Half-Sick of Shadows (26 page)

My discomfort with facts began at a very early age, when I was puzzled by the ‘fact’ that although God didn’t create stars until the fourth day, He created light on the first. Today’s facts often become tomorrow’s mistakes. The earth is flat; that used to be a fact. Besides, if we possessed all facts, every last one possible, and none of them were mistakes, everything would be fixed, and no one could have a new idea. Creativity would have ended. If we had all the facts, we would stagnate. Ignorance is a wonderful thing.

Nevertheless, this world, having relegated religion and mystery, is scientific and factual, and facts must have their due. It’s a fact that, given the condition of being alive, no matter where we go in the world, our brains go too. It’s also a fact that, given normal biological functioning, we always perceive in four dimensions: height, breadth, depth and time – tomorrow never happens yesterday. It’s a fact that when our feet are on the ground, the sky is always above our heads. It is a fact that little girls do what their fathers tell them to do. It is not a fact, it is not known beyond doubt, that the universe, the All, God, or Whatever, punishes evildoers. Punishment of evildoers seemed, to me, to be something human beings had to take into their own hands. And they often did – justifiably. That was a fact.

Next day, when Sophia came to my room to see why I was still in bed, I said I felt ill. When she opened the curtains I turned my back to the light, and to her, and told her to close them. ‘You’ll feel better
after
some more sleep,’ she said – it’s what Mother used to say to us – and left the room. I did feel ill, but not the way Sophia thought.

I didn’t blame Sophia, and I had no way of reversing what Father did to her. He did it, and that was a fact. Illegal. Evil. Irreversible. But a fact. All morning, I lay in bed, my back to the closed curtain, thinking. I wanted to die.

Sophia must have known that her admission to me caused a hiatus between us. I truly did not know how she felt. I was unable to read her with any reasonable degree of certainty – a far cry from when we were younger. She might have thought I had fallen out with her. It wasn’t true. I’d been hurt, that’s all. And I would hurt until, and far beyond, my departure for university.

21

Alf Visits the Manse

One morning, as Sophia flitted about the kitchen sink and I scratched my head and yawned, someone knocked on the back door. Farmer Barry was the only person who ever knocked on the back door, and the knock, which was lighter than his, belonged to someone else.

‘Who could it be?’ said Sophia, glancing at the door before taking flight to safety in the living room.

I looked through the window in the back door but saw no one there. As I opened the door cautiously, I expected to have to peer left and right. But not so! Alf Lord stood where he had not been a moment ago, a small tartan suitcase hanging from one hand. He looked as if he had broken a window and wanted his ball back.

‘Alf!’

‘I hope you don’t mind my showing up like this. I thought I would find accommodation in Bruagh,’ he said apologetically, raising the suitcase slightly, as if it were the accommodation in question. ‘Is that how it’s pronounced: Brew-rah?’

‘Alf!’

‘The one and only. Sorry for landing on you unexpectedly. I could get a taxi to somewhere else if it’s inconvenient.’

‘It’s not in the least inconvenient. You’re very welcome. It’s a pleasure to see you.’ It was less a pleasure than a surprise, but a
pleasure
none the less. I stepped outside and shook him by the hand. I have no idea why I stepped outside to do it, unless it was a subconscious move to protect my sister from the wolf at the door that turned out to be a lamb. ‘Did you walk from Bruagh Halt?’

‘It’s quite a distance.’

‘Lucky you walked in the right direction. There’s nothing the other way for twice as far. Come in. Come in.’ I brought him into the kitchen and relieved him of his tartan suitcase and coat.

‘There’s not much in Bruagh,’ said Alf. ‘I thought it would have a guest house where I could stay, if not a hotel.’

‘You’d be lucky. The closest accommodation’s in Garagh. That’s the nearest town, but it’s miles away.’

‘Your cemetery’s amazing. Is it real?’

‘Of course it’s real. That’s where we keep the extended Pike family. How on earth could a cemetery be unreal?’

‘I was so impressed I thought it might have been a Gothic extravagance, a kind of folly.’

‘Well, it’s not. It’s the real deal. And, speaking of family …’

Sophia’s head, halfway up the edge of the door, shook vigorously, and mouthed ‘No, no’. As Alf turned in her direction, her head stopped shaking and her no, no mouth turned into a broad smile. She stepped out of hiding.

