In Search of the Blue Tiger (39 page)

She sees the panorama of Tidetown. The church spire points out a crescent moon, a slice of pear in an ink-black sky. The stars, fiery needle pricks, open and close on stretched calico. In the town's only graveyard, on the uppermost branch of the oldest oak tree in the county, the town's rare white owl blinks a slow blink. The cold headstones, colder still in the very middle of the night, keep secret and hidden their daytime rhymes:

‘At peace in heaven among his brethren.'

‘Asleep in rest, forever blest.'

‘But it is I who am asleep,' says Mrs April to her dream, ‘gentle sleep, nature's soft nurse.'

The grass bristles with frost. Beneath the frozen crust lie the dead and gone of the town. Its tailors and cobblers, book-keepers and dairymen. In tidy rows rest the milkmaid and seamstress, the milliner and baker. Numerous of all, long beached and grounded, are the sailors and fishermen, lifeboat men and sea captains, hauled from the deep, salted and bloated, seaweed as a garland, bathed in brine. Washed up from shoreline and causeway, the storm subsiding, the waves calming, the pebbles settling on the seashore. Long silenced gasps and sobs from unbelieving relatives, torn from their beds to witness the horror on the tide. Funeral processions and petals on the flume. The church organ rumbling through evensong for those in peril on the sea.

Ebenezer Squarentrue, grave-digger and gardener, dead asleep in his hut, pays no heed to the hoot of the owl, the shift in the soil. His shovels and spades, hoes and rakes, lovingly cleaned, put to bed for the night, wait in an orderly row by the door, their morning duties ready to perform. His lime-green budgerigar, stock-still on its perch, eyes closed, snug and assured under its thick canvas blanket. Mr Squarentrue switches dreams without stirring, safe in the knowledge that all is well. Not a weed in sight, no daisies pushing through the grass verges of his graveyard.

Fresh earth bubbles like mincemeat over the grave of Barney Butcherhook, the town's last butcher. The frost sprinkles on the newly dug soil like grated parmesan cheese. Six feet under, from a long line of Butcherhooks, the overweight body turns and twists, its tummy rumbling one last time before it implodes, full to the brim with the tripe and onions, offal and sweetmeats that ground his heart to a stop as he was serving old Grandma Hoopshaper her weekly ration. There had always been talk and suspicion as to what went into his sausages. Now the secret dies with him. The worms and centipedes, earwigs and larvae waiting to feast on the fat of his land. His shop already being readied for the new coffin-makers, the baked funeral meats barely cold on the trellis in the butcher's yard. No more will Butcherhooks weigh out the meat and poultry, nor sharpen their butcher's knives as the townsfolk wander by on the High Street.

Mrs April sees herself standing at the graveside of the butcher boy. She hears words coming from her mouth, out of sync with her lips. But the voice is not hers, but that of Judge Omega.

‘Will Barney Butcherhook, when he is brought to account, confess to tearing the heart from the blackbird in Grundy's wood? Will he own up to placing it in the mouth of the suckling pig in the shop window one Saturday afternoon, as his mother washed the blood from her hands in the sink upstairs and the Jehovah's Witnesses belted out a tune from the picture house across the street?'

As late as it is, the long-dead neighbours look on, curious as to the measure and cut of their new companion. In central position, the town's most famous son lauds over all from his mausoleum. As regal in death as in life, Judge Tobias Omega, who rose to the highest office in the land, passes judgment over the new tenant.

‘In Justice he lived, in perfect peace he now resides'
reads his tombstone. Up and down the country, prison cells hold other epitaphs for the Judge, dug deep into their dungeon walls.

More modest abodes house the likes of herself, Great Aunt Margaret, and the Mrs Fishcutters (the First and Second), all a long time laid to rest.

