‘No, it’s not that kind of chest,’ she said, touching Lewis’ chest with the palm of her hand. ‘It’s a chest like the captain had. A trunk. Like Dad’s one upstairs in the bedroom.’
After the first page Lewis was enthralled. Mum had said they would read a chapter every day but today they had read two. In the first chapter the captain arrived at the ‘Admiral Benbow’.
It was just Jim Hawkins and his father and his mother – just as it was for Lewis. And just as with Lewis, Jim’s father wasn’t in the story very much. Since leaving the Navy, Lewis’ father had worked as a salesman for a company that sold meat slicers and other kitchen equipment. He spent a lot of time working. Lewis liked the way Jim wasn’t afraid of the captain. He liked the fact that Jim’s father had said that the captain’s presence would ruin the inn whereas Jim knew that it was actually good and brought in customers. Lewis didn’t really like Jim’s father and the way he wouldn’t ask the captain for the rent. Lewis liked that Jim seemed to be really the man of the house and the way he took care of his mother.
Mum was coming to the end of a page and had already lifted its corner with her thumb.
‘How that personage haunted my dreams I need scarcely tell you. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house —’
‘Just like today,’ said Lewis, burrowing in more closely to her.
‘Yes, just like today,’ she said.
When she reached the end of the chapter, Mum held the book in a V between her fingers and thumb and then closed it with a soft ‘plip’.
‘Oh, Mum can we just read a little more – another page, please?’
‘I’ve got to get tea ready. Daddy will be in.’
‘Just one more page, Mum – please.’
She reopened the book.
‘I’ll just read a little bit more – just to give you a taste of what’s to come.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
She was beautiful when she smiled.
‘Chapter two. Black Dog appears and disappears.’
‘Gosh, this story’s full of dogs, isn’t it Lewis?’
He nodded.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ she asked.
‘It’s the best story I’ve ever heard,’ he said.
‘It was not very long after this that there occurred the first of the mysterious events that rid us at last of the captain, though not, as you will see, of his affairs. It was a bitter cold winter, with long, hard frosts and heavy gales; and it was plain from the first that my poor father was little likely to see the spring. He sank daily, and my mother and I had all the inn upon our hands; and were kept busy enough, without paying much regard to our unpleasant guest.
It was one January morning, very early – a pinching, frosty morning – the cove all grey with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones, the sun still low and only touching the hilltops and shining far to seaward.’
In the days that followed, Black Dog came and went. By now, Lewis was imagining that he was in charge – with Mum – of the ‘Admiral Benbow’. She wasn’t quite like the mum in the story, though. Lewis got the impression that that mum was a bit dowdy. In his imagination the mum who owned and ran the ‘Admiral Benbow’ was beautiful and hard-working. And she was strong and honest, as Jim’s mum showed herself to be, when she counted out exactly what was due to her from the captain’s chest. The only time Jim’s mum showed any weakness was just after they had left the inn and the pirates arrived. Then she fainted and Lewis had to pull her in under the little bridge so that they could hide.
Lewis had asked her, soon after she had started reading, where Black Hill Cove – the site of the ‘Admiral Benbow’ – was.
‘It’s not a real place, luvvy – it’s only a story.’
‘But these things could have happened, couldn’t they?’ he asked.
‘I suppose they could. Actually I’m sure things like this did happen when there were pirates around.’
‘And so where do you think they happened?’
She thought a moment and then said, ‘Cornwall, maybe. There are lots of little coves down there. When we were kids, Nana and Grandad – my Mum and Dad – took us to Cornwall. I remember there was a place called Readymoney Cove. I think it was called that because pirates or smugglers used to land their cargos there.’
‘Could we could go and live in Cornwall?’
‘Oh, I don’t know think so. I don’t know if Daddy would like it – or if he could work down there.’
Lewis thought – though he didn’t say it – that maybe he and Mum could go. They could find an inn at Readymoney Cove or some place like that and it would be just like in Treasure Island. Lewis and Mum would run the place.
