Stone cottages, small and haphazard, line the narrow path; mortar crumbling, paint peeling, their roofs sagging defeatedly. The mist has cleared but the sun is low, and neither warmth nor light penetrate these long winter shadows. Ahead of me, Louisa navigates the uneven footing, her head bowed in concentration, woollen hat pulled down firmly over her ears, hands thrust deep in her pockets. Gone is that lithesome walk, her ponytail swinging like a jaunty, silken metronome. Gone is her vivacity, her vigour and her smile. It's as if she seeks to make herself invisible; exuding no joy, emitting no radiance, barely a glimpse of her usual bounce.
This is your fault, Ellingham, you must take the blame that she is even here at all. You should have protected her from her father yet, effectively, it was you who delivered her back into his sphere.
We arrive at an open gate, a rotten relic of the some Victorian blacksmith's art which clearly no longer serves any useful purpose. Above us, herring gulls perch atop the chimney pots like scornful sentries, shrieking derisively, their excrement fouling every surface. With neither word nor gesture, Louisa turns left as the incline becomes steeper and I follow her up the rough shingle path, the surface slippery beneath my feet. As she fumbles in her handbag for the keys, I observe our grim surroundings, and, just as I knew it would, everything about this place makes my heart sink. The odour of drains, the neglect evident in the accumulating moss, the salt-encrusted windows and the weed strewn pathway; my god, wasn't there just a dismal inevitability that Louisa should end up in such a cheerless place?
"In here." She says quietly, glancing at me almost as if she knows what I am thinking.
"Yes." I mutter, clearing my throat and following her inside.
The interior is as cold and dark as I expected, our breath condenses, pale grey and heavy as it hangs in the air, and neither of us can find anything to say. We have driven to the village from the farm in virtual silence, with a few crisply-delivered directions the only communication we have shared. And I know the blame lies entirely with me; I'm aware of how conversation eludes me at the best of times but it's never bothered me to the degree that it does now. Emotions usually so easily dismissed have now become my master, remorse and desire ripping the very larynx from my throat. Every minute in her company feeds this suffocating sense of loss. Being with her again is akin to an incendiary device lobbed into a fireworks factory, the words to describe how I feel about her simply do not exist. Because, even with her fury, in her distress and disappointment, she is mesmerising to me; so beautiful, and so resolute, with a backbone made of steel.
Then show her how contrite you are, you idiot, while you have the chance. Do something, say something, anything; it's your fault those tears well constantly in her eyes.
My chest tightens and my mouth is dry. I recall my father, gripping my shoulder, his fingers like pincers, his tone as cold as ice. Apologise to your mother, he growls, shaking me in an attempt to make me lift my head. Whatever the alleged offence, I can't recall exactly, and it scarcely matters now; my transgressions were many, my punishment unfathomable, the rules fluid and always liable to change. I was merely a small, bewildered boy, stammering that I was sorry, hoping desperately those were the words required from me. Yet my sentiments were barely uttered before her palm slapped viciously against my cheek; to this very day I remain bemused as to the provocation. Had I been chattering too much at luncheon, vexing the family by asking too many questions? Had I been giggling with Auntie Joan, something that always infuriated my mother, or laughing loudly as I'd come running down the stairs? Resentment had reared it's head then and, however wicked the infraction, I'd made a solemn, silent vow. And I had kept it, resolutely, never asking forgiveness of anyone, ever again.
But you're not six years old any more, Ellingham, and this is not about how much you loathed your mother, you need to admit to Louisa you know that you were wrong. Look at her attempting to hold her head up high, say something to her, now, before it's too late.
I swallow hard, because trying not to stare at her is proving actually impossible. I am, as usual, mesmerised, and we are barely a foot apart in this cramped, low-ceilinged room. As my eyes adjust slowly to the gloom, I attempt to focus on the contents: a small scrubbed pine table and two mismatched chairs, a faded rug over an uneven floor; behind her, utilitarian crockery stacked neatly upon a shelf. Though it is as spartan as I'd feared, the room is acceptably clean. Aggravatingly, the ceiling is yellow, and the residual odour of cigarette smoke is obvious: of course it is, it's an omnipresent stench in this godforsaken place, but there's another element too, vaguely familiar yet long forgotten.
