Authors: Raffaella Barker
‘Tristram? Very handsome. He took on that shop and made it in to something. His own father had run into the ground what with the drink and the Great War. Tristram brought it back to life.’ The click of her wooden needles was regular as a heartbeat. Michael saw her gaze move from the wool to the chair opposite hers, on the other side of the fireplace.
‘Francis played chess with him every week. They kept it up, even through the blackout, you know. The only blessing is that he didn’t live to know what happened to Christopher. Went up to London to show some books to an American businessman and the bombs at night took him. 1941 it was.’
‘And Felicity lived with her mother then?’
‘Yes, Aileen was never much around the house, not a homemaker really, but it’s a lovely spot, their place. You’ll know it. The last house after the violets. The one with the orange door.’ She chuckled. ‘Felicity painted it, she reckoned it suited the flowers. No one else around here would have chosen that colour.’
‘I’ll look out for it,’ Michael stood up, restless, for what he didn’t know. He was meeting Paul and Sheila in Newlyn for a drink. Verity’s final words stopped him in the doorway. ‘It’s a shame for her, it really is. Tomorrow we’ll be in church for Christopher. Would’ve been his birthday, and it’s not even a real funeral, there’s been no body brought back. There won’t be, will there?’
Michael shook his head, ‘No, there won’t.’
He didn’t stay long in Newlyn that evening, and although he longed to ask more about Felicity, he didn’t say a word. Walking home in the moonlight, he pondered his next move. He could bring flowers, he could ask her out, he could leave a note at her house. It seemed terribly important not to do it wrong, though he couldn’t for the life of him think what ‘wrong’ might be. He wanted to impress her. Perhaps by mending her car, if she had one, or rescuing her from danger. Ridiculous. Chastising himself, he fell asleep. In the morning the only idea he’d hit on was to buy another book.
He was in good spirits as he strolled towards Delaware’s. He and Will had planted out three terraces with sweet pea seedlings and tiny snapdragons. The work was satisfying. Sunlight formed a silver skin on the horizon and he’d managed to see Felicity’s house. Cornflowers in the garden, a sculpture of a girl sitting coiled like a cat, and the orange door, exotic and eye-catching like Felicity. He reached the bookshop in a heightened state of apprehension. The shutters were up, a hand written sign tucked into the frame announced: ‘Delaware’s is closed until further notice.’
Michael’s disappointment rocked him, and his stupidity. He knew she had gone to her brother’s memorial today. Of course she wouldn’t be in the shop. He stared at the door, ashamed that he had forgotten this occasion that meant the world to her. He snorted a sigh, looked up at the shattered facade. Then the door opened. On to the step came Felicity, her arms wrapped around herself, narrow as a shadow in her black dress. Her head rested on the doorframe, her eyes were lowered. Michael thought she looked like a medieval painting. Untouchable.
He was about to wave and walk away when she sniffed. He was close enough to see that her eyes were red, she pressed her fingers into them, dropping a limp yellow flower.
‘You’ve had a big day,’ he said. It didn’t seem right to pretend he didn’t know.
She shuddered. ‘It was awful.’ She turned back into the shop, speaking over her shoulder. ‘Would you have a drink with me?’
From beside the desk she brought out two small glasses and a whisky bottle. Michael didn’t move a muscle. This was dangerous. The air between them shrunk to one pulse. He ought to leave, but he couldn’t. She was sad, and his heart went out to her. He suddenly understood this phrase. His heart strained in his chest to comfort her. She was sniffing and wiping her eyes on the back of her hands.
He had no choice. ‘Here, use this.’ He gave her his handkerchief, and was lost.
She smiled gratefully and blew her nose.
‘That’s better,’ he said bracingly and picked up the flower she had laid on the desk. A Welsh poppy, bright as sunshine.
‘I was picking these today. They’re so delicate, it’s slow work,’ he said. ‘We have to wrap them twice before we can send them.’
She passed him a glass and raised her own. ‘Let’s drink a toast. To Christopher, my brother. And to all his brave companions.’
Michael swallowed. His throat ignited, he choked. ‘Christ, this isn’t whisky. What’s in it?’
