A Year of Marvellous Ways (15 page)

I felt the earth beneath my feet again. I listened to the silence that lived the other side of the falling waves, where a line of moon jellyfish had washed up on the wet shingle and pulsed and glowed like footlights.

And the silence melted me. I stumbled up the beach to where the cliffs rose, to where thick clumps of dry grass grew from the sand. My arms were worn ragged, but I managed to pull up great handfuls of the stuff, picked up driftwood too, that looked like severed limbs in the nibbling dawn. I struck my knife against a piece of quartz and using the grass as kindling lit a fire. When the fire took, I walked along to the rocky outlay and prised limpets from their anchor and ate them from the shell.

I untied the guide rope from the kite and dragged it back down to the shore where it disappeared like an eel into the watery dark. And there I waited. With gulls by my side and a fire at my back, I waited.

Sun high, a boat appeared, lured by the spiralling smoke. The fisherman threw me a rope and landed easily at the shore, and in no time at all I was aboard. The boat glided lazily on the swell and I sat back and said nothing. Just held the kite tightly in my arms.

Eighteen sailors died last night, said the fisherman. How you got here, God only knows. Something must have been watching over you.

And you know what? said Marvellous at the end of her story. Something
was
.

You going tell me it was God? said Drake.

God? Good God, no, Drake.
Love
. Don’t confuse the two. Love. It’s the only thing to have faith in.

Is that right?

Oh yes, she said.

Or the moon, she added.

The moon?

Yes. Something that turns up every day when you can’t. The sun. The moon. Anything. You have to have faith in something.

Why? said Drake.

Because it makes you more interesting to women, she said.

Drake laughed.

Women like something behind the eyes, said Marvellous.

I have plenty behind my eyes.

Yes, but you don’t have
light
. Faith gives you light. Jack had light, she said.

What did Jack have faith in?

Me, of course, said Marvellous.

27

T
hey drifted out from the church on the tide.
Drake paddled against the current and came to a halt on the bank below Marvellous’ caravan. He gripped hard on to thick clumps of exposed tree roots as Marvellous rolled from the flimsy craft on to the shore. He told her to go on ahead, the yellow of her back rising on the steps, disappearing into the warm and dry. Drake groaned and crawled on to land and dragged the canoe in his wake. He was still on all fours when a final purge of vomit left his body. He looked across to the shed, to the canvas kite tied to its side, and he shook his head. Inside the caravan, a paraffin lamp flared, and he heard a popper pulled from a bottle of gin. He staggered up. Wiped his feet against his trouser legs and climbed the steps.

The gypsy wagon felt close after the wide breadth of night. They sat in silence, huddled around the lamp, and they drank sloe gin and they listened. Listened to each other’s breathing, to the welcome crackle of the stove, to the slow move of salt rising travelling falling as the water made its journey back out to sea. They listened to the confused call of an owl, the splash of water voles amusing themselves in the grooves along the bank. They listened to the creak of the caravan releasing whispers from its weary well-travelled joints. Drake pointed to
The Book of Truths
on the shelf at the back and asked what it was about. It is what it says it is, said Marvellous, a Book of Truths. Can I read it? he asked. No, she said, you’re not ready for the truth, and she turned away and rested her eyes.

Drake stood up and took off his oilskin. Empty bottles on the shelf flickered in the lamplight and caught his eye; the glass magical and alluring in the eerie glow. He leant over and lifted one to the light. Inside was a coil of paper.

What are these? he asked.

Marvellous opened her eyes and frowned.

Messages. I collect them from the shore. Always have.

What do you do with them?

Read them. Answer what I can, said the old woman.

Do you rescue people from desert islands?

Don’t be obtuse. Not on a night like this.

Sorry, he said.

Marvellous picked up a gin bottle, label long gone. This was yours actually, she said. November 2nd 1947. River Thames.

I never sent you a message, said Drake.

Yours was silent.

He took the bottle and the date bore down on him and a fist of grief travelled from his guts to his throat. Marvellous rested her hand upon his back as the story of Missy Hall limped out on his tears. She listened to him speak. She lit her pipe and refilled his glass. And she listened to him speak. I loved her, he finally said. I know, she said.

And he so wanted to talk about the war but the sun was creeping high over the trees, and his memory of that day in France wasn’t for the light. He lit a last cigarette and stood up. When he got to the door he stopped. He was about to ask Marvellous a question but she surprised him with the answer: You, she said emphatically. I have faith in you.

He walked on down through the trees towards the boathouse. The still morning air reeked of saltmud and echoed with the sorrowful sound of curlews.

The sun was bright. Skimmed the tops of trees and took them out of shadow. The rippled sand glistened and leftover pools were squatted by terns or gulls.

