle.

  Irina felt her breath suspended in her body. Was this the moment?