The Girl With Glass Feet (22 page)

Midas was sixteen when his father, turning a black, leather-bound book in his hands, asked, ‘Do you want this?’

Midas told him he did, although he didn’t.

It was a humid night, later to become a hated night, played over in his thoughts until he could watch it like theatre, retrospect’s dramatic irony making him scream at his younger self to see sense, see what his father had planned. Grey clouds had hung like dead petals in a spider web. In the far distance a lighthouse had pulsed. A haze of moonlight covered everything.

His father stroked his palm across the cover then handed the leather-bound book to Midas. ‘It’s my first draft. Handwritten. Pathetic to be sentimental about it really but… Look after it. Never bend the spine, always use a bookmark. There, you have it. Now, help me get these other things into the boat.’

Together they lifted each box over the shallow sides of the vessel. The boxes mostly contained the books, papers and pamphlets that had filled the shelves and covered the floor of Midas’s father’s study for years. The clear-out he’d been having had left a bare room and empty desk, bleached diligently clean of pencil marks and ink stains.

‘Last one,’ he said, as between them they lifted the biggest box on to the boat. It was far lighter than Midas had expected, and taped up. He thought he caught a whiff of paraffin.

‘What’s in that one?’

His father’s eyes skirted down to the sea, which was as still as the sky. The tide had already brought feeble breakers within inches of the boat.

‘What’s in that big box?’

He shrugged. ‘Junk. Nothing.’

‘But…’

‘Firelighters, son.’

Midas frowned. It was high summer. He supposed the firelighters were a stash to see his father through the winter.

The two of them had spent the day on the islet where his father had bought a cabin. It was only reachable by boat, so the two of them had crossed that morning with the first cargo of furniture: some shelves, a chair and a small wooden desk from an antique dealer in Gurmton. Midas was there to help transform the simple wooden hut into an isolated study, although while he had tried to fix one of the table’s legs and put up the shelves his father had sat in the doorway staring out at the channel of water and the clefts in the cliffs.

He had remained distant like that as he rowed them back to collect the boxes of papers and books that would complete the study. It wasn’t unusual for him to be sullen, but it was strange to see him so indifferent he forgot to be spiteful.

‘Help me push the boat out, Midas.’

Midas couldn’t help but sneak another look at his father’s thin white feet. He’d seen so little of his body: he always wore long-sleeved shirts with tight cuffs and collars up to his neck. He’d never seen his knees. The sight of his toes, long as a monkey’s, their fine black hairs and neatly trimmed nails, had felt astonishingly intimate all day.

There were so many books and papers in the boat that it was almost too heavy to push, but as they heaved it into deeper water the going got easier. Soon they stood with water up to their chests and the boat bobbing beside them. The sea was getting colder now because the sun was going down. Midas wished his father had picked an islet near a jetty. He had never been as deep in the sea as he was this day. The spreading expanse of water and
the power of its weight terrified him, but his father’s unusually assured manner had soothed that. His father took a deep breath and grabbed the side of the boat to haul himself, thrashing with his feet, up its side. When he was nearly over, his grip failed and he slid with a shout back into the water. A splash of white drops rose in the air as he submerged. Midas lurched after him, swaying in the currents.

His father surfaced spluttering, his glasses halfway down his nose, his moustache wet and slick against his lip. He grabbed the side of the boat again and stood for a minute with his head leaning against it, dribbling seawater.

‘Help me up, Midas.’

‘How?’

‘Cup your hands beneath the water. Give me a leg-up.’

‘What if I slip? I could drown.’

‘You won’t drown. It’s not deep enough here.’

He nodded, reassured, and made a cup of his hands. His father scowled at the water.

‘Where are they? It’s too dark.’

‘Right here in front of me.’

His father lifted his leg and his foot came through the water like a white fish. He misjudged the distance and his toes pushed against Midas’s chest. Midas’s heart drummed as the toes wriggled over his ribcage and found his palms. The white foot pushed hard on his hands, making him shudder so violently from cold and excitement he thought he couldn’t hold on. Then, showering drops, his father launched out of the water and scrabbled over the side of the boat. After a moment he tossed a piece of seaweed back into the water and it landed with a slap. Midas held his arms up to his father. He could feel the sea chilling by the minute.

