Moon Rising (45 page)

‘Why didn't you get in touch with me?' he demanded as we paced the platform together. ‘I might have been able to help.'

‘Why didn't you reply to my letters?' I snapped back. ‘I wrote several times from Whitby.'

‘When did you write? I never received anything.'

‘When I needed your help, for goodness' sake. As you asked me to.'

He stopped and turned, and scanned my face. For a moment he seemed mystified. ‘I had nothing from you. Of course, I knew you'd cashed the cheque,' he added, ‘because it was presented to my bank. By that I assumed you were all right. Other than that, not a word.'

I burned at that, but not even indignation could warm me against the bitter wind. ‘Then what happened to those three letters? I sent them to the Lyceum, as you said. One to thank you for the cheque, one to tell you about the cottage, and the other...' I stopped as the words stuck in my throat, threatening to choke me. It was unbearable. As he reached out for me, I clenched my fist and beat at his chest, and at last got out harshly: ‘The other was to tell you I was expecting your child!'

He gazed at me, incredulity changing to dismay, while hot tears poured down my cheeks. It felt as though furrows were being burned into my face. For a long moment we stood unmoving, and then, as I scrubbed at the tears, he reached out for me in distress. ‘Oh, dear God, dear God – I never knew – why didn't I know? I thought – I thought so many things – that you hated me, despised me – oh, my dear, I'm so sorry...'

I could have twisted free, but his grip tightened, and with a whispered exclamation he pulled me close. Locked together, we stood for what seemed a long time. Eventually, calmer, he said: ‘What happened? Tell me – what happened to the child?'

I shook my head; couldn't answer. As I covered my face, he held me more gently, murmuring words of comfort that seemed as necessary to him as they were to me. I welcomed his embrace, needed it, even though I still wanted to strike at him, hurt him, make him feel the pain which had pursued me over the years. The worst part was that I could feel it dogging my heels even now, and with a sharp gesture I broke away, retreating from his questions and his sympathy.

‘If you'd been there, Bram,' I ground out accusingly, ‘if you'd been willing to stand by me, even in secret, it might have been different – but you ignored my letters! You said you loved me, but in the end it was a lie – all lies – you were just
using
me! When Irving turned up, off you went, with barely a hesitation! That's what I couldn't forgive – your
eagerness
to escape!'

Ignoring his protests, I marched away, heedless of onlookers or the picture I presented. There was even something bleakly appropriate in giving way to hysterical emotion in that echoing, arctic cavern of a station. Like steam from one of those great engines passing through, the pain seemed to grow and expand to fill the space, and its growth was accompanied by coughs and moans and cries of torment.

Somehow that noisy outburst propelled me forward until I came to a gasping halt at the very end of the platform, where the wind tore at my scarves and skirts and reminded me of Whitby and Bella and winter over the cliffs. I longed to be there, alone, to grieve and mend my wounds in the sharp salt air. I longed to touch the past and heal it, and I cursed the ice and snow which kept me here.

When he came up beside me, I was calmer, more stricken than angry, too spent to protest when he took my arm and led me away from that exposed spot. In the shelter of a kiosk he paused to put his arm around me. He seemed very much upset, and said gruffly: ‘I think I know what happened, but I need you to tell me. You were alone, and expecting my child, so you...' He broke off, shaking his head, as reluctant as I'd been to use the word.

‘Yes,' I said wearily, ‘I had an abortion and nearly died. Bella saved my life.'

As memory overwhelmed me, he held me close. At last, he said with difficulty, ‘I'm sorry. All I can do is beg your forgiveness. I didn't know, and I'm ashamed that I didn't. I should have done, might have done, if only I'd written... You don't know how many times I began letters to you, only to destroy them. There was so much to explain, and so much more beyond that – in the end it seemed better to let things lie...

‘But that doesn't answer the question of your letters,' he added heavily, ‘and in that regard, I'm afraid there is only one explanation.'

‘Irving.'

‘Yes, Irving!' he echoed with sudden bitterness. ‘Ellen always said he had no scruples, and she was right. No wonder he was so keen during those first few weeks of my return – in first thing, every day. I thought he was concerned to get everything running smoothly again, but all the time he was making sure I received no communications from you!'