Inhaling deeply, I am back in Uncle Phil's workshop, watching him apply oil liberally to a rag. Shovel handles, axe handles, anything within reach and fashioned out of timber is receiving a generous application, a job of maintenance that, clearly, has not been carried out for years. And though there is some satisfaction in watching the pale dry wood absorb the linseed oil, seeing the colour change and the surface become smoother, the truth is I am waiting for the inevitable minute he is distracted. My plan is to borrow the rag, having been cautioned of it's combustible properties when exposed to oxygen, not that I was never purposefully disobedient, more curious, with one or two experiments I was keen to undertake.
"What's that?" I ask her, wrinkling my nose. "Why does it smell like linseed oil in here?"
She turns her back on me and reaches up to open a cupboard, exposing a few inches of midriff, a crescent of perfect unblemished cream, the taut skin of the small of her back.
"A window got broken…" She says, and her tone is offhand, as if it's none of my business.
Honestly, man, what do you expect? She's hardly going to share the minutiae of her life with you now, is she? Your time in the role of Louisa's confidante and sounding board is behind you. And you have no one to blame but yourself.
"Right…umm…well at least you had it attended to." I reply, hoping she doesn't notice how heavy and low despondency has made my voice. "I don't imagine glaziers are easy to find in this part of Cornwall…"
"Actually, Joan sorted it for me." Louisa explains and, just for a moment, she almost sounds conciliatory. "She was going to ask Bert Large to fix it…to be honest I can't believe he's already got around to it…"
"Bert Large?" I enquire, attempting a degree of impartial politeness, one I don't really feel at all. Any mention of any man's name around her and I still feel myself prickle; shoulders back, my chest expanded, fighting hard not to fold my arms, my face twisting into a sneer.
"You wouldn't know him…" She says, grunting slightly as she struggles, apparently in the act of retrieving several tins of Beans. "I've been minding his little boy. I 'spose this is his idea of squaring the ledger…"
I glance at the fragments of broken glass still glistening on the half rotten window sill, flakes of paint and chunks of discarded putty littering the floor. "Perhaps you should demand payment upfront for your services in future, Louisa, especially if this….dog's breakfast… is an example of his workmanship. I suggest you don't come over here until I've cleaned it up. "
"Yeah, well you see, it doesn't really work like that around here, Martin." She says, and just for a moment we are back to what we were. Her voice has the softness of old, the kindness of a lover, the gently amused patience with me she often found in the afterglow of desire.
I can feel the warm weight of her cheek on my shoulder, her warm breath on my skin like a caress; Louisa explaining her view of the world while I listen in contented silence, under some sort of spell as her fingers trail lightly across my chest. People are intrinsically decent, Martin, most people just do their best, good people sometimes make terrible decisions, it's crucial that children know they are loved. My god, it wasn't just that she was so earnest in those moments, that she had such strong convictions, that she had such touching faith in her fellow man. It was so much more, too, than just an afterglow, deeper than that sense of peace we shared as lovers, greater even than that feeling of lying in one another's arms, satiated and utterly spent. What I felt most intensely then, I realise, is what I crave so desperately now; the depth of her kindness, her acceptance, and her wholehearted capacity to love. My throat tightens and I'm skewered by a paroxysm of grief, so desperate am I to be back in that place with her again.
Remember how it was to have her to yourself entirely, Ellingham? How it felt to be enveloped by her, to hear her gasp as she writhed against you, how she wrapped herself around you, shuddering as she called you by your name. You were driven half mad by your need to be inside her, yet loving her was effortless, you were weightless, unfettered and free.
"Louisa…"
"Not that anyone in the village is gonna want me within a mile of their kids…" she interrupts, turning so I have a glimpse of her profile as she gives an unhappy, incredulous shake of her head.
Surely she must be mistaken, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life! My mouth opens in protest, my fists clench, the unfairness of it all suddenly outrageous. With her father's history, how could anyone possibly blame Louisa for what has happened, how could anyone tar her with the same iniquitous brush? Honestly, it's like the Dark Ages in this foetid little backwater; ignorant villagers one and all, roaming the streets waving pitchforks and carrying flaming torches, clamouring for an innocent to burn at the stake.
I scrutinise her face while she's not looking, noting the faint shadows under her eyes, her low spirits now obvious in the sad, soft curve of her mouth. That powerful feeling almost overwhelms me again: I want to touch her, to comfort her but I can only stand frozen to the spot. This compulsion is strange and rather overwhelming, this urge to protect her, to carry her away from all of this, back to the safety and anonymity of our London flat. How did I lose control of the situation to the point her life has come to this? And my own future now appearing more like a test of endurance than ever again sharing anything meaningful ever again. My god, what I wouldn't do, to be waking up with her now, on a drizzly London Saturday, the day stretching out ahead, a weekend entirely to ourselves?
