by Guy Sheppard
‘I’ve been this way a while now.’
‘It’s no bad thing, I suppose.’
Luke could recognise the strangeness of the situation if not the estrangement. Had it really been thirty-five years? Yet her whole foreignness could be said to be miraculously unalienable. Surely that was as it should be, however? A brother should know his own sister, even if they had only ever met once before in the womb.
Ellie giggled.
‘Make yourself useful. There’s a stone wall we need to patch with electric fencing.’
‘Where’s Jeremy?’
‘Gone to the castle to pay the rent.’
They set off together past the wooden stables that smelt of freshly applied creosote. They stopped to collect some fencing stakes and a mallet in a wheelbarrow. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do something practical together and yet there were so many questions that he still had to ask her about herself.
Instead he played safe.
‘How’s Molly doing now?’
‘Her eye’s still half shut but there’s no swelling except for her lower lid which is still a bit puffy. The pupil itself is clear, thank goodness. There’s no running, so there can’t be any wound in it.’
‘Sounds gory.’
‘Doesn’t mean she didn’t collide with the wall with one hell of a bang. She tried to jump it at a real gallop, I’d say. Okay, she has cataracts. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t trying to escape from something.’
‘Some thing?’
‘Some trespasser throwing stones, very likely.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘Some people get a kick out of frightening horses.’
Next minute a fair-haired boy charged across the yard with a wooden sword held high in one hand.
‘Hey, Randal,’ cried Ellie. ‘I thought I told you to stay in the house? Mummy’s busy right now.’
‘Let him come,’ said Luke. ‘I’ve brought him the biggest chocolate rabbit I could find. It’s in the Land Rover.’
‘Randal, this is your Uncle Luke. You’ll be seeing a lot of him from now on. He’s just moved to Berkeley.’
Man and boy traded puzzled looks.
‘Is this the gangster you spoke about?’ said Randal, in awe.
‘Ex-gangster, silly.’
‘He has the family nose,’ said Luke. ‘And he’s already very tall, too!’
Ellie straightened her son’s blue jacket. Took his hand.
‘He was ten in January. Really, just recently I’ve begun to think he looks more like his grandmother. ‘Don’t you think he has her almond eyes?’
‘I forget.’
‘As we all do.’
Ellie steered Randal round a pile of horse dung close by the gate to the field. Clearly the poor grey mare had been frightened out of her wits by something very unnatural. Horses shat a lot when terrified.
A hare suddenly jumped the breach in the wall on their side of the field; it passed close to them where fallen stones hid their approach. The leggy animal loped across the grass. Paused. Turned its tall black ears their way. It listened to them intensely from a safe distance. Next moment, its reddish brown fur gleamed in a blaze of sunlight that shone through a gap in the mist.
‘First one I’ve seen this year,’ said Ellie. ‘I hope it’s not the Witch of Berkeley.’
‘Don’t be silly, mummy,’ said Randal. ‘There’s no such thing as witches.’
Luke raised his eyebrows.
‘What witch is that exactly?’
‘Sold her soul to the Devil in 1063. Suffice to say, she’s a red-headed sorceress who sometimes goes about the countryside round here disguised as a hare. Aren’t they always? I sometimes think redheads get a very raw deal.’
‘Yeah. Definitely never happened, but you’ve got to admire the gullibility of some people, haven’t you?’
His appetite for ridicule was somewhat checked by a clear sign that Ellie seemed deadly serious.
*
‘This where it happened?’ asked Luke.
He was surprised and mystified not simply by the wrecked drystone wall but by the brute force which had wrecked it. His gaze turned to the broken ground and frantic hoof prints all around them. Why did a half-blind pony charge headlong at this formidable barrier now so shattered in the sunlight? Sometimes animals could be so stupid.
Ellie offered him the stakes in one hand and the mallet in the other.
‘You choose.’
‘I’ll hold, you bang.’
‘Good choice.’
