The Diviners (44 page)

Maybe I should've brought Pique up entirely in cities, where she'd have known how bad things are all over, where she'd have learned young about survival, about the survival tactics in a world now largely dedicated to Death, Slavery and the Pursuit of Unhappiness. Instead, I've made an island. Are islands real? A-Okay and Maudie, and now Dan, are doing the same. But if they do raise horses, they'll have to sell them to the very people they despise. And, Morag Gunn, who rails against the continuing lies
of the media, does not, it will be noticed, establish her own hand-set press. Islands are unreal. No place is far enough away. Islands exist only in the head. And yet I stay. All this, the river and the willows and the gronk-gronk-gronk of the mini-dinosaur bullfrogs, it may be a fantasy. But I can bear to live here, until I die, and I couldn't elsewhere.

“Turn the motor off, quick,” Royland said suddenly.

At first, Morag thought he had caught his line in some weed. Then she saw the huge bird. It stood close to shore, its tall legs looking fragile although in fact they were very strong, its long neck and long sharp beak bent towards the water, searching for fish, its feathers a darkbright blue. A Great Blue Heron. Once populous in this part of the country. Now rarely seen.

Then it spotted the boat, and took to flight. A slow unhurried takeoff, the vast wings spreading, the slender elon-gated legs gracefully folding up under the creature's body. Like a pterodactyl, like an angel, like something out of the world's dawn. The soaring and measured certainty of its flight. Ancient-seeming, unaware of the planet's rocketing changes. The sweeping serene wings of the thing, unknowing that it was speeding not only towards individual death but probably towards the death of its kind. The mastery of the heron's wings could be heard, a rush of wind, the wind of its wings, before it mounted high and disappeared into the trees above a bywater of the river.

Royland reeled in his line, and by an unspoken agreement they took the boat home in silence, in awe.

That evening, Morag began to see that here and now was not, after all, an island. Her quest for islands had ended some time ago, and her need to make pilgrimages had led her back here.

 

Memorybank Movie: Sceptr'd Isle

Morag firmly crashes the door shut on the garden flat. Garden flat–a joke. When she and Pique first came to England, the advertisement in the
Hampstead & Highgate Express
, saying “Garden flat–Hedgerow Walk,” sounded reassuringly rustic. In fact it turned out to mean a basement flat, which Morag rented because it was not too costly and was self-contained. Hedgerow Walk does indeed contain hedges, although hardly the tangle of briar roses and blackberries which Morag's imagination suggested. These are closely clipped green-yellow privet hedges which define each narrow yard. The small front gardens have mostly been covered with crazy-pavement, which, as its name implies, is a demented combination of cement and vari-coloured tiles of an unsurpassed ugliness. But easy to look after. The Victorian redbrick houses are tall and semidetached. Also identical, except for the fact that householders have all painted their doors a different colour–lilac vies with lemon yellow and deep rose. The individual spirit proclaims itself in paint.

The Yale lock on the door of Morag's flat clicks protectively. No unlocked doors here. And yet, incredibly, London frightens Morag less than any other city she has ever known. She goes out by herself, to friends' houses, at night, and returns alone on the Underground, with less panic than she would have believed possible. Perhaps she still, even after three years, maintains in her mind the myth that the English are an orderly and law-abiding people.

Morag slithers out onto the rain-greased pavement and slops up the hill to Hampstead High Street. At least, praise God, no fog today. This has been the worst winter in living memory here, or so she has been informed by numerous people. She has come to believe that nearly every winter here
is the worst in living memory because the season invariably comes as a surprise, no one taking seriously the notion that winter ever comes to England at all, until each year it does so. Although Pique has walked to school alone for several years, this winter in the thick sulphurous fogs Morag accompanied her and went to pick her up in the late afternoons, terrified that the child would get lost if she were on her own. It was all Morag could do, then, to find her way, snailing along block by block, clinging close to the buildings, examining every street name set into the brick walls, to check her position, feeling as though there were no pavement ahead and one might possibly drop off the edge of the world.

