JuliaRochester

THE HOUSE ATTHE EDGE OF

THE WORLD

Contents

Prologue

PartOne

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

PartTwo

Chapter9

Chapter10

Chapter11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Chapter14

Chapter15

Chapter16

Chapter17

Chapter18

Chapter19

Chapter20

Chapter21

PartThree

Chapter22

Chapter23

Chapter24

Chapter25

Chapter26

Chapter27

Chapter28

Chapter29

Chapter30

Chapter31

Chapter32

Chapter33

Chapter34

Chapter36

Chapter37

FollowPenguin

THEHOUSEATTHEEDGEOFTHEWORLD

JuliaRochestergrewupontheExeestuaryinDevon.ShestudiedinLondon,BerlinandCambridgeandhasworkedfortheBBCPortugueseServiceandforAmnestyInternationalasResearcheronBrazil.ShelivesinLondonwithherhusbandanddaughter.

Formyparents,RalphandBarbara

ThepeoplealongthesandAllturnandlookoneway.Theyturntheirbackontheland.Theylookattheseaallday.

AslongasittakestopassAshipkeepsraisingitshull;

ThewettergroundlikeglassReflectsastandinggull.

Thelandmayvarymore;Butwhereverthetruthmaybe–Thewatercomesashore,Andthepeoplelookatthesea.

Theycannotlookoutfar.

Theycannotlookindeep.ButwhenwasthateverabarToanywatchtheykeep?

RobertFrost

Prologue

WhenIwaseighteen,myfatherfelloffacliff.Itwasastupidwaytodie.Therewasagoodmoon.Therewasnowind.Therewasnoexcuse.HewaspissingintothechineatBrockToronhisway

homefromthepubandfellheadlongdrunkintothespringtidewithhisfliesopen.Ispentthatnightonthe

beachwithCorwin,watchingthemoonsilverthesea,andlateranimagelodgedinmymindofourfatherinslowdescent,turningwithinaglitteringmoonlitarcofurine.WhenIconfidedthisto

Corwin,hewasangrierthanIhadeverseenhim.Ihadfixedtheimage,andnowhemustshareitwithme,asifitwereamemory.Hehitme,whichwasfair,Ithought–aback-handedswipeacrossthemouththatdrewblood.IwassoupsetthatIrantothecabinandlaythereallnighthalfawake.Atdawn,Corwincameandcrawledintothe

bunkwithmetokissmyswollenlipandsaysorry.Hewasmoregenerousthen.Ofcourse,boyshadbeen

pissingintothechineforalltime;atavisticsquirtsagainsttheterribleindifferenceoftheNorthAtlantic.Butmyfatherwasnotaboy,hewasforty-four,anditwasalmosttenyearsbeforeIwasabletoforgivehimthevulgarityof

hisdeath.When,finally,Ididso,IfoundthattheimaginaryfallingmanwasmorerealtomethanmymemoriesofthelivingJohnVenton,andthatallthatremainedofmysenseofhimwastheresidueofmyembarrassment.Iremembertheexactmomentofforgiveness.Iwaslookingatapieceofsculptureinanexhibition,amodelthatlay

onthefloor.Itwastheperfectreproductionofaman’scorpsebutreducedtothesizeofalargedoll–orababy,perhaps.Itwasagonizinglytender,andwhenIsawthetitle,DeadDad,Ifeltanemotionsoviolentandsounexpectedthatittookmesomemomentstoidentifywhatitmightbe.Ithoughtofthemanwhohadmadethis,

howhehadsat,dispassionate,bythenakedcorpsethathadbeenhisfatherandhadrecordedeverydetailofthelastofhisphysicalpresenceintheworld.Ienviedhim,Irealized–theemotionIwasexperiencingwasenvy.Oh!Ithought.That’sinteresting!Ididnotsharethiswith

Corwin.Hewasoffandaway.Ididthinktotell

Matthew,andtoaskhimtoexplainhisson,myfather,tome,butbythenhehadbecometranslucentwithage,asifhewerescreen-printedonfinesilk,andIdidnotwanttoriskanythingthatmightpierceorrend.Ishouldhaveasked,ofcourse.Andnotonlythen:Matthewwasalwaysdisappointedtofindmesoun-inquisitive.

MatthewusedtosaythateverytribemusthaveaRemembererofHistory.Heoftenspokeinitalics.Itwasanannoyinghabit,whichCorwinhasinherited.Matthewsaidthatamongtribalpeoplesmythandhistoryarepasseddownasifthetellerhasexperiencedithimself,inthefirstperson.Thetellerdoesnotrecount,

herecalls.‘Andwho’stosay,’askedMatthew,‘thatheisnot,infact,remembering?Whatdoweknowofthefateofthesoul?’

HereIsitwithMatthew’smap.Thewholestoryiscontainedwithinit–or,shouldIsay,trappedwithinit?Whenhewasdyingandwebegan,toolate,todecode

themap,Iunderstoodhimbetter.Matthewrememberedonourbehalf,andheimaginedonourbehalf,andheperceivedthatrememberingandimaginingshareagency:anystory,whetherornotrootedinfact,mayunleashanynumberofrealevents,andviceversa.Matthew’smapisaworkofhisimagination,hiscollection

ofmyths,histories,half-truths,fabricationsandomissions,butitisalsoarealworld.Whenhedraftedit,whenhebegantopaintforhimselfhisveryowngardenofearthlydelights,hedrewacirclearoundhimself–and,ittookmesometimetorealize,aroundus.Circlesarestronginmagicand,whetherheintendedtoornot,Matthew

fixedhimselfuponthecentre.SometimesIindulgeinupsettingmyselfbyimagininghimthere,withmarionettearmsandlegs,securedtothecanvasbyabutterflycollector’spin.

ButbeforeIgetbacktomyfather,IneedtodwellalittlelongeronMatthew,torememberonhisbehalf.I’m

explainingthishere,now,becauseyoumightsay:‘Youcan’tpossiblyknowthat.Youweren’tthere.’Oryoumightsay:‘That’snothowIrememberit.’Itdoesn’tmatter.Thisis

howIrememberit.ThisishowIhaveimaginedit.Itdoesn’tmatterifyoudon’timagineitlikethisatall.

PARTONE

1.

Thehousesitsatthecentreofthemap,framedbytheVentonlandsassetoutinthedeeds.Onehundredandfiftyacresfanaroundit:tothenorth,aswatheofwoodedvalley,tangledbranchestumblingintothemillstream;

tothesouth,gorse-andhazel-edgedgrazing;upandeast,wherethelandsettlesintowind-washedfields,whatwasonceThorntonFarm.ButbythetimeMatthewpaintedit,mostofthatlandhadlongsincebeenlosttotheVentons.Thehouseitselfhadthebonesofafarm,buthadbeentamedtogenteelGeorgianproportions,andthe

Ventons,havingforgottenthattheyhadoncebeenfarmers,lookedonlywestfromtheirwindows,downthroughtheindentedfields,totheAtlantic.LongbeforeMatthewcame

tocontainhislifewithinacircle,thattriangleofever-alteringseawastheshapethatexpressedhisworld.Later,whenhewasold

enoughtobeletloose,headdedanothertriangle,thethreepointsbetweenwhichheranandplayed:house,church,cabin.Inthosedays,beforehelearnedtofearthesea,thistriangleseemedtopointtowardsanexit–westacrossthewater.Matthewsatonthecabinstepsanddreamedhimselfagileintherigging,toesgrippingrope–

adreamunimpairedbythefactthatthetallshipswerelongobsolete.ItwasMatthew’sfather,

thewilfulJames,whohadbuiltthecabin.Healsohaddreamedofcrossingthesea.Hewasarestlessmanwithideasofescape.IthadbeenhisambitiontotraveltoAmerica,andhepicturedhimselfstridingthroughbirch

forests,crunchingthroughsnowwitharifleslungovertheshoulderofhisbearskincoat.Jameshadsavedthemoneyforhispassageandhadbeenallpackedtoleave,buthehadexercisedhisstrengthofwilluponMatthew’smotherand,insteadofcrossingtheAtlantic,foundhimselfstandingovertheNorman

fontinThorntonchurch,renouncingtheDevilandallhisworks,withtheinfantElizabeth–thefirstofhisfourchildren–inhisarms.InthechurchyardlaydeadVentons,theirbonesweighteddownbytombstones,whileinthechurchothernameswererememberedonmemorialtablets,whichechoedthe

lament‘lostatsea,lostatsea’,aroundthecoldwalls.Jamesenviedthemthefreedomoftheirsouls.Matthewwasthelate,

hope-long-given-up-for,son.Hismotherneverquitelostherairofsurprisethatheshouldbeintheworld.BeforehimwereTheSisters.HethoughtofTheSistersinthesingular–anentitythat

wasolderandoftheworldinaterrifyinglypracticalway.TheSistersmadealotofnoise–mainlyasix-leggedclatteringofshoesontheflagstones–andmovedatthecentreofastormofflyingobjects.Pots,pansandpreservingjarscircled,suspendedintheair,alwaysonthepointoffalling.Therewereflurriesofwetsheets

anddryunderwear.Rouges,hair-pins,magazinesandknittingpatternsscatteredintheirwakelikeautumnleaves.Matthewoftenthoughtthatifhehadn’thadsomanysisters,thingswouldhavebeenverydifferent:hewouldnothavespentsomuchtimehidinginthewoodsonthebankofthemillleat.

Heburrowedintothespacesformedbystorm-tippedtrees,whichhetransformedintoearthydensfurnishedwithwoodencrates.Hehunglanternsfromoverhangingrootsandhidtherewithhisbooksandasketchpad.Hesketchedtheplantsandfungiaroundhimandtookthepictureshometoidentifyinthelargereference

booksinhisfather’sstudy.AfterawhileMatthewbegantosketchpicturesofthecreatureshesaworimaginedthere.Badgersandfoxesbecameincreasinglyanthropomorphic;leaf-cladpixiesappeared.James,whotookaninterestinthedevelopmentofhisson’smind,washorrified–itwaseffeminatetobelievein

fairiesandtalkinganimals.HecalledupontheCrabMan.TheCrabManlookedlike

Matthew’sideaofLongJohnSilver,butwithoutthepeg-legortheparrot.Instead,hispropswerethecrabsthatrattledaroundinthemetalbucketatthekitchendoor.Laughingsaltily,hewouldtakeacoupleoutofthebucket,oneineachhand,

and,withaleatheryleer,wavetheminMatthew’sface.Snippety-snapwenttheterrifyingcrabclawswithinaninchofMatthew’snose.Theysmeltoffish-waterandengineoil.Jameshadconceivedan

adventureforMatthew,aman-makingcrabbingexpedition.Oneevening,oneoftheCrabMan’schildren

appearedatthekitchendoorwiththemessage‘Dadreckonstomorrowwilldo’,andthefollowingearlymorningJamesshookMatthewawakeandtheywalkedovertoTheSandstogetherinthedark.ItwasMay,turningwarm,thescentofploughedsoilrisingfromthefieldsandtherooksstirringinthetrees.Inthe

CrabMan’skitchen,Matthewallowedhimselftobelaughedatbytheolderchildren.Jameshadtoldhimtoacceptsometeaandabitofbreadsoasnottooffend,buttodeclineanysecondoffersbecauselifewashardfortheCrabMan,anditwasMatthew’sdutytonotethisandlearnfromit.

Jamescamewiththemandwavedfromtheharbourwall,quicklydisappearingfromviewintothebefore-dawn.Already,Matthewknewthatthiswasamistake.Thethick,sweetsmellofengineoilhadtravelledthroughhisbloodtohisgutandnoamountofbreezewouldshiftit.Wheneverhelookedbacktothatday,whichhedidoften,

hesawtheink-blackwaterswellingtowardshim,andrememberedtheelasticfallingawayofthecentreofhisbodyastheboatdippedintotheshiningbowlleftbythewave,andtherisingandre-springingofhisintestinesfarupintothecentreofhischestasthebowlifted.Asdawngreyedover,heapprehended,throughthe

miserythatburnedfromhisthroattohisnavel,thattheshore,obscuredbymist,wasnotvisible.Hefilledwithterroratthevastnessofthesea,andbegantounderstandthescaleofoceanand,evenmoreterrifyingly,atmosphereanduniverse.Itseemedimpossiblethatthistinymoleculeofavesselcouldkeepthemsafe,andhe

believedquitesincerelythathewoulddieandthatthesea,inhercolossal,insatiablegreed,wouldswallowhimwhole.Thewaterswillcloseoverme,hethought,andIwillleavenotrace.Thesaltwaterwillfillmynostrils,andmylungs,andtakemyvoice,andIwillsink.Andthefishwillnibbleatmyeyesandmyflesh,andmyveins

andarterieswillfloatandtraillikeseaweed,andmyboneswillliftbackwardsandforwardsatthebottomoftheseaandgrindtosand,andnoone,noone,willknowthatthosetinywhitegrainswereme.Heslumpedintheboat

and,betweenboutsofhaulinghimselfupthegunwaletoemptyhisstomach,prayedto

allthegodsthatwereplausibletohim.TheCrabMan,whohadexpectedthis,didnotholditagainsthim.HeandhissondroppedtheircrabpotsintothewaterwhileMatthewvomitedhimselfdry.Eventually,thesonmadeMatthewalittlenestofcoiledropeinalockerinthebowandpushedhiminwithafriendlypatontheshoulder,

andthereMatthewlay,passinginandoutofsleep.Aroundmid-morninghe

woketoanalteredpitchoftheboat.Itwasbumpingverygentlyonitsfendersagainstthesideofthecliff.Herousedhimselftoseewherehewasandfoundthattheywereinacove,protectedfromthewind.Theenginewasswitchedoffandthe

CrabManwasholdingtheboatsteady.Hisboywasstandingonthegunwaleandreachingintothecliffface.Whenhepulledouthishandthereweretwomottledbrowneggsinit,whichhehandedtohisfather,who,seeingthatMatthewwasawake,heldthemoutontheflatofhispalmforhimtolookat.

Thegullswerestrangelyresignedtotherobbingoftheirnests,andMatthew,curiousenoughtoovercomehisnauseaforamoment,emergedtolookuptheheightofthesheerclifffaceatthewheelinggullsandtheenviablybalancingboy.‘Whydon’ttheyattack?’heasked.

‘Idon’tknow,’shruggedtheCrabMan.‘I’veoftenwonderedthatmyself.’Heplacedtheeggsinabucketlinedwithstraw.Andthen,tomakesurethatMatthewunderstood,‘Youdon’ttakefromafullnest.Youtakefromthenestswithasingleegg,whenthey’veonlyjuststartedtolay–thatwaythey’lllayagain,see?’

Onthewayhome,theCrabManswitchedofftheengineandputupsomesail,andheandhissonsang,whichonlyincreasedMatthew’smiserybecausehecouldnotjoinin.Inthemomentthathejumpedfromtheboatontotheharbourwallheexperiencedanecstasyofloveofdrylandandarelieftobealivethatleftadeepimpressiononhis

eleven-year-oldmind.Thethingaboutland,henowperceived,wasthatitcouldbemarked–youcouldleaveuponitscratchingsandscrapings,andinthefuture,centuriesafteryouweredead,animprintofyouwouldremainandsomeonewhoknewhowtoreaditmightreviveamemoryofyou.Andthemoretimeyouspenton

landengravingyourstoryuponit,thegreaterthechancethatthereyoustillwouldbe.Matthewdidnotpaintthe

CrabManorhisboatintothemap,butthecipherforthedayhelearnedtofeartheseaisthere,foranyonewhoknowshowtoreadit.Athirdofthewayup

Highcliffeisaledge.Andonthatledgeisanest.

Andinthatnestisasingleseagull’segg.

2.

Onthemorningofhisdeathdaymyfatherappearedinthedoorwayofmybedroomholdingacupoftea.Hehadalreadybeenupfortwohours,husbandinghisvegetables,butwasnowchangedforwork,

fastidiouslyneatinhissuitandtie.Healwaysappeareddisconnectedfromhissuit,asthoughhestoodinsufferancebehindacomedycardboardcut-outforaseaside-pierholidayphoto.Iwonderedwhathewas

doingthere.Hedidn’tusuallybringmeteainthemornings.Itseemedtobeanimpulsethathewasalreadyregretting

becausenowhehadtospeaktomeand,thoughhelovedme,hepreferredtoengagewithme–oranyone,forthatmatter–incompanionablesilence.Hethrustthecupofteaatme,readytosnatchhishandawayquicklyifIdrewmyclaws.Helurkednearthedoor

andputhishandsintohispocketsincasehewas

temptedabsent-mindedlytopickupanythingthatmight,onceinhishands,admitsomeunsettlinginsightintothefemaleadolescentmind.Atlasthefoundasafeplaceforhisfingersatmyworkbenchandtheycametorestonthehandleofthebookpressthathehadfoundatajunkyard,takenapartandmadework–forme.Thatwashowhe

expressedlove:byfixingthings.‘What’sthis?’heasked,

touchingthenarrowspinebetweentheplates.‘It’saleavingpresentfor

Corwin,’Isaid.Ididn’twanttotellhimwhatitwas,fornobetterreasonthanthatIdidn’twanttotellhim.Infact,itwasacopyofoursixth-formBible,KeeptheAspidistra

Flying,whichIhadrescuedfromitsscruffycoverandrepairedwithclothbindingandendpapersinshadesofOrwelliangrey.Iwasunhappyabouttheendpapers:Ihadnotpaidenoughattentiontoaligningthegrainandnowthebookwouldn’tcloseproperly.OnthetitlepageIhadletter-pressedthewords:

ToCorwin‘Crow’Venton,mybravebrother.Summer1988

Leftwithnowheretogoonthesubjectofthebook,myfatherfellsilent.Iassumedthatwhenhehadplannedthisconversation,hehadrehearseditwiththepre-adolescentMewholivedoninhisaffections,notwiththenear-adultfemalewholay

nakedundertheblankets.Itookpityonhim.‘Dad,’Isaid,‘whatareyoudoinghere?’Hesummonedupabouta

morning’sworthofspeech.‘Ineedtohaveawordwithyou.’‘You’veforgottenthe

sugaragain!’‘Morwenna!’‘Iknowwhatthisisabout.’

Myfatherlookedrelievedandhopefulofbeingsparedthedifficultyofelaboration.‘Doyou?’‘DoI?’‘Whatdoyouthinkthisis

about?’‘Imustbemore

considerateofmymother,’Irecited.Heappearedexhausted.I

couldtellthathisstaminafor

thisconversationwasabouttoexpire.Weallfailedmymother,hemorethananyofus–itwassomehowconnectedwithwhyhelookedallwronginasuit.Hehatedhisjob.Whenpeopleaskedhimwhathedidforaliving,heusedtosay,‘Idesignblightsonthelandscape.’Whichwasaconversation-stopper.

‘I’lltry,’Isaid.‘Ipromise.It’snoteasyformetobeconsiderateofanyone.’Hesighed.Hehadtolove

meeventhoughIwasnotconsiderate.Hisshouldersbentalittleundertheburdenofit.‘Wouldyoulikealiftinto

town?’heasked.‘Nothanks.IthoughtI’d

walk.’

Heseemedtoconsiderplacingakissonmyforehead,buthewouldhavehadtobreachthegapbetweenhimselfandmybed.AshewentdownstairsIcalledout,‘Thanksforthetea.’

OvertheyearsIreconstructedthislastday.Itwasnotadeliberateeffort.But

subconsciouslyIgaveitsignificance.Itwasasthoughthosetwenty-fourhoursbothheldandwithheldmyfatherinessence–likeamothchrysalisonthepointofcrackingopen.WhenIwasabletoarticulatethisthought,Corwinsnappedatme.Hesaid,‘There’snothingtranscendentaboutdeath!’And,bythen,heshouldhave

known.Nothingdistinguishedthatday.Eventhepleatobehavebettertowardsmymotherwasaregularoccurrence,whichinevitablyfollowedarow.Theyrarelyrowed–my

fathermadeitdifficultformymothertoengagehimonpointsofdifference,sotheirfrustrationwitheachotherbuiltupslowlyuntilit

eruptedaboutsomethingtrivial.CorwinandIcalledthem‘sofarows’becausethesofaalwaysfeaturedinthem:thatlumpy,scratchy,Victorianchesterfield,whichhadbeensittinginfrontofthefireplaceonthedaythatMummovedin,andhadprobablybeensittinginexactlythesamepositiononthedaymygrandmother

movedin,symboloftheVentons’passivetyrannyagainsther.Idon’tknowhowmyfatherandMatthewpreventedMumfromplacingtheslightestpersonalmarkonThornton–someeffortofpassiveresistance,Isupposed.Theyhadconcededthegardenroomtoherinorderforhertopursuehercrafts.Notthatshehadany

talentforcrafts,butithadbeentheseventies,anditwasexpectedofher:allthosepoorattemptsatquilting,weavingandbatik–allinmuddyshadesofterracotta.Andallthosepretty,clean,newthingspatternedwithLauraAshleysprigs,whichshesneakedintoherroomlikecontraband.

CorwinandIeavesdroppedontheendofthatlastrow.‘Ireallydon’tthink,’Mum

washissing,‘thatitwouldbeextravaganttochangeasofaafteranentirecentury.’‘Itwouldbeprofligate,’

repliedmyfather,‘toreplacesomethingwhichsoadequatelyperformsitsfunction.’

Onthestairs,CorwinandIwinced.Ourfatherwasquietinanger,sowemeasuredthelevelofhisragebythenumberofsentencescompletedandhowheavytheweightofsyllables.Mentally,wetranslated.Whathemeantwas:‘It’spartofthehouse.’Whichsoundedfairenoughbutwasn’t,becauseMumwasn’tpartofthehouse.We

wereallorganictothehouse,whichwasorganictothelandscape,andshewasaforeignbody.Thesofarepresentedmymother’sfailuretobeagoodwifeandadapttoThornton,andmyfather’sfailuretobeagoodhusbandandadaptThorntontoher.Itmadeherunhappy,wecouldseethat.Butwewereruthless.Our

sympathieswerewithThornton,whichwasimmutable.Wethoughtsheshouldthrowinthetowel.Mumretortedthatitwould

benice–sherepeatedthislouder,hopingthatMatthewwouldhear:healwaysmadesuchafussaboutthe‘moderninsipidusage’oftheword:‘Itwouldbenice,’sheyelled,‘tohavesomesayinwhatis

allegedlymyownhome.Anditwouldbeevennicertoenterthecurrentdecadebeforeitisover!’Wesquirmedwith

discomfort.Tosuggestenteringtheeightieswasguaranteedtoinduceadisplayofwrathfromourfather.Itwasthedecadeofuntrammelledgreed,ofcontemptfortheunfortunate,

ofworshipofMammonandtheDevilandallhishenchmen,andhewouldhavenopartinit.‘Valerie,’hesaid,inatone

oflaceratingdisappointment,‘youknowhowIfeelaboutallofthat.’‘It’sjustabloodysofa!’

screechedMum.‘It’sjustsomewheretoparkyourarse!

It’shardlytheprivatizationofBritishFuckingGas!’Weheardourfathermove

towardsthedoorandwescuttledupthestairs.Healwaysgaveherthelastword,butbymakinganexit,sothatshewasleftaddressingtheemptyroom.

WhenIcamedowntobreakfastthechickenshad

escapedandwererunningalloverthefrontlawn.Mumwassittingonagardenbenchholdingherfacetothesun,hereyesclosed.Isatnexttoher.Shesaid,‘Ihatethosechickens.’Isaid,‘Iknowyoudo.’Shesmeltofhenna,adry,

grassyscent.Shehadapplieditthedaybeforeandtherewasaredsheenuponher

darkhair,exceptwhereitwasnaturallygreyandhadturnedasadpaleorange.Iconsideredhertoooldforhenna.Shehadmissedabitbehindherearwhenwashingitout.Isaid,‘Holdstill,’andliftedupherhairandrubbedatthegrey-greencrustwithmythumb.Thechickenscharged

aroundonthegrass,

stragglingbehindtheirrust-colouredleader,likeabunchofhung-oversquaddies.Mumsaid,‘Ihatethesmell–thatchicken-shitsmell.’‘Where’sHilda?’Iasked.

Hildawasmyfavourite.‘Behindthefuchsia,’said

mymother.Andthen,notnecessarilyreferringtoHilda:‘Poorthing.’Sheleanedherheadbackalittlefurtherand

closedhereyes,floatingonadeeppoolofresignation.‘ItsmellsofdeadTories’wardrobes,’shesaid.‘Mildewedtweed.That’swhatitsmellsof.’UnderthefuchsiaHilda

wasjustvisible,sittingvery,verystillbehindacascadeofredbellflowers.Ilookedoutbeyondthecombetosea.Therewasnohorizon:the

morningmistwasrisingfromthewater.‘Actually,’saidMum,

‘whatyousmellinthosewardrobesprobablyisshit.Allthatmouseshitunderthefloorboards.Layersandlayersofitdepositedthereoverthecenturies.Thebetterthehouse,themoremouseshitthereis–justthinkhownon-Uitwouldbetoliftthe

boardsandactuallycleanitout!YoucouldprobablycalibratetheentireBritishclasssystemonthedepthofmouseshitunderthefloor.’Corwinappearedinthe

doorwaywithaglassoforangejuiceinhishandandsmiledatme.Mumsensedthesmileandhereyessnappedopen.‘Youtwoandyoursecretsmiles!’shesaid

nastily,andstoodup.‘Dosomethingaboutthosebloodychickens.’ShepushedpastCorwinandwentbackintothehouse.Corwinsatdownnextto

me,stretchedouthislonglegsandlaidanarmalongthebackofthebenchbehindme.Imadetogetuptodealwiththechickens,butCorwinputoutahandandpulledme

back.‘Letthemenjoytheillusionoffreedomabitlonger,’hesaid.‘Theycan’tgoanywhere.’Hislegrestedagainstmine.

Wesharedourskin.Weweretannedanddustedwithgold.Thisdryworldwasarevelation,aboon:thepalebrittlegrass,thehardenedsoil,thebrowncrispedleaves.Formostofourlives

wehadbeenrainedupon.Fromvelvetymizzlingrainstowind-propelledwaterdarts.Evenwhenitwasn’trainingthedropletshungintheair,patientandimmobileasthesheepandcattlethatgrazedthefields.Wehadrarelybeenawayfromthesoundofwatermoving.Therewasalwaysastreamorariverchurningcloseby,windingitsway,

buildingnoise,tothunderoverthecliffandjointhesea.Butthatsummer,thestreamshadsunkintotheground.Allwecouldhearwerethebeesinthelavender.Corwinwasstillfeeling

sorryforthechickens,andwasglaringattheflintgardenwall.Suddenlyheleapedfromthebenchandstartedchasingthemaroundthe

lawn.Theyshotoffindifferentdirections,cluckingmadlyandindignantly.Heranaftertheleader,bentoverwithhisoverlongarmsoutstretched.Theywenttwicearoundthegardenbeforehecaughtherand,graspingherfirmlybetweenhishands,returnedhertothechickenruninthefarcornerofthegarden.Theothers

reassembled,unsureoftheirnextmovenowthatthepeckingorderhadbeenupset.Corwinwentalongthechickenwire,lookingfortheirescaperoute,and,findingagapunderthewire,tookastoneandstartedhammeringitbackin.IwenttofetchHildafromthefuchsia.Shehadlaidtwoeggs.Ituckedherundermy

leftarmandpickeduptheeggs.Myfatheralwayssaidthatthewarmthofneweggswasthemostcomfortingthinghecouldthinkof.Itooktheeggsasan

offeringtoMum,whowassulkinginthekitchen,martyredbyheryellowrubbergloves.TheroleofpeacemakerusuallyfelltoCorwin,butshewasangry

withCorwinoflate,wedidn’tknowwhy,somethingtodowithmalechildrenfleeingthenest,weassumed.Wedidn’tassumethatshewouldmissmewhenIfledthenest,orthateitherofuswouldmissher.Still,fortheequilibriumofthehouse,itdidn’tdotohaveMumsighingatthesink.IfeltthatI

neededtoshieldCorwinandthechickensfromher.‘Wouldyoulikemetoboil

youanegg?’Iaskedher.Shelookedatmeoverher

shoulderwithsuspicion,herhandsstillinthewater.‘They’refresh,’Iadded.

‘Hildajustlaidthem.’Mumpulledtheplug.

Therewasaloudsuckofdrainingwater.‘Youknow,

Morwenna,’shesaid,turninground,‘Ireallyhateitwhenyoutrytobenicetome!’Iwasabouttosay

somethingtartwhenthefood-timerwentoff,lettingoutanalmightywake-uptrill.Webothjumped.Matthew’sbreadhadfinishedproving.Mymother’sfacetwistedandsheranoutintothegarden.I

yelled,‘Matthew.Bread-timer!’Matthewshuffleddownthe

hallfromhisstudy.‘Oh,thankyou,Morwenna,’hesaid.‘IthoughtI’dputitinmypocket.’Hetookthebakingtray

fromtheboilercupboard,tippedandremovedthedamptea-clothfromthemoundofdough.

‘Yourmotherseemstobecryinginthegarden,’hesaid.‘Doyouthinksomeoneshoulddosomethingaboutit?’‘No,it’sallright.Just

leaveherforabit.It’llstop.’‘Oh,good,’hesaid.‘All

right,then.’ItwashardonMatthew.

Neitherhismother,histhreesisters,norhiswifehadever

criedaboutanything,asfarashehadbeenabletotell.Heslashedacoupleoflinesonthesurfaceofthedoughbeforeputtingitintotheoven.Then,settinghisfood-timerashewentandputtingitintothepocketofhistrousers,hedisappearedbackdownthehallandbehindthedoorofhisstudy.

IwasslidingbotheggsintoapanofsimmeringwaterwhenOliverappearedinthekitchen.‘Oh,’Isaid.‘Ididn’tknow

youwerehere.’‘We’regoingclimbing,’he

said,pullinghislonghairintoaponytailandtyingitwiththehairbandfromaroundhiswrist.‘CanIhaveanegg?’

Oliveralwaysseemedtobethere–inourkitchen–adoringCorwinfromafar,whichwasvexing.Evenso,Ilovedtolookathim,hisgentlecolouring,thewaythathewassofthazelnutbrownallover,hishair,hiseyes,hisskin,hisfreckles.AndIwasfascinatedbythewaythathelookedlikeaplaindiffidentgirlfromoneangle,andhow,

inprofile,hisstrongnoseandAdam’sappletransformedhimintoaboy.Therewassomethingotherworldlyaboutthisshape-shifting,asthoughhehadthepowertovanish,butwastoomodesttodoso.Icutupsomebutteredtoast

andwedippedsoldiersintooureggyolks,meditatively.Corwincameinwithanarmfulofropes,karabiners

andharnesses,andIpermittedmyselfamomentofjealousy–itwastheonethingwecouldn’tshare.Corwindidhisbesttoteachmetoclimb,butIhad–havestill–aterrorofheights.

BeforeIleftforworkIwenttomakemypeacewithMum.Ifoundherinthekitchengarden,stillwearingthe

washing-upgloves,resentfullypullingupcarrots.Sheignoredmeforacoupleofminutes,soIsaid,‘Mum,let’sbefriends.’Shestoodupandpulledoff

thegloves,thensweptherrightarmaroundtoindicatethegarden,palmup,inamovementIrecognizedfromtheballetlessonsIhaddropped–toMum’s

disappointment.Shehadenjoyedballetlessons.Shehadpossessedgrace.Thekitchengardenwas

beautiful,monasticallycalm,dividedintomedievalsquares.Thiswaswhatmyfather’ssoulwouldlooklikeinimage:neatlylaidout,notaweedinsight,rotandcankeratbay,abillowyherbal-medicinalsoftness

aroundtheedgesandpackedwithnutritiousgoodness.ForamomentIsawmymotherasshesawherself,banishedtothecloister,andIfeltatwingeofsympathy.ShehadbeenprettyandpluckyandworkingasasecretaryandhadboughtherclothesonCarnabyStreetuntilshewentonthatfatefulcampingholidaywithherbestfriend.

Shedidn’tevenlikecamping.Andthenmyfatherhadluredherinwithhisstrong,silent,country-squireact,andbeforesheknewitshewaspretendingtoenjoylongwalksintherainandtosharehisprinciples.‘Doyouknowwhyyour

fathermarriedme?’Mumdemanded,movingherfeetintothirdposition.Sheliked

topunishmewithsuddenhystericalconfidences.‘Itwasforyourgrandmother.Theyallknewshehadcancer.Noonetoldme,ofcourse.That’swhyhemarriedme.Iwasadeathpresent.’‘That’snottrue,’Isaid

helplessly.Myfatherneverspokeonthesubject,which,ofcourse,madehersound

shrillandirrationaleventoherownears.Heseemedennobledbyhissilence.‘Howwouldyouknow?’

shesnapped.Andnow,Ithought,you

willcry.Andshedid.Butshedidn’tabandonherselftohertears:insteadtheyrolledsilentlydownhercheeks,andherlipspressedtogetheragainstthestrainofher

distress.Ipickedupthebowlofcarrotsfromthegroundbyherfeetandtookthemtothekitchen.OliverandCorwinwerestillthere,waitingforMickeytopickthemupintheVWvan.Corwinwaslaughingscornfullyatthenewspaper,whichmeantthathewasreadingaboutsomedisasterinsomeabandonedpartoftheworldinwhich

thousandsofpeoplehaddiedhorrible,entirelyavoidabledeathsbecauseofWesternGreed.‘Yourturn,’Isaid.‘Forwhat?’‘Mum.’Heputdownthe

newspaper.‘Whereisshe,then?’‘Pullingcarrots.’

Hetoppeduphismugoftea,andpouredoutanothertotaketoMum.‘Anythinginparticular?’heasked,asheaddedthemilk.‘Dadneverlovedher.’‘PoorMum,’saidCorwin.‘PoorDad!’Isaid.

3.

ThatmorningtheheathadsparkedarushonSlushPuppiesattheSeaViewCaféandweranoutofelectricblue,whichupsetpeople.‘It’sallthesameshit,’Itoldmycustomers.‘They’renotflavours,they’rejustdifferent

combinationsofchemicals.Thevirulentgreentastesalmostexactlythesameandisjustasbadforyou.’Mybosstookmeasideand

said,‘Morwenna,youareabad-tempered,foul-mouthedlittlesmartarseandtheonlyreasonI’mnotfiringyouisthatit’stheendoftheseasonanyway.’

‘I’mterriblysorry,’Isaidtomycustomers,chastened.‘Butwe’reoutofraspberry.’Thepreferenceforblue

begantoobsessme.Itborenoresemblancetoanythingfoundnaturallyinfood.Ispentthedayimaginingusallwithfluorescentblueintestines,glowingawayinvisibly.Thebeachwaspacked.Dozensofchildren

raninandoutofthesea.Someofthemplayedtogether,butmanyofthem,Inoticed,hadmarkedouttheirownprivatecircuit.Iremembereddoingthat:pretendingtobetheonlyoneonthebeach.Iservedicecream,asking,‘Largeorsmall?Softorscooped?’andstabbedatMrWhippyswithchocolateFlakes.Onebadly

sunburnedmantoldmeto‘Smile,love!Itmayneverhappen!’AndIbalancedhisicecreamontheconeinsuchawaythatitwouldfalloffbeforehegotbacktothebeach–atechniqueIhadperfectedoverthesummer.Atfourthirty,Olivercame

bytopickmeupfromwork.‘Where’sCorwin?’Iasked.

‘He’sgonebackwithMickey.He’llcatchupwithuslater.’Iwasresentfultobean

errandofOliver’s,butwegrabbedacoupleofpastiesandwenttositontheseawall.ItoldhimabouttheSlushPuppies.‘Everyoneknowsit’snot

natural,’hesaid,‘sotheygo

forthemostappealingcolour.’‘What’syourfavourite

SlushPuppyflavour-colour?’Iaskedhim.‘Blue.What’syours?’‘Blue.’Thetidewasveryflat,just

lappinggentlyontothesand,nofoamontheedgeofthewater.

‘Butwhydotheycallitraspberry?’Iasked.‘Whynotsomethingbluish,likeblueberryorplumorsomething?’Oliverignoredmeand

wrappedhishalf-eatenvegetarianpastyinthegreasywhitepaperbagandlobbeditintoalitterbin,alarmingacoupleofyoungseagullswhichhadperchedthere.

Theyhadnotyetmasteredtheuseoftheirwingsandflappedclumsilytothepavement,bouncingonceortwiceuponimpact.Oliversighedandleanedforwardtoprophisheadinhishand.IassumedthatitwasLoveofonesortoranother.‘AreyouOK?’Iasked

dutifully.‘Don’tyoufeelsad?’

‘Aboutwhat?’‘Aboutleaving.’Stripywindbreaksandice-

creamwrapperslitteredthesand.Ilookedoutovertherainbowofplasticbucketsandspades,theinflatabledolphins,themassedbeergutsandblisteredbreasts,andwonderedifIshouldbefeelingsad.

‘No,’Isaid.‘Why?Doyou?’‘I’mnotsureIwanttogo

touniversity.I’mthinkingofdeferringwhileImakeupmymind.’Iwashorrified.Forthelast

twoyearsIhadbeendreamingofnothingbutthefilthycitywhereIwouldknownooneandnoonewouldknowme.Iwasgoing

towearanonymitylikeawell-cuttrench-coatandconductlifeinangularurbangreytones.‘Youcan’tbeserious!’‘Whynot?’Hisheels

kickedgentlyagainstthewall.‘I’mjustnotclearwhywe’reallinsuchahugehurrytoleave.’Webothstaredhardatthe

sea.Awomaninawhite

bikinifellfromawindsurferwithaloudscreamandasmackofpea-greensailonthewater.Thewindsurfinginstructorskeptacountofbreastsexposedintheundignifiedstruggletogetbackontheboard,andlaterbraggedtheirtallyinthepub.Thewomanshriekedwithembarrassmentasshehookedalegovertheboardandtried

topullherselfbackon.Theinstructorgaveherashove,onehandonherleftbuttock.Hewouldgetextrapointsforthat–theycountedhandsonbuttockstoo.Shesprawledfacedownontheboard.Iwasfuriouswithherformakingafooloftheentiresex.Sheshouldhavebeenmadetowearawetsuit.ThiswasthekindofthingIthoughtabout.

Oliver,ontheotherhand,wasbusyhoninghisnostalgia,lookingfurtherouttosea,wherethelightpoppedonthehorizon,andthinkinghowbeautifulitwas.‘So,whatwillyoudo?’Heblushed.‘I’mnotsureI

wanttogotouniversityatall.It’sjustmoreendlesschatter.Crowistheonlyonewiththecourageofhisconvictions.

He’sgoingtoIndiatoactuallydosomething.Therestofus–we’renotdoinganything.Iwanttodosomethingpractical–farmingmaybe,butsustainablefarming.’‘Youarejoking!’‘You’resuchasnob,

Morwenna!’‘Ithasnothingtodowith

snobbery,’Isaid.Hemoved

hisheadandshiftedfromfemaletomale.Hisandrogynyseemedtoprecludeapracticalcareer.‘Ijustthinkofyouas…’‘Aswhat?’‘Idon’tknow.Ijustcan’t

seeit.’Thebeachwasemptyingof

familiesandbeginningtofillwithdampdogschasingslimytennisballsonthewet,

rippledsand.Theseawasedgingoutoftherockpools.OldArthurcamedownthehillinhisblueflanneldressing-gownforhisfiveo’clockswim.Wewatchedhimwalkoutintotheshallowredtide,stringymusclesunderslack,mottledskin,thewhitedownofhishairliftinginthebreeze.Hewadedrightoutuntilhereachedadepthat

whichhecouldbeginhisslow,lopsidedcrawlalongthelengthofthebay.Eventually,Oliversaid,‘Well,Idon’tthinkIcanjuststandbywhilewerapetheplanet.Butit’sobviouslynotsomethingIcantalktoyouabout.And,anyway,weshouldgetgoing.’‘I’msorry,’Isaid.AndI

was.Icontemplatedlife

withoutOliverinit,andcametotheconclusionthatIwassadaboutit.‘IwillmissyouwhenIgo,’Isaid.Oliversmiledsadly,puthis

armsaroundmeandhuggedme.‘AndI’llmissyoutoo,’hesaid.Webothknewthathe

didn’treallymeanme,butCorwin.Ididn’tmind.Itwasalmostthesamething.

OliverandImadeourwayupintotownandletourselvesinatWillow’shouse.Anumberofsmallchildren,someofwhommightormightnothavebeenWillow’shalf-siblings,scatteredupthestairs.ThesoundofJoniMitchelldrewusintothegarden,whereWillow’smotherreclinedonapicnicblanket,surroundedbya

numberofhersometimelovers,thelastofherbeautyevaporatingmistilyfromher.Noneofthemreactedtoourarrival.Thehouseholdwassofluidthatwemightwellbelivingthere,foralltheyknew.‘IsWillowaround?’I

asked.‘Oh,hello,Morwenna,’

saidhermother.‘Ithinkso.I

thinkshe’sinthegreenhouse.’Oneoftheloverswaveda

jointinourdirection,whichwedeclined.IwishedIwerethekindofpersonwhoknewhowtoacceptcasuallyoffereddrugs.Iwished,infact,tobeWillow,whowasblissfullyunencumberedbyaconventionalfamilystructure,andwhosefathermightor

mightnothavebeenaBeatle,hermotherhavingbeenaMaharishiMaheshYogigroupieatabouttherighttime.Willowoccupiedawonderlandofuncertaintyinwhicheverythingwaspossible.Wewentuptotheendof

thenarrowscruffygardenandfoundWillowinthegreenhouse,sprayingthe

cannabiscrop.‘Atlast!’shesaid,whenshesawus.Wewerenotlate,butshehadlittlesenseoftime.‘Getmeoutofhere!’

Saturdayswerealwayslikethis.Wegatheredourselvesup,pubbypub,halfciderbyhalfcider.Wedranktheciderbecauseitwascheap.WefoundMickeyplayingpoolin

theFirstandLast,butCorwinhadsaidhewasgoingtotheBeacon.CorwinwasnotattheBeaconbuttherewefoundacrowdofschool-matessowestoppedthereforawhile.InthemeantimewehadlostOliverattheShip,butfoundhimagainlaterattheMason’sArmswhereCorwinwasreportedtohavebeenseendrinkingoutside

theGeorge.ByaroundninethirtywewerealluniteddownattheharbourattheLighterandthatwaswhereIlastsawmyfather.Ihadforgottenthathe

wouldbeplayingthere,partlybecauseMum,whoordinarilyenjoyedanightout,wassmartinginfrontofthetelevisionathome.IfIhadremembered,Iwould

probablyhaveavoidedtheLighter.Hewassittinginacorneroftheloungewithfourorfiveofhisfriends,playinghisfiddle.BobMarsdenwassittingnexttohim,holdinghisear,andsinginginaquaveringvoice,someancientsongthatiscertain,eitherdirectlyorindirectly,tohavebeenabouttheGreenWood.

BobMarsden,intheroleof‘Dad’sbestfriend’,requiredexplanation,butCorwinandIhadneverbeenabletofindoneforhim.Sincemyfather’sfortiethbirthdaypartywhenBob‘forgothimself’(myfather’swordsatthetime)andplacedhishandsonmybuddingbreasts,CorwinandIreferredtohimas‘FuckOffBob’(mywords

atthetime),whichenragedMumandsaddenedmyfather.TherewasapermanentwhiffofthelockerroomaboutBobMarsden,astickystenchoflewdboastsexchangedandfemalepartsappraisedandcompared.Weassumedthatheenjoyedspendingtimewithmyfatherbecauseitallowedhimtotalkabouthimselfuninterrupted,

butwheneverwechallengedmyfatherastowhathegainedfromthefriendshiphewouldjustsay,‘We’veknowneachotheraverylongtime.’Myfathersawmeatthe

barandsmiled.Hehadthreepintslinedupinfrontofhim,paidforbyappreciativemembersofhisaudience,andIcouldtellthathewasstill

upset,fromthespeedatwhichhewasdrinkingthem.Myfatherwasagoodmusician,buthiselegiesdidn’tchimewithourideaofBritain,which,fromourremotewhitecorner,appearedtobepopulatedwithRealPeople,whofoughttokeeptheminesopenandsufferedclassprejudiceandracismandsangangrilyin

industrialaccentsoflifeinthesuburbsofthebigcities.SomeofushadevenbeentoabigcityandmetRealPeople,someofwhomhadevenbeenblack.IfFuckOffBobhadn’t

beenthere,Imighthavegoneoverandaskedmyfathertostandmeapint.ButinsteadIjustwavedand,suddenlyirritatedbyhissprigsof

thymeandfairmaidensatgates,Ithought:Mum’sright.Youliveinthepast.(Afterwards,thatthoughttookontheforceofsomethingspokenaloud,andIlivedwiththesensationofhavingwoundedmyfatherwithmylastwordstohim,when,infact,Ihadsimplythankedhimfortea.)Andthentherewasaplanandwe

turnedtoleave,Corwinhookinghisarmaroundmyneck.Wewavedatourfather,andhe,mid-fiddle,nodded,withasadsmile,whichmightsimplyhavebeeninresponsetothepassageofmusichewasplaying.Myfatherwasastillman.Hemovedinthesamewaythathetalked:onlythenecessaryminimum.Butwhenheplayedmusiche

danced,whichalwaysmadehimappearasthoughunderenchantment,andthatwasmylastsightofhimasweleftthepub:myfatherseatedandswaying,raptinmovement.Corwintookthelead.We

madeourwaybackintotown,stoppingattheoff-licenceforacoupleofbottlesofStrongbow,andatMickey’sbedsitforabagof

Willow’shome-grown,andweambledthelengthoftheseafrontandupontothecliffpath.Thedarkwasbeginningtosettleinthehollowsofthesand-dunesandonthesurfaceoftheseabuttheskywasstillblue.Threeangrywealsofredhadbeenscratchedintoitbythesun.Bythetimewehadclimbedtothecliff-toptheyhadfadedaway.We

walkedinsinglefilealongthecliff,andeachofusmusthaveglanceddownintotheblackeningbowlbeneathBrockToraswebegantodescendtoThorntonMouth,wherenighthadalreadywrappeditselfaroundthecabinandwascreepingoutfromthecliffstomeetthewater.

Thatnightwebuiltafirewithinaringofwhite-andgrey-scribbledboulders,justabovethehigh-tidemark.OnceIhadimaginedthatanancientlanguagewasexpressedonthestonesthatonedayIwouldlearntodecipher.Wedraggedlongpiecesofsea-bleacheddriftwoodacrosstheshingleandsetthemonend,carefully

weavingthemintoaconetwometrestall.Westoodbackandfoundourworkbeautiful,seeingthereagroupofdancers,armsaloft,curveswhiteinthemoon,momentarilyentwined,onthepointofspringingapart.ThenMickeysetitalight.

Thefireamazeduswiththespeedatwhichitcaught,twistingitselfaroundthe

woodenlimbs,shootingflamestwicetheirheightintothesky.Ilookateighteen-year-oldsnow,theirunformedfaces,theirsmoothpebblesofcertaintyclutchedtightintheirfists,andIrememberourfacesinthefirelight,how,foronce,theAtlanticwasoutdoneandthefireenteredoursenseswiththeforceofanautumnstorm

andheldusinanecstasyofaweatitsdestructivepoweras,onebyone,thebranchesofdriftwoodsubmitted,staggeredinwards,collapsedglowingintothecentre.

Whenthefirewassubduedweswamonthehighwater.Forthelastsevenyearsourlittlegrouphadclungtogetheronourraftof

cleverness,navigatingaschoolinwhichbook-readingwasconsideredposh,andtobeposhwasacongenitalandincurableaffliction.Wewere,Ithink,thewholeworldtoeachother.Andyet,thatnight,aswefloatedinthemoonlight,shiveringontheeerilytametideaswecountedsatellites,thetiesbetweenuswerelifting.

Strandbysilkenstrand,theyrosesoftlyfromthewater.Wewarmedourselvesby

thefire.Mickeyrolledajoint.IrememberthetipofhistongueashepatchworkedtheRizlastogether,thewaythathepassedthejointtoWillow.Oliverwaspressinghishairdrywithatowel.Heletthejointpasshimby.Hedislikeddrugsandalcohol:they

unleashedwordsthatcouldnotberetracted,andhewasusuallythefirsttoleave.Buttonightwasspecial:itwasalmostalloverandhewasmakingallowances.Ilaywithmyheadin

Corwin’slap.Hewaspreaching.Itwouldbeourburdenandourduty,hesaid,ourgeneration,spawnofThatcher.Wemustlookto

thesouthandseethedamagewewroughtthere.Wemustundo,reduce,redistribute.Wemustbattlewithourinflatedegos,makeourselvessmall.Forsoon,hesaid,thesouthwouldriseupagainstus,anditsvengeancewouldbejustandterrible.Weweremakingahelloftheearth,thesunwouldburnthroughouratmosphere,andlo!The

waterswouldriseandengulfus.‘Christ,Corwin!’said

Willow,suddenly.‘Shutthefuckup,willyou?’‘Youcouldstartby

becomingavegetarian!’saidOliver,quietlybutseverely.‘Oh,God!’Igroaned.

‘Hereitcomes.“Howmeatisdestroyingtheplanet”.’

Oliverignoredme.‘Meatproductionisareallyinefficientandwastefuluseofland,’helecturedCorwin.‘Soevenifyouenjoychewingondead,torturedanimals,youshouldthinkabouttheamountoflandinThirdWorldcountriesthatisbeinggivenovertoyourdisgustinghamburgers.Doyouknowhowmanysquare

milesofAmazonarechoppeddowneveryyearforcattlefarming?Doyou?’Therewasahugeholein

theozonelayerandtherainforestwasinflames.Agloomwassettlingon

thegroup.WillowturnedtoCorwin.‘Youseewhatyou’vestarted?Nowhe’satit!’

‘Youforgotthefartingcattle,’saidMickey.‘Allthatflatulenceintroduceswarminggasesintotheatmosphere.’Afterajointandmorethanhisfairshareofcider,hefoundhimselfhilariousandstartedtogiggle.Oliversaid,‘It’snotthe

farting,actually.It’sthebelching.’

Hisearnestnesswastoocomical–wewerealllaughingnow.‘Idon’tknowwhyyou

thinkit’ssofunny.That’sjusthowtheywantyou,youknow.Stonedandamusedanddisengaged.’Theaccusationof

‘disengagement’hungdangerouslyintheair.Ideflecteditwithacattyswipe

ofindiscretion.‘Oliverwantstobeafarmer!’Iannounced.Oliverflinchedaseveryone

fellsilentandlookedathim.IthoughthemightatlastdohisvanishingtrickbutinsteadCorwinpushedmefromhislap,leapedupandstartedwavinghislongarmsaroundlikeafairygodfather,shouting,‘Andsoyoushould,Oliver.Soyoushould!That’s

exactlywheretostart.Small-scalefarming.Reduceourimpactontheenvironment.’Oliversaidquietly,

‘Exactly.It’slikeIsaidtoMorwenna.It’saquestionofconviction.’‘Morwennadoesn’thave

anyconvictions,’saidCorwin,sadly.Ithoughtaboutraisingaprotest,butIwastired,andIkneweven

thenthathewasright–allIhadwasdislike.ThenhesquattedbehindOliverandputhisarmsaroundhimandkissedhischeek.‘Oliver,’hesaid,‘you’veconvincedme.I’mgoingtobeavegetarianfromnowon.’Olivershotmealookin

whichagonyandresentmentthatIhadwitnesseditweremixed.Ifeltirritatedwith

Corwin.Really,hewasquiteruthlesswithhisdemonstrationsofaffection.Peoplewantedtomistakethemforlove.WillowandMickeywere

arguingaboutwhetherornotitwastimetogohome.Amiletothenorth-eastourfatherfelltohisdeath.Youwouldhavethoughtthatwe

mighthavefeltsomejarringofthesoul,butwedidn’t.Willowstoodup.‘We’re

off.’Thelightwassostrongthat

wewereabletowatchMickeyandWillowcrossthebeachanddisappearintoamoonshadowatthefootofthecliff.Oliver,CorwinandIwereleftwatchingtheembers.Afterawhile,Oliver

fellasleepunderhisjacket,hisheadonhisarm,hisfacecoveredwithhislonghair.‘Shouldwewakehim?’Iasked.‘No,leavehim,’said

Corwin.‘He’llwakeupwhenhegetscold.’Weguardedtheprivacyof

thecabinwithsuperstition,andneverinvitedourfriendstosleepthere,soweleft

Oliverbythefire,crossedthecovetothecabinandtookthekeyfromitshidingplaceundertheeaves,letourselvesinandcurleduptogetherunderthegreat-aunts’crochetedbedspreadandfellasleeptotheshinglesighing.

4.

Noonenoticedthatmyfatherwasmissing.Hehadnotcomehomethenightbefore,butitwastraditional,aftertheannualrow,forhimtospendthenightonBobMarsden’sreallyquitecomfortablemodernblack-leathersofa,

beforerecoveringenoughspeechtoapologize–hewasalwaystheonetoapologize,withflowersfromthegarden.AndMumalwaysaccepted.AndthentherewasatruceduringwhichmyfathertriedtobemorepresentandmymotherwentuptoBarnstapleandboughtnewshoes.Itwasanotherbeautiful

daywhenCorwinandIwoke

up.Wemadeteaandwalkedouttomeetthetide,thenswamuntilwewereovercomewithhungerandranbacktothehouseandtoMatthew’sbread.Mumlayonthefrontlawn,

sunbathing.Whenthephonerang,ataboutmidday,CorwinandIlayateitherendofthehammock,reading.Neitherofusmadeamoveto

answerit.AtlastMum,aseverincapableofleavingaphoneunanswered,leapedupangrily,tyinghersarongaroundherwaistasshewent.Werecognized,fromheracknowledgementofthecaller,anoteofsarcasm,whichindicatedthatshemustbespeakingtoBob.Andthensomething–notasound,butaqualityofattention–that

causedustolookupandateachother.Werolledoutofthehammock(IrememberCorwinholdingitsteadysothatIwouldn’tfall)andcrossedthelawn.Therewasnohurry.Itwasasitisindreams:wewerenottheagentsofourownmovement.Inthehall,Mumstood,theold-fashionedBakelitereceivertoherear,not

speaking.Itwasdark;theflagstoneswerecoolundermybarefeet.Mumseemedtobeglowingred:thehennainherhair,thetanshinywithcoconutoil,thesarongoverherhips.Wemovedclosertoher.Icouldsmellthecoconutoilonherskin.Iheardhersay,hervoicehissinglikewaterfallingontohotcoals,‘Yes.I’msure!You’dbetter

getoverhere.’IknewthatIneededtositdownforthis.Mumwasglowingredderandhotter,andthesmellofcoconutwasmakingmefeelill.Isatonthestairs.CorwinhadhishandonMum’sshoulder.Shereplacedthereceiverandturnedtowardsme.Aflame-balloffuryrolledfromherandengulfedmewhole.

Thereisagapintime.CorwintellsmethathewantedtoruntoBrockPoint,butthatMum,alreadydiallingthepolice,said,‘No.Ineedyouhere.’AndthatIsatonthestairsanddidn’tmove.Butallthatisgonefrommymemory.ThenextthingIrememberisFuckOffBobsittinginourarmchair,cryingandemittinghangover

fumes.EvenIampreparedtoadmitthatonanormaldayhewasagood-lookingman,biganddark,withthoseshoulder-lengthbrownlocks,whichheclaimedtobeaninheritancefromawashed-upsurvivoroftheSpanishArmada.Buthungoverandcrying,hiscarefullycultivatedpiraticalappearancetookonthe

qualityofadishevelledmorning-afterfancy-dresscostume.CorwinandIsatateithersideofMumonthechesterfield,facinghim,andwatchedhimsnivel.‘I’msosorry!’Snivel,snivel.‘I’msosorry.’Thetearsranintothehandsomecragsofhischeeksanddrippedoffhischin.AllIcouldthinkofwashowmuchIhatedhim;that,ifmyfather

wasdead,IwantedBobtobedeadaswell,ormaybeeveninstead,butjustverypainfully,brokenly,dead.Bobhadwokenuponthe

shag-pilerug(boughtsothathecouldsayshag-pile)withthefeelingthatsomethinghadhappened–somethingawfulandirrevocable.Hesaid–morethanonce,‘Itwassuchagoodnight!’Hewas

tryingtogiveitsomecontext:allthatjollygoodfun,weweretounderstand,wasanessentialelementinthestory.Myfatherhadbeenhappyashefelloffthecliff,orhehadfallenoffthecliffbecausehewashappy.Itwashardtodistinguishthesubtleties.BobsoundedlikeaDevonrustic–allthoseyearsoftakingthepissoutofDevonrustics

sayingwhata‘goodnoiyt’ithadbeen,andtheaccenthadstuck.Thepartofthestorywith

whichweweregrapplingwasthatBobhadwatchedmyfatherfalloffacliff,thengonehome.Weexpressedthisconceptualdifficulty.Whyhaditnotoccurredtohimtocallthepolice?‘Youdon’tunderstand,’hesobbed.

‘Iwasoutofit!Ididn’tknowwhatwasgoingon…’Hismanlyframeconvulsedinthearmchair,abagpipewheezeofdespairfilledtheroom,andhestartedapologizingagain.Theshockhadbroughtout

ourdefaultcharacters.Mumwastooangrytospeak.Corwinwastryingtobecivilized.Intheenditfellto

metosay,‘Look,Bob,wedon’tgiveaflyingfuckabouthowsorryyouare.Justbeginatthebeginningandtakeitfromthere.’