Each fencing stake carried an insulated slot for white electric tape. Once all four stakes were hammered into position, Ellie unrolled the tape as far back as a red solar-powered battery already positioned at the edge of the field. Her willingness to co-opt him emboldened him to break his self-inflicted censorship so far.
‘So what did our mother ask you about me, precisely?’
Ellie connected the tape to the battery with a spark.
‘Whatever do you mean, Luke?’
‘Jess said on TV that she knew I was a priest.’
‘You and she can talk about it when you meet.’
‘You can say that again.’
Job done, Ellie gathered up her mallet and began pushing her wheelbarrow back to the farmyard.
‘Please don’t say that, Luke.’
‘I worry she’s up to something, that’s all.’
‘We’ll know soon enough.’
‘Not before she ruins everything else!’
‘Do you good to cut her some slack after all this time, brother.’
‘She hasn’t nearly explained why she abandoned me, not you.’
‘Or this is about you not wanting to forgive and forget?’
‘You think?’
‘Pretty much.’
There was nothing like jealousy to encourage someone in his not unreasonable resentments.
‘When Jess got out of prison she tracked you down and re-established contact,’ said Luke. ‘She didn’t do that for me. I lost out. I had to live with gran for years. I might as well have been an orphan. She didn’t even visit.’
Ellie stopped by a grey mare in a stable.
‘Honestly, you think Jess loved me more than you?’
‘In a sense, yeah.’
‘There appears to be some confusion about what the hell she ever felt for anyone. I never met a harder woman than our mother.’
‘No, well, yeah, if witches exist then she’s it.’
‘Please, Luke, what did you lose, in your opinion?’
‘I lost my childhood.’
‘Doesn’t mean you had to end up in a young offenders’ home.’
‘Jess didn’t visit me there, either.’
‘Don’t punish yourself for nothing.’
‘What was I supposed to do?’
Ellie unbolted the door to a stable and slipped a head collar over Molly’s nose. She passed its strap up and over the pony’s ears. Buckled it together against the side of her neck.
‘Hold still while I give her this ointment, will you?’
‘Got it.’
Next minute Ellie slid one hand under the collar’s straps to open the mare’s top eyelid and peel back the bottom one. That way her hand could move with the head. She shot him half a smile.
‘Haven’t broken my arm yet.’
It was the first time she had fully relaxed in his presence. With her other hand she carefully squeezed ointment from a little tube inside Molly’s bottom eyelid which she then closed.
If only he wasn’t mildly allergic to horses, thought Luke.
‘Molly will have to stay in tonight,’ said Ellie firmly. ‘Look sharp, brother. Bring me two slices of hay from that blue barrel in the yard over there, will you?’
‘Anything to oblige.’
Luke crossed the cobbles. Returned with an armful of soaked feed.
Ellie took him to one side.
‘I know this isn’t easy for you. It isn’t very easy for me,
either. And yes, I do think it’s a bit odd that Jess should make that TV broadcast now? What is really behind it, do you think?’
‘You heard what she said, she wants to dig up the past. Whereas I’ve decided to come home and make a fresh start, she hasn’t changed a bit.’
Ellie pulled a face.
‘So what else is new?’
‘If I’m being honest I dread meeting her at the wedding.’
‘I don’t trust her, either.’
‘After that she’s on her own.’
‘Okay, okay, but you don’t get to spoil my big day.’
‘That’s a promise.’
‘Moving on. Did you visit grandma’s house yet?’
‘Soon.’
‘You’ll find the key under the amaryllis in the greenhouse when you do.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘Have you considered that selling Chapel Cottage will break Gwendolen’s heart? It’s been her home since the 1950s.’
‘If we don’t, someone else will.’
‘That’s not a good reason.’
Luke tried not to sneeze as Ellie brushed Molly’s muddy back.
‘You not told her, then?’
‘A crazy old woman is what she is these days.’
‘Okay, yeah, I don’t know. Dementia can be managed. She’s just ill. That makes her kind of special.’
