No Cherubs for Melanie (19 page)

She obviously doesn't want you on the island with her precious animals, logic told him. What will you achieve?

“I might upset her if I just blurt out my reason for finding her.”

So
?

“She might lie.”

She'll lie anyway if she's going to. If she's determined to protect her father, she will
.

Why are you really going, Dave
?

“I don't want to go back… not yet, anyway.”

At last the truth. You're running away
.

“No, I'm not running away… ” His mind reached for the alternative. “I'm running toward.”

Toward what
?

She was back, eagle's cage in hand, while he was still trying to fathom the answer. “What do I call you anyway?” she asked.

“Uh! Sorry, I was miles away…” Then he dredged her question back up and answered, “Dave. Call me Dave.”

The sun was heading low on the horizon before they reached their destination. A few of the brightest stars were shining faintly against the rapidly darkening sky and, in the semi-darkness, she guided the canoe expertly
past rocks hiding beneath the slate grey surface. The violent reds of the autumnal trees had slowly turned purple and dissolved in the setting sun, and the day's breeze had died as Bliss and Margaret slipped between the rocks and rounded the island's headland. Only the sound of their paddle splashes echoing off the rocky walls broke the silence and the cliffs loomed so close in the gloom that Bliss fretted the canoe might crash into them. Then, looking skywards, he saw the stars had vanished and dark blobs of trees, like ominous black clouds, now hung low over the narrow channel, turning it into a tunnel.

Breaking out of the tunnel, the last rays of daylight cast a mystical golden glow over the sandy beach below Margaret's house. “Here we are,” she said, expertly pulling the canoe alongside and leaping onto the remnants of an old wooden dock. “This is the first job,” she added, implying that there were others; for the briefest of moments, Bliss thought she intended starting the repairs straight away. He tugged at his sweat-soaked shirt as he started clambering out of the canoe. “It's warm,” he said, hoping to trigger a conversation. But, before she could reply, a giant dark shape detached itself from the shore and lunged at her. Bliss froze, petrified, unable even to cry out in alarm. One foot, still in the canoe, was rooted to the spot and a thousand fears swelled his brain. Then he felt his legs being prised apart as the canoe drifted away from the dock and a singular fear of being dunked in the lake overcame all else. Giving out a terrified shriek, he grappled for a hold on the damaged woodwork and made a leap for the dock.

“Get down, Bo,” Margaret shouted in annoyance, and slapped away the huge dog with a double-handed shove.

“It's a dog,” Bliss sighed in relief, as he scrabbled aboard the broken jetty.

“What did you think it was?”

“A bear,” he admitted sheepishly.

She grunted at his ignorance as the big black dog sauntered over and jabbed his muzzle firmly into his groin. Margaret gave a little embarrassed laugh. “He's only being friendly… Come here, Bo.” The dog obeyed, instantly, and she gave him a rewarding pat. “He's my guardian.”

Bliss composed himself as far as he was able and tried again. “I was saying. It's warm.”

She gave the darkening sky a cursory glance. “It could snow tomorrow… You never know in September.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure. It could. But it won't.”

“How do you know?”

“I know,” she said mystically, as if she were receiving some celestial weather forecasting service.

“What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this…” he began, hoping to lighten the conversation, but sensed her eyes narrowing in angry disapproval and shut up.

“I've got to see to the animals,” she said, grabbing the bald eagle's cage.

“Can I come?”

The frosty voice returned instantly. “Like I said, they'd be scared. I'll take you to the house.”

“Maybe I can see them later.”

“Maybe.”

The density of darkness shifted as the house materialized out of the forest, its solidity contrasting with the relative openness of the woodland through which he had stumbled, tripping over roots and bungling into branches, clutching a suitcase and two grocery bags. Margaret lit an oil lamp to guide him through the door then eyed him icily in its warm romantic light. “Come in. This is it. And don't expect to be pampered… I'm not your skivvy.”

Bliss laughed, he hadn't heard the expression for years. “Don't worry. I came for an adventure.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Is that all?”

“Yeah,” he replied lightly. “That's all.” He could have kicked himself; what a missed opportunity. Why hadn't he at least mentioned some of his concerns?

