Snake Ropes (19 page)

She frowns. ‘Odd she’s letting you sit in her cottage, when she’s not here. What did you say your name were again?’

I slide out a chair, sit down at the table and pick up the stick of charcoal. I tap my fingers on the table. Pick at the orange stitching on the book.

Annie says, ‘Right then. Mary love, I feel right bad for knowing about the trade and not telling anyone.’ She stares out of the window at the empty horizon. ‘The tall men dun want our men to talk, and spoil the trade for them. But them never knew Martyn had told
me.’

The charcoal screeches on the paper – she talks faster than I can write.

She glances at me. ‘Are you getting this writ?’

I nod.

‘I keep thinking of my Kieran. Him is stood under a tree, after the rain has been, and the tree is still raining. Tree rain falls all over hims head, turns to pure gold and fills up hims pockets. I’m
so
proud of him.’ She stares at my hands. ‘You never wrote that bit.’

‘I did. Just before you said it. Keep going.’ I tear out the first page, to start a new letter.

She doesn’t notice. She says, ‘The tall men said on the main land it were important to think of the future. I felt a fool for never thinking like that.’

She glances at me. ‘You’re not writing.’

I say, ‘So you never think about what you really
want—
’

‘Me and Martyn talked Kieran’s future all through—’

‘I don’t mean what people
do –
I mean the person you
could
be.’

‘I’m myself, pet. Can’t be another person later on. You’re born just the once, you know. I’ll lose the threads if you keep interrupting!’ She presses her palms on the table. ‘Get this down: I knew the tall men wouldn’t want me to talk. Not if them wanted to trade for more boys.’ She picks at the skin on her finger. ‘I never knew a proper secret afore, not about anything.’ She smiles. ‘I told two of the tall men I knew. Said I’d talk unless them gave me something just for me, then and there. Them gave me a whole lot of fancy foods, and some silky ribbons the likes I’ve never seen before, and I traded them on for a good amount. Got the window fixed, and plenty in to last us for the winter. And then we decided to move to Wreckers Shore, Mary – you know I need more than I’ve had. Never have been fast at knitting and the main land folks
will
change what them want so often. I told the tall men I wanted a pair of white boots just like Kelmar’s.’

‘Are there only two pairs of white boots? Can you dance in them? Are they hard to take off … no, that was the story about
red—
’

‘It’s just me and Kelmar what have them, aye. Cobbler says it’s showing no respect to the animal, to change the colour of its hide. But it’s dead by then, ‘ent it?’

I look under the table at the brown cracked boots pinching my toes. And at Annie’s new boots, pacing up and down, bigger than these ones. I ask, ‘Can I have your old boots?’

‘Shush it. I decided to tell them next time that I wanted a new white dress, made of crushed-up spun salt. After that, I were going to ask for a cloak made of woven soot and a necklace made from the tears of flies.’ She beams.

‘Lovely.’ I lean my elbows on the table.

She stops pacing and glares at me. ‘Just write, will you! So. Write this: Them brought the white boots. Not the same as Kelmar’s, as her boots
are
the cobbler’s after all, just painted ‘em white, she has.’ She smiles at her feet. ‘I kept these boots hid for a time, but I want to wear them, though them’re too big. Them remind me Kieran’s got a better life now, and when I doubt that, I look at them and them shine the truth of the main land back up at me.’

‘Do you really want me to tell her about your
boots
?’

‘Well, all folk’ve been talking of Kelmar’s, so someone’s got to speak of mine. All right. Dun put that bit down.’

‘Right.’

‘Say this to Mary: I’m all jumbled for I can’t stop the Thrashing House calling me so loud.’

‘It
calls
?’ I stare at her.

‘Still is.’ She clasps her hands over her ears. Her eyes seem terrified. ‘Maybe now I’ve said it, it’ll stop calling. Walk down the beach when you’ve read this, I’ll watch at the window for
you – we got to stick together you and me. Let’s talk soon, even if you’re angered?’

‘Do you want to sign it?’

She whispers, ‘Just write my name. Annie. Dun think I told you that.’ She walks to the front door. ‘And you’ve still not given me yours.’ Her dogs spring up, tails wagging, and follow her outside. I close and lock the door behind her and read the letter:

I open the drawer in the table, pick through scraps of folded fabric, stray embroidery thread ends. Taking out a piece of blue thread, I tear the letter out of the book and tie it up.

I stroke the next blank page on the empty book, sit down and write:

I might have days, weeks, here, staring through the thick glass of this window at distorted waves that wash in and pull out, with no boats blurring through, no way back to the mainland, my heart beating out,
Soon, let it be soon
.

Please let a boat come, to carry me away.