So,thisisthestoryofmyfather’sdeath:Ithadbeenagoodnight.

Therehadbeenmuchmerry,merrymonthingofMayandstillmorepintingofOld

Peculierandevenmyfatherhadcheeredupbythetimetheyrangthebell.HeandBobwerelaughingallthewayhome.(‘Notquite,’Iinterrupted.‘What?’saidBob.‘Notquiteallthewayhome,’Isaid.)Itwassuchabeautiful

night,sobeautiful,thatwhentheygottoBrockTortheywereovercomewithnostalgia

andaneedtourinateintothechine,foroldtimes’sake.Sotheywanderedoffthemainpathanddowntothecliffedgebelowthetorandtheybothtookapiss.Andmyfatherwaslaughing,andBobhimselfwaslaughingsohardhealmostpassedout–infact(thisbittooksomeintellectualeffort),hemusthavepassedout.Andwhen

hecameroundBobjustgottohisfeetandstumbledhome.Anditwasn’tuntilhewokeupthatitseemedtohimstrangethatonemomentmyfatherhadbeenthere,andthenexthehadn’t.Andthenitseemedthatitwasallabaddream,butwhenhecalledMumitbecamelessandlesslikeadreamandmorelikesomethingthathadreally

happened–myfatherwaslaughingattheedgeofthecliffandthenhefellforwardandwasgone.Atthismomenttwo

versionsofthestorywereequallytrueinmymind.Myfatherwasdead,butalso,thiswasacolossalfuck-upofBob’sthatweweregoingtohavetosortoutandmyfatherlayonaledgesomewhere

withabrokenlegandafearsomehangoverandthecoastguardwouldfindhim.Already,therewasahelicopterbuzzingaboutoverBrockTor.ThenMatthewcamein.He

hadbeenoffonhismorningwalk.Itwassonaturalforhimtobegoneatthattimeofdaythatwehadforgottenabouthim.Healreadyknew

thatthehousewasallwrong,thatnoneofuswaswhereweoughttohavebeen.Hecameinandsaid,‘SomethinghashappenedtoJohn,hasn’tit?’Mumspokeforthefirst

timesinceBobhadstartedcrying.Shesaid,‘Ineedadrink.’Shestoodup,walkedpastMatthewandlefttheroom.Matthewsaid,‘Corwin?’

Corwinwasstrangelyalert,hisnormallassitudegone,hislimbsneatlyarranged.Hesaid,veryprecisely:‘Dadfellofftheclifflastnight.’Thefamiliarfaceofmy

grandfatherdroppedaway,thefaceIalwayssawbecauseitwasthebelovedfacethatwasalwaysthere,andIsawhimashelookedtotheworld:oldandthin-haired,

hisbrown-splashedhandsshakingslightly.Heremainedstandingandlookeddownatthosehands,liftingthemandholdingthemapart.‘Where?’heasked.‘BrockTor.’Bobwascryingagain.

Matthewlookedaroundforachair,andCorwinjumpeduptofindhimone,takingitfromthewritingdeskinthe

cornerandsupportingMatthew’sarmashesat.HishandremainedonMatthew’sshoulder.MatthewlookedfromCorwintometoBob.Iheardtheclinkoficefallingintoaglassinthekitchen.Atlast,Matthewsaid,

‘Morwenna,dear.Bobseemstobeinsomedistress.Whydon’tyoumakehimacupof

teawhileCorwintellsmewhathashappened?’Inthekitchen,Mumwas

drinkinggin.Iputonthekettleandfishedaroundinthecupboardfortea.‘Who’sthatfor?’sheasked.‘Bob,’Isaid.‘Oh,forChrist’ssake,’

saidMum.‘Givethepoormanaproperdrink!’Andshegrabbedaglassandopened

thefreezerdoorandpulledouttheicetrayandpressedicecubesoutwithherthumbsasifshewerestranglingthechickens.Thenshefilledtheglasswithginandshoveditintomyhands.Thecoldoftheglasson

mypalmswokemeup.‘Idon’twanttogobackinthere,’Isaid.

Sheopenedhermouthtosaysomething,butinsteadglaredatmeandtuttedasshesnatchedtheglassfrommyhandandstrodeoffthroughthehall.Isatatthekitchentable.Theskywasthrush-eggblue,thetriangleofseabeyondthechurchspireadeepervelvetydamson.Somewhereoverthecoastpaththehelicopterbuzzed,

butIcouldnotseeit.Thedoorbellrang.Corwin

wenttoanswerit.Iheardhimgreetthepolicemenandleadthemintothelivingroom.Thenhecametothekitchen,tookmyhandandledmeupstairs,wherewelayonhisbed.Irestedmyheadonhisshoulderandhestrokedmyhairforaverylongtime.OnCorwin’sbedroomwallChe

Guevaragazedoffintothedistanceinarevolutionaryreverie.AndsuddenlyIbegantolaugh.Corwinsaid,‘Morwenna!Stopit.Whatthehellareyoulaughingat?’ButIcouldn’tstopit.

ThroughmylaughterImanagedtosay,‘CheGuevara!’Andthenhesawittoo.Andhestartedtolaughandwerolledoverontoour

stomachsandburiedourfacesinthepillowsothatnoonecouldhearusandweshookaswelaughedintothepillowbecauseitwastheend,yousee,ofalloursurrogatesympathies.Weweregoingtohavetoexperiencepainforourselves.

Ontheedgeofourworldpeoplesearchedformy

father.Thecoastguardweresendingabseilers,wehadbeentold,downthechine‘tohavealook’,whichItooktomean,‘forbitsofyourfather’sbrain’.Butthatbrilliantdayturnedouttohavebeenthelastdayofsummer.Intheafternoontherainscameover.Iftherewasanythingtofind,ithadbeenwashedaway.

Aftertwodaysofraincametheseamist.Trappedinourattic,CorwinandIwatcheditrollupthecombetowardsusandwrapitselfaroundthehouse.Itsattherelikethesuspensionoftime.Threedaysaftermyfather’sfall,Matthewcalledusalltogether.Thepolicewantedtospeaktous.Theywerenothopefuloffindinghimalive,

theysaid,asthoughthiswasnotobvioustous.Matthewsaid,inpain,‘Ah,well.Wehavelivedsolongwiththesea.Thetributeislongoverdue.’Mumletoutanincredulous

choking‘Christ!’AndCorwin,notmeaningto,laughed–butnotunkindly,andnotatanyoneinparticular.

MatthewplacedhishandoverMum’sandsaid,‘Valeriedear,it’stimetocalloffthesearch.’Herhandsflewtoherhead,

butheinsisted.‘Theseahashadhimnow,’hesaid.‘Believeme,dear.Wedon’twantwhat’sleftoverwhenshe’sdonewithhim.’Ithoughtofmyfatherin

thesea’sembrace.Heonce

toldmethatmermaidsmatewithdrowningmenandthatherememberedseeingamermaidfromthecabinsteps.Heknewthattheydidn’texist,hesaid,andthatshecouldnothavebeenreal.Butstill,hesaid,thememorywasclear.Shewasverydark,andnotatallpretty:‘Sly,shewas,’hesaid.Shescowledathimandslidintothewater.

Theresheis,onMatthew’smap,sittingonarock,hertailinthewater.Sheisthecolourofgranite,ofmackerel.

WhenMatthewsaidthatweowedtheseatribute,inthemomentbetweenMum’schokeofdespairandCorwin’slaugh,Ithought:Shewasjealous.Theseawasjealousofourmomentof

inattention,ouroneactoffireworship,andshetookmyfatherinretribution.But,ofcourse,Ihadto

remindmyself,itwouldprobablynothavebeenthewaterthatkilledmyfather.Itwouldhavebeentherock.

5.

Thehousewasbesiegedbywell-wishers.Therearefewcrueltiestocomparewiththesolicitudeofconcernedneighbours.Wehidinthehouse,notdaringtogoout.Offeringsbegantoappearonourdoorstep:chickenpies

andapplecrumblesandLancashirehotpots,labelledwithfreezinginstructions,asunwantedasthelittlecorpsesleftthereovertheyearsbyoursemi-feralcats–mice,voles,theodddisgustingrat,birds(alwaystomyfather’sdistress)and,once(tomine),arabbitkit.Someofthebolderand

morecurioussimplyopened

thefrontdoorandstrodeintoourhousetotendus.MayRowsell,whosepurplerinsecunninglydisguisedhersteelymeddlesomeness,tooktodroppingby,cominginwithoutknockingandchirruping,‘Justcheckingtoseehowyouare,dears!’WhenshetalkedtoMumhervoicetookonthesameEdwardianmusic-hall

contortionsthatsheappliedtoherappearancesinthosevillageentertainments,whichwereneveroverbeforeshehadmincedacrossthestageinahatandembroideredshawl,swingingabirdcageandsqueakingout‘MyOldMan’.CorwinandIthoughtaboutrescuingMumfromher,butdidn’tfeeluptoit.

Wedidn’tdarelockthefrontdoor,asthoughconsciousthatthiswouldcauseoffence.Ourbereavementplaceduponusthedutytoreceivesympathy.Matthewhidinhisstudy,CorwinandIinourrooms.OntherareoccasionswhenIventureddownstairsIencounteredyetanotherfamiliarfacedoing

‘somethinguseful’,likedusting,ormowingthelawn,orcarryingateatrayinthedirectionofmynot-quite-widowedmother.Finally,asifsummonedby

incantation,Mum’ssister,Jane,materializedoutofthemist.Sheappearedinthehallwayoneday,justasMayRowsellwasbusyingaroundcollectingupuntouchedmugs

ofcoldtea.MayandJaneappraisedeachotherandimmediatelyJanehadMay’smeasureandMaydisappearedonthespot,leavingbehindonlythefaintestpuffofDevonviolets-scentedtalcumpowderandatrayofmugsabandonedonthetablenexttothetelephone.

JanewasevenangrierthanMum,ifthatwaspossible.Thiswaswhatcameofdescendingtothecountry.Shestoodinthehallwayandprojectedhervoice:‘Hell-Ointhere!It’ssafetocomeoutnow!’CorwinandIjerkedtoattention,asthoughsomeonehadpulledonourstrings.Wewentdownstairs,whereJaneglinted,petiteandneat,ina

shinymackintoshandpatentleatherkittenheels.‘Where’syourmother?’

sheasked.Corwinjumpedthelast

twostairsandattemptedtowresttheadvantagefromJanebypretendingthatwehadaskedhertocome.‘Thankyousomuchforcoming,’hesaid,kissinghercheek.‘Mumisgoingtobe

sorelievedtoseeyou!’Heputhishandsonhershoulders.‘Letmetakeyourcoat.’Mumhadnotweptasingle

tearsincethedayofmyfather’sfall.Buttheheathadgoneoutofher,andshewasnowsheathedinacool,crispshell,whichrestrictedhermovements.Janeassessedher,andsaid,‘Youlook

terrible!I’mrunningyouabath.’Mumdidn’targue.Soonthescentsoflavenderandrosewafteddownthestairsfromthebathroom–aromatherapeuticweaponsinJane’sconstantbattleagainstthetwinevilsofageinganddowdiness.CorwinandIwereleft

aloneinthelivingroomforthefirsttimesinceBefore.

Theroomfeltallwrong–counterfeit.Itwasmissinganessentialbutintangibleelementthatmadeitourfamilyroom;myfather’spartofitsspirit,Ipresumed.Ifeltquitedetachedthinkingthisthought.Thespiritofahouseisorganic–itseemsalittlelopsidedafterpruning,butitsoongrowsin.

‘She’llbeabletoreplacethesofanow.’‘Layoff,Morwenna!’said

Corwin.Isatonthesofa.Ittruly

waslumpyandscratchyanduncomfortable.Iwasdeterminedtoloveit.WhenMumandJanere-

emerged,Mumhadadamp,propped-uplookabouther–likearagdollthathasbeen

droppedinapuddle,putthroughthewashing-machineandleanedagainsttheradiator.Janehadblow-driedMum’shairandmadeherputontheshiftdressthatshehadboughtformyfather’sChristmasworkdo.Janeorderedalightsupper

frommeandaperitifsfromCorwin.Iputonsomebootsandwenttogarnersalad.The

miststillhungoverthegarden,whichdroopedanddripped.Itwasinmourning.Therewereweedsamongtherootvegetables,thecourgetteshadswelledtomarrows,andanumberofoverripetomatoeshadfallenfromthevinesandlayrottingonthesoil.Ipulledattheweedsinahalf-heartedattemptatrescue,butitwas

nogood.Thegardenwasdoomed.AsIsnippedatthesaladleavesIthought:Shewilldigupthevegetables.Shewillgetridofthechickens.Shewillreplacethesofa.AndthenIrealized.Mumcoulddononeofthosethingsbecauseshecouldnever,now,wintheargument.Thedeepunfairnessofthisstruck

home.Nowondershewassoangry.

Therewasnobread.Matthewhadnotbeenseenforthelasttwodays,althoughIhadheardhimmovingaroundthehouseintheearlyhoursofthemorning.Icouldhearhimthinkinginthepausesinhisshuffle.Iwentandpressedmyeartothedoorofhis

study.Ifearedhearingthesoundsofgrief,buttherewerenone,soIknockedtentativelyatthedoor.‘Comein!’Iopenedthedoortothe

mingledsmellsofoilpaint,whitespirit,linseedoilandpipetobacco.Hestoodonasetoflibrarystepsinfrontofthemap,hispaintbrush

poisedbeneaththemagnifying-glass.‘Ah!Morwenna!’hesaid.

‘Haveyoubeensenttoextricateme?’‘Jane’shere.’‘Yes.Icansenseher

presence!’Hecarriedonpainting.‘I’vejustcomeacross

somethingveryinteresting,’hesaid.‘Ablasphemous

pamphleteer!Heseemsalsotohavehadalineindaubingslogansonwalls.Ifoundhiminthatfunnylittletractthere–no,notthatone.Theoneontheleft.’Ipickedupadog-eared

tractpublishedbytheVillageSermonSocietyforthePublicationofVillageSermons.

‘He’sreferredtoas“theinfamousblasphemerofBarnstaple”.SothenIwentlookingforhimelsewhere,anditoccurredtomethatImightfindhiminthememoirsofthatoldmagistrate,EzraHargreaves–youremember,hehadoneofthosebeardsthatyouhatesomuch,wheretheupperlipandchinareshaved.

Unfortunately,’saidMatthew,‘wedon’thavethewordingoftheblasphemies–theyweretootoxictorecord.’Matthew’ssketchbooklay

openonthetable,theoneIhadmadehimforChristmas:hand-stitched,boundinasoftbrownleathersothatitcouldeasilyslideintohisjacketpocket,numberedonthe

spine.Itlayopenatthepagewherethreecartoonsoftheunfortunateblasphemerweresketched:aforlornHogarthianfigurewiththemadgleamoftheproselyteinhiseye–aworkingman,rumpledandresentful.Ihadstoppedseeingthe

map.WhenwewereyoungerMatthewusedtohandusthemagnifying-glassandsay,

‘Look,children.Tellmewhatyoucanfind.’Thatwasthegame:discoversomethingnewonthemapandberewardedwithastory.NowMatthewsaid,‘What

doyouthinkwastheveryfirstthingIpaintedonthemap?’‘Thehouse?’Iventured.I

hadalwaysassumedthathehadstartedwithThornton,

butMatthewsaid,‘No.Ofcourse,everyonetendstomakethatassumption.ButIstartedhere,Morwenna.WiththeDevil.ItisThornton’sfoundingmyth,asyouknow.’Onthemap,theDevil

peeredbackoverhisshoulder,pointingtheapple-redcheeksofhisnakedbacksideatthechurchandfarting.Abovethesteeplethe

gilt-haloedheadofStMichaelfloatedonapairofwings,wearinganexpressionofgreatdecorum.IknewMatthew’sdevils.

Theydancedallaroundthemap.TheDevilhadleftstoriesalloverthecounty.Helikedtoleavehishoof-printsonourroofs:triptrap,triptrap,overtheslates,softly,softly,overthethatches.

Isaid,‘Matthew,youhavetocomeoutforsupper.’Matthewsighed.‘That

Jane,’hesaid.Heputdownhispalette.‘Shealwayswearssuchnoisyshoes!’‘AreyouOK?’Iasked.‘Morwenna!’hesaid.

‘Mustyoubesolazywithlanguage?Andwhatasillyquestion!’

Heclimbeddownfromhisladder.‘Youknow,Morwenna,’hesaid,‘Ihavealwaysbeenterrifiedofdrowning.’‘Iknow,’Isaid.‘TheCrab

Man.’‘Yes,’saidMatthew.‘ButIdoubtthatDad

actuallydrowned.’Helookedatmesharply.

‘I’mnotsure,mydear,that

thatthoughthelps.’‘No,’Isaid.‘Isuppose

not.’‘ThatJane,’saidMatthew.

‘Shehasalwaysbeensopurposeful.’

Janehadinsistedthatwelaythetableinthediningroom.Weneverateinthediningroom,butthiswasnotreallyameal:itwasaparley.

Matthewsatattheheadofthetable,JaneandMumononeside,CorwinandIontheother.ThepolishedmahoganyofthefurnitureandtheredvelvetcurtainsandbrownEdwardianwallpaperallmademethinkofacoffin–ared-velvet-linedmahoganycoffin,withbrasshandles.Awaveofclaustrophobiasweptover

me.Myfatherwouldnotlikeitinthere.ThenIrememberedthattherewouldbenocoffin.Matthewsmiledatusall.

‘Please,’hesaid,toJane,‘tuckin.’Heheldthebreadbaskettowardsher.‘I’msorrythatthere’snobread,’hesaid.‘I’vebeenneglectingmyduties.’ShetookfromitapieceofdampRyvita.Corwin

cuthimselfahugechunkofthecheesethatwehadfoundlurkingatthebackofthefridgeandfromwhichwehadremovedthemould.Iunderstoodthatwewerehungry,andthatthissaladinfrontofus,burstingwithtomatoesandradishesandspringonionsandboiledeggs,wassomehowmiraculous–blessedeven.

SuddenlyIhadanappetiteforthecommiserationfoodinthefreezer.Iwasgoingtoeatitall.Matthewsaid,‘I’msurewemusthaveabottleofwinesomewhere.Corwin,wouldyoufindsomewinetoofferourguest?’Corwin,whosecharmhad

beenslippingalittle,revivedandjumpedupfromthetable.Hewasremindedthatthere

wasnoweaponinJane’sarsenalaspowerfulasMatthew’samiability,andthischeeredhimenormously.Matthewturnedtome.‘Morwenna,dear.Glasses.’ItookfromthesideboardthecrystalglassesthathadlastbeenusedforChristmasdinner.Janepushedthesaladaroundonherplate.Shehadnibbledatinycardboard

cornerofRyvitaandabandonedit.Mumatenothing.ShesatandglaredwithafuriousdespairatMatthew,whowaseatingheartily,asthoughshewereabouttohurlherselfuponhissword.Corwincamebackwith

wineandpouredaglassforeveryone,evenJane,whoattemptedtodemur.Shewas

abouttosaysomething,butMatthewliftedaglassandsaid,‘Ithink,don’tyou,thatnowthatwearegathered,weshouldsayafewwordsaboutJohn?’CorwinandIstopped

eating.Janesatbackinherchairandmurmuredembarrassedassent.Mum’sexpression,fixedonMatthew,remained

combative.Underthetable,Corwintookmyhand.Matthewsaid,‘Wecan’tpretendtoshareourgrief.Eachofusisalonewithourownsenseoflossandwemaynotintrudeuponeachother’semotions.However,wemaymakeasimpletoast:toourbelovedJohn.Mayhissoulfindpeace.’

CorwinandImuttered,‘Dad!’Janepushedhernosetowardstheglasswithacat-likesniff,andMumlaughedandsaid,‘Christ,Matthew.Youalwayswereapompousoldarse!Buthere’stoJohn–orwhat’sleftofhim.’Theatrically,sheliftedherglassandtookagoodchallengingswig.‘YouandJohn!’shesaid.‘Allthat

trampingoverthecliffscommuningwiththeelements!’Shestoppedherself.‘OK,’shesaid.‘That’senoughofthat!Whathappensnext?’‘Well,’saidMatthew,

pushingoffgentlyonMum’swaveofhostility.‘Intheabsenceofabody,wehavetopetitionthecourttoissueadeathcertificate.’

‘Iknowallofthat,’saidMum.‘I’mnotanidiot.Iwastherewhenthatinfantpolicemanwasexplainingitalltous.Imeant,whathappenswithme?YourpleasantarrangementwithJohnwasbasedontheassumptionthatyouwouldcopitfirst,whichyouhaven’t.’

Corwinopenedhismouthtoframeaquestion,butMumsaid,‘Shutup,Corwin.Youkeepoutofthis.’‘Keepoutofwhat?’I

asked.IwasbeginningtorealizethatIwastheonlypersonintheroomwhodidn’tknowwhatwasunderdiscussion.‘Yourdearfatherand

grandfatherheldtheviewthat

itwastoovulgartodiscussmoneyandproperty,’hissedMum.‘Theyjustdidthistasteful,gentlemanly“Oneday,son,allthisshallbeyours”thing.Onlyitshan’t.’Janeallowedherselfa

smuglittlesipofwine,asthoughmodestypreventedhertakinganycreditforthequalityofMum’sperformance.

‘Mum,don’tyouthinkyou’rebeingjustalittlebitmelodramatic?’askedCorwin,inhisbestconciliatoryvoice.‘Oh,harkatyou,Little

LordoftheManor-in-waiting!’retortedMum.Theroomdarkenedashade

ortwo.Outside,themistwasthickening,and,whileourattentionhadbeendiverted,

thedayshadshortened.Thecoffinlidwasclosingonus.Ishouted,‘What’swrongwithyou?WhyareyoutakingitoutonCorwin?’‘Ah!Andthechatelaine

springstothedefenceofherbelovedbrother!’Mum’svoicewasbeginningtosoundmetallic.Janeputahandonherarm.Mumreachedforthe

wineandpouredherselfanotherglass.Matthewsaid,‘Valerie,

dear!Please!Thisisyourhome.Thereisnoquestionofyoubeingaskedtoleaveit.’‘Butitisn’t,isit?’‘Mum!’Corwinsaid.He

lookedolder.Ilookedolder.Icouldfeelitonmyface:alltheskinwaspullingdownaroundmyeyes.‘Pleasestop

this.’Hereachedacrossthetableandtookherhands.‘Please,justcalmdown.Wedon’tunderstandwhyyou’rebringingthisupnow.’Mumreturnedhisgripand

lookedathimsadly.‘You–plural–don’tunderstand?AreyouspeakingforMorwennatoo?’Shelaughed.‘Lookatthetwoofthem!Mybeautifulcuckoochildren!’

Andshepulledherhandsawayandstoodup.‘Thisiswhatwillhappen,’

sheexplained.‘Yourgrandfatherwillmakearrangementsforthehousetopassdirectlytoyoutwowhenhedies.Inthemeantime,untilsuchtimeasIcanclaimyourfather’slifeinsurance–whichwillnotbestraightforwardwithouta

body–Iamdependentuponyourgrandfather’scharity.Notthathecouldeverbeuncharitable.’IlookedatMatthew.Itwas

true,ofcourse.Hesaid,‘Valerie,whatelsecanIdo?’Somethingstirredinthe

mudofmybelly–aloathsomecreaturesquirmedthere:thehousewouldbe

ours,mineandCorwin’s.Nooneelsecouldmesswithit.Mumshruggedher

shoulders.‘Nothing,Matthew.There’snothingelseyoucando.’Shemovedtowardsthedoor.‘I’mgoingtopack.I’mgoingtospendacoupleofdayswithJane.’Matthewstoodup.‘We

needtotalkaboutamemorialserviceforJohn.Ithasbeen

almostaweek.Peoplewillwishtocondolewithus.’‘Yousortitout,’said

Mum.‘I’llbethere.’Leftalonewithus,Jane

allowedaflashofpanictocrossherface.Corwinsaid,‘Niceone,AuntJane!’Itwasameasureofhisangerthathecalledher‘Aunt’–itmadeherfeelold.

‘Ithasnothingtodowithme!’sheprotested.Corwinlaughedhis

scornfullaugh.Matthewwaspackinghisafter-dinnerpipeashealwaysdid,butIknewthathewasupset.Isaid,‘I’mgoingtotalktoher.’Shewasinherbedroom,

packing,surroundedbythingsofmyfather’s:hisbookandreadingglasseson

thebedsidetable,ajumperthrownoverachair.Isaid,‘Howcanyougoawayatatimelikethis?’‘Ican’tbreatheherewith

allofthis…’Shegesturedaroundtheroom.‘It’stoosad.Lookatthewindow–there’snoairhere.Ineedair.’Thedarkeningseafog

hungagainsttheglass.

Nothingwasvisiblebeyondit.Isaid,‘You’realwayssoweirdwhenJane’saround.It’sasifyourevertorsomething.’Mumstraightenedup,

dangerously.‘Revert?Reverttowhat,exactly?’‘ToJane!’Iwasshouting.I

hadnotfeltoutrageduntilIstartedshouting,butonceIdid,itseemedtomethatshe

wasunnatural,distorted–abandoningherownchildrentotheirbereavement.‘She’ssofucking…’IreachedfortheworstinsultIhadinmyvocabulary‘…bourgeoise!’‘Bourgeoise!Christ!You

evenputaneontheend?Youtwoaresomonstrous!Well,here’sthething,darling.NowthatyouandCorwinareeighteenIthink

you’reoldenoughformetorevealthatyouareboth,whetheryoulikeitornot,fullypaid-upmembersofthebour-geoi-sie!’Shebegancountingoutknickers.‘Youdon’tmeanbourgeoise,darling.Youmeansomethingelse.’Shealwaystookonepairofknickersforeachdaysheplannedtobeawayandanextrapair.Inoticedthat

shewaspackingseven.‘Suburban,perhaps.Yourfatherwasfondofthatone.Orwhatdoyouandyourfriendscallpeopleyouthinkarebeneathyou?Aspidistra?Isn’tthatit?’Iflinched.Thatwasour

word.Shehadnolicencetouseit.‘It’sallright,’saidMum,comfortably.‘Oneday,whenyougrowup,you’ll

lookbackandrealizewhatadisgustinglittlesnobyouwere.’Sheclosedthelidofher

suitcase.‘Now,here’ssomeadviceforyou,mothertodaughter–andyoucantakethatindignantexpressionoffyourface.YouandCorwinarefinewitheachother.Youalwayshavebeen.ThisisthebestadviceIamevergoingto

giveyou.Getyourselfacareer.Don’tgiveitupforyourhusband.Don’tgiveitupforyourchildren.Never,everallowyourselftobefinanciallydependentonsomeoneelse.Doyouunderstand?’Inodded.Itwassomething

IhadbelievedthatIbelieved,butnowIsawthattherewere

practicalitiesinvolved.Isaid,‘Don’tgo,Mum.Please.’‘Ineedabreak,darling.

Youcanseethat,surely?Ineedtogetawayfromyourgrandfatherandhisfuckingmap.Allshutawayinthatroomofhis.Whatkindofapersonworksonthesamepaintingforfiftyyears?Itgivesmethecreeps.’

Shegavemeahugandakissonthecheek.Therewerenotears.Infact,Ineversawhercryagain.AftershehadgoneIsaton

herbed.Iwonderedifshewouldeversleepthereagain.Ithoughtaboutstrippingthelinensothatshecouldcomehometocleansheets.Inthecorneroftheroomapatchofdampwascausingthe

wallpapertopeeloffthepreviouswallpaper,whichwaspeelingofftheonebefore,andsoon.That’sinteresting!Ithought.Allthoseforgottenwallpapers.Matthewwouldlikethat.Imustremembertoshowhim.Corwinwasstandinginthe

door.‘Whatareyoudoing?’‘Nothing.HasMumgone?’‘Yes.’

‘DoyoumissDadyet?’Iasked.‘Notyet.Doyou?’‘Notyet,’Isaid.‘ButI

supposewewill.’‘Yes,’saidCorwin.‘I

supposewewill.’

6.

Ourfriendshadallwrittentosaythattheydidn’tknowwhattosay.Imissedthem.ImissedthemmorethanImissedmyfather,whichbegantoalarmme.InmyroomIworkedonmypartinggiftforthem,aneditionof

fivelittleaccordionbooks,whichunfoldedtorevealthewaveringlengthofcoastfromtheheadlandtoThorntonMouthblind-stampedintothethicksoftwhitepaper.Abovethecoastline,printedinblueandstaggeredinawaytosuggestwaves,IhadsetthelinesofapoembyRobertFrostaboutlookingouttosea.Ihadsurprisedmyselfby

creatingsomethingpretty.Itwascalled‘NeitherOutFarNorInDeep’:ThepeoplealongthesandAllturnandlookoneway.Theyturntheirbackonthe

land.Theylookattheseaallday.

IhadplannedtomakeanextracopyforMatthew,buthehadremindedmeofhow

muchhefearedtheseaandIdidn’twanttoappeartactless.OnCorwin’sdeskapileof

envelopesinprettypastelcoloursaccumulated,whichsighedatthegorgeoustragedyofitall.BythetimewetookourAlevelsCorwinhadtrystedwithmostofthegirlsinthefifthandsixthforms.Theyallfellforhisbigwarmblackeyesandthick

darklashesandhewassochivalrous–ourfatherhadtaughthimalwaystoholdthedooropenandtooffertohelpwithheavybags.SexwasanextensionofcourtesyforCorwin–itseemedimpolitetobrushoffagirlwhowasgoingtosuchgreatlengthstobeliked,andhesubmittedtotheirneedforaffirmationinvariouswind-sheltereddipsin

thebeaches,orcornersofhousesvacatedfortheweekendbyparents.Nooneseemedtoresenthimforit.Hebegantoexperience

cabinfever.Wewerestillimprisonedbytheweatherandourfearofmeetingpeoplewhowouldaskushowwewere.Atlasthebrokedownanddemandedthatweleavethehouse.‘We’lltake

thebikes,’heannounced.‘Thatwaywewon’thavetotalktoanyonewedon’tlike.’Themisthadthinnedtoa

half-heartedrain,andweweresoakedevenbeforewegottothetopofthehill.Corwintookoffaheadofme,hisblackdrain-pipedlegspedallingmaniacally.Thenheswoopeddownthehillbetweenthecurving

hedgerows,hisarmsoutspread,hisoutsizeblackjumperflappinglikewings–Crow,liberated.Ifollowedmoreslowly.Ididn’tliketotakemyhandsoffthehandlebars.CorwindisappearedaroundabendandbythetimeIhadhimbackinmysightwewereoutfromundertherain,andthetownlaybelowusaroundthe

curveofTheSands,backingupintothehills,brightenedfromagapinthecloudsbyawashofcoolblue.Corwinstoppedtowaitforme.‘Onlythreemoreweeks!’

hesaid.‘Whydowehateitso

much?’Corwinshruggedhis

shoulders.‘It’saseasidetown,’hesaid.‘They’re

essentiallyunlovable.Theyneverdeliverwhattheypromise.’‘Oliverdoesn’thateit.’‘Oliverisinclinedtolove.’‘Whatdoesthatsayabout

us?’Iasked,suddenlypanicked.‘Iloveyou,’saidCorwin.

‘That’senough.’‘Yes,’Iconceded.‘I

supposeso.AndMatthew,’I

added.Forthefirsttime,Ifelt

apprehensiveaboutbeingseparatedfromCorwin.‘Iwishyouweren’tgoingsofaraway,’Isaid.‘I’llbeback.’Welaiddownourbikes

andsatonthewetgrassattheedgeoftheroad.Theseawasiron–hardandunforgiving.

‘Matthewhasn’tsaidanythingmoreaboutamemorialservice,’Isaid.‘HethinksMumshouldbe

involved.’‘There’ssomethingwrong

withus.’‘Theyjustneedtime.’SuddenlyIcouldnotbear

theideaoftown.‘Let’sgotothecabin,’Isaid.

Corwinwinced.‘Wecan’tgodowntothecabin.’‘Whynot?’‘Haven’tyounoticedthat

Matthewhasn’tbeendownsince?’Ihadnotnoticed.Howhad

Inotnoticed?Matthewnormallywentdowneverynightafterdinner.Thebileburnedatmythroat.Isuddenlyunderstoodwhyhe

hadstoppedgoing.Hewasworriedaboutwhatthecurrentsmightdeliver.Corwinslottedhisfingersbetweenmineandforawhilewesaidnothing.‘Whatwillwedowhen

Matthewdiesandweinheritthehouse?’Iasked.‘Iguesswe’llendupliving

init,eventually,whenwe’reolder.Whenwe’vedone

somethingwithourlives.We’llfeeldifferentlyaboutit.Itwillbeours.’‘What?Withourspouses

andourhordesofchildreninsomekindofhippiecommune?’‘I’llnevergetmarried,’

saidCorwin.‘Orhavechildren.Theworldisovercrowdedenoughalready.No–Imeanwhenwe’reold

andrunoutofsteam,whenwe’veseentheworldandarereadytowatchtheseaandgrowvegetables.I’vealwaysjustassumedthatyouandIwillendupbackheresomehow.Ipictureyouwithyourhairinagreybunandwearingalongapron,withmestandingnexttoyouholdingapitchfork!’

‘Oh,please!AndwhatifIwanttohavechildren?’‘Youshouldhavechildren

ifyouwant.’IwasnotsurethatIdid

want.ButafuturewithouthusbandorchildrenandwithonlyCorwininit–andafewchickens?Maybeagoat?Myfatherhadalwayswantedagoat.Icouldnotseeit.OnthepointofescapeCorwinwas

talkingaboutreturn.Icouldonlyimaginewalkingonandout,outofMatthew’scircleandaway.‘Let’smakeavow,’

Corwinsaid,suddenlyandenthusiastically.Helikedbigbindingpromises.‘Let’sswearnevertomarryorhavechildrenandtobeoldtogetheratThornton.’

‘HowarewegoingtoaffordThornton?We’regoingtohavetoselliteventually.And,anyway,no!Ican’tsweartothat.’‘WehavetokeepThornton

going.Wehavenochoice.’‘Yes,wedo.Wehavea

choice!’Corwin’scalmassumption

thatheandIwoulddecayanddieatThorntonwhispered

dreadintomyear.Aworldtwenty-fourmilesindiametermightbesufficientforMatthew,butnotforme.Untilthatmoment,Matthew’smaphadalwaysbeenanendearingeccentricity:oneman’sonepainting,nevertobecompleted.‘Awholeworldiscontainedhere,’hepreached.‘Sufficientforalifetimeof

discovery.’Andthenhewouldwavehiswalkingstickatsomeshypatchofcolourinthehedgerow,andshout,‘What’sthat,then?’And,whenwedidn’tknow,wewereliketheunbelieversinPeterPan:somewhere,theflowerofararefleabaneorspeedwellwiltedonitsstalk;Matthewhearditsdyingscream.‘Youareappalling

children,’hewouldsaygood-naturedly.‘Ignorantasstone!Whichmightbeexcusable,ifyoupossessedanycuriositywhatsoever!’Now,forthefirsttime,IsawthemapasperhapsMumsawit:slightlysinister–asifhewroughtsomesubtlemagicintheunendingpaintingofitthatboundustoThornton.

‘Thisisanabsurdconversation,’Isnapped.‘Stopit!’‘OK!’saidCorwin,and

stoodup,pullingmetomyfeetafterhim.Wepickedupourbikes.‘Stillwanttogoback?’heasked.‘No,’Isaid.‘Let’scarry

on.It’stimetofacehumanity.’

MumreturnedfromJane’scomposedandgenerous,justafterourAlevelresultscameout.‘Darlings,’shesaid.‘I’msoproudofyou!’Herhairwasasilkychestnutbobandshehadacquiredajacketwithshoulderpads.‘Ireallyhadbeenlettingmyselfgo,’sheconfidedtome.‘Youknow,yourfatherneverexactlyembracedchange.Andnow

you’releaving!’sheadded,startlingly.‘It’sagoodthing,darling.Really.Ishouldhavepersuadedyourfathertomove.Iwasn’tdoinganyofusanyfavoursbybeingsobiddable.’CorwinandIsuspected

Janeofarrangingforsomedoctortoprescribeanti-depressantsforMum,andwewentthroughherthingsone

afternoonwhenshehadgoneintotown,andthroughherhandbagwhenshereturned,butwefoundnoevidencetosupportourtheory.Matthewhadresumedhis

eveningwalkstothesea.Timewaspoolingintothespaceleftbymyfather.SoonthatspacewouldfillandIwouldnothavemournedhim.Thethoughtfilledmewith

panic.MumandMatthewwerestillstandingoffoverthememorialservice.CorwinbegantopackforIndia.‘There’ssomethingwrong

withus,’Isaid.InthekitchenMumhummedalongtoacoupleofbarsoftheArchersthemetune.‘It’sbecausehe’snotatrest,’Isaid.‘There’sareasonpeoplehavefunerals.

Youhavetosendtheirsoulsacross.’‘Acrosswhat?’asked

Corwin.‘Acrosswhateveris

betweenusandtheotherside,whereverthatis.’Iimaginedaflamingboatonastilltide.‘Weneedaceremony,’I

said.‘Ican’tbeartothinkofhissoulbeingstuck.’Atthe

bottomofthesea,Ithought,entangledinseaweed.Corwinrolledupapairof

patchedjeansandstuffedthemintothebatteredoldKarrimorrucksackthathadbeenthecrowninggiftofChristmas1983.‘Idon’tbelieveinit,’hesaid.‘Inwhat?’‘Inanyofit–theafter-life,

thesoul.Andneither,

incidentally,didDad.’‘Yes,hedid!Hebelieved

inthesoul,atleast.Hethoughteverythinghadasoul.’‘No,hedidn’t,’said

Corwin.‘Hebelievedinsomeoverarchingprincipleofnature,butnotinindividualsouls.’‘That’sit,then?Wejust

leave?Ican’tbearit,’I

shouted.‘Ican’tbearthenothingnessofit.There’ssomethingwrongwithus!’‘Whydoyoukeepsaying

that?You’regettinghysterical.There’snothingwrongwithus!’Buttherewas.‘Ithinkit’s

agoodthingwe’regoingourseparateways,’Iyelled,andrandownstairstocomfortmyselfwithMatthew,buthe

wasnotinhisstudy.Iwasjustabouttoleavetheroom,whenitoccurredtometoconsultthemap.Iwondered,fearfully,whatitwouldhavetosayaboutallthis.IforcedmygazetoBrockTorandbracedmyselftoseeafallingfigure,buttherewasnone.Matthewcouldhardlybeexpectedtopainthisownson’sdeath,buttheomission

upsetme.Iwonderedifhehadputmyfatherinthewater,andreachedforthemagnifying-glassonthedesk.ButIlostcourage,anddidn’tseekhimthere.Ireplacedthemagnifying-glassandlefttheroom.InsteadIsearchedthe

houseforaboxwithakey,andemptieditofitscontentsandtookittoCorwinand

MatthewandMumandaskedeachtoputinsomethingassociatedwithmyfather.‘So,youhaveJohn’ssentimentalstreak,afterall!’saidMum,butsadlyenoughformetoforgivehertheaspersion.Noneofuswastolookinthebox–simplyslipintheobject,sothatwewouldnotknowwhathadgoneintoit.Ithadtobea

secretbetweeneachofusandmyfather’smemory.Itstillisasecret.ThenItooktheboxtothekitchengardenandblindlyinsertedatrowelfulofsoilbeforelockingit.OnarisingtideIwalkedto

BrockTorandpushedthroughthegorsepatchtostandabovethechine.Fedbyallthatrainfall,thestreamnowshotoutofthecliff.To

thenorth-easttherewasablacksheetofrain,butwhereIstoodthesunshoneandtherewasalightonshorewind.Iforcedmyselfcloseenoughtotheedgetobeabletohurltheboxoverthewaterfallandintothecovebelow.Itfloatedthereforawhile,slowlynudgedbythetidetowardsafissurebetweentwoup-facingblades

ofgraniteatthebaseofthecliff.Whatifitdidn’tsink?Orbreakup?Whatifitwasheduponthebeach?ThatwasnotwhatIwantedatall.Awavecameoverandgrounditintotherock.Itbobbedbackup,adarksmudgeondarkwater,asthoughindefiance–ofme,soitseemed.Butthenanotherwavehithardand,

withdrawing,draggedtheboxalongajaggedridge,whereittwistedandbouncedviolentlyinthewhitewater.Thenextwaveslammeditunderthecliff,outofview.Therainhadreachedmenow,butIstoodandwaitedforalongwhiletoseeiftheboxwouldreappear.Itdidn’t.

AthomeCorwinasked,‘Well,diditwork?’‘No,’Isaid.‘Notreally.’‘Well,thereyougo,’he

said.‘Don’tsayIdidn’ttellyou.’

Butperhaps,afterall,theboxperformedsomeactofrelease,becausethateveningMatthewcalledafamilysummitandwesetadatefor

amemorialservice.Theconventionssoothedus,andwewerekindertoeachother.WeagreedtoaskMarkLuscombetodelivertheeulogy,mainlybecause,aslocalGPandchairmanoftheThorntonPlayers,hecouldbetrustedtobeheardinthebackseats.Webookedcaterers,andinformedpeopleofthedate,andchattedwiththe

vicar,andchosepassagesfromtheBiblethatsoundedsecularenoughforourtastes,andgenerallybehavedasiftherewereabodytoburyorburnandtakeourleaveof.Wedressedinblack.Iput

oneachitemcarefully–blacktights,blackblouse,blackvelvetskirt,blackshoes.Itwasfittingandcalming,andwhenIlookedatmyselfin

themirrorIsawsomeoneinmourningandfeltrelief.Atthechurchporchwegreetedpeopleinthehoneyedautumnsun.Theairsmeltsweet,ofleavesontheground.Insidethechurch,wesatin

thefrontpew.‘Lostatsea,’whisperedthechurchwalls.‘Lostatsea.’Thechurchwasfull.Ihadnevernoticedthatanyofthesepeopleknewmy

father.Theycriedatthemovingbits.Marktalkedaboutmyfather’sloveofmusicandnature,hisgentlesmile.Thenhesaid,‘JohnalwaysmademethinkofSirGalahad.Hewasuncorruptedbythevicesofourage.Hewaschivalrous.Hewaspureofheart.Andhewasonaquest–forhispersonalHoly

Grail,hisperfectfifteenacres.’Thisraisedanaffectionate

melancholylaugh,butitwasunfortunate.TheclosestmyfatherandMatthewhadevercometoarowwastwoyearsearlier,whenMatthewinsistedonsellingofftheremainingacresofwhathadoncebeenThorntonFarmtothefarmerwholeasedthem

fromhim,andwhopromptlyacquiredplanningpermissiontobuildacaravansite.Myfatherhadalwaysharbouredideasthathewouldfarmthemhimselfoneday.Itwasnotarealisticdream.Mumneverbelievedthathecouldmakeitwork.Inthedry-eyedfrontpew,ItookMatthew’shandandsqueezedit.ButatthesametimeIcaughta

glimpseofsomethingdarkandformless,thebeginningofathoughtthatIcouldnotyetcomplete.Aprocessionofpeople

passedintoourhouseandbeforemyeyesinajumblingoffragmentsofmychildhoodthatmademefeel,foramoment,asifIweretheonemovingintothenextworldwithmylifeunfoldingbefore

me.IwashuggedinturnbyWillow,MickeyandOliver,whowould,orcould,notstopcrying,perhaps,Ithought,becausehefeltithisdutytocryonmybehalf.Hesobbedonmyshoulder:‘Ireallylovedyourfather!’Ihadhadnoidea.Icouldnotimaginewhenhehadhadtheopportunitytolovemyfather.CorwinchattedwithSandra

Stowe,whichwasagrossbetrayal.SandraandIwereold,oldenemies.Sheprobablycouldn’trememberwhyanymorethanIcould.AssoonasIhadtheopportunityIhissedatCorwin,‘What’sshedoinghere?’‘ShewasfondofDad.’‘Whatdoyoumeanshe

wasfondofDad?Shedidn’t

evenknowDad!’Clearly,Corwinhadslept

withherwhenIwasnotpayingattention.‘Ofcourseshedid,’saidCorwin.‘Sheusedtocomeoverwithherdadwhenweweresmall.Tryandbenice!’‘Shewasalittlethug!’‘No.Youwerealittlethug

–youusedtobeateveryoneupwithwords.’

‘Shestartedthewhole“Morwennathewitch”thing.’‘Idoubtthat,’saidCorwin.

‘Andifshedid,youprobablyprovokedher.Anyway,youwerebothaboutseven!’‘Well,I’llgiveherone

thing.She’snotpig-facedandpregnantyet.Althoughitcanonlybeamatteroftime.’Whenmostoftheguests

hadleftwesneakeduptoour

roomswithourfriends.MickeysatdrunkenlyonthefloornexttoCorwin’srecordplayer,puttingonsongsandtakingthemoffagainbeforetheywerefinished.Hewastryingtofindthedefinitivesong,theonethatwouldsuspendthemomentinamber,buthefailed.

Oliver,Ithought,hadleftearly,butthenextmorningwhen,afterarestlesssleep,Iwentdownatsix,Ifoundhiminthekitchenmakingtea.‘Ithoughtyou’dgone.’‘Icrashedonyoursofa,’he

said.‘Ididn’tthinkyou’dmind.’‘No,’Isaid.‘OfcourseI

don’t.’

Oliver’sfacewasfullofconcernforme.‘Howareyoudoing?’heasked.‘Fine.Ithink,’Isaid.

‘Yesterdaywasnice…’Icorrectedmyself,‘Imean,itwaswhatitoughttohavebeen,don’tyouthink?’Henodded,butina

slightlymasculine,disapprovingway.Myanswerhadbeeninadequate.

‘Whenareyouoff?’Iasked.‘Thursday.’‘Waitthere,’Isaid.‘I’ve

gotsomethingforyou.’Oliverhadnotbeeninthe

roomwhenIhadhandedoutmyleavingpresents.Iwentupstairs,retrievedthelastaccordionbookandputitintohishands.Hegentlypulledontheslenderribbonthat

heldthepagesinplace,andunfoldeditonthekitchentable.Hiseyesscannedtheverses.Whenhelookeduptheyweretearful.‘Don’tbesadforus,

Oliver,’Isaid,becausehecouldn’tspeak.‘We’llbeallright.’‘It’slovely,’hesaid

finally.Hesmiled.‘It’sourchildhood.’

Iwaspleased.YoucouldalwaystrustOlivertounderstandtheimportantpoint.Hefoldeditbacktogetherandcarefullytieditup.‘Thanks,’hesaid.‘I’dbetterbegoing.’‘I’llgowithyouasfaras

thefootbridge,’Isaid.Wewalkeddownthehillin

silence;themorningwaschilly,blueedgedwithgold.

AswepassedthelichgateOliverasked,‘Doyouthinkthishaschangedyou?’‘Probably,’Isaid.Iremember,now,hislook

ofslightdisappointment.Ioughttohavebeentransfiguredbysomethingsomomentous.Atthefootbridgewehuggedgoodbye,andhewalkedontowardsthecoast

path,hislonghairshininginthelowsun.Istoppedatthechurchon

thewaybackup,satandreadthememorialtabletsforawhile,thenambledhome.Andaweekortwolaterweallscatteredofftoouradulthoodsandbegantoforgeteachother.

7.

CorwinleftforIndia.IgavehimthecopyofKeeptheAspidistraFlying.Ire-readitrecentlyand,ofcourse,itisacompletelydifferentstoryfromtheoneIremembered.Inthesixthformwereaditasanoblebattleagainstthe

MoneyGod.GordonComstockwasourhero.Ihadforgottenthathefailstoescapetheconventionalcourseofjob,wife,child,andaspidistraontheoccasionaltable.IwenttoLondon.

Nowadays,itisallshiny,withpalepressure-washedpavementsandalfrescofoamycoffee.Wehave

stoppedworryingaboutMutuallyAssuredDestructionandthedemiseofthetradeunionsandweworshiptheMoneyGodwithoutshame.ButtheLondonthatIfoundwhenIfirstarrivedwasdepressiongreywithtired,smoke-filledbuses.Coffeewasinstant,thepavementslinedwithalfrescosleepers,young,male,

northernorScottish.TherewerenoPoles,Bulgarians,EstoniansorRussians.TheywereallcorralledbehindtheIronCurtain,whichatthetimeseemedunfaironthem,butalsotokeepthemsafe,atleast,fromMargaretThatcherandThe-Americans.Therewerethreestudenttribes:thePolitical(donkeyjackets,DrMartensboots),theApolitical

(vintagepillboxhats,mohairbatwingjumpers)andtheTories(stripesandpearls,rugbyshirts).SafelybeyondtherangeofCorwin’ssocialconscience,mysenseofoutrageatinjustice,bothnationalandglobal,dissipated.Itwassad,itreallywas,forallthoselostyoungmenalongtheStrandandunderWaterlooBridge,butit

hadeverbeenthus(Itookcomfortfromthephrase–itlentacertainhistoricaldistancetotheproblem).ItooktorootingaroundOxfamshopsandwearingdiamantébroochesandclickedonuncomfortablesixtiesstilettoheelspastthebucketsrattledattheuniversitygateonbehalfofThe-PalestiniansandThe-Sandinistas.

AlreadybytheChristmasbreakofmyfirstyear,Thorntonseemedimprobable.IwasfarmorecomfortablealoneamongtheshoalsofsolitudesslippingthroughLondonthanIhadbeenintimatelysharingthecavernouslonelinessofthecoast.IbegantothinkofThorntonasacaricatureofitself,onepopulatedbythe

creaturesthatinhabitedMatthew’smap.Mumsuggestedthatwe

spendtheChristmasholidaysinLondon.‘ItwilljustbetoogriminThornton,darling!I’mgoingslightlymad–Iactuallymissyourfatherpotteringaboutinhisvegetablepatch!AndMatthewandIhavenothingtosaytoeachothersowe

havetobemeticulouslypoliteallthetime,whichisutterlyexhausting!Let’sgoout.I’lltakeyoushopping.’Iwasglad.Ihadbeen

dreadingChristmas.Matthewwouldn’tcomeup,ofcourse,soMumstayedinahotelandwemetuponthestepsoftheNationalGallery.‘Darling,youluckything!’shesaid,overtea.‘Iusedtolove

cominghere.Myparentsusedtobringme–asyouknow,theydidn’thaveanimaginativeboneintheirbodies,buttheyhadtheideathatyoungladiesshouldlookatart.’Mymaternalgrandparents

hadbeenoldparents,andmymemoryofthemwasfragmented.Irememberedhousessidebyside,sloped

driveways,hydrangeas,acresofcarpet,alotofrules.Childrenwerenotallowedinthedrawingroom.‘Actually,’Mumsaid

defiantly,‘I’mthinkingofsigningupforanart-historydegree.’‘Oh,God,no!Really?’‘Why,’askedMum,icily,

‘wouldyousaythat?’

‘Well,it’ssuchacliché,isn’tit?Bored,middle-class,middle-agedhousewivesandallthat.’‘Thankyou,darling.

You’realwayssotactful!’Butwhenwewalked

aroundthegallery,Icouldseethatsherespondedtothepaintings–drewenergyfromthem.Shesighedasweleft.‘Ofcourse,’shesaid,‘Icould

neverpersuadeyourfathertocometoLondon.Hedidn’tseethepoint.’‘Idon’tseewhythat

stoppedyoucoming.’Mumsmiled.‘Well,

Morwenna.You’reeighteen.Youwouldn’t.’

AsIsettledintomyLondonlife,IthoughtoftenofCorwinandMatthew,rarely

ofmymotherandalmostneverofmyfatherandbegantoresignmyselftomylimitedcapacityforlove.Itwassufficient,Itoldmyself,toloveonlytwopeopleandnottowhorearoundwithmyaffections.Theenthusiasticandindiscriminateflirtationsofmyfellowstudentsappalledme–theirprofligatecopulations,allthatmascara-

streakedpost-coitalregret.Imade…notwhatIcouldcall‘friends’yet,butcloseenough.WemetbetweenlecturesintheNelsonMandelaBaranddrankhalf-pintsofGuinness,andattheweekendswetooknever-endingbusjourneystogotopartiesinVictorianterracesinpartsoftowntooobscureeventobelabelled

unfashionable.Wedancedearnestlyinflock-wallpaperedrooms;thecheaplinoonthekitchenfloorsswamwithbeer.Wesleptonsofas.IttookallofSundaytofindthewayhome.ToCorwinIwroteof

other,moreimportant,things.How,onthesehomingSundays,Igatheredgiftstomyself:thecirclesofgas

holdersagainstthunderclouds;theprofanepoetryofadrunk’srantings;theblueofpaintedangels’wings.Hisrepliescameonflimsyairmailpaper.AfterawhileInoticedthathisletterswerefullofpeopleandminewerenot.

Thatfirstsummer,whenCorwincamebackfrom

India,Ifoundhimalittlelesslikehimself.Or,perhaps,hemademefeellesslikemyself:pallid,toosharpinmymovements.Or,perhaps,wewereeachmorelikeourownselves.TherewasanIndianlanguorstillinhislimbs,andhisskinwasverydark.Withhisblackhairandeyeshelookedasthoughhehadbeenclaimedforthe

south.HeshiveredintheJulysunshine.(Itpassed.Hisskinpaledandhesoonspeededupagain.Butlater,whenhisperiodsawaybecamemuchlongerthanthoseathome,hewouldfindithardertoresethimself.)Thehousewasalittle

shabbier–thiswashowwefeltourfather’sabsence,inthestiffdoorhandles,the

swellingofthewoodendraining-boardaroundthesink,thedripofthebathroomtap.Afoxhadtakenadvantageoftheneglectedchickenrun,andhadmadeoffwiththechickens.Myfatherhadbeensoquietthatweonlynoticednowhowhisconstantactivityhadresoundedlikeabassnotethroughourlives.Thornton

wasstrangelysilentwithouthim.‘Imustgetamanin,’saidMatthew,sadly.Ontheanniversaryofour

father’sdeath,Mumheldafamilydinnerinthegarden.Shelaidoutawhitetableclothandtheancestraldinnerservice,allsetoffwithavaseofflowersfreshlypickedfromthegarden.Weatesummerfood–gazpacho

andfreshbread,lightlysteamedcourgettestossedinoliveoilandlemonjuicewithchar-grilledchicken,latestrawberries.Whenwehadfinishedeating,Matthewbroughtoutthecoffeeandtheporcelainteacups.Hehadsavedthecreamfromthetopofthemilkfortheoccasion.Corwintalked.Hehad

discoveredhisvocation.He

wouldmovewater!Allthatwater,allhischildhood,howcouldheeverhaveimagined,clingingtohishot-waterbottleatnight,underthedamp,scratchyblankets,thedesertandthedrought?Howthesoilturnstodust?‘Theyusesprinklerstokeepthecountryclubsgreen!’hesaid.Therewasanewnotetohisscorn,Inoticed,aquiet,

tensionedzeal.‘Thewatermainsareonlyswitchedonfortwentyminutesaday,andtherichhavelawns!It’ssomeinsanecolonialhangover!’Matthewwasstuffinghis

pipewithtobacco.Hedidn’tknowwhattosay.Hehadspentdecadestraininghimselftoavoidtheunpleasant.Inthevasewerebrightorangecrocosmia,red

andpinkroses,purplesalvia.IthoughtofallthecoloursofIndia,thedustybangledankles.Iwouldnevergothere.IthoughtoftheconstantunconsciousadjustmentofthesarisofthewomenpickingoverthevegetablestallsofBrickLane,andofthosesarishiddenunderwintercoats,ofallthegreysofLondon.

‘Andswimming-pools!’addedCorwin.‘Well,Ithinkit’s

admirable!’saidMatthew,standingup.‘Mostadmirable.Waterengineering!Johnwouldhavelikedthesoundofthat.’Heexcusedhimselfandwenttopayhiseveninghomagetothesea.Therewaslessofhim.Myfather’sdeath

haddiminishedhim,wornhimawayattheedges.Mumleanedbackintoher

chairandsmiledandsighed,‘Mybeautifulchildren!’Andmeantit,foronce.Thiswasagiftfromhertohertwins–food,wine,maternalpride–areprieve.Becausecoiledupinherbreastwasthenews,whichshedeliveredtousoverthethickdregsofthe

coffee,thatshewasmovinginwithFuckOffBob.‘Well,darlings,’shesaid,

‘Iwasn’texactlyexpectingyoutobeoverthemoonaboutit.ButIamentitledtoloveafterwidowhood.Youcan’texpectmetosquatherewithMatthewfortherestofmylife.’Corwingavemyanklea

lazykickbeforeIcouldrefer

toBob’srepugnantgropinghands.Hedidn’tpretendtobediscreetaboutit.ItwassimplythatweallknewwhatIwasthinkingandthattherewasnopointinrevisitingthesubject.‘Ofcoursenot,Mum,’he

said.‘We’regladyou’vefoundsomeone.We’llgetusedtotheidea.Andyou’relookinggreat,bytheway.’

