I Do Not Sleep (18 page)

And then there was just one left, one small child’s boat; just a tub really, with a jaunty red flag tied to its mast. This one looked like it might make it, so determined was it as it sailed over the towering seas. The little ship had an air of dogged confidence, as if it could conquer all, as if it would climb up the massive foamy crests as easily as Jack scaled the beanstalk. And as I looked, I cheered that tiny boat as it fought bravely against the massive odds around it: the furious ocean with its insatiable jaws; the monster that would always win, would always triumph over a small vessel and a small human life. And I watched as that little boat broke, snapped, smashed; and I watched as the small figure sailing it fell into the waves, and drowned.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

When I woke it was daylight and I was safely tucked up in bed at Hope Cottage. Outside there was no storm, no tumult. All was quiet. I walked to the bedroom window and pulled back the curtains. Cornwall had vanished. All that was left was a dead grey mist. A fret had followed the storm. Beyond the cottage, beyond the ghostly picket fence cowering against the invisible sky, was a swirl of nothingness. No footpath, no white rocks or stones bordering the lane down to Talland beach, the trusted markers warning walkers away from the treacherous edge. No ocean, no swelling god of the deep surging up to claim his earthly kingdom.

There was nothing; nothing at all. Just silence, and a world without point – a world in which I felt completely lost.

My mobile rang. The signal worked in Polperro; it was only in Talland and at Coombe that cell communication was useless, some quirk of the landscape and topography. It was Len. I suppose I was half expecting his call. After all, in this weather our hike over to Looe wouldn’t be any fun. Surely he was ringing to cancel?

Len spoke gruffly. ‘Molly? There’s no point going out to the island today. You won’t see a thing from the path, not with this sea mist. And none of the fishermen will take us over there in this weather. Landing is quite tricky at the best of times. In conditions like this, it’s just too risky.’

My heart thudded. Landing? Len hadn’t mentioned visiting the island last night. I couldn’t cope with that; everything was going too fast. ‘Right, Len,’ I said sturdily. ‘Another time, eh?’

There was a pause. ‘Look, Molly – let’s not play silly buggers. This is important. Believe me, you need to get to the island as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, I know, I’m sure,’ I replied almost merrily. I was so relieved not to have to visit the bloody place today that I wanted to cheer. ‘I really appreciate all your help.’

Another pause. Then Len actually growled at me. ‘Molly. I’m not messing about here, girl. I tried to be gentle last night but to be frank, I don’t have that much time left. I have to take you to Lammana and tell you about Joey very soon.’

I stiffened. I assumed Len was telling me he was not in good health. Did he mean he was dying?

‘Are you ill. Len?’ I asked. ‘Look, if you’re not well I don’t want to be any trouble. Forget about me. Just say what I can do to help.’

Len sighed. ‘Molly, dear, you don’t understand. I’m not ill, but I am very old. The lights are dimming. I know I’m fading; I won’t last that much longer. I have one task left, and I can’t rest till it’s done. It’s you, Molly: you and Joey. I’ve known I had to do this for a long while. I was just waiting for you to ask, because we can’t do anything without permission.’

‘We’? Was he talking about Charmers? If they were white witches, as Queenie had said, I supposed they had to get consent before they cast their spells. After all, white witches were benevolent and… What rubbish was coursing through my head now, I thought crossly. I seemed to be always ready to swallow everything and anything: that stupid scarecrow at Jamaica Inn. I’d believed in that, hadn’t I? Next I’d be thinking that…

Len was talking again.

‘We’ll sort it out, my dear, for good or bad. I’ll call you tomorrow. Please prepare yourself. This can’t wait long.’

And he rang off.

I stood looking out of the window at the leaden world outside. What should I do? This business about the island; it was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? This was the first step in the quest on which I’d embarked. Len sounded certain that I must go to Lammana, but I was terrified. A voice in my head screamed at me to leave the place alone. I was sure that what awaited me there was nothing but sorrow.

