Miriam's Talisman (25 page)

‘There, are you feeling a little better?' Janet had her arm around me. ‘I told you not to keep her down in that stuffy basement. Young girl like that needs fresh air in her lungs.' She had coaxed me up into the dining room and opened a window, and was now wiping my face with a cold, damp cloth.

‘I'm fine now. I'm sorry. I feel so silly. Must be the journey tomorrow. I'm feeling a bit nervous. About flying, I mean.'

‘Perhaps an early night then. Marcus, you must drive her home.'

‘Oh, no. I'm all right now, really. Perhaps if I could have that cup of coffee.' Janet went off to the kitchen. ‘Marcus, there's something else I want you to look at.'

I took the book from my pocket and handed it to him. I had been undecided as to whether I should show it or not. Now things were different. He held it under a lamp for some time, scanning the pages in silence. Then he sighed and shook his head.

‘Miriam's writing, obviously. Some of it Gaelic, but a very ancient form. Much of it is Runic. Look, there are the signs for
Peorth
and
Haga
. But, again, it's a form I'm not familiar with. I don't think I know enough to make any sense of it.'

‘You couldn't translate it, then?'

‘No, but I think I know someone who may be able to
help. This is obviously something special. Could you bear to trust me with it for a few days?'

So of course I had to leave the book with him. There was nothing else I could do.

I
DIDN'T SLEEP
that night, or rather I fell asleep over and over again, only to awaken suddenly with my mind racing. I threw myself from one side of the bed to the other as the wind battered the windows and doors. The cottage felt deserted. Loneliness pressed down on me until I thought I would suffocate. If he was aware of how much I'd learned, he gave no sign.

I'd become afraid, and not before time. I was terrified that this fantasy might be real; even more terrified that it was not real and I was going insane. There were so many things to fear, so many strange and awful things that had been told to me by Miriam. Most of all I was afraid that I would never see him again.

Eventually, morning light crept across the bedroom wall. The wind had dropped, but the overnight gale had stripped much of the orchard and naked branches stretched against an oatmeal sky. I stumbled from room to room, trying to organise myself for the journey, making mental lists of things I needed. It all seemed so complicated and I was beginning to have serious doubts about the wisdom of this wild-goose chase. Thank goodness I wouldn't have
to drive in rush hour and the motorway would not be too busy. Even so I would have to leave at lunchtime to be sure of checking in two hours before the five o'clock flight. I was so anxious about the time that I was packed and ready by ten o'clock.

About mid-morning I was startled by a knock. It had to be Paul. What could I say to him? I had a momentary urge to pretend I was not there, to hide behind the sofa. Oh, grow up Cliohna, I thought and forced myself to open the door. It was a shock to find Hannah on the doorstep. Had I actually forgotten she existed? She had melted into the past, relegated to another part of time. We stared at each other for ages, then she broke the silence.

‘Am I allowed to come in?'

As usual, I heard this as a criticism. Stepping back to let her pass I realised, with a twist of guilt, that this was the first time we'd encountered each other since the funeral. The last time I had seen her, she was being dragged into a car in a state of hysteria. I hadn't even telephoned to ask if she was all right: that was left to Paul.

As I followed her I became aware of how cold and bleak the sitting room felt. I hadn't bothered to light a fire. She started to remove her coat, then hesitated, looking to me for permission. She was nervous, not sure how to act in my presence, as if she were somehow afraid of me. This was a Hannah I didn't know.

‘You look tired, Chloe.'

‘I didn't sleep well last night. The wind.'

‘Yes, yes of course. Did it do much damage?'

‘I'm not sure.'

We looked at each other, reappraising. I thought she looked smaller than I remembered, less imposing. Time
does change people. That was silly, it had only been a week. I wondered what she saw in me, apart from Miriam. I was desperate for some sort of diversion.

‘Would you like some coffee?'

‘Yes, that would be nice.' She sounded relieved also and walked behind me into the kitchen, surveying the rooms as she passed through. ‘The place looks tidier. I see you've cleared that mess off the dining table.'

Something caught me full in the stomach—a revelation, and a bitter one. That was the only real difference I'd made here and it was made by some part of me that was Hannah, not Miriam. I fumbled at the taps and splashed water down my skirt. Hannah sat down, snapping open her handbag and reaching inside.

‘I'd rather you didn't smoke in here.'

She froze, her hand clutching the small red box. Her mouth slackened as she looked at me. I made myself look directly at her in return, unwavering, unrelenting. Slowly she returned the box to her bag and closed it, threading the strap through her fingers.

‘I hear you're going to America.'

‘Yes, that's right. Leaving this afternoon as a matter of fact. Who told you? Paul?'

‘No. I've spoken with Paul, yes, but it was Greg who told me about the trip.' She crossed one knee over the other, straightening her back against the chair.

‘Oh.' I said. No, I hadn't informed her myself and, no, I wouldn't apologise for that, either.

‘Paul was very upset.'

‘Why did you lie to me?'

‘He said that you'd had a row, that you two had broken up.'

‘I said: why did you lie to me? My grandfather. You know, Harold Shaw, your father? Surely you must have heard of him?'

She was about to speak, then let the words go, her narrow body folding in on itself. I could see that she was hurting and that wasn't what I'd meant to do. At that moment I wanted to reach out to her. Instead I pushed myself hard against the wall. I was determined to go through with this.

‘Miriam never spoke of him at all. It was as if he never existed for her. But you told me he'd died. That's not what you believed, is it? You knew he was alive, didn't you? You must have known.'

There was a silence; it hung between us, sharp as a knife. When she eventually spoke, she looked down at her hands. Her voice was hushed, the words carefully placed.

‘It was his choice. I had no idea what had happened to him. I never bothered to find out. He may as well have died. As far as I was concerned he
was
dead.'