Shewaslookinggreat.Someofit,presumably,wasmerrywidowhood,butsomeofitwasnew,expensive,clothing.Bought,Irealized,nowthatIwaspayingattention,withBob’smoney,whichhehadmadefromhislucrativeantiquesandarchitecturalsalvagebusiness,builtupbyprisingfamilyheirloomsfromsenile

widowsenteringnursinghomes.Somuchforimpassionedspeechesaboutfinancialindependence,Ithoughttosay,butIrestrainedmyself.‘Iwon’t,’Isaid,

recalcitrant.‘Iwon’tevergetusedtoit.’‘Well,darling,’saidMum,

magnanimously,

‘graciousnesshasneverbeenyourstrongpoint.’Corwinlaughed,took

Mum’shandandkissedit.‘Ah,it’sgoodtobehome!’Hesighedand,keepingholdofMum’shand,reachedtotakemine.Iacquiesced.Ifoundthathewasnotsoaltered,afterall.Hisvirtuewasstillintact.Itwasstillthe

mostirritatingthingabouthim.‘DoesMatthewknow?’I

asked.‘Ofcourse.’‘And?’‘Andwhat?Whatdoeshe

thinkaboutit?Isthatwhatyou’reasking?Well,darling,he’sfartoopolitetotellmewhathethinks,butcertainlyheunderstandsabout

widowhood,andaboutloneliness.Andhe’llbegladtoseethebackofme.’Avastbankofludicrously

puffycloudshadformedabovethetreesandhadtakenonashadeofgoldsofiercethatitappearedasthoughaheavenlyhostwasabouttoeruptfromthemtodeliverblessinguponMumandBob’streacherouscouplings.

Mumsmiledattheskiesandbaskedinthewarmthofherownindifference.IletgoofCorwin’shand.

‘I’mgoingdowntothecabin,’Isaid.

AtThorntonMouth,Matthewsatonthecabinstepswatchingacoupleofsurfers.Isatdownnexttohim.Itwassorestful,thewaythathe

rarelycommentedonarrivalsordepartures.Thesurferswereseal-shadowsonthedarkeningswell;theywerelosingtheirlight,butstilltheywaitedforthejust-one-more.‘Howpatienttheyare!’saidMatthew.‘Theyshouldcomein.’‘Ah!’saidMatthew.‘You

aretootimorous!Ithas

alwaysbeentheVentoncurse.’‘Ithoughtseasicknesshad

alwaysbeentheVentoncurse.’‘Well,intheVentonsit

amountstothesamething.Wedreamofcrossingthesea,butweareconstitutionallyincapable.’‘Corwin’snottimorous.’I

pickedupablackpebblewith

athickwhitestriperunningthroughitandbalanceditontheflatofmypalm.‘Well,hegetsthatfrom

yourmother.’‘Shejusttoldusabout

Bob.’‘Yes,Icanseethat.’Suddenly,oneofthe

surfersfoundawaveandwasupontheboard,zigzagging

hiswayalongtheedgeofthesunset.‘Iactuallyfeelsick!’‘Howyouexaggerate,

Morwenna,’saidMatthew,mildly.Iputthepebbleinmy

pocket.‘Ido!Ifeelsick!’‘It’sallmindovermatter,’

saidMatthew.‘Doesn’titbotheryou?’‘Whyshouldit?’

Thesurferswerepaddlingin.Matthew’spipeglowedinthetwilightashesuckedonit.Ifoundmyselfresentfulofthepipe:itseemedunnecessarilyanachronistic.‘BobwasDad’sbest

friend!’‘Well,then.Thatgives

themalotincommon.’‘Andit’ssosoon!’

‘Morwenna,dear,Idowondersometimesatyoursimplicity.Yourmotherisonlyforty-two.Sheistooyoungtositinmourning.ThatwouldbethelastthingJohnwouldhavewanted.Healwaysregrettedthatitwasnotinhisnaturetobemore…demonstrative.Valeriesufferedalittleunderhisself-sufficiency,youknow.’He

knockedouthispipe,thenpattedmyknee.‘Let’sgobackup.’‘No.’Isulked.‘I’mgoing

tosleephere.’Iwatchedhimdisappear

intothedarkbelowthecliff,andlistenedtohisfootstepsontheshingleuntilthesoundwentunderthatofthewaves.Thesurfers,too,weremakingtheirwayupthebeach

towardsthesteps.Iwentinsideandlaydown,belowthephotoofGreat-grandfatherJames,whonevermadeittoAmerica,alonewithmyill-feeling.IwastheonewhosufferedunderCorwinandMatthew’ssanctimony.IfelthomesickforLondon,wheretheirjudgementofmeevaporatedintothepollutedair.Ittook

mealongtimetofallasleep,andwhenIwokeitwastothesoundofseagullssquabblingbeneaththewindow.Theywerefightingoversomethingrotten,retchedupbythetide.ItwasdaybreakandIwas

cold.Imademywayhomethroughthegorseandthesleepysheep.Myfeetweresoakedwithdew.AthomeIsatonCorwin’sbed,willing

himtowake,staringathimsohardthateventuallyheopenedhiseyesandasked,‘Whattimeisit?’‘Five-ish.’‘I’mnotpreparedtotalk

aboutit,’hesaid,turningover.‘Ithasnothingtodowithus.Gotobed.’‘CanIcrawlinwithyou?’‘Aslongasyoudon’t

moveorspeakbeforenine.’

Iclimbedinbesidehim,fullydressed,andlayverystillonmyback.Itbegantorain.Thewaterwasslidingdowntheslates,alongthegutters,downthepipesandintothedrains.Somuchwater.

8.

TwodayslaterMummovedout,takingnothingmorewithherthanwouldfitintothebackofBob’scar.Bob’slockshadbeenshorn–adirectiveofMum’s,Ihadnodoubt.Corwinhelpedtoloadherbagsintotheboot,and

Bobwassogratefultohimforreleasinghismotherwithoutafussthatheaccidentallycalledhim‘mate’,thenblenchedwithembarrassment.Iscowledatthemallfromthedoorstep.BobpulledoutofthedrivewaywithMum’shandwavingfromtheopenpassengerwindow.

Intheparentalbedroom,theduvetwasfoldedbacktoair.Iopenedthewardrobedoors.Onmyfather’ssidewasaneatstackofcardboardboxes,onMum’sasinglebox.Corwinlifteditoutandputitonthebed.Atthetopoftheboxlayacardboardfolderlabelled‘C&Mdocuments’.Itcontainedourbirthcertificatesandoldschool

reportsandexercisebooks.BeneaththisfolderwerelayersoftheframedfamilyphotosthathadsatonMum’sdressing-tableandonthewindow-sillinhercraftroom.Atthebottomoftheboxwasherweddingalbum.‘Bitch!’Isaid.Corwinpickedupthe

albumandopenedit.‘Havesomeunderstanding,

Morwenna,’headmonished.Heleafedthroughthepages.‘Poorthem,’hesaid.‘Lookatthem.Theywerebarelyolderthanweare–practicallychildren!’‘Oh,fuckoff!’Corwingrabbedmyarm,

pulledmedowntositnexttohimandgrippedmearoundtheshoulderssothatIcouldnotmove.‘Lookatthem,’he

commanded.HeliftedhishandtomyheadandtwisteditsothatIwasforcedtolookatapictureofourparentsflankedbyourgrandparents.Theyallappearedverysolemn–notunhappy;rather,gravewithimport.‘It’sjustapicture,’Isaid.‘Exactly,’saidCorwin,

triumphant.Heruffledmy

hairaggressively,releasedmeandlaybackonthebed.‘Isupposethehouseisours

now,’hesaid.‘Whatshallwedowithit?’‘Ithink,technically,that

it’sstillMatthew’s,’Isaid,unforgiving.‘No,’saidCorwin.‘Itwill

beoursnow.You’llsee.He’llwanttosecureourloyaltytotheplace.’

‘Ineverrealizedthatyouputsomuchthoughtintothesethings.’Ilookedoutofthewindowatthedecayedkitchengarden,rememberinghowMumhadtoldmethatwhentheymarriedithadbeenarosegarden,andthatmyfatherhaddugitup.Iimaginedherstaringoutofthatwindowandseeingtheretheghostsofroses.ThenI

turnedandstartedputtingthephotosbackintothebox.Istruggledalittle,tryingtofoldthefourleavesofthelidintoeachother.Corwindidn’toffertohelpme.‘Lookatthat!’hesaid,

pointingtothecorneroftheroom.‘Lookatallthoseoldwallpapers.IwonderifMatthewknowsaboutthat.’

Corwinwasright.Thefollowingday,Matthewinvitedustojoinhimforcoffee.Heaskedustogrindthebeans,justaswehadwhenwewerechildren,takingitinturnswiththehandleofthegrinder.Matthewputthecoffeeonatraywithmilkandsugar,andsquaresofthedarkestchocolateonasaucer.We

followedhimintohisstudy.Thecoffeewasthickandgrainy;themilksankintoitasthroughsand.‘So…’hesaid,handing

meacupandofferingthechocolate.Itooktwosquaresandbalancedthemonmysaucer.‘Hereweare.’Matthew’sdeskwas

uncharacteristicallytidy,hissketchbooksorderedonhis

shelves–morethanhalfacentury’sworthofthem.Hedidn’tsitdown.Thiswasasolemnoccasionandwhathewantedtosaymustbedeliveredstanding.‘Yourmotherwasrighttoblameme,’hesaid.‘Imadenocontingencyforyourfatherdyingbeforeme.Idon’tquiteunderstandwhy–itwasfoolishofme.Thereisno

recentfamilyprecedentforsonspredeceasingtheirfathersbut,ofcourse,thatishighlyunusual.WhatcanIsay?TherewasnoobviousthreattoJohn.WhenIwasyourage–youcan’timagine.Weweresofearful.Butsincethentheworldhascometofeelsofixed.Safe,almost.’Corwin’sfoottwitched.

‘Here,maybe.’

‘Yes,’saidMatthew.‘Here–buthereiswherewelive.OrwhereIlive,perhapsIshouldsay.Butlet’snotbecomedistracted.Todaywemusttalkaboutthehouse.’Matthewstood,themapan

iridescenthaloencirclinghim.Hisheadobscuredthepictureofourhouse,buttheoriginalfarmlandradiatedaroundhim.Matthewwas

nevermeanttobeafarmer.Myfatherhadbeen,though.Again,Iglimpsedtheshadowythoughtthathadvisitedmeatmyfather’smemorialserviceandIwonderedforthefirsttimeifmyfatherhadhatedMatthewfordestroyinghisplansforasmallholdingwhenhesoldthoselastprettyfifteenacres.Therehadbeenacopse.My

fatherhadtakenustheretowatchfoxcubs.Icouldn’timaginethatmyfatherhadhadanyhatredinhim,butitwastheclosestIhadseenhimcometotears.Hesaid,‘Itwasalwaysapipedream,ifI’mhonestwithmyself.’Andthenhestartedtolaugh.‘It’sallright,Morwenna!Don’tpanic!’Ihadbeenpanicking:betrayal,grief.I

wasnotequippedforbig,quiettidesofemotion.Matthewhadthedeedsto

Thorntononhisdesk.‘I’mmakingthemovertoyou,’hesaid.‘Therewillbeissuesaroundinheritancetax,ofcourse.Butwewilltakelegaladviceonthat.’Corwinwassmiling.This

madehimhappy.Iwassimultaneouslythinking:

Mine,ours!And:It’snotsosimple,maintainingthishouse,whichhasbeenpaidforbyacenturyofattritionofland.Therewasnolandleftwithwhichtotopupthemaintenancefund.ButIdidn’twanttospoilthemoment,andIsupposed,vaguely,thatbythetimewewouldhavetoworryaboutsuchthingsCorwinandI

wouldbeearningsalaries.Matthewsaid,‘Youmaydoasyouwishwiththehouse,butthekitchenandmystudyaresacrosanct.Oh,andyouwillaskbeforeremovinganybooks,won’tyou?’Hebeameddownuponus

fromthemap.Suddenly,histrouserpocketstartedringingshrilly.‘Ah,’hesaid,contentedly,pullingthetimer

outofhispocket.‘Thebread!’

Itwastoomuchtotakein,sittingthereinthehouse,whichwasnowsooverwhelminglyours.Wewalkeddowntothebeachwithoutspeaking,apartfromwhenCorwinenthusiasticallygreetedoncomingwalkerswithcommentsaboutthe

weather.Isuspectedthathewasdoingitsimplytoannoyme.Wethrewstonesintothe

sea.Corwin’sforearmswerecoveredwithgoose-bumps;thebleachedhairstoodonendinafinegoldenfur.‘Well?’hesaid.‘Oh,Idon’tknow.’‘Wecouldsellcreamteas,’

heteased.

‘Jesus,Corwin!’Wethrewmorestones.A

risingwindpushedthecloud-shadowacrossthesurfaceofthesea.‘Wecouldgetadog.’‘Ihatedogs.’‘Well,agoat,then.Dad

alwayswantedagoat.’‘Ithoughtyouwantedto

savetheworld.’

‘WhatIwanttodoistoearnmycomfortandmypeace,notsimplyhaveithandedtome.’‘Thistimelastyearwe

weresayinghowmuchwehatedithere.’‘ThatwasTheSandswe

weretalkingabout–that’snotthesamething.’‘Ican’tkeepupwithyour

finedistinctions,’Isaid.Ihad

hadenoughoftheconversation.‘HaveyouheardfromOliveratall?’‘No,Ihaven’t.Haveyou?’‘No.Strange!Helovedyou

somuch.Hewasalwaysatyourheels.Hemusthavefoundsomeoneelsetoadore.’‘Whyareyoualwaysso

cattyaboutOliver?’‘Oh,Idon’tknow.Hehas

somuchintegrity;hewantsto

savetheworldtoo,onlyhe’ssomuchmoresevereaboutitthanyou.He’sapermanentreproach.It’sexhausting.’Theskyhadopenedinto

sunshine.Ilaybackontheshingle.‘Ihavenointerestinsavingtheworld,’Isaid.‘Butitdoesn’tseemtobotheryou.’Corwinlaughed.‘Oh,it

does,’hesaid.‘ButIcan’t

changethataboutyou.You’vealwaysbeenthedetachedone.’‘I’mnottheonewhogoes

runningoffaroundtheworld.I’mstillhere.’‘No,you’renot.You’rein

London.Londonisnowhere.’‘Londoniseverywhere!’‘Itamountstothesame

thing.’

‘Well,’Isaid,‘IlikeEverywhere-Nowhere.’

Webumpedintoouroldfriendsinthepubs,buttheyseemedtofadewitheachmeeting.Soontheywoulddisappearaltogether.OverapintattheFirstandLast,Isaid,‘Well,Iguesswhatheldustogetherwasourwantingtoleave.’Thisinsulted

Willow,whobelievedinFriendshipandhadwrittenamusingletterstomeingenerousspikyhandwritingaboutstudentlifeinManchester.Shehadanewboyfriend,whohadbeenarrested‘forpossession’,whichmadeherevermoreglamorous.Mickeytookrefugeatthepooltable,heartbroken.Noonehadseen

Oliver.BackintheautumnhehadsentpostcardsfromWales,wherehewasvolunteeringattheCentreforAlternativeTechnology,buttherehadbeennonewsofhimsince.CorwinandIwentlooking

forOliverathisparents’houseinoneofthenewcul-de-sacsthatwererefutedbyMatthew’smap.Hisfather

openedthedoortous,and,whenhesawusthere,yelleddownthecorridor,‘Sarah!FriendsofOliver’s!’andshutthedooragain.WewereusedtothisandwaitedforOliver’smothertoanswer.Wehadalwaysterrifiedher,andsheflutteredonthedoorsteptwistingthediscreetsilvercrossthatnormallyhidbeneaththehousecoatshe

woretodothehoovering.Oliverwasveryprotectiveofhismother;Jesuswasherfriend,whichexposedhertoridicule.Heexpectedhisownfriendstobegentlewithher.Corwinputonhismostspiritualsmile.‘Hello,MrsFinch,howareyou?’‘Corwin!’Sheflinched.

‘Gosh,aren’tyoubrown!’

‘WewerewonderingwhenOliver’sgoingtobearound.’Shelookedalittle

confused.Perhapsshehadthoughtthatweknewmoreofherchangelingchildandhismovementsthanshedid.‘Oh,’shesaid.‘He’sstillinWales.Idon’tknowwhenhe’splanningoncominghome.’

Sheattemptedasmileatme.‘Hello,’shesaid,andaddedhopefully,‘Heseemstolikeitthere.’Oliverhadonceoverheardhertellinghisfatherthat‘theremustbeaplaceforhimintheworld’.PerhapssheprayedthatitmightbeWales.Oliverhadbeenthefirstto

cutloose.Wewereabithurt,buttherehadalwaysbeen

somethingephemeralabouthim.Wecontinuedtoforgethimandtheothers.Itdidn’thappenquickly.Itwaslikeoutgrowingskin:asthoughweleftonthecoastpathtissue-thincastsofourselvesthatdesiccatedandbrokeupinthewind.

PARTTWO

9.

WeleftMatthewonhisowninThorntonforthefirsttimeinhislife.Hehadtriedtoleave,once,attheagewewerewhenweleft,whenwesteppedsoblithelyontothetrainsthattookuson,ontowhatevercamenext.Matthew

hadthoughtvaguelythathemightgotouniversity.Itseemedlikeanaturalextensionofschool,whichhehadnotmuchminded–hadenjoyedeven,attimes.Butthencamethewar,whichsetoffarippleintheuniverse.ItpassedovertheplanetandevenThornton,nudgeddeeperintothegroundbyitsforce,couldnotwithstandit.

WheneverMatthewclimbedoutofthecombehesensedimbalance.Hewasnineteenand,

withoutvanity,hisbodypleasedhim.Hewasconfidentofitsdesign:themuscleundertheskin,thebonesunderthemuscle,theheartandlungsandintestineswithintheirperfectcasing.Butdidhehavecourage?He

worriedatthisquestion,becausenowthatTheSistershadlefttomarryhewasinatimeofjoyous,almostspiritual,solitude,anditwastemptingnottobeconcernedwithcourage.Hehadexperiencedfear,butwasthatthesameaslackofcourage?Hesuspectedthathemighthaveacertainkindofcourage,thekindthatonly

theself-sufficientpossess.Therewaslesstobreakinhimthaninasociableman,hethought.Hewouldbepreparedtoriskmore.Hisfatherhadbeentooold

forthefrontinthelastwar.Itwasanotherexperiencemissed;James’ssoulwasriddledwiththelacunaeofmissedexperience.Matthew’ssoul,bycontrast,

wassofullthathedidnothaveroomforitinhisbody.Itspilledoutintohissketchbooks,ontopageafterpageofannotateddrawings.Hewishedtopropitiatehisfather’sdisappointments,andstartedaportraitofhim,seatedbeforeawallofbooksinhisstudy.MatthewthoughtthatifJamescouldsee

himself,hemightfeelmoresubstantial.OneAprilnightin1941a

stormhammeredatthedoor–agreatthuggishgiantofastorm,flailinginanecstasyofviolence.Fromhiswindow,Matthewwatcheditbendthetrees.Therewasachallengeinitsdiatribe,andhewonderedifthiswashistest,becausehewassurehe

mustbetestedsoonerorlater,sohewentouttomeetit.Itmockedhimalltheway

downtoThorntonMouth,shriekinginhisears,andcuffinghimnowandagainintothefurze.AtthetopofthecliffstepsitkickedMatthew’slegsfrombeneathhim,andhesliddowninascramblingreversedcrawl.Onceonthebeach,Matthew

begantofightthewindinthedirectionofthecabin,butitwastoostrong,andpressedhimupagainstthecliffface.Matthew’sheadwasfullofthestorm.Thewavesassumedfaces–demonschargedhimfromthesea.Theyscoopeduphandfulsofpebblesandflungthemupthebeach,wheretheyricochetedaroundhim,offthecliffface

andoffthesteps,withthecrackleofartilleryfire.Matthewclosedhiseyesandlistenedtothepebblessmashingagainsteachother,againstthecliff,imaginingthevortexofbattle,imagininghimselfinthemiddleofthisstorminthemiddleoftheAtlanticandherealizedthatthethoughtofbattleterrifiedhimlessthan

didthesea.Thiswasthetest.Fortheintegrityofhissoul,hemustenlistwiththenavy.

ThemilitarydoctorwasbarelyolderthanMatthew,andfreshoutofmedicalschool.HemadeMatthewwalkupanddowninhisunderwear.Thenhemadehimwalkupanddownagain.HestoodbehindMatthew.

‘Youhavetheslightestscoliosis!’heannounced,delightedwithhimselfforspottingit.‘Youhaveanalmostimperceptiblelimp.’And,tracingMatthew’sspinewithhisforefinger,likeareversefaithhealer,heplacedacrookinMatthew’sback.‘Toobad!’saidthedoctor,cheerfully.‘Otherwise,you’reinperfecthealth.’

Matthewdidnotgostraighthome.Insteadhewenttositonthebenchinthechurchyard,besidethelichgate.Therainhadletup.WithinhisviewwasexpressedanentiremythofEngland,onehecherishedandhadbeenpreparedtodefend.Thehawthornwasinblossom,therewerecrocusesanddaffodils.Waterdripped

ontoagravestonefromthesnoutofagargoyle.SheepgrazedoneithersideoftheVoffieldsthatframedthesea.Hedidnotblamethedoctor,whohadworkedhardforhisknowledgeandcouldnotbeexpectedtokeepittohimself,asanolder,moreexperiencedmanmighthavedone.No.Theslight,Matthewknew,wasreturnedtohimbythe

sea,whichlaybeforehim,smooth,slate-grey,mockinglycalm.Eventuallyhemadehiswaybackdowntothebeachandthecabinandlitthestoveandsetakettleontopofit,andsatonthecabinstepswaitingforthewatertoboil.Thecloudedsunlaidshadowsonthesea.Thetidewaswithdrawinginlonghissesoftumbling

shingle;theshiftingstoneserodedinfinitesimally.Thesoundofthewavesswirledaroundinthedeformityinthesmallofhisbackwithnarcoticeffectandhebegantoseeallthingsintheirtruescale,justashehadinthedeliriumofseasickness.Ithadnotbeenatest,afterall.Ithadbeenanadmonition.

Thedayafterheacquiredhislimp,Matthewsetoutatdawn.Onthewayoutofthehousehepausedwherehehadneverpausedbefore,atthestickstand,whichcontainedthecollectedwalkingsticksofgenerationsofVentonmen.Hetriedoutafew,swingingthemexaggeratedlyaroundtheporch,andselectedathorn-

stick–itwasapt,hethought,andhelikedthefeeloftheroundnubofwoodinhispalm.Hehadhopedfora

dramaticsoul-cleansingsunrise–hehadreadthatinsomelanguagesthesundoesnotrise,itisborndaily.However,hehadtomakedowithasluggishtonaladjustmentfromdarktopale

grey.Inhisrucksackwerebread,cheeseandapples,andhecarriedacompass.Hepausedforamomentoutsidetheheavyoakdoorandconsideredwhethertowalkalongthecoastortoheadinland.Thenheturnedhisbacktotheseaandbegantowalkdirectlyawayfromit.Thepathtookhimuphillandalongthebrook,pasttheold

manorhouse,andintothesoon-to-bebluebellwoods.Acoupleofdeer,startled,jumpedthestreamanddisappearedintothetrees.Veryquickly,surprisingly

so,hecametolandthathedidnotrecognize.Asfaraspossible,hefollowedastraightcourse,butthehedgerowforcedhimleftandright,suckinghimalongthe

high-bankedlanes.Withouthiscompasshewouldsoonhavelosthisbearings.Afterawhilehedippedintoawood,thenoutagain.Hewaspassinghousesandfarmyardshehadneverseenbefore,yetnothingwasquiteunfamiliar,sothathebegantofeelthiswaslikedreaming,whentheknownshiftsintotheunknownandbackagain.

Everysooftenhestoppedtocheckalandmarkagainstthemap–ataskmadeharderbythewartimeremovalofalltheroadsigns.Buthewasagoodmap-readerandwasabletoplothiswaveringcourseinaseriesofpencilmarksagainstbridgesandcrossroadsandfarmyards.Mid-morninghisreverie

wasbrokenbythefoulblood-

and-urinestenchofatanner’syard,andthenhewaswalkingthroughasmallmarkettownthatherecognizedfromsomechildhoodvisit.Andbecauseallthesignshadbeenremoveditwasasifhesecretlyknewitsnamebutcouldnotspeakit,andhewalkedthroughthetownfromoneendtotheother,

whereeveryonewasgoingabouttheirbusiness,buyingbreadandbuttonsandnewspapers,asthoughhewereinvisible.Onlythendiditoccurtohimthatwhathewasdoingwasaverysuspiciousactivityinwartime,andthemarkedmapinhisrucksacksuddenlyacquiredagreatweight.Hewalkedonpasttheschool,

wheretheshoutingchildrenwereontheirmorningbreak,throughthechurchyardandonoutofthetownintomorefieldsandhedgerowedlanesuntileventuallyitwasmiddayexactlyandhestopped.Hewasinthemiddleofa

fieldofcows.Anenormouschestnuttreestoodinthecentre.Hewalkedovertoit

andtoucheditwiththeflatofhishand.Hecouldmakeouttheroofsofsomefarmbuildingsandwasabletoworkouthispositiononthemap,whichhenowmarkedwithalargecross.Thenhesatdownunderthetreetoeathislunchandretracedhisstepsallthewayhome.Acrackoflighthad

openedonthehorizonwhen

hegothome–awhitelineuponthesea.Itwasaboutsixthirty.Hetookoffhisbootsandwenttohisroomandrolledoutthemaponthefloor.Hetookapairofcompasses,stuckthepointintothecrossofThorntonchurchandopenedthemouttomeetthemarkinthechestnut-treefield.Asthecrowflewitwasonlyabout

twelvemiles.Theleadturnedaroundthecompasspoint,andthecirclewasdrawnthatwouldcontainhimfortherestofhislife.Matthewgriddedupthe

circleandtransferredthelinesofthemapontoasix-by-six-footcanvas.Ithung,untouched,onhiswallforseveralweeksbeforehedecidedhowtostart.Inthe

meantime,hefinishedtheportraitofJames.Itturnedouttruerthanhehadintended–hehadbroughthisowndisappointmenttothepainting.ThatwasMatthew’slastportrait.Heusedtosay,‘Worldsingrainsofsand,Morwenna.Worldsingrainsofsand.’

Butthewarcametohimanyway.Matthewperformedhissecretservice,foreverunacknowledged.TheAtlanticwardeadwashedashore,inpieces,andhegatheredthemup,broughtthemuptheclifffacetothechurchyardfortheiranonymousinterment.Heneverdroppedhisritualofstoppingwhenhepasseda

warmemorialtosayeachnameoutloud.‘Becauseyouneverknow,’hesaidtome,‘howandwheretheymighthaveendedup.Theirnamesmaybeallthatwasleftofthem.’

Nooneeversuggestedthatweputupastonetomyfather.IimaginedMatthewonhiseveningwalkstothe

cabin,standingattheedgeofthetideandsayinghisson’snameoutloud,intothewind:‘JohnVenton!’

10.

Forseventeenyearsaftermyfatherdiednothingmuchhappened,andthenapigeonflewthroughmywindow.Itstillfeelstomenowasthoughitwasthepigeonthatprecipitatedevents,asthoughithadbeenwingingitsway

towardsmeforyears.ItwaslikethebutterflyintheAmazonthatlaunchestheavalanche,ortidalwave,orwhateverit’ssupposedtolaunch.Ofcourse,itwasCorwin,notthepigeon,butthepigeon’sentrancewasmoredramatic.PerhapsitwaspartofCorwin’ssubconscious,unleashed.Orperhapsevenofmine.

AfterMummovedout,CorwinandIclaimedThorntonforourselves.Corwindeclaredthathewastakingoverourfather’sdesk,whichhadalwaysfascinatedhimwithitssecretdrawerinwhichourfatherhadallowedhimtoconcealahundrederconkerandaSwissarmyknife.Corwinsweptthecontentsofthedeskintoa

boxandplaceditontopoftheboxonMum’ssideofthebedroomwardrobe.ThenItookdowntheLauraAshleycurtainsfromthegardenroomandmovedmyworkbenchdownthere.Thatwashowitstarted.Duringtermbreaks,we

daredtodowhathadneverbeenpermittedourmother.Wefilledboxeswiththe

domesticclutterofcenturies:dustysingleballsofsavedwool,batteredfans,bunchesofdriedlavender.Wethrewnothingout.Somesuperstitionpreventedusactuallyremovinganythingfromthehouseandupsettingthedelicatechemistryofitsatmosphere.Westoredeverythinginwhathadbeenourparents’bedroom.Atfirst

westoredthedusty,broken,uselessthings.Thenwebegantocurate.WeaskedMatthew,‘Doyoumindifwemovethisorthat?’Andheneverdidseemtomind,sowestoppedasking.Overthenextthreeyearsboxespiledupunderthebed,onthefloor,onthebed.Andwecleaned.We

appliedbucketsoflemon-

scentedJiftoeverysurface.Weliftedfurnitureandhooveredupthemousedroppings.Wepulledwoollenblanketsoutofthecornersofcupboardsandreleasedcloudsofmoths.Wehungtherugsoverthewashinglineandbeatthedustoutofthem.Whenthehousewasclean,wepainted.Westartedintheattic–we

paintedeverythinginmyroomwhite:thefloors,thewalls,themantelpiece,thefurniture.ItookdownthecurtainsandleftthewindowsundressedsothatwhenIwokeinthemorningsIcouldtellfromthelightintheroomwhatcolourweretheskyandseaevenbeforeIopenedmyeyes.WeboxedupeverythingfromCorwin’s

room:CheGuevaraandTheCommunistManifestoandTheDarkSideoftheMoon.Wetookhisbedapartandrolledupthecarpetandshoveditinwitheverythingelse.AllthatremainedinCorwin’sroomwasamattressonthebarefloorboardsandawardrobe.Thenweshutthedooronourparents’roomandlockedit.

Wehungtheheavykeyinthekeycupboardinthekitchen.Afterstorm-tideswe

collecteddebrisfromthebeach:wraithsofdriftwood,whichwebalancedonstringandhungoverthelandings;runicstonesandspheresofrustediron,whichweplacedontheledges.Westrunggarlandsofsea-perforatedpebblesonfrayedfragments

ofropeandarrayedbleachedbirdandsheepskullsonthemantelpieces.Matthewneverobjectedto

thisdesecrationoftheancestralseat–occasionallyhewouldaskafterapaintingoranornamentthathadbeenpartofhishome-scapeforseventyyears.Whenwesaid,‘Wepackeditup,’hewouldsay,‘Oh,didyou?’Itwasas

thoughthehouseslumberedinhibernationbehindthedoorofmyparents’bedroom.Matthewdidn’tchangeadetailofourarrangements,althoughInoticed,witheachvisit,thatsomethingwehadpackedawayhadfounditswayintohisstudy,thingsthatmusthavehadsentimentalvalue–adecanterthathadoncesatonashelfinthe

livingroom,apicturethathadoncehunginthehall,aporcelainfigurineofashepherdess,whichmusthavebelongedtoourgrandmother.Webeganimportingnew

acquaintancesforweekendsinthecountryandmadethemdrinkstrongciderandlaughedattheirinappropriatefootwearaswedraggedthem

upanddownthecoastinallweathers.InthemorningswetookcoffeeandchocolatewithMatthew.SometimeswevisitedMum,CorwinmoreoftenthanI.Shewasalwayssmilingandmadeustakeoffourshoesinthehall.

Butthislittlegameofdomesticitydidn’tlastbecauseCorwinhadthe

addict’scravingforpureexperience.Immediatelyafterhegraduated,andwithoutceremony,sothatatfirstIdidn’tgraspthemagnitudeofhisdefection,hebanishedhimselftotherainless,warringplaceswherehemovedthroughseasofconfused,displacedhumanbeings,diggingandpipingandirrigating.Andthe

numberofsuchplaceswasinfinite.HespunoffsofarintotheunknownthatIassumedhewouldeventuallyrewindinmydirection.Butthenhehadbeengoneforayearortwo,andsoonfive,and,beforelong,ten.Ofcourse,everysooftenhereturnedladenwithgiftsandhespokeasCorwinalwayshaddoneandcrackedthe

samejokesatwhichMatthewandIlaughedovermuchandgratefully.MybedroomatThornton

filledwithobjectsthatspokenothingtomeofmybrother,thefamilypeacemaker.RedandgoldAfghanrugspatternedwithtanksandKalashnikovs;unlovelyfertilityfigureswithswollenbelliesandknife-hacked

genitals;stringsofenormouscrudebeadsofcrackledblueandcoralredandembossedsilver.TheyintrudedsoviolentlyuponthewhiteofmyroomthatIbegantobelievetheyweregivennotinlovebutinanger.

Iturnedouttobeavillagerafterall–ImadeofLondonmyvillageandlivedthere

quietly.Thatgiftofmyfather’s,thatfirstbookpress,turnedouttobethegiftthatshapedmylife.OnemorningintheautumnafterIgraduated,IwalkedintothebinderyoutsidewhichIhadbeenhoveringfortheprecedingthreeyears,likeastreet-childoutsideabakery.Itwasoneofthoseplacesthatoccupieditsowntemporal

dimension:youcouldfinditonlyifyouknewexactlywhatyouwantedfromit.WhenIenteredIsensedimmediatelythatitwasaplaceofgreatdiscretion,somewheresafefromintrusivequestionsanduninvitedconfidences.Itwasnobiggerinfloor-planthanthelivingroomatThornton,butwithtwicetheceiling

height,andeverysquareinchofwallandfloorwastakenupwithchestsofdrawersandshelvesofpapersandclothsandleathers.Attheback,squeezedbetweenpressesandpilesofbooksandslip-boxes,wasalargetableatwhichthreeorfourpeopleworkedinsilence.Theownerofthebinderyperchedbehindahighcounter,whichwas

shovedintoacornerbythedisplaywindow.Shewassmall,verythin.Herhairwaspulledbackintoaplait,andthescatteringofgreyinitmadeitimpossibletodetermineherage.Shemighthavebeenanywherebetweenforty-fiveandsixty.Sheworedarkmakeuparoundlargeeyesandabrightredlipstick,which,strangely,hadthe

effectofausterity.HernamewasAna.ShelookedatthebooksthatIhadboundandbroughttoshowher,saidnothingaboutthemanyimperfectionsthatInowknowthemtohavecontained,andtookmeonasanapprentice.AndthereIstayedputandtherenothingeverchanged.AllaroundusLondonprimpedandpreened

whileweshelteredinourtime-loop.IbegantounderstandMatthewbetter.Still,shinyLondonwas

moreenjoyablethangrimLondonhadbeen.Greybuildingsreturnedtopalelimestone,lightbouncedoffmultiplyingpanesofglass.Ipermittedmyselfsomevicarioussparkling.Inthesemi-legaljerry-rigged

industrialspacesthatweremyhomes,Istrungupfairylightsandheldpartiestowhichmyfewslow-wonfriendscame,bringingwiththemsmilingstrangers.

Corwincamehometoseeinthenewmillenniumwithus.ThatChristmas,Iunwrappedfromapaperprintedwithrobinsandsnowmena

malignantfist-clenchedfigure.Itwasabouttwofeethighandwaspiercedallaboutwithspikesofdifferentshapesandmetals.Iplaceditonthecoffeetable,whereitbristledaggressively.‘Goodness!’saidMatthew.‘Powerful,isn’the?’said

Corwin,smilingaffectionately.‘These,’hesaid,gentlyfingeringtheend

ofametalshard,‘arepetitions.They’redrivenintothestatuetobringdowncurses.It’sabitliketheprincipleofawaxdoll,exceptthathedoesn’trepresentthevictim.He’sthespiritwhohasthepowertoexercisethecurse.’Iputthecursespiritonmy

bedroomtableandcontemplatedhim.Ithought

ofCorwin’sweightlessness:howlittlehecarriedwithhim;howIwashisproxyconsumerofinterestingethnicartefacts,sothathemightdriftthroughtheworldallegingpassionbutcommittingtonothing.IthoughtaboutThorntonandhowfirmlyitsatinthecombe,howweighteditwaswithaheavyballastof

furnitureandbooks,andIsettodevisingacounter-punishment.IknewhowtoslowCorwindown.Iwouldsendhimbooks.AndhewouldnotbeabletogivethemawaybecauseIwouldbindthemmyselfandmakethempersonaltohim,andovertimehisbagswouldfillwithbooksandtheywouldallbeaboutHere,andhewould

havetotakeHerewithhim,whereverhewent.IraidedMatthew’s

collectionofforgottenlocalhistories,excavatedfromthedustiestcornersoffailingsecond-handbookshops,andstartedwithCoveandCombe:SecretsoftheDevonCoast,agentleman’svanitypublication,assomanyofthemwere.Ithadbeennicely

produced,withengravingsofloomingcliffsandfishingvesselstossedonunlikelywaves,butthecoverwascomingapart,whichwastheonlyreasonthatMatthewallowedmetowrestitfromhiscollection.Igaveitaninappropriateperiwinkle-bluecoverandoverdidtheendpaperswithextravagantmarbling–thebooksmustbe

conspicuousandthematerialstooexpensivetodiscard.Iwantedtheperiwinklebluetomass,bookbybook,sothatCorwinmighttakemeasureoftheextentofhisabandonmentofme.AtthebaseofthespineItooledadevice:itwasMatthew’sfartingDevil.Later,asMatthewreceded,

Istoppedaskingpermission

toremovebooksfromtheshelf.IsentCorwinWestCountryMythandMysteryandTalesoftheMoorsandFairies,PixiesandKnockers.Iplumpedupearnestlimp-boundparishhistories.Theywereasyouwouldexpect:alotofhealth-givingstridingofthecoastpunctuatedwithamusingburstsofbuzzingDevondialect.

EverytimeIwentdowntoThorntonandliftedanotherbooktoweighdownCorwin,mycursespiritseemedtogrinatmealittlemoreobscenely,asthoughIhadtaskedhimwithanothermetalspiketohishead.Iwouldgrinback,andthink,asIdriftedtosleep:Icurseyou,CorwinVenton.IcurseyoutoHere.

11.

Ididn’tseeCorwinagainforfiveyears.Perhaps(althoughIwasstillsendinghimbooks)Ihadalmostlearnedtodowithouthim.Theweatherhadalreadyturnedcold,andIsensedanotherevictioncoming,ifyoucouldcallitan

evictionwhenyoudidn’thaveatenancyagreement.Iwasbeginningtowonderif,atthirty-three,Iwasn’tgettingtoooldforthis.Myhomeshadbecomeprecarious–everylastgarageintheEastEndwasbeingboughtupbydevelopersandturnedintoaconstructionofsheetsofglasssetinamaterialthatlookedlikethegreyplasticfrom

whichCorwinusedtobuildmodelaircraft.Mylandlord,Linton,hadbeguntolookshifty.Heranafactorythatmadethingsoutoffakefurfromthethreefloorsofwarehousebeneathmyflat.Rollsofartificialleopardandbearleanedstackedagainstthewallsonallthelandingsandmoultedontothewornstaircarpets.Therewasa

layerofsyntheticlintoneverysurfaceofthebuilding.Maybe‘shifty’wasunfair.Lintonhadalwaysbeenconsiderateofme.Whenwemetonthestairswedancedawkwardlyaroundrollsofpretendzebra,whichlodgedbetweenusandcaughtinthewobblybanisters.Ihadseenmenwithexpensivemobilephonesandstripysuits

lookingupatmywindow,butdidn’twanttoupsetLintonbyaskingaboutthem.‘Regretful’wasabetterdescriptionofhisexpression–hedidn’twanttodisplaceme.Ibegantospyonmyown

frontdoor.Ihadtostandonmyworkbenchtogetanobliqueenoughviewintothenarrowcutofstreetbelow.

OneSundaymorningtherewasamanpointinghiscameraupatme,takingphotographs.Ipulledonajumperandsheepskinbootsovermypyjamasandsprinteddownthefourflightsofshakystairstoconfronthim.Hewastakenabackbythesuddenopeningofthedoorofabuildingthathadbeen

shutteredupfortheweekend.Isaid,‘Whatareyoudoing?’Hewasstrangely

rectangular,Inoticed.Itwasthecoathewaswearing,somekindofmilitarysurplusparka.Hesaid,‘Idon’tthinkthat’sanyofyourbusiness.’Isaid,‘You’re

photographingmyhome.Ithinkthat’smybusiness.’

‘Well,’hesaid,‘that’smypoint…sortof.’Hepointeduptoaglass-

studdedledgelevelwiththesecond-floorwindow–anareaofflatroofbetweenmybuildingandthenext.‘That’swhatI’mactuallytakingapictureof.There’saCCTVcameraupthere.’‘Oh,’Isaid.‘Ihadn’t

noticed.’

‘Youshouldpaymoreattention,’hesaidsternly.‘Iprefernotto,’Isaid.

‘Payingattentionjustmakesmeanxious.Whyareyoutakingapictureofthecamera?’‘It’sanactofresistance.’‘Towhat?’‘Didyouknow,’hesaid,

‘thattheaverageLondoneris

capturedonCCTVthreehundredtimesaday?’‘Yes,’Isaid,althoughit

wasn’ttrue.‘And?’‘I’mcapturingthemback.’‘What?Allofthem?Isit

conceptualart,orsomething?’‘Notatall!It’saboutbasic

principlesofcivilliberty.’‘Yousoundlikemy

brother.Whatareyou,then?

Somekindofurbanguerrillero?’‘Notreally,’hesaid.‘It’s

private.Asortofsecretsubversion–likespittinginsoup.’‘Doyouspitinpeople’s

souptoo?’‘No!’Hesounded

offended.Helookedfartoonobletostoopsolow.‘Iwasspeakingmetaphorically.’

‘Whatdoyoudowiththepictures?’Iasked.

ThatwashowIacquiredEd:byaccident,inNovember,overabaconbuttyundertherailwayarch.Hishandswerestrangelydelicate,protrudingincongruouslyfromtheblockofkhakithathewaswearing.Hesaidthatwhathedidwiththepictureswasprintthem

off,passport-photosize,labelthemwithdateandtime,andstickthemtothewall.HehadbeendoingitsinceJanuary.IthadbeenhisNewYearresolutiontophotographeveryCCTVcamerathathewalkedbeneath.‘I’msurprisedyouhaven’t

beenarrested,’Isaid.‘Oh,Ihave,’hesaid

proudly.

‘Well,thereyougo!’Isaid,notaskingfordetails.‘CanIseethem?’Anewlandscapeopened

uptomeasIlookedforCCTVcameras.Atgroundlevel,Londonwasaflickeringsequenceofshopwindows,orthesamefrontdoorflashingupindifferentcolours,butnowIlookedupanditbecamemore

geometric,steppedandzigzagged,embellishedbyrollsofbarbedwireandboastfullyinaccessiblegraffiti.Therewereunexpectedornamentationsandvanities:amosaicpanelofbirds;thefaceofawomaninreliefabovethearchofadoorway.Ifeltpleasantlydizzy.Westoppedtodocumentsixcameras.

Ed’sflatwasinthebasementofaterracedhouse;aweakwinterlightcameinthroughthebaywindow.Twoentirewallsofhislivingroomwerecoveredwithawallpaperoftinysquares,picturesofcamerasagainstbrickwallorconcreteorglass.Theeffectwassurprisinglysoft;itlookedlikecloth.

‘Don’tyoufinditoppressive?’Iasked.‘Ifounditmoreoppressive

notknowingwheretheywere.’‘WhathappensonNew

Year’sEve?’‘Ihaven’tdecidedyet.’‘Mygrandfatherhasamap

onhiswall,’Isaid,runningmyfingersoverarowofthephotos.‘Thisremindsmeof

it.Hewalkedasfarashecouldgoandstillgetbackinonedayandthenheusedapairofcompassesandmarkedacirclearoundhimself.Hesaysthatthere’snothingoutsidehiscirclethatcan’tbefoundwithinit.Hepaintsatitallthetime–everytimehefindssomethingworthrecordingitgoesintothemap.’

‘Soundscool,’saidEd.‘Butit’snotthesamething.’Iscannedthewallof

cameras,allpointingathim.Ilikedthefutilityofhisproject–hetiltedatwindmills.‘You’rebothinthemiddle,’Isaid,withoutrancour,shruggingmyshoulders.Clearlyhewasoneofthoseannoyingpeoplewhocorrectyouallthetime,butIwas

raisedonpedantry.Ielaborated,‘Youareeachthepointtowhichyoureturn.’Imyselfdidn’tseemtohaveamiddle,Ireflected,suddenlyseeingmyselfwithadoughnut-holewheremyabdomenoughttobe.Hesaid,‘Wouldyoulikea

coffee?’‘Yes,please.’

Withouthiscoatheseemedlessobsessive.Hehadn’tcommentedonthefactthatIwasstillinmypyjamas;perhapshehadn’tnoticed.WhenitgrewdarkEdmadealaw-abidingfireofsmokeless-fuelbriquettesinthegrateandlitsomecandles.Thewallsofphotostransformedintovelvetdrapes.Itwasthestartof

something:brushingfingers,sighsinandsighsout,allofthat.IfoundthatIdidn’tobject.

OnNewYear’sEve,EdandIdrankcavawithanIndiantake-outandliberatedourselvesfromthecamerasbyremovingthephotosandburningtheminamidnightceremony.Afterwardsthe

roomwasbigger,blanker.TinybitsofBluTackwereleftstuddingthewall.Itfeltalittlelonely.‘What’snext?’Iasked.‘I’mgoingtogiveup

alcoholfortwelvemonths.’‘No!Really?’‘It’ssomethingI’vealways

wantedtodo.’‘Itis?’Icouldn’thelp

feelingthatthetimingwas

poor.HewasthefirstpersoninmylifetoeclipseCorwin–amoonpassinginfrontofthesun.Iwasn’tsurethatsobrietycreatedtherightconditionsforanexperimentinattachment.

Inowthinkofthattimeasmyaspidistrayear,whenIwasdeterminedtogivemyselfuptoafutureoftraditional

domesticity.WewouldgotoEd’sparentsforSundaylunchesalongwithhisbrother,sister,in-lawsandtheiroffspring.TheyweregraciousanddrewmeintotheirconversationswhileIhelpedtopeelpotatoes.OverlunchtheparentstoldamusingstoriesaboutwhenEdandhissiblingswereyoung,andEdandhis

siblingstoldamusingstoriesabouttheirparents’eccentricities.OneSunday,toenterinto

thespirit,Itoldthestoryofmyparents’engagement.‘Yourgrandmother,’Mumwouldsay,‘couldn’twaittomarryyourfatheroff.’Andmyfatherwouldsmileatherwhileshetalked.‘Andsheknewthathe’dratherdiethan

gointoashopandbuyanengagementring.’Weunderstoodherperfectly–itwasinconceivablethatourfathershoulddiscussanythingaspersonalasamarriageproposalwithastranger,ashopassistant.‘Soassoonasshecaughtwhiffofagirlfriendshefoistedthishideousringonhim!’Ourgreat-grandmother’semerald

ringwouldglitteronMum’swavinghand.Theyhadtakenteainwhat

wasthentherosegarden.AndMumhadsippedfromaporcelaincupinahazeofrosescentandthought:Yes.Thiswouldbeanicewaytolive.Andafterteamyfathertookhertothecabintowatchthesungodown.Heknew,hesaid,thatthesunsetwould

bemorearticulatethanhe,andheofferedittoherasabetrothalgift.BeingJune,itwasagentle,peachy,undemandingsunset,veryflatteringtomymother’scomplexion.AndMumhadcriedalot

andhermascarahadrun.Thatwasourfavouritepartofthestory:ourweepingmother.Hergenerous

sobbingseemedexotictous,free-spirited.Butthestoryworeout.Welearnedtofeelembarrassedaboutourmother’sincontinenttears.Andmyfathercametorealize,afterhehaddugthemup,thatithadbeentherosesthathadmovedher,nottheinexorabilityofthesinkingsun.

AswedrovebacktoLondon,Edwasquiet.Eventuallyhesaid,‘Idon’tknowhowyoumanagedtoturnthatstoryaboutyourparentsintoabadstory.’Isaid,‘Idon’tknow

either.’‘You’reprettyhardon

yourmother!’‘Well,you’venevermet

her.’

‘Well,I’dliketo.’Thiswasasorepoint.I

wantedtokeepEdseparate.‘Younevertalkaboutyour

father.Whatwashelike?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘Whatdoyoumean,you

don’tknow?’Edwasupset–Ihaddrawnashadowdownontheafternoon.‘Iwaseighteenwhenhe

died,’Isaid.‘Didyouknow

whatyourfatherwaslikewhenyouwereeighteen?’‘Yes,’heinsisted.‘IthinkI

did.Goon.Giveitago.’IwantedtosaythatIdidn’t

reallyknowhowtodescribemyfatherwithoutCorwintheretohelpme,butIhadnoticedthatEddidn’tlikeCorwin.HewastheonlypersonIknewwhodidn’tlikeCorwin,andIassumedthat

thatwassimplybecausehehadnevermethim.‘Well,’Isaid,‘hewas

quiet,butnotantisocial–helikedgatherings.Helovedthepub.Helovedthewallofsmokeashewalkedinandhelovedthenicotine-stainedceilingsandthesmellofbeer-soakednyloncarpet.Andhelovedbeingabletositforhoursonhisowninacorner

ifhewantedtoandbeleftalonewithhisoneslowpint.Orhecouldsitinagroupandsaynothingandjustsmileandstandhisround,orplayhisfiddle.’Istopped,suddenly

realizingthatIwasdescribingmylastsightofhim.‘Hewasverythrifty,’Isaid,tryingtoredirectmymemory.‘Everythingwasdone

sparingly:speech,movement,everything.Helikedtofixthings.Hemadethingsgrow.Youdidn’treallynoticehimuntilhespoke–whenhespokeitmeantthatheexpectedsomethingofyou,andyou’dbeanxiousthatyouwouldn’tbeabletomeethisexpectation.Idon’tknowhowtodescribeit.Andthenhewantedtosharehis

enthusiasms,andCorwinandIdidn’treallycaretoknowthethingsthatheknew.Hewasalwaystryingtodragusofftoobserveabadger’ssetortotakeaninterestingrowingauberginesorsomething.‘Hewasoutofhistime,I

think,’Isaid.‘Hestudiedarchitecture,buteveryonewasbuildinghigh-rises.He

wantedtodesignhouseswithturfroofsthatdisappearedintothelandscape.Healwaystalkedabout“simplifying”.Nowadays,he’dberightwiththezeitgeist.Asitwas,hewasstuckinanarchitect’sofficemakingtechnicaldrawingsforshoppingcentres.Hefounditsoul-destroying.’

Igroundtoahalt.‘It’spointlesstryingtodescribehim,’Isaidirritably.‘Itwon’tmakesenseifyouhaven’tmetMatthew.’Edallowedmyirritationto

subside,andsaid,‘HesoundslikesomeoneIwouldhaveliked.’Ithoughtaboutthat.‘Yes,’

Isaid,surprised.‘Ithinkyouandhewouldhavegoton

well.’Ilookedathisprofile.Hewasasafedriver:eyesontheroad,handsattentotwoonthesteeringwheel,andnowhehadmyfather’sphantomapproval.‘Yes,’Isaidagain,inconnectionwithnothinginparticular.Somethingabouttheconversationcalledfortheaffirmative.Yes,Ithought.Icanlearnthis.Icangrowinto

this.Icanputoutlittleshootsandtheywillthriveonhisgenerosity,onhiscompetence,andthatwillbeenough.Thatwillbeplenty.

12.

ButitwasLondonwinter,and,tryasImight,Icouldmakenothinggrow.Iwasstillinmyflat–

Lintonmustnothavebeenofferedtherightpriceforhisbuilding,afterall.Allcolourwasleachedfromthecity

apartfrominthestreetbelow,wheretheBangladeshiwedding-shopwindowsshonebrightlightontosequinedredsarisandgold-embroideredturbans.Iboughtmyselfarmfulsofflowergarlandsandhungthemaboutmybed,swathesofvermilionandgoldandcinnamontobrightenmymornings.

ItwasaSundayandIwassittingatmywindowreading.Iintuitedthepigeonbeforeithitthewindow.SomepresentimentcausedmetolookupasitresolveditselfoutoftheFebruarygreyandsmashedthroughtheglasssideways,wingsaskew.Itmusthavetriedtoturnatthelastmoment.Thewindowshatteredatthecentre

sendingcracksouttothecornersoftheframeandthepigeonhurtledovermyshoulderinashowerofglassfragments.Myhandflewupprotectivelyandashardslicedacrosstheskin.Igraspeditinpainandalreadythebloodwelledupbetweenthefingersofmyrighthand.Thepigeon,panicked,flungitselffromwalltowall

sheddingfeathersandshootingoutgreatstreamsofgreen-greyshitallovertheroom,thenlandedinaheapinthemiddleofthecarpet,shookitselfoutandhoppedaboutabit.Itdidn’tseemtohavecometoanyharm.Irecognizeditimmediately

asabirdofillomen.Mycoffeehadspilledalloverthetable.Ilookedatthepigeon,

harbingerofwhat,Ididn’tyetknow.Thefeathersarounditsneckripplediridescentpinksandpurplesandblues.Ihavealwayslikedtheideaofbirds:thebeautyofflight,thegreatmysteryoftheirnavigationsystems.Butpigeonscan’tescapetheirverminousassociations.Itfixedmewitharodenteye.

Shaking,IpouredmyselfaglassofwineandsatdazedatthekitchentablewatchingthebloodseepthroughthetwentylayersofkitchenpaperthatIhadwrappedaroundmyhand,untilIheardEd’skeyturninthedoor.IhadgivenEdasetofkeys

asaNewYeargift–anactthatnowseemedtomeinexplicablysentimentaland

whichIwasregretting.Hehadtakenitallveryliterally,andnowusedthekeyswithoutwarning.Itwouldnotoccurtohimtoringthedoorbellbeforeinvadingmyprivacy.HehadalsosuggestedthatwesharehisNewYearresolutionfor2005andbothlearnMandarin,withaviewtotakingathree-monthsabbaticalinChina,an

ideaIdidn’tlikeatall.Iheardhimgointothelivingroomandmutter,‘Jesus!’Thentherewassomescufflingandheappearedinthekitchendoorwayclutchingthepigeoninbothhands.Helookedatthemessofbloodiedtissueonmyhand,andmuttered,‘Jesus!’again.Thenhesaid,‘Howaboutopeningthewindow?’I

fumbledwiththewindowlock,clumsilyslidupthesashwithmylefthand,andEdreleasedthepigeonintotheironskywithadramaticflourish,asifitwerethedoveofpeace.Thenhecarefullyscrubbedhishandswithsoapandhotwaterbeforeaddressinghimselftomywound.‘Whatthehellhappened?’

Therewasnopointinstatingtheobvious.IwastheonlypersonofEd’sacquaintancewhowouldlureapigeonthroughapaneofplateglass.Iwastalking–itwashappeningquitewithoutvolition:‘Youknow,Ireadsomethingrecentlyaboutflight.TheyfoundsomefossilinChinaorsomewherethatwasthemissinglinkbetween

dinosaursandbirds.Therehavebeendecadesofdisagreement,yousee,betweenscientistswhothinkthatflightdevelopedbycreaturesleapingfromtreetotreeandthosewhothinkthatitdevelopedfromrunningaroundandjumpinguptocatchinsectsorsomething.’Edfoundabandageina

kitchendrawerandbeganto

cleanthecut.‘Anyway,’Icontinued,‘itturnsoutthattherunningandjumpingfactionwereright–theretheyare,thesedinosaurs,runningaroundthroughthebubblingJurassicforest,jumpingaway,and,heypresto,theytakeoff!Imaginethesurprise.’‘Wen,’saidEd,‘please

shutup.’

IhatedtobecalledWen.ItmademesoundlikeanabbreviatedWendy.Isaid,‘Poortree-topleapers.Allthosedecadesofresearch.Allfornothing.’Edlookedupsharply.Hesuspectedthatthiswasasnipeagainsthiscareerasanacademic.Ilookedatmyneatly

bandagedhandandwantedtodosomethingforhim.

Somethingtangible–akiss,perhaps.Someunbuttoning.Butthenthephonerang.ItwasMum.‘Mum!’Isaid.‘Towhatdo

Iowethisrareandunexpectedpleasure?’Mumsighed.‘Youreally

can’thelpyourself,canyou?’Myhandhadbegunto

throb.‘No,’Isaid,contrite.‘I’msorry.Itjustslipsout.’

‘Haveyouspokentoyourgrandfatherrecently?’‘Yes.Acoupleofdays

ago.Why?’‘Hashesaidanything?’‘Christ,Mum.Stopbeing

socryptic.Aboutwhat?’‘Well,wedroppedinat

Thorntonovertheweekend.’‘Ah!Thecosinessofthat

word“we”.’

‘Oh,justdropitforfiveminutes.Matthew’sclearlynotwell.He’slostalotofweight.SoIwentandhadachatwithMarkLuscombeandhetoldmethatobviouslyhecouldn’ttellmeanythingbuthedidsaythatweoughttostartpreparingourselves.’‘But…’Isaid.Iknewthe

futilityofthis‘but’andstoppedspeaking.ThenI

said,‘Mark’sdiscussingMatthew’shealthwithyou?’‘No.He’snot.Buthe’s

veryfondofyourgrandfatherandheknowsthatMatthewwon’taskforhelp.’‘Hehasnorighttodiscuss

itwithyou.IfMatthewdoesn’twantustoknow,thenheshouldrespectthat.’‘Whatever,darling!’said

Mum.Webothknewthat

Matthewwasmyproblem,nothers.‘Anyway,howareyou?’‘Iwasfine,’Isaid.‘A

pigeonjustflewthroughmywindowpane.’‘Thestrangestthingsdo

seemtohappentoyou,’saidMum,clearly,likeEd,thinkingthatitwassomehowmyfault.‘How’sEd?’‘He’sfine.’