What wouldn't you do, Ellingham? Well, where does one start? Apologise, clearly. Make some effort at explaining why you behaved like such a jealous oaf, or why you abandoned her for weeks without providing any sort of justification. You are hopeless, such a lame duck, incapable of doing or saying anything to try and make amends.
"Do you have a brush and dustpan?" I ask, resigned to the fact she can barely stand to look at me, that a brief, disparaging glance is probably all I deserve.
It's too cold in the cottage to even contemplate removing my coat, so I continue as best I can though my movement is somewhat restricted. Determined to assist her, I tug several times at a stained and frayed old cord, sighing in sufferance of the insipid, yellow light it casts upon the kitchen. Despite my concern at the substandard wiring, I must ensure that every tiny sliver of glass is collected and disposed of safely. If nothing else, I think resolutely, I can prevent lacerations and the resultant risk of infection, even if I can do nothing about the coarse and rudimentary attempt at applying putty to the window by the obviously inept, village handyman.
Louisa, it has come to my attention that some of the accusations I made recently were erroneous, to say the least…
My next assigned task seems be packing a cardboard box, filling it with what passed in this house for nutrition: assorted tins of Spam, mushy peas and something labelled spaghetti and sausages, too utterly disgusting to even contemplate. As hard as I try not to get in her way, there's simply not much space to move. It proves impossible not to make accidental contact and I bump against her at least twice as we shuffle between the worktop, the table and the walls. The first time I take a tin from her directly, I touch her and she startles, glowering at me and withdrawing her hand as if she had been burned. Though she was as much to blame as I was, and our fingers brushed together only lightly, we both resort now to working in silence. It seems the safest way.
Louisa, perhaps when I alleged you had behaved improperly, I may not have had a complete understanding of the situation…
I shadow her as she moves from room to room, collecting what remains of her father's meagre possessions. I collect and stack a pile of newspapers and tie them with some string, unplug a radio and wind up the cord, busying myself while Louisa empties an ugly oak bureau of detritus; coins and broken biros, and what appear to be betting slips. The sofa is cleared of it's faded linen and I can tell by the way she hurries self-consciously through the task that it was she and not her father who was sleeping here. What sort of man claims the bed for himself while expecting his daughter to spend the night on a decrepit couch, lumpy and bulging with dusty, centuries-old horse hair? Of course, it's far too much to expect that he would ever behave with any degree of chivalry, that he could display a modicum of care or decency toward his only child. I sigh with disapproval and, once again, Louisa knows what I am thinking. She enlists my help to fold a threadbare blanket, but she still won't look at me.
Louisa, I'm aware that I made some unfounded and unpleasant accusations regarding your conduct. This was unfair of me and I regret any distress my actions may have caused you.
I remove my coat and scarf, hanging them on the back of the door. Then, with the sense of deja vu she predicted so accurately, practicality dictates that I take over the search for what remains of Terry Glasson's worldly goods. I peer into the top of tall cupboards for her, force my arms deep within the cushions of a faded chintzy armchair because she insists there might be something concealed within the springs, I even manhandle the furniture so that she can better manoeuvre the asthmatic old hoover across the worn stone floor. More peaceably now, we work without speaking, side by side, her glance sufficient in explaining whatever it is she needs. And, as my stomach churns and my mind spins, desperate to find the words to explain the remorse that I feel, she could ask anything of me and I would comply without complaint, eager to undertake the most menial tasks simply because it is an excuse to be near her.
The bottom floor now apparently completed, she glances resignedly upwards, grimacing at the treacherous, near-vertical stairs. She goes first and I allow just enough distance that I don't have to endure what I know will be simply torturous to me: the curve of her hips hypnotic, swinging rhythmically from side to side, inches from my face as I mount each step. Entering her room earlier has left me uneasy, discomfited and awkward; my mind distracted from the very first minute she charged into the kitchen, as spirited and defiant as a modern day Boudicca. I take a fleeting moment to close my eyes and force myself to breathe. Strange to discover so late in life that I am actually human, that the sight of the woman I love, her night attire clinging to her and leaving nothing to the imagination, affects me in the way biochemistry intended. Odd how the concept of brahmacharya feels as foreign to me now as Afrikaans or Ancient Greek.
