She stumbled down into her boat, part woman part child and neither knew what to do with the other. She lit a lamp and pulled a blanket across her lap and pushed away from the bank. The boat and her mind drifted. And again there was yet silence. No sound now of aeroplanes, or electric generators, or sirens or bombs. No caw of gulls, no drip drip of sodden branches. A padded silence that lapped like flotsam at the shore of all she was.
The boat gently rose, gently rocked. Feet away, now, from Deliverance, and the sight of its breached hull saddened her because some days she thought that was exactly what her mind was becoming, a breached hull. She could feel a leak just above her eyes, had felt moments sucked out by the tide and she wondered if her mind would eventually become empty like the boat. And she thought that empty at this point in her life would be a very lonely place to be, because there was no one left to remind her of all she had done and what she had once been, which was young.
What if, on those quiet afternoons when she liked to sit and think back over her life, what if she couldn’t recall Jack or Jimmy, or the lighthouse keeper who first taught her about love? What if she couldn’t recall the rush of sun across the moors or the sound of hymns that rose from the mines as Christmas approached? What if she couldn’t recall the haul of oysters that blistered her hands or the sight of square-rigged ships racing across the horizon to meet a sun when back home was still a moon? What if the sight of her father became the sight of a stranger and an owl was no longer an owl and its purpose was blank? What if a clock tower struck eleven and it was simply a sound? What if it all went? And night fell and she didn’t know it was night? Or a sandpiper called or a mullet rose at surface break or a gannet dived and she mislaid their names like coins behind the backs of chairs? What if she held a shell to her ear and there were no words to describe the sound? A limpet, that’s all she’d be. Good for nothing except hanging on.
She secured her craft to the hull and let the boats nudge one another like the old friends they were. She found a piece of gingerbread in her pocket and the scent was different against the ponderous stench of weed and mud. She felt it warm her stomach immediately, felt it dry the cold damp of worry. She ran her hand across the mossy starboard slats of Deliverance, and as the breeze quietened and the rocking ceased, she leant forwards and began to tell the story of the boat back to the broken boat.
Light was nibbling at the foot of the sky when she finished the story. The breeze had picked up and a smoky haze dawned stealthily from the earth. The river stirred, began to empty. Marvellous rested her ear against the damp wood and heard something that she hadn’t heard before. Had she been listening to a human chest she would have called it a heartbeat. But because it was a boat, she didn’t have a word for it.
The lighthouse bell began to toll announcing the incoming mist, and great swathes of the stuff crept towards Marvellous and caught in the trees like Spanish moss, laying salt on the leaves of the rhododendrons, on the fronds of palms. She felt scared. Old and scared. She pulled the blanket up higher and huddled down on to the bottom boards. Open the boathouse, dream had said. She looked back towards the sad white shack and thought of her life as a winged insect trapped in its amber past. Dawn broke with a whisper. Her mouth let out a sigh.
When the mist had eased and the sun committed she moored at the stone and staggered up to her caravan before the day attempted to change her mind. Hanging outside like a wind chime was a bunch of keys of various sizes: keys to boats, to cottages, to locks unknown, a key to understanding, too: a tiny key that hung from a ragged aquamarine braid, but why she had ever called it that she couldn’t remember. She leant in close and looked for the unmistakable shape of the boathouse key, the one she’d last held twenty-five years ago. There it was! as recognisable as an old-time face. She prised it away from the bunch and marched back down to the moss-stained door with it held triumphantly aloft.
The key fitted perfectly. She took the padlock off and shoved the door open with all her might. She heard a moan and that last year with Paper Jack rushed towards her and she fell to the ground, and it wouldn’t let her go until she felt it again, remembered it once again. All mixed up, it was, sadness and joy and a whole heap of pain.
She struggled free and gathered her breath and never took her eyes away from that boathouse door. Swinging to and fro, it was. Never took her eyes away because there was no breeze any more, all was still. A pendulum to Lost Time, it was, swinging to and fro in a nothing breeze.
Inside, the stench of long-gone years and briny damp unsettled her nose. Fine webs from a spindle spider connected floor to ceiling and wall to floor, and green mould spores gossiped and kissed and multiplied before her eyes. And all around was a sound like seeping gas or breaking wind or a great big sigh, a release of stale air from that tomb of two. She opened the balcony doors and the sea air rushed in, and the light startled through the gap and fell upon the wall and the clammy, unused bed. And on the wall above the bed, the starfish: as orange as it ever was. She unhooked it and cradled it in her hands and the woman she had been joined her on that bed and comforted her. Twenty-five years she had been without that man. Once even a day without him had been unbearable.
Twenty-five years! she said out loud. Do you hear that, you silly man?
She heard his wheeze. She heard his voice say, We were young. At least we had that.
Young! scoffed Marvellous. We were never young!
You’ve never looked better, she heard Jack say.
You’re full of nonsense.
That’s why you love me.
That I do.
You been looking after yourself, Marvellous?
When I can remember to. What about you?
Cough’s gone. Got my strength back. Did you get my dreams?
’Course I did. Bit unclear, though.
