The Visitor (11 page)

‘But you've known each other such a long time,' he said.

‘It doesn't matter how long I've known that woman,' Pearl said. ‘She won't keep her nose out of other people's business and that brings trouble.'

George rubbed a grimy finger against his nose and sighed. ‘I don't understand what it is she's done that's so upset you. But then if you won't tell me about the past, how can I?' He slumped in the chair, his dark hair falling across his forehead. ‘I been meaning to ask you,' he said. ‘Eileen told me—'

‘Can you get me that little knife there?'

If you shut a hogshead tight it would make it to Rome without a single fish chipped or bruised. If you sealed the past the same way, nailed down the lid and set a brand, you could save yourself from bruises.

George cleared his throat. ‘I spoke to Eileen in the shop and she said you'd mentioned someone. Mother, watch the pan!'

There was steam everywhere and searing heat on her hand. The potatoes were lost in an angry mess of water.

George swung her away from the stove. ‘Did you catch yourself?'

‘Only a splash,' she said, trying not show how much it hurt.

‘Here, get it in the pail. I'll go and get some more water to soak it.' George was cursing Pascoe's failure to get running water as he went out the back door.

By the time George came back Jack had returned from his walk. Pearl did her best to save the potatoes. George's unasked question circled through the steam.

Nine

She knows she can't ask questions about Alice. Her mother yanks the comb through her hair and then forces it into plaits. Because it's Sunday her hair has to try and behave, just as she has to try and not get dirty. That's easier today than on other days. There's no chance to play with Nicholas and Jack on a Sunday. Indoor days keep muck away. Though the back room of chapel smells of wet coats, it's scrubbed so often by Nicholas' mother Annie that there's no dirt hiding, waiting to grime Pearl before she realises.

She's thinking about Alice though. Pearl can feel a question inside her mouth. It has spindly legs and is trying to slip between her lips and get into the room. There would be trouble then. To stop it she hums a tune to herself and concentrates on tying her laces. Polly whirls into the bedroom where Pearl and her mother are. She grabs her good dress from the back of the chair where her mother has laid it ready. Her father shouts from downstairs. They're late for the morning service.

Out onto the street and Pearl has to run to keep up. It's a dry, roasting sort of day with no wind. Soon she's short of breath and rasping. Her eyes water and there's a hot sickness at the back of her throat.

‘You go on,' her mother tells her father and Polly. ‘We'll catch up.'

Her mother rubs her chest hard, which helps but hurts at the same time. They're by the steps to the net loft Miss Charles uses. Pearl doesn't want to go near them but she hasn't got her breath back to say. Her mother sits her on the bottom step and Pearl leans her head against the rail.

Her mother tuts. ‘Just look at your boots,' she says. ‘You've not been out of the house five minutes.' The laces have untied themselves and trailed in something muddy. While her mother tuts some more and fusses with them, Pearl looks up at the landing. The door to the net loft is half hanging off the frame, the wood next to the lock splintered. Where has Mr Michaels gone, and Miss Charles?

‘Better now?' her mother says. Pearl's not sure if she means the laces or her chest but she nods anyway. She doesn't want to stay here any longer. Her mother takes her hand and together they walk down the street towards chapel. At the end they turn right, away from the sea, and go up a steep hill. The chapel looks down over the village, its windows eager eyes to watch them all. Pearl's mother carries her, to rest her chest, though she's too big for that really. Pearl feels like a giant, her head and shoulders far above her mother's. Her mother puts her down at the doorway and Pearl has a clear view of the sea. But there's something wrong. The sea is dotted with boats. That can't be right. It's Sunday, isn't it? She's standing outside chapel. Unless this is a dream and she's actually still in bed, still to have her hair combed. But then she realises it isn't a dream because her mother is looking too and has tightened her hand on Pearl's shoulder, so much it almost hurts and you don't feel that in a dream.

She's going to ask who's fishing on a Sunday but when she sees how pale her mother has gone and the look in her eyes Pearl realises that isn't a good question to ask either. Her mother remembers chapel then and they go in, though she seems distant, distracted. She even forgets that Pearl has to go to the Sunday school room first rather than the main room, leading her into the grown up service instead.