‘But why?'

She shook her head and looked at the leather twisting through her fingers. Colour had drained from her face, and the frail morning sunlight seeping through the lattice did nothing to warm the room.

I moved to the table, sliding down into the chair nearest to hers.

‘I need you to help me. I need to know what happened in Ireland.'

‘I don't know what I can tell you. I never really understood it myself.'

I waited, expecting more. Then she said, ‘We came
from Boston on a three-year grant that my father had been given by the university. That's how long he worked there. Then he went back home and we stayed behind. I never heard from him again. That's all I can tell you.'

‘No. There must have been more to it.' I slid her cup towards her. ‘Something happened there. I need to know. You owe me that.'

She glanced up at me, just for a moment, then nodded and took a sip of her coffee.

‘You told me some of it before the funeral, the day that David came. You said Miriam was happy there.'

‘Yes, they both were. I suppose I was too, at first, though I was never really at ease. There were others there when we arrived, of course, some English people, professional colleagues of Harold's. They all worked on the sites as well as at the university, but I don't think Miriam ever got to know them properly.'

‘What about the country? Did she love it, hate it, or what?'

‘We were all shocked by the little stone cottage they gave us. Then Miriam seemed to take to it, loved the primitive nature of it all. She was like a child herself, playing house in that little hovel, cooking on a peat-fired range, scrubbing clothes in the stone sink. I suppose we all ran a little wild.

‘At first she would help out at the dig and I would climb up the hillside with her. My father had taught her how to brush away the fine layers of earth and spot the tiny slivers of bone or fired clay. They always called to me if they found something and I got caught up in their excitement even though I didn't understand it. They wouldn't let me too close to where they were working in
case I disturbed the earth. I was supposed to watch from a distance, but I usually got bored and wandered off to play on my own.

‘Then Miriam would come after me. She'd take my hand and we'd follow the little stream as it tumbled down the hillside over slippery rocks. She showed me where to look among the reeds for wild flowers—orchids and violets and the tall foxgloves. There were so many. She knew all the proper names, and the common names the local people knew them by. She taught me how to string them together, to split the stem with the nail of my thumb till the milky sap bubbled out. If you're very careful, you can do it without breaking the end. Then we would thread the next stem through the slit, then another and another. Chains of bright buttercups and wild marigolds. Jewels fit for a princess, she would say and laugh and slip them around my neck and twist them into a crown for my head. You're my little princess, she'd say, and far prettier than any flower.'

‘But it wasn't always like that, was it?'

Hannah shook her head, then took a deep breath, as if it were hard to push the words forward. ‘After a while we spent less time at the dig. She started to visit the village people and I would go with her. I didn't like that so much. They were…Well, they would look at us strangely and wipe a seat for her to sit on. They crooned over me, telling her how pretty I was, but I knew it was only words to charm her. Then they would talk for a long time and she would write it all down in her notebook. She was always so excited, and they appeared to be friendly and respectful. The older women all wore black shawls wrapped about their heads. I felt embarrassed by my
mother's bright clothes. She often wore shorts, even on Sundays. No one ever said anything, but I saw the way they looked at each other.

‘The children were dirty. They always had runny noses—I don't think anyone owned a handkerchief. I tried not to touch anything, and I always refused the bread and scones they offered, no matter how hungry I felt. I scrubbed my hands when I got home. Miriam didn't seem to notice the dirt. She was too excited about the things she'd written down. She tried to explain it all to me on the way home. I didn't really listen. I don't think it ever occurred to her that I mightn't want to go with her.'

‘What about your father?'

‘In the evening Harold would come home—muddy boots in the hall and a fine trickle of brown dust falling from his clothes. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with hands like spades. He stood over me like a huge bear. He must have sensed that. He was always so careful with me, lifting me gently as if I would break. I suppose all fathers do that. He would take me up to the little room he used as a study and I was allowed to watch while he sorted through his trays of precious fragments. He had tiny brushes to clean them with and special knives with miniature blades, like surgical instruments, to scrape away the dirt. They were kept on his worktable in a black leather box, each with its own velvet-lined compartment. I was never allowed to touch. I suppose they must have been very sharp. In the evening they would build up the fire and she would tell him her latest story while I fell asleep on his lap. Yes, I suppose we were all happy at first.'

‘Something must have happened to change that.'

Hannah's hands tightened their grip on the leather.

‘Please, I have to know.'

She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Your grandmother became more and more absorbed in her writing. That's when they started to argue. After a time it seemed that was all they did. They would fight and then there would be long days of silence. I don't know which was worse.'

‘What did they argue about?'

‘Anything. Everything. There was one big row. I'm not sure if that was the start of it.'

‘What was it about?'

‘Harold had spent a lot of time working at the dig. There was something important going on. He had come home late the previous night and went off early again that morning. In the afternoon Miriam went up to join him. I wasn't allowed to go this time. I stayed in the house with one of the village women who sometimes helped out.

‘Suddenly Miriam came back. She burst in and ran upstairs, right past me, and slammed the door. She must have locked it, because Harold went running up after her and knocked and banged at it for ages. “You can't do this!” he kept shouting, “You know it's wrong. Have you lost your senses?” But she wouldn't let him in.

‘The shouting went on for days. He kept saying she'd done something unethical. I didn't know what that meant then. I still don't know what she'd done. But I knew it was important and I was afraid. Nobody spoke to me or told me what was happening.

‘After that they sort of retreated into their own separate worlds. It was like the cinema when they show a split
screen, two different scenes with different people doing different things and each unaware of the other. My father would go off to the university or to the site. Often he and the other men went to the pub after and he wouldn't return until late. I think he may have started drinking, I mean seriously drinking, but he wasn't around enough for me to be sure. When he was home, he shut himself away in his study. I kept out of his way.'