She didn't challenge his reply, saying simply, “I've got to sort our friend out,” with a nod to the eagle's cage.

“Can I see him?”

Dropping to her haunches she delved into the cage and caringly lifted the bird out. His ivory coloured head flopped drowsily in the flickering sepia radiance. “The vet gave him a sedative,” she explained, as he stroked the bird's silky breast feathers and felt the tiny blip of its heart. He looked up at Margaret and, close to her for the first time, saw the scar on her lip in the soft golden light, and saw the pain in the depth of her eyes.

“Shall we call him Eddie?” he suggested quietly.

“Eddie?” she asked, with an “are-you-crazy” look.

“You remember. That ski-jumper fellow with the beer-bottle glasses and scary hair.”

“Oh yeah.” She remembered. “Eddie the Eagle Whatsisname… But he was a bit of a disaster.”

“Precisely.”

“You look as though you need some sleep,” she said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his choice of name as she stuffed the eagle back in the cage. Bliss couldn't argue with her assessment and allowed her to lead him through the main room into the only bedroom. “I'll sleep on the couch,” she explained, “I've got to be up early to see to the animals and this way I won't disturb you.”

Exhausted, he flopped fully dressed on the bed without examining his surroundings. “Why wounded animals?” he pondered as he drifted off, then answered
his own question. “Trust.” You can trust animals and they'll trust you. Animals won't betray your trust, particularly if you've nurtured and nursed them. That's what she is seeking: trust.

“What are you seeking Dave?” he asked himself. But before he could answer, he thankfully fell asleep in a bed for the first time in three nights.

The steeply slanting morning sunshine woke him just after dawn. Bright shafts of light split by the trees just outside the window poured into the curtainless room. Desperate for a pee, he gingerly opened the bedroom door in search of a toilet and found that his readied apologies were wasted. The couch was bare and his eyes took in a multi-textured mishmash of dog-eared furniture. Nothing matched, even on the same piece: a kinked length of tree branch, bark still attached, stood in for one leg of a plain oak dining table, three differently patterned carpets fought for floor space, and two unmatched couches acted as sentinels for the fireplace. One couch, its Victorian rose pattern almost indistinguishable beneath a dense blanket of shed dog's hair, had lost an arm — and there were teeth marks clearly gouged into the remaining stump. Two bookcases of differing heights, stacked with a disarray of books, took up one wall, and a neat pile of cassette tapes stood on a roughly hewn coffee table. “Mahler,” he said, picking up one of the tapes. “More Mahler,” he added, inspecting another. Then he bent down and scanned the rest. “All Mahler.” His eyes swept the room seeking a stereo; he kicked himself — no electricity.

An old hunting rifle tucked into a corner caught his attention. “Loaded!” he exclaimed, picking it up. Why not, he thought; in fact, it's surprising she doesn't carry it with
her. He replaced the rifle and inhaled deeply to ingest the room's ambience. The smell of a wood fire filled his nostrils. Aged smoke — not the morning-after-a-party smell of piled ashtrays — the pleasant smell of smoke-pickled wood. The damp earthy smell of the surrounding forest was also there, in the background, together with the unmistakable scent of an animal. Bo the bear-dog, he guessed.

With his hand on another door, a question suddenly flipped him around. What's wrong with this picture, he asked himself, his brain struggling with the sensation that something was amiss. The lack of television, radio, and computer was obvious, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that the room was not as it should be.

With the question unanswered, he opened the door in front of him and was taken by surprise at the meagreness of the kitchen. Devoid of electrical or gas appliances, it resembled an old-fashioned scullery. Even the tin washboard dangling off an iron hook above the galvanized sink would have been more at home in an anthropological museum. However, the fire glowing inside a wood-burning stove, topped by a gently steaming kettle, gave comforting life to the room.

Then the bathroom, tacked onto the back of the kitchen, took his breath away. He had walked from the nineteenth to the twenty-first century in a single step. An oversized double-ended bath complete with gold-plated taps dominated the room, its deep burgundy richness accentuated by gold-striped wallpaper and gold fleck in the ivory floor tiles. Even the shower curtain patterned with tiny burgundy fleurs-de-lys, hung on huge golden rings, had obviously been carefully matched. Bliss caught his breath and turned the sink's hot tap speculatively, and was stunned when a gush of steaming water poured into the basin. With relief, Bliss used the toilet before continuing his exploration.

