2006 - Wildcat Moon (4 page)

“Did Gwennie grow up in the Boathouse then?” asked Nan.

“No. She were a Skallies girl, lived over in the Groddes where that queer fellow Fleep is now. Gwennie used to work in Killivray, only local who dared to.”

“Beautiful-looking girl she were, apparently, and good with animals and kids, she weren’t afraid of nothing. Then one day, not long after the black fellow died, she tipped and buggered off without a word and was gone for years and years,” Freddie added.

“A lot of folks said there was talk of her and Greswode carrying on,” Charlie muttered.

“That were only rumour,” Freddie said. “Our mother said she wouldn’t have looked twice at that ugly bugger.”

“So when did she come back?”

“Good few years back now, Nan. About the same time as Benjamin came back and that were a year or so before Charles Greswode died. Altered beyond belief she was, gone all peculiar. Old Greswode let her live in the Boathouse rent free which were a bit odd ‘cos he were a tight old sod.”

“Now I come to think of it, I fancy Greswode gave most of the monkeys, parrots and stuff to that circus that used to come here donkey’s years ago.”

“Cranky’s Circus,” Freddie said.

“What the hell is Cranky’s when it’s out of bed?” asked Billy Nettles.

“The circus, you soppy sod. Remember when we was kids we used to go and see it. They use to set up camp over in Arnold’s Hole every other year.”

“I do remember now you’ve said, Charlie. There was downs, bearded ladies and a mermaid in a tank. And trapeze artistes, weren’t there?”

“That’s right, Billy; the Flying Fernandez the trapeze artistes was called. Wonderful they were. I used to have my bloody heart in my mouth watching them.”

“Nan, you would have loved it here when the circus folk used to come down. They used to stick their posters up all round Rhoskilly then come down here to make merry. They drunk this place dry many a time,” Freddie said wistfully.

“We could do with a bit of trade like that now,” Nan sighed.

“It’s Charles Greswode’s son that’s got Killivray House now,” Billy Nettles said.

“That’s right That side of the Greswodes shouldn’t have inherited Killivray, by rights it should have gone to his cousin, young master Thomas, but he disappeared.”

“How do you mean disappeared, Charlie?”

“Queer old affair that was, Nan. He took a boat out, Benjamin Tregantle’s boat it were. They found it further round the coast, drifting. He were drowned. A strong swimmer he was too. They reckon he must have fallen overboard, got the cramp, or maybe he had a weak heart. Tragic it was, he was only a young lad. It were three weeks afore he were washed up.”

“That Jonathan Greswode at Killivray now is hardly ever there, lives most of the time up London. Bit of a nancy boy, I’ve heard. All dickie bows and hair oil,” Walter Grimble chipped in.

“He can’t be a nancy boy, he’s married, got a child with a funny name,” Billy Nettles answered.

“Romilly, I think she’s called,” said Nan.

“I’ve never even seen her,” Freddie piped up.

“Hardly anyone has. They keep her inside mostly, like a bloody hot-house plant There’s talk that she ain’t the full shilling,” said Billy Netties.

“There’s a lot of that in them aristocracy types…too much inbreeding and eating fancy food…cousins marrying and all that ain’t never right if you ask me,” Charlie shook his head knowingly.

“There was some talk about the mother years back. She was an actress, make-up artist or some bloody thing,” Billy said. “But they reckon she’s gone all religious since she married, always going off to some nunnery for months on end.”

“Who looks after the kid then?” Nan asked.

“They got an old nanny lives there, been there for ever.”

“And that governess woman you see up at the Post Office once in a blue moon,” Charlie Payne added.

“I heard she’s gone. She were a frosty-faced old bag, looked like she got something wedged up her arse.”

“Language, man!” interjected Billy Nettles with a sniff, glaring at Walter Grimble.

A fierce gust of wind rattled the windows and smoke blew out of the fire and into the bar.

“Spirits on the move tonight,” said Charlie, nodding towards the fireplace.

Nan eyed him sceptically. “Don’t talk daft; it’s just the wind, that’s all.”

“The dead like to make their mark every now and again, show us they’re still around in some shape or form. That’ll be Benjamin Tregantie, I’ll bet.”

Freddie looked at the fire warily.

