Snake Ropes (5 page)

‘How d’you know it’s lime?’

‘It’s got
lime
wrote on the sack. Like them ones over there.’ I point at two other sacks of lime leaning up against the wall, both opened. ‘And the ones you’ve been dragging’ve got
silica
wrote on them. Looks like a kind of sand to me. If you look at the letters, you’ll get to know them’re different without opening the sack before you need to use it. I could show you—’

‘Aye. Well. Best see about this lime then.’

‘You remember I broke that windowpane at home, the moment you’d just fixed it in.’

Him smiles. ‘Little ‘uns throw things all the time. You just had a better aim than most. Now, your Grandmam it were, set you off hurling things that day, if I remember right.’

‘You must’ve had to trek all the way back up here to get another pane, then bring it back to fix it again.’

Four raps on the door. Four raps again.

Him says, ‘Well.’ Him goes to the door. ‘Dun break anything while them’re here. Got to keep an eye on you.’ Him looks round at me, a spark in hims eye, and opens the door.

With the light behind them, the two tall men are like shadows. All three wander off to talk. Dougan looks simple in hims
waistcoat and baggy trousers next to the tall men’s clever long coats and hats. I fold up the checked blanket, put it on the chair and stand in the doorway. The tall men have thems backs to me. Dougan leans on the drystone wall. I go outside and pretend to trip over the sack of lime them’ve left lying in the grass. I curse, loud, and rub at my foot.

The tall men glance round. Dougan winks at me and him goes off around the side of the barn to hims cottage.

The tall men stand waiting. Them’re talking to each other, quiet. I’m staring at the one with Barney’s eyes and thinking Mam must’ve shut her own eyes so tight and pretended him were Da, but I dun want to think about that, so I think about him taking Barney, and how him could’ve done it without me seeing, when I searched all the boats. I dun want to say anything till them’ve finished the trade, for I dun want Dougan to hear.

All the same, I step towards them.

But Dougan comes round the side of the barn, frowns at me and strides over to them. Him is carrying a white bulging pillowcase. Him says to the tall men, ‘My Nell says you can take these as a trade for the lime. One sack this month and two next. Them’re well hooked, you’ll see that.’

The tall man with Barney’s eyes pulls out a crochet bobble hat. Him nods, puts it back in and says, ‘Till next month.’

‘Fine,’ says Dougan. ‘You be fair over it – bring me something you think’ll be good for my Nell an’ all, since that there crochet took her some time, and her eyes is going.’

Nell leans round the side of the barn and calls out, ‘Mary, come here.’

‘You’re all right, Nell, I’ll be off.’

She hobbles over to me, leaning on her walking stick. ‘I said, come.’ She pulls her black shawl away from her chest. She’s wearing the Thrashing House key.

‘All right.’ My head bowed, I follow her round the side of the barn towards her cottage.

At the cottage door, she turns, ‘What’s this about you thinking your Da’s not really your Da?’ She taps her walking stick on a stone. ‘Doug tells me you’re still sick, and talking nonsense. Now, I knew your Mam, and I were there not long after you were born. Your Mam were in a state, for she were so young, and dun know what giving birth were to be like, but your Da were acting like any new father. You’re your Da’s daughter, through and through.’

‘But what of Barney?’

‘Never saw much of your Mam round then. But it’s like to be that she were scared right through with another baby coming. It’s no good you thinking like this. Barney’s took. You and your Da got to stick together Mary, you only get one lot of kin in this life, and it’s looking like for you, your Da is it. Dun be casting him off, not when him is the only belonging person you got left.’

‘Da dun miss Barney, not one bit.’

‘Well, for sure hims like to be acting like that. Him might be cutting off hims feelings so him is not full of missing him. Men’re just like that.’

‘No, it’s not like that. Him really
dun
miss him. Not at all.’

‘Well, it may be that’s the way of it, and you know your Da the best, I’m sure. And if hims not missing him and you are, that’s like to be hurting you now. But not one boy has come back. Your Da knows that. Dun be seeing blame where there’s none.’ She frowns.

‘Have you ever seen this thing, a white owl with a woman’s face? Mam did a broiderie of her, and I saw her, like a real thing, on the beach.’

She stares at me, her mouth wide open. ‘Them’ve done it,’
she says. ‘Mary get yourself home. Get your Da indoors.’ She pushes me away.

‘So she’s real?’ I gasp out.

‘Doug!’ Nell shrieks, her eyes wide. Then she says to herself, so quiet I almost dun hear it, ‘I’ve got to get the key to Valmarie. She’s on the bells tonight.’

‘I’ll take it to her.’ I reach out my hand.

She starts. ‘No you will not.’

Dougan comes round the side of the barn. ‘You all right Nell? Mary, not troubling her are you?’

‘Get indoors Doug. You done with the tall men?’