‘Alf, Sophia. Sophia, Alf. Alfred Lord. Or Lord Alfred as I call him, poet extraordinaire.’

‘Edward has told me lots about you, Sophia.’ Alf extended his right hand. Sophia’s right hand gravitated to meet it as though in his hand hers belonged. ‘Meeting you is a pleasure. I hope you won’t think it improper if I say that you are every bit as pretty as Edward said.’

Sophia grinned. More than grinned, blushed pink while her eyes sprouted leaks – which she tried to hide by lowering her head. No one had ever said that to Sophia before, or anything remotely like it.

‘Are you really a poet?’ asked my starry-eyed sister.

‘Alas, no. I’m just a pretend poet. But I work closely with one of the best. I wish I were as accomplished as he.’

‘Any chance of tea for three, Sophia?’ I said, offering her an escape route, which she took quickly and without a word. ‘I’ll give you the grand tour, Alf. Although there isn’t much to see.’

I showed him the living room, and told him about how Granny Hazel’s bed occupied the centre of the floor before she died. He looked through the window and seemed intrigued by Hollow Heath beyond the garden, although he didn’t say anything. I led him to Father’s study, and told him the room wasn’t used much, not even when Father was able; hence the dust. Upstairs, I indicated the two closed doors, one for each parent within. ‘Father’s completely immobile,’ I explained. ‘Mother isn’t, but she’s going through a bad spell at present. And this is our pride and joy.’

‘It’s a very fine bathroom,’ replied Alf.

‘We had none until a few years ago. Calls of nature were answered outside, in an upright coffin with a strip of wood and a bottom-sized hole in it to sit on.’

‘How exciting!’

I showed him Sophia’s room, and mine, and said he could have my bed tonight; I would sleep on the floor. Alf wouldn’t hear of it, and insisted that he slept on the floor.

When we returned downstairs, Sophia had tea ready, fresh bread and blackberry jam – both of which she’d made herself. As we ate at the kitchen table, and Alf and I chatted, Sophia remained quietly timid. While she washed up, I took Alf outside for a closer inspection of the cemetery. There had been an hour of drizzle yesterday, but no rain today, so the ground wasn’t too muddy.

He wanted to know who the dead people were, and what were their stories. I only knew who some of them were, and neither Mother nor Father had told me more than a few crumbs of their stories.

‘Pity,’ said Alf. ‘Stories enrich … What’s this?’ He indicated a weedy hollow that looked different, worked on, but only when you looked closely – typical of Alf to notice it.

‘I dug a grave and buried a dog on that spot when I was a child. As graves go, it wasn’t one of the best. Bits of the dog were exposed to the elements. Mother dug it up and binned it …
The Binned Dog
: that’s a good title for a story. I don’t have the imagination for stories. I used to have it. As I got older my imagination, sort of … atrophied.’

‘Sadly, sometimes muses desert their gets.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Various reasons. Most often it’s because of periods of creative boom when the Department of Muses is short-staffed – especially in winter, when a lot of us are off sick with head colds, flu, Seasonal Affective Disorder and the like.’ Alf didn’t smile, and I wasn’t sure whether I should laugh.

It was getting cold. I should have worn a coat. We wandered back towards the Manse in silence, until Alf said, ‘This visit to your home isn’t merely casual, Edward.’

I asked him to explain.

‘I want to let you into a secret.’

‘You came here to let me into a secret?’

‘May I?’

‘Is it one I have to keep?’

‘Not really. It isn’t a terribly big secret, and I doubt if anyone would be interested in it anyway.’

‘I’m interested. What is it?’

‘As you know, I am a muse.’

‘You can’t be a muse. You’re the wrong sex, and you’re not even Greek.’ Alf smiled. I’d never seen him smiling as he did then, and I thought: Maybe he’s the right sex. But he’s certainly not Greek.

‘I’m working on a poem.’

‘No, no, no, Alf; you’ve got it all wrong. As a muse, your job is to inspire someone else to write a poem. If the poem writers’ union finds out you’re at it they’ll call their members out on strike.’ Alf’s was an enigmatic smile, not unlike that on the lips of the Mona Lisa. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you’re working on a poem. What’s new? You’re always
working
on poems. Every time I see you you’re working on poems.’

‘This is a special poem. It’s the reason why I’m here.’

‘To be inspired by the Manse?’

‘No, not exactly. It’s the reason why I’m here, existent, in this space-time.’

