Elijah’s Mermaid (48 page)

And I can tiptoe too. My ugly webbed feet tread so lightly that those eggshells will never begin to break, to reveal the secrets that I hide – and what possible good would it do to tell what I’d read about after the old man’s death, when Elijah went off to the undertaker’s to make some final arrangements, when he brought a newspaper back to the house, wanting to find the correct address to which to send a telegram, to place an announcement in
The Times
and report on the death of Augustus Lamb – even though Lily was reticent, asking, ‘Why should we make it public like that? Doesn’t everyone know who needs to know?’

‘It’s only right,’ Elijah responded. ‘Papa’s work was very popular. There may well be people from his past, professional acquaintances, or friends . . .’

‘By which you mean Frederick Hall!’ her voice cut in. She was bitter and raging, Why should we care if he knows or not? I wish he was dead instead of Papa!’

‘Frederick Hall is not the only one who may wish to know of Papa’s death . . .’ Elijah’s temper was barely restrained, ‘who might want to attend the funeral. But
if
he turns out to be one of them, it will be his chance to show respect, and why should we deny him that?’

I had never seen Lily behave like that, banging her fist on the table and shouting, ‘He is the very last man on earth I would want to come anywhere near this house, after everything he did to Papa . . . to our mother . . . and to us as well!’

‘He was good to us once. We loved him. Papa would want us to make amends and . . .’

‘Why?’ She looked aghast, staring hard at her brother then,
and speaking in such steely tones. ‘Because you always loved
him
best?’

‘Do you resent my feelings so?’ Elijah stiffened and looked away. Lines of remorse dug deep in his brow and his eyes were brimming, full of tears. But it was Lily who sobbed, rushing into her brother’s arms, her face buried in his breast while she begged for his forgiveness.

There were no more remonstrations. It was only by chance that, an hour or so later, when Elijah and Lily set off for a walk – to go to the village post office, from where they would send the telegram – I took up that copy of
The Times
. I was greedy to read of the outside world. Samuel Beresford sometimes wrote to us but he mentioned very little of note, and perhaps he had chosen to take the view that ignorance might well be bliss. But now, I know about Frederick Hall. I saw his name in those newspaper pages, the pages through which the others but glanced, their minds taken up with the funeral.

This evening, the weather has changed again. I don’t complain when Lily comes in from the post office and suggests that we make up some of the fires, fretting as she does over the baby’s health, concerned that he might chance to take a chill. And now, when I sit in the bedroom again, with Angel sleeping in his cot, well warmed by the flames in the little hearth, I feed the fire with the newspaper pages, crumpled twists that hiss and shrink, curled into ashy black ribbons of dust. But when I come to that one page, the one with the name of Frederick Hall, I cannot bring myself to destroy it. I fold it neatly, once, twice, three times, and place it in my pocket. I will keep it there, like the grit in a pearl. I will think on this matter a little more. And then, perhaps – after the funeral—

I have never been to a funeral. The church in Kingsland is small and plain. I like its homely friendliness. I like the smell, of lilies and wax, and the plain wooden pews and the stars that are
painted up on the ceiling as if God and his angels are floating there. Is there an angel called Stella?

Elijah looks only straight ahead. Lily keeps looking left, then right, then back through the small crowd of mourners, which is mainly comprised of Ellen Page surrounded by her relatives. Augustus forged no friendships here. But he had several correspondents, and a great many letters have arrived at the house since that day when the notice went up in
The Times
.

One morning when Elijah was out, when Lily answered a knock at the door, I listened from the floor above and heard her give a muffled response, a ‘thank you’, and then, ‘leave it there in the porch’.

Being curious, I went to look down from the landing and saw her holding a small white card. She was tearing it up into little scraps – and when Angel woke, mewling to be fed, when alerted to my presence there, Lily glanced up with a look on her face from which I could only then recoil, afraid of what was in her eyes, which were glittering, angry, bright with tears.