Wait
, I told myself,
wait
. The instinct that had led me to look for Joey, my certainty that I should move to Polperro and wait for guidance, was surely paying off. Len had offered to show me the way forward, and his was the only suggestion since my son had disappeared which pointed confidently in a positive direction. I realised that if I funked it, if I cowered here in my pretty seaside cottage and refused to risk the short journey to this mysterious island, then I might as well have stayed in Manchester. And although I wished I had, although I’d cursed Adam for bringing me back to Cornwall, now that I was here I was committed to following a plan. If I didn’t see it through, I would be denying Joey’s call for help. I would be forsaking him, and I would blame myself for that until I died.

Queenie called. She had spoken to Len and agreed that the weather was too bad to walk down the cliff path to Looe. She suggested that instead I should join her at the Blue Peter for lunch. Although I knew she meant well, trying to offer me company and comfort, I refused. She had a good heart, but she was a bossy woman, and the more I saw of her the more I felt she would try to influence me, tell me forcefully what she thought I should do. I could do without that at the moment. Self-preservation and dislike of being pressured while I was so stressed made me put her off. She sounded disappointed, but said a graceful goodbye.

I was hungry. I put the kettle on and made breakfast; tea, toast and a boiled egg. I missed the newspapers. No home delivery in Cornwall; at Coombe, Adam or Danny had driven into the nearby village of Duloe every morning to fetch them before breakfast. I’d have to go to the newsagent’s, and I realised I needed to buy food as well. I’d meant to shop yesterday, but the storm had reduced me to childish tears and impotence. I hadn’t left the house since I moved in, and this morning the cupboard looked very bare.

I looked out of the window again. The sea mist was still intimidatingly thick.
Mist, my arse
, I thought crossly. It looked more like an old-fashioned pea souper to me. Or rather a white-onion souper. At any rate, it was very damp out there, and I remembered again I hadn’t brought a mac or wellies with me. Belatedly summoning my initiative, I began to delve in cupboards and wardrobes, and of course practical Josie had provided plenty of wet-weather gear. I tried on a vivid red PVC poncho with a matching hood and wellies. I looked at myself in the mirror, smiling at my reflection.
Little Red Riding Hood
, I thought.
Hope I don’t meet a wolf before I get to the baker’s
. I opened the door and walked down the steps to the path.

The silence was eerie. The mist felt tangible, as present and unnerving as a spectral companion. I couldn’t see the sea, and the cliff side on my right loomed above me, shrouded as a sepulchre. I passed the iron gates leading to the steps that climbed upwards through the gardens of Seaways and The Watchers. The big, beautiful houses on the cliff top were invisible. Not so much as a matchstick glow announced their presence. Walking through the Warren, nobody was about, although now I was on the same level as the cottages, I could see lamps glimmering dully through windows. I caught the occasional glimpse of a television, as comforting to me as it must have been to the stranded holidaymakers inside, drinking tea and watching
This Morning
instead of showing their children how to go crabbing with special lines dangled down from the harbour wall.

At the village shops, normal life resumed. Local residents went about their business, unfazed by the mist that deadened their footsteps and wrapped itself around the street like curtains billowing across a stage. Each glowing shop seemed to frame a rural Cornish scene, the dramatic action taking place upstage at the cash till and serving counter. Customers busily bought meat, eggs, fish and vegetables. Bread and newspapers rapidly changed hands; and before long I’d left the stage and was back on the street with a full shopping bag, on my way back to my little cottage, Hope. My hooded head was down, and I was feeling dreamy; I felt as if I were an extra in a Charles Dickens story, perhaps a version of
A Christmas Carol
, set not in the London snows of December but the rolling, sinister mists of summer on the Cornish coast. And as I passed, another scene caught my eye, framed by a wide bow window, paned and mullioned like a Victorian toyshop. The shop’s interior was artfully lit with golden lamps and electric candles, which contrived to flicker like the real thing. The window was full of magical junk; brass piskies, swords with the legend
EXCALIBUR
emblazoned on the shafts, while a helpful sign above pointed out that these were ‘replicas’ of King Arthur’s enchanted weapon. There were plastic dragons that promised to breathe smoke; knight’s helmets and plastic cloaks; tiny ornamental wishing wells, and, next to them, just a few books. It was these that arrested my gaze. They weren’t what I’d call proper books; no novels, except for a rack of paperback Daphne du Mauriers, the only writer summer visitors associate with Cornwall. But next to these was a shelf of local tourist guide books; there were flimsy offerings about Cornish ghosts and legends, spells and wizards, and one small booklet which stood out so vividly it was as if it reached forward, tapped on the glass and beckoned me in. This was
The Looe Island Story
, written by someone called Mike Dunn. On the cover was an aerial shot of a small, green, scrubby chunk of land, surrounded by a grey, baleful-looking sea. I didn’t recognise it at all. In fact, I was sure I’d never seen it in my life. This cheered me up a bit. So this was a photograph of Looe Island, previously known as St George’s, and before that, way, way back, as the Island of St Michael of Lammana. It meant absolutely nothing to me, any of it, and emboldened by ignorance I marched into the shop and bought it. The girl behind the counter slipped it into a paper bag, but as soon as I got outside I took it out, leaning against the window as I flipped through the pages.