"Mind your head." She warns. "It's a tight squeeze up here."
Immediately, we are in a tiny bedroom, with a sloping ceiling, wide floor boards and exposed stone walls. Louisa is correct, I cannot stand upright with any degree of comfort and I hover by the fireplace, against the highest wall, clearing what I can into another battered box. A mug of cold grey tea sits atop a mantle littered with discarded train tickets, spent matches and empty packets of cigarettes. Is this man incapable of cleaning up after himself? He can only have been here a month at most and yet, already, the place looks like a doss house. But, just as I'm about to swipe the lot away, Louisa puts her hand on my arm and I stand there, helpless, as petrified as Atlas, her touch turning me instantly to stone.
Louisa, I realise the aspersions I cast upon you were both misguided and unjustified. If there were any way I could undo my actions and make amends for the unhappiness I've caused you, I would do so, in a heartbeat.
"Just check inside before you bin them please Martin. Fag packets were like a second wallet to my dad…"
"Ummm…nnyes." I reply, struggling to clear my throat, feeling her eyes upon me as I examine the box for any sort of currency.
"Nothing in these…" I add, feeling myself flush at the intensity of her gaze, almost grateful to be able to bend and retrieve yet more discarded ephemera from the floor. I notice that the square-headed nails are working loose, and are standing slightly proud, and that the gaps between the wide oak boards are filled with decades of accumulated muck. i think I can say confidently, that none of them have been lifted, no hiding place exists below their worn and pock-marked surface. Even the fireplace has been sealed, but I can still feel a draught against my face, the rushing air icy and peculiarly stale.
"Did your dad ever blow smoke rings to entertain you?" She says suddenly, and I glance up at her sharply.
"No, did yours?"
She nods and a faint, rueful smile flickers across her face. "When you'd finished mucking about with box and the cellophane, you could keep busy for hours making little men out of that gold lining paper, or trying to build things out of burned matches…"
"How absolutely charming…." I reply, so aghast at her revelation that she seems to find me almost amusing.
Good god, and I thought my own parents were less than dependable. No wonder the grip of nicotine on this nation is proving almost impossible to break. I can only shake my head as she tugs at the thin layers of bed linen, glancing at me sideways as she does so, the hint of a gleam now evident in her eyes.
"I had to do something for all those hours stuck outside the bookies, Martin. If I was lucky, I'd get a bag of sweets to keep me entertained but you can only drag those out for so long, even if you only suck them." She says, and she grimaces at me "You know I was so bored once, I actually tried to give smoking a go but I just ended up coughing so hard, they made Dad come outside and take me home…cured me of ever wanting to do it again though, so I suppose no harm done…"
My mouth falls open in horror. Were there no limits to the casual neglect her parents inflicted on her, I think to myself? And I'm actually speechless, appalled that anyone would think that sort of behaviour was acceptable, recalling so clearly her pale, unwashed face, and those enormous green eyes, so innocent and so trusting. Thinking about her, abandoned outside a betting shop of all places, left to play unsupervised with only known carcinogens for entertainment, utterly outrages me. Good god, how on earth did she even make it to adolescence? Any number of dreadful things might have befallen her, it's only by sheer good luck, and her strength of character, that she managed to survive her childhood relatively unscathed.
Louisa, you deserved so much better than that. And I'm aware you deserve better than me. I wish with all my heart I'd never said any of those dreadful things to you. It was cruel and uncalled for and I apologise unreservedly.
"Martin, you wouldn't be able to help me with something would you?" She asks after a moment, looking up at me from under her eyelashes, biting her lip hesitantly.
"Nnyes…" I reply cautiously, glancing upwards as she indicates an ill-fitting, almost rhomboid manhole fitted jaggedly into the ceiling at the top of the stairs.
"It's just that, well, I've been wondering…perhaps there was a chance he's…you know…stashed the lifeboat money somewhere and if I could find it, I could just give it back…"
"Mm."
"I'm probably just being ridiculous but, you know, if I don't check, I'm always going to wonder, aren't I?" She continues uncertainly, and I find myself nodding. For a moment, relief is evident on her face, a bashful, self-deprecating smile that makes my stomach tumble. God, I am utterly hypnotised by her, and there seems nothing I can do to change the way I feel.
"I see. And you think he might have hidden it up there?" I ask, peering upward at what is a rather narrow opening, one that appears accessible only with the greatest difficulty.