No brother, no mother, no father, but behind the door
between other coats hangs a small child’s coat, a man’s wool hat and a woman’s shawl. On the back of one of the bedroom doors is a nightdress, an embroidery across the bodice of a tree with curled branches. Mary said her father was an old worn boot. I’m sure that’s what she said. I look at the boots pinching my feet. They’re old and worn. I whisper at the left boot, the one that hurts the most, ‘You’re not her dad in disguise are you?’

And of course it doesn’t answer.

I write in the book:

Everyone is gone. Will I be next?

It could be this cottage itself that makes people vanish. My own disappearance could be being plotted. The fireplace could be considering how best to sneak up and swallow me. The chairs want to ambush me, break my bones with their legs. I should plan for this attack, arm myself with knives from the kitchen, hide myself underneath that trapdoor in the floor, unless the trapdoor is planning to guillotine me … I should run … but I can’t stop thinking that this is a cottage where four people once breathed and slept and cried and laughed and ate and lived. And don’t any more.

But it doesn’t feel empty.

I’m being watched. My spine prickles. Someone else is here in this room. I spin round. My breath catches in my throat.

A woman kneels on the chair by the empty fireplace, her arms folded on the embroideries piled on the back of the seat. She stares at me, intently. From the dark hair, pale skin and the deep blue of her eyes, the resemblance is clear; it’s Mary’s mother.

‘You’re dead,’ I say, before I can stop myself.

The door creaks open. I wipe my eyes and nose on my sleeve. A little girl with a pale face and light wavy hair peers round it. Big blue eyes. She’s so pale her skin is almost see-through. She steps into the room and folds her arms across a fancy grey dress, clean and pressed. Another face, the same face, looks round the door and joins her. Her dress is the same, only nut-brown. She shuts the door and folds her arms the opposite way, left over right. Them look like reflections. Twinned. With bare feet.

Them stare at me, not moving.

I take a step towards them.

The twin in the grey dress backs away.

‘Dun worry.’ I take my coat off and put it on the table. ‘I’m Mary. Going to do a broiderie for your Mam.’

Them glance at each other. Something flickers in thems eyes.

I pick up the picture. ‘This boy, have you seen him?’ I keep my voice gentle.

Them turn away. Them each have ribbons in thems hair, one brown, one grey. Them walk out of the room. One twin looks
back at me, smiles with tiny clean teeth. The smile dun reach her eyes.

I follow them. Them stop next to another door. I look down at my dirty dress, torn down the middle, stitched rough. Covered in brown stains, still damp. My dirty bag with just one handle and threads hanging loose. A gash in my leg, thick dark blood and dirt smeared across it. The bruise around it already blue. My hair, tangled.

‘We’ll clean you up—’ says the twin in grey.

‘—because you stink,’ says the other.

My cheeks flame, ‘That’s rude, now!’

The twin in grey steps back.

I fold my arms. ‘Do you
think
rude together, as well as talk it?’

Them take each other’s hands. The one in the brown dress says, ‘We always think together when we agree. And we always do—’

‘—agree. Apart from when—’ the twin in grey smiles.

‘—we can’t decide which of us is prettier or cleverer.’ Thems smiles drop.

Them open a door to a steep wooden staircase leading upstairs. ‘The bath’s ready. We’re going to clean you upstairs in our own bathroom, where we wash our dolls.’

‘You have a washroom here just for dolls? Course you do.’ I follow them upstairs.

In the twins’ bedroom, two grand wooden beds stand side by side. Two mirrors over two sets of drawers. Blackberry-colour fabric drapes along the walls, silver trees painted over it. I follow the twins to the corner of the room. Them lift the fabric, and there’s another door. It opens into a washroom with a huge wooden washtub right in the middle. It’s painted with curled
shapes like seeds growing, bean to shoot to root. The washtub is full of steaming water and thick bubbles froth on the surface. The twins pick up two metal buckets.

The one in grey says, ‘We’ll fetch more hot water, it’s nearly full.’

I say, ‘Dun worry. It’s just right. You two wait in your room for me.’

Them hold each other’s hands and stare at my dress, like them’re thinking really loud that I should take it off right now.

My hands are filthy, black grime under my nails. ‘Come on. You wouldn’t bathe in front of me. I’ll let you brush my hair after.’

The twin in brown whispers, ‘Dress up dolly. We can give her ribbons in her hair, make her look like she’s going—’ them smile at each other and whisper together, ‘—outside.’

Them glance up at me, heads tilted.

‘Go on, out. Guard the door so no one comes near. It’s an important job. You can play with my hair after, and we’ll talk about the drawing of the boy.’