Sometimes Dad had to stay away overnight. ‘Daddy’s got to go to a meeting in Birmingham,’ Mum would say. Lewis wondered what would happen if Dad never came back. Or if he died like Jim’s dad did in Treasure Island. Lewis would become the man of the house then. He wouldn’t go to school but instead get a job and sleep in Mum’s bed. He often did this when Dad was away, always finding some excuse – a bad dream or he couldn’t sleep.
‘Come on so, sleepy head,’ she would say, lifting the covers, opening up the warm, dark cave.
He loved to climb in beside her and snuggle up to her. He loved the faint smell of perfume or soap or whatever it was. Or maybe this was the smell of her. Her hair that tickled his nose if he pressed up against her so that they were like two spoons in a drawer. The feel of her thigh through the fabric of her nightdress, if he rested his hand on it. Or her buttocks pressing into him. Or his head on the softness of her breasts if she cuddled him to her.
Someday, if Dad really died or didn’t come back, Lewis would marry Mum and they would go to Cornwall and buy an inn and live together just like Jim Hawkins in Treasure Island.
3
Lewis had heard it for the first time the previous day. He was at home in Acton, lying in the back garden reading, and wondering whether he would go to the trouble of going down to the shop to get an ice cream. He lay in shorts, shirt off, sun on his skin, a large square of canvas that Dad had brought back from the sea, beneath him. The canvas smelt dusty. Birds twittered in the garden. Beyond the house, out in the street, he heard the sound of a horse clip clopping as a deliveryman’s dray went past. Somewhere off in a neighbouring house children shouted as they played. Then, beyond all these, Lewis heard another sound. It was faint, so faint at first that he wasn’t sure whether he’d actually imagined it. He put the book down and listened again. It was like very distant thunder or heavy drums. But the sky was blue. It was hard to imagine any place not bathed in sunshine. And then he knew what it was.
‘I’m almost certain it was the guns in France,’ he said to his father at tea time. ‘Bombarding the German trenches. I read about it in The Times today.’
‘With luck this push will end the War and you won’t have to go,’ said Dad.
His father had a wide, friendly face and hair that was starting to show grey in patches. There were photographs of him in his naval uniform looking slim and handsome. Since giving up the sea he had become a bit more beefy and jowly. Lewis wondered what it must be like to be the men under those guns. The sound went on right up to the time he fell asleep.
Next morning was the first of July. Lewis was awake and out of bed very early – he had hardly slept at all. At the foot of the bed was the leather travelling bag that Dad had bought for him for the trip. His dormer window looked out onto Horn Lane where there was hardly anybody stirring at this time of the morning. He went to the bathroom, had a quick bath and returned to his room to get dressed. His desk was in front of the window. He had tidied it up and cleared everything off the top, so that the only things left were a pot of pencils and pens and a bottle of ink. On the wall beside it were prints of The Defence of Rorke’s Drift by Elizabeth Butler and two pictures, one of Nelson and one of the Victory at Trafalgar. Along another wall was his bookshelf with its copies of Stevenson, Hardy, Bucha
n and all the others. Lewis had agonised endlessly over what books to bring on his trip. Eventually, he had limited himself to three. Any others he would buy in Cornwall.
In some ways he was sad to be leaving. He had been enjoying the endless days of sunshine and lemonade and reading and losing track of what day it was. But he would be leaving in November anyway. This was by way of a rehearsal.
It had been Dad’s suggestion that Lewis go on holiday by himself. Dad had been in the Navy and had been recalled with the onset of the War. He now worked long hours somewhere in the Admiralty, so Lewis saw him less and less.
‘Cornwall,’ Dad had said. ‘There’s a place down there called Fowey. It’s a nice spot. I remember we put in there one autumn and went ashore. There’s a pub there called “The King of Prussia”. We all had a bit too much to drink and when we came out we were trying to find our way back to the boat. We came to a flight of steps and there were leaves at the bottom – you know, fallen leaves, like you see in autumn. I thought the steps led to some kind of pathway.