"I don't know Martin, do I? But, you know, I just thought it was worth a look!" She replies, with a surge of spirit, her hands going to her hips, her eyes sparkling with that familiar flash of emerald.
Sighing as I look around, it appears that there is no safe entry to the manhole other than to balance some sort of ladder precariously on the stairs. As much as I want to help her, it doesn't make sense to me; her father a middle-aged man, a drinker probably, and definitely a heavy smoker, not only choosing the attic, of all places that might be available to him, but actually being physically capable of accessing such a location unassisted. The man would be risking muscle tears, dislocations, even possibly hip fractures whenever he went up there, taking his miserable life in his hands every time he attempted to gain entry to what must be a shallow roof cavity. Even for Terry Glasson, a person notable for making appalling choices and indulging in risk-taking behaviour, it would seem a poorly thought-through decision.
"Have you seen him climb up?" I ask her, dubiously.
"Martin, honestly…I don't know….but a…sneaky…you know…a dishonest sort of person, they're hardly going to put things anywhere obvious, are they?"
I incline my head in agreement. "And he was in prison, where I believe it is possible to become expert at secreting contraband and avoiding detection. My Aunt Ruth told me about this fellow who…"
"Yes, thank you for, Martin, for reminding me…" She replies, a hint of crossness returning to her tone. I watch as she inhales, tipping her head back as if she's composing herself. "It's just that I did think you wanted to help, but I might be wrong about that…"
"No! No…I'll get up there" I interrupt hastily. God help me, I might break my neck doing so but I owe Louisa the effort, in my mind I've promised it to her, to try in some tiny way to make up for the misery I've caused her, on top of everything else.
Louisa, I can't explain why I behaved like I did, any attempt would appear simply as if I were making excuses. What I did was wrong, what I said was wrong, and I have no one to blame but myself…
Exhaling heavily, my breath hangs above me like a judgmental spectre. Removing my suit coat is a shock to the system and I shiver, glancing at her as, without a word, she takes it from me, draping it over her arm and smoothing out the creases, pressing it to her chest as I remove my cufflinks and carefully roll up my sleeves. This shirt is new, and I'm particularly pleased with it; an Italian silk and linen blend fabric and the slightly more fitted cut. But if I have to shred it to ribbons to make Louisa happy, so be it, this is no one's fault but mine. From the corner of my eye, I glance a her, as she lowers herself on to the bed, not taking her eyes off me, staring wide-eyed and silent as I moisten my lips, and contemplate the ceiling above me.
"You could use the Hoover pipe to push the trapdoor up…" She suggests helpfully but I shake my head.
"If I can…" I reply calmly, trying not to grunt with the effort, and hoping fervently I don't pull the brittle cladding down on both of us. "Just…reach the…door…with my…fingertips….and slide it…out of the way…"
"Well done." She says, and I wonder if it is simply wishful thinking that has me detect a hint of admiration in her voice, the initial part of my plan having, at least, met with some success.
And I can't help myself, I have to check. Glancing down at her, I discover her expression is so hopeful, her optimism so endearing that, once more, my stomach lurches as our glances once again converge. How ironic, how completely typical, everything I've achieved in my career, and it might just be performing gymnastics that prompts admiration from her. Not my surgical expertise, of course, nor my diagnostic skill, nor even my persistence at mending unsalvageable clocks; it will be a display of athleticism worthy of a lemur, the blind obedience of a leaping lemming that captivates Louisa's attention so completely. Raising an eyebrow at her, I take a deep breath and launch myself upward, hoping fervently that there are no exposed nails on which I might impale my fingers, desperate that my hands, at least, remain unscathed.
And there I hang, uncomfortable for a moment, until I am able to better sure up my grip. It is the misery of school and the humiliation of phys-ed all over again, forced to do endless chin-ups by an angry, vindictive, little Sports master, until my arms burned, my neck bulged, and my abdominal muscles felt as if they would be severed by the strain. But now I offer him a small, silent word of thanks as I discover I am able to pull myself up with ease, and relative dignity, despite having to wriggle my shoulders through the rather narrow gap. Adjusting my hold, I hang on, using my other arm to search around me, reaching out as far as I dare to stretch. The air is damp and stale, and what feels like decades of grime and mould adheres unpleasantly and rather rapidly to my skin, transferring from everything I touch. Visibility is limited, and my mouth and nose feel coated in a layer of disturbed dust but, however unpleasant this mission is, I remind myself that I must endure it without complaint. Only when it is obvious that nothing of value is hidden here, I lower myself down through the manhole and drop, with surprising agility, back to the floor.