“It’s a full moon tonight. He’s making his last visit to the Skallies before his soul flies off wherever the souls of awkward old buggers go to.”

“That’s fanciful talk, Charlie. Anyway I liked him.”

“We all liked him, Nan, he were a good old stick, don’t mean he weren’t a cantankerous old sod.”

More smoke blew out of the fire and Nan hurried out from behind the bar and flapped her apron to try and dear it then went across and opened the door.

The wind was getting up rough and twigs and leaves skittered along Bloater Row, and somewhere a loose shutter banged noisily. She looked left down Bloater Row. At the far end past Hogwash House old Benjamin’s upturned boat was rocking from side to side in the wind as though something were trapped underneath. She shivered.

Then a movement to her right caught her eye. She peered warily into the darkness. She couldn’t see anyone but if she wasn’t mistaken someone or something was lurking about in the shadows over near the wobbly chapel. It was high time that place was pulled down. It was a bloody good job it was locked up and none of the kids could get inside, it was a death trap.

For God’s sake, Nan, she chided herself, you’re letting your imagination get the better of you. It was all that talk of the dead that had made her jumpy…

The trouble was these days you didn’t know who was hanging about Take that poor little girl up in London…disappeared on her way home from school in a snowstorm and the body still not found weeks later. Poor little dab was there one minute and gone the next.

Nan stepped back into the warmth of the bar and dosed the door quickly. “The forecast was right, boys, there’s a hell of a storm on its way. So last orders, gentlemen, please.”

Fleep stood at the window and looked out into the night. Occasionally a wave hit the rocks below the Skallies and spray hit the windows making him jump. He turned and looked across at the bed longingly. If only he could get some sleep…

It was a long time now since he had had a good sleep. He had learned to live with a few alcohol-fuelled hours of fitful rest here and there over the past years.

He had become accustomed to perpetual tiredness, but he was a burnt-out crock of a man without desire or purpose left in him; an aimless drifter, who had somehow been washed up into this curious little backwater.

He couldn’t even remember how the hell he had come to be in the Skallies. His memory was shot to pieces.

He remembered vaguely the time he had spent in a convent with nuns fussing around him, ministering to him, spoon-feeding him with broth and milk puddings. The next memory was of being holed up in the attic room in Paris out of his head on booze and later being thrown out…then just some dreamlike remembrance of falling asleep and waking up with the key to the Grockles in his hand. And then he’d somehow made his way back to England and down here to the Skallies, a godforsaken place full of people as odd as himself. But nonetheless the people here seemed aware of his need to be alone. Ever since he had arrived no one had bothered him or tried to make his acquaintance.

He had sought no company for he had nothing left to say to the world. He had no reason to get up in the morning or go out other than to simply exist Existing was easier than not existing. He looked across at the parrot in its cage and it stared back with those knowing eyes that looked a thousand years old.

The parrot was a mystery to him too. How had he come to be in possession of a foul-mouthed bloody parrot? Had he bought it? Stolen it?

“I bet you could tell a few tales, old fellow?” he said sadly.

“
Mange la merde et morte!
” yelled the parrot.

Fleep shook his head. He’d stay here in the Skallies just a little while longer until he summoned up the energy to put himself out of his misery.

Down below the Skallies the waves were racing up the beach, the wind whistling through the eyeholes of dead crabs, rattling winkle and cockle shells, whisking fish bones into whispering piles around the upturned boats.

The wildcats wailed in the backyard of the Pilchard Inn and somewhere a scullery door slammed shut and tin mugs and battered spoons that hung on rusty nails rapped out a tattatattat.

Archie Grimble inched his way slowly over towards Hogwash House, his head bent against the icy wind that was howling along Bloater Row. He lifted the latch on the outside door and stepped quickly inside the porch.

It was dead spooky standing in there all alone. Hogwash House still smelled of Benjamin. The whiff of Camp coffee and Everton mints, of rum and snuff, of stored apples and liniment

He stood on tiptoes and yanked the bunch of keys off the hook.

Benjamin’s old tweed jacket was still hanging on a hook as though he had just come in and taken it off. Archie stepped towards it nervously.