Him walks up to us. ‘Aye, them’re heading off. But I’ve got the furnace still blazing – I’m not done in there.’

Nell grips Dougan’s arm. ‘Leave it to die down. Get in.’ She shoves him through the cottage door. ‘Mary, get your Da indoors. Go. Now!’

I say, ‘But Da’s out on the sea—’ but she shuts the door. Her and Dougan bicker behind it. Him is yelling at her that him dun want to be shut indoors and she’s yelling back that him should be grateful to her, but she’s not going to tell him why. The next thing I hear is a wallop what sounds like one of them has clanged the other over the head with a pan. There’s a crash and it all goes quiet.

I’m about to look in through the window but Nell opens the front door, comes outside and locks it behind her. ‘You still here? You never heard none of that Mary Jared, get off home. Get your Da indoors.’

‘Why?’ I call out, but she scuttles away around the side of the cottage. I follow her but she’s gone over a stile, and hurtles off, scattering brown sheep through the field in the direction of Valmarie’s house. So she can walk fast enough even with her walking stick, when she’s got a purpose.

I go back to Nell’s cottage and listen at the door. Dougan must be still out cold. Nell’s left the cottage key in the front door so I draw it out. It sings in my hand as I shove it in my dress pocket. It’s mine now.

The two tall men walk towards the cliff path.

I call, ‘Wait – you’ve got to tell me—’

The tall men turn round.

I choke out, ‘You took—’

One of them says, ‘Nothing that wasn’t traded.’ Them turn and walk away.

‘Wait—’ I walk after them. ‘What’s—’

The one with Barney’s eyes stops again, turns to face me.

The other one says, ‘Leave her, Langward. Got to get on.’ Him walks away.

I say quiet, ‘That your name then, Langward? And is that the name my brother should’ve known as hims real father?’

Hims lips draw up in a smile what dun reach hims eyes. ‘So, has your brother been found?’

‘You’re saying you dun know where him is, then?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But you
do
know – you took him!’

Him leans forwards. ‘I don’t have him. I want to find him too.’

‘So you
are
Barney’s Da!’ I cry out. ‘But how can you be – Mam wouldn’t have … not with you, not with any one of you! But you took him.’

‘You searched our boats.’

‘You could’ve hid him, then put him in your boat when I were crying – my eyes blurred with tears, couldn’t see. Give me him

back!’

‘I said, I don’t have him.’ Langward glances at the other tall man walking away and says, ‘Don’t work yourself up to another fever. I heard your father was very … attentive. But there’s only so much time he can spend nursing. I assume you need to trade
something
to survive.’

‘Folk’ll be so mad if them find out you’ve been with a woman from here!’

Him glances after the other tall man, still further away, then back at me. ‘Then don’t tell anyone,’ him says. ‘You seem to be good at keeping secrets.’ Hims eyes look cruel for a moment, not like Barney’s at all. ‘Your mother wouldn’t have bothered about searching for him. She’d just have let him … drift off.’

I dun know what him means. Telling me how to think. Him is messing with my thoughts of Mam.

‘You’re so like her. So much anger …’ Him reaches out a pale hand towards my face.

I step away. ‘Shut your stinking mouth up!’

Him glares at me. ‘So, where can I find my son?’

‘You can’t have him for a son.’

‘My blood …’ him says, flexing back hims wrist so the blue veins rise.

‘It’s
me
what loves him.
I’ll
find him. Blood’s just blood. Nothing more.’ I stamp away towards the cliff path, turn to the south, and dun look back.

I’m lost somewhere between this wooden spoon and the stew I’m stirring in the pot. I add pepper. And more. And more. My abdomen cramps. I’m the one on the rag, but Mum’s the one who’s sulking. I can feel her heavy sulk all the way through the ceiling, from the room above this kitchen.

My parents aren’t even trying to fit in. The height of our house – two floors above ground – makes it too exposed. It creaks in the winds. Our house was built by my parents, with wood salvaged from a shipwreck. People must have died in that wreck. My parents didn’t care; they just wanted the planks. The people who live on this island must have wanted the planks too, but they will all get good solid coffins – and Dad will provide them with decent burials, given time.

Dad dragged the wood here, plank by plank, up the hill from the shore. As always, he was wearing his suit. Mum waited for him with me, in the shack they’d made next to the foundations of this house. It was so cold in there, I didn’t even find any spiders. No one who lived on this island came to visit us in the shack. I thought I heard whispers, but each time I said so, my mother croaked. That scared all the whispers away.

Croaked like a toad, hunched her back, but kept her eyes fixed on me.

I slice up an onion and four cloves of garlic and throw them in the bubbling pot. I’m cooking in the wrong order today. I chop up the chicken meat. The smell of the flesh makes my stomach clench. Does marrow need to be salted? I can’t remember. I look out of the kitchen window. The tall fence blocks out any kind of view. All Mum said when she built the fence was, ‘I’ve always wanted a picket fence around my home,’ and got on with it. I remember her hammering the slats deep into the ground.