Mr Taylor the preacher leans his wide face low over the wood, sweeping his gaze across the whole village. Alice is in the front pew, pinned between old Mrs Pendeen and Mr Taylor's wife who is very fat and will only wear brown dresses. She reminds Pearl of a boat. Alice looks so small between them, her shoulders hunched and her head lowered.

On Sundays Mr Taylor's words are bright with fire. Often he preaches against entertaining superstitious fantasies, like leaving a bit of the catch when the boats are unloaded for the Bucca to eat when no one's looking. Then the fishermen lower their heads, letting Mr Taylor's sternness fall on them, but on Monday evening when the boats return from the day's fishing several morsels of mackerel will be tucked under a stone on the harbour steps, to keep the shoals close to Morlanow. But today Mr Taylor is talking about a different kind of sin.

‘In the Book of Hosea doesn't the Lord tell us what befalls the tribe who bear children out of wedlock? Doesn't he tell us that the crop will fail, that the fields will be barren? That sin will strike the earth and cause hunger?' People murmur back to Mr Taylor. He takes a moment to gather breath and to shove his glasses up his nose though they slip right down again. Her mother pushes her into the nearest pew. Its wood is cool against the backs of her legs. She can't see where her father and Polly are; Polly's old enough now not to go to Sunday school. Mr Tremain and Mr Polance are in the pew in front. The Master doesn't come to chapel. He goes to the church that the Mr Tillotsons go to, back inland.

‘We will all suffer for the sins of one,' Mr Taylor says. ‘For turning a blind eye to that which breaks the Lord's covenant.' At this the murmur is louder, proper words agreeing with Mr Taylor, saying aye, aye. He points at Alice and looks just like the picture of God in the book Nicholas' mother has in Sunday school, when God strikes down something bad Pearl has forgotten: eyes wide and staring, head leant back and cross-looking. ‘This!' says Mr Taylor, ‘is the sin that will corrupt us all. Have we not our own fields, is not the sea a pasture plentiful with the Lord's bounty? We must hold steadfast against sin. We must hold firm in our devotion to the Lord.'

‘Amen,' says everyone, very loud now, some people shouting. Her mother's eyes are closed and her hands are clasped together so tight her fingers are white. Pearl can't see Alice but she imagines she will have shrunk down to the size of a cat, or something even smaller, to escape Mr Taylor's gaze and everyone else telling her how bad she is.

‘And we will know who met this woman in sin, whose seed has defiled the Lord without His blessing of marriage. We will bring them together in God's love and see that they are properly joined.'

‘Amen,' everyone says again, but quieter now. Heads are turned, just enough to see other people without showing they're looking.

‘We see the power of such sin already, don't we?' Mr Taylor says. ‘Govenek's men have turned their back on the Lord to fish on his day of rest, on the holy Sabbath. Wickedness has come to our waters, my brothers and sisters, as well as in our midst in God's house.'

So that's who is fishing today. Men from the east coast come sometimes to unload in the harbour on Sundays if the weather's bad. But that's different because they come from far away. Govenek is only a little way down the cliff path, Morlanow's neighbour really. Pearl knows she's meant to love thy neighbour but she can't if they're back-sliders. Bad things will happen to them. Inland from Morlanow, far back from the cliffs, beyond even the mines belonging to the absent Mr Tillotsons, is a circle of tall stones. Except they're not really stones. The tilted blocks of granite are girls turned to rock for dancing on a Sunday. Pearl remembers these poor, foolish girls in her prayers, feeling the wind whistle through her bones as she does so.

There are some hymns then, sung much louder than normal, with everyone trying very hard to be louder than the person next to them. Loudest of all is Mr Taylor's wife whose voice is shrill and rushes the words before they're meant to be sung. Pearl's glad she's all the way at the front but feels sorry for Alice who will have to hear Mrs Taylor close up.