“Come on. This way,” I said, as I went down the steps. They were leaves that had blown off the trees alright but they were just floating on the surface of the water. I was in it up to my knees before I realised what was going on.’
Lewis laughed.
‘So go down there and ask if they remember me.’
‘When was it?’
‘Oh, about 1895, I think. Just before I gave up the sea. Anyway, you could go for July, August and September, if you like. It would be a chance to fend for yourself’.
Lewis knew what Dad really meant by this. Dad was gregarious, outgoing, hail-fellow-well-met. Lewis was solitary, shy, a loner. Dad wanted him to lose some of his shyness – to better prepare him for what he might face in the Army – and presumably, for life generally. Lewis wanted this too. He hated the shyness. In the last year or so, had been trying to do something about it himself. He had started by asking – every night in his prayers – that he be cured of his shyness, as though it were some form of disease. He had done this for several months. Nothing had happened.
His big breakthrough came when, lying in bed one night, he realised that shyness wasn’t a disease at all. Rather it was just an act. Just as confidence was an act, so too was its opposite. Dad appeared confident because he behaved in a certain way. He would always exchange a cheery word with somebody in a shop, or a neighbour on the street. He took an interest in people, asked about their lives. He didn’t think people were looking at him all the time, as Lewis did. If Dad made a mistake he laughed it off. If he didn’t know something he asked. It was just an act. Not that he meant that Dad was acting or pretending. No, Dad was like this. But Lewis realised that it was the things you said and did which made people think you were confident or not. If Lewis did things that would make him appear confident then he would be confident.
And so he had started to do that. It took a lot of effort to create the thin shell of confidence and it didn’t take much to shatter it, but he was getting better at it. This morning, after he had said his goodbyes and left the house to begin his journey to Cornwall, he headed towards the Tube station, feeling strong and confident and powerful.
The morning was still cool but overhead the bright blue sky promised another hot day. The trees cast long shadows. At the far end of the road, where it turned slightly to the right, the air seemed to be almost a misty blue. Most of the houses still had their blinds down or curtains drawn. A few houses ahead, Lewis saw a man emerge from a house and walk along the short path to his front gate. He was smartly dressed – for the City Lewis guessed – prosperous looking and carried a briefcase. Lewis reached his gate just as the man did and their eyes met.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Lewis.
It was definitely the kind of thing Dad would have done. But more importantly it was what a person who wasn’t shy – or rather, didn’t care what people thought – would have done.
Surprised, but pleasantly so, judging by his face, the man replied, ‘Good morning, young man. Another fine day.’
‘Isn’t it lovely, sir?’ said Lewis and then he had passed by, another layer added to the onion skin of his confidence.
Lewis was tall – five foot ten, with hair and eyes the same colour as his mother’s. He didn’t think he was particularly good-looking but he certainly wasn’t ugly. He was finished school and would be eighteen on November the tenth. Then he would have to join the Army. He wanted to enlist, to do his bit but he didn’t want to be killed. If the ‘push’ whose guns he had heard the sound of, was successful, then maybe he would be alright. This time, the War might be over by Christmas or early in 1917. If he enlisted in November, presumably it would be several months before he was trained and shipped to France. The War might be coming to an end or be over. He might see little or no action and then be discharged. He would be able to say that he had done his duty. He would have had a bit of an adventure, worked in a career, made some money – and lived.
So in some ways, this morning was the start of that whole great journey. He thought of the next few months as preparing for the Army. He would become physically strong in Cornwall – he would walk or run or climb hills – and he would become mentally strong. He would increase his endurance somehow – though he didn’t know how exactly yet. He would become better at building the confidence shell. Maybe it would become a permanent thing. He had never kissed a girl, but maybe he would meet a girl in Cornwall. When he imagined her, it was somebody like himself, down on holidays from London. He would meet her and they would fall in love and he would leave her behind when he went off to the Army.