‘At peace'

‘Only sleeping'

‘Gathered in the arms of her Saviour'

‘In sure hope of the resurrection'

An hour before dawn, she sees the ghost of herself, standing by the apse of the church. She is twenty-five years old and is combing her long brown hair by the light of the moon. Through her long-dead eyes she spies the two Mrs Fishcutters huddled in the porch. The three figures come together, as the old stone walls listen to their whispers, lest the words disappear into the sheets of mist caressing the church to sleep. The bare twigs of the willow tree rustle in the wind, as if applauding the scene. A passerby, though the strangeness of the hour makes any highly unlikely, might get a sense of the presence of the three women. A flurry in the corner of the graveyard, a twitching of the frozen grass, a mere flickering of a memory. But any passerby would scurry along, giving it all barely a second thought as they hastily make their way down the lane between the church and the cemetery.

Yet the three women have all the time they need as they join together in communion.

‘My heart bleeds,' weeps Mrs Fishcutter the Second.

‘Mine too. For the Twins I left so helpless and tiny,' says Mrs Fishcutter the First, with a sadness known only to the dead in mourning.

‘I did what I could,' says the Second, reaching out a hand to the First. ‘As much as I was allowed. I gave them as much love as they would take.'

The two Fishcutter women hold hands, as Mrs April looks on, dreaming herself into the dream, the smile still generous on her face.

Close by, a stoat weaves through the grass, carving a path between the tombstones, reverential, yet on the lookout for grubs or worms that might pop through the soil to catch a peek at the strange gathering above ground.

Mrs April turns to her two companions, holding out a hand to each.

Linked as they are, the three turn gently in a circle, entwined and embraced, their lives and hopes and memories swirling in the pre-dawn mist.

‘I was happy to see him at Appleby Fair,' smiles the Second.

‘He fell for you like falling off a log,' says the First, ‘that fisherman of ours.'

‘Our fisherman with the body of an angel,' laughs Mrs April, throwing back her long brown hair, grasping the hands of the other two, swirling around and around.

Way above, the gargoyles, perched on the roof of the church, gaze down on the scene. Each one a crouching sentry, centuries old: the bull and the griffin, the eagle and the serpent. With open dry mouths and bulging eyes, they bear witness to the night-time dance below.

The circle slows, but the women hold to each other, linked in life and linked in death.

‘When all was said and done, we did our best,' says Mrs April. ‘We left more than we took.'

‘I left my babies,' whispers the First, so quietly that the gargoyles have to lean precariously over the guttering to catch her words.

‘I could never get close to them, they adored you so,' says the Second.

‘The little ones,' cries the First, a tear dropping from her eye. ‘I fear for them. Where are they now? So precious, so tiny.'

‘They got to live a rich life in the end, in their own way,' says Mrs April, the smile still warm on her lips. ‘They grew to be the women they had to be. No need to fear, my dear.'

And she wipes the tear from the cheek of her friend and holds her close, whispering kindness and hope. Just as all those years ago she held fast the small boy covered in the soot of the fire and the mud of the woods.

‘You be my honey, honey-suckle, I'll be your bee,' sings Mrs April as the dawn pokes its head above the belltower of the ancient church.

As the morning sets in and the birds go about their songs, a solitary bumblebee finds its way to the altar in the church. Beneath the stained-glass picture of Saint George and the Dragon, amidst the silver goblets and golden crucifix, it finds the nectar from the single orchid (propagated in the greenhouse of Beckett Vine, the verger) standing straight and erect in the thin-stemmed vase.

She shivers awake, the buzzing of a bee close to her face. The sun has disappeared and dusk beckons behind the clouds. Mrs April shudders, rubbing her hands together for warmth and to remind her where she is. She shakes her head, grasping at the shadow of her dream: a churchyard, the clasp of a cold hand, the long brown hair of her youth. And then it all disappears in a puff and she can recall nothing at all, not even a remembrance of the memory.

She stands up and looks around. No one to be seen.

‘Oscar. Oscar,' she calls. But only the waves on the sands reply.

