by John Tagholm
They sail from the port which welcomed the Phoenicians a thousand years earlier and would welcome the liberating invasion at the end of a world war in another thousand years. She knows the voyage ahead, even though she had been only a child when she made it before. The boat is carrying spices, oil and wine and the smells are sweet and happy. Her precious stones, gold, silver and the tools that worked them are stored in the same chest that brought them out years before. The sea is more still than she had thought possible and she worries that this is too perfect. The child plays on the deck and she sees the round crystal bounce on her chest and reflect a glint of the sun. She looks up at the departing hill and brings the ring on her finger to her lips and carries her mother with her.
The seas which had almost claimed them before are calm and the journey, made at the end of the summer before the winds come, drift by so easily she sees it as another sign, both good and bad. The decision to leave is being blessed, but what is given can be taken and she fears that behind this benign gift harder days will follow. After less than a week, the westerly breeze which carries them past the rocks, which would one day claim a super tanker and destroy a coastline, pushes them easily towards the first sighting of the old country. A succession of blue days sees them to the wide mouth of the estuary and remains with them as they sail into the tightening jaw so that when she sees the town it is not grey as she remembered it, but colourful in the autumn sun. Even the bridge, the monument to her father’s death, rests easily in the landscape, imposing but not threatening.
Only now, on the spot where St Magnus the Martyr would one day be built, at the point where the third London bridge will end, does the enormity of the decision strike her, for she has to restart a life she has almost forgotten. Moments before, the child had taken her hand and they had stepped ashore together. Everything seems bigger and busier. They climb the short hill to the old house and the sense of coming home is complete. Ownership belongs to her, not just in document, for this is her spiritual home and she knows it.
She sees herself in her daughter, the trusting acceptance of the new surroundings. She watches her begin to run and play, explore her boundaries. One day she walks with her towards the wall in the north to stand where she had once played with her friend, expecting at any minute to see the blonde haired child of her youth. Instead she sees a woman with the same face, only sadder, her hair straightened and dirty, who looks at her daughter in a way she cannot understand. Later she discovers the truth, hearing that the woman, her friend, had lost her child not long after his birth. The bewildered woman stares at the child in front of her, healthy and still brown from her time in the south and from the voyage and there is longing in her eyes.
Later she tells her daughter about her childhood friend, of how they had played on the foreshore, at the ruined house with no roof hidden in the trees up river and promises to take her there. She worries, though, that she might be tempting fate, that those days were over and could not be reclaimed. Her friend’s face bore testament to this, made older by the pain of loss. What is given can also be taken.
She resumes where her mother had left off and works in the same position in the room so those who come to see them, who had known her mother before, stop and think that it is her. The ring that she wears and the other jewellery she makes bring comparison with her mother and she continues the tradition. The child finds the transition easy, accepting the change as part of a life that has been planned for her.
She thinks that once upon a time she had played with her blonde friend and watched the quays from the brow of the hill, but that for now seems a lifetime away, as out of reach as her mother lying still on a hill a thousand miles away.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
If normal has a smell then it greeted Beatrice the following day in a quiet cul-de-sac somewhere north of Enfield where the cars were parked erratically half on the pavements and the sound of electric lawn mowers filled the air. The smell was unmistakeably lamb and it welcomed Beatrice even before she arrived at Amanda’s front door.
‘Ah, childcare is here,’ Amanda said, leaning into her friend with a kiss and placing Harper in Beatrice’s arms at the same time. ‘Welcome to chaos.’ A trail of toys led along the hallway and continued into a front room entirely taken over as an encampment for the child, a pen piled with more toys, a rug marked as a roadway and an old vacuum cleaner lying on its back. ‘See what I mean. He’s only been up since six. Drink? I’m desperate.’ Beatrice had stopped wondering how her friend could live like this and saw that the joy of having the child came with penalties which included sleep, order, sensible conversation and, almost, sanity. Harper was just over a year old and Beatrice had no idea what to expect. ‘He should go down soon and we might have a couple of hours to ourselves, but don’t bank on it. He won’t stay in the pen by himself, so you’ll have to climb in.’ When Amanda appeared with a glass of wine, her friend was waist deep in plastic balls under Harper’s curious stare, about to be hit by a wooden duck on the end of a stick. ‘Good to see you’ve got the hang of things. Welcome to the real world.’ She thrust the glass in Beatrice’s hand, just avoiding the well aimed lunge of her son.
An hour later, when he finally went to sleep and Beatrice had cleaned the wine from her blouse and readjusted her hair, she sat at the lunch table exhausted. ‘Peace in our time,’ Amanda said, presenting the dish in the middle of the table, ‘and, like a phoenix from the ashes, I give you stuffed shoulder of lamb, á la Joseph Troumeg. A themed Sunday lunch. How’s it going? Or are you too tired to talk?’
‘It’s a miracle you can cook and look after him,’ Beatrice said. ‘Hats off to you.’
‘You get used to it. You forget you ever wanted a designer living room and spotless kitchen, let alone sex and candlelight.’ She raised her glass and clinked it against her friends. ‘Ah, that’s better. So, I don’t know what’s more important, your hunting down of the aforementioned Mr Troumeg or your non-date with Mr Harold Wesley at the British Museum. Well I do really, but I’ll let you decide.’