That memory – my trance-like state – is now broken by the vicar’s voice as he calls out the number of a hymn. Much rustling of paper pages around me, and then the creaking of the door that leads into the church from the outer porch, where a chill blast of wind comes rushing in, causing church candles to gutter and dip, to send plumes of smoke wafting over the coffin. I hear Ellen Page give a stifled groan, after which she cries out, ‘God save his poor soul and send all the demons down into Hell.’ And, as if that is not bad enough, when Lily looks over her shoulder again she suddenly thrusts out one of her arms, almost waking Angel held in mine, grabbing at her brother’s sleeve and whispering in urgent tones that surely everyone must hear, ‘Elijah – he’s here! It’s Frederick Hall. He’s standing at the back of the church . . . by the painting of the Scapegoat.’

I don’t believe her, not for a moment. But all through the hymn’s duration – the one about Lords and shepherds and sheep – Elijah keeps craning his neck around before giving a shrug and
a shake of his head, after which he answers my questioning gaze, murmuring softly in my ear, ‘Lily is imagining things.’

I think she is simply mistaken, for when we follow the coffin outside I notice two strange gentlemen who sit in a pew at the back of the church. They do not appear to belong in these parts. They have weary expressions and rumpled clothes as if they have travelled quite some way. Surely, it is they who Lily saw, whose entrance led to that blasting draught.

Out in the graveyard, beside the grave, even the weather sings its lament. The rain thrashes down on umbrellas and hats. Skirts and ribbons are snapping like whips. Hailstones batter loud on the coffin lid, where all of the flowers are flattened and bruised. It is a shame. But then I think those balls of ice look like little diamonds, a blessing, a gift for Augustus Lamb wherever he walks in other realms, and perhaps there are fairies who skip at his side, and mermaids who swim through the oceans of stars, just as they did in the tales he wrote.

A week has gone by since that dreary day when we said goodbye to Augustus Lamb, since when the skies have not lifted once, constantly grey and oppressive they are. The evenings seem to fall too fast, this month of August too dismal and dark. Does it also mourn its namesake’s loss?

The gloom reminds me of Dolphin House, so much so that, on occasions, when I hear the scratch of a mouse in the skirtings, or the pattering thrash of the rain on the vine, or its rustling leaves at the window frames, I find myself thinking of Osborne again; the scratch of his pencil on paper. I cannot concentrate to read and no one is here to divert my thoughts – with Elijah gone to Hereford to speak with his lawyers about the will, with Lily locked in her silent grief, still busy at work on her storybook. She says it is peculiar but she senses Augustus dictating the words, which often come faster than she can think.

She does not even notice when I get up to leave the room, carrying Angel in my arms. I go to the kitchen and find Ellen
Page. The old woman’s eyes are swollen and red and I fear that we have neglected her, so I sit for a while and chat, chat, chat, and drink some tea and eat the warm biscuits that Ellen has baked. But, oh, how she prattles on, and having heard most of her gossip before I find myself gazing out through the window, dismayed to see clouds growing darker still. I suppose my nerves must be on edge but when the kettle boils again I jump at its whistle, a piercing screech. A wonder the baby doesn’t wake. I desperately need to go outside, no matter how damp and unpleasant the day. I want to take some fresh air in my lungs, to stop this suffocation I feel.

I leave Ellen with Angel rocked in her arms and promise that I will not be long, only intending a stroll through the gardens. But such a compulsion comes over me as I walk across the squelching lawns, taking the overgrown shrubbery path that leads me back to the stream again, where the waters are high and rushing fast, and the branches around so heavy with moisture its soft susurration wets my hair, tickling down the back of my gown. More than once my feet slip on greasy mud and send little stones to skitter and fall, splashing down into the brook below – and that’s when I notice the wreath in the water, snagged on some twigs caught between the rocks. A funeral garland it seems to be. I think it must be made of wax. No roses could be so perfectly formed. But why is it floating in the stream? Could it have blown all this way from the grave?

