A Brief History of Montmaray (11 page)

VERONICA WENT DOWN TO the village early this morning and Mary was waiting for her on George’s doorstep, said he’d been asking for Veronica all night. Veronica didn’t tell me what he said to her – it couldn’t have been much, he was so ill – then Jimmy came in, coughing himself, to sit with his great-great-uncle and ten minutes later, George took his last breath. Neither Veronica nor I can bear to tell Henry just yet. I can’t quite believe it myself. Imagining Montmaray without George is just so...

Well, I’ve just had a good long cry and although my nose is all clogged up again, I feel a bit better. I am madly praying to a God I’m not sure I believe in that George is now floating on a tranquil sea with a good supply of fresh pilchards for bait, a set of unknotted lines, and lots of cloud-cover so the fish can’t see any shadows. That’s a lovely picture. I will try to keep it firmly in my mind now, as I write to Toby and tell him. Veronica has gone back down to the village to help Mary pack up George’s things and clean the cottage.

It is still raining, but slow and steady now. The gale has eased to a stiff breeze. Every now and then, the clouds tear themselves apart and silver shows through. It’s the closest I’ve seen to sunlight in days.

TODAY WE BURIED GEORGE and something very strange happened. I have told and told myself that I was just being fanciful, but I know I wasn’t. It really happened, and I don’t see how it could have. But I’m determined to write it all down – it might help me figure it out.

All right. Today we buried George. There’s no room for a cemetery on the island (and it’s difficult to dig six feet down into solid granite), so all the villagers are buried at sea. I wouldn’t want it for myself, but George loved the sea – at least, he respected it and was grateful to it and I suppose that’s pretty close to love. Veronica, Henry and I walked down to the village after breakfast – rather slowly, as Henry was still coughing and even I felt a bit wobbly after all those days in bed. Rebecca stayed back to look after Uncle John. When we finally arrived, we found Alice and Mary sewing George inside his sailcloth shroud. They’d dressed him in his good trousers and a clean blue shirt, and tied something heavy to his feet to stop him floating (I think it was that broken bit of anchor he used as a doorstop). After they were finished, we carried him to the gig – he weighed hardly anything – and then set off towards South Head in the thickening rain.

It was the most wretched boat trip I’ve ever taken. The wind scooped up armfuls of icy water and tossed it in our faces, meanwhile whipping our hair around so hard that we could barely see. Alice, Mary, Jimmy and I handled the oars. Henry was coughing harder than ever, although she insisted she was fine – and indeed, she looked ten times better than Veronica, who was as white as the shroud. Veronica has always been close to George, but I was surprised at how badly she was letting her grief show. It isn’t like her at all; she’s always been the most stoic of us. And George was nearly a hundred years old, after all. He’d had a full life, a good one, he’d been loved by his family, he’d died quietly, without much pain, watched over by his great-great-nephew. If one has to die, there are far worse deaths than his.

But I didn’t say any of that to Veronica, of course.

We were well past the rocks, out on the deep blue water, when Alice and Mary finally stopped rowing. They looked at Veronica expectantly.

‘Here, then, Your Highness?’ Alice called over the moaning of the wind. Veronica said nothing. I’d expected her to take the lead in the ceremony – I certainly hadn’t a clue what we were supposed to do, other than toss the body overboard – but she merely huddled in the prow, staring at the thrashing sea. Alice and Mary turned their enquiring looks on me. We were all aware that I was a very poor second choice of leader, but I nodded.

‘There’s usually a prayer first,’ Mary whispered. ‘Shall we?’

I nodded again, and she and Alice recited the Lord’s Prayer, Jimmy joining in halfway through after a prod in the ribs from his mother. I mouthed along, but couldn’t help wondering what George would have thought of it. The only time I’d ever heard him mention God was when he’d stepped on a fish hook. I’d never seen him go anywhere near the chapel or say grace at meals or spend Sundays doing anything other than what he usually did. If he’d believed in any god, it would have been Neptune or Poseidon, not the God of the Anglican
Book of Common Prayer.

‘Amen,’ said Alice, Mary and Jimmy.