Shesighed.‘PoorEd.’CorwinhadtoldmethatMumcalledEd‘Morwenna’sLastChance’.Therewasapauseinwhichshecontemplatedmylackofaccountability.‘Well.LetmeknowhowMatthewis.HaveyouheardfromCorwinrecently?’‘Notforawhile.Have

you?’

‘Oh,youknowwhatadutifulsonheis.HeemailseveryweekandtellsmeabsolutelysweetFA!’‘Oh,well!’‘Indeed.Well,bye,darling.

Comeandseeus–me–soon.’Edhadfoundapieceof

hardboardthatIdidn’tevenknowIhad–perhapshehadbroughtittomyflatwithout

menoticingbecausehethoughtitmightcomeinusefuloneday.HewasscrewingittothewindowframeusingthecordlessscrewdriverthathehadgivenmeforChristmas.Buzz.Buzz.Buzz.Iwishedhewouldgo.IdialledThornton.Matthewtookalongtimetopickup.Hesaid,‘Ah!Morwenna.’

Isaid,‘I’mthinkingofcomingdownsoon.’‘Oh,good!Remindme

whenyougetherethatIhavesomethingtoshowyou.’‘Whatisit?’‘You’llsee.’Isaid,‘Howareyou?Is

everythingallrightdownthere?’‘Everything’sfine.’

‘OK,Matthew.Bye.Seeyousoon.’

Iwipedcoffeeandbirdshitoffthecoverofmylaptopandloggedontomyemail.InthesubjectlineIwrote:‘Matthewdying.Timetocomehome.’Iwasjustabouttopress‘Send’whenthephonerangagain.Iletitring.

Edsaid,‘Aren’tyougoingtogetthat?’‘No,’Isaid.Thefeelingof

portenthadsuddenlyreturned.‘Don’tanswerit,’Isaid,toovehemently.‘It’sCorwin.’Butthiswasanerror.AfrownformedonEd’sforehead–nowhehadtocheck.ItbotheredhimthatIalwaysknewwhenitwasCorwin.Heputdownthedrill

andanswered.‘Corwin!Yes.Sheis.’Edhandedmethephone.Corwin’svoiceoscillatedonthecracklysatellitewaves.Ialwaysfelt,duringthesecalls,asthoughIwereataVictorianséance,communicatingthroughlayersofectoplasm.Corwinsaid,‘CanyougodowntoThorntonandmeetmethere?’

‘DidMumtellyouaboutMatthew?’‘No.What?’‘He’snotwell.’‘What’swrongwithhim?’‘Idon’tknow.Hewon’t

talkaboutit.’‘Oh.Well,I’monmyway

homeanyway.Ineedtoseeyou.Yougoondown.’‘OK,’Isaid.‘Travel

safely.’

WhenIputthephonedown,Edwaslookingatme.HedistrustedthebrevityofmyconversationswithCorwin.Isaid,‘CanIborrowyour

car?’‘Why?’‘Corwin’scominghome.I

needtogotoThornton.’‘When?’‘Now.’

‘What?Justlikethat?‘Something’supwith

Corwin.’‘What?’‘Idon’tknow.Ijustknow.’‘Youtwofreakmeout!’he

said.‘Howlongwillyoubegonefor?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘IthinkI’mgoingtoneed

itthisweek.’

Thatsimplywasn’ttrue.Heneverneededitduringtheweek.Hewalkedorcycledeverywhere.Infact,heprettymuchonlydrovehiscarwhenheneededtotakeittothegaragetorepairawingmirrorthathadbeensmashedwhileitwasparkedontheroad.ButIcouldn’tbebotheredtoargue.

Whenhefinishedwiththewindowheproducedabowlofhot,soapywater.Hetoldmetoleavethecarpet–hesaidthatwithcarpetsyouhavetoletthingsdryotherwiseyouendupscrubbingthedirtfurtherintothepile.WhilehewaswipingdownthebookshelvesIpackedsomeclothes.Edhadlefthisjacketovertheback

ofachairinthekitchen.Hiscarkeywasinoneofthepockets.Itookhimacupoftea,gavehimanI-don’t-deserve-youkiss,andsneakedout.

AfterBristoltheSundaytrafficbegantothinout.Amean,mizzlingrainhadkepteveryoneathome,nursingtheirseasonalaffective

disorder.IstoppedonceforcoffeeandpetrolandleftamessageonthebinderyvoicemailtosaythatIwouldn’tbeatworkforacoupleofdays.Itwasafamilyemergency,Isaid.IboughtanenormouspacketofcrispsandatefrommylapasIdrove.Corwinwasabouttomake

somethinggowrong.Icould

senseit.OnephonecallfromhimfromsomegodforsakenpartoftheplanetandIhadliedtoAna,whowasafairbossandmightnotbeabletotell.AndIhadstolenEd’scar.Anditwasraining.Therainsquattedaboveme

allthewayfromTaunton,acoldsleetyrain.Butaroundtheheadlandtheskycleared.Asingleboltofpinkunfurled

acrosstheblue.Suddenstuntedbaretreesreachedoverthelaneslikesupplicantsouls.BythetimeIarrivedinThorntonthedarkwasrisingupthesidesofthecombe.Therewaslightinthehallandinthekitchen–Matthewstillhadthehabitofputtingthehalllightonattwilight;someritualofregardforthestraywanderer,perhaps.

Matthewinhabitedonlyapartofthehousenow:thekitchen,hisstudy,hisbedroom.Whenwecamedownhewouldventurewithusintothelivingroom,whichsmeltdampuntilwecrankeduptheheating.Mumnevervisitedusthere.Hewasatthekitchentable,

readingandnibblingonaplateofbread,cheeseand

tomatochutney.HelookedupandIsearchedhisfaceforsignofillness.Hewasalittlemoredrawn,perhaps.‘Ah!Morwenna!’Hewasn’texpectingmesosoon,buthecouldn’tbesurethatIhadn’ttoldhimIwascomingstraightdownand,anyway,hehadlongsincegivenupbeingsurprisedbyanything.Ikissedhisforehead.

‘Areyouhungry?’heasked.‘Starving!’Hefetchedaplateandput

thecheeseandthebutterdishinfrontofmeandslicedapieceofbread.Itwasfresh,elasticunderthebutter.‘How’sCorwin?’asked

Matthew.‘He’sonhiswayhome.’

‘Oh,ishe?’Matthewlookedup.‘Fromwhere?’OnceMatthewhadkept

trackofCorwininanoldatlas,whichacknowledgedneithertheindependenceofAfricanstatesnorthebreak-upoftheSovietUnion.ButCorwinhadbeengonesolongthathehadgivenuptryingtodistinguishbetweenthedifferentkindsof

elsewherethatheldhim.TherewasonlyThorntonnow.Unchanging,setingraniteagainsttheAtlantic.HenolongerevenquitebelievedinLondon,althoughhewasoccasionallypersuadedofitbyme.‘Sudan,’Isaid.‘Goodness!How

fascinatingthatmustbe.

Whathashebeendoingthere?’‘Oh.Thesamethinghe

doesanywhere–everywhereelsebuthere.’Wewashedup.‘Let’shave

anightcapinthestudy,’Matthewsuggested.‘Haveyouanythingtoread?’‘No,’Isaid.‘Whydon’t

youfindmesomething,andI’llgetthefiregoing?’

Iswitchedoffthelightinthekitchen.ForamomentIstoodinthedarkandlistened.Therewasnothingbutancientsound–therushingofthebrook,thehootofanowl–thenMatthew’sstepinthehall.Hehadfoundsomethingforme.Ilitafireinhisstudy,and

broughtsomelogsinfromthewoodshed.Matthewpoured

twoglassesofmaltwhisky.Helaidabookonthecoffeetable–atattylimp-boundbookcalledTheGhostsofDartmoor.‘Ithoughtyoumightmakesomethingofthat,’hesaid.‘Ithassomelovelywoodcuts.Youcouldturnitintoanicelittlebook.’‘Thankyou,’Isaid.‘Oh,

andI’vebroughtyouapresent–chillichocolate,’I

added,handingthebartohim.‘Ithoughtwecouldtryittomorrowwithcoffee.’‘Goodness!’saidMatthew.

‘Doyoureallythinkso?’Istoodupandtookmy

glassovertothemap.‘Isthereanythingnew?’Iasked.Iexpectedhimtosay,

‘You’llhavetouseyoureyes.’Thatwastheoldgame–catchhimatitorfindit

yourself.Butinsteadhesaid.‘Ah,yes!IknewIhadsomethingtoshowyou.Standback.No.Notthere.Furtherback.Sothatyoucanseeitall.’Takingmyarmhesteered

mearoundhisdeskandmanoeuvredmeuntilmybackwasagainstthebookshelvesontheopposite

wall.‘Now,’hesaid.‘Lookatit.Reallyseeit–asawhole.’Itriedtoseeit.Allofit.

Allatonce.Somewherebeneath,allthatglowingcolourwasanchoredonthecontoursoftheOrdnanceSurveymap.Itriedtointuitthem,todisregardthepainting’swanderingsaintsandwrongedwomenandpoetpriests;itscontradictory

seasons,snowdropsandroses,fruitandblossom,springcubsandautumnhunters.Ithought,belatedly,thatitwasinterestingthatMatthewhadallowedthehalfofhiscirclethatwasseatobeblue,whenitwasalmostneverthat.Moreoften,almostalwaysinfact,itwasthecolourofcloudandrain,ofbruisedskin.Bisectinghis

circleoflandandseawerethecliffs,risingoutofthewaterandrecedingintothetoprightquarterofthecircle,astheywouldappeartoawalkerapproachingfromthesouth-west.Offthecoastwasthejaggedlineofareef.ExceptthatIknewthatthisreefwasaships’graveyard,andthatMatthewhadrecordedeveryshipwrecked

offourcoastbypaintingtheirwateryghosts,infullrig,and,thoughthiswasonlyvisibleunderthemagnifying-glass,Iknewthathehadwritteneachoftheirnamesinhisminusculehandalongwiththedatesoftheirdeaths.AndIknewalltheirnames:theyrepeatedthemselves.Perseverance,22April1842,andPerseverance,30June

1866,andPerseverance,24October1897.TherewasHope,andagainHope,andyetstillmoreHope.TherewereHannahsandElizabethsandMaryAnns.Theworldhadsentitsshipstodiethere:thePacquebotdeBrest,andtheMariaKyriakidis,andMatthew’sfavourite,theDulceNombredeJesus.And,ofcourse,theConstantia,out

ofwhoseentrailsGreat-grandfatherJameshadconstructedthecabin.‘Now,’saidMatthew.‘Let

meshowyou.’Herummagedaroundin

hisplanchestandpulledoutalargerolloftracingpaper.Thenhepulleduphislibrarystepsandbegantotapethetopedgeoftherolltothetopofthecanvaswithmasking

tape.Carefully,heunrolledthepaperandsecuredittotheedgesofthestretchersothatitoverlaythewholepainting,buttightly,sothatthepaintingwasvisiblebeneathapatternofpencillines.Ashesmootheditoverthemapandfiddledwiththetapeandtheedgesuntilitfittedtightly,hesaid,‘Ican’tbelieveI’dnever

seenitbefore.Doyouseeityet?’Ididn’t.Hecameoverto

standbesideme.‘Thisisquiteextraordinary.Ifyoujoinupthesepoints,church,Devil’sStoneandcabin,youmarkatrianglefromwhichyoucanbuildapentagramthatfitsexactlywithinthecircle.Thereitis,Morwenna.DivineProportion!’You’re

mad,Ithought.Quitemad.Youhaveplacedyourselfatthecentre,andnowyoudetectdivinityinyourdesign.AndatthesametimeIthought:Iwanttogrowtobeoldandmadandafirewithconviction.Wecontemplated

Matthew’sgoldensecretforacoupleofminutes,until

Matthewasked,‘WhenareweexpectingCorwin?’‘Oh,Idon’tknow.Hejust

toldmetomeethimhere.’‘Whatbringshimhome?’‘Perhapshe’shomesick,’I

said.‘Doyouthinkhegetshomesick?’‘Howcouldhenot?’Carefully,Iremovedthe

tracingpaper.Thefirelightflickeredoverthefigureofa

sleepinggiant,almostinvisiblyfolded,likeafoetus,intothebellyofSquabRock.WhenIturnedbacktoMatthew,hewasinhisarmchairandhiseyeswereclosed.Hispipe,unlit,laylooselyinhishand.Isatbythefire,sippingwhiskyandwaiting,asever,forCorwin.

13.

ThecursefigurewasgrinningatmewhenIwokeupinmyroom.Itwasanotherleadenday.IcouldhearaHooverbangingaroundinthehallbelowandwonderedwhenMatthewhadtakenonacleaner.CorwinandIhad

beennagginghimtodosoforyears,butuntilnowhehadinsistedonlookingafterhimself.BythetimeIgotdownstairsthemysteryvacuumerwasnolongerthere.Matthew,also,wasgone,offonhismeanderings.Imademyselfteaandtoastandwalkedoutintothegardentolookforsignsofspring.Thetreeswerepoised

andsecretive.Iwentfrombedtobed,bendingeverysooftentopushawaythecoveringofdecayedleavesfromemergentbulbs.Mycircuitbroughtmeto

theentrancetothekitchengardenand,wrappingbothhandsaroundmymugofteaforwarmth,Iwanderedthroughthebrickarchandintoaperfectlycultivated

plot,alldugover,readyforplanting.Atthefarendaskinnywomaninbluedungareeswaspushingawheelbarrow.ForamomentIdidn’trecognizeher.Ihadlastseenherfromadistanceinsomepuborother,plumpwithpuppyfatinskinnywhitedenimsandsilverheels–or,atleast,thatwashowIchosetopictureher.

‘Sandra?’Isaid,toolatetosuppresstheoutrageinmyvoice.Sheglancedoverher

shoulderwithoutstoppingandcontinuedtopushthewheelbarrowinthedirectionofthecompostheap.Thensheturnedandcametowardsme.‘Whatbringsyouhome,

then?’

Shewasabletosinkthe‘you’toanenviabledepthofdisdain,bylosingthehin‘home’.‘Iwantedtoseemy

grandfather.’‘Well.Fancythat!’she

said,inreproach.‘Sandra–whatareyou

doinghere?’‘Yourgranddadneeds

keepinganeyeon–that’s

whatI’mdoinghere.AndthearrangementishepaysmealittleandIgetuseofthisgarden.’‘Oh.Henevermentionedit

tome!’‘Well,heprobablythinks

hedid.Hismemory’snotsogoodthesedays.’‘Iknowthat!’Iwantedtosaythatitwas

myhouse,mygarden,andthat

MatthewoughtnotmakearrangementswithoutconsultingmeandCorwin,butwhileIwasnotsayingthat,Sandrahadalreadybecomeboredwithmeandasked,‘Where’sCrowtothesedays?’‘Sudan,’Isaid.‘Hedoesn’tstayputfor

long,doeshe?’

‘No,’Isaid.‘Hedoesn’tstayputforlong.Buthe’sonhiswayhome.’‘Abouttime,’shesaid.‘Ididn’tknowthatyou

wereagardener,’Isaid.‘Well,youwouldn’t,

wouldyou?’Shewassnippingcuttings

intosmallpieceswithsecateurs;theypiledupinthe

wheelbarrow.‘Didyouwantsomething?’‘No,’Isaid,retreating.‘I

wasjustoutforsomeair.Ididn’tknowyouwerehere.’‘Seeyou,then,’shesaid.

IhadforgottenabouttheexistenceofSandraStowe.Onesummeratprimaryschool–IthinkitwastheyearoftheSilverJubilee–

shefixedmewithapointingfingerintheplayground,framedbytheGothicwindowoftheinfants’classroom,anddeclaredme‘Wi-itch!Wi-itch!’infrontofthewholeschool.‘Witchyface!’sheshouted.‘Witchyname!’Thedaybefore,eachofus

hadbeenaskedtodrawupafamilytreeasahomeworkassignment.Ourteacher,

MissArden,aprettyyoungcurlyblondeincomerwhobaskedinouradoration,hadenthusiasticallypiecedtogetherthejigsawofcousins,auntsandunclesandestablishedthattwo-thirdsoftheclasscouldtracealinebacktoonlyfoursetsofgreat-grandparents.Aneatdiagramconnectingthemalltogetherwasdisplayedonthe

classroomandtheclasswasinvitedtomarvelatitsinbreeding.TheVentonnamewasnotonit–wedidn’tmarryintothevillage.Wewereposh,andmyposhness,Ivaguelysensed,evenattheageofseven,layattherootoftheattackonmygivenname.TheobjectionwasnotsimplythatIwasposh,itwasthatIwasposhandnotat

poshschool,whereIbelonged,andwhereIwasnot,despitemymother’sprotests,becausemyfatherhadhatedposhschool.Alltheotherkidsjoinedin:

‘MorwennaVentonisawitch!MorwennaVentonisawitch!’Idon’trememberminding.Matthewhaduslivinginourimaginationsinamagicalnetherworldandit

wasappealingtobeascribedsupernaturalpowers.ThesunwaswarmingmybackandIfeltmyspinecurveupandmyneckcontractintomyshouldersandIraisedmyarms,spreadingoutallmyfingers–mytenpointingdigitsforSandra’sone–andproducedfromdeepinmychestarasping,cursingkindofvoiceandsaidquietly:‘I

knowyourname,SandraStowe.Iknowyournameandthenamesofyourfatherandyourmotherandyourgrandfathersandyourgrandmothers.Iknowallyournames.’SuddenlyMissArden

stoodinfrontofme.IknewimmediatelythatIwasintrouble–itwasclearthatIhadbeenill-wishingmy

classmates.Shecouldn’texactlypunishmeforinvokingcurses,soIwassenttositinthebookcornerfor‘beingmean’,whichwasnotmuchofapunishmentasIpreferredtobeinthebookcorner.Rememberingthisnow,

havingforgottenitforalmostthirtyyears,IwonderedifSandraalsoremembereditin

thisway.Probablynot.Ithoughtthatitwouldbeinterestingtoaskher,oneday.

Acoupleofnightslateranorth-easterlywindblewin,alullabygalethatsangmeinandoutofmysleep.Ataroundthreeo’clockIwokefullyforaminuteortwoandlaythere.IthoughtofMum

andhowsheusedtoliefrettingawakeonstormnights,resentingtherestofuswhohadbeenborntothesestormsandwhowrappedourselvesupinthem,deeperandwarmerinourdreams.IrealizedthatmyhearthadbeenmissingthissoundandthatIhadnotknownit.ThenIturnedoverandsleptthroughtherestofthenight.

Inthemorningthewindwasgoneandthegreyairwaslanguidwithexhaustion.ThefaintarrhythmicsqueakofMatthewturningthehandleonthecoffeegrindercamefromthekitchen.IhadgivenhimanelectricgrinderasaChristmaspresentoneyear,butheneverusedit.Igotupandlookedoutofthewindow.Ahirecarwas

parkedonthedrivewaybelow.Corwin–blowninonthestorm.Icreptintohisroom.The

bedwasindisarrayandaduffelbagwasthrowninthecorner,buthewasn’tthere.Hewasn’tinthekitchen,either.‘Where’sCorwin?’‘Oh,’saidMatthew.‘Ishe

back?’

‘He’sback,buthe’snotinhisroom.’‘Goodness,’hesaid,

pouringoutacupofstrongblackcoffeeandapplyingasignificantamountofsugar.‘Howyoutwocomeandgo!’Then,‘He’llbeinthecabin,Iexpect.’IfilledaThermosflask

withcoffeeandrandowntothebeach.Atthebottomof

thecombeanoaklay,up-tippedacrossthemillleat,itsviolatedrootsobscenelyexposed.OnthebeachthestormhaddoneitsusualworkofdraggingupatidelineofbatteredAtlanticplastic,entangledbluesandredsandgreens–snappedfishingline,lostnetbuoys,discardedbottlesandabandonedbucketsandspades.

Aweakcolumnofsmokedribbledoutofthechimney.Corwinlayasleep,hisfacehiddenunderthemulti-colouredbedspread.Onlyahandandforearmandsomestrandsofdarkhairwerevisibleonthepillow.Iputsomepiecesofdriftwoodinthestoveandblewthefirebacktolife,thenpouredmyselfacupofcoffeeandsat

andwaitedforhimtowakeup.Whathadchangedinhiminthelastfiveyears?Whathadchangedinme?Lessinme,Ithought.Therehadbeenlesstochangeme.TherewasEd,ofcourse.Buthewasnotsomuchachangeasalogicalprogression.Adrumtapoflightrain

fellonthemetalchimneycapandechoeddownthe

stovepipe.ThesolesofCorwin’sbootswerecakedwithmud,butthecreasesaroundtheankleswerepackedwithafinedun-colouredsand–Africandust.IhatedtothinkofAfrica.Itmadesuchenormousdemandsontheconscience.Thecabinwasheatingup.

Corwinturned,pushedoffthe

blanketsandopenedhiseyes.‘Hello,’hesaid.‘I’vebroughtyousome

coffee.’Hesatup.Hewasthinner,

butmoremuscular.Therewasamilitarytautnesstohisface,darkringsundertheeyes,andhehadgrownabeard,whichwasstilldark.‘Icouldn’tsleepinthehouse,’hesaid.‘Thebedfelttoo

big.’Thisonlyaddedtotheimpressionhegaveofbeingarecentlyreleasedhostage.Ihandedhimhiscoffee.

‘How’sMatthew?’heasked.‘MumsaysMarkimplied

thathewasdying,butheseemsjustthesame.Hedoesn’tchange.Aseccentricasever.’Corwinlaughed,butalittle

cynically,Ithought.

‘Youlookdifferent,’hesaid.‘Smootherandshinier.Ihopeyou’renotgoingtogoallsoignéeonme,likeMumdid.’‘Howcanyoupossibly

tell?I’vejustgotoutofbed!I’mstillinmypyjamas!Ihopeyou’renotgoingtogoallsanctimoniousonmejustbecauseyou’reafuckingwarjunkie.’

‘Ah!’Hesmiled.‘Mylovelyfoul-mouthedMorwenna.Ireallyhavemissedyou.Comeandcuddleup.’Heshiftedoveronthe

narrowbed,andIslippedoffmyboots,climbedinnexttohimandlaidmyheadonhisbonyshoulder.Icouldsmellcoffeeandsleeponhim.

‘Howlongareyoubackfor?’Iasked.‘Sh!’hesaid,‘Listen!’Ilistened:rain,wind,

waves,shingle,seagulls.

Matthewwascookingbreakfastwhenwegotbacktothehouse.Yesterday’sleft-overpotatoeswerefryingwithonion.Hehadobviouslybeenwatchingoutforus,

becausehecametomeetusonthestepsatthekitchendoor,holdingouthishandstoCorwin,solemnandjoyfullikeapriestonEasterSunday.Theyclaspedtheirhandstogether,Corwinstoopingslightly,bothbeaming–withrelief,Irealized:theyhadnotbeensurethattheywouldseeeachotheragain.

Matthewbrokesomeeggsintothepotatoes.‘Iwillhavetoaskyouallaboutit,butwewon’tknowwheretobegin,’hesaid,‘sowe’lljustletitallcomeoutinitsowngoodtime.Morwenna,dear,wouldyougrindsomemorecoffee?’‘There’satreegoneover,

downbythefootbridge,’saidCorwin.

‘Oneoftheoldoaks?Whatashame!’Corwintuckedintoan

enormouspileofpotatoes.Ihadneverseenhimeatsofast.Iturnedthehandleonthecoffeegrinder.Matthewputsomeketchuponthetableandwanderedofftothepantrytosearchforbrownsauce.

‘Howlongareyoustaying?’Iasked.‘Idon’tknow,’said

Corwin.‘Itdependsonalotofthings.I’minnohurrytoleave.Whataboutyou?Canyoustayforawhile?’‘Icansortsomethingout,I

guess.’‘How’sEd?’‘Idon’tknow,’Isaid.‘I

stolehiscar.’

‘Youshouldmarryhimandhavechildren,’hesaid,withhismouthfull.‘Lotsandlotsofchildren.Andlivehere.WithchickensandgeeseandthatgoatDadalwayswanted.’Hewasconcentratingvery

hardonpouringketchup.‘Areyoutryingtotellme

you’vegotmarried,orsomething?’Ifeltquitesick

atthethought.‘Isthatwhatthisisallabout?’Corwinlaughed.‘No,

Morwenna.It’snotwhatthisisallabout.ButIreleaseyoufromourvow.’‘ButInevermadethat

vow.’‘Somucheasier,’hesaid.

‘Ionlyhavetoreleasemyself.CanI,please?Iwanttofallinlovewithsomeone–

anyone.Itdoesn’tlookthatdifficult.’‘It’smuchmoredifficult

whenyouloveallofhumanity,’Isaidspitefully.‘Youspreadyourselftoothin.’‘Butthat’sthepoint,’he

said.‘I’velostmyloveofhumanity.There’stoomuchofit,youcan’tpossiblykeepitup.UnlessyouhaveGod,

ofcourse.Godhelps.But,anyway,it’sgone.Allmygrandpity,dissipated.’Hestabbedapotato,andshoveditintohismouth.‘Why,then,youare

bereaved!’Isaid.‘Actually,’hesaid,‘that’s

exactlyhowitfeels.It’saterriblethingtolose.’‘Areyousureanyone

wantedyourpityinthefirst

place?’‘Morwenna,mylove,

sometimesyouaresuchasuperficiallittlebitch.Idon’tmean,“Ifeelreallysorryforherbecauseshe’ssofat.”Imeanthatqualityofhumanunderstandingthatraisesusabovethebeasts.’‘Perhapsitwillcome

back.’

‘Perhaps.But,anyway,Ineededabreak.Igothomesick.’Matthewreturnedwiththe

brownsauce.Therewasafaecal-likecoagulationaroundthelid,whichhewipedoffwithadampclothbeforehandingittoCorwin.Corwinslatheredthesauceoverhispotatoes.Matthewdidlikewise.

‘Talkingofthehumancondition,’saidMatthew,‘hereisoneoflife’sgreatmysteries.Brownsauce.Whatdoyouthinkitis?’‘Bestnottoenquire,’said

Corwin.‘Iquiteagree,’said

Matthew.Ifeltdepressed,allofa

sudden.Somehowweweretalkingasthoughwewereat

a1930shouseparty.Ialmostexpectedtobejolliedofftoplaytennis.Matthewbroketheyolkofoneofhiseggsandbrownsaucepooledintoit.‘IthoughtI’dtakeawalk

afterbreakfast,’saidCorwin,moppinghisplatewithapieceofMatthew’sbread.‘Anyonewanttocome?’

MatthewandIlookedovertothewindow.Itwasrainingheavily.‘No?’Corwinjumpedup

fromhisseat.Hisjeanshungfromhisbelt.Hereallyhadlostalotofweight.‘I’llbebackforlunch.’Whenhe’dgone,Matthew

tookmyhand.‘Ithinkhewantedtobealone,’hesaidconsolingly.‘It’shardly

surprising.Still,Idon’trememberhimbeingquiteso…’hepausedtofindtheword‘…so…brisk.Doyou?’

WhenCorwincamebackhewentstraightupstairstotakeabath.Hepassedmeonthestairs,andstoppedtogivemearain-drenchedhug.Thenhelayinthebathforalong,

longtime.Everysooftentheplumbingwhistledintoactionasheaddedhotwater.Whenhereappeared,withhisbeardtrimmedcloseandsmellingfaintlyofgrapefruit,hewascalmeragain,gentler.Wealternatedteaandwineallafternoonbythefire,talkingofeverythingandnothing,whileMatthewsatwithhiscrossword,tuninginandout.

ThatwasCorwin’shomecomingpresenttome:onelastunspoiledlazyafternoon.

14.

ThebookthatMatthewhadpulledoutformelayonthecoffeetableandCorwinpickeditup.‘TheGhostsofDartmoor.’‘Matthewwantsmeto

rebindit.’

‘Wereyougoingtosendittome?’‘Ihadn’tthoughtthatfar

ahead.Anyway,you’reherenow.Doyouwantit?’‘Doyourememberwhen

wewentlookingfortheDevil?’‘Ofcourse.’Thiswasoneofour

favouritestories.OnlyMatthewknewit–orifour

parentshadeverknown,theypretendednotto.‘Youweresoscared,’said

Corwin.‘No,Iwasn’t!’Corwinhadpackeda

ThermosflaskofhotchocolateandforeachofusanappleandaKitKat.HehadboughttheKitKatswithhisownpocketmoneyinordernottoarousesuspicion.Inhis

rucksackwerealsoatorch,sparebatteries,twoumbrellas,aSwissarmyknife,areflectiveblanket,incaseofhypothermia,and50pin10ppiecesforthetelephone,incaseofemergencies.OurparentswerewatchingBridesheadRevisited–Iremembertheprogrammebecausemyfatherusuallyrefusedto

watchtelevision,buteveryonewastalkingaboutBridesheadRevisitedandhehadbeenseducedintowatchingit.CorwinwantedtobeattheDevil’sStonewellbeforemidnightbecause,heargued,ifmidnightwasthewitchinghourthenyouhadtogettherebeforethewitches,whowouldneedtogetthereearlythemselvesin

ordertoprepare.IhadnowishtomeettheDevil,andwasalarmedbythehiatusfollowingthewords‘toprepare’.‘Forwhat?’Iwantedtoask,asIpulledmybootsovermypyjamasandzippedupmyquiltedjacket.Itseemedtomethatattheendofthatsentencewasabubblingcauldronbigenoughtofittwoeleven-year-olds,

butIwastractableand,asever,IfollowedwhereCorwinled.‘Youhadsomequestions

forhim,’Iremembered,laughing.‘Iwasgoingtoaskhim

howoldheis,andwhat’stheworstthingyoucandowithouthavingtogotoHell,andwhathisrealactualnameis.’

‘Andthen,’Irecited,‘youweregoingtopunchhiminthenose.’Wehidbehindthetrunkof

thebigoaktreethatstoodinthemiddleofthefield,andweateourKitKatslisteningtotherainfallingontheleaves,wrappedupagainsthypothermiaandwatchingthestone.Itdisappearedandreappearedastheclouds

movedacrossthemoon,andIexperiencedforthefirsttimetheimmeasurablelonelinessoftransgression.Andthat’stheendofthatcutestorybecauseMatthewwasoutonhiswanderingsandcamelimpingoverthefieldtowardsus,attractedbytheshiningsilverblanket,swinginghiswalkingstick.Welookedupathimandhe

lookeddownatusandwhispered,‘Boo!’Thenhedraggedusbackdownthehillbeforewehadevenbeenmissed.ThefollowingdayMatthewaddedtothemapatinypictureofCorwin,wearinghistanandorangeT-shirtandraisinghisfistsattheDevil.‘Doyourememberhow

muchyoucriedoverthat

becausehedidn’tpaintyoutoo?’saidCorwin.‘Atleasttwohours.And

thenMatthewcameupstairsandsaid,“Pullyourselftogether,child!”’‘Hesaid,“Youwerejust

taggingalong.ItwasCorwinwhowentlookingforhim.”Andyousaid…’‘AndIsaid,“Buthecould

neverhavegonelookingfor

himwithoutme.”’‘Whichwastrue,’said

Corwin,quietly.‘Whichwastrue,’I

echoed.

ImighthavesimplystayedinThorntonwithMatthewandCorwin.Matthew,Ihadbeentold,wasdying.AndCorwinwasunsettled.Ifeltresponsibletowardsthem

both.Perhapsitwastimetomoveback.InwinterThorntonfeltcompletelycutoff;itwaspossibletoimagineanexistenceprotectedfromtherestoftheworld.Corwincouldnotrelax.He

woulddisappearbeforeIwokeandreturnatnightfall.OnceortwiceIwentdowntothecabinexpectingtofindhimthere,butthecabinwas

empty.HewouldnottalkaboutAfrica,excepttosaythathehadnointentionofgoingbackforthetimebeing.Hesaidhehadcomebackslowly,coveringasmuchofthejourneyaspossibleoverland.HehadnotwantedsimplytofallasleepinanaeroplaneandwakeupatHeathrow.Hehadneededtoputenoughhoursandmiles

intothejourneytoplacedistancebetweenThereandHere.Thenonenight,abouta

weekafterhehadreturned,andafterMatthewhadgonetobed,heasked,‘Didyoueverreadthatlastbookyousentme?’‘No,’Isaid.‘It’sjust

somethingIfoundontheshelf.Ilikedtheengravings.’

‘Youshouldreadit.’‘Ineverreadthem,’Isaid.Heseemedtochangethe

subject.‘Didyoueverseethatmovie,TheGodsMustBeCrazy?’‘No.Idon’tthinkso.’‘Theonewhereanempty

Coca-ColabottlefallsoutoftheskyanditlandsonaBushman’shead?’‘No.’

‘So,someonethrowsanemptyCokebottleoutofaplaneandthetribethinksit’sagiftfromthegodsbecauseit’ssuchausefultool.It’sgreatformashingyamandbreakingnutsandstretchinghidebutthere’sonlyone,soprettysoonthey’refightingoveritandonthevergeofkillingeachotherwiththething.Sotheyholdacouncil

andsendoneoftheBushmenonajourneytotheendoftheworldtoreturnthebottletothegods,becauseithasbroughtstrifewherebeforetherewasharmony.IlaughedlikeadrainthefirsttimeIsawit.ButthenIwatcheditagain,afewyearslater,andthattimeitjustdidn’tseemthatfunnyanymorebecauseitwassuchaneatmetaphor

forthecentralcontradictionofmycareer,whichisthatsomethingthatappearshelpfuloftenjustmakesthingsworse.’Icontemplatedmybrother,

hisrestlessness,hisirritability.Ididn’tbelieveintalkingaboutthings.Ibelievedthattalkingaboutthingsonlyinflatedproblems,butjustincaseitwas

somethingIoughttodo,Iventured,‘Didsomethinghappen,Corwin?’Heignoredthequestion.

‘It’sliketimetravel–youmightgobackintimeandinterfereinordertoavertatragedy,buthowcanyoupossiblyknowwhatyourinterferencemightunleash?Dozensofbadfilmshavebeenbasedonthatpremise.

Anyway,theansweris,youcan’t.Youcan’tknow.’Isaid,‘Iwishyou’dshave

offthatbeard.Idon’trecognizeyouwithit.’‘Areyoulistening?’‘You’respeakingin

parables.Youknowhowmuchthatpissesmeoff.’HepretendedthatIhad

saidsomethingelse.‘Letme

tellyouaboutmyfirstCoca-Cola-bottleexperience.’Attheheartofthehouse

thecentralheatingclankedoffwithashudder;itwasasifIcouldseetheheatbeginningtoseepoutthroughthecracksaroundthewindowframesandtoseethesuckingcoldpullinunderthedoorofthelivingroomfromthestonehallfloor.

‘ItwasinMozambique,’hecontinued.‘Iwaslivinginthisvillageinthehills.Thesehillswerelikenothingyouseehere–imaginevasttermitemounds,andasredastermitemounds,andorangedusteverywhere,andthesungoingdownasorangeasthedust.’Isaid,‘I’veneverseena

termitemound.’

‘Ofcourse,’hesaid,hisvoicegettingharder,‘Iwasdeeplyinlovewiththecountryandhadmadevalianteffortstoabsorbtheloreanddialectofthedistrict.Ihadlearnedhowtowashmyunderpants,cleanmybodyandbrushmyteethusingonlyasinglecupofwaterandIhadbeenmadeawareofthe

explosiveradiiofvarioustypesoflandmine.’Isaid,‘You’vetoldmethat

before,atleastfivetimes,yoursingle-cup-of-waterstory.Ibetit’soneofyourpick-uplines.’‘Isharedahousewiththis

GermangirlcalledInge,whohadthemostbeautifulfeet.Weslepttogetherwheneverwe’dhadtoomuchtodrink.

Therewasnoelectricityandwewerealongwayfromtownandtherewasverylittletodointheevenings.Inge,likeme,wasenchantedtobeinaplacewhere,onlyaboutayearbefore,thepopulationhadbeenateachother’sthroats,murdering,raping,anddraggingeachother’schildrenofftobesoldiers.Allthatsublimatedviolencein

theairmadeforgreatsex.Somenights,whentherainscame,wewouldsitontheverandaandlistentothethunderandwatchthelightningplayaroundthehills.We’dbetotallytransported,asifwewerewatchingafireworkdisplay.‘Anyway,’hesaid–fixing

theword,likeathreat,‘Iwastheretodigawell–or,

rather,tosupervisethemenofthevillageinbuildingthewell,andtoteachthemhowtomaintainit.Thewomenofthevillagewerehavingtowalkabouteightmilestothenearestsourceofwater,carryingbabiesandpots.Therewasthisonewomanwholimpedalongonabadlyfittingprostheticleg,andtherewasanotherwhowasso

ancientandsothinandsofoldedoverthathershoulder-bladesroseoutofherbacklikewings.Theylikedme,becauseithadbeenexplainedtothemthatIwasabouttoimprovetheirlivesforthem,andbecauseIwassomethingexotic.Peopleusedtoreachouttotouchmetoseewhatmywhiteskinfeltlike.Sometimes,inthemorning,

whentheywalkedpastmyverandatheysangandclappedoutarhythmandmyheartswelled,becauseIwantedthemtoloveme,eachandeveryoneofthem,especiallythegirlwhohadlostherleg.‘Sowebuiltthemtheir

well.Anddoyouknowwhathappened?No?Haven’tItoldyouthisstorybefore?Well,

whathappenedwas,theystoppedsingingastheypassedmyveranda.Instead,wheneverIcameneartheymadethatsound,whichisthemostefficientanddevastatingexpressionofcontemptonthewholeplanet:thesoundofsuckedteeth.IngeandIusedtotrytoimitateit,butwecouldnevergetitright.It’sakindofinversesnakehiss,

andonlythecentreofthelipsmaymove.Andthenyouhavetogettheheadmovement,asharpbutsubtlebird-likejerkawayfromtheobjectofyourdisdain.‘Yousee,itturnedout,

afterI’dbeentoacouplemoreoutlyingvillagesanddugacouplemorewells,that,whileithadseemedagoodideaatthetimenottohaveto

spendfiveorsixhoursadayfetchingwater,thewomenhaddiscoveredthattheyhadlikedbeingawayfromthemen.Ihadlostthemtheirhoursoffreedomandtheyblamedmeforinterfering.’‘Areyougoingtotellme

whatallthisisabout?’Iasked.‘Whyareyouback?’‘Shewentsouth–Inge,’he

said.‘MarriedaDutch

peacekeeper.’Hestoppedabruptly,and

composedhimself.‘Allofwhich,’hesaid,lookingatmekindly,‘isaratherlong-windedwayofsayingthatitisextremelydifficulttoknowifandwhentointerveneinthecourseofthingsanditisnotsomethingthatItakelightly.Iamacautioustimetraveller.’

‘You’velostme,’Isaid.‘Idon’tunderstandawordyou’resaying.’‘Twothingshappened,’he

said.‘AndIdon’tknowwhichhappenedfirstorif,perhaps,they’reinterdependent.ButthefirstiswhatI’vetoldyoualready,althoughyouthoughtIwasbeingflippant.Ilostmycompassion.Itisthegreatest

lossI’veeverexperienced–mywholelife,yousee,I’vehadatendernessformyfellowhuman.ItwaswhatIhadinsteadoffaith–mybeliefinhumandignity,inthevalueofdoingwhatyoucantoshoreupthedignityofothers.Andthenthatsensejustdisappeared.Thenoise,thefuckingnoise,youcan’timagine,thoserefugeecamps

–radiosanddogsandchickensandscreamingchildrenandconstantarguingandbickering.Ibegantofeelthisdeep,corrosivecontempt.Itwaslikeavirus.Itcompletelytookmeover.Foryearsyouthinkofthechildrenasbeautifulandexuberantandvulnerable,andthensuddenlyyouseethemasvoraciousparasiteswho

wouldkillyouforapacketofparacetamol.’Corwinstoppedagain.‘It’s

gettingcold,’hesaid,andstooduptogetsomemorelogs.WhilehewasoutoftheroomImovedclosertothehearthandfiddledwiththedyingembers.Idesperatelywantedtogotobedbutthatwouldhavebeenunforgivable.Hecameback

andstokedupthefireintoaflamingroar.‘You’reveryquiet.’‘You’reverytalkative.

Yousoundlikeyoucoulddowithaproperbreak.’‘Well,likeIsaid,Igot

homesick.’‘Whatwasthesecond

thing?’‘Ah,yes,thesecondthing.

Thatconcernsusboth.You

see,thisidealodgedinmyhead,andIcouldn’tshakeitfree.Ineedtotestitonyou.’‘Onme?’‘Yes.Iwantyoutothink

aboutwhatitwouldmeanifDad’sfallwasn’tanaccident.’Thiscameatacomplete

tangent.‘Whatdoyoumean?’

‘Weneverquestionedwhathappened,’saidCorwin.‘AndthenonedayIdid–thequestionwasthere.Whatifitwasn’tanaccident?Whatiftherewasdeliberation?’‘Whyareyousayingthis?

Whatareyousaying,exactly?’‘Ijustneedyoutogiveit

somethought–Idon’twanttoinfluenceyou.ButIneed

toknowfromyou,ifitwasn’tanaccident,whatwasit?’‘You’renotmakingsense,’

Isaid.‘Nothingyou’resayingmakessensetome.Dadwaspissed.’Corwinsaid,‘Please,

Morwenna.Justthinkaboutit.Didwemisssomething?’Istoodup.‘I’mgoingback

toLondon.It’stimeIgotbacktowork.I’mgoingto

losemyjobandmyboyfriendifIcarryonlikethis.’‘Hekneweverysquare

millimetreofthatcoastpath!’Corwinsaidquietly.‘Hecouldhavedancedhomebackwardswithabottleofvodkainsidehimandnotfallenoff!’‘Thisisyourmid-life

crisis.I’mnotsharingitwithyou.’

Corwinsaidnothingmore.Hewasallowinghiswordstosettle.Ilefthimsittingonthefloorbesidethefire.Ipackedmybag,thenmademyselfacoffee,wrotemyexcusesinanoteforMatthew,whichIplacedonthekitchentable,andleftthehouse.OutsideIcaughtmy

breath.Ihadforgottenthemoon.Thecombewas

glowing,asthoughrevealingitssoul–thedaguerreotypeplateofitself.Thesharpshadowscutintothefields,likedeep,darksecrets.Itwasasthoughthemoonwerenotcastingthelightbutdrawingitfromthesea.AnditwasthenthatIaskedmyselfforthefirsttime:Did,onsuchanight,myfatherdeliberatelystepoffthecliffatBrock

Tor?Thedoubtwasseeded.IclimbedintoEd’scarandlancedthemoon’senchantmentwiththeslamofthedoorandtheyellowofthehighbeamsanddrovebacktoLondon.IcouldnothavesleptnowevenifIhadwantedto.

InLondonthemoonwaslostinthestreetlightglow.I

parkedEd’scaronhisstreetandpostedthekeythroughhisletterbox.Athomealltraceofpigeonwasgone,andwhenIwentintothelivingroom,IsawthatEdhadhadmywindowre-glazed.

15.

Atthebinderynoone,notevenAna,commentedonmytwoweeks’absence.Iexperiencedadeliriumoflovetowardseveryonethere,eventhoughtherewasanatmosphereofdisapprovalandnoonewascommenting

onmyabsencebecausenoonewasreallyspeakingtome.Thiswastheonlysafeplaceleft.Iworkedthroughmylunchbreakandlongaftereveryoneelsehadgone.Ithoughtquiteseriouslyofsimplylyingdownonthefloorandsleepingthere,butwasabletolaughoffthethoughtandcycledhomelate,stoppingoffatthecorner

shopforsoupandslicedbread.AndthatwashowIspentmyweek.Iunpluggedthelandline,keptmymobileswitchedoffandignoredmycomputer.ButontheFriday,aswealldriftedoffforourweekends,afearsetin.ThiswasafeelingIhadneverexperiencedbefore–anxiety,yes,andjoltsofadrenalin,butnotthis.Thissatlikeextreme

coldinmypelvis,whichachedwithit.Icouldn’tshaketheideathatsomehowCorwinhadbecomedangeroustome.Withthefearcamean

animalfurtivenessandalertness.InoticedsmellsIhadnotnoticedbefore–theFriday-nightstenchofend-of-weekcigarettes,exhaledPinotGrigio,andhappy-hour

perfumessprayedoninworkplacewashrooms.Thegirlslookedunsafeontheirenormousheels.Ifeltacutelyconcernedforthem.Howwouldtheyruniftheyneededto?AsImanoeuvredmybike

intothehall,Inoticedthattherewaslightonthestairs.ItwouldbeEd.Fairenough,Ithought–andsotactfulof

himtowaituntiltheweekend.Ihopedhewouldforgiveme,andInoticedthatIhopedand,atthesametime,assumedthathewould.Hewassittingatthe

kitchentable,asthoughitwouldbeinappropriatelyinformaltowaitformeonthesofa.Ipoureduseachaglassofwineandsatoppositehim.

‘So,’hesaid.‘Areyougoingtotellmewhat’sgoingon?’‘Idon’tthinkIcan,’Isaid.

‘Idon’treallyknowwhat’sgoingon.’Hedrankhiswineand

waitedformetocomeupwithsomethingbetterthanthat.‘I’mverycold,’Isaid.‘I’m

goingtohaveabath.Youcan

comeandtalktomeifyoulike.’Iranthewaterandlit

candlesandlaytheredrinkingmywine.EventuallyEdcameinandsatontheedgeofthetub.‘Youseemupset,’he

conceded.‘Yes.’‘Corwin?’‘Yes.’

‘What’swrongwithhim?’‘He’sbroodingovermy

father.ButIdon’twanttotalkaboutit.’‘Youandhehaveavery

strangerelationship.’‘Possibly,’Isaid.‘ButI

havenopointofcomparison.Wejustare.Therehasneverseemedtobeanalternative.’Theblindatthebathroom

windowglowedaweary

orangefromthestreetlampbelow.IwonderedwhatEdrequiredofmefornormalitytoresume.ToofferanexplanationofCorwin?Todenouncehim?Strange,howthatwordpoppedintomyhead:‘denounce’.Whatfor?Edwasstrangelycolourless–likeamoth.Iwonderedifitwasdeliberatecamouflage,so

thattheCCTVcameraswouldnotpickhimup.‘Whataboutme?’asked

Ed.‘Aren’tIanalternative?’Thatwasfartoodifficulta

question.‘DidIevertellyou,’Iasked,‘abouthowMatthewcametodrawthemap?’Edsighedapatientsigh.

Hewascountingtoten.Ithoughtaboutallthe

hundredsandthousandsoftenshehadcountedtosincewemet.Theystretchedoutintoalong,longline,disappearingoffintoouterspace.Butthentheyre-formedtomakeclumpsofpinpricksintime–tinyvoids,whichmergedtogethertoformanawfulsoul-suckingblackhole.

…nine…ten.Deep,self-controllingbreath.‘Yes,’hesaid.Iignoredhim.Hewas

missingthepoint.Somestoriesaremeanttobetoldmorethanonce–theyhavemultipleapplications.Thiswasoneofthem.‘Firstofall,’Isaid,‘you

needtounderstandthatMatthewisabsolutely

terrifiedofthesea.Helovesit–or“her”,ashewouldsay.Butsheterrifieshim.Whythatis,isanotherlongstory,whichbelongselsewhere.’Iletinalittlemorehot

water.Edwassittingontheedgeofthebath.Hisfingerswerepushedintohishairandheleanedhisforeheadagainstthepalmsofhishands.Hiseyeswereclosed.

‘So,thisisthestoryofMatthew’sDisappointment,’Icontinued–notatalldiscouragedbyEd’sdespair.‘Matthewwasnineteen,andhelikedbeinginThornton,althoughhethoughtperhapsheshouldgotouniversity,orsomethingcharacter-developinglikethat.Buttherewasawaron,andeven

inThorntonitcouldnotbeignored.’‘Andthedoctortoldhim

hehadalimp,andtheverynextday,’saidEd,‘hesetoutatdawnandwalkedasfarashecouldbymiddayandmarkeditonthemapandcamehomeandmadeacirclearoundhimselfandthat’showhecametopaintthemap.’

‘Matthewtellsitbetter.’‘Idon’twanttotalkabout

Matthew.’‘Mymotherthinks,’Isaid,

‘thatit’s“egotistical,borderingonhubristic”toplacehimselfatthecentreoftheworldlikethat.’‘IthinkI’mprobablyon

herside.’IwassorrythatEdlooked

soforlorn.Isaidso.Isaid,‘I

amsorry.Willthatdo?’‘Itlookslikeit’sgoingto

haveto,doesn’tit?’‘Doyouwanttogetinto

thebath?’‘No,thanks.’‘Let’sdosomething

differenttomorrow,’Isaid,decidingthatthatwasenoughforthetimebeing.‘Likewhat?’

‘Let’sgototheSaatchiGallery.Ihaven’tbeenthereinyears.’‘Youhateallthatstuff.’‘Yes,Ido,’Iadmitted.

‘ButI’mboredwithmyself.IthinkIshouldchallengemyownprejudices.’‘Whyareyouboredwith

yourself?’‘Corwinoncedescribedme

asa“collectionof

detachments”,’Isaid.‘Doyouthinkthat’sfair?’Edstoodup.‘Ithink“a

collectionofself-indulgences”wouldbemoreaccurate!’‘Ed!’Icalledout.‘You’re

cross!’Buthewasalreadygone.PoorEd.Morwenna’sLastChance.

ItwasacoupleofweeksbeforeIvisitedthegallery.IhadmadeupwithEd,butourtrucestillfeltalittlefragileandIthoughtitbettertogoonmyown.ThefigurewassmallerthanIrememberedit.Itappearedwaxen,pliant,asifthecold,blue-veinedfleshofitwoulddimpleunderthewarmthofmyfinger,butthelabelsaid‘siliconeandmixed

media’.Ahardmaterial,then–unyielding.Isatdownonthefloornexttoitandcrossedmylegs.InthefewyearssinceIhadseenitIhadgivenitmyfather’sface;ortheapproximationofmyfather’sfacethathadsettleduponmymemory.Itcameasasurprisetoseeanotherman’sfacethere,anolderman’s.Onewhohadtaken

deathslowly,givenhimselftoitpiecebypiece,ratherthanlaunchingintoitwholeandhealthy.AsIthoughtthatword,

‘healthy’,itsantithesislauncheditselfintomymind:‘diseased’.Matthewwasdiseased,probably–cancerous,probably–althoughhehadtoldus

nothingandwecouldonlyspeculate.Thegallerywasfilling

withdisappointeddamppeople,whohadbeenlookingforwardtoaturnontheLondonEyebuthadfoundthequeuestoolongforarainyAprilday.DeadDadandmeonthefloor,thesmellofwettrainers,asmallchild’sarmbeingpulledback

byherfather–herinstinctwastotouchthefigure.Couldmyfatherhavehad

cancer?Iwondered,fullygivingmyselfuptothethoughtthathemighthavecommittedsuicide.Whatifdeathhadbeeninsidehimalready?Whatifhehadbeengrowingitsomewhereinthestrangeuniverseofhisbody,massinganinvisible

malignancy,andhehadwishedtospareusall?Thethoughtwouldnot

quitecomplete.Spareusallwhat?Leave-taking?Certainty?Icouldnotmakeitmakesense–myfatherwasnotamessyperson:helikedorder.Hisdeathwasnotorderly.Ileftthegalleryandwent

outintotherainandleaned

ontheembankmentwall.EvenafteralltheseyearsoflivinginLondonIwassurprisedbytheriver,itsriseandfall,itssecrettributaries,flowingbeneaththetangledtraffic,cascadingfromtheembankmentwalls.Andtheboats–somehowIalwaysforgotthattherewereboats,andthattherehadbeenboatslongbeforetherehadbeena

city,andthattheriverconnectedwiththesea,andthatitsconnectednesswiththeseawasthewholehistoryofthecity.Matthewneverlostsightofthesethings.Hewouldchidemeifheknew.Myfatherhadneverseen

thisriver–noreverwantedto.Mumcameregularlynow,asshehaddonebeforeshemetmyfather,tovisitthe

galleries,toshop.WelunchedtogetherinWestEndrestaurants.(‘Makingupforlosttime,darling,’shesaid.‘Thanksalot,Mum!’Isaid.‘Ididn’tmeanyou,darling.It’snotalwaysaboutyou.’)Iforcedmythoughtsbacktomyfather.Ifsuicide,thenwhy?WasthatCorwin’squestion?Icouldnotimaginethatourfatherwouldwishus

topokearoundaskingwhy–hewastooprivate.Andthenthatstruckmeastheanswer–hehadwantedaprivatedeath!IrangMum,andwhenshe

answered,Isaid,‘Mum.Mybattery’sabouttogo.CanyougetmeMarkLuscombe’snumberquickly?’Mumdidn’taskwhy.She

assumedthatIwantedtotalk

tohimaboutMatthew.Shegavemethenumber,said,‘Callmesoon!’andIhungup.‘Mark!Hi.It’sMorwenna

Venton.’‘Morwenna!Whatanice

surprise.’‘Ineedtoaskyou

something.’‘IsthisaboutMatthew?’

Hisvoicewascautious.

‘No.It’saboutDad.’Ahesitation.‘About

John?’‘Yes.I’vebeenthinking…

aboutDad.Washeillwhenhedied?’Anotherhesitation.Hewas

workingoutwherethiswasleading–hadworkeditout.Therewassadnessinhisvoicewhenhereplied:‘No,Morwenna.Therewas

nothingphysicallywrongwithhim.’Therewasaspasminmy

chest.Myheartwashurting.Heartscouldactuallyhurt!‘“Physically”?Whatdoes

“physically”imply?’‘Morwenna?Areyoustill

there?’‘Isaid,“Whatdoes

“physically”imply?”’

Iwasshouting,buthecouldn’thearme.‘Morwenna?Morwenna?’Therewasraininsidemy

phone.Aboatfulloftouristswentbyonthechurningbrownriver.IrememberedsomeonetellingmethatthereisarewardforfishingbodiesoutoftheThames–shewasarower,andmorethanonce,shetoldme,adawntraining

sessionhadbeeninterruptedtotowasuicidetothebank.Irememberedthis,nowthattheword‘suicide’hadintroduceditselfintomythinking.Noone,inthelastseventeenyears,hadsomuchaswhisperedthewordinrelationtomyfather–atleast,notinmypresence.Andyetnowthereitsat,right

inthemiddleofmyforehead,pulsinggently.BackathomeIcalled

Corwin.ItwasthefirsttimewehadspokensinceIhadlefthimbythefire.‘OK,’Isaid.‘Let’ssayI

allowthepossibilitythatitwasn’tanaccident.Thenwhat?’‘Whatdoyouthink?’

‘Well,you’veplantedtheideanow.I’mstuckwithit.’‘Whatidea?’Iforcedmyselftosayit:

‘Suicide.’‘Isthatwhatyouthink?’‘Fuck’ssake,Corwin.Just

stopit!’Therainwasonmy

windowandsneakingintomyflatthroughthewarped

frame.‘Isitrainingatyourend?’‘Pissingdown!’‘Good!Butwhywould

Dadkillhimself?’Iasked.‘Itdoesn’tmakesense.Whywouldhe?’‘Perhapshedid,perhapshe

didn’t,’saidCorwin,infuriatingly.‘Idon’tknow.Butweoughttoknow.

Clearly,wemissedsomething.’‘Doweneedtoknow?’‘Ineedtoknow.’‘Why?Whatdoesit

change?’‘That’swhatIneedto

know.’‘Christ,you’rebeing

annoying.How’sMatthew?’‘Old.Increasinglyabsent.’

‘IsupposeIcouldcomedownfortheweekend.’‘Yes.Thatwouldbegood.’

Perhaps,Ithought,myfatherhadnotbeentoseeMarkbuthadbeentoseesomeotherdoctorinordertopreservehissecret.Or–anotherthought–unhappypeoplecommitsuicide.Hadmyfatherbeenunhappy?Wasthatwhat

Corwinwasbroodingabout?We–allofus,Mumincluded–hadcastMumastheUnhappyOne.Ithadbeenselfishofhimtobeunhappy,tofeedandindulgehisunhappiness,whenhewastheonewhohadgothisownway.Privacy.Unhappiness.Eitherwayhehadbeensecretiveandselfish,andMumknewit.Thatwaswhy

shehadbeensofurious.Ihadbeentoohardonher,anditwasmyfather’sfault.NowIwasfurioustoo.Iresolvedtogoandseeher,makefriends.Itwastimethatwemadefriends,anyway.Itwasthegrown-upthingtodo.

16.