‘A lot of people are scared of special. Some nights she stands in her room and howls.’
‘You really want to talk about this now?’
‘Do please explain it to her as gently as you can, Luke? Won’t you?’
‘Damn right I will.’
‘She seemed better yesterday, I must say. I actually had a decent conversation with her.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, this and that.’
‘It’s not such a bad thing, Ellie. Thanks to this new nuclear power station that is going to be built, Chapel Cottage is prime real estate suddenly. What have we got to lose?’
‘All the same, we don’t want to do anything rash, do we? We could talk it over with Jeremy when he gets home if you like. He may not be my husband quite yet but he’s worked this farm for years. He’s well placed to gauge the strength of local feeling among the neighbours.’
‘I’d better go. Things to do. Something’s come up at the prison.’
Ellie stared after him.
‘Never thought you’d want to see ‘inside’ again.’
‘Think of it as my biggest qualification. Really, it’s only two days a week at the moment as part of a multi-faith team.’
He sneezed and wiped red off his hand.
‘You bleeding?’ said Ellie.
‘H’m, well, yeah, it happens.’
‘Here, put my doctor’s number on your phone at once. It could be high blood pressure or something.’
‘Fine. Yeah. Whatever.’
‘I mean it. Give them a ring today.’
Luke flinched. If she could be caring he could be terribly careless.
‘Wait,’ said Ellie suddenly. ‘At least stay for lunch like a proper family.’
‘Well, all right then.’
And so in her own way she gave him her blessing.
15
Eat slowly. Fast intermittently. Such advice was sound, as advice went, thought Jorge. He was handing Sasha her breakfast bowl of dog biscuits on the cold stone floor of Hill House’s gloomy kitchen. Dawn had broken and he had not slept well in a bed whose sheets he did not regard as sufficiently clean, no matter how much he sprayed them with air freshener.
He had dreamt that he was falling head first from some precipitous bridge – he was being driven to jump to his death by his irate landlady as he relived being caught trying to smuggle Sasha into his B&B, late yesterday evening.
Being a policeman cut no ice with her. She threw his peaked cap into Station Road. Told him to follow.
‘Damned rozzer.’
The result was that he had been forced to retrieve the key to the vicarage from a drawer in St. Mary’s Church in Berkeley in a bit of a hurry. It was not a good thing. He might have grown up in Hill House, but to be back in his old home made him feel like a squatter in his own sadly neglected premises.
‘There you are, Sasha. Enjoy.’
At least today was the day he could eat as many bananas as he liked. He was also allowed skimmed milk and, naturally, all the bowls of cabbage soup that he could possibly bear to swallow. There was something portentous about Day 4 of his diet which was not helped by his miniscule loss of weight. So far he had shed one pound.
His stomach simply ignored the glass of water that he now drank before all his meals to invite a sense of satiety. Nor did chewing longer and savouring each bite of his fifth banana make much difference. His belly was in open rebellion; it was doing its best to test his resolution as God tempted Abraham.
He moved through the kitchen, observing the relative chaos. Luke had always lived so. Disordered, messy, out of control. Febrile. Urgent. Driven. He lived the moment before it could make him stop and think.
Sasha would not stop poking her wet nose into every corner. There could be no complacency until she had investigated everything absolutely thoroughly according to the custom of dogs in old places. After all, she had once lived here, too.
‘Seriously? You can still smell him? How long does it take for someone’s scent to vanish with them, anyway?’
*
Next minute, Jorge produced a pack of new Brillo pads from his shopping bag. He used them to polish four saucepans and their lids to a bright silver colour ready for cabbage, onions, peppers and celery.
How could anyone be blind to all those brown stains, so obvious to the most casual observer?
Such neglect was an insult to the disciplined mind, an indictment of the true believer, a disgrace before God.
Or it was his own Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, thought Jorge, scrubbing harder.
Meanwhile, Sasha went off to investigate spiders in the cellar.
*
‘I don’t know about you, Sasha, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s as if Luke hasn’t strayed very far.’