I was fairly sure that something from the Bible came next – ‘I am the resurrection and the life’ or ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ or ‘O death, where is thy sting?’– but I couldn’t remember what, exactly. Clearly, neither could anyone else. After an awkward pause, Alice and Mary hoisted up the bundle, one at each end. The gig rocked wildly for a moment as we all struggled to retain our balance. Veronica’s arm shot out to steady Henry and I felt my shoulders slump in relief –
now
she had come back to herself, now she would take over. But she still said nothing and suddenly George’s body was overboard, slipping into the sea with barely a splash.

‘Someone ought to say something now,’ Henry said hoarsely between coughs. ‘Something ... special.’

I glanced at Veronica. Her hand was still clenched around Henry’s upper arm, but her face was hidden behind her hair, which the wind had wrenched out of its pins. Everyone but Veronica seemed to be looking at me.

So I stood up, not quite knowing what I would say. I opened my mouth and suddenly it was full of words – Shakespeare’s, not my own, but I thought George might approve, when he’d battled so many storms at sea.

‘Full fathom five, thy father lies,’ I said, ‘of his bones are coral made, those are pearls that were his eyes – nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea change, into something rich and strange. Seanymphs hourly ring his knell...’

My voice was barely audible, even to me, over the wind and the waves.

‘Hark!’ I said, louder. ‘Now I hear them! Ding dong bell!’

Henry tilted her head, as though listening for underwater chimes. Alice reached out for Jimmy and laid a broad hand on his back, nodding at me all the while.

‘That were lovely, Your Highness,’ said Mary. Veronica looked up and gave me a surprised, pleased half-smile, bringing Simon to mind, and I was still basking in the general approval when an enormous wave crashed over the prow. In all the shouting and confusion, one of the oars slid overboard.

‘I’ll get it,’ I yelled, because I was closest. I leant over the side. The oar bucked in the white-green froth, brushing my fingertips.

‘Let me, Your Highness,’ cried Alice, but I’d already curled my hand around the paddle and was dragging it closer.

That was when it happened.

I looked down into the water, still clutching the oar, and suddenly everything went dark. And I
know
I often get a bit faint when I hang my head upside down for a long time, but this was different – I could see, but the noise and the cold seemed far away and I wasn’t even sure if I was still breathing. I felt as though I was in a dream. Then a long, white shape drifted under the boat, under my outstretched arm, and I nearly screamed because I realised I
was
inside a dream,
that
dream, except this time, it was all real.

Of course, the shape was George’s body, not yet sunk in the turbulent water. I knew that. The bundle moved restlessly, the anchor tied to his feet not quite heavy enough to drag his body under. I could see where the stitching of the canvas had started to unravel. Thick dark hair poked out of the top, washing around in the swirling current ... except George hadn’t had any hair, he’d been bald ever since I could remember. I was shivering by then, trying to pull my arm back, but it seemed frozen solid. The waves tossed the bundle up and down, to and fro. All at once, the head flopped out of the cloth, its face lolling to one side, and that was when I saw it clearly.

It was Isabella.

I stared into her dead eyes for an infinite second – and then I was being yanked back into the gig and someone was shouting and I felt a jersey being pulled over my head. The wool smelled of Veronica, of soap and tea and ink.

‘Sorry,’ I gasped. ‘Just ... felt a bit faint.’

Henry unclenched my fingers from the oar and Veronica insisted on rowing back in my stead. The rain had turned to a downpour by then, and I was cold and wet and bone-tired. Shock, I suppose.

Well, I’m not in shock now, eight hours later, sitting up in bed with a blanket round my shoulders and a hot brick at my feet, and I’m
certain
it was Isabella’s face. It wasn’t even how I imagine she must look now, but how she looked years ago, before she left. The face I saw was Veronica’s face, only with a sharper nose, darker eyes, more of a peak where her hair was pulled away from her forehead. Yes, it was Isabella, I
know
it was.

And now – now I understand that it’s been Isabella all along, that
she
has been the thing in my dreams. But what does it mean? It doesn’t make any sense. Firstly, Isabella isn’t dead, and secondly, if she did, by chance, die sometime in the past eight years without anyone informing us, she certainly wasn’t buried at sea off South Head – we’d know if she had been. Unless it’s some sort of prophecy – except she looked so young. Isabella was always very diligent about her lotions and facial massages and so on, but she’d be nearly forty now and the face didn’t look that old.

