The Thirteenth Tale

by Diane Setterfield

  Then I saw it. Same father, same mother, same date of birth, same place of birth, different name.

  What happened to me in that moment? Inside my head everything came to pieces and came back together differently, in one of those kaleidoscopic reorganizations the brain is capable of.

  I had a twin.

  Ignoring the tumult in my head, my curious fingers unfolded a second piece of paper.

  A death certificate.

  My twin was dead.

  Now I knew what it was that had stained me.

  Though I was stupefied by the discovery I was not surprised. For there had always been a feeling. The knowledge – too familiar to have ever needed words – that there was something. An altered quality in the air to my right. A coagulation of light. Something peculiar to me that set empty space vibrating. My pale shadow.

  Pressing my hands to my right side, I bowed my head, nose almost to shoulder. It was an old gesture, one that had always come to me in pain, in perplexity, under duress of any kind. Too familiar to be pondered until now, my discovery revealed its meaning. I was looking for my twin. Where she should have been. By my side.

  When I saw the two pieces of paper, and when the world had recovered itself enough to start turning again on its slow axis, I thought, So that’s it. Loss. Sorrow. Loneliness. There was a feeling that had kept me apart from other people – and kept me company – all my life, and now that I had found the certificates, I knew what the feeling was. My sister.

  After a long time there came the sound of the kitchen door opening downstairs. Pins and needles in my calves, I went as far as the landing and Mrs Robb appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Is everything all right, Margaret?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you got everything you need?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, come round if you need to.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘They won’t be long now, your mum and dad.’

  She left.

  I returned the documents to the tin, and put the tin back under the bed. I left the bedroom, closing the door behind me. In front of the bathroom mirror I felt the shock of contact as my eyes locked together with the eyes of another. My face tingled under her gaze. I could feel the skeleton under my skin.

  Later, my parents’ steps on the stairs.

  I opened the door and on the landing Father gave me a hug.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Good marks all round.’

  Mother looked pale and tired. Going out would have started one of her headaches.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Good girl.’

  ‘And so, how was it, sweetheart? Being home on your own?’

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘Thought it would be,’ he said. And then, unable to stop himself, he gave me another hug, a happy, two-armed affair, and kissed the top of my head. ‘Time for bed. And don’t read too long.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Later I heard my parents going about the business of getting ready for bed: Father opening the medicine cupboard to find Mother’s pills, filling a glass with water. His voice saying, as it so frequently did, ‘You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.’ Then the door of the guest room closed. A few moments later the bed creaked in the other room, and I heard my father’s light click off.

  I knew about twins. A cell that should ordinarily become one person inexplicably becomes two identical people instead.

  I was a twin.

  My twin was dead.

  What did that make me now?

  Under the covers I pressed my hand against the silver-pink crescent on my torso. The shadow my sister had left behind. Like an archaeologist of the flesh I explored my body for evidence of its ancient history. I was as cold as a corpse.

  With the letter still in my hand, I left the shop and went upstairs to my flat. The staircase narrowed at each of the three storeys of books. As I went, turning out lights behind me, I began to prepare phrases for a polite letter of refusal. I was, I could tell Miss Winter, the wrong kind of biographer. I had no interest in contemporary writing. I had read none of Miss Winter’s books. I was at home in libraries and archives, and had never interviewed a living writer in my life. I was more at ease with dead people and was, if the truth be told, nervous of the living.

  Though it probably wasn’t necessary to put that last bit in the letter.

  I couldn’t be bothered to make a meal. A cup of cocoa would do.

  Waiting for the milk to heat, I looked out of the window. In the night glass was a face so pale you could see the blackness of the sky through it. We pressed cheek to cold, glassy cheek. If you had seen us you would have known that were it not for this glass, there was really nothing to tell us apart.

  Thirteen Tales

  Tell me the truth. The words from the letter were trapped in my head, trapped, it seemed, beneath the sloping ceiling of my attic flat, like a bird that has got in down the chimney. It was natural that the boy’s plea should have affected me; I who had never been told the truth, but left to discover it alone and in secret. Tell me the truth. Quite.

  But I resolved to put the words and the letter out of my head.

  It was nearly time. I moved swiftly. In the bathroom I soaped my face and brushed my teeth. By three minutes to eight I was in my nightdress and slippers waiting for the kettle to boil. Quickly, quickly. A minute to eight. My hot water bottle was ready, and I filled a glass with water from the tap. Time was of the essence. For at eight o’clock the world came to an end. It was reading time.

  The hours between eight in the evening and one or two in the morning have always been my magic hours. Against the blue candlewick bedspread the white pages of my open book, illuminated by a circle of lamplight, were the gateway to another world. But that night the magic failed. The threads of plot that had been left in suspense overnight had somehow gone flaccid during the day, and I found that I could not care about how they would eventually weave together. I made an effort to secure myself to a strand of the plot, but as soon as I had managed it, a voice intervened – Tell me the truth – that unpicked the knot and left it flopping loose again.

