The Fire Child

by S. K. Tremayne

  ‘Yes, good idea. Start here.’ I tap the phone in his hand. ‘This is a great place for a shot. You can frame the mines with the sea beyond, it’ll be good, it’s such an impressive sight.’ I glance at the sky, where the sun is a dull disc of nickel behind grey cloud. ‘Shame the light is so flat.’

  But Jamie is not listening. He is adjusting the phone and snapping. I leave him to it for a while. I want to take my own photos. Lose myself in what was once my vocation.

  The tourist signs, neatly arranged in front of the ruins, tell me more than enough of the appalling history. The children who worked here until the 1950s. The arsenic pits that toxified the earth, giving the child workers ‘arsenic sores’. The drownings and the injuries, the funerals and the emigration. The men singings hymns as they were sent underground, in their cages. Their voices drowned out by the cold fury of the Atlantic.

  Another plaque catches my eye.

  The Man Engine.

  The man engine was installed in Levant Mine by its owner, Isaac Kerthen, in 1858. The man engine was a kind of automated ladder of platforms, which shifted up and down: the miners had to step on to a platform, which took them up or down a level, then step off; then they repeated the process, as the man engine cycled. Thus they slowly descended or ascended, in total darkness. Although the inherent danger of the man engine was obvious, and many fell down, to death or injury, it was popular with mine-owners because it ensured greater profitability, as the miners got to work quicker.

  I can see David’s handsome, guilty face even as I read this. We sat in Carnhallow, eating capons.

  There is more:

  In the afternoon of 20 October 1919 an accident occurred, here at Levant. The heavy timbers of the man engine crashed down the shaft, carrying the side platforms with them, and thirty-one men died, decimating the village for ever. Hundreds were mutilated. The man engine was not replaced and the lowest levels of the mine were abandoned.

  An engine made of men.

  I’ve lost my desire to photograph this place. The combination of the weather, the girl, the history. I am not inspired today.

  Instead, as the last chilly light retreats into dark, I teach Jamie to take different angles, big framed shots of the streamworks, the copper dressing floors, then smaller close-ups – abstracts almost – of damp quartz-granite rocks gleaming with dark tin. The work is repetitive, and pleasing – yet, as the hour passes, Jamie grows moodier. Falling into deep and concerning silence, again. Perhaps it is the thought of the mines, and what they mean, for his mother, for himself, which is affecting him.

  ‘Think we’re done for today, Jamie. Shall we go home now?’

  He shrugs, saying nothing, an unhappy frown on his face, looking towards me, yet very slightly but intently to my side, once again, as if someone stands next to me. Why does he do that?

  Together we begin the short slog back to the car. He doesn’t take my hand, he doesn’t ask for a song. As we approach the village, he averts his face. The sea air is singing in my ears, it is so cold.

  ‘Jamie?’

  He won’t look my way.

  ‘Jamie.’ I crouch down next to him, putting myself on his level, being a good stepmother. ‘Tell me. What’s wrong?’

  He mutters, his face downcast.

  ‘I’m … frightened.’

  ‘Frightened? There’s no need to be—’

  ‘But I am, Rache, I’m scared.’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  He comes much closer, pressing his face into my woollen sweater, breathing in and out, as if inhaling the scent of fabric conditioner can save him. Then he talks:

  ‘I’m scared! Scared that I can see things. Scared of them. Scared. Please tell me I can’t see them, tell me I can’t see the future? Tell me I’m not a Kerthen, tell me. Please.’

  I hug him hard, once more: trying to squeeze the fear out of this little boy.

  ‘Shh. Don’t worry. Shush.’

  Slowly he lets go of me, but I don’t let go of him. I kneel on the damp, dirty concrete of the salt-bitten path – with his cold hand clasped in mine, brushing the hair from his face.

  ‘No one can see the future, Jamie. You can’t. No one can. You’re slightly lost. Because of your mother. You will get better. It does get better. I promise.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. It doesn’t.’ His words are miserable, his face grey with sadness. Or fear.

  ‘What is it, Jamie? Tell me – what is all this?’ I feel real love for him. Burning.