Louisa, I didn't want to believe the worst of you, I tried, in my head, to explain it all away. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt but I didn't, and I will live with that regret for the rest of my life.
As I land, the expression on her face is so expectant, that it sickens me to disappoint her. Her eyes are so clear and bright, the light in them so beseeching.
"I'm sorry." I tell her as she looks up at me, biting her lip as she contemplates my reply so seriously, and rather sadly. "But I really don't think anyones been up there for twenty years. Certainly not recently, if the amount of dirt and filth is any indication."
Brushing my hands together, examining them distastefully, I wait for her expression to change, for disappointment to crease her brow and cast shadows across her beautiful face. But, instead, she lifts her chin, her eyes shining, confusing me utterly as a slow, insolent smile transforms her expression to one of barely concealed delight.
"Oh dear!" She says, standing up abruptly and taking a step toward me, grimacing momentarily before letting out a gentle yelp of laughter. Oddly, I feel no slight at being the source of such amusement, no affront, and certainly no offence. All I am aware of is the delicacy and lightness of her touch, the heat in her fingertips like a spark as they glide so gently and effortlessly up and down my cheek. I stare back at her, helpless as she smiles again, as if she attempts to conceal her enjoyment for my feeling's sake yet, in an endearingly childlike way, she cannot control her mirth.
"Spider webs…and a lot of old dust, I think…" She says apologetically, brushing my ear with feather-like delicacy, stroking my hair with the back of her fingers. "I'm sorry, Martin…perhaps we should get you cleaned up before we do anything else…"
But I do not, I cannot, move a muscle. She is suddenly so close, mesmerising as she attempts to remove the dirt that has accumulated on my brow. Mere inches separate us as she stands on her tiptoes, drawing her thumb across my eyebrow, biting her lip in concentration as my own hands tremble at my sides. Her palm rests on my chest as I am drawn toward her, bending willingly to receive her attention, and I feel the most subtle pressure as she reaches up to minister to my face. Her touch is as reassuring as a suit of armour, it feels like a weight I want always to be in place. My god Louisa, you are so alive, so natural, so spontaneous. You seem to find joy and happiness in the most unlikely of places; you love and you laugh, despite a life where the people you care about are consistent only in letting you down. It ripples through me then, a visceral sort of longing; more than desire, more than need, so much greater than anything I've ever felt yet still utterly explicable. I'm aware I must come across to her as so utterly devoid of feeling, but how can I make her understand; I'm only devoid of words?
Louisa, if I could hold you now, for the rest of my life nothing would ever provide me with greater relief. I was wrong about everything, no other achievement would be more momentous than imagining I was worthy of you.
"Louisa…" I say, breathless and almost trembling as she holds out her hand, demanding my handkerchief.
But she hushes me instantly, warning me with a shake of her head that I risk swallowing something unpleasant, silencing me entirely by snatching it from my hand and running the smooth white wad of cotton across my mouth, unconsciously beautiful as she scrutinises my face. This is how it feels then, to be as vulnerable and defenceless as a newborn, my hands spasming widely open, such is my need to pull her into my arms. But her focus is elsewhere, warning me firmly that I must wash my hands thoroughly before she returns my discarded clothing, her gaze speculative and narrow as if she dares me to disobey. But I will do as I am bid, I will scrub as if I am preparing for my first ever surgery. And the tough old theatre sisters, the world-weary anaesthetists, the terrified young med students who can never look me in the eye, what would they say now if they could see me, what would they think of Martin Ellingham showing such passivity, such deference, such devotion and obedience?
I will do anything required to fix this, Louisa; after all it was me who made the incision, so it is my responsibility to apply the necessary sutures. I admit the responsibility for getting you into this mess, please let me do what I can to extract you.
In a moment forever suspended in time, I know without doubt that there is only Louisa, that there will only ever be her. I wonder how how I can make her understand, as she supervises me, rolling down my sleeves, affixing my cuffs, smiling again as she hands me my suit coat, the toss of her head providing not only clarity, it is like a carrot on a stick. I could stand here forever, honestly, content to stare at her, saying nothing, but a plan of action is becoming clearer to me; not an exact blueprint yet, in fact little more than commitment and intent. But, as I secure the top two buttons of my suit coat, it seems suddenly so obvious. By the time I straighten my tie, I've decided the first step that I must take.