She rolls up the rug and picks up the picnic hamper. As she turns around there is Stigir, his head cocked to one side, his ears up and alert. He barks noisily in the direction of the woods and scampers off across the beach.

‘Take me to your leader,' smiles Mrs April, and hurries off in pursuit.

Stigir stops at the end of the bay, where the sand meets the trees, waiting for his companion to catch up, mindful of the slow clumsiness of people.

‘Hold on a second,' puffs Mrs April, the floppy canvas hat falling over her face, an image flashing into her mind of a startled Barney Butcherhook, small blackbird clasped in his hand. ‘Let me catch my breath.'

Stigir yelps Mrs April back to the present. He turns and squeezes between a blackberry bush and a box elder sapling.

‘Well, I do hope you know where you're going,' she says, holding in check her growing concern.

She takes a deep breath, bends low and follows the dog through the gap. Emerging on the other side, brushing the leaves and brambles from her clothes, her hat askew, she looks up to see a small overgrown path leading through the woods.

They make their way along the path, clambering over fallen tree trunks and wading through beds of nettles, crossing and re-crossing a small brook and then climbing a small incline. After fifteen minutes or so, with the picnic basket growing ever heavier, the path opens to a small clearing and there in front of them is the small house, smoke coming from its chimney. Mrs April watches it twirl skywards, and there, fluttering above in the treetops, like the star for the Magi, is the blue kite.

I see them outside. Mrs April and Stigir. I am in the future. I came here before them. The kite. The smoke. Bringing them both here. Oscar, the time-traveller. They are coming along the path. Mrs April looks so elegantly beautiful. She wears a wide-brimmed hat and long green skirt. The buttons on her jacket are the size of saucers, her earrings sparkle in the light, stroking her neck as she moves. Under her arm she has a basket that I know holds lovely treats. She does not see me yet, though Stigir knows I'm here. I am the future she does not know about.

I open the door. The one-hinged door that I need to push against to stop it from falling away.

‘Oscar,' says Mrs April, smiling broadly, ‘how clever of you to have found such a beautiful hidey-hole.'

I bow and beckon them in: the guests to my domain.

The fire burns brightly in the hearth. There is dry wood in a pile, waiting to join the flames. Old crates have been pulled from the rubble and placed around the fireplace. The single window is broken, a woolsack hung as curtain. Through the cracked and broken tiles of the roof the late afternoon moon is on the rise and the sky has turned a watery blue. The vague hum of the ocean is a distant hymn. On the mantelpiece above the fire is a stick, a stone, a sliver of glass, an old photo, and something round and flat that shimmers in the flickering light from the flames.

‘What is this?' says Mrs April, moving closer to the fireplace.

‘It's a broken pocket watch,' I say. ‘I found it in the corner of the room, on the floor with the old photo.'

‘May I?' asks Mrs April, taking it from the shelf.

‘It doesn't work,' I say. ‘I wound it up and shook it, but nothing happens.'

She turns it over in the palm of her hand. It is old and scratched and the fob has broken away over time.

‘It's beautiful,' she says. ‘Probably belonged to one of the women in the photo.'

The cracked and tattered photo shows two middle-aged women standing outside the house. Their faces are covered by thick veils attached to broad-brimmed hats. Both are dressed in ankle-length smocks and thick padded gloves. The veils obscure their expressions, but they seem stiff and uncomfortable being photographed. The house in the background is a much younger version of the relic in which Oscar now stands. In the black-and-white photo, flowers border the walls and a vegetable patch is just visible in the corner.

‘Who do you think they were, Mrs April?'

‘Crofters, I imagine, or smallholders of some kind. Long time ago I should say, by the clothes.'

‘I wonder what their lives were?'

‘We all have our story.'

‘To tell.'

‘Yes, Oscar. To tell.'

There's something of the fire, the couple in the photo and the watch that tells no time, that stirs in me a sense of how various life can be.