And for the first time he was aware of the possibility of not settling but living once again. And as the sun shifted it turned the river into a silvery molten flow and it looked beautiful and for the first time in weeks he knew he was going to be all right, and because he was going to be all right he knew he was ready to leave.

He looked back to the riverbank and there she was watching him. As if she could read his thoughts. He raised his hand, she raised hers. He turned away so she couldn’t see his eyes. It had been a long night.

28

H
e didn’t plan the day he was leaving. He simply
rose
late with the winter sun, apprehensive of the day ahead. He looked over at the letter addressed to Dr Arnold and knew that today was the day.

He got dressed into his civvies; Collar and Cuffs felt stiff and strange to touch. He looked down and saw turn-ups falling neatly across a polished leather brogue. This was the life he had left. He wasn’t sure it was the life he wanted to go back to. He had got used to the routines, the funny ways of this life, and he wondered what he was going to do when the letter had been delivered and an open road lay ahead of him. He neatly folded the clothes the old woman had given him the night he had arrived. He stood back. The fire was doused. The bed stripped. The little touches gone. It was as if he had never been there. No smudged outline of his presence on the white-washed wall above a hearth.

He had never said goodbye to anyone before. Never had the chance to say goodbye to his mother, nor to Missy, had never left anything he’d cared for. Maybe that was why he was hovering. He’d got used to the old woman and her ways. He cared what happened to her. He quickly put on his raincoat and picked up the suitcase before his nerve failed.

He found her at the riverbed ankle-deep in mud, her knees thick and muddy below her rolled-up trouser legs. He watched her, unseen for a moment. He watched the life she had had before him, the life that would go on after him, just her and her solitude, orbited by a lifetime of stories and irritable saints. And he wanted her to be all right because she had always been all right, and he had to believe that, else he’d never go. That’s when she looked up and saw him. That’s when she put the palm of her hand across her chest.

He walked downriver and waved a big so long salute with his suitcase, just so she’d know and there’d be no mistake, but of course she knew. She didn’t wave back. She stopped her digging and came towards the riverbank. He knelt down to her.

I’m leaving.

She nodded. She lifted up her bucket and said, Lugworm. He couldn’t be sure it wasn’t an insult.

Will you come back? she asked.

I don’t think so.

And the old woman nodded.

Thank you for everything, Marvellous, said Drake. Really.
Everything
.

She nodded. She said, Good luck, Francis Drake. Live well. Love again.

She offered her hand and he took it. Took it in both his hands. Her hand felt cold and small.

Don’t look back, don’t look back, he said to himself, but he did look back and she was still staring at him. His eyes burned. A thousand goodbyes were etched on to her face: those were the lines of age. As he walked away the clouds opened and a gentle rain fell. Her grace falling upon me, he thought.

29

H
e rode with Butcher Dewar to a farm on the
outskirts of Truro. He said he would be passing back that way in three hours if Drake needed a lift. Drake said he didn’t think he would and waved him goodbye.

He was glad of the walk into town. The rain had eased and the smell was now of dirt and hedgerows, the sweetness of grass, and it softened his anxiety; he was glad of the peace.

So much had happened towards the end of the war, and this letter, this request belonged to the chaos of that time. Drake wished he could have burned it, forgotten about it, no one would have been any the wiser. He didn’t even know Dougie Arnold, not really. The letter had been shoved into his hand by a dying man and Drake couldn’t walk on by, had said those two words, I promise, and he was bound to the task by conscience because his conscience was so stained by then, he needed something to whiten it.

What if the man asks me about his son? Lie. Be a good soldier and lie. He was a great friend, loyal, who died bravely. Lie. Never a day goes by blah blah blah. Lie.

Drake checked his pocket to make sure the letter was there. The letter felt hot against his hand.

Weeks had passed since he had last been in a city. There were people, motor cars and vans, the to and fro of life and women in make-up clicking their heels, and noise! The cathedral spire came into view, glistening wet in the sunshine. He followed the sight and leant against the granite wall and listened to a fiddler string out bright tunes. An Austin 8 pulled up in front of him. His reflection grotesque and unmistakable in the large side window.

The barber placed the warm towel over his face and around his neck and Drake felt his skin open and relax to the sensation. He felt cleaner than he had felt in months. He looked in the mirror. His beard was groomed, his hair cut. Old Spice was patted about his neck. The transformation was complete. He stepped back out into the keen afternoon air knowing he should have felt better.

Chapel Street?

Second turning on the right, then take a left.

Thank you.

He was hurrying now. Stopped at the top of the street and lit a cigarette to ease his nerves. He made it last till the gate of Monk’s Rise where he stubbed it out under his shoe.