It was during the worst of the fog that the greengrocer said to Morag–
Well, what do you think of this royal throne of kings, this sceptr'd isle,
NOW
?
Perhaps such a literate greengrocer was an exception, but she had replied
It's fine
, and meant it, because of him.

Pique loved the fog, despite the acrid taste that came through the woollen scarf–a primitive gasmask–around her mouth and nose. Pique always feeds on crises because they are exciting.

Morag plods along the High Street in the weak grey-light of the morning, head down against the drizzling rain. She has not put up her umbrella and never does so except in downpours, as she prefers to get her coat and headscarf damp rather than crash into other umbrella-bearers who walk blindly like a host of mobile mushrooms. She has come to feel in many ways at home here, although she will never feel she belongs. She has, as well, come to value the anonymity of these streets, the fact that people often don't know their neighbours or care about their goings-on of whatever variety. It is, of course, all very well for her, because she made a few friends fairly quickly
in the beginning owing to introductions on the part of her English publishers. A person coming to this city totally unknown to anyone could literally die of loneliness, and no doubt many do. Odd, now, though, to recall that she had come here in the first place partly because of a fantasy–Morag getting to know dozens of other writers, with whom she would have everything in common. In fact only a few of her friends are writers, and she has discovered that publishers' parties in London are no more appealing to her and no less parochial than they were in Canada. Useful to know that, probably. At least when she finally does return, she won't ever again feel that she must be missing out on a lot in these ways. Another thing which enabled her if not to overcome her dread of cities then at least to suppress it was the desire to see places she had read about all her life–the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square. For the first year, she and Pique were intrepid tourists, awed by monuments. Now they live here. How long will they remain? She often wonders this, sometimes feeling that she is held here largely by lethargy–the thought of moving again is too much for her at this point; Pique likes her school; they have established a place of their own, some kind of refuge.

Morag turns off the High Street, goes down a small winding street and arrives at the shop where she works mornings.

AGONISTES BOOKSHOP

J. Sampson, Prop.

 

This play on words is somewhat diminished in effect, for Morag, by the fact that Mr. Sampson spells his name with a “p.” He, however, is pleased with it. Morag once asked him if he
didn't think the reference was a little unfortunate or inappropriate. No, he said, because after all here he was in a constant state of dreadful labour and mental anguish over trying to keep the business going. Yes, but what about the fall of the temple? Oh that, Mr. Sampson said–well, wasn't he trying his best against the philistines?

“Morning, Mr. Sampson. Chilly day.”

“Morning, Morag. The chill shouldn't bother
you
.”

Their ritual exchange, nearly every day in winter. He affects to believe that Morag comes from a land of perpetual snow. Mr. Sampson is a slight, thin, rabbity little man in his mid-sixties, whose face is not strengthened by the small wavering moustache he wears. His appearance is not impressive until you notice that his greenish eyes are very clear, intelligent and watchful. He stocks a surprisingly large range of books, considering the smallness of the shop, but his true love is the English contemporary novel, about which he knows everything. This morning he is unpacking new arrivals, slowly, because he has to glance through each one and also examine the jacket design and blurb for saleability.

“Look at this,” he cries. “Whom do Lansbury's employ in their Art department, I ask myself. A blind man? Who is going to buy a book with a dust jacket that's all grey, totally, not a glimmer of light in it? Let's hope it gets a few good reviews, to offset this mess. It wouldn't matter so much if it were by a known writer, but it's a first novel. A shame.”

When Morag's collection of short stories,
Presences
, came out last year, Mr. Sampson insisted on filling the window with copies, and only Morag's embarrassment prevented him from forcibly thrusting the book onto everyone who entered the shop. When she decided she hated the title, which sounded like one of those small literary magazines which are forever
dying quick deaths, he told her sharply that it was unprofessional to think of such things after the book was out.

“Want me to clear some of the last lot from the front counter?” Morag asks, with a pang for the books published a month ago, now to be relegated to shelves.