If this vision (for want of a better word) involved anyone but Isabella, I’d tell Veronica about it – she’d soon talk me back into common sense. Although perhaps not, not in the mood she’s in right now. She’s barely said a word these past few days.

Also, while I remember – another odd thing happened. I came into the bedroom the day George died and Veronica was sitting on her bed with her back to the door, holding a long piece of shiny cloth. Now, I am familiar with every single garment that each of us owns (there are not that many of them and I’ve pretty much taken over doing all the laundry now) and this didn’t belong to either of us, nor to anyone else in the castle. It was too glossy, too richly coloured. Veronica jumped up and disappeared into the bathroom as soon as she heard me, and when she came back, rubbing her towel over her face, there was no sign of the cloth. I didn’t like to ask, but because I have Isabella on my mind, all I can think now is that it was one of
her
dresses. I can almost see her striding along in it, the fabric swishing around her long legs. Veronica must have kept it all this time – but why? Where could she have hidden it (we
do
share a room) and why would it be any comfort to her now in her grief over George, given her poor opinion of her mother?

I have had more than enough of mysteries for one day. I am wary of falling asleep and dreaming, so I’m going to sit up all night (or as much of it as I can manage) and reread
Northanger Abbey.
If any book is able to make dark mysteries seem ridiculous, it’s that one.

POOR JOURNAL, I'VE BEEN neglecting you. But I haven’t felt like writing and nothing much has happened anyway. However, I
have
finally made up my mind to go to England. I haven’t actually told anyone this yet, but there it is, written down in ink. Now I’ll have to go through with it.

You see, I’ve resolved to become Sensible. It’s futile, me trying to set myself against Aunt Charlotte, against family tradition and social custom – and that’s what I’d be doing if I attempted to stay here. It’s all very well for Veronica, but I’m not her.
I’m
not strong-willed or clever. I
want
to go to dances and dinner parties and the theatre and meet eligible young men and fall in love and marry and have children. Well, I don’t particularly want to have children (not if they’re going to turn out like Henry), but the other things sound lovely. I’ll just have to learn to cope with being in a terrifying new situation, so far away from home...

Now that I’ve turned Sensible, I’ve also resolved to restrain my natural tendency toward being fanciful. So I’ve told myself firmly that whatever I thought I saw at George’s funeral was merely my over-active imagination – the result of reading too many Gothic novels, probably. And whenever I’m in the Blue Room and feel invisible fingers trailing down the back of my neck, I will remind myself that it’s merely a draught, as Veronica says.

It’s fortunate I have all my resolutions to occupy me, because Veronica is not a very cheery companion at the moment. She’s never been like Rebecca or Henry, who let the whole world know they’re in a black mood by stomping around, lashing out and shouting. Nor is she like me – I sit in corners and sulk. No, she simply seems ... absent. Yesterday, for example, Rebecca launched into a monologue about Simon’s immense intelligence and natural leadership abilities (I can’t remember what started her off), but Veronica didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow after Rebecca returned to Uncle John’s room.

‘Is Simon going to become something important then?’ said Henry. ‘Is he going to be a solicitor like Mr Grenville? Or a ... a commodore? No, that’s the navy, isn’t it? What’s that gentleman called who used to live in Montmaray House in London and have meetings with their Prime Minister?’

‘Ambassador?’ I offered.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Henry. ‘Is Simon going to be an ambassador for Montmaray? Veronica,
is
he?’

‘No, he’s not,’ said Veronica calmly, writing away at the
Brief History.
‘Montmaray’s ambassadors have always been of
noble
birth.’

‘Veronica!’ I couldn’t help protesting. ‘Remember, “Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood”.’

‘Are you suggesting that Simon Chester has a
kind heart?
’ Veronica asked, still not looking up. ‘Although I’ll allow the simple faith – a simple faith in his own ambition.’

‘What’s a coronet?’ demanded Henry. ‘Soph? What do you mean about Norman blood? Is it to do with battles?’

I
might
have been able to provoke Veronica into an argument about Simon then, if I’d really tried, but by the time I’d finished my explanation to Henry, Veronica had gone off to the library to check the spelling of some long-dead prince’s name and it was too late.

It must be that she’s still upset over George...

But now the supply ship’s been sighted, guessing from the clamour Henry’s making. Will finish this later.