I’ll do better next time.
That would be a help. What’s it all about, Jack? What am I waiting for?
You know it doesn’t work like that, Marve.
Are you going to stay? Is that why I opened this place up?
Not right now. But I’m coming back.
That old song.
Be kind, my love.
Well, I’ve changed. And I might not wait, you know. I’m a lot older and a whole lot wiser.
Oh, you’ll wait! she heard him say. You can’t get enough of me. I drive you wild.
You drive me mad. Always have.
Mad and wild. You’ll wait.
I might not! she shouted. Silly old fool! she shouted and she tutted loudly. She couldn’t hear him after that. Heard only the stir of the river, the stir of the trees, the stir – strangely – of her fear. An owl screeched. She looked out and watched it swoop down and tuck into a breakfast mouse.
She put the starfish in her pocket and pulled the boathouse door to and went in search of soap and a brush and a pail of water. She would give the boathouse new life and a clean one at that. She would set the hearth alight and burn logs day and night and chase the damp until steam crept from the cracks, till only salt crystals glistened drily upon the window-ledges.
Hours later, she lay in bed exhausted; her hands red and raw and her arms too weak to unpeel her glasses. She listened to the distinct sound of a curlew, sonorous against the plangent mournful call of the fog bell: that fixed point in her shifting, swirling, unclear world. She felt cold. Even the roundels of slate she had warmed on the stove were proving useless against the damp chill. She moved a slate to her chest and eventually the weight and warmth led her to sleep.
And then, just as her lids closed, a dream lined up to take flight across her sleep, a dream that would deposit two images, at last, to the door of her mind: the image of a linnet, tentative and free, flying across the Thames with a chest full of song. The image of a young man looking towards a horizon that promised nothing.
The fog bell mourned.
II
4
So here he was, on the upper deck of the SS Autocarrier, spewing his guts out, missing the moment when the white cliffs of Dover loomed out of the grey October afternoon.
The sea had been relatively calm for most of the crossing, a slow undulating swell at most, but that was all it had taken to propel the remnants of his breakfast – that satisfying dish of oeuf sur le plat and jambon cuit – on to the foredeck as soon as the ferry had cast off from Boulogne.
The ship’s horn tore through his head and Drake groaned as another wave of watery puke hit the air and splashed his brogues. He rarely thought about his father but at times like this he did. Wondered if the old man had ever suffered as he suffered: bent double and legless, gripping the rail with all his might, fearing something he could never quite put words to.
As the cliffs drew near, people began to gather on deck: elegant couples excitedly chatting and pointing. Was that really Vera Lynn singing in his head or some woman behind? He turned round and she quickly looked away. Probably should have wiped his mouth first. He let the rails take his weight as he staggered up to face England. He wanted to salute, duty done. 1940 he had left. Now here he was, seven years later, with a fierce taste of bile in his mouth. That felt about right.
On the quay at Folkestone, a car swung precariously overhead as it was lifted from the ferry. People hurried along chatting about their holidays and the impending Royal Wedding, no talk of war any more. Funny how life had moved on. He pushed ahead of the amblers and boarded the train for Victoria for a night back in London before heading south-west. Just one night, he thought, it couldn’t hurt, could it? Just one night in the old neighbourhood to see what damage had been done.
He entered a quiet compartment, occupied by three men and a woman. He lifted his suitcase on to the overhead rack and took off his hat and raincoat, careful not to disturb anyone. He sat down and sucked on a strong peppermint as the train jolted into motion. He felt his stomach ease, the flush of colour return to his face. He leant his cheek against the cool glass as the sea began to retreat from view, as the train trundled across the pier towards the junction, as his eyes closed to the rumble of wheels travelling across the sweet safe unmoving earth.
By the time the guard came round to check on tickets he felt as if he had slept for hours. He looked at his watch: thirty-five minutes that’s all. He took out the ticket from his inside pocket and handed it over. When the guard left, he shifted back into his seat and was about to doze again when the woman opposite bent down and picked up something by his foot. Yours, she said, handing over an envelope. He thanked her and noticed immediately the familiar writing, the smudge of French soil, the address pointing to Cornwall. Nearly three years he had waited to deliver the thing. Always there at the back of his mind, thumping like a bell hammer, the tinny sound of guilt. All this way to lose it on a Kentish train. Genius, Drake. You’re a fucking genius. His hands were shaking as he slipped the letter back into his inside pocket. He kept his hand against the letter and felt the racing beat of his heart. He closed his eyes and thought about things that made him feel good: always came back to a pint of beer, a full plate of food, women’s legs – not necessarily in that order. He opened his eyes and the countryside passed by in a quick succession of blurred browns and greens, and he tried to focus on a tree here and a barn there but nothing was in focus ’cause his mind was back to that day in Normandy, a week or so after the landings of ’44.
It should have been easy, the march into Caen, but it wasn’t. They’d found themselves in Bocage country, and the front line was a battlefield of hedges and ditches and constant heavy mortar fire, terrifying dashes between islands of cover, German snipers everywhere. That’s what had made the men jumpy.