Felicity’s eyes blurred with tears, but she giggled. ‘Of course, you’re not from around here, are you? This is Cornwall. You’re drinking our own moonshine. Get the recipe right and it can light up the Lizard Peninsula and all the way to Lamorna. Christopher made it the Christmas before he left. I’ve got six bottles at home.’
‘It’s like paint stripper,’ Michael spluttered. ‘You’re obviously immune. Christ, is there a tap here? I think some water might help.’ He already loved how her eyes danced when she laughed. ‘I’ve got to tell you, most girls I know would be out for the count on a teaspoon of that stuff.’
She raised her glass again, mischief in her eyes, ‘I know it’s strong, but we’re all brought up on it around here, you know.’
Michael wondered if she was going to knock back another glass. If she did, there was no way he would be matching her, but to his relief, she stopped.
‘I thought it was clotted cream and tin and pixies that raised you all in Cornwall?’ he said.
‘Oh, all that and a bit of magic,’ she countered. ‘By the way, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Felicity. Felicity Delaware. I’m so glad you came by again, thank you.’ She began putting the glasses in a bowl to wash them, stowing the bottle on a shelf. ‘I should get home now. I just came to drop some books off.’
‘Did you read at the church?’ he asked.
She nodded, rubbed her hands across her face. ‘Yes, I read Milton. A bit of “Lycidas” because it would have been what Mum would have chosen.’
‘
“
We were nursed upon the self-same hill
”. I love that poem,’ said Michael. ‘What else?’
‘You know it?’ Felicity’s eyebrow’s arched in surprise. ‘Do you know this one?’ she gave him a book, folded open on a page.
‘I read a lot of poetry during the war. My mother used to send me pages out of books, I kept them on me all the time. It was—’ Michael stopped, and began to read the page Felicity had given him.
‘What’s this?’ He read for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know this, what is it?’
‘It’s Wystan Auden. You know, W.H. Auden? He’s American, I think, I don’t know.’ She looked at the poem again and sighed. ‘It was hard to choose anything. Something that could sum up Christopher. I don’t know if I did him justice.’ Her voice tailed off, she took the glasses into the little room at the back and turned on the tap.
Michael finished reading the poem, his throat ached with sadness for her, for everyone fractured by the war.
‘
The stars are not wanted now
.’ He followed her to the sink and filled his glass with water. The tiny space between them was electric. He would done anything, even drink another glass of the paint stripper to spend more time with her, but he had a better idea.
‘Don’t go yet. Let’s walk up the hill and watch the sun go down,’ he said.
She looked at him, doubt clouding her gaze. ‘I don’t know, I shouldn’t. I—’
Maybe the moonshine was powering him, but Michael found he was acting out of character. He took the key from the hook on the wall and held it up, turning in between his fingers. ‘Come on, it’ll do you good. Lock the shop and we’ll go.’
Outside they walked side by side up the narrow path that would take them to the hill. Michael had the sense that he was watching himself from far away as he held out his hand. She took it. Her skin was cool, her hand light in his, skin calloused on her knuckles, and two rings slid on her middle finger. Her fingertips were stained purple and green. Presumably there was a good reason for this.
‘I love it up here.’ She kicked off her shoes as soon as they were on the grass. ‘We came here every day after school when we were little. Christopher used to fly his kite, and we would light fires for the pilchards. I remember watching the boats circling and the water alive with fish. I thought a pilchard was one single huge fish for years.’
They climbed until they were at the highest point.
‘What a place to grow up,’ said Michael. ‘Your childhood memories must be happy.’
The rooftops of Mousehole fell away below them like the little carved wooden toy town Michael was given for Christmas when he was six. It had come in a fine nylon net, slipped out onto the bed when he opened his stocking and the net had glittered, like the sea did now as it shifted with afternoon light. Felicity stared at the horizon, her face lit by the pink haze.
‘In Norfolk, where I come from, the sun hits the sea at a completely different angle, so the light doesn’t do this,’ said Michael.
‘Norfolk?’ said Felicity. ‘That’s so far away, the other side of England. Why are you here?’