That’s a bitter taste.

More flavour … I slash parsley with a gleaming knife.

I’ve heard people on the other side, laughing at it as they pass by. Why wouldn’t they? It’s ridiculous, but Mum thinks it’s the best thing that’s ever been made. This was my mother’s dream, the home she’d always wanted. A picket fence was the final touch, and it was the final touch that sealed us in.

Mum built her picket fence thirteen feet high. And painted it bright pink.

I draw bread from the oven and it fills the room with the smell of warm yeast. It collects Mum’s sulk from the air in this kitchen, pummels it down and flattens it on the floor. The tiles feel damp under my bare feet.

I open the kitchen door, call out ‘Lunch!’ The cramps in my abdomen almost buckle me over.

No reply, and Mum’s sulk is still thickening in the air out here in the hallway.

I go back into the kitchen and set the table for five. Lunch isn’t really anywhere near ready yet, but no one ever comes when I call, and they’ll be longer than usual, when they’ve got to pass through the remainder of Mum’s sulk.

I go out of the back door into the garden, draw a bucket of water from the well and carry it to the door. I lift the grille off the drain, pour the water in and it flows away. The rice has gone down. It’s not blocked. Another day, I’ll block it up. Stuff something thicker than rice down there. A bedspread, maybe. A tablecloth. Some of her clothes. Or his. Not the twins’.

Another day soon, I’ll annoy Mum much harder. Get her to
want
to unlock the padlock and send me away. But not today. Not with these cramps settling in. I put the bucket on the floor in the kitchen, stand at the back door and look at the pink paint peeling on the fence.

Mum stood in this garden and stared at her fence when she’d finally finished building it.

Dad said to her, ‘Come inside.’ He waited. He touched her arm.

She didn’t move.

He put his hand on her shoulder.

She didn’t speak.

The stars came out.

‘You’re safe,’ he said. ‘Please stop running now.’

The moon shone down.

‘I’ll go to bed,’ he muttered, and disappeared into the house.

I stood here in this kitchen doorway and watched her. She stood there and the sun rose. Dad came back, watched her for a while, made himself some tea and went away. The sun set again and still Mum stood there, her back to me and her face to the fence. The wind blew, her brown hair whipped into tangles, but still she said nothing. Not a word, till the moon was at the highest point in the sky, and she finally spoke: ‘That’s just perfect. Just right. I think I’ll have a nice cup of tea. Can someone make me one please? I have blisters on my hands.’ And she pushed past me into this kitchen, blisters outstretched
and sat at the table to wait for the tea to be put down in front of her.

Of course, I made it. Just the way she likes it. Nettle tea. Three spoons of honey, not too strong but just strong enough.

I wrapped up her hands with an oatmeal poultice and white linen bandages.

She said she didn’t like the colour of the bandages and tore them off.

I don’t like the colour of my rags either. Blood on bright red cloth is difficult to see to soak off. Mum gave me these rags, after she’d finished building the fence. When it was just the two of us in the kitchen in the middle of the night, drinking tea in silence.

She glanced at me. Nodded. Stood up, went off to another room and came back in with the red squares of fabric flapping in her blistered hands. Her cheeks were almost as pink as the fence. She said, ‘Stuff these in your knickers and keep yourself clean.’ I hadn’t started my periods yet, I was too young. But I knew about them. My parents brought a lot of books with them. I read about mythology, psychology and biology, as well as picture and storybooks. I’ve learned what I need to. I know that snails don’t have periods, nor do young girls or old women, toads or moths or spiders.

I asked her, ‘Does it hurt, bleeding?’

She told me about her first period and how she’d come home from school because she’d been in so much pain she thought she was dying. Her mother had said that all wounds bleed, and she must shake off the pain and get back to school. Mum said she thought she was wounded then, that she had to bandage it and not let the pain show. She said, ‘I felt so much, so much …’ She searched for the word, her eyes wandering over her blistered hands. I said, ‘Shame?’ and she flashed her sharp eyes at me and said, ‘No. Not that, never. I was
never
ashamed.’

I didn’t believe her. After a long glaring silence, her eyes were shining and she said, ‘Even now, my periods aren’t any easier.’ I swallowed hard. She glanced at me and when she spoke her voice was quieter. She said, ‘You’re pale. Yours won’t be as sore as mine. Mine were always the most painful, more than anyone else.’ I felt hopeful, because I thought she’d noticed I felt scared. I wanted to have my period then and there all over the kitchen chair, just so she might keep noticing how I felt. I thought if I was an adult, a woman like her, with pain to bind us, she’d know how I felt. But I checked, and there was no blood.

Soon I’ll be out there, on the other side of that fence and across a long stretch of water, in a place I can call home. I’ll hang my red rags off some other washing line, with no pink fence to hide them from view.