A detached house. Front and rear garden. Trailing roses against a white-washed front. A neatly edged path to the door. A doctor’s house. No doubt. Drake rang the bell and waited. No answer. He tried to look into the front room window before ringing the bell again. He was about to push the letter through the letterbox when the door opened quickly and a kind-looking gentleman greeted him.

I’m sorry, the man said wiping his hands, I was out the back. In the garden, burning leaves.

The smell of bonfire clung to his body.

Dr Arnold? said Drake.

Yes that’s me.

My name is Francis Drake. I have a letter for you.

Drake watched the man through the French doors. This was a father. He was sitting on a bench reading the letter from his son and he didn’t move, and the only movement was the alternate shift of shadow and sunlight falling through the shedding trees. The peace of the scene was overwhelming and Drake wondered what he would have written to his own father. What his father might have written to him. The clock chimed two. He noticed he wasn’t impatient to get away.

He stood up and looked about. It was an orderly room, a family room filled with photographs on tables and sideboards. Drake went over to the hearth and picked up a photograph of the son in cricket whites, fifteen – sixteen at most – with a Labrador by his side, when life was yet ahead.

Thank you, said the doctor, entering. Thank you for bringing this into my life. And he placed the letter on the mantelpiece behind the photograph of his son.

The clock ticked loudly. The doctor carried in a tray of tea and biscuits and placed it on the table in front of Drake. May I? said Drake, before lighting a cigarette.

Yes, yes, of course. Milk?

Please.

Drake lit his cigarette.

Sugar?

No thank you.

Neither do I. Lost the taste for the stuff after all the rationing. Here.

He handed Drake a cup of tea.

My wife’s not here. She’ll be very sorry to have missed you. She’s often away at our daughter’s, so I’m well-practised at looking after things. I know where the tea and biscuits are.

They sat quietly, smoking, drinking tea. The clock ticked loudly between them.

It never used to work, that clock. It chimed out of the blue two or three years ago after I learnt of my son’s death. People often talk of clocks stopping don’t they, Mr Drake? Well, mine started. I haven’t the foggiest what that means, but it gives me comfort. Inexplicable moments give me comfort. Like you turning up. With a letter I never expected. Inexplicable moments.

The doctor drank his tea.

Do you have family, Mr Drake?

No.

No one?

No.

No one who cares about you?

Drake shifted in his seat. I don’t really know, he said.

The clock ticked loudly.

Sorry. Too direct?

No. Not at all. No. I have been cared for, Dr Arnold, so . . .

So you have answered my question. Good. Good.

Dr Arnold sipped his tea. Had you known my son long?

Yes. Long enough.

He never mentioned you.

No? Drake reached for his tea. Keep your hand steady.

He was a good soldier, he added. You should be proud of him.

I am. I was. But he wasn’t a good soldier, I don’t think. And he hated every minute of the war. And we disagreed about the war and in that disagreement was the seed of our estrangement. So. You see. You’re either a bad liar, or you didn’t know him.

Drake’s heart thumped loudly. The clock ticked. His mouth dried.

I didn’t know him, he eventually said. I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause distress.

No, no you’re not, said the doctor. Please sit down. Please. But how did you come by the letter?

I was passing a wounded man who had been left on a stretcher at the edge of a field hospital and he asked me to deliver it.

And you didn’t know him?

No.

But you promised to deliver it.

I did.

The last wish of a dying man?

Yes, I thought it was.

Then for that I thank you. The doctor drank the last of his tea.

We drank brandy, said Drake. And the flowers were out. And that day didn’t feel like war because it was summer, and the sun was out and it was normal. And for a brief moment we were normal. Your son said he wanted to swim.

The doctor smiled, said, He was a good swimmer.

He wanted me to tell you he was all right.

The doctor coughed, cleared his throat. So? What happens to you now, Mr Drake? he said.

I don’t know, really.

Back to London?

No. Not London. I may go back to France. To the south.

A free spirit?

Something like that. I’ve been living here the last six weeks.

In Cornwall?

Yes. I’ve been living by a river in a boathouse: a strange set-up for someone who hates water.

An ideal set-up, in many ways, for someone who hates water.

Yes, maybe. I think that’s probably what the old woman would have said too.

And what old woman is that? said Dr Arnold.

Old Marvellous. Lived down there for years.

The clocked ticked loudly.

She’s still alive? said the doctor.

You know her?

Knew
her. Yes, I did. A long time ago now, and Dr Arnold got up and went to the drinks cabinet. My God, he said. How is she?

Drake thought. Remarkable, really.

Does she still swim?

Drake smiled. Yes. Every high water.

She told you her mother was a mermaid?

She did.

The doctor raised a bottle of Scotch. Will you join me?

Please.

No water I would guess, said the doctor.

No water, said Drake smiling.

The doctor handed Drake his drink.

