Читать книгу Sea Music - Sara MacDonald, Sara MacDonald - Страница 10

Evensong is over and Lucy is helping Barnaby put Martha to bed. Fred is perfectly capable of managing himself, but he cannot manage Martha any more and it upsets him. Her grandparents have single beds now, near enough to touch, to hold hands in the night, but not to disturb each other’s sleep.

Martha always goes to bed first and Lucy will sit and hold her hands, check her hot-water bottle, give her her pills, talk to her and marvel at her still-beautiful face. Martha has always worn pretty linen nightdresses, and somehow, once she is in bed she relaxes, her face loses its anxious look and smoothes into a tiny unlined child’s face. Suddenly coherent, she will tell Lucy long rambling tales of building this house, of starting the garden from scratch. Of meeting Fred in London. Of love at first sight.

Fred will appear out of the bathroom, bathed and immaculate in pyjamas and dressing gown, and say politely but firmly to Lucy, ‘Good night, child.’

It is her signal to leave them. She will bend and kiss her grandmother, who twines her thin arms round Lucy’s neck. ‘Oh, my darling, how I love you!’

‘I love you too, Gran. Sleep well. Good night.’

She bends to her stooped grandfather. ‘Good night, Gramps. God bless.’

‘God bless, child.’

Every night it is the same. Barnaby comes then to tuck them in, to stand at the end of their beds, to say a good night prayer.

‘Good night, darling Barnaby,’ his mother whispers, eyes closed, half asleep.

‘Good night, Mum.’

‘Good night, old chap,’ his father says.

‘Good night, Dad. Sleep well.’

The security of ritual. Barnaby shuts the bedroom door and leans against it. ‘Sans everything,’ he breathes. Fred will fall into a deep and heavy sleep, but Martha could get up a dozen times and wander about during the evening.

Lucy is pouring them both a glass of wine and they sit together in silence, drinking. All week she has wanted to ask Barnaby about the box she found in the attic. She has never had secrets from him, but she looks at his drained and exhausted face and is silent.

After a while she says, ‘Barnes, you can’t go on like this. Sundays are hell for you. You need weekend carers now, not just old Mrs B. for a few hours. You are going to need round-the-clock help soon.’

She hesitates, then says miserably, ‘You know that interview I went up to London for, teaching foreign students? Well, I got the job.’

‘Lucy, that’s marvellous.’ Barnaby leaps up and kisses her. ‘You clever girl. I’m so pleased for you. Just think, you’ll be able to use your degree and earn some decent money.’

‘Well, the pay is not brilliant, but the best thing about it is that I can go and teach in Italy for three months. But how are you going to cope on your own? It’s going to get worse with Gran.’ She gets up and pours more wine into Barnaby’s glass.

‘I don’t start the job for a couple of months, but Tristan wants me to spend his leave with him before he goes. It means I would have to leave quite soon …’

‘Lucy,’ Barnaby says firmly, ‘how I manage is not your responsibility. You’ve got your own life to lead.’ He is watching her closely. He suspects Lucy is anxious about leaving Cornwall and the security of this household. ‘It will be fun for you to live in London for a while; it doesn’t have to be for ever. It will be a great adventure and much easier for you and Tristan to be together when he gets back from Kosovo. I’ll miss you enormously, you know that, Lu. You’ve been wonderful these last few months, but there is a world out there waiting for you.’

Lucy bursts into tears. ‘I don’t think I should go. I should be here, near my family. I don’t think you dare admit you need more help with Gran and Gramps. I feel sick just thinking of leaving you.’

Barnaby is startled because this is so unlike Lucy. ‘Then I’ve been very wrong and relied on you too much. I’d feel mortified if you thought you couldn’t get on with your own life, Lu, or that you might be influenced by my needs or those of Martha and Fred. I understand how you feel about Cornwall, but there’s always going to be a home for you here. You have your whole life ahead of you with a man you love, who thinks the light shines out of your bottom.’

Lucy gives a watery grin, then giggles. ‘True. But, Barnes, will you please, please think about getting live-in help? It doesn’t have to be through the agency. There must be retired nurses, people like that. You could move into the cottage, have a bit of space and peace. You need it.’