‘Molly! How great to bump into you, even on such a lousy day.’ It was Josie, muffled up in a poncho identical to mine, except hers was bright green, matching her eyes.

‘God, can you believe this weather? Now, what have you got there?’ she asked with a grin, snatching the little book out of my hand. ‘Cornish fairy tales, ghoulies and ghosties from the local tourist trap?’ She peered at the title. ‘Oh no. This one’s quite respectable. Are you interested in Looe Island?’

Before I had a chance to think what to say, she waved the book around, and said, ‘If you are, you must meet my husband, Tony. He knows everything there is to know about St George’s Island. That’s what everyone used to call it.’

‘And before that,’ I asked faintly, ‘St Michael of Lammana?’

‘That’s right. Such a fascinating place, steeped in legend – holy as well. Jesus is supposed to have visited Lammana with his uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, trading spices for tin. Joseph was a merchant seaman, and the legend goes that when Jesus was just a boy, he came along as his uncle’s ship’s carpenter. That’s why the island has always been so special to religious orders. The monks attached to the monastery at Glastonbury kept a mission there for centuries, right from the early Middle Ages. It’s a mystery what actually happened on Lammana, but there are all sorts of stories about ghosts, smugglers and wreckers – and worse.’ Josie winked and gave a dramatic fake shiver, an enormous grin on her face. ‘Anyway, let’s not stand here getting wet through in this nasty old fret. Come back with me: Tony’s home, and Hope. You can meet them both over a coffee, and let Tony bore the pants off you with his terrible tales of the monks of Lammana.’

I wasn’t sure if Tony’s tales would help, but Josie was so full of fun and laughter that the idea of coffee with her and her family was very tempting. And I’d get to meet Hope; I was dying to hear why she had designed her cottage like a tiny Disney Ride. I suddenly felt quite sociable; a couple of hours with Josie seemed infinitely preferable than sitting alone in my little holiday home, sheltering from the sea mist and watching daytime TV.

So the two of us walked off, looking like overgrown elves in our brightly coloured ponchos with matching pointy hoods and wellies; one of us poppy red, the other emerald green. And that was appropriate actually, because as we cut through the dead grey shroud of mist, our rain gear glowing as if we were a pair of neon plastic toys, Josie told me the name of her home, the upmarket gourmet B & B: Emerald Point. I thought it was a beautiful name, but didn’t sound like an old farm. Josie chuckled. ‘Oh that’s because Tony’s great, great, great something-or-other grandmother, Bridget she was called, had delusions of grandeur when they first built the farm in the early nineteenth century. She wanted a gentlewoman’s house with a fancy name, not a common old farmhouse. So Emerald Point it was. Actually it works well, because from the house the sea looks a really vivid green. It only happens at that vantage point, something to do with the ocean currents, but just at that particular spot the colour’s really intense, varying from emerald through to deep sage. It’s gorgeous; and the guests love it. They think the name’s dead romantic.’