Then he buried his face in it, sniffed up the familiar woolly smell. He put his hand nervously into the right-hand pocket The paper bag was there unopened. Archie’s Saturday sweets.

Chocolate chewing nuts.

Benjamin had always bought them on a Friday up in Rhoskilly and on Saturdays he’d say, “Put your hand in that there pocket, Arch, and see if there’s anything there for you.”

Sometimes he used to tease him and put them in the other pocket.

He stood there sobbing softly, the coat rough against his damp face, the smell of the old man strong in his nostrils. After a while he let go of the coat took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes. When he put his spectacles back on he noticed the envelope sticking out of the left side pocket He took it out and turned it over.

TO MASTER ARCHIE GRIMBLE. PRIVATE.

Archie wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffed. He’d never received a letter in his life.

It was too dark in the porch to read it and he dare not switch on his torch.

He slipped the letter into the pocket of his trousers and then beat a hasty retreat.

He moved slowly along Bloater Row, keeping a look out with his one good eye. The cobbles were wet and slippery beneath his feet and the icy wind made his teeth chatter uncontrollably.

As he passed Periwinkle House he heard the tinkle of ancient bone china as the spinster Misses Noni and Agnes Arbuthnot sipped cocoa and listened to posh music.

A black cat crossed his path. That meant good luck. He watched it creep silkily in through a gap in the kitchen window of Periwinkle House.

Archie felt for the saint in his pocket. As he passed the door of Skibbereen he could smell herrings dipped in flour hissing and spitting in a pan as big-bellied Mrs Galvini cooked supper and sang softly in a sweet but mournful voice that brought a lump to Archie’s throat.

Mrs Galvini had no children of her own but in the spare bedroom she had a wicker crib all ready and a pile of knitted baby clothes in pink and blue and yellow. Sometimes he’d seen her in her garden kneeling in the cabbages, looking to see if the stork had managed to leave her a baby but he never had. It wasn’t fair because he gave Mrs Kelly loads and she didn’t even know how to look after them.

Archie stopped outside Cuckoo’s Nest and held his breath.

The Kelly family lived in Cuckoo’s Nest, next to the Pilchard Inn.

He could hear them in there now, squabbling and arguing. He could smell the Kelly smell and it made him gag. Shite from the nappy bucket that festered near the front door and the stink of unwashed bodies: ear wax, sweat and rancid chip fat.

Archie was terrified of the seven Kelly boys.

There were four red-faced tiny ones who bawled and bit and spat and licked their own snot off their faces.

Three big ones.

Donald was the oldest. Then Kevin and Peter.

Peter was nice, not like the rest of them. He’d have liked to be friends with Peter.

Mammy said it was like he wasn’t out of the same litter.

The other Kelly boys were rough as guts.

Donald and Kevin waited for Archie behind hedges when he came home from school and bashed him up nearly every day. They gave him dead legs and Chinese burns.

Wrenched his arm up behind his back and took his Saturday sweet money. They kneed him up the bum and brought tears to his eyes. The worst, though, were the rabbit punches that they gave.

They could kill people like that but they didn’t care.

And Mrs Kelly never even told them off if she caught them at it. All she ever said was, “Boys will be boys, Archie, you should toughen yourself up a bit and not be such a fanny.”

They never laid a finger on him when Benjamin was around, though. They were afeared of Benjamin. Now he was gone the Kellys would be tormenting him all the time.

Mr Kelly spent half his life hiding in the outside lav and the other half far out at sea, fishing. He never spoke, only grunted, but his wife never stopped; she was a sour-faced old bissom and dirty about herself. Mammy said that in the Kelly house you needed to wash the soap before you used it.

Archie ducked down and scuttled as quickly as he could past their greasy window.

From the Pilchard Inn voices drifted out through the porthole windows along with the clink of dominoes and the thud of darts on a well-soaked board.

He peeped warily inside, careful not to be spotted.

It looked cosy in the small bar with the fire roaring up the chimney, candlelight glinting off the blue and green glass pots that Nan served the beer in.

Nan Abelson was behind the tiny bar lifting a glass pot up to the candlelight. She was big and beefy and very beautiful and smiled a lot. She had arms the colour of corned beef and a coiled black plait that swung between her shoulder blades like a hangman’s noose.