Them smile. Them
might
mean it this time. Hard to tell. Them close the door behind them.

If I stay in this washroom as long as I can, there’s still a tiny bit of hope that Barney is still alive. I can hold it in my hands, make it spark, make it glow bright, keep it hid just for myself. Not think about what it will feel like, when it goes out.

I pull my dress off over my head. It looks like a dirty dishrag on the floor. I check the door is still closed. I pull off my vest,
unbind my breasts and them ache as I kick off my boots and socks. I step out of my drawers, pick them up and look at the gusset. No blood. Pinheads of light swirl behind my eyelids, I grip the edge of the washtub.

In the small rippled mirror my eyes are too old for my face. Dun want to look at my belly. From the pain tight across the skin, the smears of dried soil over it, I know that’s where hims hands were. I can smell the dank dead graveyard on me. Sickness catches the back of my throat. I splash water over my face. My hands are smeared in dirt.

Can’t get in this washtub, I’m too filthy.

On the damp floor in the corner I curl up, my arms around myself. I hear Langward’s voice in my head …
You look so like your mother
. Press my cheek on the floor. And I do look like her. I curl up tighter.

Him dun see me, him wanted something of hers. Wanted to spite her, even when she’s dead. Because the way him loved her is like a poison that spreads.

My head’s full of thorns and spikes.

Blackthorn bush thoughts: part of me is still lying there in the graveyard, staring up at the sky through tangled twigs and thorns. A shadow of me peeled off, feeling all the things I dun want to feel, waiting to be buried.

Thorn.

Lying here thinking him might’ve said the truth: Mam traded me.

Spike. Spike. Spike.

The worst thing of all is that it
could
be true.

And she’s not here to ask if it is.

Thorn.

Under the water in the washtub I open my eyes and surface.

If I leave my shadow, her, in the graveyard, she’ll rot like all the corpses. She’s stuck there. I shout
Mary!
in my thoughts. Plunge down in the water, see her lying in the graveyard.
Stand up!
Behind my eyelids, she hobbles to her feet.

I surface.

Come here
. I breathe in.

Plunge down.

I see her. She staggers. Pushes her way through bushes, hobbles over stones, her arms flail. She trips and stands and trips again – she moves like she’s being tipped in waves. She crosses the fields. Threads tied from her waist to mine tug her along. She pitches, surges, tilts.

She drifts through the pink fence, sifts through the front door like she’s made of black smoke, climbs the stairs, passes through the twins’ room. She’s at this door. I judder as she sieves through it.

I surface.

She stands at the other side of the washtub.

We stare at each other through steam. She’s got my face, body, ripped dress, but she’s made of grey and black twisted threads.

She’s angered, hurt, crying. Tears leave pale trails on her grey cheeks. She reaches her hand into the washtub, splashes water on her belly and winces.

I stand up, all clean and clear, no pain in my body.

She stands opposite me, smeared in dirt, face dark and full of pain. She bares her teeth at me and pulls her dress open. I look at her belly. It sags from hurt, her skin hangs like folded linen. I look down at mine. Now I know what Langward did. Stretched from our right hipbones up to under our left ribs. The cuts show the letters, a deep, red word, carved in our skin with my knife:

I reach out my hands. Shadow Mary groans and it sounds in my head. Her hollow eyes scowl under strands of hair. Neither one of us wants to be attached back onto each other. This is Shadow Mary, my own twin.

What do you want
? I ask her in my thoughts.

She clenches her hands. She holds them out and looks at them. Her nails have grown. Four crescents of black blood, across the middle of her palms. She sighs, like it’s a relief. Her voice in my head says,
Hide me in the moppet, with Barney
.

I look down at the palms of my own hands. Them are clean and clear, wrinkled and puffed up with water.

The moppet is curled tight in the bottom of my bag. I pull it out and drop it on the floor. It sits up, raggedy ears hanging over its beady eyes, dull with steam. I turn the moppet round so it faces Shadow Mary.
Get in
. I think at her. She steps towards me, fists clenched. I think,
Hide in the moppet, with Barney. I’ll look after you
.

She breaks into pieces, smaller and smaller, and drops through the steam. My heart thuds. Shadow Mary is a pile of blackness on the floor. The blackness moves like a dark fog. It gets sucked in, where the opening of the shell must be.

The moppet slumps forwards. I pick it up and put it next to my ear.

Barney’s voice says, ‘Mary here.’

Shadow Mary says, ‘Go. To. Sleep.’

I imagine me and Barney are together, curled up for sleep, me stroking hims hair. I listen close, and say, ‘Barney, I’ll always keep the moppet, no matter what, because you’re mine.’

Shadow Mary’s voice says, ‘Go. Away.’