Received from supply ship – two tins of paraffin, a box of dried fruit, a sack of flour, a side of bacon, five skeins of khaki knitting wool, new boots for Henry, what looks like a Christmas hamper from the Stanley-Rosses, another mysterious brown-paper parcel that Veronica hid, although not before I’d seen it, and a letter from Toby:

Dear All,

Aunt C is fussing over her broken foot (an absent-minded horse stood on it at Lord B’s last hunt) and is insisting I spend Christmas with her. I will
try
to get out of it, but she’s madly clingy at the moment. Still in shock, I expect, over ... no, you’ll never guess. King Edward has abdicated! Given up the British throne to marry an American divorcée! Isn’t it too scandalous? Julia says that the unfortunate woman, Wallis Simpson, has actually been divorced twice. Or divorced once and still trying to divorce the second husband, I can’t recall the details. I’ll enclose a newspaper article for you to read. Anyway, Aunt C is appalled by the whole thing.

Lady B is devastated, too – claims she gave the Simpson woman a ‘frank talking to’ at a party in London a few weeks ago and now wishes she’d been even more forceful. I can just see Lady B stomping over, all towering hair and clanking emeralds, to honk at the poor woman. No wonder Mrs Simpson’s decamped to the Continent – I would, too, if that’s what it took to get away from Lady B. All I want to know is – why on Earth would any mother (even an American one) name her baby girl
Wallis?

Anyway, that is the main news here, apart from the Crystal Palace burning to the ground – I don’t suppose you’ve heard about that, either – and the last mutterings of the Talking Mongoose. I meant to send you newspaper clippings about the Mongoose because I knew it would amuse you, but I didn’t get round to it. You see, a Talking Mongoose lives on the Isle of Man – a farmer reported seeing it, said its name was Gef and that it sang nursery rhymes and could talk in several languages. A man called Lambert managed to obtain some blurry photographs and a few hairs as evidence, and wrote a book about it. Then someone suggested Lambert might not be a fit person to be a director of a particular company, given his belief in Talking Mongooses and such. So Lambert sued for libel. And won – more than seven thousand pounds – which just goes to show that Believing In The Incredible pays. And I can just see the steam coming out of your ears, Veronica.

What else? Oh – one of my dorm-mates has joined the British Union of Fascists. He tried to get me to go along to a rally the other week, but all he could come up with by way of argument was that the Fascist leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, is ‘one of us’ and ‘a good, sound chap’. (Oswald Mosley, another odd name for a baby – try saying it five times fast.) Pemberton, my dorm mate, seemed rather confused as to the purpose of the rally – to show support for King Edward, I think we finally established, as the (former) King is rather keen on Hitler. The strange thing is that Ant went to a similar rally last week – he showed me his ‘Long Live Edward, Down with the Government!’ banner, and admitted they got lost on the way to Downing Street and had to ask a policeman for directions. Aren’t the Communists supposed to do the
opposite
of the Fascists? Or is it just that they’re both anti-Government in general? You see, this is why I abhor politics – because it
doesn’t make any sense.

Anyway, I told Pemberton in no uncertain terms that he was being a tremendous bore and that black shirts were very unflattering for someone of his colouring, so he stormed off to rugger training in a huff. I suspect he joined the B.U.F. because he doesn’t get quite enough practice bashing up people on the playing field and thinks Fascist rallies would give him more scope in this area.

Nothing else, except I failed another Latin test. What a pity they don’t offer Kernetin as a subject, I might have a chance of passing a test in that.

P.S. Please, please, use your Christmas pudding wishes to make sure I can come home for Christmas!

This is absolutely typical of Toby. He must have received my letter about George by now, but does he write one word of condolence? No, he does not. Must not ever acknowledge that death exists. Must ensure every serious topic – whether injury to an aunt, royal abdication or political violence – is smothered in hilarity. Froth and fairy floss, that’s what Toby’s letters are.

I sound cross at Toby, and I suppose I am, a little. No, mostly I’m cross at Veronica, who is keeping at least two secrets from me – firstly, the content and origin of all those packages she’s been receiving lately, and secondly, something to do with George. Because I think that’s where she got that mysterious cloth she was clutching – it couldn’t have been in our room all that time. George must have given it to her just before he died. But why would George have kept anything of Isabella’s?