"Umm, Louisa, did you I hear you correctly? Did you…ahh…mention that you wanted to have a shower?"
In the act of removing her hat, she pauses, both hands on her head, her expression inscrutable.
"Yes, Martin." She replies carefully, "I did…why? Did you think p'raps you might take advantage?"
For a moment I'm perplexed. "Take advantage?" I ask, and I frown at her.
"Take advantage…of the hot water." She explains rapidly, her voice becoming louder. "Have a shower yourself I mean…Did you want to, umm, you know, while you where here?"
I shake my head.
"No. I'll take the Hoover back to the car and collect the rest of the boxes. It shouldn't take long to get this all packed up and put away." I tell her, firmly, pulling on my overcoat and tucking my muffler securely beneath the collar.
I pick up the box of food, and glance at her again, while I still can. "Umm…Louisa…one more thing…"
"Yes?" She asks, somewhat breathlessly and for a moment I find myself distracted, concerned that the cold fetid air is causing some sort of irritation to her chest.
"Shall I pick something up for lunch?" I ask, gazing at her appraisingly, observing her chest rise and fall. "Am I correct in thinking I saw a bakery down at the harbour, or…umm, perhaps there's somewhere else you might…recommend?"
Her eyes narrow and I notice a slight incline of her head, as if I've surprised her and, instantly, I feel myself stand a fraction taller, I feel incrementally warmer. But, most importantly, I feel a tiny flicker of hope, akin to a loan glow worm raising its head in a cave the size of Cornwall. She has noticed, she does notice that I am trying to be more accomodating, perhaps it might not all be just too little, and too late. It dawns on me then, in this strange moment of optimism, that I won't often be a man that knows instinctively what an occasion demands of him but, oddly enough, right now, I believe that I do.
"Umm…yes…no…the bakery is good." She replies hesitantly, and she almost sounds suspicious. "A…Crab sandwich…actually….on Granary please…if they have it…"
"Right, yes." I answer briskly and I feel her stare following me from the room; I'm not quite sure why she seemed so disappointed at my intent to Auntie Joan's vacuum cleaner promptly but I can't hope to understand her completely overnight.
She locks the door behind me and I make my way back down toward the plat. I manage to navigate the slimy, uneven shingle with ease but finding my way around the maze of alleys leaves me a little less certain, probably because I find myself to now be somewhat anxious, aware that time is not upon my side. I wonder how long Louisa will take for her ablutions, recalling that anything that involved washing her hair usually became interminable. But will she undertake that complicated ritual today of all days? I certainly would not want her to venture out in this damp cold if her hair were not completely dry. I picture her then, emerging from the bathroom, so lovely yet so completely unselfconscious, a towel wrapped carefully around her head, and less carefully around her mid-riff, to my quiet, unspoken delight. It's not just significant things I grieve for, it's just one of so very many, a myriad of tiny incidentals that add up to a satisfying life.
Fortunately, the Lifeboat Station isn't that hard to find. In fact I'd been about to park across the doorway earlier when Louisa had, rather indignantly, pointed out the sign forbidding it. She'd suggested that to block the doors would be arrogant and completely selfish, the typical act an ignorant tourist who thought of no one but himself. Of course I'd conceded, and moved on quickly, parking instead next to a slew of malodorous dinghies, and a pile of battered old crab pots, determined not to do anything that might make me appear worse in her eyes than I already was. But now the Plat is deserted, the tide is coming in and I glance at the surging sea warily as I toss the Hoover into the boot of my car and slam the lid. If anyone is mad enough to venture out of the little harbour in these conditions, it will take more than a bright Orange inflatable lifeboat to bring them safely home. Best I complete the business that I've come for promptly, and get Louisa back to the farm as quickly as I can.
I'm not sure what passes for etiquette in volunteer lifesaving circles so I don't bother to knock. A man in a dark blue jersey sits in the glass fronted office at the back of the shed. His hair is a wild shock of auburn, streaked liberally with grey, making him appear as if he had an old man's head on a much younger man's body. He strokes his beard as he watches me approach, a mug in his free hand, his legs stretched out, his feet upon the desk. He nods at me by way of greeting but I remain silent, frowning at him until he sits up straight in his chair and lowers his legs to a more respectful and appropriate position, on the floor, under the desk, as befits a figure of authority, whatever that is, in his particular case.
"Alright?" He says after a moment, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly.