  He speaks, though he remains motionless. ‘I don’t want to see the future ’cause of what I can see.’

  ‘What?’

  The wind has chased us from the cliffs, it is all around us now.

  ‘It’s frightening. What I can see. It’s scary. Don’t want it to be true.’

  The worst thing is his confessional tone. As if he is making a painful admission.

  He goes on. ‘Mummy talks to me in the day.’

  My stepson’s face is paler than ever, yet so beautiful, his hair as black as the crow feathers I find in the garden, feathers of the moorland birds, come to shelter from the chilly winds of the carns.

  ‘I can see one thing, one thing in the future which is very bad. Very bad, very bad. Very, very bad.’

  ‘Jamie, listen, this is just daydreams, it’s all imagination, because you are sad.’

  He looks me directly in the eye, and breathes deep, and then says:

  ‘Rachel, you won’t be here at Christmas. Not any more.’

  I stare at him. What does he mean? Why does he choose Christmas? ‘Sorry, Jamie? What does that mean? Of course I will be here at Christmas.’

  Jamie takes another deep, heartfelt breath, then he says, very slowly, as if confessing the most terrible secret, ‘You are going to die by Christmas Day.’

  I hear a snatch of sea music. Another distant wave detonating on the rocks, the noise of it carried on the wind. I can’t deny a grasp of real fear in my throat, in my lungs, everywhere. Christmas. Of all the times he chooses: Christmas.

  ‘No. Jamie. Please. Stop this. Please stop this.’

  ‘I wish it wasn’t going to happen.’ He looks truly anguished. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But you won’t be here, you must be dead by Christmas. Why do I think that?’

  ‘Jamie. Stop.’

  Abruptly, he looks away, then looks back. The anguish has gone.

  ‘Rachel. There’s nothing we can do I am sorry I am hungry now.’

  ‘Um – uh—’

  ‘Can we go home now?’

  I am wholly confounded. This child is surely trying to throw me, to mystify me. To scare me away from Carnhallow. Because I upset him somehow, or unnerve him, or remind him. Or something. But why did he choose Christmas? Can he really sense something? See into me?

  No. Of course not.

  At a total loss, we continue our walk, to the waiting car. Which looks so innocent and cheerful, like nothing has happened.

  Back in the warmth and safety of the vehicle, with Jamie strapped in and acting normal – I find myself accelerating away, too quickly. But no matter how fast I drive, I can still hear that music in my head: the music of the derelict mine. And the gulls crying forlornly from Trewellard Zawn. You will be dead by Christmas.

  72 Days Before Christmas

  Night

  David is home. Finally ready to tell me. His plane was late. I’ve already warned him on the phone that I have a lot of serious questions to ask him. He knows that whatever is on my mind is deeply important, easily a deal-breaker. And now he sits here, in the bright kitchen, its windows dark, and speckled with drizzle.

  He always likes to sit in Carnhallow’s kitchen. It embodies peace and happiness for him. Drop scones and clotted cream, and my father away in London.

  Pouring himself a thick finger of Macallan whisky, he looks surprised when I refuse a similar dash of port. It is the only alcohol I usually like: I enjoy the sweetness. But for now I want clarity. This is the moment: our marriage probably
hangs in the balance. I cannot trust a man who lies about something as important as a death. Even if it was an accident. If it was an accident.

  And I won’t mention anything about Jamie, not yet. I need my questions answered, first.

  David gazes my way, then speaks, his voice terse. As if he has had enough of me. ‘All right then, Rachel. What is it?’

  We are sitting on kitchen stools three yards apart. I go for the nerve. ‘I know that Jamie was there. When Nina died.’

  Only his mouth betrays him. The tiniest grimace.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Various ways. I went into your study and read Jamie’s letters, the ones you kept, the ones he was writing to Nina, even when you told him not to.’

  He looks at me, eyes sparkling with emotion – maybe anger. But his voice is flat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There are other things, little hints, it doesn’t matter. The big one is this – he said it, or rather he wrote it, he wrote these words for me to see: I saw it, you did it, it’s your fault she’s dead.’