‘Easy part first?’
‘OK, then.’
Beatrice told her the story Odile and Sebastian, of Marguerite and Elliot, describing the unfolding chain of events leading her into the background of Joseph Troumeg, sketching in the characters, easier now that the account had been emptied of its emotion.
‘Gosh,’ Amanda said, cutting another slice from the shoulder, ‘I’ll never be able to look at this recipe in the same way again. It’s a terrific story, isn’t it. You must be really pleased.’
‘To tell you the truth, Amanda, I can’t quite see the wood for the trees at the moment. I’ve got a few more steps to take before I’m certain.’
‘I’m picking up something here,’ Amanda said. ‘You’ve got plenty to go on. What’s stopping you?’
‘It’s a good question. I’m not quite sure.’
‘OK, we’ll come back to that. Now, the main course. What about what’s-his-name, our unpronounceable osteoarchaeologist?’ She said the word slowly, syllable by syllable. ‘He’s got a nice voice, I know that much.’
‘He took me to the British Museum, as you know.’
‘It’s a start.’
‘And I must say he was fascinating. He showed me the world that Flotsam might have grown up in.’
‘Flotsam?’
‘Sorry. It’s the name we have given the skull, or the person it once was. A young girl, we think.’
‘So you have a child already. Nice going.’
‘He showed me the most wonderful jewellery. I had no idea about the Anglo-Saxon world at all.’
‘And what about this world, Beattie? What’s he like?’
‘Again, I don’t really know. He’s not like the others.’
‘I told you that. And no bad thing, too.’
‘He listens. He’s full of information. And he tells me I’ve made quite an impact on him, although he didn’t say so yesterday.’ It was strange how, in the telling, aspects of the meeting se
emed clearer. Harry, she now saw, had taken the measure of her and respected the boundaries which she had drawn, knowingly or not.
‘Yes, I was led to believe that he was somehow smitten in our two phone calls. What do you know about him? He’s not married is he?’
Beatrice brought her hand to her mouth. ‘Heavens, I don’t know. I know his father is dead and that his parents divorced a long time ago, but I’ve no idea about partners, married or not.’
‘That’s an unusual oversight, Beatrice.’
‘Not really, since I hadn’t been thinking of him in that way.’
‘And now?’
Beatrice thought for a moment and felt sure in herself that Harry Wesley would have told her if he was married or involved, but Amanda had introduced an element of doubt.
‘We’ll see. Delicious lamb, by the way. I shall tell Mr Troumeg when I see him next.’
‘And when might that be?’
‘I can’t be certain, but it won’t be long. If I can find him again.’
She could see that Amanda thought that she was being deliberately opaque, but in truth Beatrice wasn’t clear how and when the next stage would happen.
‘And what about Harry Wesley? Is there another meeting in the diary? I do hope so.’
‘We haven’t fixed anything, but even if I didn’t want to he would persist. That’s what he’s like.’ She stopped. ‘I told Joseph Troumeg something that I’ve never told anyone else, anyone else including me.’
Amanda, in the process of removing the lamb, looked at her friend and waited.
‘I told him that I thought a succession of men had wasted my time.’
Amanda sat down again. ‘You’re being a bit hard on yourself. Mind you, it’s probably true.’
‘He’d asked me why I wasn’t with anyone, how I’d got this far without, well, finding someone. It was a backhanded compliment, I suppose…’ Amanda remained quiet and Beatrice added ‘…and a veiled criticism. At least, that’s the way I took it.’
‘That it was your fault.’
Beatrice looked at her friend to see whether this was an accusation or simply a confirmation of what Troumeg had implied. Whichever way, it was the same. ‘Yes. I think so. And then, yesterday, I told Harry that I felt I had collaborated with men, that I was complicit and responsible for what happened.’
‘You told him that?’
Beatrice nodded slowly. ‘And do you know, he understood and maybe realised why I’m not able to respond, why I am frightened of the loop repeating itself again.’
Upstairs the baby began to stir and moments later there was a gentle but insistent rocking. ‘He’s shaking the cot,’ Amanda said. ‘It won’t be long before it falls to pieces. Along with me.’ She brought him downstairs and handed him to Beatrice whilst she fetched two chocolate mousses from the kitchen. ‘He might like a corner of this,’ she said and stillness was restored as Beatrice fed the child.
‘So what’s next, Beattie?’ Amanda said, watching the easy way her friend held Harper.
‘I’m going to France again. There are too many loose ends for me to feel comfortable.’
‘Does that mean you still might not make the film?’
Beatrice weighed the question before answering. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know.’
‘Actually, Beattie, I wasn’t really meaning the film. I mean, what’s going to happen next with you and Harry, or you and anyone for that matter?’
‘The answer’s the same, I’m afraid. Actually, I’m not afraid. I feel better keeping my distance, more in charge of myself.’ Harper smeared a finger of soft chocolate across her blouse, to join the faint island stain of wine.