Nicholas' mother brings in the Sunday school then. The children troop between the pews to a space saved near the front. Her mother seems to have forgotten Pearl isn't with the others. She enjoys the astonished looks from the children who see she doesn't have to sit with them, that she's with the grown-ups instead. Sarah Dray looks really cross which is best of all. Then the service is over. It's time to go home for an early dinner before the afternoon service. She hopes it's pilchards for dinner. Sundays are better when pilchards lie between visits to chapel.

Ten

She hears the scrape of something heavy dragged across floorboards and the creak as it catches on a nail. The net is vast, a rusty weave that spills and spreads across the floor like blood. A rough hand reaches down and frees it from the snag then gathers it to hold better. There's laughing and a flash of metal in the hand – a needle darting in and out of the net faster than breath. A song begins and the women lift their voices to the beams.

The corn was in the shock,

And the fish were on the rock,

When the boats went out from Sennen with the pilchard seine,

A bell rings. The singing grows fainter. The net lies forgotten on the floor.

Pearl was hooked back to the yard by the distant peal of the town clock striking midday. Her hands were bound up with the second best cloth in the pail. But where her thoughts had been, she couldn't be sure – the door had closed again and the net was gone. A sea mist was seeping inside her, hiding some things, but making others loom with an unearthly clarity. She shook her head to dispel it and the solid edges of the house righted themselves. There was the back door, the glass in the window.

And the cloth in her hands? There was a stain. That was why she was washing it. George, getting up from the table a little too quickly, had knocked the butter dish. That was yesterday, Sunday. It was Monday morning now, though she felt as if a week had passed since the three of them sat down to a supper of ling.

Here was the proof though. She held the cloth up to the sun to better see the grease. It didn't seem to be shifting. She wrung the cloth as dry as she could then hung it on some gorse. It was hot again. No clouds, the air dry and crisp. She tipped the greasy water away and went to the tap for some fresh. The water took a while to come through, the pipe shuddering with effort. She would only half fill it. It was far too heavy full. Finally water sputtered out. She cupped her hands and brought them to her lips. It was good, earthy. She splashed her face then doused herself with more, tipping it over her head so drops teemed from her face, her hair. She needed a swim.

The front of her dress was soaked and her knees muddy where the water had softened the ground she knelt on. She eased herself to her feet and carried the bucket inside, then went to the front of the house where she could see the sea. It was crowded with boats. A good day for trips round the bay, she'd imagine. Eileen's David would be making a fortune. And George? He'd be out too, but only hoping for something on the end of a line. The beach below the seafront was full too: she could see the specks of brightly coloured towels and umbrellas from here. Another glorious day for the visitors. Morlanow packed tight as a hogshead.

It would soon change though. The visitors would leave until the season rolled around again next year, with only the hardiest artists staying on to face the winter's storms. The train would call less often and the station buildings would be closed half the week. Whoever the railway company had taken on to replace Mrs Tiddy as the cleaner would be laid off until Easter. The brass bell that announced the train's arrival would tarnish. The chocolate and cream paint on the doors and window frames would be allowed to flake from the wood. The flower tubs would hold dry stalks, then just earth, then dust. The posters would peel from their boards and become rubbish blowing across the tracks. She would do her shopping and not see another soul from one street to the next. Most of the cottages near the seafront would be empty, cobwebs forming on the insides of the windows and no one to brush them away. Her own house on Carew Street could be one of them: no one there and still she'd be locked out. The sea would remember its strength and build into tumbling walls, foaming slate-grey and bruised against Morlanow.

Busy for a while yet though and she had shopping to get in. George had asked if she wanted anything but with the weather so fine he would be fishing all hours and would have had to send it up the hill with Elizabeth. Pearl didn't want to trouble her, given her frailness. Plus it was hard to find things to say to the girl that didn't sound as if Pearl was criticising her in some way. Everything she said to Elizabeth seemed to come out wrong. It was no good asking Jack to do the shopping. He said it was woman's work. He never got the right things anyway. She would have to go down to town, brave the crowds, and the scenes that kept playing in her head. Nicholas was in the town. He was waiting for her.