  A scatter of drizzle on the windows. My husband’s face is rigid, betraying nothing.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’ I guess this will anger him most of all. I do not care. ‘I asked Juliet to confirm it, and she did, basically. She confirmed my suspicions. Jamie was there. He saw the fall. It explains so much.’ I cross my arms. ‘Tell me I’m wrong, David, tell me I’m right, but tell me. And explain it. Enough of the bloody lies. One more lie and that’s it. I’m walking out of the door. And not coming back.’

  He stares into the whisky, and I see a passing flash of emotion in his eyes. This is it; our marriage surely depends on whether he is truthful now. Then he looks up at me, once more, and says:

  ‘Yes. It is true. Jamie saw his mother fall. He was there when she died, in Morvellan.’

  My anger surges into words. ‘How? Why? Why didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you tell the fucking police?’

  ‘Wait—’

  ‘You perjured yourself!’

  Necking the residue of his Scotch, he pours another inch into his crystal tumbler. It glitters like dirty gold in the bright kitchen light. ‘Jamie was an eyewitness. But I lied, we lied, to protect him.’

  ‘I’m sorry? You what?’

  ‘There was an argument, right after Christmas. Nina and I were arguing, as Jamie mentions in those letters – that you found.’

  ‘What was the argument about?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes it fucking does.’

  ‘No. It’s irrelevant. We were simply bickering, like husband and wife—’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘All right. We were bickering about the restoration of the house. She was taking so long, it was so bloody exquisite, thanks to her perfect taste, but each room was taking a year; more. Most of the house is still barely habitable, as you’ve seen.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all it was. But Jamie was always sensitive to our arguments. He didn’t like them. And that night it kicked off.’

  ‘How?’

  His eyes meet mine. He sips whisky, and dries his lips with a smear of his wrist. ‘I am going to tell you. But first, Rachel, I want you to promise not to tell anyone else. Can you do that? It’s very important.’

  I choose my words with definite care. ‘It depends what your answer is.’

  He frowns. And then shrugs:

  ‘As I said, we were arguing. Repeatedly. You know what Christmas is like, too much booze, too many relatives, too many people in the same rooms. And Jamie is an only child, he always resented that.‘ David looks abruptly at the door, as if his dead wife is about to walk inside, dropping her coat on a chair.

  Then he returns his attention to me. ‘Sometimes Jamie and Nina would squabble, too. Sometimes he was cruel to his mother, saying nasty stuff: Why didn’t you give me a brother or a sister? He knew Nina didn’t want any more children. But he had a reason to be peeved: Nina wouldn’t even let Jamie have a dog. I really wanted him to have a dog, I had a dog when I was a kid, a Lab: it helps so much if you’re an only child. But a dog meant hairs on Nina’s perfect furniture, hairs on her perfectly restored curtains, from Gainsborough of St James. Therefore: no dogs. And this was yet another Christmas when he didn’t get a bloody dog. I think he wrote that to Santa four hundred times. Please can I have a dog.’

  ‘You haven’t got him a dog since?’

  ‘He says he doesn’t want one now. Because, of course, it reminds him of the arguments with his mum. And what happened that night.’ David takes another slug of Scotch. I say nothing. Let him fill the silence, let him do the work.

  ‘The cruelty of families,’ says David, gazing at the stone hearth of the huge, empty fireplace, once used to cook for a hundred monks. ‘The cruelty of families.’

  ‘And?’ I don’t want any philosophizing.

  ‘It was late at night. We let Jamie stay up, sometimes, especially around Christmas. But this night the arguments went on too long and Jamie came out with some of his worst remarks.’ David closes his eyes, as he swallows his liquor, apparently savouring its fieriness.

  I am well aware that he is dragging this out like an actor. Like a lawyer in a court, showboating for the jury. And it is working. My adrenaline races. And yet I think I believe him.

  At last, he continues. ‘Jamie was in a terrible state by the end of this particular argument, and he went crazy, saying he never wanted to see Nina or me again, and she was the worst mummy, and he wished she was dead, then he ran out of the room. Like he says in the letters, if I remember correctly. You know how angry and passionate kids can be, the things they say when they are six. This was bad, though. Very bad.’