‘Lucy, round-the-clock care is very expensive. The only way we could begin to afford it would be to rent out the cottage again. Don’t forget the cottage does not just belong to me; Anna and I share it.’

‘Well, Mother will bloody well have to help financially. It’s about time she took some responsibility. Barnaby, you must have some life, somewhere to shut yourself away. You’ll go mad with carers here all the time –’

‘Lucy,’ Barnaby interrupts, ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself. Just think what you want to do, what will make you happy, and do it.’

The phone goes suddenly, making them both jump. Barnaby’s heart sinks; he knows who it will be.

‘That will be Anna,’ Lucy says, ‘with a guilty Sunday duty call. Don’t let her get to you, Barnes.’

But Barnaby is already tense, and listening to Anna’s firm, confident voice puts him more on edge. She is about to take a short break and would like to come down with Rudi to see Martha and Fred. She presumes it will be all right if they stay in the house as she would rather not inflict the cottage and Lucy’s lack of hygiene on Rudi.

Barnaby swallows his annoyance. ‘Anna, it’s not all right, I’m afraid. The carers arrive early. There is chaos in the mornings with only one bathroom. You’ll also find Martha and Fred very confused, especially with anyone they don’t know. I’m sorry, but it’s not fair on the carers, and I couldn’t cope with two extra people in the house either. Could you come down on your own this time and stay at the cottage? It’s some time since you last saw Martha and Fred and I’m afraid you will notice a difference.’

Anna is annoyed and snaps back at him, ‘You are evidently finding it difficult to cope, Barnaby. You should have let me know. It’s obviously time we thought about a home. We’d better talk about it when I come down.’

Barnaby explodes. ‘We most certainly will not! I can’t believe you are even suggesting it, Anna. Come down and see for yourself before you start making comments like that. I’ll get Lucy to tidy the cottage before you arrive.’

He waves at Lucy to be quiet. She is jumping up and down and punching the air, sticking her thumbs up to the sky.

‘Of course I haven’t any objection to you coming down with Rudi …’ Barnaby takes a deep breath. ‘It’s just that if you come down on your own, you could spend a little time with Martha and Fred, Anna. Have a holiday with Rudi another time. Fred, especially, will appreciate you coming. Please think about it and let me know. Good night.’

Barnaby finds he is trembling with weariness and suppressed rage as he replaces the receiver. Anna continues to be one of the most self-centred people he has ever come across.

Lucy is still hopping up and down. ‘She is such a totally selfish human being,’ she echoes. ‘Don’t tell me it’s wrong to dislike my own mother sometimes, Barnes. She makes me furious. Does she ever ask you how you are? Does she, hell! Thank God you stood your ground. She’s got such a bloody cheek. Sorry, I’m knackered … Got to go to bed …’ Lucy wilts, suddenly exhausted.

Barnaby kisses her good night. ‘Sleep well,’ he says drily. ‘Having a vicar as an uncle has done nothing to improve your language.’

He watches her walk across the damp grass and disappear through the little gate to the cottage. How could Anna have produced this child he loves so dearly?

The curlews down on the estuary warble mournfully into the darkness. Startling himself, Barnaby admits suddenly that he too can actively dislike his sister. Not only does he wish her in outer Mongolia, but he realises he has always felt like this.

Martha’s memories, so long suppressed and left behind, are beginning to surface slowly and slyly, like bubbles. Time for Martha has become meaningless. Past and present merge and blur. Voices and faces pass like shadows across her mind, throwing up long-forgotten lives. Those lives seem so real to Martha, so near, as if she can open a door and move into the rooms of her past life once more. Those far-gone lives of her childhood draw her back with long tentacle arms, to enfold her in their sense of nearness.

She reaches out to touch the fleeting sleeve of a dress, the rough tweed of a jacket. She smells fresh bread in the oven. She sees faces she loves bending to her, smiling, chiding her wildness. With longing, she lifts her head to feel their breath upon her cheek, turns to catch the sound of faint laughter and the warmth of a hand.

She listens to the wind rattling the long windows so that the sound echoes through the house, shutting doors with a sudden click, moving the curtains outwards, lifting the rug in little tremors, like ghostly footsteps through the hall.