No, this is stupid. I am not going to speculate. If Veronica wishes to tell me anything, I will listen sympathetically, but otherwise I will mind my own business. It’s not as though I don’t have one or two secrets of my own. And I’m certain it would be kinder to keep at least
one
of them from Veronica.

So, back to Toby. He reminds me of our old clown doll, a foot high, round on the bottom and weighted with lead. Henry and Carlos used to try their best to knock it down, but it always bounced straight up again, grinning wildly. That’s Toby. That’s why everyone loves him so. Well, nearly everyone. One of our old tutors, who quickly tired of being on the receiving end of Toby’s jokes, was mad about Freud and insisted that Toby was the most repressed, most neurotic, most in need of psycho-analysis of all of us. We laughed it off (Toby, of course, laughed the hardest). But even though the tutor didn’t know nearly as much about the subject as he thought, he did have a point, because Toby
had
to have been the most affected by our parents’ deaths. He’s the eldest, so he’d known them the longest – he’d once had them all to himself, he was most able to understand what their loss truly meant. And worst of all, he was the one who watched it happen.

Not that he ever said a word about it to us – Veronica and I only found out because we overheard Nanny Mackinnon telling Rebecca. This was weeks later, when Nanny and Toby had returned from Spain and the funeral was over (not that there was anything to bury, but there was a service held in the chapel). You see, Isabella had been invited to a royal wedding in Seville. However, Uncle John was being a bit difficult just then, so it was decided my parents would go instead. Part of their reasoning was that they could take Toby, who used to suffer badly from ear-aches, to consult a doctor. He had his tonsils removed the day before the wedding and was sitting on a balcony, eating a strawberry ice and waving to the golden carriages passing beneath, when the first bomb went off. No one knew it was a bomb at first; everyone thought it was fireworks. There were a lot of people lining the avenue below, as well as hanging off all the balconies and even the rooftops, and they all started clapping and cheering at the noise. Nanny said she remembered shaking her head as the horses shied and whinnied.

‘These Spaniards!’ she thought. ‘Not a care about what all that commotion might do to the poor ponies, as if it weren’t bad enough what they do to those bulls!’

It wasn’t until the second bomb exploded that anyone realised what was happening. The bomb landed on the carriage in which my parents were travelling and blasted away the roof, turning the rest of the carriage into red and gold flames. That was when the police started firing into the crowd. In the ensuing stampede, no one was able to get anywhere near the carriage to rescue the occupants, or even to see if anyone had survived the explosion. All the while, the fire was spreading, via the terrified horses, to the adjacent carriages, to people fleeing the avenue, even to the ground floor of the hotel Toby and Nanny were in, although that particular blaze was extinguished straight away.

In total, three wedding guests, two horses and a dozen spectators died. No one knows what happened to the bomber, who was later discovered to have sent letters to the newspapers stating he was striking a blow on behalf of Moroccan freedom fighters. (Even though not one of the victims was a member of the Spanish government or the Spanish aristocracy or indeed, anything to do with Moroccan repression.)

Perhaps this is one of the reasons Toby dislikes politics – that some of the people who care most about politics seem to have the least compassion for ordinary human beings.

Still, one good thing about politics is that it’s managed to spark some signs of life in Veronica. She came into the kitchen just now to read Toby’s letter. She proceeded to interrogate me about Mrs Simpson (lucky for me that Julia had passed on all that scandalous gossip). Not surprisingly, Veronica is taking a very unromantic view of the idea of a king abdicating for love.

‘But this woman isn’t even divorced yet,’ she said, perusing the newspaper clipping Toby had enclosed. ‘She’s had two husbands, both still living. Apart from every thing else, he’s supposed to be the head of the Church of England – he’s hardly setting a good example.’

‘But if he’s so terribly in love...’ I began.

Veronica was still reading the newspaper article. ‘She’s not of noble birth, not British, she’s not even from Europe. No money, apparently, except her current husband’s. And how old is she, anyway? She hardly looks likely to produce an heir ... Hmm, perhaps it’s best he abdicated, then, if he’s such a hopeless judge of what’s appropriate and what’s not.’

‘So you’d expect Toby to give up the throne if he fell in love with someone you thought was inappropriate?’ I asked.