‘Help me in.’

‘No, no. The boat’s already too heavy with only me aboard. My
God
, Midas, you’re shivering. Get back to the beach. I’ve packed you a towel and a change of clothes. The car keys are on the dashboard. And you know how to work the heater?’

Midas nodded. ‘But I want to go to the cabin with you!’

His father took off his glasses and wiped the water from them with his thumbs. ‘Some other time, perhaps. I will be alone tonight, thank you. Now get back to the beach before you’re too numb to move.’

Grudgingly, Midas turned and waded back to the beach. It seemed to take for ever, and when he splashed back on to the sand, shirt and trousers stuck to cold flesh, his father had rowed the boat a long way out.

‘Midas!’ he yelled through the dusk, ‘Are you safe?’

‘Of course,’ he yelled back, wrapping his arms around himself and trying to control his chattering teeth. For a moment there in the sea he’d actually thought he’d made some connection with the old man. The boat drifted towards the islet, where a glow singled out the cabin.

‘Midas! Are you safe?’

Perhaps he hadn’t heard the first reply. ‘I’m fine! I’m safe!’

Midas was halfway towards the car when the first lick of yellow flame sprang up on the water. He spun around and gasped. The boat was on fire. His stomach came loose and he sprinted back across the sand terrified, splashing through the shallows, already understanding everything. The flames formed a dancing teardrop. Smoke rolled through the air.

‘Father!’ Midas yelled, throwing himself into the water. The flames shuddered and split. He saw his father leap into the sea, wrapped in fire. The hiss of his submergence carried over the noise of the waves.

That afternoon Ida took a taxi to Midas’s house and rang his doorbell. He was surprised to see her.

‘Hi. If you think you owe me an apology… then I think I owe you one too.’

‘Um, um. I mean… I’m sorry.’

‘Snap.’ She smiled disarmingly at him. ‘So are you going to invite me in, or play the same trick I did on you? It’s chilly out here.’

He slapped a hand to his head. ‘Yes, of course, how stupid of me.’

In the kitchen she looked around, daunted by the walls of photographs. ‘So,’ she said, ‘this is where you live.’

‘Um, yes. Would you like, um, a cup of coffee?’

‘Please.’

Ida took a seat, looking at the crowded photos. He was good, she realized. Really talented. She always knew he would be, even though she’d not seen his pictures until now. They embodied that peculiar vision that had attracted her to him in the first place. Funny how much better she felt, being around him.

She laughed when he set the coffee in front of her.

‘What?’

‘It’s black as sin, that’s what.’

He sprang up, ran to the sink, poured out an inch then topped it up with hot water to set it neatly before her again. She laughed at the unintentional butler’s bow he gave.

He flashed a sheepish grin. ‘I’ve just remembered.’ He went to the cupboard and returned with a plate of mince pies topped with stars of pastry. ‘Denver baked them for me. We can eat them.’

The spicy juices and crumbly pastry reminded her of indulgent Christmas-times from years ago, when she used to go for long hikes through snowy dales. Winters when she used to
ski
.

‘Have you ever been skiing, Midas?’

‘Me? No. I’ve never even been swimming.’

‘You’re joking.’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t swim. Absolutely forbidden as a child.’

‘Why?’

‘My father thought it wasn’t safe.’

‘You didn’t think to learn, now that you’re an adult?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t like large bodies of water.’

She burst out laughing. ‘Jesus! You live on the tiniest island!’

He blushed. ‘Well… I suppose that is stupid. But… it’s the weight of it. I can’t help thinking how heavy a body of water is. Being
in
it, lowering yourself into its airlessness.’

She could tell there was more to it than that. ‘What about boating? Can you cope with that?’

His frown deepened. ‘I can just about bear the mainland ferry. If I sit at its dead centre. Smaller boats I’m not so good with.’