Ididn’tdareeithertoaskformoretimeoffortoborrowEd’scar,soIrentedacarfortheweekendandsetoffbeforesunriseontheSaturday.IbaulkedatmyfirstapproachtoMum’s,veeredoff-courseandended

upstompingthroughbluebellwoodswithmuduptomyankles,preparingmyselftobehavewell.Whenthewoodsopenedout,IcouldseeMumandFuckOffBob’snewlybuiltoak-framedhousetuckedintothehill,andacknowledged,painfully,thatwhatMumhadchosenforherselfwasaversionofthelifeshehadalreadyhad:a

largecountryhouse,butdryandwarmandunburdenedbyanyhistory–includingthatofCorwinandme.AtlastIgotbackintothe

carandmademywayupthegraveldriveandparkedbelowarowoffashionablypleachedhornbeams,whichIintendedtoremembertoadmire.Mumcametomeetmeatthefrontdoor,saying,

‘Lookatthestateofyou.Takeyourjeansoff–they’resoakedandyou’vegotmudalloverthem.’Thehousewas

supernaturallyclean,eventhecrystalsonthechandelier,whichBobhadnodoubtwrestedfromsomeancientwidow,sparkleddust-free.Mumhadanarsenalofspraysunderthekitchensinklined

upreadytozapanyincipientstain.Iimaginedapixielivinginthecupboard,heldcaptivehousekeeperbyanimprudentlygrantedwish,waitingtobereleasedfromhismagicalbond.Iimaginedhissleepingmalevolence,tuckedbeneaththewearyfaceofservitude.‘Oh,I’msureBobwould

lovethat!Meinmy

knickers,’Isaid,beforeIcouldremembertobenice,butMumwasn’trisingtoday.‘Bob’sout.Andinany

caseyoucanborrowsomethingofmine.’Itookoffmyjeansinthe

hallandMumcamedownwithsometrousersformetoputon.Theywerealittletoosmall.

‘Iwasexpectingyouearlier!’‘Iwasfeelingalittle

nauseous,’Ilied.‘Ihadtostopforsomeair.’‘Areyoupregnant?’‘God,no!’‘Oh,well!’shesaid,

cheerfully.‘Sugarinyourtea?’‘Please.’

‘Let’sgointothesnug,darling.I’veputonafire.Andthere’ssomethingonthemantelpiece,foryou–yougofirst.’Onthemantelpiecewasa

creamenvelopewith‘MorwennaVenton’writtenonitinMum’smostexuberantfountain-penneditalics.Iputmymugonthecoffeetable,satbackinthe

charcoal-feltItaliansofa,pulledmyfeetundermeandslippedmythumbundertheflapoftheenvelopetoopenit.Mumsaid,‘It’sjustthatall

thelegalinsandoutstooksolong,andthenCorwinhasneverbeenhomeformorethantwosecondsandnowthathe’sfinallybackforat

leastawhilewethoughtbetterlatethannever!’Therewasathick-laidcard

inside,embossedprint:RobertMarsdenandValerieVentonrequestthepleasureofyourcompanyontheoccasionoftheirmarriage.‘Youwillcome,won’t

you,darling?’Shewasgabblingalittle–

itwasn’tlikeher.Oh!I

thought.She’satinybitscaredofme.Thathadneveroccurredtome.‘OfcourseIwill,’Isaid

expansively,andthoughtaboutleapingfromthesofatogiveMumaforgivinghug,butmyawkwardlyfoldedfeetstalledmeanditwasalreadytoolate.InsteadIgushed,‘Ofcourse!It’stime.Youknow,I’dsortofforgottenthatyou

weren’tmarriedand,youknow,it’snicethatyoustillwanttobemarried.’NowIwasgabbling.ThankGod,ImanagedtoshutupbeforeIsaid‘atyourage’.Iwouldmakethemabeautifulweddingpresent–aphotoalbum,boundincreamsilk.(Actually,no,thatwasalittletoovirgin-bride.Leatherwouldbebetter.)Andwith

theirnamesandthedatedebossedintothecover.Itookrefugeinthesweet

teaandtriedagain.‘I’vebeenthinkingalotaboutDadrecently.I’vebeenwonderingifhewashappy.’‘Happy?’‘Oh,nevermind!Ididn’t

meantobringhimintotheconversation,justwhenyou

andBobareannouncingyourwedding!’‘Whatdoyoumeanby

“happy”?’Therewasthatword,

deceptivelyinnocuous,unleashed.Isuddenlydiscerneditsfullloadofimplicitrightsandresponsibilities,incurredandfailedduties.

‘Idon’tmeananythingbyit–IjustmeanthatI’vebeentryingtorememberthings.HowDadwas.Howyouwereasacouple.’‘Andhowdoyou

rememberit?’‘Nothappy.Atleast…I

rememberyouasnotbeinghappy.AndIdon’trememberbeingabletotellifDadwashappyornot.’

‘Well,darling.You’vejustdescribedyourfather!’ThecupinMum’shandcircledgently;asliceoflemonbobbedatthesurfaceofhertea.‘Whatbroughtallthison?’‘Oh,nothing,really.Have

youseenmuchofCorwin?’‘Yes.Afairbit,actually.

He’sbeenbondingwithBob.’‘Hehas?’

‘Yes.’Shescrutinizedme–withamother’sforensicgaze.‘Whatdoyouthinkthat’sallabout?’‘Oh,youknowCorwin.

He’sbigonappeasement.Hecan’tbearnottogetonwithanyone.Pleasedon’ttellmethey’vebeenplayinggolf.’‘No,darling.Thatwould

beoverdoingit.They’vejustbeenonacoupleofwalks

together.Pintatthepub.Thatsortofthing.’‘Oh.Well,that’snice,I

suppose.’‘“Nice”?’Nowordwassafewithmy

mother.Istayedsilent.‘AreyouandCorwinupto

something?’‘I’vehardlyseenCorwin!’‘So–yes?’‘No.’

Mumdrankuphertea.‘HowdoyoufindCorwin?’‘Different,’Isaid.Sorrow

tuggedatmythroat.‘Brooding.’‘Yes,’saidMum,reaching

intothebottomofhercupandtakingoutthelemonslicebetweenfingerandthumb,‘there’satouchofHeathcliffabouthim,thesedays.Well,it’shardlysurprising.God

knowswherehe’sbeen!’Sherippedatthecrescentoftea-stainedlemonwithherteeth,anddroppedtherindintothebottomofhercup.‘Whatareyougoingto

wear?’Iasked.‘Oh,Idon’tknow.It’sso

difficult.Atthisstageinlife,you’recaughtbetweenmother-of-the-brideandmutton-dressed-as-lamb.I’m

thinkingaverypalesilversilkandaquietbouquet–andatmyageapieceofInterestingJewelleryiscompulsory.Itwillprobablyrain,ofcourse.AmIallowedtochooseadressforyou?’‘Youhaven’talready?’‘Well,Ihave.Willyou

wearit?’‘Yes,Mum.Ofcourse.

WillIlikeit?’

‘Possibly.AndwillyoubringEd?’‘Possibly.’‘Youshould,darling.After

all,youarenearlythirty-five.’

AtThornton,IragedthroughthehouselookingforCorwin,buthewasout.Matthewwasoffsomewhere,meanderingthroughhisvisions.Sandra,

whowasturningthecompost,said,‘Crowsaidtotellyouhe’sgoneclimbing.Bebackteatime.’‘Didhesay“tea”or

“supper”?’‘Hesaid,’shestabbedher

forkintothepileofsteamingdecay,‘“tea”.’‘Sorry.’‘That’sOK,’saidSandra,

indifferently.‘Youcan’thelp

yourself.’

Backinthehouse,IwatchedSandrafromthelanding.ShefeltmestaringatherandturnedtolookupatwhereIstoodinthewindow.Slowly,Iraisedmyhand.SandraturnedbacktoherforkingandIremainedatthewindow,handraised,likeanimprintofmyselfleftupon

thehouse.Indulginginthesensationofinsubstantiality,oftransparency,Iwanderedaimlessly,imaginingmyrealselfunderground,richlymouldering.Isearchedtheroomsforotherghosts,butmetonlymuteobjects.IendeduplyingonCorwin’smattress.Therewasapileofperiwinkle-bluebooksstackedinthecornerofthe

room.Ifellasleepandthenwoke–Icouldnottellhowmuchlater–tothesoundofaheavy,limpingfootfallbelowandtheslammingofthefridgedoor.IwentdownstairsandfoundCorwininthekitchenwithhisbareleftfootrestingonachairandanicepackaroundhisankle.Coveringhisskinandhisclotheswasafinelayerof

silt,asthoughhehadbeenuprootedfromthedampsoil.Hesmiledtoseeme.‘Howareyou?’heasked.‘What’sgoingon?’‘Nothing.Ijustslippedand

twistedmyankle.Iseemtohavelostallmyupper-bodystrength.But,God,itwasgreattobeoutthere!I’dforgottenhowgooditfeels.There’snothinglikeagood

climbforreturningasenseofproportiontoyourexistence.’‘Soyoualwayssay.’‘Yes,butit’strue.There’s

therockface.Ithastakenmillenniatoshape,andthere’syou,clingingtoit,forafractionoftimesoinfinitesimalthattheearthneverevenknowsyouwerethere.Butstillyoucling.Andyoufeeltimepass.’

‘You’retalkingalotagain.’‘Beniceandrunmea

bath?’Theanklewasalready

badlyswollen.Irepressedtheurgetokickthechairfromunderit.‘Withbubbles,’added

Corwin.‘Ithinkwe’vegotsomebubbles?Andacold

beer.Wedefinitelyhavebeer.’‘Haveyoueversleptwith

Sandra?’‘Wheredidthatquestion

comefrom?’‘Oh,Idon’tknow.Ijust

rememberedtoask.’‘I’mnothertype,’said

Corwin,laughing.‘WeallfanciedherlikemadinJuniors,though.Shewasthe

onlyonewithbreasts.WhydidyouthinkIdid?’‘Youseemrather

conspiratorial.’‘You’rejustmakingthat

up.’Corwinleanedforwardtoadjustthebagoficearoundhisankle.‘IalwayslikedSandra.Weusedtotrademarbles.’‘Idon’trememberthat.’

‘Yes,youdo.Sheusedtocomeoverwithherdad.’‘No.Idon’t.’‘Youmustdo.Her

granddadusedtobringthecrabsoverandweplayedmarbleswithSandrawhilehegossipedwithMatthew.’‘IremembertheCrab

Man,’Iconceded.‘Well,then.’

Irememberedthecuffedcrabs,scramblingovereachotherinthebucket,andthemanhimself,redstillglintinginhisgreybeard,yellowoilskins,butnotthemarblesandnotSandra.‘Youhadahugescrapwith

heroveryourfavouritebluefiver.Ihadtosplityouup!’‘No,’Isaid.‘Gone.’

Corwinputhishandsaroundhislowerlegandliftedhisfootgentlyoffthechair,thengrippedthekitchentabletohaulhimselftostanding.Hehoppedovertomeandputhisarmsaroundmeandpulledmeclose,grazingmycheekwithgritfromhisfaceandmurmuringsadly,‘You’veforgottenallthebestbits!’

WhenheletmegoIcouldtasteseasaltonthecornerofmymouth.‘Helpmeupthestairs,’he

said.‘Oh,anddon’tforgetthebeer.’

Corwinacceptedaglassofwinewhenhecamedown.Hesaid,‘I’vegotapresentforyou.There,onthemantelpiece.’

Fivebleachedbirdskullswerelaidneatlyinarow.‘Iwasoutwalkinglastweek,upbythepigfarm.Someonehadshotabunchofcrowsandsmearedthemonthefenceandtheroad.Itwasamess!Anyway,Ibroughtbacktheheadsandboiledthemoffforyou.’‘They’rebeautiful,’Isaid.

‘Thanks.’Ipickedthemup

onebyoneandbalancedthemontheflatofmypalm.Theyweresodelicate.TheylookedasthoughtheywoulddisintegratewithagentlecalciumcrunchifIclosedmyhandonthem.Corwinaskedmetogive

himahaircut.‘Reallyshort,’hesaid.IlaidoutnewspaperandhesatonachairinfrontofthefireandIbeganto

combthroughhishair.Hesmeltincongruouslyoflavender.Snippetsfellontothenewspaperathisbarefeet.Theswellinghadspreadintothetopofhisleftfoot.Acurllandedonthesurfaceofhiswine,andfloatedthere,blackonred.Hepickeditout.‘Notshortenough!’‘Youlookevenmorelikea

hostagewhenyoucutittoo

short!’‘Oramonk,’saidCorwin.

‘Ahermit!That’stheeffectIwanttogofor.Givemeahermithaircut.’‘Ithoughthermitslettheir

hairgrowlong.’‘Whoknows?’said

Corwin.‘Justmakeitascetic.Anddon’tdrinkanymoreuntilit’sfinished.You’llhavemyearsoff.’

Itiltedhisheadtoonesideandbegantosniparoundthecurveofbonebehindhisear.‘Whatareyouupto,Corwin?’‘Thinking,’hesaid.‘I’m

thinking.HowdidyoufindMum,bytheway?’‘SheaskedmehowIfound

you.’‘Whatdidyousay?’

‘Shesaidyou’dbeencosyinguptoBob.’‘You’llneverforgivethem,

willyou?’‘No.ButIdogivein.’I

manipulatedhisheadbetweenmypalms.Hewaspuretrustwithinmyhands.‘HowdoyoufindBob?’‘Interesting.’‘Interesting?’‘Very.’

‘Isn’tittimeyouwentbacktowork?’‘I’mgivingmyselfa

sabbatical.’Ihandedhimthemirror.

Hecheckedhisreflection.‘That’sbetter!’Ihadmyhandsonhisbareshoulders.‘Can’tyoudropthis?’Hemetmyeyesinthemirror,reachedbacktotakemylefthand.‘No.I’msorry.’He

kissedmypalm.‘Ineedyoutodosomethingforme.’‘What?’‘Weneedtotrackdownthe

others.’‘Theothers?’‘Theotherswhowereat

thebeachthenightDaddied.Mickey,WillowandOliver.’‘Why?’‘Becausetheywerethere.

Becauseweweren’tpaying

attention–perhapstheywere.I’vealreadyfoundMickey–he’shereatTheSands.We’remeetinghimtomorrow.YoucanworkonWillowandOliver.’‘Idon’twantto!

Absolutelynofuckingway!’‘Whynot?It’llbefun!’‘It’snotfun–it’sweird

andmorbid.’

Hestillhadmyhand.Hegrippedittighterandlockedeyeswithmeinthemirror.‘Thisisnon-negotiable,’hesaid.‘I’vemissedabitbehind

yourear,’Isaid.HeletgoofmyhandandIpickedupthescissorsandtiltedhisheadtothesideand,verycarefullywiththetipofthescissors,Isnippedattheskinbehindhis

rightearlobe.Hejumped,buthedidn’tmakeasound.HehadknownIwoulddothat.Ashiningbeadofbloodformed.‘So,’helaughed,wipingit

away,‘you’repissedoff!That’sfine.Butitdoesn’tchangeanything.’Onthemantelpiecewasa

greystonethatIhadfoundatThorntonMouth.Itwasaboutthesizeofmytwofists.Atits

centrewasaperforation–itwentalmostallthewaythrough,butnotquite,becausewithinthisstonewasanother,atinyforeignflint,blackandruthless,whichhadboreditswaywiththehelpoftheseaandthecenturiesintoitshost.Nothingcoulddislodgeit.‘Idon’tunderstandwhat

you’retryingtoachieve.’

Corwinlookedregretful,then.Hehadn’texplainedhimselfproperly.Standingup,heputhisT-shirtbackon.Hehadfilledoutabit,butstillhisbellywasconcave.Hishipbonesjuttedabovethewaistbandofhisjeans.HewasshowingthefirstsignsoftheVentonsag.Hesaid,‘Youremember,whenDadfell,youalwayssaidtherewas

somethingwrongwithusandIalwaysdismissedit?’Outsideitwasspring–

coldeveningsun,afrenzyofbirds.‘Ithinkperhapsyouwere

rightandIwaswrong.Wewereinsuchahurrytoleave.’Isaid,‘Edaskedmewhat

Dadwaslike,andIcouldn’t

tellhim.Ican’trememberhim.’‘Yousee!’saidCorwin,

smilingencouragingly–asifIhadaskedhimforhelp.‘Wehaveerasedhim,somehow.’Ourfatherinfaintoutline–

theleavingsofleadinthepaper’sgrain.Isaid,‘He’sdead,Corwin.Whydoesitmattersomuchnowallofasudden?’

‘Mumcallsusher“cuckoochildren”.Don’tyouthinkthat’sterrible?’WhenMumreallyhated

us,shecalledusher‘beautifulcuckoochildren’.Wehadsqueezedheroutofherownnest.‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Ido.’

17.

CorwinhadarrangedtomeetMickeyontheseafront.Thestretchofbeachinfrontofthecaféwasnowthedogwalkers’beachandalittlepileofplastic-wrappeddogshithadaccumulatedonthe

groundnexttotheWall’sice-creamboard.‘Ihaven’tbeenherein

years!’saidCorwin,happily,queuingupwithhisbrownplastictray.Amanwithnavaltattoosshotahissofwaterontothestewedtea-bagsinahugemetalteapot.‘Sugar,’Isaid.‘Ineed

sugar.’Andthen,lookingaround,‘No.Meneither.’

TherewasareasonthatCorwinhadchosenthisplace,butIdidn’tknowwhatitwas,andwasnotgoingtoask.Thecaféhadn’tchanged–eventhepeoplelookedexactlythesameastheyhadseventeenyearsago:grey-haired,anorakedanddog-loving.Thefloorswarmedwithdamp,pantingfur.Corwinwasorderingsausages,chipsand

bakedbeans,inanecstasyofnostalgia.Weslidintothemouldedredplasticbenches,andlookedoutonthedesultorybrowntide.‘So,’saidCorwin.‘Tellme

whatyou’rethinking.’‘I’mthinkingI’mbeing

choreographed,’Isaid.‘AndIdon’tlikeit.’Corwinsmiled,slicedinto

hissausageandusedapiece

ofittoscoopupsomebeans.‘I’vehaddreamsaboutthis,’hesaid.‘I’mnotjoking.Wholedreamsaboutsausages,chipsandbakedbeans.’Ididn’trecognizeMickey

atfirst.Hecameinwithhishandsinthepocketsofhisdenimjacket,hisheadandfacehiddenbyabeanieandabeard.Helookedsuspicious

anddefensive.Istooduptoadministerasocialkiss,butcameupshortagainstourlostfamiliarity.Itwasasiftherehadbeenamutualbetrayal.Ourcheeksbumpedawkwardly.Corwinstoodupandshookhishand.Mickeysaid,‘Shit,Crow!Youarethin!Andwhat’swiththehair?Youlooklikeafucking

suicidebomberorsomething!’Corwinlaughed.

‘Dysentery,’hesaid.‘Myintestinesareawarzone.’Ihadtoassumethiswas

true.Isaid,‘Hemademecuthishairlikethat!’Mickeysatdown,keeping

onhishatandjacket.‘Howlongareyouhomefor?’‘Indefinitely,’saidCorwin.

‘Justtheweekend,’Isaid,althoughIhadn’tbeenasked.‘Wouldyoulikemetogetyouacupofteaoracoffeeorsomething?’‘We’renotstayinghere,

arewe?’‘Whynot?Ilovethis

place.Oldtimes’sakeandallofthat,’saidCorwin.‘Whatever,’saidMickey.

‘ButIcoulddowithabeer.’

‘Whendidyoumoveback?’Iasked.Mickeylookedoffended;it

soundedretrograde.‘YoustillinLondon?’‘Yes.’‘JusthomeforCrow?’‘Notexactly.’Idrainedmy

tea.IrealizedthateveryconversationIhadeverhadwithMickeyhadbeentriangular,heldeitherthrough

CorwinorthroughWillow.Ouronlydirectcommunicationhadbeenoneanomaloussecretkiss,sometimeinthefifthyear,lyinginthetrystingcaveatThorntonMouthatlowtide,withthedanksmellofseaweedandthesandhoppersticklingourankleswhereourfeethaddisturbedthesand.

Corwinsaid,‘It’sgoodtoseeyou.I’vebeenawaytoolong!Comeon,then.I’llbuyyouthatbeer.’‘Ishouldletyoutwocatch

up,’Isaid.‘Notatall,’saidCorwin,

firmly.Iwalkedbehindthemand

measuredtimeagainsttheiralteredbodies,theirlostlitheboyhood:Corwinwas

limpingandbrittle;Mickeyhadinflated,butatthesametimegavetheimpressionofhavinglostalittleair.IexpectedCorwintoturnoffintotown,buthekeptonalongtheseafront,inthedirectionoftheharbour.‘Whereareyoutakingus?’

Icalled,suspicious,frommytenfeetbehind.‘TheLighter.’

Ithought:Iknowwhatyou’redoing,youbastard.Buthislittlereconstructionexperimentwasspoiled:therednyloncarpetwaslonggone–exposedfloorboards,mismatchedtablesandchairs,andachalked-upmenuextollingthelocalproducedeclaredtheLighteragastropub.Servesyouright,Ithought.Myfatherwouldnot

haverecognizedthisasapub;thissmokelessechoingroomwithpiped,whingeingmusic.Iimaginedhiscrab-strippedbonestwitchingwithdisgustontheseabed.‘Well,’saidCorwin,‘this

isachange!’‘Yeah,’saidMickey,

leaningupatthebar.‘Theoldplaceturnedintoarealdive.Theyputthelandlordaway

forrunningcokeinfromthecontinent.’‘Itallhappensaroundhere,

doesn’tit?’Isaid.‘Lostyoursupplier,then,didyou?’‘No.Idon’tdothatshit!’‘Onlyjoking,’Isaid

unconvincingly.‘What’severyonehaving?’Corwinwaslaughing.

‘What’ssofunny?’Isnapped.

‘You,mylovelyMorwenna,’hesaid.‘Andyourbeautifultactlessness.I’llhaveapintoftheorganicbitter.’‘Youtwoarestillatit,

then?’saidMickey.‘What?’Iasked.‘Allthatsecretsarcastic

twinstuff.’‘What’syourpint,

Mickey?’

‘I’llhavewhatCrow’shaving.’‘Threepintsoftheorganic,

please,’Isaidtothebarmaid,wholookedvaguelyfamiliar.Iwonderedifwehadbeenatschooltogether.Sowesat,sipping

politicallycorrectbitter,andinexplicablydislikingoneanother–apartfromCorwin,ofcourse,whofound

everyonelovable,eachintheirindividualway.CorwinwaiteduntilMickeywasthreepintsdownandfourcigarettessmokedoutsideinthecoldbeforehemovedtohispurpose.InthemeantimewediscoveredthatMickeyhaddroppedoutofcollege,fatheredtwochildren,neitherofwhomlivedwithhim,hadastintasashipbuilder

workingoutofPlymouthandreturnedtoTheSandstosetupanoutdoor-pursuitsshopfranchise.Heofferedusadiscount.‘It’ssogoodtoseeyou,

Mickey,’saidCorwin,bringingthefourthroundfromthebar.‘I’vebeenawaysolong.I’velosttouchwithallmyoldfriends.’

‘Yeah,’saidMickey.Alcoholhadalwaysmadehimsentimental.‘Howlong’sitbeensincewehadadrinktogether?Atleasttenyears,Ireckon.’‘Atleast,’saidCorwin.‘Fourteen,’Isaid.Theybothlookedatme.‘If

yousayso,’saidMickey,whohadtemporarilystoppeddislikingme.

‘Irememberthesethings,’Isaid.‘So,’saidCorwin,‘areyou

intouchwithanyone?WheredidWillowendup?’‘London,’hesaidcurtly.

‘Wedon’tkeepintouch.’‘AndOliver?’‘Noidea.Completely

disappeared!Neverreallysawhimafterthesixthform–heusedtocomeandvisithis

mother,butshediedacoupleofyearsback,andlastthingIheard,heandhisfatherhadn’tspokentoeachothersincehecameout,soI’mguessinghedoesn’tvisitanymore.’‘ImissOliver,’said

Corwin.‘Doyourememberthenightwemadethatenormousfire?’

‘Andhewantedusalltobecomevegetarians,’laughedMickey.‘Ididbecomea

vegetarian!’‘You’rejoking!’‘No,Idid–Iam.’Mickeylooked

incredulous,andthenrecollected:‘Youwerejusteatingsausagesatthecaff!’

‘Ilapse,occasionally,’admittedCorwin.‘Seemslikealifetimeago,’

saidMickey.‘Itwas–forus,atleast.

Ourwholeadultlifetime.Ialwaysthinkofthatnightastheendofchildhood.’Mickeyremembered.

‘Sorry,mate.I’dforgottenthatthatwasthesamenight.’

Mydark-eyedbrotherCorwin!Well,well,Ithought,thereismaliceinyouafterall.Youcouldnotbesomanipulativewithoutit.Iwasstillonlyhalfwaythroughthethirdpint.Icouldn’tkeepupwiththem.Theywerebeginningtoslump–drunksalwaysseemtomelttowardseachother.

Suddenlyfurious,Isaid,‘CorwinhasgotitintohisheadthatDadcommittedsuicide.’Corwin,Inoticed,didn’t

move–hewasirritated.Thiswasafailureofsubtlety.Mickeyrousedhimself.Onhisfacewere,asImighthaveexpected,embarrassmentbutalso,asIdidn’texpect,

surprise–atme.‘Well,wedidwonder,’hesaid.‘Youdid?Well,Ididn’t.

Why?Whydidyouwonder?’Hebegantoretreat.‘Just

whatpeoplesaid,youknow,abouthowyourdadwasthelastpersonanyonewouldexpectto…’‘…tofalloffacliff.It’s

OK,youcansayit,’saidCorwin,generously.

‘Hewasdrunk!’Iprotested.‘Yes.Iknow.Butyour

dad,let’sfaceit,hewasabitofadarkhorse,wasn’the?Kepthisowncounselandallthat.’Mybladderwasburning.I

leftthematthetableandwentoutintothebackyard.Thecoldairandtherainonmyfacewokeme,andI

realizedthatIwasnotgoingtogobackin.InsteadIwalked,asIhadlastdonethenightofmyfather’sdeath,allalongtheseafront,upthestepsandontothecoastpath,alongtheridgetoBrockTor,whereIdidn’tpause,downintoThorntonMouth,andfromthereuppastthemill,overtheleat,throughthechurchyardandhome.The

brightyellowgorsereleasedwavesofthescentoffreshlybakedvanillabiscuits,buttheskyandseawerepewtergrey.Matthewwasasleepinhis

armchairwhenIarrived.Istokedupthefireandsatoppositehimtoexaminehimforsignsoftheillnessthatweweretobelievehewasharbouring.Hedidseemthinner.TheVofhisjumper

fellawayfromhisshirt;thecollarwasloosearoundhisneck.Washewaitingforustoask?Iwondered.Woulditbebettertoknowandtoincubatehisdeathwithcareandwarmth,orwouldhebedoingus,orhimself,afavour,bypermittingdeathtojumphimfrombehind?Werethesethequestionsmyfatherhadaskedhimself?Iwondered

aboutOliver’smother–shemuststillhavebeenyoung,inherfiftiesonly.Ihadforgottentoaskhowitwasthatshedied.

Later,whenIwenttobed,IfoundthatCorwinhadplacedabookonmybedsidetable.ItwasoneoftheonesIhadboundforhim–themostrecent:ACoastalCuracy.I

openedit,butalreadyIwasboredbyit.Onthetitlepagewerepencilledthewords:

JohnVenton.Hisbook.1960.

Matthew,Ithought.Matthewhadtaughthimtodothat.Matthewandhisanachronisms–heplantsuswiththem.AndIalsothought,ThisiswhatCorwin

wantsmetoknowaboutthisbook:thatitbelongedtoourfather.AndIputitaside.AndIslept.AndwhenIwentbacktoLondonthefollowingday,leavingbeforedawntomakeittoworkintime,Ileftthebooklyingthere.

18.

Willowwaseasytofind.ItoldmyselfIwaslookingforherbecauseI’dbeenbulliedintoitbyCorwin,butperhapsIneededtofindoutmore,ifonlytoshutCorwinup.ShepoppeduponGooglewithherownPRfirm.ThegirlI

hadknownhaddisappeared,theoneintheEdwardiancamisolesandthepatchedjeanswiththecriss-crossedshoelaceinplaceofazip.HerwebsitephotoshowedherasCleopatra–sharpblackfringe,kohledeyes.Intimidatedbyherpowersofself-reinvention,Ilookedatmyselfinthemirror.Seventeenyearsbut,still,it

wasme.Greenisheyes,brownishhair,freckles,ajumperwithtoo-longsleeves.‘Lookather,’Isaidto

Corwinonthephone.‘That’ssomeoneelse.Howcanyouexpectthatpersontorememberanythingforus?’Butthenshewasonthe

phone.‘Morwenna!Oh,myGod!Howareyou?’Herspeechhadalwaysbeenfull

ofexclamationmarks.Ithadbeenlikebeinginaroomofburstingballoons.‘Wemusthavelunch!’sheshouted.IrememberedtoaskifshewasstillintouchwithOliver,butshehadn’tseenorheardfromhimsinceschool.

Oliverdidn’tshowupontheweb.Iphonedhisfather’s

number.Itrangandrang.Therewasnoanswer.IgoogledCorwin.Hewas

quotedinacoupleofnewspaperarticles.Hiswasaworldofplight.PoorCorwin.Iwantedtosaytohim:IknowI’mbadatthis,thesoothing,caressingthingthatwomendo.Butlook–theboxisnotempty.Look:that

littleunhousedmolluscinthebottomthere–that’sHope!Igoogledmyself.Iwasnot

there.Oliverandme,Ithought.

Wedonotappear.

Summerloomed.It’ssoruthless–eitherrelentlesslightorunwelcomerain.It’ssucharelieftoreachautumn.Andthissummerwouldbe

fulloftrials:Mum’swedding,Matthew’sdecline.Ipreparedmyselfinthe

onlysensibleway:IpretendedthatnothingwashappeningandleftCorwintohimself.Hesaidhe’dbeenclimbingacoupleoftimeswithMickey.Hedidn’tmentionourfather,anditwaseasyforme,sofarfromthecoast,andwithsomuch

daylight,toignorewhatIpreferredtothinkofasCorwin’saffliction.CorwinsaidthatMatthewwasmuchthesame–hewouldletmeknowifanythingchanged.Mumcalledregularlytodiscussarrangements.ShehadgotitintoherheadthatitwasimportantCorwinandIwerehappywiththedetailsofherwedding–perhaps

becausewecouldbeatbestonlyindifferenttothefactofhermarriage.AsIworkedonMum’s

weddingpresent,Iwasforcedtothinkabouther.Imadechoicesforher:thepalestofgreyleathersratherthansilkdamaskorprintedIndiancotton;plainendpapers,butwithasubtleshimmertoreflecttheoccasion.I

consideredtoolingflowersintotheleather,butfeltthatshewouldpreferitunembellished.Intheend,itwasastraightforward,elegantobjectthatoughtnottobeexposedtodirt.Onthefront,inasimpleunserifedfont,itsaid,insilvered-bluelettering:RobertandValerie,19June2005.There,Ithought,pushingawaythe

memoryofthatotherweddingalbumatthebottomofacardboardbox:that’sthat.

ThatwasMay.IallowedmyselftowishMumwellandwasatpeacewithmyself.Atthebinderyweworkedonahugeorderofjournalsthatweretobepartyfavoursatsomecelebrityfeast.Itwas

soothinglyrepetitive.Iwaslulled.Itriedontheoutfitthat

Mumhadaskedmetowear:anoysterchiffonconcoctionwithverylittlestride-room.ItwasawhilesinceIhadwornadressandheels.EdsaidthatIscrubbedupwell,butwonderedwhywomendidthattotheirfeet,andwaitedformetoaskhimtojoinme

forthewedding.EventuallyIdid.Ithoughtitwouldbegoodtohaveabuffer.

ImetWillowintheweekbeforethewedding.Shethrewherarmsaroundme.‘Oh,myGod!Lookatyou!’Herhandswavedasshetalked.Herfingernailswerepaintedpillar-boxred.

‘How’sCrow?’sheasked.‘Ishestillgorgeous?’‘Idon’tknow,’Isaid.

‘He’smybrother.Washe?’‘God,yes!Youmusthave

noticed!Youtwowerealwaysso…’‘What?’Shesettledon‘…close.’

Butthatwasn’twhatshehadbeenintendingtosay.‘He’sverythin,’Isaid.

‘Ah!Poorlove.Well,it’shardlysurprising,considering.Ishebackforgood?’‘Idon’tknow.He’shaving

abitofamid-lifecrisis.’‘Aren’tweall,sweetie!

Aren’tweall!’‘I’mnot.’‘Areyousure?’sheasked.

Shecontemplatedmeforamoment.‘Well,perhapsnot.

YoualwayswereLittleMissContrary.’‘He’sgotcompassion

fatigue,’Isaid,notpreparedtopretendtotalkaboutmyself.Itseemedtomethatreunionsonlyremindedyouofallthethingsyouhadn’tlikedaboutaperson.IknewthatonceIhadfelttowardsWillowsomethingapproximatinglove,butnow

Icouldn’trememberwhy.‘Andhe’sgotitintohisheadthatDadcommittedsuicideandhewantstoknowwhathappened.That’swhyhe’spretendingtobeallnostalgic.Hethinksyoumighthavenoticedsomethingbackthen.’Willow’swineglass

stoppedhalfwaytohermouth.Sheputitdownagain.

‘God!’shesaid.‘I’dforgottenhowharshyoucanbe.’‘Sorry,’Isaid.Wesatinsilencefora

minuteorso.ThefoodwasAsianfusion–therewereartisticcrispynoodles,whichwerecomplicatedtoeatwhenyouwereembarrassed.Acoffeemachinehissedexpensively.

Irelentedalittle.‘I’msureCorwingenuinelywantedtocatchupaswell,’Isaid.‘Butyoudon’t.Well,

thanksamillion!’‘That’snotwhatImeant.’Willowwasdoingherbest

nottosulk.‘How’syourmum?’I

asked.‘Oh.Youknow.She’s

movedtoTotnes.’

‘Whereoldhippiesgotodie!’Itwasanoldsixth-formjoke.Shelaughed.Willowhad

neverheldgrudges–lifewastooshort.Shewouldmuchratherenjoyherself.‘So,’shesaid,inatoneofintrigue,decidingthattherewassomethingtoberescuedfromthemeeting,afterall.‘Tellmeallaboutit!’

‘Well,’Isaid,‘Corwin’sgotthisideathatDadcommittedsuicide.Hethinkswemissedsomething.’Sayingthismademefeelverytired.‘He’scombingthepast,’Isaid,andranoutofwords.‘Whynow?’askedWillow.‘Idon’tknow.Itnever

occurredtousbefore,and

thenitoccurredtoCorwin,andhereweare.’‘Oh,Morwenna!Really?

Youmusthavethoughtaboutit!’‘No!Peoplekeepsaying

that.Ineverdid.IsthereanyreasonIshouldhave?’‘WhatwouldIknowabout

fathers?’‘Honestly,Willow,’Isaid,

suddenlywantingtoconfide,

‘Idon’tknowwhattodo.Corwin’sbecomecompletelyobsessiveaboutthis.I’mworriedabouthim.’‘AndIthoughtwe’dspend

lunchtalkingabouthousepricesandsoftfurnishings!’‘Sorry,’Isaidagain.‘But

Corwin’snotgoingtogetoffmybackuntilI’vehadthisconversationwithyou.Andthen…IneverthoughtI’d

hearmyselfsaythis,buthopefullyhe’llpissoffbacktoSudan.’‘Youdon’tmeanthat,’said

Willow,correctly.‘So?Whydoeshethinkallofasuddenyourdadcommittedsuicide?’‘Idon’tknow.Hewon’t

say.Hewantsmetodrawmyownconclusions.’‘Thelittleshit!Healways

wasadidacticbugger!’

‘I’vebeenmissingandmissinghimforadecadeandahalf,andnowthereheis,atThornton,fillingthehousewithdourfrownsanddeepsilences.’Willowwasframingher

thoughts.‘I’mnotsureI’mqualifiedforthis,’shesaid,andbeckonedthewaiterovertoordercoffee.Thenshe

leanedforwardandsaid,‘OK!So!Areyouready?’Inodded.‘Well,’shesaid,‘when

yourdaddied,wealltalkedaboutit,obviously.Youknow–Ooh!Howweird!Oneminutetherehewasplayinghisfiddleandthenextminutehe’sfallingoffacliffandweweresocloseandwedidn’tevenknow.’

Imusthaveflinched,orsomething,becauseshestopped,andsaid,‘Sorry–thatcameoutwrong.ButyouknowwhatImean.’‘Iknowwhatyoumean.’‘Andeveryonesaidhow

yourfatherwasthelastpersonanyonewouldexpecttohaveanaccidentlikethat.Youknow.Hewasso…grounded.’

Shepausedagain.‘Areyouallrightwiththis?’‘Yes.I’mfine.Goahead.’‘Well,therehadbeensome

gossip…’‘About?’‘About…yourmumand

Bob.Theyseemed…intimate.Peoplethoughtthatperhapsthey’dbeenhavinganaffairandyourdadhad

foundoutaboutit.Especially,later,when,youknow…’Ididknow.Iwasflooded

withasenseofself-disgustthatIshouldhavebeensonaïve.Willow’sexpressionwasfullofconcernforme.Shesaid,‘MickeyandIsawthemonce,yourmumandBob,havingacupofteatogetheratTheSands.Theywerejustsittingopposite

eachotherdrinkingtea,chatting.Theyweren’tdoinganything,nottouchingoranything.Itjustlooked–wrong,somehow.Youknow.Comfortable.Together.Likeacouple.Wetalkedaboutitafterwards.Wewondered.’Sheputherhandonmine.

‘I’veupsetyou,’shesaid.‘No,it’sOK.’ThenIsaid,

‘Sorry,’forthethirdtime,

awarethatsinceCorwinhadcomehomemylifewasfullofapologies.Iwantedmyunapologeticlifeback.Thecoffeearrived.I

lookedatmywatch.‘Oh,God,Ihavetogo!’Isaid.‘Mybossisreallystrictaboutlunchbreaks.’Itwasn’tanexcuse.Idid

havetogo.IwantedtostayandshowherthatIwas

grateful–shehadliberatedme.Isaid,‘Thanks,Willow.

Really.’Idroppedakissonhercheek.‘Anditisgoodtoseeyou.Honestly.I’mjust…youknow.’‘Iknow,sweetie!’shesaid.

‘Offyougo!GiveCrowakissfromme.’AllafternoonIstitched

away,glowingwithself-

righteousness.ButwhenIgothomeandwasabouttocallCorwin,somethingelsestruckme:adetailofmyconversationwithWillow.AndwhenhepickedupthephonethefirstthingIsaidwas,‘Corwin,whathappenedtoDad’sfiddle?’

19.

EdwassilentasweapproachedThornton.Hehadseenphotographs,ofcourse,butIhadunderestimatedtheeffectofthatfirstview,whenthehedgerowsshootyououtatthetopofthecombeandyoulookdownonthe

scatteringofhousesabovethechurchandthesolitarymillperchingjustwheretheseapressestheland,whichwasallvelvetywiththelushgreenofJune.Edgasped,andlookedatme.Hesaid,‘Youdon’tdoitjustice.’‘I’veforgottenhowtosee

it,’Isaid.Istoodinthehalland

shoutedbutnooneanswered.

‘Whatdoyouwanttoseefirst?’Iasked.‘Thebeach,ofcourse.’Wetookourbagsuptomy

room,andIhadthesensationthatEdwasobservingeverythingandattachingthenewinformationtowhathealreadyknewaboutme.Ididn’tliketheideathatIcouldbeexplainedby

Thorntonandbegantoregretbringinghim.Ipausedaswewent

downstairs.Somethinghadaltered.Ithadflickeredinthecornerofmyeye.Ilookedbacktoseewhatitwas.Thekeywasinthedoorofmyparents’room.

Wewentforalong,longwalk,whichloopedup

throughthewoodsandcameoutontothehighcliffsanddownintoThorntonMouth,wherewepausedforteainthecabin.IcouldseethatEdwaslove-struck.‘Itisbeautiful,’Isaid.‘But

thereisa“but”–sameasanywhere.’Eddidn’tbelieveme.He

hadaglazedlookinhiseye.Hewasstaringatthephoto

hangingonanailinitsbrokenframe–theoneofGreat-grandfatherJamesstandingbeforethewreckoftheConstantia.‘Who’sthat?’‘JamesVenton.Matthew’s

father,’Isaid.‘Hewastheonewhobuiltthecabin.’Ipointedtohisboots.‘HealwayswantedtogotoAmerica.Hehadtheseboots

madeespecially.’Ipointedtothebeachedship.‘AndthisisthelastsailingshiptowreckoffTheSands–theConstantia.Look,’Itracedthetwistedsails.‘Hermastsareswingingagainsteachotherinopposingarcs.They’rewrenchingatherhullandanyminutenowshe’llsplitopenandspillhercargoofpitpropsontothewater

andthey’llrolltotheshoreonthewavesandJameswillbuyalotortwoatthesalvagesaleandbuildthiscabinfromthemandpretendhe’sonCapeCod,orsomewherelikethat.That’swhythatstag’sheadishangingoverthestove.Heneverhuntedinhislife,butitaddstotheillusion.’

Ithadalwaysbotheredme,thatphoto.Everyoneelsehastheirbackstothecameraandiswatchingthedeathoftheship.ButJamesiscaughtlookinginshore,pastthecamera–hehasbeencaughtbyaccident,hunchedupinhisheavypea-coat.Iwillalwayswonderwhatcouldpossiblyhaveturnedhisgaze.

WhenwereturnedtothehousewefoundCorwinhelpingSandrainthekitchengarden.Theyweretyingpeasandbeanstotheirsupportsofhazeltents.Ihadasuddenmemoryofbeingverysmallandchattingawaytomyfatherwhilesnappingpeapodsfromtheirtendrilsandpoppingthemopen,thesweetgreentasteofthem.I

rememberedthehazelbranches,cuttoolateintheseason,takingtoleaf.CorwinshookEd’shand.I

hopedthatEdwouldcontinuetoresisthischarm,butalreadyheseemedtobesoftening.HisideaofCorwinwasimprovedbythesetting,and,whatwasmore,herewasanopportunityforEdtohelpout.Ilefthimplayingwith

ballsofstringandwenttounpack.Thekeywasgonefrommy

parents’bedroomdoor.IcarriedonupstairsandhungupEd’ssuitandmydress,thenwenttothekitchentoseeifthekeywaswhereitshouldbe,butthehookwasempty.AsIclosedthekey-

cupboarddoor,Iheard

Matthew’sshuffleinthebackporch.Ifoundhimsittingonthebench,removinghiswalkingboots.Hedidn’thearme,andIwatchedhimforawhile.Icouldseenowthathewasill.Eachmovementrequiredplanning.Herockedhimselfforwardincrementally,eachratchetingmotiontakinghimalittleclosertohisfoot.Oncehe

arrivedathisshoe,hepulledfirstoneendofthelaceandthentheother.AtlastIrecollectedmyselfandsaid,‘Matthew,letmehelp.’Helookedupandsmiled,

buthadnobreathforspeech.Hestraightenedupagain,almostasslowlyashehadbentforward.Ikneltdownandloosenedthelacesandpulledofffirstoneboot,then

thesecond.Islidhisslippersontohisfeet.Isaid,‘Iworryaboutyou,

onyourwalks.’‘Ah,Morwenna,’hesaid.

‘Youmustn’tworry.’

Thatnight,Ididn’thearCorwincometobedand,afterEdhadfallenasleep,Ileftmyownbedandwentdownstairs.Therewaslight

underthedoorofourparents’room.Thekeywasinthekeyhole.Iplacedmyhandonthe

doorknob.IknewIwouldfindCorwininthere,butatthatmomentIhalfexpectedtosurprisehiminanotherform,onethatIneversaw–somethingfangedandclawed.Iwasjustaboutto

turntheknobwhenthedooropenedandhestoodthere.ForamomentIdidrecoil.

Therewassomethingwrongwithhisface.Hewaspink–asthoughhehadbeenpeeled.Ithought:Hisskinhasbeenflayed!ThenIrealizedthathehadshavedoffhisbeard.‘Whatareyoudoing?’he

said.‘Areyoucomingin,orwhat?’

Ihadn’tbeeninsidethatroomforovertenyears.Irememberedajunkroom,everythingcoveredwithdust.Butnowithadbeenordered.Thefurniturewasneatlystackedtooneside,andnexttothebedwasapileofboxes.Thebedwascoveredwithpapers.‘What’sgoingon?’

‘I’mlookingforDad’sfiddle.’‘No,you’renot.’‘Well,Iam,actually–

amongotherthings.’‘Whydon’tyoujustask

Mum,orMatthew?’‘Ihave.Theycan’t

rememberwhathappenedtoit.AndIaskedBobtoo,buthecan’trememberanythingmuch.’

‘Dadwasprobablyholdingit.’‘Notifhewastakinga

piss,hewasn’t.’‘Can’twedothisafterthe

wedding?’‘Aren’tyoucurious?Some

ofthisisreallyinteresting.Theseareallhisoldschoolreports,’hesaid,pointingtoapileofpapersonthecornerof

thebed.‘Hewasacrappupil,apparently.’‘Well,hehateditthere,’I

said.Corwinhandedmeapileofpapers.Thereportsread:‘Disappointing.Distracted.Daydreamer.’Myfather’slettershome

werebland,unilluminating–censored,probably.Hehadwritten:‘Itisveryflathere.Imissthesea.’

Homesick,Ithought.Poorhomesickboy.Therewerelettersfrommy

fathertomymother–Iplacedthemaside.IdidnothaveMum’spermissiontoreadthem.Corwinhadnosuchscruples.Hereadoutsnatchestome:‘“Let’shaveourbabiesinwinter,whenThorntonisasleepandwehavetimetogazeatthem.

We’lllaythembythefireandtweaktheirtoesandIwillfindyouallthemorebeautifulbyfirelight.”’‘Hewasinlovewithher!’

Isaid.‘Ofcoursehewas.Why

wouldyouthinkthathewasn’t?’‘Whydidn’tshekeepthe

letters?’‘Whydon’tyouaskher?’

‘Theydidn’thavetheirbabiesinwinter,’Isaid.They’dhadtheirbabiesin

summer,andtheyhadtoomanyatonce,andthebabiesdidn’tgazebackattheirparents.Theyonlygazedateachother.‘Whatelsehaveyouasked

Bob?’Iasked.‘I’lltellyouafterthe

wedding.’

‘Whatareyoureallylookingfor?’‘Proof.Anexplanation.’‘Doyouthink,’Iasked

idly,‘thatBobpushedhimoffsothathecouldhaveMum?Perhapstheyplannedittogether!’‘No!Don’tevengothere.

That’snotfair!’‘Youstartedit!And,

anyway,itwouldbeagood

story.IthinkImightworkonit.Itmakesmoresensethansuicide.’‘Youneedtoreadthat

book.Ikeepaskingyouto.’‘Stopnagging.Ileftithere.

I’llreaditafterthewedding.’‘Youwillbegood

tomorrow,won’tyou?Don’tspoilthingsforMum.’‘I’llbeaperfectangel.’

‘It’snothingtodowithBob–Iswear.’‘MumandBobwere

havinganaffair,andyousayitwasnothingtodowithBob!OK.Whatever!Goodnight!’‘Goodnight.’Hecalled

afterme:‘Andremember.Youpromised.’

20.

MumandBob’sweddingwasinamanorhouseturnedboutiquehotel,whichwasattemptingtoevokeProvence.Therewerelavenderandoleanderinstonetroughs.Theceremony

itselfwastobein‘theOrangerie’.Matthew,EdandIarrived

early,sothatMatthewshouldn’tbeanxiousaboutbeinglate.Thechairsweredressedinwhitecottonandtiedaboutwithsilverribbons.Therewerepaleflowersarrangedinsilveryfoliage.Weweren’tmeanttobethere

yet–theroomwasn’treadyforus.Eventuallyguestsbeganto

driftin.TheyassumedthatIwastheretoreceivethem,anditwastoolatetocorrecttheimpression.Theyseemedtoknowme,butIcouldn’tremember,orhadnevermet,mostofthem.TheguestsmovedfrommetoEdwithanexpressionofcuriosityand

delight,asthoughhewasbeingintroducedasmyintended.Hetooktotheroleimmediately.Matthewstayedseated,andpeoplewentovertogreethim,andtolaytheirhandsonhisshoulderinacomfortinggesture–subconsciously,probably,Ithought.Andcomfortinghimforwhat?Thathewasdying?Orthathisson’sunfaithful

widowwasmarryingherlover,hisson’sbestfriendanddispatchertothedepthsofthesea?AuntJanearrived,moved

hercheektowithinthreemillimetresofmine,waftedsomeperfumeinmydirection,expressedherapprovalofEd,thentookoverasReceiverofGuests.Ireturnedtomyplacebeside

Matthew.Hetookmyhandandwhispered,‘Youstayhere,whereit’ssafe.’Intherowsbehindusthere

wasaheighteningofexcitementasBobarrived.Hecameovertous,andIstood,kissedhischeek,introducedhimtoEd.Iwasn’tlistening,butseeinghim,somehow.Hewasstillvain:hewantedyoutonotice

thathewaskeepinghimselfingoodshape.What,Ithought,doyouhavetodowithmyfather?Iansweredmyself:Nothing–youhavenothingincommon.Butstillyouareconnected–byhisdeath,andbecauseyouaremarryingmymother.Hewashappytobemarryingmymother–Icouldseethat.Purejoy,untarnishedbythe

manyyearstheyhadalreadyspenttogether.Itwas,afterall,love.Anditoutshoneevenhisvanity.Ihadn’tbeenableto

dissuadeMumfromwalkingdowntheaisleonCorwin’sarm.Isaid,‘She’llbemakingaspectacleofherself.’‘It’simportanttoher–let

herhaveit.’‘Ourstampofapproval?’

‘Mystampofapproval–ifyouinsistoncharacterizingitlikethat,’hesaid.Sowalkdowntheaisleshe

did,toaBachorchestralpiecesuggestedbytheClassicFMwebsite,lookingveryelegant,butleaninginalittleonCorwin,becauseshehadunderestimatedtheheightofherheels.Shesmiledandsmiledandsmiled,andwhen

shereachedBobtheyheldhandsandinterlockedtheirfingers.Bob’sbrotherstoodupand

read,withappropriateirony,thelyricsto‘WhenI’mSixty-Four’,andthenIstoodupandread,withoutanyironywhatsoever,‘ARed,RedRose’.Ireaditverywell,andasIsatdownagainI

congratulatedmyselfonmymonumentalimpassiveness.Afterwardstherewas

champagneonthelawn.Wedrankwithinacircleofcoralandcreamroses.Idrankalot.Edwastoobusyingratiatinghimself,andCorwintoobusybeingcharmingforeitherofthemtonotice.IcorneredMarkLuscombe.‘CanwetalkaboutMatthew?’Iasked.

‘I’mnotsurethatthisisthetimeorplace,Morwenna,’saidMark,movingawayfromme.Matthewseemedtobe

enjoyinghimselfimmensely,sittingatatableandsurroundedbytheparishwidows.Iwentandhoverednearthem,buttheydidn’twantmethere,soIwanderedawayagain.Corwinbanged

onhisglassandgaveaspeechabouthowwellBobhadlookedafterMumforthelasthowevermanyyears,andmadesomebetter-late-than-neverjokes.Thewomenespeciallylaughed;helookedsoveryhandsomeinasuit.Theneveryonelaunchedthemselvesonthebuffet.IthinkIwassoberbythe

timetheguestshadallgone.I

hadrealizedbylunchthatIneededtostopdrinking,andtouchedonlywaterfortherestoftheafternoon.Mumsaidgoodbyetothelastguest,thenturnedtousandsaid,‘Thatallwentratherwell,didn’tit?’Itdid,actually.EvenIhad

beenwarmedbyallthatradiantgoodwill.Corwinputhisarmsaroundherandgave

herahug.‘Itwasagreatday,Mum.Welldone.’‘Youwillcomebackwith

us,won’tyou?You’llneedsomesupper.’‘Ofcourse,’saidCorwin.Matthewhadalreadybeen

deliveredhomebyoneofhisoldladies.JanewentbackwithMumandBob,andCorwindrovemeandEd.Itwasaboutsixo’clock.The

eveningseapushedbackthecloud,theskycleared.Iwasn’thavinganydarkthoughts.Ifeltfine.Iwasgladitwasover.Atthehouse,Bobopeneda

bottleofchampagnethathehadbeensaving.ThecorksoaredupintothebeautifulvoidwithinthetimberframesandwelaughedandwedranktoMumandBob’shappiness.

ThenMumtookEdbytheelbowandsteeredhimtositnexttoherononeofthesofasthatfacedeachotherinfrontofthefireplace.‘Youknow,Ed,’shesaid,

‘Morwennastillhasn’tbeenabletoexplaintomewhatitisthatyoudo.’‘Iteachmaths,’saidEd.‘Oh,shemadeitsounda

lotmoreromanticthanthat!’

‘Didshe?’Edlookedsurprisedandpleased.‘Yes,’saidMum.‘Shesaid

you’reasortofmathematicalDonQuixote.’Edlookedlesspleased.

‘I’mnotsurewhatthatmeans,’hesaid.‘Iteachmaths.Iworkwithothermathematicians,butmathsisayoungman’sgame–makingbreakthroughs,that

is.Perhapsthat’swhatshemeant.I’malwayshopingthatthenextmathematicalgeniuswillturnupinoneofmyseminarsandunlockmymind.’‘Yousee?’Isaid,toEdas

muchastomymother.‘He’sapoet!’‘He’sanidealist!’

pronouncedMum.‘Morwenna’sfatherwasan

idealist,’sheadded.‘Soitfollows.’‘Sohowcomeyou’renot

rich?’askedBob.‘Ithoughtyoumathsbrainsallwentandmademillionsfromhedgefunds.’‘Thatdoesn’treallyinterest

me,’saidEd,astactfullyashecould.‘Itoldyou,’Isaid

stubbornly.‘Ed’sapoet.’

Andthen,unnecessarily,‘Hehasintegrity.’Janesnorted.Shedidn’t

trustpeoplewithintegrity.Shecouldn’tseehowtheypulleditoff.Irememberthinking:I

don’tcare.Lethersnort.SoIcan’tevenblameJaneforwhatIsaidnext.Istillhavenoideawhyitcameoutrightthereandthen.Ihadintended

toask,butnotinthewaythatIdid.Icanonlyascribeittoreliefandexhaustionnowthattheweddingwasover–Iwasfallingonthedescent.‘So,Mum,’Isaid,‘justout

ofcuriosity.WereyoufuckingBobbeforeDaddied?’Toolate,myskingaveme

thealarm.Everycellbegantoswellwithblood–Ifeltitrise

tofillmyearsandliftmewhileeveryoneelseintheroomdisappearedandallIcouldseewasMum.Shehadtakenoffhershoesandtherewasaholeinthetoeofhertights.ShehadstillbeentalkingtoEd,andherhand,withitsnewweddingring,wasonhissleeve(Ifoundmyselfwonderingwhatshehaddonewiththeoldone),

andsheturnedandshewassmiling.Shesaidslowly–Isawher

mouthformeachsyllable,‘No,Morwenna,Iwasnot,asyousocharminglyputit,“fuckingBob”beforeyourfatherdied.Whatmakesyouask?’Icouldseequiteclearly

nowthatthissmileofherswastoxic–thathertoxic

smilehadbeenwithmyfatherattheedgeofthecliff,andthatBob,evenifhehadn’tpushedhim,hadbeentoopresentthatnight.Hisdrunkenlaughterhadbeensufficientmockerytoinducemyfathertojump.‘Wewerejustwondering,’

Isaid,‘whatitwasthatmighthaveencouragedDadtothrowhimselfoffacliff.’

IsensedCorwinmove.Hewasabouttointervene.ButMumheldupherhandtostophim.‘Youthinkyourfathercommittedsuicide?’‘Yes!’Isaid.ButalreadyI

couldseewhatIhaddone.Isawtheirfaces:Bob’s,Jane’s,Corwin’s.MostofallIsawtherepulsiononEd’s.‘Butwhyareyouasking

methisnow?’

‘Ithasonlyjustoccurredtous.’Mumlaughed.‘Really?

Surely,darling,itmusthaveoccurredtoyoubothatthetime.’‘No!’Iyelled.‘Itdidn’t.It

neveroccurredtomethathehadanyreasontocommitsuicide!NowIseethathedidhave!’

Strangely,Mumwasputtinghershoeson,quitecalmly.Shedidn’twanttocontinuethealtercationinbarefeet.Shewriggledherheelsintoherpumps,firstone,thentheother,andstood.‘Darling,’shesaidcalmly.

‘You’rebeinghysterical.WhatcanIsay?Itdidoccurtomethatyourfatherhadcommittedsuicide,andithad

nothingtodowithBob.Ifyourfatherdidthrowhimselfoff,andifitwasbecauseanyonewasfuckinganyone,it’smuchmorelikelytobebecausehethoughtthatyouwerefuckingyourbrother.’Somethingdislodgedfrom

mybellyandfloppedbetweenus–ahideoustranslucentjelliedthing.SheandIhadmadeittogether.

EverygibeagainstBobhadbeencaughtupandfedtoit.Mumwassmilingtheindulgentsmileofthenewmother.‘Hesawyouboth,the

weekbeforehedied,’shesaid.‘Hewasveryupset.Soupset,infact,thathedeignedtodiscussitwithme.’‘Sawusboth?Whatdoyou

mean,hesawusboth?’

Butalreadyamemorywasforming.‘Hewentuptowakeyou

forworkandsawyouinbedtogether.’‘Butweoftensharedabed.

Youknowthat.Dadknewthat.’‘Whatweknewwasthat

yourbehaviourwasdisturbing.Youwere

eighteenandinbedtogetherandnaked!’Corwinwasstanding.He

wassaying,‘It’stimetogo.’‘Yes,’saidMum.‘Ithinkit

is.’Corwinwaspullingme

fromthesofaandsaying,‘Ed.Getup.We’releaving.’Mumwasstillsmiling.She

said,‘Lookatyouboth–you’veonlyeverneededeach

other.AndyouhavethegalltobegrudgemeBob!’