"Ah, yes." I reply, recalling this colloquial method of greeting from my visits to Portwenn as a boy. "Are you in charge here?"
He smiles in a lofty sort of way and I fight a sense of irritation, an unwanted adjunct to my niggling feeling of apprehension. After all, this is a very delicate subject, and I am acting with unfamiliar spontaneity, so the truth is I'm not entirely sure how on earth one should actually proceed. And this chap, whoever he is, does not seem to want to make it any easier for me, his face wreathed in an insolent smirk, exuding the hauteur of one who has performed a single-handed triple transplant, totally lacking the level of humility befitting a bumpkin with worn out boots and a badly frayed collar on his shirt. I notice a photo on his desk, a ferocious looking woman and two equally insolent-looking offspring, and I pigeonhole him instantly: A small man given a smidgen of power at work when, undoubtedly, he is hen-pecked and pusillanimous at home.
"I'll cut to the chase." I tell him, taking another step toward him, lifting my chin and glaring down my nose. "A substantial sum of money is alleged to have been taken illegally, from these premises. Is that correct?"
He places the mug down in front of him and stares at me thoughtfully. "Who are you, then and, mores the point, what's it to you?"
"Mind your own business.." I snarl back at him, outraged at his attitude. "And just answer the question, if you don't mind; how much was taken, and has any of it been retrieved?"
"Retrieved?" He scoffs, and he shakes his head at me incredulously. "You don't know Terry Glasson if you think we're ever going to see him, or a penny of that money again. Retrieved? Hah! Not a chance in hell, mate…. Not a snowball's chance in hell…."
I pull out my wallet then, my expression glacial as I lay out my terms clearly and succinctly. Firstly, I inform him that I wish to make a substantial donation to the Lifeboats. As he stares open mouthed, I begin to peel off fifty pound notes, laying them on the desk in front of him until he nods. I insist that he counts them and, as I supervise the completion of the receipt, I curse the name of Terry Glasson, loathing the man so utterly and completely, despite never having met him, despising the fact he ever came back to this village, disgusted that he could be so casual in breaking the heart of his daughter for at least the hundredth time. With the docket now painstakingly completed and in my possession, I remind the ruddy, semi-literate, little tosser that, while Louisa is and has always been innocent, she must now be completely and publicly exonerated. Without too much effort, I extract a promise from him: that Louisa is not to be blamed for her father's actions and that he ensures that every resident to a man understands that she is as appalled and horrified by her father's behaviour as everyone else is. My last act is to insist that the man stands up and, looming over him, I tell him that her blamelessness, and her permanent estrangement from Terry Glasson, will be made clear to his crew, their families and the rest of the troglodytes who inhabit this odiferous village, or I will hold him personally responsible.
"And one other thing…Don't. Tell. Louisa. She's not to know about this. Do you understand? She should never have been dragged into this in the first place. Do I make myself clear, umm, Mr…?"
To my surprise, he nods at me, a flicker of understanding passing across his rugged, whiskery features. "Lamb. Sean Lamb, lifeboat captain. I understand better than most…we can't none of us choose our relations, that's for certain."
"Umm. Yes." I reply, momentarily taken aback by his change of tone. "Well, umm, thank you Mr. ahh…Lamb. I'll see myself out…"
"And don't worry. You can trust me. I won't say nothing to nobody… but one thing I do know for sure and that's Louisa never has had a penny to rub together…so where's all this money come from then?"
"Again, none of your business." I tell him and I stride impatiently toward the door. "If you decide to press charges against Terry Glasson, that's up to you. Just leave Louisa out of it."
"A'right…It all makes sense now, you're the boyfriend." He says and the triumphant tone in his voice causes my fists to clench at my sides. "Now I come to think of it, aren't you related to Joan Norton? Yes…a fancy London doc with a bob or two, I think my missus said…"
"I beg your pardon?"
"My missus, she takes in a lot of ironing, see, nothing happens in this village that she don't know about." He says and he chuckles in a way that I find profoundly and irrationally irritating. "I can't wait to tell her she was right. Fancy that eh, Eleanor's little girl snaring herself a London doc, and I've seen the proof….she's not poor little Lou Lou anymore, is she, eh?"
"It's Vascular specialist actually, not that it concerns you in the slightest." I interrupt icily, glaring at him over my shoulder as I walk away, shoulders back, chin up, my voice dripping with disdain. "And her name's Louisa. She hates being called Lou…"