Which also went for himself, thought Jorge. It felt very odd that he and Luke had eaten meals together as boys at this very table, not least because his father would permit ‘that Lyons brat’ no further than the kitchen.
A white china tea caddy was still full of teabags.
Elsewhere a ship’s calendar from 2016 hung on the wall.
Each day had been crossed off until the fateful one – the Sunday on which his friend had unaccountably stepped off the edge of the Earth forever.
Among an impressive pile of receipts, bills, bank statements and junk mail, many copies of Sailing Magazine and Marlinspike Magazine for Schooner and Tall Ship News, as well as Porthole Cruise Magazine stood piled on a Welsh dresser. He thumbed through a copy of the latter. Saw it fall open at its centre spread.
He could not rightly say what drew his attention to it, unless it was the strange name of a tall black schooner called Amatheia. Its owner, Welsh-born business woman Sabrina ap Loegres had built it as an enlarged, updated version of a classic 19th century barquentine design. Round its name was a ring drawn in red biro.
The magazines were both old and recent. Luke had renewed their subscriptions shortly before his disappearance? Here, then, was some thread of communication. Inside these magazines had to be a clue as to how and where he’d always wanted to sail, in his dreams. He’d left Berkeley for some desert island?
Whatever the truth, his friend’s passion for all things nautical had kept his favourite publications coming even if he didn’t.
Luke had left behind something of himself. Things he loved. Physical things. One antiquated item was a ship’s wooden slatted container for storing linen whose worm-eaten holes looked positively medieval.
A full bottle of whisky rested on its top.
What sane person, whatever his hurry, abandoned such a fine malt, Jorge
wondered? He set the bottle aside, pulled on a pair of white plastic gloves and opened the chest’s lid.
Lying inside was a large scrapbook which turned out to contain dozens of reports from local newspapers.
Something called The Gazette described how a dead whale had been found stranded a few miles away at Littleton-on-Severn in 1885. Traction engines dragged the leviathan ashore and special trains had been laid on by the Midland Railway Company to deposit sightseers at the nearest station. So many people had arrived to see the monster that they had formed a queue three miles long.
Next minute something outside the house caught Jorge’s attention.
He felt compelled to go to the window. Look out.
A shadow was creeping across the face of the sundial on the lawn near the lake, as if some dark hand would mark the day’s first hours with its claws.
Sasha barked. Scratched the door.
‘Really?’ said Jorge, carrying his newly found bottle into the kitchen. ‘You literally want to go for another bloody walk already? That’s not we agreed. This is what you did with your real owner, I suppose? You liked to go for a run with Luke at the crack of dawn? You still do? Okay. Okay. Just let me find a clean glass for my whisky, will you?’
Further research would have to wait. He had little interest in whales himself, even if his meticulous investigator had. Luke had assembled details of every bizarre sighting and disaster that had occurred up and down the Severn estuary going back a hundred years.
But why?
Revenant himself, Jorge drank a toast to the ghost of his friend who had decided to return home only to disappear again.
16
‘You really want to do this, Frank?’
‘Believe me, I’m your friend, reverend.’
‘You’re wrong about that.’
‘You have it with you? You do, don’t you, Luke? Wow, I knew you’d be the answer to all our prayers.’
‘Honestly I don’t think I am.’
‘I just need to see it for myself.’
Luke responded with a glance that he had no time for speculation – with a growl that he did not want to indulge in any. The frantic tapping of his fingers on the pew in the chapel of HMPL…. went unnoticed, however.
To encourage Frank Cordell in his obsession was only to delay his own busy day still further. A twenty-year-old prisoner had already come to him because he couldn’t cope. Whenever this man used the toilet his cellmate sat on his bed. Watched him defecate. The cell was so small and the lack of privacy so bad that he had told him, ‘Reverend, I can’t fucking breathe, I feel as if I’m drowning.’ He’d been very highly strung, like someone at the edge of a cliff. It was his job to talk the poor bastard down.