Good luck, Mr Drake.

To you, sir.

The sound of two glasses touching. The sound of a clock. The sound of the doctor sitting back heavily in his armchair as a sigh from the past brushes his ear.

Do you believe in fate, Mr Drake?

I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.

No, and neither did I at your age, the question was probably rather unfair. But looking back now I can quite honestly say that I do believe in fate.

I met your old woman – Miss Marvellous Ways – twenty-five years ago. And to this day I count myself lucky to have met her. For years there had been rumours about her. My predecessor had warned me about the Woman in the Wood. Said people were uncomfortable with her, scared of her even. But most doctors tolerated her. One even had his children delivered by her. Strange times, Mr Drake.

When I was called to visit her, she had been living rough in the woods for weeks. Naked, whatever the weather. It was not long after the First War I think. It was 1922 maybe? People said she had gone mad after burying her lover. Well, that was the story that brought me back to her door one spring afternoon, twenty-five years ago.

I remember leading her back to her caravan saying something unbelievably trite, something along the lines of, Life goes on. I was young, my only excuse.

She was oblivious to her state, thank God. She thought our meeting was a meeting of like minds: doctor to doctor, the linking of science – me – with her the traditional. Or so she believed. She had cuts on her hands and feet and sores around her mouth. She had a rasping cough, if I remember rightly. I asked to listen to her chest and she told me it was grief. I said I thought it was pneumonia. I said, Open your mouth. She said, Open your
mind
.

The doctor laughed.
Open your mind!
I told her she could die if she didn’t go and live somewhere dry and stop her daily swim. I swim because I have to, that’s what she said. It’s what keeps me well. And I said, Can’t you just swim in the morning? And she said I swim at high tide. It’s who I am. My mother was a mermaid. Blame the moon. I’d never met anyone who talked the way she talked. Who saw the world the way she saw it. And I was transfixed, if not professionally curious, as well. I saw her every day for two weeks. And every day she told me about her life and the river. Took me into the boathouse and told me the story of her mother and father. And on the last day I took out my stethoscope and listened to her breathing. There was no pneumonia, no hysteria. Just the sound of deep sorrow. It was the first time I had ever made such a diagnosis.

Melancholia. That’s the term the Victorians used. Grief. Depression. Unassailable loss, choose what you will, but I too understand the madness that ensues when someone you love dies. But I kept mine clothed. Respectable. I kept mine hidden so as not to frighten people. But it was there, behind my job, behind my eyes. But because I was respectable, people would come to our house with food, or a cake, or kind words. My grief – because I was respectable – was not misinterpreted. I too went mad, Mr Drake. But I still polished my shoes.

You see, this, he said, picking up a Y-shaped tree branch that stood with tongs in a brass holder next to the hearth. On my last night she sent me away with this dowsing rod tucked under my arm, which she promised would find me love.

Drake smiled. And did it?

Oh yes, it did as it happens. The following weekend at a colleague’s wedding. I was so taken with the beautiful Belinda Faulks that three days later I held that very same dowsing rod above her head like a sprig of mistletoe, and kissed her. We got engaged shortly after. Then married. All the things we are supposed to do. I worked hard. Children. Back to London. Back to Cornwall. And I forgot about Miss Ways.

The doctor ran his hand over the old gnarled branch of hazel and he saw his hand again as a young man’s hand with a lifeline barely explored. And he remembered again that last night in the caravan. Remembered how the sun lowered, how the fractured colours breached the leafed canopy above and streamed before his eyes, that golden light – the light blues, the rich deep blues, as if its majesty that evening was just for them. And how for the first time in his life, he was flooded by an implacable and overwhelming peace.
Somewhere between God and
medicine there is a place for me.
That’s what she’d said and that’s what he’d never forgotten. And he could taste again the sweet sloe gin that loosened his tongue and softened his heart, and the perfumed warmth of the wagon that gave him courage to speak his fears. His eyes prickled and were burning now as he remembered how she enfolded his hand in her own, turning it over, studying it, how she ran her finger across the scar – from a scalpel, he said – and he never pulled away when her gaze ran across his palm. And he remembered asking anxiously, What do you see? Because in her eyes there was a shadow, and years later he understood that that shadow was his son: a beautiful line that suddenly dropped off a cliff.

What do you see? he asked again. And she had said, Happiness. I see years of happiness. And she knew that’s all anyone wanted to hear. And she had followed him out into the darkness and the air was damp and earthy, and the smell of salt was strong and wafted on the breeze. And she had led him through the damp ferns towards the roadside where they stopped by his car. Marvellous had looked up into the starry sky and pointed to a bright white star. That’s your star, Dr Arnold, she had said. Take your bearings from that star and it’ll always bring you home. And it always did.