Outside,atthecardoor,Corwinslappedmehard.‘Youstupidbitch!’heyelled,andpushedmeintothebackseat.‘Ed,’hesaid,‘youcansit

inthefront.’

21.

AtThornton,Corwingotoutofthecar.Edsatinthepassengerseat,waitingformetooffersomethinginmitigationofmybehaviour,butIcouldn’tspeak.Finally,hesaid,‘Aren’tyouevengoingtotrytoexplainthat?’

‘Ican’t,’Isaid.‘Ican’texplain.’‘Well,that’snotgoingto

workformethistime.’Hewasgrippingthedoorhandle.Asheopenedthedoor,hesaid,‘Youknow,whenIfirstmetyouwhatIlikedaboutyouwasthatyoumadebeautifulthings.Idon’tunderstandhowthat’s

possiblewhenyourthoughtsaresougly.’Isatinthecaralittle

longer,thenrousedmyselfandwentroundtothebootroomandchangedoutofmystupiduncomfortableshoes,thenwalkeddowntothecabininthefloatydressIhadworntopleasemymotheronherweddingday.

Ifeltcalm–shock,Isuppose.IknewthatMumandIcouldneverforgiveeachother.Wewouldneverargueagain;wewouldneveragainhavethatintimacy.Iwasn’tangrywithher,orevenwithmyself,forthatmatter.Iwasn’tthinkingaboutMum’saccusationoraboutmyfather’ssuicide.IfeltbadaboutEd,butfroma

greatdistance.Mainly,Ihadthebuoyantsensationofhavingsetdownagreatburdenandwalkedon.Itwasstilllight.Therewasascatteringofsummercolouronthefields.AtthecabinItooka

blanketandwrappeditaroundmyselfandsatonthestepsandwatchedthestarsappearandwaitedforthe

moontoriseandforCorwintocome.Hewouldknowwhattodonext.Themoonwasalmostfull–agibbousmoon.Matthewhadgivenme‘gibbous’.Itwasoneofhisuncountablegiftstome.Ihadalwaysbeenabletoreceivethemwithoutrancour.IwonderedwhyIhadbeenunabletodothesameformyparents.

Thetidewasgentleandquiet.EventuallyIheardCorwin’sstepsontheshingle.Hesatdownnexttome.Wewatchedthemoon.Ihadmattersbackinproportion:theAtlantic,theblindcliffs,myselfsetagainstthem.‘I’msorry,’saidCorwin.

‘Thatwasmyfault.’Idrapedtheblanketaround

usboth.‘HasEdgone?’

‘Yes.Willyoubeabletoexplainittohim?’‘Probablynot.’AfterawhileIsaid,‘Do

youthinkshewasright?DoyouthinkDadreallythoughtthat?’Thememorywasclear.It

hadbeensohotthatsummer.Wehadfallenasleep,talking,andsometimeinthenightIhadfreedmyselffromthe

irritationofclothes,halfasleep.IrememberedthecomfortofspooningintoCorwin’sskin.Hischestandlegshadbeensmooththen.Ithadnotbeenthefirsttimealthoughperhapsithadbeenthelast.‘She’sjustpunishingyou.’

Corwinpickedupapebbleandthrewittowardstheapproachingwater.

‘Actually,’hesaid,stillstaringafterthepebble,‘Dadaskedmeaboutit.’‘What?When?’‘Acoupleofdaysbefore

hefell.’‘Soitwastodowithus!

Howdidheask?Whatdidhesay?’Ifeltaspasmofremorse.Mypoorprivatefather,askingoutloudifhis

sonwashavingsexwithhisdaughter.‘Hebroughtmedownhere

andwesatlikethis.Andhesaidsomethingaboutour“affinity”–yoursandmine.HowyouandIhadalwaysbeenclose,buthewasworriedthatwe’dbecometooclose.’‘Affinity,’Iechoed.Atthat

momentIfeltitvery

importanttobeaccurate–honest.IhadjustbrokenwithmymotheranditseemedtomethatinthattherewassomethingfarmoreunnaturalthananydistortionoflovetheremightormightnotbebetweenmeandCorwin.Ithoughtofmyfather,standinginthedoorway,watchingussleep,notunderstandingus.Iwas

ashamed.Iacknowledgedhowlonelywehadmadehim–himandMum.Isaid,‘Lookatme.Letme

seeyourface.’HeturnedtomeandIlookedathimproperlyforthefirsttimeinyears.‘Didheseeanything,doyouthink?Inus?Anythingthatwedidn’tseeatthetime?’

‘I’vethoughtaboutthatalot,’saidCorwin;hesoundedvery,verysad.Ithought:He’sweary.He’salmostreachedtheend.Buttheendofwhat?‘Dadsaidthatwewere“indangerofviolatingthelawsofnature”.Iwassoangry–Ijustwantedtohithim,butIdidn’t.Irememberthatquiteclearly–thesensationofhavingstopped

myselffromhittinghim.Hewantedmyassurancethatmyfeelingstowardsyouwere“chaste”.Ilaughedatthat.Thatword,chaste.Hesaiditwasagoodthingweweregoingtobeseparatedforawhile.IsaidIcouldn’tbelievethathewouldthinkthatofme–ofus.Thatheoffendedusinasking.’‘Didhebelieveyou?’

‘Ithinkso.Yes–I’msurehedid.’‘Heshouldhavetalkedto

meaboutit.’‘Hewasgoingto–hetold

mehewouldtalktoyoutoo.’‘Whydidn’tyoutellme?’‘Well–eventswere

supersededsomewhat,don’tyouthink?’ThatwaswhenI

rememberedmyfather

standinginthedoorwaywithacupoftea.Sothatwaswhathehadwantedtotalkabout!Ithadbeentoodifficult.Hehadnothadthecourage.WhatwouldIhavesaid,ifhe’daskedme?Iwouldhaveshouted.Iwouldhavethrownsomething.AndIhadnotbeenwearingpyjamas–hehadmisjudgedthesetting.Itwasallwrongforan

accusationofincest.PoorDad!Howunpleasantitmusthavebeenforhim.‘Dadwasn’ttheonly

personwhoaskedme,’Corwinsaidsuddenly,asifhe’djustdecidednottoholdanythingback.‘Whoelse?’‘Mickey.’Iwasbeginningnowto

feellaidouttoview;pried

open.‘Hesaidwewerefreaking

everyoneout.HeaskedmeifI’deverthoughtaboutit.’‘Andhadyou?’Iasked.‘What?’‘Hadyoueverthought

aboutit?’‘Christ!Idon’tknow.I

don’tthinkso–butyoureallydon’twanttoknowwhatgoesoninthemindsof

adolescentboys.Daddidknow.That’swhyhetalkedtomefirst–me“inparticular,beingmaleandthereforelessincontrolofmyappetites”.’‘Well,thatwasoneofhis

longersentences,’Isaid.Therewasacidinmymouth.‘Oliverdidhiswise-old-

manthingandsaid,“Allkindsoflovearepossible.”’

‘Oh,Olivertoo!Oh,good!’Wesaidnothingfora

while.Corwinthrewpebbles,hisarmprotrudingfromthegapintheblanket.Thetidewasnowcloseenoughtoreceivethem.Plop!Plop!Plop!‘Wehumiliatedhim,’I

said.‘Yousee?Shewasright.Itwasus!’

Ileanedmyheadonhisshoulder.‘Haveyounoticedhowwe’vebeentalkingineuphemisms?Ihavenovocabularyforthis.’‘No.’‘Doyouthinkweloveeach

othertoomuch?’‘What’stoomuch?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘So,’Isaid,‘areyoufinally

goingtotellmewhatyou’ve

beendoingforthelastfivemonths?’‘Betterthanthat.I’mgoing

toshowyou.’Hestoodandreachedout

hishandtohelpmeuptostanding.Thenhepulledshutthedoorofthecabinandreturnedthekeytoitshidingplace.Ikepttheblanketaroundmyshouldersasweheldhandsandwalkedalong

thebeach.ThenIfollowedhimupontothecliffpathandzigzaggeduptotheridgewherethelighthouseflashup-coastbeckoneduson.AsIwalkedbehindCorwinIthoughtofseven-leagueboots.Eachofourstepswastakingusagreatdistance.Theremightnotbeawayback.

JustbeforeBrockTorweturnedintothehiddenpathbetweenthefurzebushes,whichcaughtonthedelicatefabricofmydressandscratchedatmylegs.Wecameoutabovethechine.‘It’sOK,’saidCorwin.‘I’mnotgoingtomakeyoustandtooclose.’ImovedasclosetotheedgeasIdareduntilIcouldjustseetheglitterof

thewaterfall.‘Now,’saidCorwin,

‘wheredoyouthinkDadwaswhenhefell?’Ipointedaheadofme,over

thefallingstream,towhereIhadthrownintheboxofsecrets.ButCorwinshookhishead.‘Thatwastheassumption,wasn’tit?Thathewentoverthere?’Ithought

ofthegreatshardsofgranitebelow;ofmyfather,sliced.‘IbroughtBobuphere,’

saidCorwin.‘Hewasn’tthatpleasedaboutit,butIthinkhethoughtheowedittome.Bobsaidhepissedoverthewaterfall,butDadwalkedaround.’Hetookmyhandagainand

startedtoleadmearoundthehorseshoecurveofthecliff.

‘SoDadwalkedaround,andBobstartedtogoafterhim.ThenBobgaveupabouthere,andsatdownandwatchedDadwalkaroundabitfurther.‘Here,’saidCorwin.‘Bob

saidthatherememberedDadbeingabouthere.’Hepulledsomethingoutofhisjacketpocketandhandedittome.‘Thisisthebookyousent

me,’hesaid.‘Iwantyoutoreadit–I’vemarkedthepassage.’Hetookhisjacketoff.‘You’refreezing,’hesaid.‘Putthison.’HepulledtheblanketfrommyshouldersandhelditwhileIputonhisjacket.Thenhewrappedmeupagainandsteppedawayfromme.‘Corwin,’Isaid.‘You’re

gettingtooclosetotheedge.

You’remakingmedizzy.’‘Waitformeatthecabin,’

hesaid.‘IfI’mnotthereinsixhours,dowhateveryouthinkisright.’Thenheturnedandspread

outhisarms.Crow,Ithought.Crow:abouttotakeflight.Andthenhetippedhimself

forwardintothedeepblackair.

PARTTHREE

22.

Corwindroppedintotheblindingdark.SomethingrippedfrommychestasIlurchedafterhim–myvoice:itwasgone,fallingwithhim.Hehimselfmadenosound.Ithought:Ishouldhaveheardhimhitthewaterbynow.Or

therocks;Iwouldhaveheardhimcryoutifhehadhittherocks.Icrawledtowardsthecliffedge,buthehadfallenintotheblackhissoftheseaandthewhisperingofthegrass.Thelighthouseflashed,andthenflashed,andthenflashed.IfoundthatIwascurledon

thegroundandthatIwasverycoldandthatsomething

likethoughtnuzzledatmybrain.Iheldsomethinghardtomychest.Itwasthebook.Iraisedmyselfupandstartedtowalk,andthenmylegsbegantorunandtheyranmebackalongthecliffanddowntowardstheglowingshingleandsplashedmethroughtheedgeofthetide.Itdidn’toccurtometodisobeyCorwinandgoforhelp.Ihad

onlyoneinstinct:togettothecabinandtowarmmyselfsothatImightthink.Theskirtofmydresswas

soakedandclungingorse-tornshredsaroundmycalves.IundressedtomyunderwearandputCorwin’sjacketbackonandfiredupthestoveandfilledthekettleandplaceditonthehob.ThenIpulledthegreat-aunts’bedspreadfrom

thebunkandwrappedmyselfinitandsatnexttothestoveandwatchedthekettle,fiercely.Thiskettle-watchingrequiredanenormousamountofwillpowerandconcentration.Ittookavery,verylongtimetoboil.Ithoughtofwatchedkettles.IthoughtthatIwouldneverspeakagain,thatCorwinhadsilencedme.Iresentedhim

forit.Corwinmightbedeadandbumpingaboutonthetideleakingbloodontothewater.Ihopedhewas.ThenImadetea.Thebooklayonmylapin

itsperiwinkle-bluebinding.ACoastalCuracy.Ididn’tneedtoreadittoknowwhatitwas:thecountrymemoirofawell-educatedVictorian.Itwouldcontainobservations

onfloraandfaunaandonthearchitectureofchurchesandstatelyhomes:thegentlepursuitsoftheEnglish.Itwasaconventionalbookwithniceenoughengravings.IopeneditatCorwin’smarkerandtriedtoread,butmymindwouldnotreceivethewordssoIputitdownagainandfedthefireandsatsomemore.Ipulledthebedspreadcloser

aroundmeandthoughtofthegreat-auntsmakingit.Ithoughtofthempullingapartoldsocksandjumpersandwindingthewoolaroundcardsandsteamingitwithadampclothandaheavyoldironandthenunwindingthewoolaroundhandsheldapartandrewindingtheskeinsintoneatcompactballs.Ithoughtofthemsittingand

crocheting.Iwonderedwhattheyhadtalkedabout.Iwonderediftheyhadlaughed.Ihadnowaytomeasure

timebutthesoundofthetideedgedfurtherandfurtherawayofftheshingleuntilitwassilencedbythesoftsand.Islept,open-eyed,startingawakeoverandoveragainintothenightmareof

Corwin’smadness.Nightbegantolift.Istoodandwenttothecabinstepstofeelthesunrise.IfoundthatIwascrying.That’sinteresting!Ithought.IlickedatmytearsandwentbackinsidetolookatmyselfinthecrackedmirrorontheshelfabovethephotoofGreat-grandfatherJames.Myfacecriedatme.I

dislikedthesensationandmademyselfstop.Irefilledthekettle.Hewill

beheresoon,Ithought.AndthenInoticedtheconvictionIhadthathewasalive.IfheweredeadIwouldknow.Wewereconjoinedatsomepointofthesoul.Itwasaterribleepiphany.Combined,wemadeamonster.SomewhereIhadreadthatinacaseof

conjoinedtwinsonetendstobestronger,sappingtheother’sbloodandorgans.Iwonderedwhichofuswastheparasite.Theseaglintedamackerel

silver.IwenttostandonthestepsagainandwatchedforCorwin.Thetidewasrightout.Thesunhadbreachedthehorizonandtheblushevaporatedfromthesky.At

theendofthetumbleofrocksthatspilledontothebeachdividingThorntonMouthandthecovebelowBrockTor,Icaughtascribbleofmovementonthedarkgranite.Iwatchedhard.ItwasCorwin,climbingdownthejaggedslabs.Iwatchedhimreachthesand.Iwentbackintothecabin.Iknew

thatnowIwouldbeabletoread.

Corwinlimpedinthroughthedoorclutchinghisshoulderandfellonthebunk,turnedonhisbackandclosedhiseyes.Hewasshivering,atremblingrightthrougheverymuscleofhisbody.Idrankmytea.

Eventuallyhesaid,‘Didyoureadit?’‘Yes.’‘And?Whatdoyouthink?’‘I’mnotthinking.I’mtoo

exhausted.’Iheldmycupout.‘Tea?’Heproppedhimselfupto

drink;theteashudderedinthecup.‘IthinkImayhavedislocatedmyshoulder.Itreallyhurts!’

‘That’llteachyou!’Isaid.‘So?Apartfromanyphysicaldamageyoumayhavedonetoyourself,doyoufeelbetternow?’Corwinlookedalittle

surprised.‘Yes!’hesaid.‘Yes.AsamatteroffactIdo.Ifeelbetter.Itwasamazing,actually.’Thewordsstutteredinhismouth,histeethwerechatteringsomuch.‘The

jump,Imean.Therestwasalittlehairy.ButIdo.Ifeelbetter.Myheadisclearnow.’‘Oh,good!Thatmustbe

niceforyou.Betterthanbeingdead.’‘IknewI’dbeOK.’‘Youdid?Well,Ididn’t.’Hewastryingtotakeoff

hiswetclothes,butcouldn’traisehisarm.IhelpedhimeasehisT-shirtoverhis

shoulderandtakeoffhistrousers.Idrapedthemoverthedryingrackandplaceditclosetothestove.Hisskinwaswhiteandblue,hislipsalmostblack.Hehadlosthisshoes.Hissockswereshreddedandhisfeetgrazedandbleeding.WhenItouchedhisskinitwassocoldthatIwasshockedoutofmynumbnessandsuddenlyIfelt

anxietyforhim.Istokedupthefire,thenlaydownnexttohimandcocoonedusbothinthebedspread,tryingtogivehimsomeofmywarmth.Ipulledhishandsbetweenmythighsandtookhisfeetbetweenmyown.Hisjawvibratedatmytemple.Afteralongwhile,theshiveringstoppedandthewarmth

returnedtohishandsandfeet;theredreturnedtohismouth.‘Soyoureadit?’hesaid.‘Yes.’‘And?’‘Icanseewhatyou’re

thinking.’‘Didyouseethepencil

marks?’‘Yes.’‘Ineverrealizedthatyou

didn’treadthebooks,’said

Corwin.‘Iwonderedathowbadsomeofthemwere!Ireadthemall,lookingforhiddenmessages.IthoughtI’dfinallyfoundone.’‘No,’Isaid.‘Therewere

nomessages.Or,rather,therewasjustonemessage.Youmissedit.’AfterapauseIsaid,‘I

neverrealizedthatyoudidreadthem.’

‘Well,’saidCorwin,‘thereareonlysomanytimesyoucanplayTrivialPursuit.Especiallywithpeoplewhodon’thavetheculturalreferences.’‘Youarecruel,’Isaid.

‘Cruelandflippant.’‘Yes,Isupposeso.I’ve

hadtothinkalotaboutthat–canIbethatcruel?ButIhad

tobe.CanIhavesomemoretea?’Imademoretea.Hetook

thechairnexttothestoveandwarmedhimselfthere.‘So,’Isaid,‘areyougoing

toexplainyourself?’‘OK,’hesaid.‘Well,Ihad

thisfriend,whenIwasworkinginCongo.HewascalledFrançois.He’dbeenateacherinRwandaandhe

wasveryarticulate–goodcompany.HespokereallygoodEnglishandactedasmyinterpreterforawhile.Hehadthisincrediblydeepvoice.Itwasliketherumbleoftheearth.Hecouldhavesaidanythinganditwouldhavesoundedwise.Weplayedchesstogetherintheevenings.’

‘Isthatwhatyou’vebeendoingforthelastdecade?’Isnapped.‘Playingboardgames?’‘Don’tinterrupt!’said

Corwin.‘Thisisimportant.‘Anyway,Françoiswasmy

interpreterforaboutfourmonthsandIlearnedsomuchfromhim.WetalkedaboutAfricamostly–aboutthegenocide,obviously.About

thefutureforAfrica.Buthenevertoldmeanythingabouthisfamily.AndIneverasked,because–whoknew?–hemightbeamassmurderer,orhisfamilymighthavebeenwipedout,orhemighthavebeenforcedatgunpointtorapehismother…’‘Jesus,Corwin!’‘Oh,don’tbesoprecious!

TheonetimeIputan

unpleasantimageintoyourheadyousplitmylip!’‘Unpleasantimage!Whata

nicelittleeuphemism!Thewayyouwallowintheexcrementofhumanityisperverse!’‘Justshutupandlisten!

Oneevening,Françoiscomesoverandsayshe’ssorrybuthehastoleave.Hesayshe’sseensomeonefromhis

villageandhedoesn’twanttoberecognizedandhebegsmyforgiveness.Hesayshisname’snotFrançois.Hesayshisfamilythinkshe’sdeadandhewantsittostaythatway.Andthenhesays,“IwanttoreassureyouthatitwasnothingthatIdid,Iwasnotaparticipant.ItwassimplythatIwaspresentedwiththeopportunitytobe

deadandItookit.Andafterwards,whensomanywerereturningfromthedeadandImighthaveresurrectedmyself,IfoundthatIdidnotwishto.”’‘What–inthoseexact

words?’‘Thatwashowhetalked.

Hespokeslowly,always.Hissentencescameoutfullycrafted.It’saformof

courtesy.Notallculturesencouragetheideathateveryconnectionofthesynapsesshouldbeinflictedonotherpeople.’Corwinleanedoverand

tookmyhandgently.‘Andthenhesaid,“Sometimesit’slonelybeingdead,butitsuitsmewell.”’‘No!’Iflinched.‘It’sall

justcoincidence.’

‘Ithoughtaboutthatconversationalotovertheyears.Andthenyousentmethatbook.’Wesatinsilencefora

while.IimaginedFrançoiswalkingoutintothedark,intothevastnessofAfrica.Ithoughtofthesweepingarrowsonhistoricalmapsthatrepresentthemassmovementsofpeoplesafter

warsandofhisfeetmovingalongthem.‘YouthinkDaddidn’tdie.

Youthink…what?Hejumpedoffacliffandthenjustwalkedoffintoanewlifesomewhere?’‘YesterdayIstillthought

that.NowIknowit.’‘That’snottrue!Youdon’t

know!’

Hewaslookingatmewithenormouspity.Hiswasthefaceofthetorturer,thefacethatsays,Thisisgoingtohurtmemorethanitwillhurtyou.‘Idon’tunderstandwhy

youhadtojump.Whycouldn’tyoujusttellmewhatyouwerethinking?’‘BecauseIthoughtIwas

goingcrazy.Iwantedtoseeifyou’dgettothesameplace

withoutme.Butyouwerebeingsoobtuse.Andinthemeantime,Iwasgoingoverandoverthecliff,tryingtoworkouthowhedidit.IgotMickeytoshowmeallthetombstoningspots–heknowsallthoseextremesportstypes–andIknewitcouldbedonehere.It’ssimpleintheend–onceyouknowwheretojump.It’sa

bowl.Youjustneedahighenoughtidesothatyouhaveenoughdepthandsothatthetidepullsbackfarenoughtogiveyouenoughbeachatlowtidetogetouttotheendoftherockstoclimbover.Theworstthingwasthecoldandthewaiting.Iwasplanningforabettertide,actually.Butthingscametoahead.’

‘Wereyouwaitinginthewater?Allthattime?’‘No.Igotupontotherocks

–whichwasn’teasy.Infact,itwasfuckingscary.Isortoftuckedinwhilethetidewentout.ThenIclimbeddown,butthatwashardbecauseI’dhurtmyshoulder,andthenIwalkedoutandmadetheclimb.’

‘Istilldon’tunderstandwhyyouhadtojump.’‘Becausethat’swhathe

did.Whyjumpoffacliff–whynotjustleave?Ihadtoknow.I’dratherdiethannotknow.’IthoughtthatIwould

rathernotknow.Isaid,‘ItmightbepossibleinAfrica,butit’snotsoeasytomakethebetter-off-deadlifestyle

choicehere.What’shesupposedtobedoing?HangingoutwithEssexgangstersontheCostadelSol?’‘Ofcoursenot,’said

Corwin,firmly.‘You’reright.Itwouldbeharderhere.Butnotimpossible.’Ididn’twanttobelieve

him.Iwantedtobelievethathewasunwell,thatthese

weredelusions.Myfathergrewthings.Hehadbeentrainingapeachtreeintoafanagainstthesouthernwallofthekitchengarden.Hekepttellingusitwasaten-yearproject.Amanlikethatdidn’tfakehisowndeath–but,then,amanlikethatdidn’tcommitsuicideeither.‘Corwin,’Isaid.‘Please

stop.You’redrivingyourself

mad–you’redrivingusbothmad.Youdon’tknowanything.Allyouhaveisastronghunchandaluckyescape.Afterallthis,we’restillwherewebegan.Theoriginalexplanationisstillthemostlikely.’‘Idoknow.’‘Soyouknow,’Isaid.‘So

what’stheanswertoyour

ownquestion?Whyjumpoffacliff?’‘Don’tyousee?Ithadto

beonethingortheother–lifeordeath.Itwasagamblewithfate.LikeRussianroulette,orsomething.’‘Sowhereishe?What’she

doing?What’shelivingoff?’‘ThatIdon’tknow.We

havetofindhim.’‘Youneedhelp!’

‘Morwenna!’Hetookmyfaceinhishandsandlookedhardatme.‘Wehavetofindhim!’Heletgo,satbackonthe

chairandwarmedthepalmsofhishandsagainstthestove.‘Andthen,’hesaid,‘Idon’tknow.’Steamwasrisingfromour

wetclothes.Theyhadalreadydriedinpatches.Thecabin

smeltofscorchedcloth,ofseawater,ofhotstovemetal.Corwinstaredathishands.‘Ireallydon’tknow.ThenIhavetostopandconsiderwhattodo.BecauserightnowifIsawhim,IthinkImighthavetokillhim.’Quietly,coaxingly,Isaid,

‘Buthow,Corwin?Howwouldweevenstart?’

Corwinlookedatme,incredulous.‘WithMatthew,ofcourse.Howdoyouthink?IfI’mright,thenhecertainlyknows,theoldbugger.Hehasto.’

23.

ThefollowingSundayIdeterminedtovisitThorntoninordertoworshipthereattheprettyNormanchurch,whichwasfamouslocally,soIhadbeeninformed,foritspewcarvings.

Isetoutonfoot,takingasteepclimbtothetopofthecliffs,afterwhichthewalkingwaseasyandpleasantalongtheridgeandIeventuallybegantodescendaroundahighgraniticoutcropbeneathwhichastreamflungitselfintotheseaoverasheerslabofrock.Alonelymillsooncameintoview,pressedupagainstthesea,and,further

alongthebeach,tuckedintotheleeofthecliff,adwellingontheforeshore.Iwassurprisedtoseeafishingboatpulledupbesideit.Itisraretofindsafelandingforaboatalongthatstretchofcoast,butthecove,Isurmised,wasprotectedfromthebatteringoftheseabyalongshelteringcliffwall.

Thehamletlayinadeepcombe,whichnow,inspring,waswhitewithhawthorn.Uphillofthemillwasascatteringofhousesandcottagesaroundthechurchspire.Mypathledmepastthemillandoverasmallfootbridgealongatwistingstream,whichdisappeared,attimes,beneathcascadesoftumblingthorn,whichsoon

turnedtoancientdwarfoak,ladenwithmoss.Thechurchitselfwasguardedbytwoenormouscedars,which,asIlaterobserved,appearedwhenvieweduphillofthehamlettoformagatewaytothesea.Iarrivedwhilethechurch

wasempty,inordertomakesomesketchesofthepewcarvings.Ihadcopiedinto

mysketchbookanintricatelyscaledmermaidandtheprofileofaRedIndianinfinefeatherhead-dresswhenthebell-ringersarrived.Theywerecurioustoseemywork,andone,anoldmanwhocouldbarelyclimbtheladdertothebelltower,declaredit‘asgoodasanyI’veseen’,fortheywereusedtovisitorswithsketchbooksandhad

talesatthereadyaboutthesmugglingdayswhenthechurchhadbeenusedtohidecontraband.Suchtalesaretoldupanddownthecoast,but,havingseenthelandingdownatThorntonMouth,Icouldwellbelievethatthisspothadbeenindeedafavouredhauntforsmugglers.

Itwasalivelyservice.Thecongregationhaddescendedfromthesurroundingfarmstoheartheoldrector,whowasmoreancientstillthanmyapprovingbell-ringer,andwhowasofthefireandbrimstonevariety,totheobvioussatisfactionofhisflock.UponhearingthatIwasthenewcurateatStPeter’s,heinvitedmetotake

lunchwithhimattherectory,whichinvitationIgladlyaccepted,andwhilewewereattableheregaledmewiththestoryofThornton’sDevilStone.

ThechurchatThorntonhadtakenmanyyearstobuild.Thiswasnotthefaultoftheworkmen,whowerediligentandskilled.Buteach

morning,whentheyreturnedtowork,theydiscoveredthattheirtoolsandmaterialshadbeenremovedamileawayandthrowntothefootofthecliffsatThorntonMouth,andeachmorning,beforetheworkcouldcontinue,theworkmenmustmoveitallbackupthehilltothesiteofthechurch.

Onenight,theyoungestofthebuildershidinatreeandwaitedfortheculprittorevealhimself.Atmidnighthewasassailedbyaterriblesmellofsulphur,andhethoughthemightfaintandfalloutofthetree,butheheldfastandsoonheheardvoices.Heclimbeduphigherintothetreeandlookeddownuponatroopofdemonswho

werebeingoverseenbytheDevilhimself,andhewatchedastheymarcheddownthecombecarryingontheirshouldersthebuilders’bricksandtools.Thenextday,theyoung

buildertoldhisfellowswhathehadseen,andtheysoughttheadviceoftheirpriest,whotoldthemtopraytoStMichael,foritwashewho

alwaysknewhowtogetthebetteroftheDevil.Thereupontheyprayed,andtheverynextnighttheywatchedfortheDevil,andwhenheandhisdemonsweregatheredagreatlightappearedintheskyandStMichaelcamedownandgrabbedtheDevilbyhisforkedtailandflunghimovertheparishboundary,thenpickedupa

greatboulderandhurleditafterhim,pinningtheDevilbeneathit.AndtheretheDevilwasstuck,hisdemonsallscattered,untilsuchtimeasthebuildingofthechurchwascompletedandcouldbeconsecrated,whereuponthegratefulworshippersofThorntondedicatedtheirchurchtotheirprotector,StMichael.

TherectorroundedoffhisstorywithaspiritedquotationfromRevelation,Chapter20:‘“AndIsawanangelcomedownfromheaven,havingthekeyofthebottomlesspitandagreatchaininhishand.Andhelaidholdonthedragon,thatoldserpent,whichistheDevilandSatan,andboundhimathousandyears,andcasthim

intothebottomlesspit.”Yes,’saidtherector,‘theDevillikesithere.Theseaenticeshim.Hehopesonedaytobounceoffherbellybackintothemiddleatmosphere,outofwhichhewascastintotheearth.Aboveallelse,’hewarned,‘theDevilisanoptimist.’AsItookmyleaveofthe

rector,Ithoughttoenquire

aboutthestrangedwellingonthebeach.‘Ah!’saidhe.‘Nowthere’saninterestingfellow.Youmustdropinonyourwayhomeandseeforyourself.HeenjoysabitofChristiancompany,andhismortalsoulismuchinneedofit!’Itwasuponthisadvicethat

IapproachedthehutatThorntonMouth,althoughI

hesitatetodignifyitwiththatdesignation,the‘hut’resemblinganupturnedboat,beingaprecariousclinker-builtpileofoldships’boneswithportholesforwindows.AsIapproachedIobservedthatitwasgarlandedaboutwithglassfishingfloatsandstringsofperforatedpebblesandwasbuttressedbycoilsofthick,tarredrope.Beforethe

entrancewerepiledcrabpotsanddriftwood.Smokeissuedfromastovepipethatprotrudedfromtheroof.Ihesitatedtoknockatthe

door,andinsteadattemptedtopeerdiscreetlythroughanopenporthole,butbeforeIcouldsomuchasglimpseitsoccupant,avoicecalledoutfromwithin:‘Ifyou’refromthedead,beoffwithyou.

Unlessyoucometotakemewithyou!’IwassotakenabackthatI

believethatIturnedmyheadtolookaboutforaghost,andonlythenunderstoodthatthevoicespoketome.Ireturnedthat,indeedno,Iwasaliveandwell,andstatedmybusiness:thattherectorhadsentmewithhisgreetings.

‘Inthatcase,’saidthevoice,‘you’ddobettertocomeroundbythedoor.’Bendingtoenter,Iwasmet

bythestenchofdamprope,tar,smokeandstalefish.Thewallswerepiledhighwithinsulatingcoilsofrope,andahammockstitchedfromsailclothhungfromabeamformedfromabrokenmast.Acrateservedasatable,and

crudeshelvesandbenchessawnfromship’splanksmadeuptheremainingfurniture.Adriftwoodfiresmoulderedinastove,whichstoodonapileofsandinthemiddleofthefloor.Themansittingtheremight

havebeenold,orhemightnothavebeenmorethanforty.Hehadthatlookofthesea,whichdisguisesage.His

forearmsboretheinkingsofamariner.Hesatonabench,workingathisnets.AsIenteredhelookedupandsaid,‘Takeyourplacebythefireandbewelcome.’Hisspeechboresometrace

thatwasnotoftheWestCountry.‘No,’heacknowledged.‘I’mnotfromtheseparts.’Iaskedfromwherehehailed,buthewould

notsay.‘Theyallaskmethat,’hesaid.‘ButInevertell.’Hestoodtotakefromthe

shelfabottleandtwopewtermugs.‘Iftherectorsentyou,’hesaid,‘youmustdrinkwithme.’Iwasapprehensiveofthe

concoctionthattheprofferedglassmustcontain,butwassurprisedbythetasteofa

goodbrandy.Notingmysurprise,myhostlaughedand,wavingthebottle,said,‘ThisishowI’mpaidformyservices.’‘Andwhatmightthose

servicesbe?’Ienquired.‘Well,’hereplied,‘Iserve

assextontothiscove,here.’Naturally,Isoughtto

understandwhathemeantbythis.‘Well,’heexplained,

‘youknowhowitis.Thisisabadstretchofcoast.Thedeadwashashore,fortheseadon’talwayswantthem.AndIbringthemhome,totheirfinalrestingplace,tothechurch.TherectorandIusedtosharethework,buthe’stoooldfortheclimbnow.’‘Aretherenosurvivors?’I

asked,thinkingwithashudderofthetalesof

murderouswreckerswiththeirlanternsandtheirknives.‘Onlyme,’hesaid.‘I’mthe

onlyoneeverwashedupaliveonthisbeach.’ThisIrecognizedtobea

cueforatale,andsoIpermittedhimtorefillmyglassandsettledintohearwhathehadtosay.

‘Asyousorightlyobserved,’hebegan,‘I’mnotfromtheseparts.AndItooktoseawhenIwasaladandstayedafloatuntilIwasayoungman.Ididn’tmuchtaketothelife.Allthehourstheyletamancallhisown,andhebelievesit:needleandink,whittlingatwhalebone.Ispentdaysputtogetheroverafinewaistcoat,butwhatfor?

Whowasevertoseemewearit?SoIwasthequarrelsomesort.AndonedaywewereharbouredupforrepairsandItookoff.Andtheytookafterme,forIhadenemiesaboardandtheywereonlytoogladtohuntmedown.AndIranforthreedaysandtheycameaftermeandIfoundmyselfuponthesecliffsandtherewasabigpileofrocksticking

outovertheseaandIwentaroundittohide.Nowmyenemieshadcaughtupwithme,andIfoundmyselflookingdownintothewater,andIthoughttomyself:Jumporyouarelost.SoIjumped,rightofftheedgeofthatcliffandintothesea.‘Well,whenIhitthewater

Ifeltpainallover,likeathousandslapswiththeback

ofthehand,itwas.AndIwentdown,down,down.AndwhenIpoppedbackup,whoshouldbewaitingformeinthewater,buttheDevilhimself,redeyes,jack-o’-lanterngrin,hornsandall.Andhesaidmyname,andhesaid,“You’recomingwithme.”AndIsaid,“No,I’mnot.NotifIcanhelpit.”Andheleapedatmeoffthetopof

awave,andIfoughtwithhimrightthereinthewater.Hethrashedlikeaconger,butIcaughtholdofhimbythetailandtwistedhimoverandoveruntilatlastIclimbedupontohisbackandIrodehimthroughthewavestillhewastiredandspent,andheshotoffintothesky,shoutingandcursing.

‘NextthingIknew,Iwaslyingonthisshore,allbetangledwithseaweedandspewinglikeababy.IthoughtImustbedead,butwhenIlookeddownIsawthatmylegwasbleeding,andsoItoldmyselfthatifmybloodwasrunningImustbealivestill.AndIlaythereuntiltherectorfoundme,andhetookmewithhimandnursedme.

AndIbelievethatmyenemiesmusthavethoughtmedead,becausetheysawmefall.SothenIthoughttomyself:Nooneknowsmehere.Myenemiesthinkmedead,andonlytheDevilknowsmyname,sohemayhaveit,andIwilltakeanotherone.’Twilightwasnowuponus,

soIthankedmystrangehostandtookmyleave.Ihad

twiceencounteredtheDevilduringmyshortstayatThornton,andhadnowishforathirdmeeting,andIhurriedbackalongthecliffstoreturntoTheSandsbeforedarkfell.

24.

Underneaththesentence‘onlytheDevilknowsmyname,sohemayhaveit,andIwilltakeanotherone’wasafaintpencilledline–drawnlightly,neatly.Inthemarginwaswrittenthename‘JohnGreenaway’.Irecognizedthe

tinypedantichandwriting,butIcouldnottellifitbelongedtomyfatherortoMatthew.

AtthehospitalwehadsaidthatCorwinhadslippedontherocks,whichwasalmosttrue.Theypatchedhimupandgavehimsomestrongpainkillers.ItwasaroundmidnightbythetimewereturnedtoThornton.The

ghostswereactive.WepassedthememorialcrossandIthoughtofMatthew,whoneverpasseditwithoutsayingthenamesoutloud.Healwaysappearedtoreadthemfromtheplaque,butevenI,bytheageofeight,knewthemoffbyheart.Icanrecitethemstill:fromArthurCornishallthewaydowntoPeterThompson.

Once,inwinter,ItoldMatthewthatIwasfrightenedtobecallingoutthenamesofthedeadonsuchadarknight,andMatthewsaid,‘Whatdoyouthinkthosepoorboyscouldpossiblywantwithyou?Thedeadaren’ttobefeared,onlytheliving.’AndItrustedhim,andwas

persuaded,andhaveneversincefearedthedead.But

nowCorwinandIhadallowedourselvestoimagineadifferentkindofhaunting,bytheshadeofalivingbeing.Wedidn’tevenhaveanameforsuchaterrifyingspirit.Iwasfrightenedtoleave

Corwin.‘Youhavetopromise!’Isaid.‘Promiseme.NofurtheractionuntilIgetback.Idon’tevenwant

yougoingintoMumandDad’sroom.’Isaid,‘Patience,Corwin.

Withoutpatience,we’lljustgomad.’Ihadpatience,Isuddenlyrealized.Ihadavirtue.Ihadpatienceforthingsthatnooneelsenoticed.Icouldspenddaysstandingatavice,sandingspinepapersuntiltheyweresmoothassilk.Icouldpare

leatheruntilitwasasthinastissue.Icouldtakeaslongasittook.Corwin,ontheotherhand,wasskittish.Ididn’ttrusthimalonewithMatthew.

ThebookcamebacktoLondonwithme.OnthelongtrainjourneyIturneditinmyhands:ACoastalCuracy,byAmbrosePearce,publishedbysomelong-forgottenhouse

in1887.Onthefrontispiecethewords:JohnVenton.HisBook.Imusthavenoticedatthetime,andthenimmediatelyforgottenit,thisconventionalbook,withniceenoughengravingsthatIhadspentprecioushoursofmyshortlifeinrescuing,thatIhadcarefullyteasedapartandre-stitchedandpastedandpampered,whenitwasjusta

moleculeinamountainofvanityandself-regardandutterlydeservedtobeforgottenandlefttodecompose.Iputthebookbackintomy

bagandlistenedtomymessages.TherewasnothingfromEd.Thereweretwomessagesfromthebindery.Onefromacolleagueconfirmingthatthey’d

receivedmymessagesayingI’dbeadaylategettingback,andonefromAnasayingthatshewouldlikemetokeepmylunch-breakfreesothatwecouldhaveachat.InfourteenyearsI’dneverhadlunchalonewithAna.Iassumedthatshewasgoingtofireme.Thegreenhillsendlong

beforeLondonbegins.Ilookedoutontherainy

suburbs.Iwasaltered,irrevocably,bythelastforty-eighthours.Amutationhadoccurredinmysoulor,perhaps,ithadsimplycompleted.Maybeithadstartedwiththeimaginaryfallingman,orbefore,withthesimpleactofremovingmyT-shirtinthemiddleofahotnight.ThewordsfromthatsonginOliver!leaped

incongruouslyintomyhead:‘Iamre-view-ingthesituation…’CorwinandIusedtolovethatfilm.Ifoundmyselfirritatedbytheexclamationmark.WhywasitOliver!,notsimplyOliver?Itwasaveryannoyingpieceofpunctuation.FaginandtheArtful

DodgerclownedoffintoanEastEndsunset.Theysangin

myhead:‘IthinkI’dbetterthinkitoutagain.’

WhenIreturnedtothebindery,therewasastrangerworkingatmystool.‘That’sBirgit,’saidAna.‘She’sgoingtobehereforafewweeks.Youcanhelpoutonrepairswhileshe’swithus.’Birgitlookedupand

smiledatme,frombehind

owlishglasses.Shewaswearingablackwaistcoat,embroideredalloverwithwhatlookedlikebirdsinflight.Meekly,Isetmyselfupatanotherbenchandbegantotakeapartabookthathadbeenbroughtinforrepair.Itwasabeautifulbook,badlydamaged.Aneighteenth-centurycopyofGulliver’sTravels.Itwould

taketimetorestore.IwatchedBirgitfromthecornerofmyeye.Oncloserexamination,Isawthatthewaistcoatwasnotcoveredwithbirds:theywerebooks.Theirpagesflutteredlikethewingsofparrotsandbirdsofparadise.

Anasuggestedthat,astheweatherwassowarm,we

takesomesandwichestothePrioryChurchGarden.IwasterrifiedofAna.Shehadbeenperchedontheedgeofmylifeforallthoseyearslikeabeautifulhawk,black-featheredwitharedbeakandbrightcollar,watchfulandindifferent.Ihadneverheardhersayanythingfoolishorunguardedsomyrespectforherwasboundless.Ifeared

herdisapprovalmorethanMatthew’s.Wesatonabench.Angels

lookeddownonChristhangingfromthecross.IhadalwaysthoughtthatAnacamefromArgentina.‘No,’shecorrected.‘Butclose.Chile.Howstrangethatyoudon’tknowthatafteralltheseyears,Morwenna.’

Ididn’ttrytodefendmyself.Itwastrue.Itwasstrange.Shesaid,‘Youseemtroubled,Morwenna.Andit’sbeginningtoaffectyourwork.’‘DoI?Well,yes.

Everything’sfallingapartabit.I’msorry.’‘Areyou?’‘AmIwhat?’

‘Areyousorry?IneverknowwhatEnglishpeoplemeanwhentheysaythat.’‘Oh.’Ihadtostoptothink.

‘Yes.Imean,Iamsorry.Iregretmyunreliability.Iamrackedwithguilt,’Iadded.Anasniffed,annoyed,and

litacigarette.Shesmokedinthewaythatpeoplesmokedbeforetheyknewitkilledthem:withpanache.‘That,’

shesaid,‘isanotherwordyouEnglishthrowaround.Yousaythingslike“IfeelsoguiltybecauseIhaven’twashedthedishesfortwodays.”Guiltarisesoutofsin.Whetherornottowashthedishesissimplyamatterofchoice.’‘Oh,’Isaid.‘Iseewhat

youmean.’

Weateoursandwichessilentlyforafewminutes.ThenIsaid,‘Idon’treallybelieveinsin.’‘Inthatcase,’shesaid,

‘youarenotrackedwithguilt.’‘Doyoubelieveinsin?’‘Ofcoursenot.It’sa

patriarchalconstructdesignedmainlyforthebullyingofwomen.’

‘Oh!’Isaid.‘Inmyexperience,’she

said,‘peoplearetroubledwhentheyaretooclosetoloveordeathorsexorpower.Ortheyhavebetrayedsomeoneorthemselves–theirownideals.Idon’tneedtoknowwhat’sgoingoninyourcase–it’salwayscomplicatedtotheindividual

andalittlesordidtoeveryoneelse.’‘Itiscomplicated,’Isaid.

‘Butmainlymygrandfather’sdying.Ioughttobelookingafterhim.’Thissurprisedmealittle.Ihadn’trealizeduntilIsaiditthat,amongallmycurrentconcerns,Matthewtookpriority.‘Morwenna.Atthe

moment,youareeitherabsent

ortiredanddistracted.YouhurtleofftotheendofthecountryandbackasifyouarepoppingouttoTesco.Consequently,youarenotmuchgoodtomeatworkatthemoment,’shesaid.‘Wouldyouliketotakeashortsabbatical?’‘Yes,please,’Isaid.‘Youcanhavefour

months.’

‘Thanks,’Isaid.‘Anotherthing,’shesaid.

‘Birgitisjourneying.ShedidherapprenticeshipinSwitzerland,andnowsheistravellingandworkingforfreeandneedssomewheretolive.Canyouputherupforawhile?’Irecognizedthisasa

conditionofAna’stolerance.‘Yes,ofcourse,’Isaid.I

didn’tmind,I’dbegoingaway.And,anyway,Iwantedachancetoholdthewaistcoat;seehowitwasworked.Thesmokestreamedfrom

Ana’smouthintotheJunesunshine.Istudiedherforuncertainties.Icouldn’tfindany.Isaid,‘Iwouldn’tminddoingthat–journeyingforawhile.’

‘Mygrandfatherdidit,’saidAna.‘Onmymother’sside.HewasGerman.ButInevermethim.MygrandparentswereNazis.Mymotherhatedthem.Butthat’showIinheritedthehabitofpunctuality.’‘Whendidyoucometo

London?’‘Alongtimeago,

Morwenna.Alongtimeago.’

‘Wereyouabinderbeforeyoucamehere?’‘Myfatherhadabindery.

HewasItalian.’Shesmiledatme.‘You

know,Morwenna,whenIcametoLondonIthought:Thisisexile,thisgreycity,thesestrangepeoplewhoneversaywhattheymean.Butobservethisgarden,thispeace,hereinthemiddleof

thecity.Londonisasanctuary,Morwenna.Asanctuary.’

IpackedforfourmonthsandhandedovermyflattoBirgit.IhadstayedandworkedfortherestofJuneinadaze,wakingeverymorningwithaheart-flutterofpanic.IcalledEdacoupleoftimes.Hedidn’tanswer,soIlefta

message.IsaidthatIwassorry,reallyandtruly,andthatIhadtogodowntoThorntonforthesummer,andthatwhenIgotbackIwouldliketotalktohim,ifhewouldlisten.

Corwinwaswaitingformeatthestation,blackringsunderhiseyes.‘You’renotsleeping,’Isaid.

‘Matthew’sinalotofpainatnight,’hesaid.ButIknewthatthatwasn’tit.Iputmyhandonthebackofhisneckashedrove.‘I’llsleepbetternowthat

you’rehere,’hesaid,smiling.‘Haveyouheardfrom

Mum?’‘Igotapostcardfrom

Bermuda.’

Theywereonaonce-in-a-lifetimeround-the-worldcruise,butIwasstilltooashamedofmyselftomakeanysnidecommentsaboutit.TheHareandHounds

loomedonthesideoftheroad–aboundarymarker.WehadenteredMatthew’scircle.

25.

Thefollowingday,whenwesatdowntocoffee,Corwinsaid,‘Matthew,there’ssomethingreallyimportantwehavetoaskyou.’‘Yes,’saidMatthew,‘of

course.It’stime.’

Butheassumedwewereaskingabouthisdying,sohetoldus.‘Cancer,ofcourse,’hesaidpleasantly.‘Riddledwithit,apparently.AndIreallydon’twanttobepokedandproddedandexperimentedon.Ateighty-fiveI’mfartoooldforallofthat.No.Ishallletnaturetakeitscourse.IhaveagreedwithMarkuponpalliative

care.Theywillmakemecomfortable–Ithinkthatmeansindustrialdosesofmorphine.There’sthismarvellousorganizationcalledHospiceatHome,apparently.AndI’dreallymuchprefertodiehere.Idohopethatyouwon’tobject?’Wewerehumbled,then.

Eachofusutterlyalone,and

Matthewalreadybeyondreach.

Whenwewereinthattime,thesummerofMatthew’sdying,itseemedlikeaneternalseasonofdampmornings,rosepetalsscatteredonthegrassbythenight’srain.ItwasasthoughMatthew’sadmissionthathewasdyingunleashedhis

cancer.Hegavehimselfuptoit.Almostovernighthebecamethinnerandweaker.Wemovedhisbeddowntohisstudyandpositioneditsothatwiththecurtainsopenhecouldlookoutovertheseafromhispillow.SomedaysIpushedhimtothemapinawheelchair.Ihadtogetitdownoffthewallsothathecouldreachit.Hishand

shookandIhadtosupporthiswristtoallowhimtopaint.Hepaintedbluebells.Hesaid,‘Theyhavealwaysraisedmyspirits,Morwenna,andIshallneverseeanotherbluebellwood–unlessI’mwrong,ofcourse,andthereisaheaven.Goodness!Howfascinatingthatwouldbe!’Oneday,hepaintedhis

ownnameonhisown

tombstone,beneathmygrandmother’sname.‘Matthew!’Isaid.‘That’sperverse!’‘Oh,don’tmakesucha

fuss,Morwenna!Everypaintingmustbesignedoff.Ifyoudecidetokeepit,bytheway,youmustremembertovarnishit.’Iwasstillstaringathis

nameonthetombstonewhen

Inoticedsomethingelse.Thetophalfofachild’sfacepeeredoutfrombehindaneighbouringgravestone.‘Who’sthat?’Iasked.‘That’sDeath,’said

Matthew.‘YourgrandmothersaidthatDeathwasasmallchild.Shecouldhearhimcalling.’‘Whendidyouputhim

there?’

‘Youknow,’hesaid,‘Idon’tremember.’Suddenly,hewasdisoriented,distressed.‘Idon’tremember.I’mverytiredallofasudden,Morwenna.Please,besokindandhelpmebacktobed.’Hisnamewasthelastthing

hepainted.Afterthat,therewerenursesanddripsandbedpansandsoiledsheets.Itwasmyfirstdeath.Notmy

firstbereavement,obviously,butmyfirstacquaintanceshipwiththebusinessofdying–theroutineofit,themaintenanceofthefailinglife-supportsystem.Themessofit.CorwinandIliftedhim,turnedhim,supportedhishead.Weundressedhimandwashedhim.Deathmovedinwithus.Matthewabsentedhimself,fragmentby

fragment,tospendtimewithhim.TheychattedtogetherwhileIheldMatthew’shand.Icouldalmostseehisface;thewide,frankstareofachild.Hewasnotsoterrifyingafterall,andsoverypatient.

IwaswaitingforMatthewtoconfess,ifthat’stherightword.Ihadmorefaithinhim

thandidCorwin.Ikeptsaying,‘Don’taskhimyet.Waitalittlelonger.’Whilehesleptwesatonthebedinourparents’roomandwentthroughboxeslookingforclues.Wherecouldourfatherbe?Ifhewasgoingtorunaway,wherewouldherun?WeputababymonitorinMatthew’sstudysothatwecouldhearhimifhecalled.

ThemonitorcrackledintolifeeveryfewsecondsasMatthewstirredandmoaned.Therewerenoclues.

Everythinginmyfather’slifeledbacktoThornton.WhenMatthewwaslucid,Itriedsomegentleleadingquestions.‘WhydidDadhateschool

somuch?’

‘Oh,’saidMatthew,‘yourpoorfather.Hehatedtogoanywhere.Wehadtotakehimoutofschool,youknow.Itwastooflatforhim.Hefeltexposedtothesky.Hesaidheexpectedalwaystobeswoopeduponandcaughtupingreattalons.’Speechwashardforhimnow.Eachsentencerequiredrecoverytime,snatchedbreath.‘And

allthosegames!Hecouldn’tthinkofanythingmorepointlessandsoul-destroyingthanchasingaroundafteraball.HesaidthatheimaginedHelltobeoneendlessballgame.Wecouldn’tleavehimthere.’‘Didheevertrytorun

away?’‘John?No.Hewasagood

boy.’

Onemorning,BobappearedinthegardenatMatthew’swindow.HecouldtellthatIhadseenhim.Neitherofusmadeagesture;hesimplywaiteduntilIcameout.Thegardenlookedneglectedbuthappytobeleftalone.Theplantshadknittedthemselvesintoeachother.Sandrahadnotimeforflowers.

Bobwasverytannedandwearingreddeckshoes–myeyeskeptbeingdrawntohisfeet,perhapsbecauseifImethisgazeIwasgoingtohavetospeak,buthesaid,‘Canwehaveachat?’‘OK.’Igesturedtothebenchon

theterrace.‘IsthissomethingyouandCorwincookedup?’Iasked.

‘No.Thisisallmyidea.’Wesatatoppositeendsof

thebenchandstaredatthesea.‘Whendidyougetback?’I

asked.‘Acoupleofdaysago.’‘Didyouhaveagood

time?’‘Yes.Itwasgreat.’‘Isupposeyouwantan

apology?’

‘Idon’tgiveashit.ButIthinkValdeservesone.’‘I’dhadtoomuchtodrink.

Ibehavedbadly.’‘Well,thatoughttomake

youandmeeven,then.’Ihadn’tthoughtofthat.

‘Oh,’Isaid.‘It’snoteventhatanymore.It’sjustdecadesofhabitualdislike–thatandthegolfclubandthe

RangeRoverandthefactthatyoucallMum“Val”.’‘Wow!’saidBob.‘I

thoughtyoumighthavegrownoutofthatbynow.Butyou’restilljustasmuchofasnobasever!’Hewaslaughing.‘PoorVal.Ahippie,snobdaughter,andasanctimonious,do-goodingson.Whatdidsheeverdotodeservethat?’Iwaslaughing

too.Itwasawarm,comfortablefeelingtobeoutintheopenwithourenmity.‘I’llgoandseeher,’Isaid.

‘I’mgettingthehangofthisapologybusiness.Notthatshe’llcare.Wedon’tlikeeachotherverymuch.’‘Mothersdon’tgetoffso

lightly.’Isupposednot.Istaredat

histannedfeet.

‘I’llbeoff,then,’hesaid,standingup.ButIfollowedhimtothegate.‘I’vebeengoingthrough

Dad’soldthings,’Isaid.‘I’veneverunderstoodwhyyouandDadweresuchgoodfriends.Whywereyou?’‘Wegrewuptogether,’he

said.‘Thatdoesn’tseem

enough,’Isaid.

‘Well,itwas,’hesaid,exasperated.Then,relenting:‘We’dknowneachotherforever,climbedtogether,playedmusictogether.Thatwasenough.’‘Doyouthinkitwasus?’I

asked.‘MeandCorwin?Washedepressedaboutus?’Bobhadbeenreachingfor

hiscarkeys,butstoppedtosighthesighofthe

exasperatedstepfather.‘IthinkyouandCorwinareacoupleofdramaqueens.Johnwaspissed.Hefelloffacliff.Letitgo!’‘Ican’treconcileit,’Isaid.‘What?’‘Youusedtoplaymusic.I

can’treconcilethatmusicwiththiswaxed-coatlifestyle.’

Heshruggedhisshoulders.He’dhadenoughofme.‘WhatcanIsay,Morwenna?Idon’tneedyouto.’‘Fairenough,’Isaid.He

climbedintotheRangeRover.ThroughtheopenwindowIasked,‘DoesthenameJohnGreenawaymeananythingtoyou?’‘No?Why?’

‘JustsomethingIcameacrossinsomethingofDad’s.’Bobraisedhishandfrom

thesteeringwheelashedrewaway.Itwasasthoughhewasthankingmeforpullingover.

26.

CorwinsaidthatJohnGreenawaywasadistraction.Itwascodeforanidea.Whoorwhathehadbeenwasanirrelevance.‘Matthewholdstheanswer,’hesaid.‘Letmeaskhim.’

‘No,’Isaid.‘Notyet.’BecauseIdidn’twanthimtohurtMatthew,andbecauseIdidn’twanttoknow,becauseIrememberednowtheacheandbewildermentofbereavementandIdidn’twanttobelievethatmyfathercouldknowinglyinflictsuchpainuponus.Matthew’sbodyhad

shrunk.Itwasnothingmore

nowthanthecasingofatiredspirit,whichescapedfromhimincurlsofvapour.Somewhereinsidewasananswer,hardandshining:adiamondtruth.‘Whatiftheansweris,he

doesn’tknow?’Iasked.‘Whatifthetruthis,hedoesn’tknow?WhatifhebelievesthatDadfelloffa

cliffandisdead?Whatwillyoudothen?’‘There’sonlyonewayto

findout.’‘Notyet.’Wewerewhispering.I

tookasketchbookfromtheshelf.Iignoredtheoneshehadkeptfromhischildhood–andtookuptheonedated1941,theyearofMatthew’sDisappointment.‘Welookfor

JohnGreenaway,’Isaid.‘Matthewmusthaveputhimsomewhere.Thenwe’llknowwhetherheknowsornot.’