‘I’ll take you boating some time. Show you how much fun it can be.’ She’d been thinking about it for a while, although only now that she voiced it did she think how difficult it would be. A non-swimmer and a girl with dead weights for feet, stranded in the chopping ocean. She supposed that neither was it likely she’d sit some day in a cable car with him, gliding up a mountain, awestruck by an endless view of snow-capped giants.

The photos on the kitchen walls felt warmly reassuring: this was Midas’s peculiar but homely hiding hole. She imagined spending mornings here in this sanctum, drinking black coffee in silence with him.

He was picking at the remains of his mince pie. ‘Ida, I’ve got to ask you a question.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘It’s about you and me.’

She tensed hopefully.

‘Could I… um… Would it be possible for you and I to… um, I mean, if it’s all the same with you… Would it be possible for me to photograph you?’

‘Oh, Midas, I thought you were going to ask me something quite different. I don’t know. I’m not comfortable with it. I look so haggard these days. Perhaps when I’m better.’

She wished he hadn’t asked. She had reservations about photography. She didn’t want to be part of the ghostly chorus of the photographed.

‘Sorry. Sorry, Ida.’

‘It’s okay. That’s what I’ve come here to talk about. My official reason, anyway.’

‘Er… ?’

She sighed. ‘Getting better. Carl thinks he knows someone who can help. She lives on the north coast. We’re going to go and stay with her. Me and Carl. For a few days, to see if there’s anything she can do for me. I wondered if you’d like to come with me? Us. I’ll have to clear it with Carl, of course, but I’m sure this person will have room at her house – she’s Emiliana Stallows.’

The surprise formed on his face. ‘
Mrs
Stallows?’ The husband owned most of the island’s north coast, but he knew little about the wife. ‘How can she help?’

‘Carl told me… that there was a case once before, of a girl who went through something like this. Emiliana helped her.’

It was difficult to convey the story Carl had told her, here in the shelter of Midas’s kitchen. Only the cold interiors of her boots reminded her that it was all real. She shrugged and saved it for later. ‘I might as well hope that Emiliana can help me too, since looking for Henry has been so unproductive.’

‘Um… It’s good that, isn’t it? I’d love to come with you. I
mean, I don’t love it that we have to go, but since we must – or at least think we should – I’d love to. But—’

‘Don’t say you can’t come.’ Suddenly she was desperate for him to accompany her. In truth, the trip to Emiliana Stallows felt like an appointment at a hospice.

‘No, I can definitely come. I will. Only there’s something else. I found Henry Fuwa. I have his address. I… hope you’re not angry.’

She clapped her hands. ‘Midas! How perfect! Why would I be angry?’

‘Because I… Although I didn’t tell him outright I think he guessed… Guessed what was happening to your feet.’ He clutched his hands to his camera and prepared a wince on his face.

‘But Midas, that couldn’t be better! Don’t you see? If Henry
guessed,
he must know what’s happening to me!’

‘He said he couldn’t do anything.’

She frowned. ‘Bollocks to that. Where’s he hiding?’

The lights were out in Henry Fuwa’s cottage. Nobody answered when Ida rapped on the door with the handle of her crutch. She returned sulkily to Midas’s car and waited with him for an impatient hour before throwing her hands in the air. ‘Enough! Let’s get out of this stupid bog.’

They drove on marsh roads that dipped in and out of opaque puddles. The tarmac, prised open by roots, made the car jostle them about in their seats. At one point she thought she saw a figure, standing in the bog, in a long coat buttoned up to its throat. But the coat was the colour of tall grass and the arms were just the shifting of reeds. They drove on by. Heavy snow, and rain all through the preceding autumn, had flooded the low-lying land where the mere became the fringe of the woods. Here the trees rose from the water like the coils of sea monsters, covered in the same scaly leaves that floated on the flood’s surface and speckled the sheets of frozen mud that held hostage bulrushes. The ice lacquered tree stumps and half-rinds of striated bark.