Battalions had become groups of ragged, scared individuals, disillusioned and exhausted. Men had begun to inflict wounds on themselves just to get the fuck out.
The six of them had still been friends then, hard to believe now. Maybe it was the last battle that had undone them, peeled them like oranges, made them bitter. Maybe what came later had germinated then? Hatred doesn’t need much watering or care. Just a nudge.
They had been waiting in the ruins of a newly abandoned farmhouse and the scattered belongings of a family remained. Christ! Here’s mine! said Johnno, holding up a photograph of an aged overweight woman. The men jeered and whistled but Drake ignored them and looked away. Beyond the broken window he found the yellow of summer everywhere: in the sun, in the corn, in the small flowers that bloomed across field and meadow.
There was little for them to do in the waiting except smoke and sleep and he was heavy and dull with both, so he took himself off for a walk before the next push forwards. It wasn’t long before he came across a field hospital at the edge of an orchard. Flies were abundant, joyful amidst the splintered limbs and pooling blood.
Don’t just gawp, make yourself useful, said a nurse, rushing past. Him over there, she said, pointing. He followed her direction and came to a soldier lying on a stretcher, all but his face covered by a blanket. Drake sat down on the grass and pulled out a cigarette. The soldier’s face was peaceful, resigned. It was quite beautiful really, and he wondered if he was actually dead, but then the soldier opened his eyes and spoke. Got one for me? he said. Drake lit a cigarette for him. Can’t move my hands, said the soldier, so Drake placed the cigarette between the man’s lips. He took deep drags and never coughed and said, Tastes good, thank you.
You’ll be getting out of here soon, said Drake.
Not sure about that. It’s not over yet.
’Tis for you, mate. Lucky sod.
The soldier smiled, gestured for another puff.
It’s not bad here, is it? said Drake, looking around. Sun’s out. Flowers are out. Birds are singing.
What kind of flowers?
Drake picked a yellow trumpet close to his boot and held it up in front of the soldier’s face.
Cowslip, said the soldier.
Cowslip, repeated Drake. He held the cigarette to the soldier’s lips. So, what’s the first thing you’ll do when you get back? he said.
Swim.
I fuckin’ hate water, said Drake.
We’re sixty per cent water. Our bodies, that is. Did you know that?
Probably why I’m not good with people.
The soldier smiled. Dougie Arnold. Please to meet you.
Francis Drake, said Drake.
Ahoy there!
I’ve heard it all before.
You’re kidding, right?
My father was a sailor.
Gets better.
Never met him, though. The name was my mum’s idea. Still romantic about the sea by the time I came along. Drake placed the cigarette between the soldier’s lips. He began to cough. Easy there, Drake said. Come on, slow breaths. That’s better.
Will you do something for me? said the soldier.
’Course.
In my pocket, in the front, there’s a letter. I can’t reach it. Can you get it out?
Drake stubbed out the cigarette and leant over Dougie Arnold. He pulled back the blanket carefully and the smell made him gag. Where arms should have been were tied-off stumps, ragged and charred above the elbow. He held his breath and hoped his face gave nothing away as he gently unbuttoned the tunic pocket.
Here, said Drake, lifting it up. It’s to Dr Arnold?
Yeah. My father.
Cornwall?
My home.
Never been.
You’d like it. Lots of water, and Dougie smiled.
Drake pulled a small hip flask out of his kit and waved it in front of the soldier’s face.
The soldier said, Fucking marvellous, the Cavalry’s arrived.
There you go, said Drake as he poured the liquid in.
Cheers, sai
d Dougie.
Cheers. To better days.
Better days, and the soldier gently closed his eyes.
Drake stared at him. They were about the same age, he thought. Wondered if he had a girl. Probably not. The letter was to a father, wasn’t it? He undid another button on the soldier’s collar. Noticed a faint pulse at his neck.
Deliver, said the soldier weakly.
You what? said Drake, leaning in.
Deliver.
Deliver? Deliver what?
You deliver the letter.
Me?
To my father. In Cornwall. When it’s all over. When you get back. Tell him I was all right –
– you are all right –
– tell him good things.
Tanks rolled past, soldiers began shouting. On the move again. Allies taking back France.
Promise me, Francis Drake. I can’t hear you.
I’m here, said Drake. He leant in close.
Promise me, said Dougie Arnold.
I promise you, said Drake. I’ll deliver your letter.
5
From Victoria Station Drake took the underground to Farringdon and came up the stairs into a chill misty dusk. A large rat passed in front and looked at him with indignation. Yeah, I’m back, said Drake and he walked up Turnmill Street with the constant rumble of trains to his left, the ever-watchful dome of St Paul’s behind. The air smelt grubby, tasted dusty. He’d forgotten what it was like. So many people rushing towards him heading for home. But he hadn’t forgotten, not really; it was in his marrow, this city, and had given him life. The air stirred as a dark cloud-front moved briskly across the rooftops. He picked up speed and crossed the road into Clerkenwell Green towards the streets beyond. He managed to get to the lodging house moments before a heavy rain fell.