  My hand hovered instead over the old favourites: The Woman in White, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre…

  But it was no good. Tell me the truth…

  Reading had never let me down before. It had always been the one sure thing. Turning out the light, I rested my head on the pillow and tried to sleep.

  Echoes of a voice. Fragments of a story. In the dark I heard them louder. Tell me the truth…

  At two in the morning I got out of bed, pulled on some socks, unlocked the flat door and, wrapped in my dressing gown, crept down the narrow staircase and into the shop.

  At the back there is a tiny room, not much bigger than a cupboard, that we use when we need to pack a book for the post. It contains a table and, on a shelf, sheets of brown paper, scissors and a ball of string. As well as these items there is also a plain wooden cabinet which holds a dozen or so books.

  The contents of the cabinet rarely change. If you were to look into it today you would see what I saw that night: a book without a cover resting on its side, and next to it an ugly tooled leather volume. A pair of books in Latin standing upright. An old bible. Three volumes of botany, two of history and a single tatty book of astronomy. A book in Japanese, another in Polish and some poems in Old English. Why do we keep these books apart? Why are they not kept with their natural companions on our neatly labelled shelves? The cabinet is where we keep the esoteric, the valuable, the rare. These volumes are worth as much as the contents of the entire rest of the shop, more even.

  The book that I was after – a small hardback, about four inches by six, only fifty or so years old – was out of place next to all these antiquities. It had appeared a couple of months ago, placed there I imagined by Father’s inadvertence, and one of these days I meant to ask him about it and shelve it somewhere. But just in case, I put on the white gloves. We keep them in th
e cabinet to wear when we handle the books because, by a curious paradox, just as the books come to life when we read them, so the oils from our fingertips destroy them as we turn the pages. Anyway, with its paper cover intact and its corners unblunted, the book was in fine condition, one of a popular series produced to quite a high standard by a publishing house that no longer exists. A charming volume, and a first edition, but not the kind of thing that you would expect to find among the Treasures. At jumble sales and village fêtes other volumes in the series sell for a few pence.

  The paper cover was cream and green: a regular motif of shapes like fish scales formed the background, and two rectangles were left plain, one for the line drawing of a mermaid, the other for the title and author’s name. Thirteen Tales of Change and Desperation, by Vida Winter.

  I locked the cabinet, returned the key and the torch to their places, and climbed the stairs back to bed, book in gloved hand.

  I didn’t intend to read. Not as such. A few phrases were all I wanted. Something bold enough, strong enough, to still the words from the letter that kept going round in my head. Fight fire with fire, people say. A couple of sentences, a page maybe, and then I would be able to sleep.

  I removed the dust jacket, and placed it for safety in the special drawer I keep for the purpose. Even with gloves you can’t be too careful. Opening the book, I inhaled. The smell of old books, so sharp, so dry you can taste it.

  The prologue. Just a few words.

  But my eyes, brushing the first line, were snared.

  All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.

  It was like falling into water.

  Peasants and princes, bailiffs and bakers’ boys, merchants and mermaids, the figures were all immediately familiar. I had read these stories a hundred, a thousand times before. They were stories everyone knew. But gradually, as I read, their familiarity fell away from them. They became strange. They became new. These characters were not the coloured mannequins I remembered from my childhood picture books, mechanically acting out the story one more time. They were people. The blood that fell from the princess’s finger when she touched the spinning wheel was wet, and it left the tang of metal on her tongue when she licked her finger before falling asleep. When his comatose daughter was brought to him, the king’s tears left salt burns on his face. The stories were shot through with an unfamiliar mood. Everyone achieved their heart’s desire: the king had his daughter restored to life by a stranger’s kiss, the beast was divested of his fur and left naked as a man; the mermaid walked; but only when it was too late did they realize the price they must pay for escaping their destiny. Every Happy Ever After was tainted. Fate, at first so amenable, so reasonable, so open to negotiation, ended up by exacting a cruel revenge for happiness.

  The tales were brutal and sharp and heartbreaking. I loved them.

  It was while I was reading The Mermaid’s Tale – the twelfth tale – that I began to feel stirrings of an anxiety that was unconnected to the story itself. I was distracted: my thumb and right index finger were sending me a message: Not many pages left. The knowledge nagged more insistently until I tilted the book to check. It was true. The thirteenth tale must be a very short one.

  I continued my reading, finished tale twelve and turned the page.

  Blank.

  I flicked back, forward again. Nothing.

  There was no thirteenth tale.

  There was a sudden rush in my head as I felt the sick dizziness of the deep sea diver come too fast to the surface.

  Aspects of my room came back into view, one by one. My bedspread, the book in my hand, the lamp still shining palely in the daylight that was beginning to creep in through the thin curtains.

  It was morning.

  I had read the night away.

  There was no thirteenth tale.

  In the shop my father was sitting at the desk with his head in his hands. He heard me come down the stairs and looked up, white-faced.