‘Okay.’

‘I need your help.’

‘If you need help writing a bad poem, I’m your man. Turn to me for help and, on completion, you’re guaranteed the worst poem ever written. Let’s see … There was a young man from the Manse … who with girls didn’t stand a chance … the reason for that, was that he was fat … umm … ahh … and hadn’t a clue how to dance. Howzat!’ Alf’s chuckling made me feel warm inside. I chuckled at him chuckling. ‘How can I help, then, me a serious non-poet?’

I need your earliest memory, Edward.’

‘For the poem?’

‘Yes.’

‘Granny Hazel. I told you about her, didn’t I?’ Alf nodded his head. He, or the ambience, or the rightness of the time, roused a feeling in me that felt exactly as it had fourteen years ago, a feeling of fearful doubt, which had been vivid and spanking new to me and Sophia back then.

‘Tell me about Granny Hazel,’ said Alf.

‘All right. I’ll tell you what I remember. Not so much about Granny Hazel as how things were after her. Sophia and I had a feeling that Granny Hazel could have been sleeping more peacefully than she really was. Our bones told us that she could have been happier. Granny Hazel was restless. That meant she might become a ghost. We had no idea how we knew such things, but we did. Ghosts were the dead whose spirits leave their bodies and walk about lost. I don’t know who told us that, but someone must have. Maybe Gregory. If the White Lady had returned, I would have been less frightened of her than I would of Granny Hazel. The White Lady meant no harm.
Granny
Hazel’s return would have meant the opposite. It would have been dreadful. She was always so grumpy. Her return from the dead could have been nothing but dreadful.’

I thought I would have been able to recall more, but, when called up, my memory held less than I thought.

I asked Alf, ‘Is that any help to you?’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied keenly. ‘I don’t know exactly how I can use it, but I shall be able to, I’m certain of that. Yes …’ He put a couple of fingertips to his lips, but didn’t bite the nails. Rubbing my chin helped me to think; with Alf, it was lips and fingertips. ‘Who is the White Lady?’

‘Our ghost.’

‘The Manse has a ghost?’

‘At least one. The White Lady puts in an appearance when someone is going to die. She appeared to Sophia before Granny Hazel died. No need to fear her when you’re sleeping here tonight. She’s harmless. Don’t know who she is, though.’

‘Fear and doubt, Edward. I wonder if they’re why promises are necessary. Do we ask people to promise, and do we promise others, because we doubt their honesty as well as our own? Is that the birth of fear, hand in hand with the loss of innocence: the knowledge that we cannot trust? We can take no one at their word. It’s the death of childhood. What age were you?’

‘When Granny Hazel died? It was before I started school.’

‘Your childhood started dying then, Edward.’

‘I know. Sophia’s too. Our childhood started dying with a promise, like a kiss of death, she made to Father.’

‘She made a promise and, in so doing, cursed herself.’

‘That’s it, really. Perhaps, since you’re here, you can help me to persuade her to leave the Manse.’

‘Are you calling upon me in your hour of need?’ Strange thing to say, but Alf was a strange person.

‘You could put it like that if you like.’

‘Good,’ said Alf. ‘Then we’re on the same track. I’ll do it. Did you or Sophia talk to your father about the promise?’

I laughed.

‘What’s funny?’

‘He isn’t the kind of father you can talk to.’

‘Were you afraid of your father?’ asked Alf. ‘Are you still?’

‘Of course not.’ My reply lacked conviction. ‘Aren’t all children in awe of their fathers when they’re little?’

Sophia would have been shy with strangers had she encountered any. She was shy with Alf. Doubly shy because she had taken a shine to him. Did Alf reciprocate the shine? With Alf, it was hard to tell. He liked Sophia – he smiled at her a lot and tried hard to nudge her gently into our conversation. However, Alf, I had a notion, was disinclined to take shines to girls.

The sky darkened and the rain came on late in the afternoon. We were trapped indoors, but that didn’t matter, because there was plenty of coal. Yesterday I gathered a mountain of fuel from Hollow Wood and carried it home in a sack the size of myself. Approaching an outhouse with the sack over my shoulder, I glanced across the courtyard to the cemetery and saw the White Lady gliding through the headstones as though looking for someone she’d lost.

While Sophia saw to Mother and Father, Alf and I made dinner. A heck of a lot of meat filled the freezer, courtesy of Farmer Barry.