They were side by side on a stone wall. A petal winked in her hair. Without thinking, he reached up and removed it. Her scalp was warm under his fingers.
‘Cherry blossom,’ he said.
‘What?’
He held it out on his palm but it fluttered to the ground. ‘I was packing them for the train to Covent Garden. You should smell the van, it’s like a wedding. Or a powder puff.’
She laughed. ‘Oh I’d forgotten about powder puffs. They’re lovely, I’d love one. My mother had a pale blue one. I wonder what happend to it?’
Her shoulder rested against him, she fiddled with a scarf she’d pulled from a pocket.
He caught her hand. ‘Why are your fingers purple and green?’
She curled them, flicking the scarf over both their hands. ‘We’ve got a lot of questions not to answer, haven’t we?’ The tawny stripe in her ring matched her eyes. Somewhere out at sea a ship’s horn blared. A breath of wind played with the scarf in her hands. Michael felt he was stepping off the edge of the hill. He leaned towards her. He could protect her, he wanted to embrace her courage, to kiss her, to let her love him. Nothing had ever seemed so right.
‘Are you sure that’s my key?’ Kit stared in astonishment at a highly elaborate wrought-iron piece on the table between him and Charles Rivett’s receptionist. ‘It looks like it was last used to lock up Mary Queen of Scots or someone in the Middle Ages.’ He picked it up gingerly, as if it might bite.
The receptionist looked doubtful. ‘It must be. They brought it in this morning, and there is only the one.’
Kit picked it up, turned it over, his fingers running over the elaborate ironwork. He placed it on his palm and noticed that it fitted perfectly between his wrist and his fingertips. Probably that length was some ancient measurement. He remembered that horses were always measured in hands, perhaps it was the same for keys back in the Dark Ages. The cool weight of it was impressive.
‘It must be some lighthouse,’ he muttered to himself.
The receptionist glanced at him again and gave a small sigh she turned into a laugh. He ought to go. The key wouldn’t fit in the pocket of his jeans, so he rolled it up in his newspaper and turned to leave.
‘Ah, the lighthouse keeper,’ Charles Rivett appeared at Kit’s shoulder. Above Kit’s shoulder, in fact, Kit hadn’t noticed how tall he was the day before. ‘Morning, Marion. Do I have messages?’ Rivett asked the receptionist, who handed him a bundle of letters.
‘I’ve put them all through to Jenny, she was in early,’ said Marion.
He vanished down the corridor, and Kit picked up his key and prepared to leave again.
Marion passed him a piece of paper. ‘Here, Mr Rivett asked me to print out some directions for you, and the postcode. The Lighthouse is at the end of the village, you can’t miss it.’ She paused, catching Kit’s eye and, realising what she’d said, a giggle broke her guard.
‘Rather the point of it,’ Kit grinned. ‘I’d better get used to this, there’s a pun everywhere you look around a lighthouse.’
It wasn’t until he was in Blythe churchyard that Kit became aware he was wandering aimlessly, like a tourist. The church loomed, its flint facade acquiring a velvety blur in the soft drizzle that had begun to fall. The grass was newly mown, and beyond it cow parsley billowed under the row of beech trees at the edge of the churchyard. Accustomed to small, intimate churches in Cornwall, where the spire often seemed to rise from sand drifts and tiny earth mounds, the height of the tower was a surprise. Gazing upwards, Kit squinted to prevent his eyes filling with the drizzle, and tried to imagine building something like this. It was time for him to take an interest in towers, he thought. Probably time for him to take an interest in a lot of things he’d never made much time for, but the working day of a lighthouse keeper appealed less than a study of how to build a tower. He wondered if there was a second-hand bookshop in town where he could find a useful guidebook to Norfolk’s towers, both sacred and profane. Wandering between the graves, he had a sudden sense of Felicity enjoying his quest. ‘Lighthouse Fabric’ now had a bricks-and-mortar emblem. There was no question in his mind that his mother had planned this bequest, and even somehow orchestrated its timing, to give him a kick, get him out of the rut of living to work that had become his safety net as he grieved for her.