Mama and Papa are having tea with the German doctor and his wife. Marta and Mama and Papa have travelled from Łódź all the way to Warsaw by train to see him. Marta has been sent into the garden with the doctor’s small boy and the nursemaid. The nursemaid is not watching them, she is flirting with the gardener.

Marta stares at the German boy with fascination. He has the whitest blond hair, very blue eyes and white, white teeth. He is wearing lederhosen and a pale shirt, and his bare arms and legs are brown and smooth as apples. He stares back at Marta disdainfully. He does not like to be sent outside to play with a girl.

Marta stands on the terrace steps, wary and a little frightened, like a small rabbit ready for flight. The boy puts his hands on his hips and, coming closer, looks down at her.

‘How old are you?’ he asks.

‘I am five,’ Marta says, trying to make herself tall.

The boy is pleased. ‘Well, I am older, I am eight. Mutti says I am going to be much taller than my father.’ There is a silence. Then he says in a bored voice, ‘Come, I am going to go and see the horses.’

He turns and marches away towards the stables. Marta follows him. She is afraid of horses, but she is not going to say so.

The horses are standing looking out of their stalls, shaking their great heads against the flies. They are groomed to a shiny perfection, their manes shimmer as they toss their heads.

The boy goes to a big stallion. ‘This is Tylicz, My favourite horse. When I am older I will ride him, but at the moment he is too big and strong.’ He takes an apple out of his pocket and turns to Marta. ‘Here, you may feed him if you like. Give this to Tylicz.’

He is watching her closely and he smiles suddenly. She is growing pale at the thought of approaching that huge mouth. He knows, he knows I am afraid, Marta thinks.

The boy places the apple in her hand and leads her towards Tylicz. Desperately, she tries to hang back, but the boy pulls her sharply forward, tells her there is nothing to be afraid of and lifts her clumsily towards the great head of the horse. Marta screams as his long yellow teeth reach out towards her. She drops the apple and jerks away. The boy loses his balance and lets Marta fall onto the hard stable floor.

He bursts out laughing; he can see she is not hurt and she looks so funny. Marta will not cry. She is angry. She picks herself off the floor, bends and takes the fallen apple, wipes it on the hem of her dress and breaks it into pieces with her teeth. She has remembered something Mama told her and she arranges the pieces on the flat of her hand.

She walks over to Tylicz and, trembling, stands on tiptoe and raises her hand up, up, towards the horse, keeping very still and balancing herself on the door of the stall with her other hand.

Tylicz looks down at her almost as if he is smiling and very slowly and gently he bends over the stable door, craning his neck down to her hand. He can only just reach the apple, only just brush her hand with his whiskery mouth. He tickles her open palm, his mouth velvety, as he scoops the apple up, and Marta laughs as he crunches it noisily.

She cannot stop laughing for the relief of not being bitten and the laughter lights up her face and fills her whole being. She is not afraid of this boy. She is not afraid of the horse.

When she turns round the boy is laughing too, and the look in his eyes is no longer scornful. Marta hears Mama calling and they turn together and run across the green lawn, back towards the house. Marta’s head is held high and her back is stiff with triumph.

The boy’s mother is standing with Mama outside the French windows. She reaches down and ruffles the thick blond hair of the boy. She is pretty, Marta thinks, and golden, but she does not smile. Next to her, Mama looks tiny and far more beautiful, with her shiny dark hair and smiling brown eyes.

The German doctor comes out into the garden with Papa, and bends to Marta. ‘Your father and I are old friends, Marta. We studied together. I hope you and my son will be friends also, because your papa has agreed to come and work with me. He is going to build you a house on that land over there that backs on to the forest. Then, you see, he can help me run my clinic.’

Behind the tall doctor, Marta is watching the boy. He is standing with his hands on his hips, feet apart, staring at her with those pale, intense, turquoise eyes. His mother reaches down and whispers something to him. He pulls away embarrassed, shrugs off her hand, and in a little lightning movement kicks out at a garden chair, which collapses with a clatter on top of a little dog, who gives a great yelp and dashes away.

The boy jumps. Marta does not think he knew the dog was there, but she is not sure. It is time to go. Her father takes her hand. She turns and looks over her shoulder. The boy is standing with his blond hair blowing in the wind, still watching her. He seems suddenly alone and strangely beautiful. Exciting. Marta shivers.