‘More than you are now. Here.’ She beckoned for Beatrice to hand over the child, but she shook her head. ‘No, I’m quite happy. I’m getting quite used to new experiences.’ She shifted her position on the chair, crossed her legs so the baby tipped slightly back in her arms. ‘But all I’ve done is talk about me. Shame James couldn’t be with us.’
‘Yeah, he’s doing a studio shoot today, wouldn’t you know. Got to take the work when it’s offered. But can I return to you, please, miss? You talked about your dad. Take me through that again.’
‘I told you he was fascinated about the future, about what might happen and about the consequences of things changing in years ahead. It was his job but somehow the here and now, me and what I was doing, he couldn’t get his head around. At least, that’s what I’ve come to think.’
‘And what did this do to you, do you think?’
Harper raised a hand and hooked a finger in her mouth. ‘I suppose it made me feel invisible sometimes, that I didn’t exist.’
‘Maybe he was unhappy?’
Beatrice licked the chocolate from Harper’s fingers and he laughed at the sensation of her tongue. ‘I tried to ask my mother about their relationship but it was like trying to herd cats. She’s more like a parent from the forties than the sixties. Thinks there are things you shouldn’t talk about with your children.’
‘I think she’s a bit miffed that you’ve been having the fun she never had,’ said Amanda. ‘And maybe just a tad jealous of your looks. I’ve seen it in her face. Competitive mothers, never easy.’
‘She certainly disapproves of most of what I do.’ Harper was now standing on her knees trying to pull her nose, which Beatrice was keeping just out of reach. She got up and carried him to the window and looked at the garden dotted with brightly coloured toys, a dirty yellow slide and deflated paddling pool.
‘It’s like a toy catalogue shoot gone wrong, isn’t it?’
‘My life, or your garden?’
‘He’s very happy with you. Had you thought of having children?’
Beatrice turned. ‘Careful, I may throw something and it might just be your child.’
Amanda laughed. ‘Well, we seem to be making some progress and I suggest further treatment with young Harper and probably another appointment with Dr Wesley.’
On the Tube home she was rather proud of the stains on her blouse, won in honourable conflict with Harper, a meeting he would never remember and which would never be recorded in history. Once upon a time, Flotsam would have been held in the same way, carried and loved and yet the events of her life were unknown, lost almost from the start and now completely eroded by the years.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
She feels at home.
There is still conflict from the north and there is no warmth, but the grey town settles on her like a familiar blanket. At first, just as her mother before her, she is a curiosity, a woman of rank, a widow alone, independent and noted for her craftsmanship. She is carrying on the tradition of making precious objects and it is this that brings her to the counsellor’s attention. He makes the short walk from the old amphitheatre, on which the Guildhall would later be built and can still be found, to meet the woman whose reputation went before her, both for what she was and what she did. He wishes to commission a piece that he might give his wife, jewellery, he demands, that might be like no other. Even before he has finished speaking the images come to her, somehow stored without her knowing but rising to the surface at the right moment.
She has seen the birds in the south, pink and grey with long beaks and beautiful crests of white tipped with black. She had first been attracted by their strange, almost human calls and had sought them out. Later, with her daughter, they had watched them together, the exotic heads and raised crests. She knows their shape will be the centre of a large brooch of gold and enamel, fabulous creatures from lands far away.
First she draws them in charcoal on a wooden board, a pair of heads with beaks crossed and necks extended, the fingers of their crests extended above. Sometimes her daughter watches her, as she herself had watched her mother. She adjusts the position of the birds so that the tips of the crests define the upper boundary of the brooch, their half-spread wings the lower semi-circle. She then carves a smaller version in relief so that she can beat the gold over its outline, the b
irds emerging as they might on a misty morning, ill defined at first and then quite clear. As she often does, she wishes her mother could see the result, for she knows that she would have had no hesitation in praising the excellence of the work, of exalting the skill of her daughter. She will create a border to contain the two birds in which she will place four smooth garnets to give balance to the final piece. She knows her mother is the inspiration for the work for it was she who had given her the confidence to experiment, to go one stage further without fear of condemnation. And she remembers, quite suddenly, that it was one of these birds that had landed by her grave as she buried the ring. She shakes her head at the strangeness of memory.
She had worked for many hours, stooped over the bench, when her daughter tugs at her dress wanting to show her something new she has discovered. She runs ahead and she is reminded of herself, the same surefootedness. Today her daughter leads her to the fish traps that have been set up just beyond the bridge and they sit on the bank and watch as silvery fish are lifted out of the pens and put in baskets. Afterwards, it is her turn to lead and she takes her daughter further up river towards the clump of trees that she herself had played in as a child. They climb the bank and she feels a strange excitement at visiting a site which she had first seen when she was her daughter’s age. The disused building is still there, the trees still growing through the strange floor, the roof partly fallen in, reminding her of the times she had sat with her blonde-haired friend and imagined who had lived here and why they had left. She tells her daughter of those days, of how they would play in these very ruins and how she came here after her father had died. She says she had seen him in the river, his arm raised in farewell, floating away, a warrior killed in battle and takes her to the spot where she had stood. Perhaps your father will come by, she says and wave at you. And the child nods, knowing that it is possible.