Crossing the bridge is treacherous. I have to grab on to the rail for support, those splintery planks so slimed with moss. But my progress is swift on the other side, striding along through the meadow’s crushed grasses, the motley green scrub of the dandelions, in no time arrived at the churchyard gate. But the grating whine that I can hear does not come from its rusty hinges. That sound is made by the weathercock, high up on the church’s tower. It whirls, first one way then the other, caught in a sudden rising breeze – even though lower down the air is still and a mist clings to gravestones and shadowy yews that guard the narrow gravelled path, at the end of which my eye comes to
rest on the grave that has been most recently turned, where all of the flowers laid on top are wilted, their colours dissolved by rain. But then, the whole scene is in monochrome, like an old and faded photograph. And perhaps that is why I don’t see him at first, dressed as he is in black and grey, the man who is kneeling on the grass – not at the grave of Augustus Lamb but the one just beside it, the one so much older, the one that contains his wife and son.

The man is placing something down. It looks to be a single rose. And then, he stands, and he walks this way, and without even thinking I slip my fingers into my pocket to touch the worn edge of the newspaper cutting, and I think to myself –
So, Frederick Hall . . . are the twins now to know your destiny?

LILY

Was he afraid, or tranquil?

Might he know

How conscious consciousness could grow
,

Till love that was, and love too blest to be
,

Meet – and the junction be Eternity?

From ‘To Know Just How He Suffered’ by Emily Dickinson

The rain had stopped, but threatened more. The air was too warm and oppressive, the kind of sluggish, dreary day that makes you feel itchy and dirty and ill. I almost wished I had stayed in bed. I was tired. I was restless and irritable, my nights too disturbed since Papa’s death, and even when I did drift off, every whine or scream the baby made, that rose up through the floor from the bedroom below, filled me with the illogical fear that he might be the next to be taken.

Oh, how I fretted over that child, his every snuffle and sneeze and fart! How strange that his mother could be less affected, all languor, all fluidity, her surface unruffled and still as a pond. But still waters run deep – or so Ellen says, just as she used to say of Elijah. The stillest of waters, the darkest of secrets.

My brother was out of the house again, this time having travelled to Hereford, to visit Papa’s solicitor and attend the reading of the will. I felt no imperative to attend, having seen the copy in Papa’s study, knowing by then that the house would be shared, equally, between the two of us, along with the rest of Papa’s estate, which proved to be a considerable sum, much more than we could have ever imagined considering his quiet
and frugal existence, with no flashy show of material things – so unlike the gloss of Frederick Hall.

I was glad of my brother’s absence that day. By the evening, when Elijah returned, I was more settled in my mind, able to tell him of the news that I had learned that afternoon, the news which left me dazed and distraught, when barely five minutes before I had been filled with such levity, having completed my storybook, my one and only remaining task to return to the very first page again and make my dedication there –
In memory of Augustus Lamb. The dearest friend I ever had
.

I set down Papa’s silver pen and stretched out my arms and arched my back and looked at the ceiling for a very long time – resolving that when the morning came every one of those cobwebs should be brushed down. I stood up and walked to one of the windows, opening it, pushing back the vine, still obscuring our world with its dull green glow, but not what bloomed beside the frame, very late, but the very first rose of that summer, the greeny white bud almost luminous against the dark gloss of the ivy leaves. Quite perfect it was, as if made of wax, though no doubt when the rain started up again those petals would be ruined.

The wreath that arrived at the house one day had flowers that would never fade. But they were not placed on Papa’s grave. I took them down to the stream instead. I flung them into the water, mortified when they did not float away but lodged between rocks by the side of the grotto. What an irony that was, to see Frederick Hall’s flowers beside Frederick Hall’s shells, the gifts with which he bought our love. And what had he written upon the card – the one delivered with the wreath? Only the tritest of lines – ‘
With my deepest sympathies for your loss
.’

Our loss! How dare that selfish man presume to imagine the loss that we felt? How dare he send white roses like that when, as far as Papa had been concerned, white roses symbolised his wife. And thinking of that, and how Papa had loved and been deceived, I did not mind the prick of the thorns when I reached
through the window to pluck the rose, making my way to the kitchen, meaning to leave through the back garden door to take that flower to Papa’s grave – a gift unsullied by Frederick Hall.