Stepping back in time he returned to the kitchen, searched unsuccessfully for coffee, and made tea instead. Cup in hand he wandered back through the main room, stepped out onto a wide verandah, and was startled by the freshness of the air. Clear but not crisp, the air's edge was rounded by a light mist rising off the warm lake. Margaret's house, which he now realized was an elaborate log cabin, was perched precariously on wooden stilts above jagged rocks, without a scrap of flat land anywhere in sight. Ahead, looking out through the trees, the rock face dropped untidily to the lake and, in the distance, heavily wooded islands glowed with a rusty redness in the morning sunlight. Absorbing the view, he lowered himself onto a nearby rock and felt his cares draining away. All thoughts of Edwards and the Gordonstone murders dissolved in the dawn light and a memory of a similar dawn in England, fifteen or more years earlier, took over his mind.

He'd borrowed a bike from a friend. It had ten speeds, but the double-clanger wasn't working, so he managed with five. A dry wheel bearing sang out for oil, and the narrow hard racing saddle sliced into his bum. “I'm going to regret this,” he thought aloud.

By the time the early morning sun had kissed the rolling Surrey downs it had surrendered half its warmth to the wispy high cloud, and the other half to a milky mist. But it retained enough brilliance to sparkle on the diamonds of dew trapped on the spiders' webs laced along the hedgerows. The constant buzz of traffic from the nearby motorway was in some strange way comforting as he rode through a beech copse, then he stopped as a stray dog stood firmly on the path, challenging his progress. Eye to eye they stood, testing each other's resolve, for what seemed like minutes and he'd just decided to retreat when the dog slowly turned, flaunted
its bushy red tail, and strode off confidently into the undergrowth. “It's a fox,” he breathed. He'd seen them before, many of them, all with their guts hanging out or heads pulped — road kill — but this one was so different. A powerful predator marking his ground, making his statement: “I'm not afraid of you.” Overhead, the canopy came to life as the fox moved away. Bickering squirrels rattled autumn leaves and dropped the odd nut, and a couple of magpies screeched in alarm at his approach, then relaxed into joyful song behind him.

At the edge of the wood he emerged into a shaggy pasture spattered with blood-red poppies and snowy daises. The mist had cleared and the dazzling sun suddenly burst through the clouds. He dismounted, turned his face to catch the warmth, shut out the hum of the traffic, ignored the drone of a small plane on its final approach to a nearby airfield, blocked out the slightly acrid smell of a local factory firing up for the day, and found himself singing Jerusalem, loudly.

“And did those feet in ancient times

Walk upon England's mountains green.”

A feeling of foolishness stopped him. He spun around expecting to find someone watching, but there was no one. But then he recognized a vaguely familiar landscape. The rectangular tower of a Norman church rose above a high blackberry hedge on the far side of the field and Melanie's memory drew him toward it.

He found her grave with difficulty; it had been several years and it was just a neglected little mound with a small, inscribed iron cross put there by the church. No headstone, no flowers, no cherubs.

“I'm sorry, Melanie,” he muttered, then found himself singing again, not caring whether he had an audience.

“And did those feet in ancient times

Walk upon England's mountains green.

And was the holy lamb of God

On England's pleasant pastures seen.”

Are those words right, he wondered, then thought, what the hell, and pushed on.

“And did the countenance divine

Walk forth among these crowded hills.

And was Jerusalem. Builded here.

On England's green and pleasant land.”

He knew it was wrong but felt it was right.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Margaret said, startling him as she squatted on the rock beside him, her moccasins muffling her approach. He'd been far away — back in England, back home with Sarah. No — back home, but not with Sarah, with Melanie. Without responding, he lingered one more second in his daydream and felt satisfied that he had somehow saluted the land of his birth, rekindling in himself the feeling he'd had at the time. The feeling that in some small way he had been responsible for putting things right with Margaret's sister while making the day beautiful, almost God-like.