  ‘Whatever is it?’ I darted forwards.

  He was too shocked to speak; his hands roused themselves to a mute gesture of desperation, before slowly replacing themselves over his horrified eyes. He groaned.

  My hand hovered over his shoulder, but I am not in the habit of touching people, so it fell instead to the cardigan that he had draped over the back of his chair.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

  When he spoke his voice was weary and shaken. ‘We’ll have to phone the police. In a minute. In a minute…’

  ‘The police? Father – what’s happened?’

  ‘A break-in.’ He made it sound like the end of the world.

  I looked around the shop, bewildered. Everything was neat and in order. The desk drawers had not been forced, the shelves not ransacked, the window not broken.

  ‘The cabinet,’ he said, and I began to understand.

  ‘The Thirteen Tales.’ I spoke firmly. ‘Upstairs in my flat. I borrowed it.’

  Father looked up at me. His expression combined relief with utter astonishment. ‘You borrowed it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You borrowed it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was puzzled. I was always borrowing things from the shop, as he knew.

  ‘But Vida Winter…?’

  And I realized that some kind of explanation was called for.

  I read old novels. The reason is simple: I prefer proper endings. Marriages and deaths, noble sacrifices and miraculous restorations, tragic separations and unhoped-for reunions, great falls and dreams fulfilled; these, in my view, constitute an ending worth the wait. They should come after adventures, perils, dangers and dilemmas, and wind everything up nice and neatly. Endings like this are to be found more commonly in old novels than new ones, so I read old novels.

  Contemporary literature is a world I know little of. My father had taken me to task on this topic many times during our daily talks about books. He reads as much as I do, but more widely, and I have great respect for his opinions. He has described in precise, measured words the beautiful desolation he feels at the close of novels where the message is that there is no end to human suffering, only endurance. He has spoken of endings that are muted, but which echo longer in the memory than louder, more explosive denouements. He has explained why it is that ambiguity touches his heart more nearly than the death and marriage style of finish that I prefer.

  During these talks, I listen with the gravest attention and nod my head, but I always end up continuing in my old habits. Not that he blames me for it. There is one thing on which we are agreed: there are too many books in the world to read in a single lifetime; you have to draw the line somewhere.

  Once Father even told me about Vida Winter. ‘Now there’s a living writer who would suit you.’

  But I had never read any Vida Winter. Why should I when there were so many dead writers I had still not discovered?

  Except that now I had come down in the middle of the night to take the Thirteen Tales from the cabinet. My father, with good reason, was wondering why.

  ‘I got a letter yesterday,’ I began.

  He nodded.

  ‘It was from Vida Winter.’

  Father raised his eyebrows, but waited for me to go on.

  ‘It seems to be an invitation for me to visit her. With a view to writing her biography.’

  His eyebrows lifted by another few millimetres.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to get the book.’

  I waited for Father to speak, but he didn’t. He was thinking, a small frown creasing his brow. After a time I spoke again. ‘Why is it kept in the cabinet? What makes it so valuable?’

  Father pulled himself away from his train of thought to answer. ‘Partly because it’s the first edition of the first book by the most famous living writer in the English language. But most
ly because it’s flawed. Every following edition is called Tales of Change and Desperation. No mention of thirteen. You’ll have noticed there are only twelve stories?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Presumably there were originally supposed to be thirteen, then only twelve were submitted. But there was a mix-up with the jacket design and the book was printed with the original title and only twelve stories. They had to be recalled.’

  ‘But your copy…’

  ‘Slipped through the net. One of a batch sent out by mistake to a shop in Dorset, where one customer bought a copy before the shop got the message to pack them up and send them back. Thirty years ago he realized what the value might be and sold it to a collector. The collector’s estate was auctioned in September and I bought it. With the proceeds from the Avignon deal.’

  ‘The Avignon deal?’ It had taken two years to negotiate the Avignon deal. It was one of Father’s most lucrative successes.

  ‘You wore the gloves, of course?’ he asked sheepishly.

  ‘Who do you take me for?’

  He smiled before continuing, ‘All that effort for nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Recalling all those books because the title was wrong. Yet people still call it the Thirteen Tales, even though it’s been published as Tales of Change and Desperation for half a century.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s what a combination of fame and secrecy does. With real knowledge about her so scant, fragments of information like the story of the recalled first edition take on an importance beyond their weight. It has become part of her mythology. The mystery of the thirteenth tale. It gives people something to speculate about.’

  There is a short silence. Then, directing his gaze vaguely into the middle distance, and speaking lightly so that I could pick up his words or let them go, as I chose, he murmured, ‘And now a biography…How unexpected.’

  I remembered the letter, my fear that its writer was not to be trusted. I remembered the insistence of the young man’s words, ‘Tell me the truth.’ I remembered the Thirteen Tales that took possession of me with its first words and held me captive all night. I wanted to be held hostage again.