  I nod, despite myself. I do know this feeling.

  ‘So where did Jamie go? Up to his bedroom?’

  ‘No.’ A grimace. ‘He ran out of the house, on to the cliffs. Towards Morvellan. Towards the Shaft House. In those days we never bothered to lock it: everyone knew the risks. These days it’s locked all the time. I keep one key, there’s another in the kitchen, high in the cupboard. Perhaps you found it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It took us a while to realize he was nowhere in the house. Such a ridiculously big house. We were all searching for him. Everywhere. Then outside. Mummy and I were looking in the garden, in Ladies Wood, and Nina was looking for him on the front lawns, the north lawns, and she heard him shout – but Cassie heard him shout first, she heard a cry from the mineheads.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Cassie was apparently right at the end of the path, at the end of the front lawn, where the cliffs begin. But she was barefoot. You know what Thais are like.’ He breathes out. ‘And you can’t walk the cliffs barefoot. So she ran back to get boots and told Nina – and then she watched Nina race down Carnhallow towards Morvellan. Of course, Cassie blames herself now. Either way, Nina was first down the path to the mines.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘And that’s where Jamie was. In the Shaft House. Stuck on a ledge, like someone who climbed too high up a tree.’ David gazes miserably into his Scotch.

  The empathy surges inside me; it just does. Poor Jamie.

  ‘I can imagine the rest. You don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘No, no I want to tell you.’ David stares at the ceiling and sighs, heavily. Sighing with relief at his own confession. ‘Nina was in heels, all that is true – in heels and a dress, in the mud and rain, a nice party frock under a coat, it was such a filthy night, late December – and wearing all that she went to rescue Jamie.’

  ‘She fell.’

  ‘She fell down Jerusalem Shaft. Trying to save her son. That’s how it happened.’

  I have a yearning for that glass of port. I also have questions.

  ‘How do you know this, if no one else was there, if no one else saw?’

  His glance is sharp. ‘Sorry? No one? Jamie was there. He told us, he was sobbing – “she fe
ll, she fell” – already he felt guilty, dragging her down there. That’s no doubt why he wrote those words, the words you read – “You did it, it’s your fault” – he’s blaming himself. You see?’

  I scan his face. I want to see.

  ‘But what happened, after that?’

  ‘I got to the Shaft House minutes later. But too late. Cassie helped me carry him back to Carnhallow.’

  ‘Then you went to the police? But you lied to them?’

  ‘Yes. We did.’ His gaze is undaunted. ‘Tell me, Rachel, what would you have done? Anything different? Think about it. Jamie believed he was responsible for his mother’s death. In a certain manner he was, indirectly: telling her he hated her, saying he wanted her dead, then running away and bringing her down to the mineshaft. If he hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have died. He was hugely unstable. So I couldn’t put him through an inquest. Police questions. His name in the papers. Son lures mother to death? Imagine.’

  ‘And Juliet and Cassie agreed? To cover this up.’

  ‘Cover it up? I suppose you could put it like that. But what we said wasn’t far from the truth.’ My husband’s glance has a hint of disdain, or maybe despair. ‘Cassie and Mummy love Jamie. They didn’t want him to go through any of that, to relive this terrible scene in court. We didn’t want him to be the only witness to his mother’s death, we didn’t want him to think about it ever again. We pretended it was a total accident. It was easy to do. She really was drunk, she really did fall, she really did drown. And yes, we came up with a story to protect him, we told everyone else that Nina wandered off alone, down to Morvellan. An accident.’ His attention turns to the rainy windows. As if it is too painful to look me in the eye. ‘And now you know, Rachel. Is that enough?’

  I sit back, calculating. Perhaps this is enough. Or maybe it isn’t. David still lied to me, several times, in so many ways. The story is terrible, but the trust is broken, it will take time to rebuild. I won’t let men manipulate me again. Not the guy at Goldsmiths or my father, not my husband here. Not Patrick Daly, Philip Slater, not the pale-faced priests at my school – I won’t let any of that revisit me.