There was such weight of truth in that statement, I felt bowed down by it. We'd both been duped by Irving's craftiness, I blaming Bram for being less than honourable in his dealings with me, Bram trusting a man who seemed to have no sense of honour at all. Whatever he wanted he took, excusing all by virtue of his great talent.

Because of him, because of that monumental self-interest, one life had been denied and another almost wiped out, while Bram and I had been kept effectively apart until time took care of everything. That was bad enough, but it was when I thought of my marriage to Henry, and his longing for children, that I trembled with impotent rage. Irving was dead, yet he'd somehow managed to sour all our lives from the beginning.

I had an obscure sense of being laughed at from beyond the grave.

Shuddering with cold, we returned to the hotel to hug the fire and warm ourselves with fresh coffee and brandy. My emotions veered between sorrow and anger; between rage and pain and fury at the unfairness of it all. I found myself going over everything in the light of fresh perspective.

Nothing Bram could say about Irving surprised me. Not even the matter of the letters. In that respect, both Bram and I had been made fools of, and if that were the sum of it, then after all these years it should no longer matter. But it wasn't all, and it did matter. Irving had managed to pervert everything, and I burned with the desire to make him suffer. Since that was impossible, I vented my bitterness on Bram.

But even in the midst of it, I knew he was wounded too. We talked on, until eventually, exhausted, I went up to my room. I would have rested in the chair, except that Alice woke and insisted on changing places. The bed's warmth was a great comfort, but it was a long while before oblivion claimed me.

I imagined he'd be leaving by the first train; but as I came downstairs I saw him waiting for me, and was caught by an unexpected surge of gratitude. In the early morning light he looked grey and weary, and his voice had descended to even more gravelly depths.

As we were shown to a table in the crowded breakfast room, he said tentatively, ‘I've been thinking – I'd like to come to Whitby with you, if I may?'

Startled, I regarded him steadily for a moment. He was halfway through a series of engagements to publicise his recent biography of Irving, and I knew the book and its success were important, for financial reasons more than any other. ‘What about your lectures?'

‘After all these years,' he said gruffly, ‘Irving can wait. You and I left a lot of unfinished business in Whitby, Damaris – I hadn't realised how much. I think the time's come to deal with it, don't you?'

I was surprised that it should matter to him and said so; and was surprised afresh by the remorse I felt at his quick, wounded glance. From somewhere I found the grace to apologise.

Alice had been with me long enough to accept most situations as normal, but I did wonder what she was thinking as Bram took charge, finding us seats on a very crowded train. Making sure I was comfortable, he took a seat facing mine. The sun was shining, our compartment was warm, and with the steady, rocking motion of the train he was soon nodding. So was I, and what seemed only seconds later I woke to the rapid flashing of sunlight through trees. The wide, snowy moors were behind us and we were already in the narrow Esk Valley, the river flowing strongly beside the tracks.

We stopped between deep white drifts at Sleights, then came the straight run down to Ruswarp, and suddenly I was thinking of
Carmilla
and the ghost of Old Goosey, and the presence of Old Nick up there in Cock Mill Woods. Stories and folk-tales of long ago, but the memories were extraordinarily alive. Catching a wistful glance from Bram, I straightened at once and turned to Alice, telling her briskly to be sure to watch out for the viaduct carrying the Scarborough line across the Esk; beyond it she would see Whitby.

A better view stopped me as we were leaving the station. Framed by the great arch of the station doorway, a winter forest of masts stood between us and the town, perhaps a thinner forest than in my childhood, but a heartening sight, even so. Beyond, through the town's smoky haze, the east cliff was no more than a brooding blue-grey silhouette, while the old parish church crouched as low as ever against the skyline, with the skeletal ruins of the abbey above.

I felt Bram's hand at my elbow and a gentle squeeze, but I was anxious not to let sentiment overtake me. As we sorted the luggage I was at pains to point out that the reason I was staying at the Royal on the west cliff had more to do with personal satisfaction than any feelings of nostalgia. And it was true, since I'd booked a suite just for the private pleasure of knowing I could afford it. In any other place it would not have mattered where I stayed, but in Whitby, for me, staying at the Royal was akin to saying a childish, ‘So there!' to the ghosts of the past.

