Star Shot (27 page)

And while they are absorbed in the figures on the stage, Lina and Myra find that two dark, wet and muddied bodies have crept into their row, and huddle shivering at their feet. They wrap them in eiderdowns and blankets, and hold their frozen hands to warm them. Myra wraps her silvery scarf around Theo's neck and runs her hands through his spiky wet hair. Below them, under the silk ropes and the pool of light, deep under the boards of the stage, the released water rises gradually in the empty space of the old moat.

On the third day the scaffolding comes down, and the boards come up, but the white canvas dome remains, hiding the night's work for as long as possible from the man in the uniform at the door.

The professor wakes surprisingly late, and thinks with relief of the small private plane flying up the coast towards Scotland. And sees, over and over, the beautiful figure on the stage, bowing discreetly at the end of the performance and raising her face to everyone sat out there in the dark. It is an illusion, he remembers, to think that people on the stage are looking directly at you. The lorries are probably heading north by now, or wherever the next performance may be. He wonders if she has gone with them.

He heads into town down the river and thinks that whatever happens next he will not be here to see it. He plans to walk the length of the country, to the mountains in the north, and if she will see him, so be it. And if not, he can climb the mountains, and start to get himself well. He remembers that Luke's friend is looking for a flat, and is relieved to think he can be of some use there, at least.

There is a change inside the castle walls. The space is still as scraped bare as it ever was: still square, and still curiously emptied of its violent history, Romans, Normans, the army that destroyed the Chartists. But there is a loosening of the air.

He guesses that everyone is hidden inside the white tent. He pushes the canvas flap and finds a whole world inside: a deep circle of water, and the new island where a dozen people are busily planting trees.

81.

Theo parks the van at the far end of the museum car park. When he steps down onto the tarmac it is covered in yellow gingko leaves. He picks one up, a perfect specimen, and twirls the stem between his large thumb and middle finger. The air is November sharp.

She is sitting on the bench, waiting. He can see her red hair, grown enough already to curl down the nape of her neck, as he comes from the direction of the building. He sits beside her and puts the leaf in her hand.

I remember these, she says.

They are old, old, he says. Prehistoric.

He pulls a crumpled unopened letter out of his bag.

I have some results, he says. The star-shot.

She waves an official envelope, also unopened.

Me too, she says. Hospital.

Ah, he says. Do you want to open yours first, or shall I?

Neither, she says. I want to go in there.

Sure you're ready?

I'm sure.

Good plan, he says. We'll see the turtle. And the Blaschkas. And we can have coffee there as well.

She jumps up from the bench and holds out her hands to pull him up. The silver bracelet glints on her wrist. He almost kisses her, but is distracted by a kestrel hovering above the castle.

Look at that, he says. There must be something worth having in there. Already. Mouse, perhaps.

She thinks of the mouse going about its business in the newly fallen leaves and wishes it luck. She wonders what else might end up living behind the square walls, given the chance, and whether the habitat would ever be suitable for aardvarks. She thinks of the slim, nearly dormant young trees, the rowans and the thorns and the hazels and the little oaks; and she thinks of the sleeping water, filled with tiny eggs and organisms, and imagines how busy the place will be come the spring.

Do you think it will last till spring? she asks. Do you think they'll let it stay?

He shrugs. If Luke can persuade them it was their idea all along, he says. Stranger things have happened. The silence didn't do them any good, after all, it just drew attention to all the other stuff they're up to; and they'll doubtless be glad to tell the world how green they are, how caring. That's a lot of hail-marys in there.

I can't wait to hear the frogs, she says. When they get their voices back. Imagine the racket.

He takes her by the hand and they walk past the little bronze girl, and cross the road, and climb the granite steps together: seven, then nine. And at the very top, just before the big door, where it clings like cold gossamer on their faces, they push together through the vestigial threads of the silence.

Rhag yr oerfel

Glossary of Welsh phrases

Aur a thus a myrr
– Gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Pobl sy'n Eistedd ar Feinciau
– People who Sit on Benches.

Be ti'n feddwl, Leusa?
– What do you think, Leusa?

Dim rili yn… t'wbod. Dim rili yn gweithio… Dim imi, ta beth. Sori
. – Doesn't really… you know. Doesn't really work… Not for me anyway. Sorry.

Bainc/mainc
– both forms for ‘bench'.

Un dau, un dau, un dau
– one two, one two, one two.

Dere, dere nawr
– come, come now.

annifyr
– adjective covering a range: ‘disagreeable/uneasy/unpleasant'.

Dim yn dy geg!
– Not in your mouth!

ddim yn ffôl o gwbl t'wbod.
Beth am Calon Lân?
– Not a bad idea at all, you know. What about [the popular hymn]
Calon Lân?

Ond mae pawb yn hoffi Calon Lân!
– But everyone likes
Calon Lân!

Ti ddim yn oer lan fan ‘na ngwas i?
– Aren't you cold up there, my boy?

Pob lwc
– Good luck.

Bachgen mawr!
– Big boy!

Wrth ymyl y degell
– Next to the kettle.

Broga
– frog.

Angen siarad
– Need to talk.

Cneifio
– shearing (sheep).

Yma
– here.

Ti'n iawn?
– Are you all right?

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been written without the support of a grant from Llenyddiaeth Cymru / Literature Wales: I am extremely grateful to them for helping me carve out the time to write it. Thanks too, are due to various people for help and inspiration along the way: to David Anderson and the staff at the National Museum of Wales, Cardiff; to Aled Gruffydd Jones and the staff at the National Library of Wales; to my editor Penny Thomas and all at Seren; to Paul Frame for conversations about Radiolaria, and to Gareth Griffith for (still inconclusive) conversations about star-jelly; to Si Constantine for introducing me to Rainer; to my parents, for Norrard, where parts of this were written; and to Liz Edwards, Margaret Ames and (as ever) David Parsons for moral support. Especial thanks are due to Clive Hicks-Jenkins for finding the time to produce the beautiful cover and illustrations; and to Peter Wakelin, for reading and commenting on the whole thing with amazing grace under difficult circumstances.

Direct citations in the text come from: Charles Fort,
The Book of the Damned
(1904); John Morton,
The Natural History of Northamptonshire
(1712); Thomas Pennant,
British Zoology
(1766); Edward Thomas, ‘Out in the Dark'. Lines are quoted from Rainer Ptacek, ‘Here I Am' (The Farm, 2002); lines from Bob Dylan's ‘Seven Days' are quoted by kind permission of BD Music Company /Ram's Horn Music. All efforts have been made to trace copyright holders.

Seren is the book imprint of Poetry Wales Press Ltd.

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The right of Mary-Ann Constantine to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

© Mary-Ann Constantine 2015

ISBN: 978-1-78172-264-0

ebook: 978-1-78172-271-8

Kindle: 978-1-78172-278-7

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