“I suppose so,” Mr. Sampson says regretfully, knowing her feelings. “We need more room, but where could it come from? If I could throw out all those cookery and flower-arranging books and nonsense like that–but I'd starve. So go ahead–clear, clear. We must be ruthless to survive.”

Morag grins. He is far from ruthless, as is well-known to impecunious young people who drop in and read books here chapter by chapter.

The phone rings and Mr. Sampson disappears into his tiny crowded office at the back. He emerges in a moment and beckons to Morag.

“It's for you.”

“For me?” She is surprised, because people never phone her at the shop.

“It's the school,” Mr. Sampson says nervously.

Morag flies to the phone. What has happened to Pique? She sees on her mindscreen a road accident. The terrible vulnerability of children.

“Mrs. Gunn? Miss White here. Pique–”

“Is she all right? What's happened?”

“Don't be upset, Mrs. Gunn. She'll be all right. She just isn't feeling too well, that's all, and I think you should come and collect her.”

“I'll be there in a few minutes.”

Morag faces Mr. Sampson apologetically.

“I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to leave for the day. Maybe longer. It's Pique–she's ill.”

“Go ahead, go ahead,” he says cluckingly, helping her on with her coat. “The lesser matters must give way to the greater.”

Morag walks rapidly along the hilly streets to the school. Pique is waiting in Matron's office, her coat on, her face flushed. She did not feel entirely well this morning before going to school, but Morag, after dithering, had decided she was well enough to go. Morag does not like to stay away from work unless absolutely necessary–how far can Mr. Sampson's good nature be presumed upon, and where would she find another job as convenient as this one? Also, she has wanted to work this afternoon on the novel which is taking shape in her head. Now look what she has done.

“Oh honey, I'm so sorry.”

Pique looks dejected.

“I threw up,” she says in a small shamed voice. “All over the floor beside my desk. Oh Mum, I feel
awful
. I feel sick, and I feel awful about doing that. I couldn't help it.”

“That doesn't matter, honey. Honestly. Come on.”

Morag thanks Miss White, who twitters in the background, and they leave. The walk home seems interminable and freezing. The rain continues its slow steady
drip-drip-drip
.

Morag puts Pique to bed and takes her temperature. A hundred and four. Morag by now is frantic with worry, and Pique's skin feels as though it were burning. Morag administers aspirin and phones the doctor. After what seems about seven hours, but is in fact two, he arrives and says that Pique has flu and there is a lot of it about.

“There's always a lot of it about, it seems to me,” Morag says idiotically, angrily, as though this were in some way the doctor's fault.

“Well, try not to be upset, Mrs. Gunn,” he says sternly. “That won't help the child, will it?”

Oh God. True. True. She wants to ask the doctor, young and brisk, to forgive her, to stay for a while, have a cup of tea, reassure her, tell her Pique isn't very ill and will be fine, and that it isn't Morag's fault for having sent her out unwell into the raw morning. There is, however, no external reassurance available, as she learns each time as though for the first time, whenever Pique is sick. The doctor writes a prescription and leaves, nodding brusquely at Morag's profuse and in some ways hypocritical thanks.

“What've I got, Mum?” Pique calls from the bedroom.

“Flu. You'll be fine in a few days.”

“I'll miss the Valentine's party,” Pique wails.

Now Morag, perversely, feels annoyed at the child. Fancy worrying about a Valentine's party when your health is in jeopardy. How unreasonable. And what is so reasonable about Morag expecting an eight-year-old to be reasonable?

I fluctuate like a pendulum. The terrible vulnerability of parents, though, your life bound up so centrally with this other one.

“Listen, honey, it'll be all right. We'll have our own Valentine party. And I'll get Miss White to send your valentines home, and I'll send yours for the kids. You just lie quietly for a minute, Pique–I've got to whip out and get the medicine for you. Shall I get you some ginger ale?”

“I don't care,” Pique says wearily.