Thatwaswhenwestartedtogothroughthesketchbooks.Weweresystematicaboutit,asMatthewhadbeen;everysketchbookentryhadacorrespondingcipheronthemap.Weneededtoenterinto

hiswayofthinkingtoworkitout.Istartedin1941andworkedforwardswhileCorwinworkedbackwardsfrom2005,andwegriddedoffthemapsothatwecouldcataloguetheimagethatcorrespondedtothesketchbookentry.AsMatthewhadtoldme,

hestartedwiththefartingDevil.Ipicturedhim

returningfromhisday’swalk,spreadingtheOrdnanceSurveymapoutonthekitchentable,piercingThorntonwiththesharppointofhiscompassandextendingitouttomeetthemarkhehadmadeinthemiddleofafieldtwelvemilesawayandturningthecircle.Thenscalingitupontothelargecanvas,acanvasof

undulatinglineswithatinyredandblackdevilatitscentre.Muchofitwasfamiliar,

andwealreadyknewwheretolookonthemap.Ononepage,twoenormouscedarsframedthechurchandbeneaththesketchhehadwritten,‘TheThorntonSentinels’.Andthen,inanolder,smallerhand,‘Lostin

theGreatStormof1959’.NotlosttoMatthew’smap,though,wheretheystillstoodguard.Butnotallweresoliteral.Atothertimes,wewouldfindapagefullofdetails,thensearchandsearchforitscipher.MatthewhaddevotedtwopagestothestoryofaCivilWarskirmishbetweencousins.Inthesketchbooktheexactlocation

wasmappedout,butwhenwelookedatthemap,wecouldfindnoobviousreferencetotheevent.WeweretemptedtodismissitandallowourselvestobelievethatitwasastoryMatthewhadrejectedforinclusion.Butwekeptgoingbacktoit–Matthewwasconsistent:whatappearedinthesketchbookshadasymbol

onthemap.Wekeptlooking.EventuallyIfounditbystandingback:thefamilycoatofarmswaspaintedintothebarkofatrunkofabifurcatedoaktree.OnceIknewitwasthere,itwasobvious,butmyeyehadslidovertheimagecountlesstimes.

BynowIhadreadACoastalCuracytwice;Ambrose

Pearce,withhisstranger’seye,storm-shockedbyboththeweatherandthepoverty.Thepeopleofthecoastloomedmisshapenandlonelyoutofthemists.Heimaginedthemwildandmurderous,thebeacheslitteredwiththeirlantern-luredvictims,thefingershackedoff.Buttherewasonlyonementionofthe

occupantofthestrangecabinatThorntonMouth.Iwentlookingfor

AmbrosePearce.Hewaseasytofind.HehadbeencurateatStPeter’sforthreeyearsinthemid-1860s,beforereturningtothecivilizedsouth-east,wherehewrotetwootherbooksaboutbeingthevicarofaland-locked

villagewithaprettyduckpond.IwentlookingforJohn

GreenawayintheThorntonParishRegister,startingwiththetimeofAmbrosePearce’scuracy.Ilookedforhimamongallthedeadchildren,thebled-outyoungmothers,theconsumptive,thepoxed,thedrowned,andthosewhohadmanagedsomehowto

outlivetheirteeth.Theymusthavefeltagrimsenseofachievement,thoseoldwomenwhohadlaidoutGodknewhowmanysonsanddaughtersandgrandchildreninsheetsfragrancedwithherbs.Iwasthirty-fourandhadneverseenacorpse.Ithought:ItwillnotbemewholaysoutMatthew.Someoneelsewilldothat.

Someoneelse,whosejobitis.Someonewhodoesn’tknowhim.Therewillbenolavenderorrosemaryscatteredonhissheets.Names,namesandmore

names,excisedfromtheirstories.JohnGreenawaywasnotamongthem.IwenttothechurchesinTheSands–Ifoundacoupleof

Greenaways,butnoJohns,andnooneoftherightage.‘Hemusthavemovedon

andout,’IsaidtoCorwin.Ihadsaid‘onandout’asthoughMatthew’scirclewereageographicalfeature.‘Itdoesn’tmatter,’hesaid.

‘He’snotimportant.’Butnow,whenIwent

downtothecabin,IthoughtaboutJohnGreenawayliving

onthatspot.Icouldsmellthetarredrope.HerewasaghostthatIcouldgrapplewith,agoodhonestghost,whomightbereliedupontorattleafewpebblechainsandappearwithawarninghandraised,pointingeven;hehadseentheDevil,afterall–hewasaghosttoheed.Therewerewaystodispatchaghostlikehim.Matthewknewthemall

–theywereinthesketchbooks:youcouldthrowchurchyardsoilatit,ordeclaim,‘InthenameofGod,begone!’Oryoucouldsetitanimpossibletask.IfImetJohnGreenaway’sghostIwouldbanishitfromthecabinuntilithadtranslatedintoEnglisheachandeveryscribbledstoneatThornton

Mouth.Thatwouldkeepitoccupiedforallofeternity.Mylifewasfullofshades:

JohnGreenaway,JohnVenton,thechild,Death.IfeltasthoughIwasbeingcalledtotheUnderworld.

IwenttovisitMum.Shebestowedherforgivenessonthethreshold,allgraciousness,freshly

pedicured–RougeNoirtogowiththetan.‘Tea?’sheasked,prescribingmypenance.‘Darling,’shesaid,‘you’retheonlypersonIknowwhostilltakessugarintheirtea.’Hertea,Iwantedtosay.

Nottheir.Ihadapologized,butshehadn’t.‘Whatlovelyflowers,’I

said,becausethatwasthe

kindofthingIhadtosayfromnowon.‘Fromyourbrother,’she

said,allowingmetoinfertheunfavourablecomparison.‘How’sMatthew?’‘Fadingfast.’‘IsupposeI’dbettercome

andsaymygoodbyes.’‘Ithinkhe’dlikethat.’

Thatnight,asItookoverthevigil,Ipulledasketchbookfromtheshelf.Itwasfrom1951,andinthemomentthatIgraspedthespinetoslideitoutIknewthatIhadfoundsomething.Thebookfeltwrong.Iknewhowabookshouldfeel,andthisonewasslightlyhollowtomytouch.Therewerepagesmissing.Ididn’tneedtoopenittoknow

this.WhenIdidopenitIsawimmediatelythatthestitchingwasloose.Icountedthepagesandcomparedthemtotheprevioussketchbook.Twoleaveshadbeenremoved.Matthew,surely.Iwaiteduntilheopenedhis

eyes.Isattherefortwohourswatchinghim,listeningtohisbreath.Eventually,hestirred,lookedaroundinconfusion.I

tookhishand.‘Matthew,’Isaid,‘it’sme,Morwenna.’Herecognizedmyfacethenandhisownrelaxedandhemadeamewingsoundofcontentment.Igavehimsomewaterthroughastraw.‘Matthew,’Isaid,‘whatdo

youknowaboutJohnGreenaway?’ButIhadleftittoolate.He

hadnofullsentencesleft,

onlysinglewords.And,inanycase,heshowednosignthathehadunderstoodthequestion.

27.

CorwinandIbegantotaketurnstosleepinMatthew’sroom.Welivedwithinhisbreathingnow.Itwasthefirstsoundwelistenedforeachtimewewoke.ButatthebeginningofAugust,onourthirty-fifthbirthday,Corwin

suggestedthatweaskSandratositwithMatthewsothatwecouldgoout.Sandraagreedwithouthesitation,generously.Ihadtothankher,notsomuchforthefavourbutforlovingMatthew,whichcostme.Wedidn’ttalkmuchthat

evening.Therehadbeensomuchtalking.Wesatnexttoeachotherinthepub,

envelopedinabrownleathersofa,anddrankbeerandatechips.Itwasquiznightandwepaiduptotakepart.‘Youandmeagainsttheworld,Morwenna!’Corwinsaid,clinkinghisglassagainstmine.Hebecamequiteanimated.Ithadgivenhimsomethingelsetothinkabout.Ithought:Whyalways

againsttheworld?Mostof

thequizquestionswentovermyhead–Ididn’twatchtelevision,hadnointerestinsportandhadgivenuppayingattentiontothenews.Ilookedaroundme,theintensedebatesovereachquestion,thelaughter.Whynotoftheworld?Iwantedtojoinin,butIdidn’tknowhow.Corwindidprettywellon

thequestions.‘AllthatTrivial

Pursuit,’Isaidspitefully.‘Lookatyourface!’

laughedCorwin.HeimitatedMatthew,perfectlycapturingMatthew’sanachronisticupper-crustcloseda’s:‘Morwenna,Idobelievethatyouaresomestrangescowlingwoodlandcreaturethathasstrayedintothehumanworldbyaccident!’

‘Veryfunny!’Isaid.AndthenIrealizedsomething.‘Oh!’Isaid.‘I’minthere.I’minthemap,afterall!’Ihadseenitsomanytimes

recently,sittinginthebranchesoftheoakinthemiddleofthecowfield,acrosscreaturewithenormoushazeleyes,buthadn’tyetdecodedit.Matthewmusthavebeenwaitingdecades

formetoworkitout.Ifeltforgiven–whatfor,Icouldn’thavesaid.Wewalkedhomethrough

themiddleoftown.Someteenagersweregatheredatthehighraisedflowerbedthatsurroundedtheshopping-centreclock.Itwasstillthetriagepoint,justasithadbeenwhenwewerethatage.Wecarriedonpastthe

closed-upBootsandWHSmith.Amanwaswalkingtowardsus.Hewaswearingadenimjacket.Iwouldn’thavepaidhimanyattention(IwasthinkingaboutMatthew,hopingthathehadn’twokenupandfeltabandoned)exceptthathemadeasuddenmovementofavoidance,ashoulder-ledswerveintothealleythatled

tothecarpark,andinthemomentofthatmovementIrecognizedhimandsawthatCorwinhadtoo.Corwinbegantorunafterhim,shoutinghisname:‘Oliver!Oliver!’IfollowedCorwinintothe

alleyandoutintotheemptycarpark,butOliverhaddisappeared.Corwinstoodinthemiddleofthetarmac

lookingwildlyaroundhim.Thenhethrewhisheadbackandyelledoneabrupt,despairing‘Fuck!’intothenightskyandsatdown.Mylungswerehurting

fromtheeffortofrunning.IwentovertowhereCorwinsatandstoodoverhim.‘WhenwasthelasttimewesawOliver?’heasked.

‘Idon’tknow.AllIcanrememberishimcryingatthefuneral.’‘Memorialservice,’

snappedCorwin.‘Itwasn’tafuneral.’Hestoodupandgraspedmyhandandstartedpullingmealongbehindhim.‘Thattreacherouslittle

fuck!’

CorwindraggedmeacrosstowntowhatwestillthoughtofasOliver’shouse.Thecul-de-sacstruckmeasavisionofpureloneliness,aringofidenticalhouseslitbyaweakorangelightfromthestreetlamps,eachemittingablueflickerfrombehindthecurtainsofoneortworooms.Westoleuptothehouse.

Therewerepotsofred

geraniumsonthefrontdoorstep.Weclickedthegateopengentlyandprowledaroundtotheback,buttherewaslightonlyinthelivingroom.Wetriedtopeerthroughachinkinthecurtain,buttherewasnothingtosee.WereturnedtothefrontdoorandCorwinputhishandouttoringthebell.‘It’sthemiddleofthenight!’I

whispered,butitwastoolate.Corwin’sfingerpressedthebutton.Dingdongwentthebell.Itseemedtoreverberaterightaroundthecircleofhouses.‘Ding,’saidCorwin,grimly.‘Dong.’Forthelongesttime,

nothinghappened.Thenweheardashuffleinthehallway,andalightwentonandanoldman’svoice,

suspicious,scared,calledout:‘Whoisit?’‘MrFinch?It’sCorwin

Venton.Sorrytodisturbyousolateatnight.’Therewasapauseduring

whichhemusthavebeenlookingthroughthepeepholetosatisfyhimselfthatitwasindeedCorwin.ThenthedooropenedonthechainandOliver’sfatherpeered

throughthecrackinthedoor.‘Whatdoyouwant?’‘MrFinch,wethoughtwe

justsawOliver.Wethoughthemightbehere,andwe’dreallyliketotalktohim.’Theharshhalllightfell

acrossMrFinch’sface.Theskinunderhiseyeswasadeeppurple,hiseyesdarkwithbitterness.‘He’snothere.’

‘Haveyouseenhimrecently?’‘Itoldyou.He’snothere.

He’snothingtodowithme.’‘Butdoyouknowwhere

heis?’Thedoormovedtowards

us,buthewassimplyremovingthechain,sothathemightopenitwider,thebettertodisplayhisanger.

‘Idon’tknowwhereheis.ButIknowwherehe’sgoing,’hesaid.‘Thatfilthylittlesodomite.Itoldhimwherehe’sgoing.Isaid,“You,boy,aregoingstraighttoHell!”’Nowthathehadusthere,

hewasglad.Therewasnooneelsetotell.Hepointedhisrighthandtowardsthegroundtoshowushow

forcefullyhehaddispatchedhissonintotheflames.Hewaswearingcheckedslippers,whichmadehisrighteousfuryallthemoreterrifying.‘Whendidyoutellhim

that,MrFinch?’Corwinaskedcalmly.‘Hecomesroundhere,’

saidMrFinch,‘totellmetheworldhasmovedon!ButI

askedhim,“AndGod?”Iaskedhim.“DoesHemoveon?”’‘Doyouhaveanaddress?

Wereallyneedtospeaktohim.’Hegaveusafierylook,

whichtoldusthatweweregoingthesamewayasOliver,andshuffledoffintothekitchen,thencamebackwithapieceofpaperinhis

hand.‘Here,’hesaid.‘Ihavenouseforthis!’Andheshutthedoor.Thehalllightwentoff,butthebluecontinuedtoflickerthroughthecrackinthecurtainsaswewalkedaway.

Iwasn’tabletosleep,tryingtorememberthelasttimeIhadspokentoOliver.Icouldnevergetbeyondthemorning

afterthememorialservice.Irevisiteddesultoryeveningsinthepubduringuniversitytermbreaksandcouldn’tpicturehimthere.Imusthavewrittentohim.AtfourinthemorningIgotuptotrawlthroughtheboxofschoolmemorabiliaandoldlettersthatwasamongtheboxesinmyparents’bedroom–therewerelettersfromWillow,

postcardsfromothersixth-formfriends,butonlyonepostcardfromOliver.Irecalledalong-since-forgottensensationofhavingbeeninterruptedinaconversationwithhim.NowIrealizedthatIhadneverheardfromhimagain.Ican’texplainwhatinstincttoldme–us–thatOliverhadsomethingtoconceal,butin

thatshyingawayfromushetoldusandweunderstood.Weflippedacoin.Bestout

ofthree:heads,yougo,tails,Igo.Corwinflickeditintheairathirdtime,caughtit,andslappeditonthebackofhisleftfist,pausingostentatiouslybeforeliftinghisrighthand.‘Heads,’hesaid.‘Yougo!’

Helookeddisappointed.Hewasinneedofconfrontation.Sandracameintothekitchentomakeherselfsometea.‘Whatareyoutwoupto

now,then?’‘AssigningthingstoFate,’

saidCorwin.Sandrasnorted.‘Don’tyou

evergettired?’sheasked.‘Ofwhat?’

‘Oftalkinglikethat?’Shewasfillingthekettle.‘Whowantstea?’‘Ithinkyoushouldgo,’I

saidtoCorwin.‘You’retheonewhoreallywantsto.’‘No,’saidCorwin.‘It’sthe

rightanswer.He’llfindithardertolietoyou.’‘Idon’tseewhy.’Sandrawaslaughing.‘I

don’tevenknowwhoyou’re

talkingabout,butIcanseewhy!’Shepulledthreemugsfromthecupboard.‘Teaallround,then?’‘What?’Isaid.‘Why?’‘There’ssomethingabout

youmakespeoplewanttosmackyouinthefacewiththetruth,’shesaidsimply.‘Whoareyoutalkingabout,anyway?Notthatit’sanyof

mybusiness,’sheadded,pre-emptingmewithasmirk.‘Oliver,’saidCorwin.‘Do

yourememberhim?OliverFinch?’‘TheFairy?’Sheputamug

ofteainfrontofme.‘Don’tyougivemethatlook,MorwennaVenton.That’swhatwecalledhim:theFairy.Youcan’tstopkidssayingstufflikethat.’

Beforeshewenthomethatafternoonshecametofindme.‘SayhellotoOliverforme,’shesaid.‘Hewasalwaysnicetome.’

28.

Ileftatdawnthefollowingday.Oliverhadtuckedhimselfbetweenthemoors.Idrovealongtheedgeofariver.Therewaslightrainonflatwater.Horseswadedthroughthemorningmists.Ihalfexpectedhimtohave

fled,butasIpulledintothecourtyardofconvertedfarmbuildingsIfoundthathewasnothiding,afterall,butalerttomyarrival,comingtothedoorofhiscottageandstandingtherewhileIswitchedofftheengine.Hislonghairwasgone–

nowitwasveryshort:saltandpeppered,thehairlinefarbackonhisforehead.He

woresmall,thickgoldhoopsinbothears.AshecametowardsmethemuscleshiftedinhisarmsandunderthefabricofhisT-shirtandhisjeans.Hehadexercisedthegirloutofhisbody,butwhenIgotcloseenoughtoseehiseyestheywerestillalittletoofullforhisface,thelashesalittletoolongand

curled,theexpressionalittletooclosetohurt.‘Hello,Morwenna,’he

said.Hekissedeachofmycheeks.Thecoolgoldtouchedmyskin.‘NoCrow?’‘Matthew’snotwell.

Corwin’slookingafterhim.’‘I’msorrytohearthat.I

wasjustabouttotakethedogforawalk–doyoumind?

ComeoninwhileIgrabajacket.’Inside,Irememberedhis

sobriety.Theroomwasfastidiouslyclean.Therewasarange,afridge,alargewoodentableandchairs,adeskunderthestairs,alaptopandmousepadarrangedgeometricallyuponit,andanemptyfloorspaceinfrontofastatueofBuddhaanda

candle.Therewasnothingsofttocompromisehisprinciples.Theclosestthinghehadtoasofawasalargehairyblonddog.‘Doyouliveonyour

own?’Iasked.‘No,’hesaid.‘Ihavea

partner:Andrew.’‘Howdoesthatgodown

aroundhere?’

Oliverlaughed–hehadn’tevensmileduntilthen.‘Oh,theyhavesomeeuphemismsforus.I’veheard“niceboys”and“ourgentlemen”.Idon’tknowwhattheycallusbehindourbacks.’Wewalkeddowntothe

river–itwasstilltheflatwaterofearlymorning,movinginsmoothdarkplanes.Oliverthrewthingsup

thepathforthedogandthedogbroughtthemback.Oliversaid,‘You’relookingverythin.Andtired.’‘Ithasbeenadifficult

coupleofmonths,’Isaid.‘I’msorryIranawayfrom

you,’hesaid.‘Thatwaschildish.Idon’tknowwhyIdidit.’‘Youmusthavesome

idea.’

‘Idon’tknow,’hesaid.‘Ithadbeenanoverwhelmingday.EverysooftenItrytomakepeacewithmyfather.It’salwaysupsettingwhenIcan’t.AndIwasn’texpectingtobumpintoyoutwo.’Theriverranoverfurred

stones.Troutshadowsmovedbeneaththesurface.Thesunhadappearedandwasburningoffthemistandthe

morning’srain.Ontheotherbankwasatangleofredcampion.‘How’sCrow?’heasked.‘He’sgotcompassion

fatigue,’Isaid.‘It’sturnedhimintoalunatic.’‘I’msorrytohearthat,’

saidOliver,forthesecondtime.‘What’shedoingnow?’‘Nursingafixedidea,’I

said.

Itwasakintoflirting,thisverbaldancing.Therewasanelectrictingle.Ihadnodoubtthathefeltittoo.‘Whatareyoudoing,these

days?’‘WorkingfortheWildlife

Trust.’‘Thatsoundsveryworthy.’‘It’sOK.Alotofitseems

toinvolvesittinginanofficeatacomputer.’

‘Ican’timagineyouinanoffice,’Isaid.‘Somehowyouandstrip-lightingdon’tgotogether.’‘Mostpeopledon’tgetto

lovetheirjobs,Morwenna.’Irememberedthesensation

ofbeingpermanentlyadmonishedbyOliver.Hemayhaveavoidedusafterschool,butwehadletithappenbecauseithadbeen

tiringalwaystobefoundwanting.‘No,’Isaid.‘I’mlucky,I

suppose.’‘Whatdoyoudo?’‘I’mstillbindingbooks.

LivinginLondon.Tryingtoavoidchange–onlyCorwinwon’tletme.’Hewasfussingoverthe

dog,lettingitlickhisface.

‘HowdoyoulikeLondon?Idon’tthinkIcouldbearit.’I’dhadenoughofthis.I

said,‘DoyouknowwhyI’mhere,Oliver?’Oliver’shandswerestill

buriedinthedog’sdeepfur.‘Ihaveanidea.’‘Good.Well,let’sstop

pissingabout.Yousee,CorwinthinksthatDaddidn’t

diewhenhefelloffthecliff.Hethinksyouknowthat.’Therewasapauseinwhich

abreezehitthewaterandsetoffthefirstrippleoftheday.Thelonggrassswayed.‘Whydoeshethinkthat?’‘Gutfeeling,’Isaid.‘He’s

havingalotofthose.Idon’tseemtogetthemmyself.IjustchannelCorwin.’‘Youalwaysdid!’

‘Possibly.’Ishrugged.Oliverhadbeentalkingto

thedog.Nowhestraightenedupandsaid,tome,‘Ireallylovedyourfather.’‘Yes.Irememberyou

sayingthatbefore.’‘No!’Thedogjumpedtoitsfeet

suddenly,guardedly,attunedtothepitchofmiseryinOliver’ssingleword.Oliver

wasundoing–dematerializinginthewaythathehaddoneasanadolescent.Hiseyeswereawash.Ifeltthewonderfulclarityofpitilessness.‘No?’‘Imean,Iwasinlovewith

yourfather.’Hisconfessionsettledupon

megently,asifsomeonehaddroppedthelightestcashmereshawlonmyshoulders.

‘Curiouserandcuriouser,’Isaid.‘AndIalwaysthoughtitwasCorwin!’‘Well,’helookedstraight

intomyeyes–aflashofdefiancebeneaththetears,‘Corwintoo.WewereallinlovewithCorwin.Evenyou!’‘Gosh,whatalotof

tonguesmusthavebeenwaggingwaybackthen!’Isaid.‘I’mamazedmyears

aren’tburnedtocinders!Butweseemtobestrayingfromthepoint.Let’sgetbacktomyfather.’‘YouandCrow,’Oliver

hadre-formed,wassolidagain,‘youweresoself-obsessed.Youneversawanything.Crowwastoobusylookingoffintothedistancepursuingsomegrandideaofhimselfasahumanitarian–

andyou!’Hepaused,relaxedhisshoulders,relenting,andsaidkindly,‘Well.Youwerejustabitch.’Iwaited.‘Youtookyourfather

completelyforgranted.Hewasawonderfulman.Awonderful,wonderfulman.Thesouljustshoneoutofhim.’Oliverwascryingnow,forhislong-lostlove.He

wipedhiseyesontheheelsofhispalms.‘Itriedtokisshimonce.’Mystomachmovedina

lurchofpurerevulsion.‘Didhekissyouback?’‘No.Herejectedmevery

carefullyandgently.’‘Whenwasthat?’‘Oh.Alongtimebefore

thatnight.Iusedtohelphiminthegarden,sometimes.I

lovedthatgarden.Andhewassittingthere,onthebench,andwhenIwentoverIrealizedhe’dbeencrying.Itwasjustafteryourgrandfatherhadsoldthatland.And…Well.Itriedtokisshim.’‘Jesus!’Isaid.‘Youcan’t

havebeenmorethansixteen!’‘Yeah.Isuppose,’hesaid,

asthoughIhadmissedthe

point.‘Hewasamazing.Hewassokindaboutit.’Mainly,Ifeltrage.We

stoodinsilenceforafewminutesbuttherewasacacophonyofrageinmyears.RagethatOliverhaddaredtotrytoappropriatemyfatherforhimselfand,worse,thathetookituponhimselftomakejudgementuponthequalityofourlove.Intheend

Ireachedintomyhandbagandpulledoutatissueandhandedittohim.‘Right,’Isaid.‘Let’smove

on.Thenightmyfather“died”.’Iwavedmyfingersintheairinthesarcasticgestureofquotationmarks.Hewipedhiseyesand

blewhisnoseandlookedatme.Hehatedme,pureand

simple.Iwonderedifhealwayshad.‘Well,’hesaid.‘Ifell

asleepandyouandCrowwentofftothecabintodowhateveritwasthatyouandCrowalwayshadtobesoprivateaboutinthatcabinofyoursandeventuallyIwokeupbecauseIwasfreezinganditwasaboutfivethirtyandIstartedtowalkhome.’

Hestopped.Iwaited.Iwasallpatience,allclarity.‘AndwhenIgottothetop

ofthecliff…’Oliversighed–hewasn’tlookingatme:hewaslookingatthedamptissueinhishands‘…Istopped.Becauseitwassuchabeautifulmorning.Ijuststoppedtolookatthemorning.Thetidewasrightoutandthesandwasshining.

AndthenIsawhim–walkingacrossthecove,acrossthesand.Justwalking.AndIdidn’tknowthenthathewassupposedtobedead.IsawhimwalkingstraightaheadandIjustthoughthewasoutthere,beingpartofthemorning.Andlater,whenIheard,IrealizedthatI’dbeenwatchinghimwalkaway.’

Withthisvisionofmyfather–walkingthelengthofthelowtide,hisfeetshreddedlikeCorwin’shadbeen,perhaps,bleedingintothesalt-glazedsand,walkingrightpastusaswesleptinthecabin–Ifeltmyskincoolintoanexquisitetransparentfragility;ahoarfrostencasedme.Iunderstoodnowwhywehadnotbeenabletofeel

anythingwhenwelostourfather.Thethief,Oliver,hadstolenourgrief.Thethief,Oliver,hadbeencryingourtears,andhewasstillcryingthem.‘Whatmakesyousosure

thatitwashim?’Iasked–Iknewthatthiswasmylastquestionforhim.‘Atthatdistance?’

‘I’dhaveknownhimanywhere,’saidOliver.‘And,anyway,Irememberthinkinghowstrangeitwasthathewascarryinghisfiddle.’‘OK,’Isaid.‘I’mgoing

now.’‘Icouldn’ttellanyone,’he

protested.‘Itwouldhavebeenabetrayal.’‘Itwasabetrayal,Oliver.

AndIbetyouhavetold

someone.Ibetyouanythingyou’vetoldyourAndrewallaboutit–allaboutyourstrangeandpainfulfirstlove.Ibetitlendsyouquitetheairofromance.’Hestartedandopenedhis

mouthasiftodenyit,buthecouldn’t.AsIwalkedawayhecalledouttomyback,‘Istilllookforhimallthetime.’

WithoutstoppingorturningIcalledback:‘Youdon’tgettokeepmyfather,Oliver.Hewasneveryourstoclaim–hewasours,mineandCorwin’s.’

Idroveforhalfanhour,mychesttightwithrage,untilIhadtopullovertobreathe.Theriverhadwideneditscutthroughthefields.Iwalkedto

thebank,strippeddowntomyunderwear,climbedintothesoothingwaterandputmyheadunder.Itwasso,socold.ThewaterflowedovermeandIletitwashawaymyvengefulnesstowardsOliver,andtowardsAndrew,whomIwouldnevermeet,butwhohadsharedinthesecret–theyhadnourishedthemselvesonmyfather’s

deception.ButIwascalm.IhadforgottenOliverbefore.IknewIcouldforgethimagain.

29.

Theimaginaryfallingmannowspreadouthisarms,asCorwinhaddone,andleanedtowardsthemoonandsteppedpurposefullyout.ButIdidn’tknowwhy.Corwinwasn’tsurprisedby

Oliver’sstory.Hesaid

simply,‘Thatmakessense,’asthoughitdidmakesense,allofit.Exceptthatitdidn’t–nottome.‘Why,though?’‘Idon’tknow.Ithinkwe

musthavecorneredhim,somehow.Hehatedthatjob–hewasnevermeanttositatadesk.YoushouldhaveaskedMatthewwhileyoustillhadthechance.’

‘WhataboutMum–doyouthinksheknows?Shouldweaskher?’‘Whatdoyouthink?She’s

totallytransparent.JustlikesomebodyelseIknow.Leaveheroutofit!’‘Howcomeshegetsleft

outofitandMatthewdoesn’t?’‘Youknowtheanswerto

that.’

SoIwhisperedintoMatthew’sdreamsofdying.‘WhydidJohnjumpoffthecliff,Matthew?’Iwhisperedintohisear,becauseIimaginedtheconnectionsinhisbrainasamassofsoftfilamentsfloatingontheexhalationsofmyquestions.Ihopedforagentlecollisionthatmightstillproduceaword.‘Wheredidhego?’I

whispered.‘Totakeupwithalover?Tounearthpiratetreasure?TotravelintoFairyland?Doyouknowwhereheis?’ButMatthewonly

breathed.Whatwasleftofhimexistedonlytoservicehisbreathingandthepluckingofhishandsonthebed-sheets.Ihadreadaboutthisinnovels:thepluckingof

sheetsbythedying.IhadthoughtofitassomethingonlytheVictoriansdid,likefaintingandsendingchildrenupchimneys.Butthenthenursesincreasedthemorphineandthepluckingstoppedandwewereleftwiththebreath,percussiveandpersistent.AndCorwinandIdozedintheroom.Matthewrattledasifhisorganshad

driedandcrisped,likeautumnleaves,andwerebeingblownaboutinsidehim.Andthen,oneevening,it

stopped.AndCorwinandIbothlookedupattheinterruptiontotherhythmofthisdreamofours,whichhadbeenMatthew’sdyingandinwhichtherehadbeennotimeorsubstanceandwhichhad

seemedlikeanalways,asthoughwehadsteppedintoaparallellifeinwhichweexistedasotherversionsofourselves.Welookedup,asifablindhadsprungopenandletinthebrightsunshine.ItwaslateSeptember;therewassunonthefields.WestraightenedMatthew’s

sheetsandarrangedhishandsandkissedhisforehead,andI

wasabouttocallforanursewhenCorwinlaidhishandonmyarmandsaid,‘Itcanwait.’Ithoughtwewouldsit

downagainandsimplystayandcontemplate,butCorwinstartedrummagingaboutintheoldcupboardinwhichMatthewstoredhismaterials.Isaid,‘Whatareyoudoing?Leavehisthingsalone!’But

Corwinignoredme.Hepulledoutabottleofwhitespiritandaboxofcottonbudsandwentovertothemap.Isaid,‘Stopit.Youcan’t

dothisnow.Now’snotthetime.You’reupsettingme.’Buthesoakedthecottonin

spirit,andpickedupthemagnifying-glasswithhislefthandandbegantowipeover

thecanvas,overtheseabelowBrockTor,saying,‘I’vebeenpatient.Nowisthetime.’AndMatthewlaydead

withthesunfromthewestonhisfaceandIheldthemagnifying-glasswhileCorwindesecratedthemapwithtiny,gentlestrokesofsoftcottonandthepaintlifted,untilthere,atthebase

ofthecliff,whereitmeetsthesea,acreatureappeared,lookingoutfromafissureintherocks;agrinningcreature,camouflagedincolourtoblendinwiththegraniteofthecliffs.IthadhornsandaforkedtailandleeredupatBrockPoint–itwasJohnGreenaway’sDevil.

30.

Iaskedmyself,WhendidMatthewknow?AndIrememberedhim,on

thedayofmyfather’sdeath.‘Wheredidhefall?’asked

Matthew.Thiswashisfirstquestion.

‘JustbelowBrockTor,’saidCorwin.

Afterthepolicehadgone,MatthewleftValerieandBobfacingeachotherinthelivingroomandwentintohisstudyandstood.Therewasonlythisstandingandtheabsenceofthought,andboththenotmovingandthenotthinkingdrewallofhisenergytoa

balancingpointbeneaththeballsofhisfeet.Anylossoffocus,andhewouldtipandinjurehimself.Hehadexperiencedsomethingsimilarbefore,whenhiswifedied,butthiswasdifferent.WhenAnnedieditwassimplebereavement;hissoulwasstunned.Butthis…Anideasquirmedatthe

edgeofhisconsciousness–a

voraciousmaggotofanideatryingtoboreitswayintohisbrain,andhemustkeepitoutorhemustunbalance.Andsohestood,still.Fifteenminutespassed

beforehedaredamovement.Hetookthreesteps,turnedandallowedhimselftore-forminordertositdowninhischair.Notamaggot,hethought.Maggotsareforthe

surface,notthewater.Aneel.Aneelwithitsblindvacuumingeelmouthtwistingatthefleshtofeeditsblackelectricflicker.Andinthetimethatittooktocompletethatthoughttheideahadperforatedthemembraneandwasin.Atlasthefellasleep,

sittinginhischair,andsleptfortwohoursthesleepofa

manwhowastoooldforthis.Afterawhilehecompletedthesentence:toooldforthiscounter-betrayal.Heshouldneverhavesoldtheland.Johnhadbeggedhim.Matthewhadforcedhissilentsontospeak:madehimrehearsehisplea.Workinginthegarden,outwithMatthewontheireveningwalks,Johnhadpainstakinglyfitted

togetherthewords.Ithadtakenhimtendays,andhehadvoicedthemonlytheonetime:‘Please,Father.Letmehavethatland.Please.’Matthewhadthoughtonly

oflegacyand,forMatthew,legacyhadalwaysmeantthehouseandtheobjectswithinthehouseandthestoriesthatattachedtothecirclearoundthehouseand,withinthe

circle,thetriangle:house,church,cabin.Theland,thesoilofitandwhatthesoilcouldachieve,wasincidental.Hehadmissedit.Hecouldnameeveryflowerandtree,butstillhehadmissedit.AndJohnhadpunishedhimforit–waspunishinghimforit,perhaps.Orperhapshewasinthewater,afterall.How

desolating,nottoknow,nottohaveproof.Matthewwaitedforthe

housetofallsilent.Itwasonlyonedayoffthefullmoon,buttheraincloudshadcomeover;hecouldn’tseeit.Therewerefootstepsonthestairs.Theplumbingshrieked,briefly.Hecouldn’timaginethatanyonewassleeping,butnoone,

thankfully,couldbeheardtobeweeping.Hepulledhisstepladder

overtothemapandangledhislightandhismagnifying-glasstowardsthechinebelowBrockTor.Hepickeduphispaletteandbegantooverpaint.

31.

AtMatthew’sfuneralIlookedformyfather.Ithought,Hemustintuititsomehow.He’llcome.Butitdoesn’tworklikethat.Matthewhadkeptourgrandmother’sashesandhadrequestedforhisowntobe

mixedwithhersanddugintothesoilaroundtheclimbingrosethattheyhadplantedontheirweddingday:therosethatonhismapwrappeditselfaroundthehouseandwhichhadgrownyearbyyear,aroseatatime,sothatbynowthehouseinthepaintinglookedasifitwereheldtogetherbytheroseandwoulddisintegratewithoutit.

Iworriedaboutwhatwouldhappenwhenwesoldthehouse.Whatiftheyduguptherose?Corwinsaid,‘We’renot

sellingthehouse!’AndIsaid,‘Wecan’t

affordtheinheritancetax.’AndCorwinsaid,‘Yes,we

can.I’vegotit.’‘Whatdoyoumean,

you’vegotit?’

‘I’vebeensaving,’hesaid.Forallthoseyearshe’d

beensaving.I’dhadnoidea.But,then,whatshouldhehavespenthismoneyon?‘I’mnotlivinghere.You

can’tmakeme!’Aroundme,thehouse,

emptyofitspeople,seemedtocomeoutofhidingandrevealitselftomeinitstruestate.Waterseepedin;I

watcheditspread.Thedoorsjarredontwistedframes.Therewerebrokenslates,gougesintheplaster.Theweftappearedinthecarpets.Corwinsaid,‘Ican’tmake

anydecisionsuntilwe’vefoundDad.’Asthoughweneededtosavethehouseforhim.‘No,’saidCorwin,‘that’snotit.Butdon’tyousee?Wearestucknow.’

Isulked,andasIsulkedIthoughtaboutEd.Itwasasifheweremyconnectiontotheoutsideworld,soIphonedhim.‘Morwenna,’hesaid.‘How

areyou?’Isaid,‘Matthew’sdead.’‘AreyouOK?’‘Yes.’Weweresilentforawhile,

andthenhesaid,‘Whyare

youphoning?’Hemadeitsoundasif

therewasarightanswertothequestion,butIdidn’tknowwhatitwas.Isaid,‘Idon’tknow,really.IjustthoughtthatIowedyouacall.’‘Whenwillyoubebackin

London?’‘Soon,Iguess.’

‘Well,whydon’tyoucallmewhenyou’reback?’Iwantedtoexplaintohim

thatIhadcomeintotheworldwithmyaffections,mylove,alreadyparcelledoutformeandthatIwasdoingmybesttoreapportionthem,it,mylove,andthat,withMatthewgone,surelytheremustnowbesomelovereleasedformetobestowwhereIwished.

Butitwasn’tthemomentforthatconversation.Itmustwait.

Wecarriedonlookingforourfather.Itwasallwedid,dayin,dayout,apartfromwhenMuminsistedthatwecomeoverandeatsensibly;sheassumedthatweweretakenupwithsortingoutthehouse.Shewasgentlerthanusual–

hadusbringourlaundry,fabric-conditionedandironedit.Shemadechocolatecake.Weweregratefulforit.IfMatthewhadtakenso

muchtroubletoconceal,thentherewassomethingtofind.Weturnedawayfromthemapandthesketchbooksandstartedtogothroughthebankofwoodencabinetsthatcontainedhisfiles.Matthew

wasanarchivist–itwasnotinhisnaturetodiscard.Somewhereinhisstudy,wewereconvinced,wasacluetoourfather’sdisappearance.Matthew’ssourceshungin

hundredsofdrop-files,organizedgeographicallybyparishand,withineachparish,bysubject,alphabetically.Thorntonalonetookupanentirefiling

cabinet.WestartedthereandlostourselvesinMatthew’smind.Webegantoseetheworldashehadseenit–notinthetwodimensionsofcanvasandpaperbutinmultipledimensions.Inhisviewoftheworldtherewasnochronology:heexperiencedtimethroughthefinesthistoricallayers,likesomanysheetsofthesheerest

fabric,floatingonthebreeze,brushingagainsteachother,liftingandcurlingatthecornerstorevealothertimesaltogether.Inhisworldtruthco-existedwithinvention,embellishmentmightbemoretruthfulthanfact,factmightbemoremagicalthanmyth.Roseshelduphouses.Demonsguardednames.Nowwhenwewalkeddowntothe

cabinintheeveningstobidtheseagoodnightonhisbehalf,thelandscapeshifted,brokeup,rearrangeditself.Matthewhadlivedwithinakaleidoscope.Nothinghadlookedthesametohimtwice.

Andthen,suddenly,myfourmonthswereover.Iwasn’tready.ItwastheendofOctober.AtThorntonMouth

theskywasaviolentorange,asiftherehadbeenacelestialtantrum.Itwasstillwarmintheevenings.Wemadeasmallfireonthebeachandpulledinsomemackerelforsupper.Wecastinsilence,thefishsostupidthatwecaughtthemwiththeglintofmetal.Weguttedthemquickly–theyarebloodyfish,mackerel;theyquickly

growrank.Wereturnedtheirheadsandentrailstothesea.Corwinsaid,‘Iwonder

whathecallshimselfnow.’Isawmyselftrappedina

towerwithachamberfullofstrawtobespunintogold.‘Rumpelstiltskin!’Isaid.‘Yes!’laughedCorwin.

‘Thatworks.’Iimaginedthelittle

wizenedman,myfather,

dancingaroundthefire,singingouthissecretname.‘I’llcomebackatthe

weekends,’Ipromised.‘We’llkeeplooking.’Corwindrovemetothe

station.Itwastheseasonfordeadbadgersontheroad–theyoung,settingoutontheirown.IworriedaboutleavingCorwinalonewithhisbitterness.

InLondon,apileofmaillayonthetablebythefrontdoor.Ileftitthereandclimbedthestairs,soothedbythefamiliarityofthesoundandfeelofeachloosestairtread.Ipushedopenthedoortomyflat.Birgitwaslonggone.Shehadleftanoteandacoupleofbottlesofwineonthetable.Theflatsmeltofneglect,ofrain,ofmice.

Somethingclinkedagainstmyshoe.Edhadreturnedhiskeys.Iopenedthewindows,pouredaglassofwineandsetmousetraps.IntheearlyhoursIheardatrapspring,unfeasiblyloud;andthen,halfanhourlater,another.Idreamedofmousecorpses,theirstifflittletails,theirflattenedjaws.

Ana’sblackeyebrowsliftedasIreturnedtowork.Shewaspleasedtoseemeback.‘I’msorryaboutyourgrandfather,’shesaid,andasked,‘Everythingelseresolved?’‘Justabout,’Isaid.She

didn’twanttoknowtheanswer:shewasjustremindingmethat,evenif

nothingwasresolved,Iowedherthepretencethatitwas.Myhandswereoutof

practiceandachedatnight.IntheeveningsIsoakedtheminwarmwaterandmassagedthemwithoil.IfCorwinhadbeenthere,hewouldhavedoneitforme–takenmyhandsonebyoneinbothofhis.Coulditbeenough–thelifehewantedforus?I

thought,Ifthereweremorewordsforlove,iftherewasawordforCorwinandme,forourtwin-nessandallthatattachedtoit,couldwemakeourselvesbetterunderstood?IfMumorEdorOliverormyfathercouldhavenameditandsaidsimply,Itisthisnotthat,woulditallhavebeendefinedandobvious?Wouldtheyhavebeensparedanxiety

aboutit?Wouldmyfatherhavestayed?Buttherewasnowordforus.Iwentthroughthepileof

mail.Mostofitwasjunk.TherewasamanuscriptIhadorderedforabook-designcompetition.ItwasAesop’sFables,printedonbeautifulthickivorypaper,intowhichthewoodcutillustrationssankdeep.Ismiled.Therewould

havetobeacrowonthecover.Iputitasidetothinkaboutlater,andpickedupapostcard–itwasfromBirgit.HerjourneyinghadtakenhertoabinderyinItaly.ShethankedmeagainforlettingmestayandwrotethatIwasalwayswelcometostaywithherinZürich–thebinderytherewouldbedelightedtohavemeifIeverdecidedto

dosomejourneyingofmyown.Iturnedthecardoverand

putitontopofthemanuscriptandwenttothekitchentomakesupper.Iwascrackingeggsintoabowl,thebutterwasfoaminginthepan,whenIstoppedandwipedmyhandsandwentbacktothepostcard.TheimagewasfromaRoman

mural.Atitscentreasnakewrithedwithinaneagle’sbeak.Asensationthatwaslikeheat,butwhichwasfearandtriumphandrevelationcombined,shotthroughme.IreachedformyphoneanddialledThornton.Thephonerangandrang.Eventuallysomeonepickedup.Itwasawoman’svoice.Isaid,‘Whothehellisthat?’

‘Hello,Morwenna,’saidSandra.‘It’sSandra.’‘Christ!’Isaid.‘Haveyou

movedinorsomething?Where’sCorwin?’‘Out.’Inthekitchenthebutter

wasburning.‘Whenwillhebeback?’‘HowwouldIknow?’‘Well,whenhegetsback,

tellhimheneedstogoback

tothemap.Heneedstolookforsomethingsmall–likeamouseoravoleorsomething.Maybeevenasnake.Somethingthatahawkmightpreyon.’‘OK,’shesaidslowly,

appeasing.‘Imean,’Isaid,‘would

youmindtakingamessagefromme?Please.Andthankyou.Andifyouleavebefore

hegetsback,couldyouwriteitdown?He’llknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.’‘Ofcourse,Morwenna,’

saidSandra.‘Whateveryousay.’

Corwindidn’tcallback.Andstillhedidn’t.Andhedidn’tanswerthephone,anditwasonlyWednesdayandIcouldn’tgobackdownuntil

Fridaynight.IwonderedifSandracouldhavebeenspitefulenoughnottoleavethemessage,andthenIrealizedshecouldn’thavebeen.Shewasn’tspiteful.Ijustwishedhertobe.Ifeltashamedofmyself.Icouldn’tsleep.Atlast,at

threeinthemorning,hecalled.‘Ican’tfindanything.’‘Keeplooking,’Isaid.

32.

Iwentbackdownthatweekend.Corwinmetmeatthefrontdoor.‘I’vefoundsomething,’hesaid.Ifeltlight-headed,almostnauseous.‘NotDad,’hesaidquickly.‘Andnotonthemap.

I’vefoundJohnGreenaway.Hewasinwiththerector.’Itwasobvious,really.

MatthewhadawholedraweronJohnGreenaway’srector.Hehadlivedalonglifeandhadsavedallhissermonsandhiscorrespondence,makingcopiesofhisownletters.ThereweresomenotesofMatthew’s–hehadtoyed

withtheideaofwritingabookabouthim.‘WheredidMatthewget

holdofallthisstuff?’Iasked.Corwinshruggedhis

shoulders.‘Wheredidhegetholdofanyofthisstuff?’Hehandedmeapieceofpaper.Itriedtoreadit,butcouldn’tmakeoutthehandwriting.Corwintookitfrommeandreaditouttome:

DearReverendWingate,

Yousayyoucannothearmyconfession.Thatyoudon’tholdwithallthatpapistnonsense.Althoughsomeintheparishwouldsaythatyourfancycollarsmighttelladifferenttale.YetIknowyoutobemyfriendandwilltellyou,shrivingorno.IcameoutoftheseanamedJohnGreenawaythat

dayyoupulledmeoffthebeach.NowGodandtheDevilwillsortoutwhowillhavemebutIhavefatheredchildreninthevillageandleftthemwithoutafather’sname.Iwantthemtoknowtheirfather’struenameandiftheyarenotashamedofittouseitfortheirown.LastlyIbegthatImaybeburiedwithmytruename.

Thesearemylastwishes.

NathanielParvinThatwasJohnGreenawayofThornton

Corwinhandedmesomethingelse.‘Thiswasclippedtoit,’hesaid.Theywerethepagespulledfromthesketchbook.AcrosstwopageswastheDevilinvariousforms,grinningfrom

therock,aswehaduncoveredhim,butalsoscowling,furious,beingriddenthroughthewaterbyaman.Iturnedthepagesover.On

thereversesideofonewasanillustrationthattookupthewholepage.Itwasthecabin,butnotasdescribedbyAmbrosePearce.Itwasourcabin,ourbeach.Thetide

wasoutandtherewasathickhigh-tidemark,whichresolveditselfintobodyparts.Amanliftedanarmintoawheelbarrow,butitwasn’taportraitofJohnGreenaway.ItwasaportraitofMatthew.Hehadwrittentwowordsatthecentreofthebottomofthepage:TheSexton.

Myhandswereshaking.‘We’regettingcloser,’Isaid.‘No,’saidCorwin.‘This

getsusnocloseratall.’

ThenextmorningIwokeearlyandwenttolookinthegraveyard.Ifoundhimeventually,hisheadstonehalfburiedintheground,thewordsalmostweatheredaway

bythesaltwind:NathanielParvin,died1879.Iwentondowntothe

cabintospendtimewithJohnGreenaway’sghost.IhadthesensethatIhadseenthenameNathanielParvinveryrecently,butIcouldn’tthinkwhere.Itwasnotuntilmuchlater,whenCorwinandIweresittingdowntoeat,thatIrememberedit.Ijumpedup

fromthetableandranupstairstomyparents’roomandpulledouttheboxinwhichIhadlookedforlettersfromOliver.Itippeditupside-down.TherewereallthethingsthatMumhadkeptfrommyprimary-schooldays–pictures,mystory-writingbooksandafoldedpieceofpaper,whichItookbacktothekitchen.

Iunfoldeditonthekitchentable.‘Look,’IsaidtoCorwin.‘It’stheclassfamilytree.TheonewedidwithMissArden.Shemadeacopyforeveryone.Youremember–whenSandracalledmeMorwennatheWitch.’Therewasthename,onthetoprow:NathanielParvin.NotJohnGreenawayhimself,buthisgrandson,probably.I

followedthelinesdown,toourgeneration.Hehadseveralgreat-grandchilden.OneofthemwasSandraStowe.‘That’showheknewthe

story!’Isaid.‘Matthew–that’showheknewthestory.HegotitfromtheCrabMan.’

ButCorwinwasright.Noneofthisbroughtusanycloser

toknowingwhereourfathermightbe.Corwinhadnowbeenhomeforeightmonths,livingoffhissavings,andwhenhehadn’tbeencaringforMattheworobsessingaboutourfather,hehadspenthisdayswalkingandclimbingandworkinginthekitchengardenwithSandra.Betweenthemtheyhadrestoredittoproductivity,

andhadnowturnedtorevivingthescrubbylittleorchard.Theyworkedwelltogether,tradinglight-heartedjocularinsults.Corwinhadfilledoutagain.Hewasbecomingstrongandtannedfromtheworkoutside.SometimesSandrabroughtherchildrenover.Corwinhadgiventhemtheirowncornerofvegetablepatchwherethey

hadplantedpumpkinsandsweetcorn.Theyhadmadeascarecrow–IrecognizedanoldjacketandhatofMatthew’s.NowCorwinsaid,‘You

see–wehaveaconnectionwithSandra.’Icouldtellthathehadbeenthinking.Adreadchillseizedme.Isteeredhimoffthesubject,whateverit

was.Hehadbeenthinkingfartoomuchingeneral.IbumpedintoSandrain

thebootroomasshewasgettingchangedoutofherworkclothes.ShealwaysworejeansandDMs,butnowIstumbledacrossherinredlacyunderwear.Shewasallsinewexceptwhereherfourkidshadstretchedherbelly.Therewasarosetattooonher

lefthip.Shehadasmoker’sface,rippledbytheweather;browneyes,brightwithdisdain.Shebelongedtothehousenow–whetherIwantedherthereornot.‘YouandCorwinwillbe

announcingyourengagementnext,’Isaidchildishly.‘Crow!’Shelaughed.

‘He’stoopretty,andhe’sgotallthatgoingoninhishead.I

likemymensimple:thesex,foodandfootballkind.Youknowwhereyouarewiththem.And,’shesaid,sittingtolaceupherboots,‘they’reeasytoreplace.’Shepulledonherleatherjacket.‘Don’tworry,Morwenna.I’mnotgoingtostealyourpreciousbrother.’ButCorwincorneredme.

‘I’vebeenthinking,’hesaid,

‘aboutallthisspace.Wedon’tneeditall.It’stoomuchforthetwoofus.Wecouldsplitupthehouse–Sandraandhermumandkidscouldrenthalfofitfromusforwhattheypayfortheircouncilhouse,andtheplacewouldbeproductive.Itwouldbealiveagain.’‘Oh,yes,’Isaid.‘Alive

withsex,foodandfootball

menandagiantSkySportsscreen.’‘You’resuchasnob,

Morwenna!’‘Yes,Iam.Sowhat?

That’smyideaofHell.It’snothappening.Andyouneedtothinkaboutwhatyou’regoingtodonext.Whenareyougoingbacktowork?’‘Whenwe’vefoundDad!’

Isaid,‘I’mgivingyouuntiltheendoftheyear.Ifwehaven’tfoundhimbythen,westopthisnonsense.Ican’tdothisformuchlonger.I’mexhausted.’‘Youthinkwecanjustdo

that?Justsetadeadline?Andthenwhat?Westopwondering?Wegetonwithourlives?Don’tyouseewhathe’sdone,Morwenna?He’s

putusinlimbo.Disappearanceistheworstbereavement.I’veseenitsomanytimes:there’snoresolution–ever.’Andsowecametothe

cruxofthematter:Corwinandhisabstractions.Isaid,‘Don’tcomeoverallI’ve-been-to-Africawithme.Findinghimdoesn’thelp

anyone–youdon’tgettodoanysavingbyit.’Corwinsaid,‘Hedidthis

tousdeliberately.’‘No,’Ishouted.‘Youdid

thistousdeliberately.IwasperfectlycontentwhenDadwasjustdead!AndwhataboutMum?She’sremarried,forChrist’ssake–you’veturnedherintoabigamist!’

‘Shewon’teverneedtoknow.’‘Ididn’teverneedto

know,youselfishfuck!I’vehadenoughofthis.I’mgoinghome.’ItwasSundaymorning.I

didn’tsaygoodbye.

Iwasgratefulforautumn,itsshieldingdarkandthickknits.Ididn’tcontactCorwinand

hedidn’tcontactme.ImadedutifulcallstoMum,andwetoldeachothernothing–shesaid,‘I’veresignedmyself,darling!’Althoughnot,apparently,enoughtoresistexclaiming:‘God,Morwenna!Sometimes,surely,youmustwantsomethingtohappen.’‘No,’Isaidtruthfully.‘I

reallydon’t.’BecauseI

wantedmyfathertobedead.Myfather,withhisslowgrace,couldneverhavedonetomewhatCorwinsaidhehaddone.Ifeltnauseousmostofthe

time.Iwaslosingweight.IworkedonAesop’sFables.Thecrows’skullsthatCorwinhadgivenmehungonthewallabovemyworkbench.Itookoneand

helditbetweenthefingersofmylefthand,awayfromme,ateyelevel:thistinyfragilemiracleofnature’sengineering.Iletmyrighthandbegintomakesketches.Dead,Ithought.Dead.Iparedtheblackleather,

shapedit,presseditintothecover,gavethecrowasmalldarkeyeballandattachedraggedwings.

Vain,stupidCrowwhocouldn’tkeephisbeakshut.

AttheendofNovembertherewasthedesignerbindingexhibition.Thebookswereputoutfordisplayinglasscasesinawood-panelledguildhall.Anacameuptomeandlaughed.‘Morwenna,youhavenopity!I’vealwaysfelt

rathersorryforthecrow,myself!’Mybookfetchedeight

hundredpounds.Thebuyerwasn’tevenintheroom.Somewheretherewasalibrarywheremybookwouldendup,tobelookedatby…howmanypeople?Ahandfulofguestsglancingoveritafterdinner?Itsownerprisingitgentlyfromitsslip

case:‘Lookattheworkmanship.Therearen’tmanypeopleleftwhoknowhowtodothis.’Ormaybenoonewouldlookatit.Itwouldsitonashelfinarowofbooksthathadcostmorethanmyannualsalary.Thebookwasjustpaperandleather.Itwasallvanity.ThatwaswhyMatthewhadneverbothered

tomakemorethanonepainting.Anarmslippedaroundmy

shoulders.ItwasCorwin.Hekissedmycheek.‘Whatareyoudoinghere?AndhowdidyouknowwhereIwas?’Hedidn’tanswer,but

handedmeapieceofpaper.Itwasaphoto,printedoncopierpaper,ofasectionofthemap.Anenlargedimage,

grainy,butclearlydistinguishable:apileofbrownleaves,andprotrudingfromthem,theheadofanadder,withitsmutedmarkings.Whenyouheartheword

‘adder’youthink:Poorshyendangeredcreature.Itisalmostyourpatrioticdutytoloveit.ButthenIsaidviper.Youfeelquitedifferentabout

them.Vipersareviperous–theyareuntrustworthy,theybetray.TheVofbrownscaleswasquitedistinctonthecreature’shead,whereitpokedoutfromthetwigsanddeadleaves.Matthewhadpaintedhissonasasnake.Hemusthavefeltboththings:poorshyvulnerablecreature,whodoesn’twanttobe

found.Buthewouldhavethoughttraitortoo.Me–Ifelt,mainly,traitor.

Thisman,ourfather,whohadcheatedus,whohadtriedtocheatnature,whohadcostmemymother,myboyfriend,perhapsmymostbelovedbrother,hadcostmeperhapsmyself–perhapstherehadbeenanother,onewho,ateighteen,hadbeenaboutto

launchherselfintotheworld.Ialsofelt–Leavehim.Hemadehischoice.Lethimlivewithit.But,yousee,hehadstoppedus.CorwinandIwerestopped,stucktogether.Simplyput:Itwasn’tfair.IsaidtoCorwin,‘OK.I

willdothis.Foryou.Forus.’Ilookedagainattheimage–therehewas,inMatthew’smap;hehadbeenunableto

escape.Iwentcoldatthethought,andsaid,‘Butthenwesellthehouse.’‘OK,’saidCorwin.Hewas

shining,gentlyvibratingwithvindication.‘Youhaveadeal.’‘Sowhereishe?’Corwinhadblownupa

sectionoftheOrdnanceSurveymap.‘Inthissection,

here.It’sabouttenmilesinland.’‘Soclose,’Imurmured.‘I

almostfeelsorryforhim.IwonderhowMatthewfoundhim.’‘Maybetheywerein

touch.’‘No.Matthewwouldnever

havedonethattous.’‘You’realwaysdefending

Matthew,’saidCorwin.

Therewasnothingonthemapbutacoupleoflonelyfarms,patchesofwoodland,awarrenoftinyroads,whichwouldbelostbetweenhigh,thickhedgerows.‘Howdoweevenbegin?’‘We’lljustbegin–gridit

offlikewedidwiththemap.Walkitabitatatime.Talktopeople.We’lltakeourtime.’

ThefollowingeveningIwentandknockedonEd’sdoor.Whenheopenedupandsawmestandingthere,hewincedatmypoortasteinarrivingunannounced.Buthetookcommandofhimselfandinvitedmein.Hesaid,‘Iwasn’t

expectingtohearfromyouagain.’

‘ItoldyouIwouldgiveyouanexplanationwhenIhadthechance.’Hetwitchedwithirritation.

‘Ifeelthatthemomentforthathaspassed,don’tyou?’IhandedhimthebagIwas

holding.‘Thisisforyou,’Isaid.‘It’sapresent.’‘Oh,’hesaid,looking

insidethebag.‘Thankyou.Whatisit?’

‘It’sanaspidistra,’Isaid.‘They’reuglyplants,butthey’reimpossibletokill.’Hepulleditoutandsetit

onthetableandlookedatitsunprepossessingdark,leatheryleaves.‘Isthissupposedtomeansomethingtome?’‘Notreally.Itdoesn’t

matter.’