Lewis made his way to Paddington. The sound of the guns was gone now. What did that mean? The wind direction had changed? Or the bombardment had stopped? And if it had stopped, what did that mean?
He queued at the ticket office and bought a ticket to Truro. The man behind the ticket desk looked like a warm and jolly uncle. As he handed over Lewis’ ticket and change, he said, ‘Lucky you, sir. Getting out of the city in weather like this and getting down to Cornwall.’
‘I believe it’s beautiful,’ said Lewis.
‘You won’t be disappointed, sir. Enjoy yourself.’
‘I will,’ said Lewis.
He bought a copy of The Times at Wyman’s bookstall and browsed through the books. He hoped there would be a bookshop in Fowey. He imagined a dusty second hand bookshop in a quaint back street and pictured finding some delights there. Maybe that would be where he would bump into the girl he dreamt of meeting. How nice it would be if they both shared a passion for books.
He was suddenly hungry now in a way he hadn’t been when Margaret, the housekeeper, had pushed tea and toast on him this morning. He bought some coffee and a scone from a very pretty young girl who smiled at him when she took his order. He tried to think of some chatty thing to say to her but was unable to. Still, it didn’t matter. He smiled back and said, ‘Thanks very much,’ to which she replied, ‘Thank you, sir.’
After he had eaten he set off to find his platform. The concourse was crowded and noisy under the high glazed roof. He threaded his way through the throng. Suddenly, just ahead of him, he saw that a gap had opened up in which a group of women stood. He wondered what sort of trip a group of women would be going on. Then one of them noticed him and began to come in his direction. He wondered for a second if he knew her. Was she one of those distant cousins whom he saw every couple of years and whom he never recognised because they always seemed to have grown so much? She was a girl really – small, in a summer hat, blonde – probably in her twenties. He scanned her face but didn’t recognise her. The other women followed. He thought they were coming to ask for directions, about a particular platform or train and he hoped he would be able to help them. But he noticed that they all had angry expressions on their faces. The small blonde stopped right in front of Lewis, a foot or so away from him, and looked up at him.
‘Why aren’t you in khaki?’ she demanded, in a voice that had an e
lectric snarl to it. It was possible she might have been pretty but right now, her face was contorted with fury. Lewis felt his face redden.
‘I’m not eighteen yet, Miss,’ he began. As he did, the women spread around him like the horns of a bull. He had a sense that there were perhaps two or three on either side but there could have been more because they spread beyond his field of view. Uncertainly, he continued.
‘I won’t be until November. Then, I am enlisting.’
‘You’re a liar,’ she sneered, and Lewis felt his face burning, he was blushing so much.
The woman to the left of the blonde joined in. She was taller than the blonde, well-built and older. She wore an ugly, black old-fashioned hat. Again Lewis was struck by how faces are changed by anger. In normal circumstances, this woman’s might have had a kindly look about it – she looked like a mum or an auntie – but right now her face was red and she was furious.
‘Plenty of boys haven’t waited until they were eighteen.’
Her voice was deep, almost manly.
‘You’re tall – the Army would take you right now, if only you had the courage to go to a recruiting office.’
‘Come with us,’ the blonde said, her angry face suddenly transforming into a smile. ‘Right now. The nearest recruiting station isn’t far from here. We’ll take you there. You could be in the Army by lunchtime.’
She sounded big sisterly.
Lewis was suddenly terrified. He couldn’t end up in a recruiting station. He had a panicked picture of himself arriving home in Horn Lane saying that he’d joined up. He had to go to Cornwall. He wanted to go to Cornwall. He would join the Army – but not today.
‘Please – let me pass,’ he said.
His face felt like it was on fire.
‘No. Come on. Come with us.’ said the blonde, softly, cajoling, like a lover asking for a favour.
‘No … really … not today. I can’t. I have a train to catch.’
Lewis said this as though it was suddenly the solution to the problem.
Starlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 1) Page 2