When Bram had gone along to his room and Alice had unpacked, I opened the window on to a narrow balcony and looked up and down the harbour. The tide was out and the river, like a glistening snake, was winding its way between banks of mud on either side. I could smell all the old familiar smells of fish and salt and seaweed, and smoke drifting up from chimneys on the Cragg. I heard the cries of gulls and the rattle of carts on the cobbles, and briefly I was a girl again, hurrying along St Ann's Staith with a basket of fish, stopping in at the studio to see Jack...

But this was no time to be indulging in false nostalgia. Gritting my teeth I closed the window and tried to prepare myself for harsher realities. The service for Bella was at two o'clock, and I wanted to visit Cousin Martha beforehand. On the point of departure from London, I'd had a letter from her, thanking me for my offer to pay for the funeral but explaining that someone else had already insisted. And owing to the circumstances, she felt she must accept.

I wondered what those circumstances might be, whether in fact Bella had found a kindly protector in the last year or so. She'd given up prostitution in favour of more respectable work – perhaps not entirely respectable to some, but it seemed wonderfully right to me. Modelling for a group of artists struck me as being the kind of work ideally suited to someone like Bella. She could be beautiful, and had always known how to show herself to great advantage, yet she had no vanity at all. Remembering her as she'd been when we were girls, it wasn't difficult to imagine an artist falling in love with her, although it was rather more difficult to picture Bella appreciating such adoration. For her sake I hoped he was a good man, an understanding man, and that I might have the privilege of meeting him later.

~~~

I didn't think I would ever forget my way to the Firth house, but with Pier Lane behind me I was suddenly confused. In twenty years things had changed, the top storey of one building had been demolished, while another had been extended, but I found my way eventually. The old house looked more dilapidated than ever, and I hesitated before knocking on the door.

A young woman answered, dark-haired and pretty, her resemblance to Bella catching me unawares. She did not know me, and I had a moment's difficulty explaining who I was. Cousin Martha appeared then and invited me in. She'd grown very fat in the years between, and had lost several teeth, but she'd done her hair and was wearing her best black, and she led me into the house like some noble lady receiving guests into the medieval hall. There was a fire lit, the kettle made a welcoming sound on the hob, and someone had made an attempt to tidy the kitchen and clean the hearth. As she moved a chair for me to sit, I noticed a bottle and glass on the high mantelpiece, but she seemed sober enough, while the young woman – whom she introduced as Meggie – was content to look on in silence from her place by the window.

‘I expect you've come to see poor Bella,' Martha said emotionally, raising her eyes to heaven as she lowered herself into a creaking chair. ‘God rest her soul, she suffered something terrible at the end. Thin as a lath and yellow as a Chinaman, you'd never have recognised her in the last few weeks.' Wiping away a tear with a corner of her apron, Cousin Martha sniffed noisily, and cleared her throat. ‘But Nan Mills has done her best, I must say. Prettied her up when she laid her out. She's a good sort, Nan is.'

‘Nan Mills?' I said faintly, not having expected such an icy breath from the past. ‘I remember that name – I thought she'd have been dead and gone long since.'

‘Nay, she's not that old. Sixty, maybe. Still brings ‘em into the world, and sees ‘em out when the time comes...'Spect I'll be next,' Cousin Martha observed morosely, making an automatic gesture towards the high mantel, then consciously diverting her hand towards the teapot. ‘Anyway, poor Bella's in the best room, when you want to go up. I'll make a pot of tea for when you come down.'

‘Yes,' I said hesitantly, ‘thank you.'

‘Nay, Damsy, it's we should thank you – and we do, Meggie, don't we? ‘Twas good of you to offer the burial money, and if it hadn't been for Bella's friends, we'd've been right glad of it. But weren't necessary, as it turned out, they all wanted to contribute, especially Miss Gwyneth, the lady she kept house for. Anyway,' Martha went on, leaving me mystified, ‘all's fixed for this afternoon. Service at the new cemetery chapel, and the Star'll be serving victuals afterwards, in the back room, for whoever wishes to partake.'