RedPost-itnoteswerestuckallaroundtheroom.TheyhadChinesecharactersdrawnontheminthickfelt-tippen.‘Isthisfornextyear?Are

yougoingtogo?’‘Sortof.Yes,’hesaid.

Thenhesaid,‘Wen?’‘Yes?’‘I’mseeingsomeoneelse

now.’

‘Ah!’Isaid.‘Isshegoingtoo?’‘Yes.Infact,she’s

Chinese.’‘Well,that’sgood,’Isaid.

‘Itdoesn’tsuityoutobesingle.’‘Don’tpatronizeme!’‘Sorry,’Isaid.‘Ididn’t

meanto.’IpointedtoaPost-itnotestucktoachair.‘Howdoyousaythat?’

‘Areyouserious?Isthatwhatyouwanttotalkabout?’‘Sorry,’Isaid.‘Wouldyoulikeadrink?’‘No,’Isaid.‘You’reright.

Themomenthaspassed.I’mjusttidyingafewthingsup.’

33.

Sowemadeastart.OnFridaynightItookthetraindown.Ididn’ttellMumIwasgoing.Corwinwasinthekitchen,lookingthrougholdphotos,tryingtofindoneofourfather.Butweweren’taphoto-takingfamily,and

somehowhehadcontrivedalwaystobebehindthecamera,oratthebackofagroupofpeople.CorwinhadfoundoneofhimandBobintheirclimbinggearfromthe1970s.Itwasagoodclearphotoofhim,butimpossiblyyoung.Hecouldhavebeenanyone.Corwinhaddrawnasquare

milearoundwheretheviper

mightbe–Matthew’smaphadabandonedscale,andhehadfilledthatemptylandscapewithoutsizehedgerowplants,sowecouldbeginonlywithaguess.Weweretosetofffromthenorth-westcornerofCorwin’ssquareandworkacross.Wehadanearlybreakfast

anddroveinland.Thesky

wasclosed.Itseemedtoberainingliquidslate,whichsettledandmassedindarknessontheroad,trappedbythehedgerows.Weparkedthecarbyagateintoafield,andbegantowalk.CorwinhadscaleduptheOrdnanceSurveymapandmarkedoutourtangledroutewithayellowhighlighter.Wewereinamazeofnarrowlanes.

Wewadedthroughthegloomandfoundourselvesatroadsignswehadalreadypassed.Everysooftenthewallofhedgeopenedintoagateandwehadaviewofwinterfields,thecattleturnedinagainsttherain,huddledtogetherforwarmth.Wewalkeddowndrivewaysintoemptyfarmyards,trespassedaroundtheedgesoffields.

Corwincarriedthephotoofourfatherinhispocket,buttherewasnoonetoshowitto.Aftersixhoursofthis,

relievedonlybyasandwich,wereturnedtoourcarandwenthome.Myhandsandfeetwerefrozen.Thenwedidexactlythe

samethingonSunday.

AndintheeveningIwentbacktoLondon.

DuringtheweekCorwinwrotetome.Theemailhadbeensentatthreeinthemorning.IhadnotstoppedtothinkofhimaloneatThornton–wheneverIsawhimtherehewasinmovement:wavinghislongarms,talkinganddoing.But

nowIpicturedhimsitting,stillandsilent,inthatdarkhouse,bereftofMatthew,quietlysinkingintoinsanity:

Iimaginehisconversations.Hemustsay‘hello’and‘goodbye’andtalkabouttheweatherandIkeepaskingmyselfwhathehasgainedbyoureradication.Perhapshehasanotherfamily?

AlthoughsomehowIdoubtit.Hewassooverwhelmedbytheonehehadalready.UntilrecentlyIfeltasthoughwewerechasingaghost.ButnowIfeelasthoughweareghostschasinghim.Wearesilenced.Wedon’texist.

Iwatchedthesuncomeupoverfrost-treesthismorning.Iwishyoucouldhaveseenit.

Thefrostgiftedusaweekendofwinter-blueskies,filigreedtreebranches,ice-crustedpuddles.Weextendedoursearchoutwardsbyhalfamile.Neitherofuswasgettingmuchsleepandourtrudgethroughthelanestookonahallucinatoryquality,sothatwhen,asitgrewdark,weturnedintoadrivewayandcameuponafarmhouse

flashingwithcolouredChristmaslightsintheshapeofagiantSantasleigh,Itrulybelieved,foramoment,thatIhadconjureditfrommyownmind.

Whatdidwethinkwewerelookingfor?Therewasnothingrationalaboutoursearch,althoughwetriedtogiveitlogicwithourgrids

andhighlighters.Onourthirdweekendofsearchingwewalkedaroundatinyvillagewithourfather’sphotoandenquiredatshops,andthepeopleweapproachedwerecuriousandaskedfriendlyquestions.Corwinansweredwithblithelies.Ihadn’tforeseenthis,anditmademefeelfurtiveandsullied.Itseemedasthoughwewere

cursedtodothisforalltime.Isatdownonabenchinthevillagecarparkandrefusedtomoveandtriedtomakemyselfcry.Corwinstoodoverme.Hewashollow-eyedandpitiless.Hewasnever,evergoingtogiveup.

ButCorwindidrelent,inasfarashedecidedthatweshouldtreatourselvestoa

coupleofnightsattheonlyinnformilesaround,theWhiteHart,whichwasoneofthoseplacesthatyounormallydrivepastandwonderwhostopsthere.Thenearestbuildinghadapetrolpumpoutsideitthatlookedasifithadn’tbeeninusesincethe1960s.ThepubwasdoneupforChristmaswithshinyfringedMerryXmasbanners

overthebarandaflashingChristmastreeinthecorner.Thereweredustybowlsofdriedorangeandcinnamonintheloos.Afirelanguishedonapileofash.Weletthemthinkwewere

amarriedcouple.Theroomhadafour-posterbedwithlacywhitepolyesterhangingsandadeepwindow-seatoverlookingthecobbled

courtyardinfrontofthemainentrance.Wemadeteafromtheplastickettlewithstaletea-bagsandUHTmilk.Isatinthewindow-seatanddrankmyteaandwatchedtheslushyrainturntowateronthecobbles.Ataroundsixwewentdownfordinner.Weweretheonlypeopleinthebar.Corwinorderedvegetarianlasagneandchips.

Iwasn’thungryandnibbledstalebreadfromabasketdeliveredbyanunhappy-lookingfourteen-year-old.‘Don’tdespair,’said

Corwintome,asthoughthedespairwasallmine.Afewmorepeoplecame

in.Theysatatthebarandchattedwiththelandlordandeachother.Theysatspacedwidelyapartandcalledto

eachotherinloudvoices.Itwaspartoftheritual.‘Weshouldmakesomefriends,’saidCorwin.‘Theymightknowsomething.’Hewascheeringupwithbeerandfestivekitsch.‘Ican’tjusttalktopeople!’

Isaid,horrified.Helaughed.‘Don’tworry.

Later.Wheneveryone’sabit

pissed.I’llmakesomefriends.’Wedrankslowly.Thefire

burnedgently.Thelandlordcameoverandthrewonacouplemorelogs.Ontheothersideofthepub,someonestartedtotuneaguitar.Mywholebeingconstrictedbriefly–asinglepulseofinstinct.CorwinandIlookedateachother.He

turnedslowlytothelandlord.‘Youhavemusicnightshere?’‘EverySaturday.’Iwasovercomewitha

desiretorunaway.Isaid,‘Ineedsomeair,’andleftthebar.Outsideinthecourtyardtheslushwasturningtosnow.Acoupleofsmokers,shiftingtokeepwarm,pulledontheircigarettesand

chatted.Iwalkedtotheotherendofthepubtopeerinthroughthewindowatthemusicians.Icouldmakeouttheguitarist,andanotherman,holdingadrum.Theylookeduptogreetsomeonewhohadjustcomein–hisbodymovedacrossmylineofsight.Ithought:Imightnotbeabletorecognizemyfather,evenifIsawhim.I

can’trememberhim.HowwouldIevenknowit’shim?AsIstoodthere,afigure

approached,aman,inhissixties,carryingafiddlecase.Ithought,Thiscouldbehim,andstaredathimsohardthathelookedupthroughthecoldandasked,‘Areyouallright,love?’Anditwasn’tmyfather.

Iwentbackintothebarandsatdownagain.‘Feelingbetter?’askedCorwin.‘No,’Isaid.Themusiciansbeganto

playasimpleslowreel.Isaid,‘Whatarewedoing?Thisispointless.Hopeless.Wehavenothing.Wedon’tknowhe’severbeenhere.Wedon’tevenhaveanameforhim.’

Corwinsaidnothing.HesaidnothingbecauseIwasrightandtherewasnothingtoadd.Isaid,‘It’sfunny,youknow.Ireallyhatehimnow.Ialwaysthoughtofhatredasahotemotion,butthisisverycold…veryheavy.Iknownowwhypeopletalkaboutheartsturningtostone.’Corwinleanedforwardand

placedhishandflatovermy

heart.Hesaid,‘It’snotcoldinme.Notatall.’Isaid,‘Youknowthatvow

youwantedmetomake?TheoneIsaidIcouldn’t…didn’t?’Corwin’shandwasstillon

myheart.Isaid,‘Well,Ididmakeit,

really.’‘Iknowyoudid.’

‘ButIwasyoung.Ididn’tunderstandwhatitmeant.’‘NeitherdidI.’Hesatbackinhischair.I

said,‘IthinkIwanttogotobed.’‘Onemoreround,’said

Corwin.‘OK,’Isaid.AndIwas

lookingathimandthinking:Imustsevermyselffromyou–fromyourwill–orIwillbe

extinguished,whensomeonestartedsinging.Weimmediatelyrecognizedthesong,becauseitwasonethatFuckOffBobusedtosingallthetime.CorwinandIwerestill

lookingateachother,butnowwewerewaiting,becauseweknewthatwewereonthepointofsomething.Wedidn’tmove,

justlisteningtothatvoice,thatstranger’svoice,singing:‘Asailor’slifeisamerrylife.Theyrobyounggirlsoftheir

hearts’delight,Leavingthembehindtosigh

andmourn,Theyneverknowwhenthey

willreturn.’

It’sagoodtune,andIhadalwayslikeditbeforeIstartedtodespiseBob.Thesingersangthefirstverse

unaccompanied,andstillwewerepoised,andthenafiddlestartedandimmediatelywerecognizedtheplaying.Corwin’seyesblackenedintriumphandpurpose,andIunderstoodthatwhileIhadbeenlooking,notexpectingorevenwantingtofind,Corwinhadbeenhunting.Hescaredmethen.He

whippedupstraightandalert.

Hehadourfather’sscent.Istoodupveryslowlyandwalkedthelongmilesbetweenourtableandthebar,puttingoutmyhandstotheshinymahoganyforsupportandliftingontomytoestolookoverthelengthofthebarintotheroombeyond,andtherewasmyfather,andofcourseIdidrecognizehim.HewasexactlyasIhadlast

seenhim,sitting,playing,swaying.Onlyhewasquitegreynowandhewasbaldwithaclose-cutringofhairandawell-trimmedbeardandheworeglassesandlookedmorelikeMatthew,butitwashim.AndthenIfeltCorwinstandingbehindme,leaningintome,hishandseithersideofminegrippingthegleamingmahogany,hischin

diggingintomyshoulder.Andwewatched,untilthebarmancameoverandaskeduswhathecouldgetus,andCorwinasked,‘Doyouknowwhothatis,playingthefiddle?’Thebarmanlookedover

hisshoulderandsaid,‘That’sJohnGreenaway.’

34.

Westayedatthebar,then,andstoodandwatched.Theshockofhisbeingtherewaslesshisbeingatall,butthatithadbeensosimple,intheend.Howeasyitwasforhimtobedeadandhideandbeonlytenmilesawayfromall

thathadbeenhiseverything.Thathehadturnedthateverythingtonothing,andhowfewstepshehadhadtotaketodothat,andthenhowfewstepswehadhadtotaketofindhim.Allwehadhadtodowastolook.Itwasaninsult,almost.Oratest,maybe,IsaidtoCorwin.Inwhichcase,wehadfailed–or,rather,fallenshort.

Corwinsaid,‘Rememberthatbirthdayparty?EllenandAlice.Doyourememberthem?Rememberhowtheyalwayshadtohavetheirpartiestogether,andtheyearthatAlicehidunderthetabletoseeifanyonewouldnoticethatshewasmissingfromherownparty?Andnoonedidnotice.’

‘Iremember,’Isaid.‘Sheneverreallyforgaveus.’‘Whatif…’saidCorwin,

discussingthisman,ourfather,somestranger,whomwehadthoughtdeadforthelastseventeenyears,andwhomwewerenowwatching,fiddlingawaycontentedly.Asentimentaltune–hehadalwaysbeenatouchsentimental,Ihad

forgottenthatabouthim;hefelttoodeeply,sawmermaidswheretherewerenone,communedwithvegetables.CorwinandIfeltverylightinourconjoinedsoul,adizzyingreleaseoftension–theendofdoubt.Wefoundthatweweregiggling.Itwastooabsurdtotakeseriously,allourgrievingandatrophyingforthismanwhohadbeen

simulatingallalong,andwho,despitehismusicality,appearedquite,quiteordinary.Wedrankandwatched(themusicstoppedandourfatherwithdrewhisfiddlefrombeneathhischinandcockedandstraightenedhisheadonhisneck,agesturethathadalwaysmeant‘Andnow’–‘Andnow,children,tobed’).Thebar

hadfilledup,andthemusicians’corner,framedasitwasbythehighVictorianbar,seemedillusory:apuppettheatre–youcouldseethemechanics,thefiguresdidn’tmovebythemselves,andstillyoubelievedinthem.Thatwasthemagic.Themusicsankundertherisingvoicesinthebar.Toanchormyselfbackintheworld,Ilooked

around.Wewereamongpeople,nothingmore.Whywouldsomeoneputhimselfthroughtheinconvenienceofbeingdeadsimplytoendupamongpeople–and,ofallpeople,thesepeople?Theyworeroomyzip-upfleecesandwell-wornhikingboots.PerhapstheyknewJohnGreenaway.Perhapsoneorseveralofthesewomenwere

orhadbeenhislovers.Thatone,perhaps,whowasinherearlyfifties,probably,andwhohadmadetheefforttodyeherhairbuthadn’tgotaroundtotouchinguptheroots.Orthatone,younger,myage–oldmendidthat,didn’tthey,madethemselvesridiculousoverwomenasyoungastheirowndaughters?Thatonethere

withthetattooontheinsideofherwrist,somepagansymbolthatsignifiedsomethingofgreatpagansignificance.‘Whatif,’saidCorwin,

‘actually,hejustdidn’tcarewhetherwefoundhimornot?’Webegantocalibratea

scaleforourfather’sbetrayal,withwantingtobefoundand

rescuedatthetop(bestcase).Wearguedalittle–shouldnotcaringwhetherornothewasfoundgoaboveorbelowhimsimplynotwantingustofindhim?Corwinfeltitwasworse:‘Indifferenceisalwaysworse.’‘Notalways,’Isaid.Ioften

feltindifferent.Therewasnothingpersonalinit.Youcouldn’tpossiblygothrough

lifetakingaviewoneverything;feeling,responding,toeverything.Itwouldbeexhausting.Noonecouldpossiblylivelikethat.‘You’rewrong,’said

Corwin.‘Ilivelikethat.’Heglaredinthedirectionofourfather,thefiddle-playingpuppet,whogavetheillusionofbeingalive.‘Oratleast,’hesaid,‘Iusedto.’

‘Thereyougo,’Isaid,‘thatonlyprovesmypoint.Itworeyouout.’Corwingloomedintohis

beerglass.Isaid,‘Isupposeweoughttomakesomeattemptnottogetdrunkandformaplan.’Itwastenthirty.Soonitwouldbetime.Theystillcalledlastordersinthecountry.

‘Ithinkweshouldfollowhim,’saidCorwin.‘Seewherehegoes.Observehim.’‘Weshouldwrapup

warm,’Isaidwisely.Iwasfindingmyselfmostamusing.Ifeltslightlyhysterical.‘I’llgetthecoats.Youkeepaneyeonhim.’

Backinthebedroomwiththethickpinkcarpetedbouncy

floorandtheromanticbed,IrealizedIwasgoingtovomitandbroughtupbeer-bileintothetoiletbowl.Ithadoneofthoseplasticthingsinit,whichreleaseMediterranean-bluechemicalswhenyouflush.Ihadforgottentoeat.Therewereindividuallywrappedshortbreadbiscuitsinabowlontheteatray.I

stuffedthemallintomycoatpocket.

Thebellrang:‘Timeplease,ladiesandgentlemen!’Outsideitwassnowingwithgentleconviction.Wesatinourcarandwatchedthepubdoors.Theman,ourfather,cameoutwithtwoothermusicians.Oneofthemseemedtoofferhimalift,

whichhedeclined,andheturnedwithawaveandbegantowalkaway.CorwinandIgotoutofthecarandbegantofollow.Hisshapemovedagainstthesnowflakes,whichflutteredinthedimstreetlighting.Overhisshoulderwasthecurveofhisfiddlecase.Evenifheturnedhewouldnotbeabletorecognizeus:twofigures,like

him,madeshapelessbythelayersofcoatsandscarvesandhats.Whilewewerestillonthe

mainroadwekeptabouttwentyyardsbehindhim,closeenoughtocallout.Butwedidn’tcallout.Wehadn’tdiscussedwhatweintendedtodo,butweweren’treadyforwords.Wewereinawonderofwatching,notyet

abletotakeinwhatwewereseeing.Whenheturnedoffthemainroadintothesedimentofdarkbetweenthehedgerowsweheldbackabit,surethatthenarrowlanewouldcompressourpresence,makeitfelttohim,andwhenwetooturned,hehaddisappearedandIfeltamomentoffuriousdespairthatwehadlosthim,butwe

sankintothedarkafterhimandasoureyesadjustedwecouldseeinfrontofusaneattrailoffootstepslaidoutinthefreshlysettledsnowand,ofcourse,immediatelyIstartedtosing‘GoodKingWenceslas’inmyhead,andsoIfollowedmydeadfather’sfootstepsinthesnowwiththetunegoingroundand

roundandround:Lalalalalalalaa,lalalalalaalaa.Thefootstepsturned

abruptlyatastile.Weclimbedover,andcouldnowmakeouthisshapeattheoppositecornerofthefield–anegativeblackspaceintheswirlofwhite–andstillwefollowed.Overanotherstile,thenanother,thenupatrackoverarchedwithtrees,and

downtheotherside,untilafteraboutamilewecametoafarmyardandthetrailseemedtostop,butCorwinpointedandIcouldseethefootstepsresumebeyondapatchofcow-churnedmud,andweskirtedthefarmbuildingsandIthought:Thisisit,thisiswherehehassettled.Buttherewasfurthertogo,intothewoods,and

therewerenomorefootsteps,becausethesewerefirtreesandthesnowhadnotpenetratedthecanopy,butCorwintookmyhandandwefeltoutthepathwithourfeetandeventuallywecamedownoutofthewoodandintoaclearingbyastreamwherethesnowfell,thicklynow,ontoatinystonehut.

Therewaslightinthewindow.Wewatchedthesnowfall

throughthedarkontotheroofofthehut,thenCorwintookmyhand,andveryslowlyweapproachedandsneakeduptothewindowtopeepin.Therewerenocurtains.Therewereonlytworooms:akitchenandatinybedroom.Wewatchedourfathermove

aroundhishome.Itwaslitwithcandles.Therewasnothingdecorative,nopicturesonthewalls.Atable,acoupleofcupboards,stackedboxesoffruit,potatoesandonions,shelvesofpreserves.Wewatchedhimpeelandchopanonion,fryitinasmallpanonhisrange,crackeggsintotheonion,eattheonionsandegg

piledontoasliceofbread.Ithought:He’spretending.That’swhathe’sbeendoingforthelastseventeenyears,that’swhatheabandonedustodo–makebelieve.Afterhismealhewashed

upinastonesinkandwenttothedoor.Wetiptoedaroundtothebackofthehouseandcrouchedbythewoodpileandheardhisfootstepsgooffin

thedirectionofanouthouse,andwhenhecamebackwefollowedhimroundandlookedthroughhisbedroomwindow.Therewasabedandfourwallsofbooks–dog-earedpaperbacks,mainly.Wewatchedhimundress.Nakedhelookedolder,butwiryandmuscularunderhispaleskin.Iwonderedwhenhehadlastallowedsomeonetotouch

him.Heputonsomethermalleggingsandasweatshirtandclimbedintobed,turned,blewouttheflameonhiscandle.

Weturnedandwalkedbacktothepub.IwouldneverhavefoundmywaybackwithoutCorwin.Ihadtrustedhimtodothenavigating,hadabdicatedittohim.The

hysteriahadsubsided.Ifeltsotired.Iwantedtoliedownthereonthesnowandgotosleep.Backatthepub,welet

ourselvesinquietly,takingoffourbootsatthedoorandcarryingthemupthestairs.Welayonthebedonourbacksfullyclothedundertheblankets,staringatthepolyesterlaceandnot

speaking,untilatlastIwhispered,‘Istilldon’tunderstandwhy.’ButbythenCorwinwasasleep.

Imusthaveslept,too,becausethenitwaslightandtheroomwasfullofthesilenceoffreshsnowfall.Corwinwasawakewithhisheadproppedonhishand,watchingme,andwhenI

openedmyeyes,hesmiledandsaid,‘Comeon,lazybones.’Isaid,‘Lookatyou.All

triumphant.’Anditwastrue.Hewasiridescent.‘Notyet,’hesaid.‘It’snot

overyet.’Istillhadaniceblock

wheremyheartshouldhavebeen.Ifeltnothing,exceptadesiretoknowwhy,sostrong

thatitwasphysical.Why?Why?Why?‘Whendowetalktohim?’

Iasked.‘I’mnotreadytotalkto

him,’saidCorwin.‘Ithinkweshouldwatchhimforabitfirst.’Itwasasthoughwewerediscussinghowtodisciplineachild.Asthough‘watchinghim’wasmetingoutapunishmentthatwould

causeourerrantfathertomendhisways.Weatebreakfast.Iforced

downporridge.Mygorgerosewitheachmouthful.ItwasChristmasEveandfromthekitchenradiowecouldheararelentlessstreamofChristmashits.Corwinfortifiedhimselfwithsausagesandbacon.Hislapsesintomeat-eatingwere

becomingevermorefrequent,asthoughhisangercalledonfleshfornourishment.Thenwepaidourbill.Indaylight,thewalkdid

notseemnearlysofar.Still,itwaswelloffthebeatentrack.Wewouldneverhavefoundhimifhehadn’tcometothepub.Thecowswereemergingfromthemilkingshedwhenwegottothefarm,milling

aroundintheyard,steamrisingfromtheirflanks,whiteintothewinterair.Wewalkedaroundthefarmandintothewoodsandfoundourselvesanobservationpostamongthefirtrees.Smokerosefromthechimneyofthehut.Apileoflogswasstackedbehindthebuilding,almosttotheheightoftheroof.Infrontwasarowof

fruittrees,neatlypruned,thesnowslidingfromthebranchesinthemorningsun.Somegoldenfruitstillhungfromacrabappleanddrewachatterofbirds.Astreamcircledthehutandgardensothatitlookedasifitsatonatinyisland.Thereitwas,ourfather’sdreamofasmallholding,alllaidoutinminiatureinthesunshine,

sparklingandcleanandwhite,likeafairytale.Wewalkedaroundthe

clearing.Therewasachickenrun,awintergardenwithfleece-coveredbrassicas.Tuckedbackinthetreeswellawayfromthestreamwastheouthouse.Therewasevenacoupleofbeehives,butnosignofagoat.Thenwereturnedtoourlook-out

position.IsippedblackcoffeefromaThermosflaskuntilIfeltstretchedtothepointofsnapping.Afterawhileourfather

cameouttousehisouthouseandfeedthechickensandtosplitafewlogs.Aswewatched,webegantorememberthingsabouthim:hisloveofbirds–thewayhewouldpausemid-taskandfix

onatinybirdinatree,studyingitsmarkings,andwouldnotreturntohisworkuntilhecouldnameit,pronouncingthenameoutloud,releasinghimself.Throughthebinocularswesawhislipsmove.Thelogswereslowertosplitnow.Weusedtowatchhim,theswingingaxe,thud,thud,thud,waitingtobeold

enoughtowieldtheaxeourselves.Werememberedhiswalk,thesetofhisshoulders,thewaythatoneeyebrowwasslightlyhigherthantheothersothatheseemedtobeaskinganeternalquestion.Hefetchedabucketofwaterfromthestream.Heappearedtobequitealone.Treacherous,heartlessRumpelstiltskin,I

thought,whopartedchildrenfromtheirparents,inhisclearinginthewoods,aloneandcontent.Butweknewhisname.

Itwasbeautiful,though;trulyamostbeautifulmorning.IwhisperedtoCorwin,‘Youknowthatpoem“StoppingbyWoodsonaSnowyEvening”?’

Corwinshookhishead.Imurmuredintohisear,asifitwereasecret.‘WhosewoodstheseareI

thinkIknow.Hishouseisinthevillage,

though;Hewillnotseemestopping

hereTowatchhiswoodsfillup

withsnow.

Mylittlehorsemustthinkitqueer

Tostopwithoutafarmhousenear

Betweenthewoodsandfrozenlake

Thedarkesteveningoftheyear.

Hegiveshisharnessbellsa

shakeToaskifthereissome

mistake.Theonlyothersound’sthe

sweep

Ofeasywindanddownyflake.

Thewoodsarelovely,dark

anddeep,ButIhavepromisestokeep,AndmilestogobeforeI

sleep,AndmilestogobeforeI

sleep.’

Ifeltverysorryformyselfthen,becausesleepseemedunattainable;Icouldnot

rememberwhatitwastosleep,reallysleep,deeply.Icravedoblivion.Corwinsaid,‘It’samazingthatyouhaveallthatinyourheadandyoucan’trememberfightingwithSandraovermarbles.’‘It’saverycleverrhyme

scheme,’Isaid,ignoringthementionofSandra.‘Deceptivelysimple.’Wewatchedabitmore.

‘Iseewhatwe’redoing,’Isaid,atlast.‘Whatarewedoing?’‘We’rewatchinghim,and

hedoesn’tknow.’Corwinsmiled;mylovely

malevolentbrother.Isaid,‘It’sasortofpoweroverhim,isn’tit?Wehaveknowledge.Wedecidewhentostrike.’Corwinsmiledagain.I

lovedhimverymuchatthat

moment,forbeingsocleverafterall.‘So,’Isaid.‘Whendowe

strike?’‘Let’sgetChristmasover

with.’Itwasdelicious,this

waiting.‘MerryChristmas,Dad,’Iwhispered,asweturnedtogobackthroughthewoods.

AtThorntonthelichgateandgravestoneswerecappedwithsnow.TheAtlanticwasquietandblack.Icouldtasteitontheair.BythetimeIwenttobed,thesnowwasmelting.IsleptwithoutdreamingandonChristmasmorningthesnowwasallgone.

WewereinvitedtoMumandBob’sforChristmaslunch.

Mumsaid,‘Morwenna,darling!Youlooklovely!You’vemadeaneffort!MerryChristmas,darling!’Ihadmadeaneffort.Ihadwokenupfeelingclear-headedandvengefulandincandescentwithknowledge,andIwantedtolookmybestforthis,mylastdayoforphanhood.

Theoakbanisterwaswrappedwithevergreenbranchesandglassbaubles.Thetablewaslaidwithredandgold.Therewasgooseandhoneyedparsnipsandspicedcabbage.Isaid,‘Thankyou,Mum.Thatwasabsolutelywonderful.’And‘Greatchoiceofwine,Bob.’And‘Oh,isthatanewpainting?Whendidyouget

it?It’slovely,isn’tit?’Andthingslikethat.MumbroughtinaflamingChristmaspudding,toppedwithahollysprig.HereyesflittedbackandforthbetweenmeandCorwin,butshedidn’tsayanythingbecauseitwasChristmasDay.Afterlunch,Corwinand

BobwentforawalkandMumandIsatonthesofa

andwatchedGreatExpectations.Isaid,‘I’msorryaboutyourwedding,Mum.’Shesaid,‘You’vealready

apologized.Oneapologyisenough.’Isaid,‘ButIwasonlyhalf

sorrythen.I’mreallysorrynow.’‘OK,darling.There’sno

needtooverdoit!’

‘IwouldliketotalktoyouaboutDadproperly,though.Oneday.Soon.BeforeIgobackuptoLondon.’‘OK,darling.Butnotright

now.’

Later,though,whileCorwinandBobwerewashingthedishes,Mumpouredmeanightcap.Shesaid,‘Perhaps

weshouldgetitoverwith.Whatdoyouwanttoknow?’‘Washeunhappy?’Iexpectedhertomake

someflippantcomment,butshethoughtaboutit.Theredwineswirledinherglass.Eventuallyshesaid,‘Idon’tthinkyourfatheraspiredtohappiness.Hethoughtitwasfrivoloustopursueit.WhenMarkcomparedhimtoSir

Galahadatthefuneral,IrememberIfeltanicyhandgripmyinsides!TheywereterriblethoseArthurianKnights.Implacable!Yourfatherwaslikethat–austereandnoble.Impossibleinahusband.Hewassosingle-minded.Hethoughtthat,becausehelovedme,Iwouldtransformintoafarmer’swife.Me,ofallpeople!So

totallyunsuitedtonature.Asyouknow,darling,I’veneveraspiredtoharmonywithnature.I’mperfectlycontenttobeaparasiteuponit!’Shepulledbackalittle,as

thoughremindingherselftotakethequestionseriously.‘It’shardtolivewithsomeonewhoisalwaysdisappointed,’shesaid.‘Hehatedthatjob,andheblamed

me–IthinkhefeltthatI’dtrappedhiminit.PerhapsIshouldhavetriedtogetajobofmyown,but,Idon’tknow…I’mnotsureitwouldhavemadeanydifference.Andweshouldneverhavestayedinthatlonely,spookyhouse,withMatthewalways,always,alwaysthere.Andtheweather!Jesus!Ijustwantedtobesafelybackonthe

Londonborderswherethereisnoweather.‘But,’shesaidearnestly,

‘therewasnoaffair.Therewasnothoughtofanaffair.Itwasn’talovelessmarriage.Itwasjustanunsuccessfulone.YourfatherandIweresimplyamismatch.Itneveroccurredtomethatitmightbepossibletodoanythingaboutit.’

Wesatinsilenceforsometime.ThenIsaid,‘Itwastheview,probably.Itfoolseveryone.YoushouldhaveseenEdwhenhecamedown.You’dhavethoughtsomeonehadslippedhimadrug.’Mumlaughed.‘Yes,’she

said.‘Ithinkyou’reright.AndthenIalwaysfeltslightlycheated,asifI’dwokenfromanenchantment

tofindmyselfknee-deepinmud.’

35.

Itwastime.Iwasready.Icountedthechurchbells

throughoutthenightuntil,atfour,dazedbyinsomnia,Iwentdownstairsandsatinthedarkinthekitchen.Soon,Corwinfollowed.Wefoundthatweweretalkingin

hushedvoices,asthoughwedidn’twanttowakeoursleepingrage.Itwasstilldarkwhenwe

leftThornton,anddawnwasbreakingasweparkedthecarandsetoffdownthelane.Atthefarmyard,thecowslumberedtowardsusand,suddenly,wewalkedrightintohim,drivingthemtowardsthemilkingsheds.

Hewishedusgoodmorning,surprised,perhaps,toseewalkersoutsoearly,buthedidn’tseeusforwhowewereunderourwinterwrappings.Hewastreadingslowly,likethecows,afamiliarpaththatallowednomarginfortheunexpected.Whenwereachedthe

woodswestopped.Myheartwasthudding.Hehadspoken

tous.Wehadheardhisvoice.IlookedatCorwin.Hewasshakenandturnedtoleanagainstatree,pressinghisforeheadintothebark.Atourfather’shutIsaton

thedoorstep,listeningtothestream,thewakingbirds,thechickensgentlyclucking.Corwinwaspacing,bracinghimself.Allatoncehestopped.‘Ican’tdoit!’he

said.‘Youhavetodoitonyourown.’‘Noway,’Isaid.‘Calm

down.Weagreed.’‘No,’hesaid.‘Ican’tdo

it.’Hebeganagaintostrideupanddown.‘Ifeel…’Helookedatmeimploringly.‘Ifeel…Shit!IthinkImightharmhim.Ijustwanttokillhim.Ijustwanttofucking

killhim.AndIthinkImight.IthinkImight.’‘Coward!’Isaid.‘Fuckoff

backtothecar,then.I’llmeetyouthere.’Iwatchedhimdisappear

intothewoodsandsatbackdown.Iwassurprisedtofindthat,asmyangerwithCorwinsubsided,Ibegantofeelverypeaceful,verypatient.Iwasapprehensive,

obviously,butsuffusedwithasenseofexpectancythatgavethemorningapleasantglow.Imusthavesatforacoupleofhours,becauseaweaklightwascomingthroughthetopbranchesofthefruittreesbythetimeIsawhimcomeoutofthewoods.Hesawmesittingthere,andwalkedtowardsmewithhisquestioningeyebrows,and

stillIsatandlookedathim.AndthenIsaw,inhiseyes,thequizzicallookofhalf-recognition,thenthefullglimmerofunderstanding,butIdidn’tsayanything.Andhewalkedrightpastme,whereIsat,andwentintohishouseandshutthedoor.SoIwaited.Afterabouttenminutes,

thedooropenedagain.My

fathersaid,‘I’msorry.Pleasecomein.’Ifollowedhimintothe

house.Hesaid,‘Please.Takeaseat.’Isatdown.Hesatopposite

meandlaidhishandsonthetable.Hestilltakescareofhishands,Ithought.Andrememberedhimcarefullywashingandcreamingthem

aftermanualwork,‘SothatIcanplay,’heonceexplained.StillIwaited,whilehe

lookedatme.Heissearchingmyface,Ithought.ButIwon’tlethimfindanything.Hetookadeepbreath,and

said,‘Youwillhavetoexcuseme.Ihavelostthehabitofspeech.’Iwaited.Ithought:Lethim

speak.I,too,canbe

implacable.Iammagnificentinmyhatredofhim.IamBoudiccainherchariot.Thereareknivesonmywheels.Outside,thewintersolstice

hadpassedandtherewasthekerneloftheideaofspring.FromwhereIsatIlookedoutontoaplumtree,perfectlycentredinthewindow.Thisiswhathedoes,Ithought.He

sitshereandcansensethebudforminginthebark.Hewatchesthistreeallyear.Andthenthenextyear.Itissufficientforhim.‘Howdidyoufindme?’he

saidatlast.‘Themap.’Henodded–ofcourse,the

map.‘Matthewpaintedyouasa

viper,’Isaid.

Henoddedagain.Thenasked,heavily,carefully,‘HowisMatthew?’‘Dead,’Isaid.Iadmitto

enjoyingthat,inflictingpain.Ienjoyedmyfather’sflinch.‘Howdidheknow?’I

asked.Thequestiontooksome

timetopenetratehisgrief.Hewascrying,silently,forthedeathofhisfather.Hedrew

backonhispain,forcedavoice:‘Isenthimagridreference.’‘When?’‘Notlongafter…’Hewaslookingforaword,

anameforthepointbetweenBeforeandAfter,buttherewasonlyonepoint–thepoint:therewasnoneedtonameit.

‘Why?’Iasked.‘Whydidyouwanthimtoknow?’‘Forthemap,’hesaid.‘I

thoughtthathewouldknowandthathewouldneeditforthemap.’‘That’snotgoodenough,’I

saidpleasantly.Hetriedagain.‘Ithought,’

hesaidslowly,‘thathewouldknow,andthathewouldthinkitwashisfault.Wehad

beenalittle…estrangedforacoupleofyears,andIthoughthewouldunderstandthatIhadsettled.Thatitwasallright.’‘Thatitwasallright?’I

repeated.‘Interestingchoiceofwords!Didheeverseekyouout?’‘No.Ijustsenthimthegrid

reference.Nowords.Nothingelse.’Anappealformedon

hisface.Hewasabouttoexpressit.Iheldupmyhandtostophim.‘Onceortwice,’hesaid,‘I

thought,perhaps,thattherewassomeonewatchingme.Ithought,perhaps,thatMatthewwasthere.Butitwasjustafeeling.Nothingmore.’Thetearsdrippedoffthe

endofhisnose–forhis

father.Notforme.Ihadneverseenhimcry–almost,thattime,whenMatthewsoldtheland.Buthehadstoppedhimselfthen.Now,apparently,heallowedhimselfeverything.Hewipedhisfaceandsaid,‘Where’sCorwin?WasthathimandyouIpassedatthefarm?’Isaid,‘WhatshouldIcall

you?Ican’tcallyou“Dad”.’

‘John,’hesaid.‘MynameisstillJohn.’‘Ofcourse,’Isaid.‘Well,I

shallcallyouJohn.Well,John,IthinkIwouldlikeacupoftea.’Helookedatmethen,as

thoughrememberingsomethinghedislikedaboutme–mytendencytoflippancy,perhaps.ButIwantedacupoftea,andI

wantedtowatchhim,seewhathewasmadeof,whatheldhimup.‘Ofcourse,’hesaid,and

stoodupandwenttothelargejuginwhichhestoredwater.Ithought:Everymorninghedrawswaterandhesaystohimself,Iamdrawingwaterfrommystream.Inthehazeofhismemoryistheactionofturningonatapwithits

effluenceofchemicallyalteredwaterandthisactoftakingwaterfromthestreamisakintoamorningprayerofthanks.Hepouredintohiskettletheamountofwaterrequiredforacupofteaandatop-upeach.This,Ithought,isthesameabouthim,thewayhemeasureswaterintothekettle.Heplacedthe

kettleontherangeandwewaitedforittoboil.‘I’msurprised,’Isaid,‘that

youpermityourselftea.’‘Somethings,’hesaid,‘I

can’tproducemyself.Ihavetowork.Ihelpoutwiththecows.It’simpossibletodocompletelywithoutmoney.Therearerates.Ican’trisktheattentionofnotpayingthem.Ibuyoil,flour,tea.I

foundthatIwasunabledowithouttea.’Ileftthatsentencetofloat

abouttheroomwithallthethings–thepeople–thathehadfoundhimselfabletodowithout.Hetookthepottothe

kettleandwarmeditandcountedoutthreeteaspoonsofthepreciousteaforwhichhehadmilkedhowevermany

cowsatdawn.Pedant!Ithought.Fuckyou!Thatisyourlegacytous?Yourpedantry?Theparsingoftealeaves?Itwaspleasant,though,

thisslowlife–Iwaspreparedtogranthimthat.Idrankhisteawithoutaskingifheallowedhimselfsugar.Iassumedthathedidn’t.

‘Sothiswasit,’Isaid.‘Yourdream?Youjuststeppedofftheworld?’Hesaid,‘Willyoutellme

aboutCorwin?Aboutyourmother?’‘No,’Isaid.‘You’redead.

Thedeaddon’taskquestions.Whathappensisthatthelivingsendoutsoundings,andechoescomebackfromtheOtherSide.’

‘Ihadforgotten,’hesaid,‘yourcynicism.Yourinabilitytovalueanythingthatcan’tbeexpressedinapithysentence.’‘Andnow,’Isaid,‘you

remember!Doghostsremember?Oraretheysimplytrappedmemories?AmIthiswaybecauseyouremembermelikethis,overandoveragain?No,John!

Don’tanswer.I’mnotlookingforyouropinions.Ihaveasetofquestions.Iwillaskthem.Youwillanswer.AndthenIwillgo.’Andthis,Ithought,is

differentabouthim:hehasforgottenhowtosmile–itistooarduous,thisbeingdead,evenifhebelievesthathehascorrectedhimself.Anddespitehiscareofthem,his

handsarecoarser,theknucklesbeginningtoswell.Andhehastheskinofapeasant,whichperhapsishissecretvanity.‘Verywell,’hesaid.‘Ask.’‘I’lltellyouthis,’Isaid.

‘ButonlybecauseIwantyoutoknowit:theseareourquestions,mineandCorwin’s.’Henodded.

‘Thefirstquestionis:how?’Helookedsurprisedthat

thiswasmyfirstquestion–thetechnicalitiesratherthantheemotions.Hehadtothink.Thenhesaid,‘Ihadoftenthoughtaboutit.Sincechildhood.Whetherornotitcouldbedone.Iwasprettysurethatitcould.’

Hestopped.Itwasalotofspeech.Hewasn’tsurethathehadthestaminatocontinue.‘MayIaskyouonequestion?’hesaid.‘Youmay,’Isaid.‘ButI

maynotanswerit.’‘Howdidyouknowtolook

forme?’‘That,’Isaid,‘isalong

story.Andwedon’thavetimeforit.But,’Irelented,

‘inanutshell:JohnGreenaway.’Helookedrelievedthen.

Hesaid,‘Soyouknow.’‘No,’Isaid.‘Idon’t.You

havetotellme.’Heclosedhiseyes–his

sterngreyeyesthatadmittedofnocolourotherthangrey,sothatlifewasalwaysinearnest.Itwasarelieftoseehimblindandnottohaveto

returnhisgaze.Hesaid:‘Ihadn’tplannedit.Ihadalwayswonderedaboutthatjump,whetheritcouldbedone,orwhetherJohnGreenawaywassimplyagreatromancer.AndthenthereIwas,standingontheedgeoftheoverhang,lookingdown.Itwassuchacalmtide.Ihadneverseenatidelikeit,amirrortide.It

seemedlikeaninvitation.Ihadfiftypoundsinmypocket–Ican’trememberwhy.Irememberthinking:Thatwilldo.’Heopenedhiseyes.‘Idid

thinkaboutmychildren,’hesaid,asthoughIwasn’toneofthem.‘Yes,Idid.Ithoughtabouthowtheyhadoutgrownmeandthatthatwasonlynatural.AndIthoughtabout

mywife.Ithought:Icanfreeher.Shemightstopbeingsosad.Itwassuchawaste,hersadness.Shewasn’tbuiltforit.IthoughtaboutMatthew,ofcourse.Iworriedabouthim.’Isaid,‘Gosh!You’vebeen

rehearsingthat,haven’tyou?’Helookedgrey,spent.I

allowedhimsomerecoverytime.

‘Youdidn’tgoveryfar,’Isaid.‘It’salmostinsulting–justpoppingaroundthecornertobuyahut!’‘Whenmymotherknew

thatshewasdying,shegavemesomemoney.Justforme.Itwasoursecret.BythenitwasobviousthatyourmotherandIwere…incompatible–thatIwouldneverpersuadehertoshareinmydreams.

AndIputthemoneyaway,inanaccount.Nooneknewaboutit.NotevenMatthew.Ithought,WhenIhavemylandI’lluseitasseedmoney.‘Andthen,whenMatthew

soldtheland,Itookoutthemoneyandclosedtheaccountandboughtthis.Forme.Mysanctuary.Iboughtitincash,fromanoldfarmer,withoutalawyer.Myoldnameison

thedeeds.Thentheoldfarmerdied,nooneknewmehere,nooneknewIhadtheland.IjuststartedcallingmyselfJohnGreenaway.’‘Soyoudidplanit?’‘No.Idon’tthinkso.Ijust

wantedsomewhereforme.Somewheresafe.AndIusedtocomehereregularlytorenovatethehut,clearthe

garden.Iplantedthefruittrees.’‘Soyou’vebeenhereall

thetime?’Henodded.‘Andyou’veneverbumped

intoanyonewhoknewyou?’‘No,’hesaid.‘Ilimitmy

movements.Andpeoplearelikerats.Theymovealongruns.NoneofthepeopleIknewcomeouthere.Their

runsdon’textendoutintotheselanes.’Ilaughed.‘Soyounever

evenleftMatthew’scircle.Youwenttoallthattroublesimplytocomehere!Why?’‘Hesoldtheland!’ItwastheclosestIhad

everheardhimcometoshouting.Hecomposedhimself.‘Ibeggedhimnotto.Afterthat,therewasnothing

leftforme.Iwasn’tinterestedinthehouse–allthatstuff.Thingsandmorethings.Idon’tknowhowithappened,butValerieandIwereindifferentcamps:mywifeandherradioandhertelevision,theconstantstreamofbanalities.Andithasonlygotworse.Iseehowithasbecome.Peoplewalkingalong,talkinginto

theair,likemorons.Everyonehasquiteforgottenhowtolookabout.Nooneseesanything.Iwasabsolutelyrighttotakerefuge.’‘Butyoucan’tdo

completelywithoutpeople.WesawyouplayingintheWhiteHart.’‘Ican’tdocompletely

withoutmusic.’

‘So,’Isaid,afterawhile.‘Youdespisedyourwife.Youthoughtyourchildrenwereinanincestuousrelationship.Yourfatherwouldn’tgiveyouyourperfectfifteenacres,soyoujumpedoffacliff.Youdidn’tthink,forexample,thatdivorcemightbealessdrasticoption?’‘Stop!Please.Stop.’Istopped.

‘Whatdidyouthink,’Iaskedfinally,‘youweredoing?’‘Ididn’tplanit,’hesaid

pleadingly.‘Ijustjumped,andthenIthought,Icouldhavesomepeace.Ijustwantedsomepeace.Ithoughtwecouldallhavesomepeace.Divorce–it’ssomessy.Peoplearesomessy.’

‘What?Youthinkyoudidn’tleaveamess?’Iwasincredulousnow.Itmitigatedmyrage,mydisgust.Herallied,straightenedup,

said,‘Ithought–Istillthink–thatgriefisbetterthanslow,torturousalienationbetweenpeoplewhohavelovedeachother.’Iwasstunnedbythe

neatnessofhisself-

exoneration.Corwinwasright–hehadn’tfakedhisowndeath,hehadfakedours.Iwanted,foraheartbeat,toscreamthisintohisface,butIstoppedmyself.Heshouldhavenothingfromus–notourthoughts,notevenouranger.Isaid,‘Youhaven’tused

mynamesinceIarrived.Sayit.Yougaveittome.’

‘No,Ididn’t,’hesaid.‘Thatwasyourmother’sidea.Shewasover-compensatingfornotbeinglocal.ShewantedyoutohaveWestCountrynames.MatthewexplainedtoherthatitwouldbefalsetogiveyouCornishnames.Youcanimagine.Thatabsolutelysethermindinopposition.IwantedtocallyouAnne,aftermymother,

andCorwin,James,aftermygrandfather.Thosearerealnames.’Iwasgladofthisnoteof

bitterness.Itallowedmetoleave.‘Younevergotagoat,’I

said,standing.‘Youalwayswantedagoat.’‘Ihadoneforawhile,’he

said,takingmyquestionseriously.‘Buttheyare

unrulyanimals.Itkeptchewingeverything.’Hehadnosenseof

humour,Irealized.Iwonderedifhehadeverhadone.‘Onelastquestion,’Isaid.Helookedupatmeandnodded.‘DidyouseetheDevilinthewater?’Hehadtothinkaboutthis.

Thenhesaid,‘Ididn’tseehim,butImethimthere.’

‘I’mgoingnow,’Isaid.‘Youwon’tseemeagain.’‘Yes,’hesaid.‘Goodbye.’Hedidn’tstandtoseeme

out.

Ihadbeentherealongtimeforsofewwords.Thesunhadmovedabovethehut.Ileftthemanwhoonce,seventeenyearsbefore,hadbeenmyfather,butwhohad

notbeensincethen.Ifeltnothingforthepersonsittinginthehut.Corwinwaswaitinginthe

car.Igotin.‘Youdrive,’Isaid.‘AndI’lltellyouonthewayhome.’

36.

Theimaginaryfallingmanpickeduphisfiddleandstretchedouthisarms.Helaughedandtippedhimselfforwardintotheair.Hehadn’tplannedtojump.Simply,hefoundhimselfstandingthereontheedgeof

theoverhang,lookingdownontothebowlofwaterandtheseawascallingtohim.Bobwassinkingtoasittingposition,abouttopassout.Johnhadseenhimdothatmanytimesbefore.Onceout,hewouldbeoutforawhile.JohnGreenawayhad

survivedit–ifhewastobebelieved.Andhehadnotknown,asJohnVentondid,

thatthiswasatube,ahollow–therewerenorocksdirectlybeneath–andthatonaspringtide,suchasthisone,thewaterwasdeepanddescendedtosand.Johnknewthisbecausehekneweverylastfoldintherockonthatstretchofcoastline.Hemightstilldie,of

course.Butanyonemightdie.Itwouldnotbesuchabad

thing.Andhemightlive,andthatwouldbemostinteresting.Thenhecoulddecide.HecouldcontinuetobeJohnVenton,orhemightbeaghost,moveinvisiblythroughtheworld.Nothingwouldattachtohim.Hewouldbefreetolook,tothink,andnottospeak.Whataboonthatwouldbe–toshedtheweightoflanguage.

Bobwaslyingonhisback,laughingatthemoon.Itwasimportanttoleanforward,asthefallwouldrotatehimbackwards.JohnVentonpushedofftheedge.Hefeltnothingashefell,

andthoughtthatthismightalreadybedeath.Theysaythatapersoniskilledbythefallitself.Perhapsheandhisbodyhadalreadyparted,

whichwouldbeasurprise,becausehedidnotbelieveinalifeseparatefromthebody.Thefiddlefellfromhishand.Someinstincttoldhimtostraightenout,andhesentthatmessagetohisbody,which,indeed,respondedandhefixedhisarmstohissidesandpushedouthislegsandenteredthewaterfeetfirst.Foramomenthewas

suspended,hewasunderandinandofthesea.Heputhisheadbackandlookedatthemoonthroughthewater,brokenintoamillionsilverfragmentsbyhisimpactonthesurface.Andthenhisbodybegantoriseandashereachedtheairapaininhisribstoldhimthathestillinhabitedhisbody.Heswambacktowardsthecliffface,

wherehewouldbeobscuredbytheoverhang.Thiswasinstinctive,hedidnotthinkaboutitinthosetermsatthetime.Therehefeltaboutforahold–despitethecalmofthetide,theseawasbuffetinghimagainsttheshardsofrock,andforthefirsttimehefeltpanic.Itwasnotsoeasytodie,afterall.Notaslowdeathbyabrasion.Butthe

paniccametohisaid.Hefoundafootholdunderthewater,andasortofseatwherehemightperchandwraphisarmaroundarockandwaitforthetidetogoout.Heclungthere,andexperiencedsomethinglikesleep.Inhisdreamhewasfoundandreturnedhome,andself-pitywelledupfromhis

navellikebileandburnedhisthroat.Thenhestartedawake.Therecedingtidewas

showingapatchofsandbelowwherehesat,agoodtwentyfeetabovethebaseofthecliff.Heclimbedcarefullydownthecliffface.Thesunwascomingup.Whenhecametorestonthesoftsandthekneesofhisjeanswereshreddedandhisfingertips

werebleeding.Hesatforafewminutesbeforepushinghimselfawkwardlyontohishandsandknees,andfromtheretoastandingposition.Andthenhesaw,asthoughtheseahadaffirmedhisact,thattwentyyardsawayontheseaweedtide-linelayhisfiddlecase.Theinstrumentwouldberuined,but,outofhabit,hepickeditup.

Alreadythefreakstillnessofthatnighthadpassedandtherewerewavesontheoutgoingwater.Thespringtidehadpeeledsofarbackthatallhehadtodowaswalkalongtheshiningdarksandandmakehiswaycarefullyovertherocks.ThenhewalkedacrossThorntonMouth,leavingatrailoffootprintsontherippled

surfaceofthesand,asthoughheweretheonlyinhabitantofthisshore.Hewalkedon,pastthecabinwhereCorwinandIslept,andonandupontothecoastpath.Hekeptonwalkinginhiswetclothesbutheremovedhisshoesandwalkedbarefoot,turninginland,pastthecowsmovingtowardsthemilkingsheds,pastthetouristssleepingin

theircaravans,invisibleatlast.

37.

Corwinwassilentashedrove.Italkedandhelistened.WhenwegotbacktoThorntonhewentdowntothecabinforafewhours.Whenhecamebackhe

said,‘It’snotenough.Howcouldyousitthereandnot

speak?Heshouldknow!Heshouldknowwhathe’sdone.Whatit’scostus.’‘Therewasnothingtosay,’

Isaid.‘Iftherewassomethingyouwantedtosay,youshouldhavestayed.’‘Youcan’tjust

disconnect!’heshouted.‘Youcan’tjuststopandturninonyourself!We’reallconnected.Weareall

responsibleforeachotherorwearenothing.’‘Youshouldhavestayed,’I

said.‘Thenyouwouldrealize.Heisnothing.Hehasnothingtodowithus.’‘Iwanthimtopay,

somehow.Hestoleseventeenyearsfromus.’‘It’snotlikeyoutobeso

vengeful,’Isaid.

‘Iwentawayandstayedaway,’hesaid,‘becausethatwasthelastthingmyfatheraskedofmebeforehedied.Togoawayuntilmyrelationshipwithmysister“correcteditself”.’‘Youdidn’ttellmethat

bit.’‘Well,I’mtellingyounow.

Itwasmyfather’sdyingwish

–onlyhedidn’tfuckingdie.Iwanthimtosuffer.’‘Heissuffering,’Isaid.

‘We’vepuncturedhisdream.Hecan’tdreamitanymore.’

WhenIgotupthenextday,Corwinwasgonewiththecar.Iwentdowntothechurchtosittherequietlyandreadthememorialtablets:thenovelstheycontained,the

pottedtragedies.Ithoughtaboutmyfatherreadingthem,andMatthew:theonewithitslitanyofdeadsonsendingwiththeextinctionofa‘mostantientandrespectablefamily’;thecouplewhohadmarriedtherebut‘diedinSouthAfricawheretheylieinwidelyseparatedgraves’;thesoldier‘whoreceiveda

woundatWaterloo’;andtheonethatwarns:See.See.Spectators,and

beholdWhetheryou’reyoungor

whetheroldWhatyouintimemustbeForStrengthnorBeauty

cannotsaveNorwealthprotectyoufrom

thegraveYoushallbedustlikeme.

IdidthatbecauseIknewthatIwasdonewithThornton,now.Iwouldbeleavingthecircle.Iwentdowntothecabintosaygoodbyetothesea,stoppedatthewarmemorialonthewaybackandrecitedthenamesoutloud.Corwinshowednosignofcomingback,soIorderedataxitotakemetothestation.Twoevenings

laterhephoned.Hesaid,‘It’s

allright.I’vethoughtitthrough.Ihaveclarityagain.’Ididn’taskhimwherehe

hadbeen.

Wesoldthehouse,butwithoutthecabin.WegavethecabintoSandrasothatshecoulddoitupandrentitouttoholidaymakers–itseemedaptthatsheshouldhaveit.Wedonatedthe

contentsofMatthew’sstudytoTheSandsMuseumandauctionedoffeverythingelse,apartfromthemap,ofcourse,andthecursespirit–wethoughtwemightneedhisprotection.AndweboughtanicelittleterracedhouseincentralLondonnottoofarfromthebindery,sothatCorwincanhavesomewhereinEnglandtocomebackto.

AndIhavedrawnacirclearoundmyself,butnottootightly.Iwillpermitmyselftoleaveitnowandagain.IthinkImightgotoZürich.PerhapsIwillvisitCorwininAfrica.PerhapsIwillevengoonmyowntoChile.IlikethesoundofChile–itishardtobetoofarfromtheseathere.IamreadingNeruda,justincase.

ButIkeptthinkingaboutwhatCorwinsaid:thatourfathershouldknowthecost.Ithought,perhaps,hewasright.Wehadlethimofftoolightly.SoIwroteitdown.ForJohnGreenaway.Sothathemightknow.

Iwon’tbindit.Iwillprintitoutonunbleachedeco-friendlycopierpaperandtie

itupwithjutestring,andperhaps–butonlyperhaps–Iwillgoatnightandleaveitonhisdoorstep,andthen,whenheisdonewithit,orifhedoesnotcaretoreadit,orif,foranyreason,hehasdisappearedfromthere,itwillcompostnicely.

Acknowledgements

Iowethankstoreadersofearlystagesofthisbookfortheirinsightandencouragement:KatieBurns,LeoKlein,RalphRochester,SophieRochester,SibylleSänger,LydiaSlaterand,especially,MartinToseland,

whocanalwaysbereliedupontore-orientmewhenmywritinggoesastray.IamindebtedtoKateRochester,forbringingherbook-bindingexpertisetothemanuscript,andtoPeterMoffatfordrawingmyattentiontoRobertFrost’spoem‘NeitherOutFarNorInDeep’.Thanksalsotomyagent,

theunstoppableKarolina

Sutton,andtoNorahPerkinsatCurtisBrown;tomydeftandtactfuleditor,MaryMount;andtoHazelOrmeforherincisivecopyedit.Foreverythingelsethat

matters,IthankScottandInês.

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Firstpublished2015

Textcopyright©JuliaRochester,2015

CoverartbyMarkHearld

Themoralrightoftheauthorhasbeenasserted

Gratefulacknowledgementismadeforpermissiontoreproducelinesfrom‘NeitherOutFarNorInDeep’and‘StoppingbyWoodsonaSnowyEvening’fromThePoetryofRobertFrostbyRobertFrost,publishedbyJonathanCape,

reprintedbypermissionofTheRandomHouseGroupLimited

ISBN:978-0-241-97170-3