The Visitor (19 page)

Mr Jenner brings both white bushes down at once then swings them backwards, round and round.

Nicholas shouts through the trumpet for the men to shoot the net. ‘Cowl rooz!'

The statues of fishermen in her father's boat wake up and are a blur. Mr Polance and Stephen drop the leaded end of the seine net into the water. Opposite them, Mr Tremain in one of the other smaller boats does the same but with a shorter net. Both these boats move cautiously around the shoal so that their nets come together in a circle. The last boat waits at the point where the nets haven't reached yet. The boy in it beats his oars on the surface of the water; the thrashing frightens the poor shoal woman so that she doesn't try to escape while the nets are joined.

From the cliff, the shoal looks to be split into circles by the different crews, bobbing corks marking out the shapes. The fish inside them are not silver but purple, almost red where they are crammed together just below the surface. On the shore there are men straining at the capstan's beams to draw the seine net closer, out of reach of the tide which might lift the net from the seabed and let the fish escape. The crowd on the cliff has relaxed, together letting out an enormous sigh of relief. The tricky part of the catch is over, but no one will know how many fish have been enclosed until low tide. Even now, there could be fewer than is hoped; even now there's the sour taste of fear in Pearl's mouth. The shoal is a mysterious woman, able to twist herself around the nets and slip out where you couldn't see a gap.

People begin to move back down the cliff path. Mr Jenner crumples onto the roof in a heap. Nicholas is still holding Pearl's hand but the iciness has left his grip, and slow warmth slips from his fingers into hers. She looks at their hands joined together, then up at his face. He has lost the wildness that scared her earlier; he's calmer, softer, though still there's a trace of a stranger lingering there.

‘What's wrong? Cold?' he says.

Pearl realises she has been frowning up at him. ‘A little,' she says.

‘Let's go down. They'll be tucking soon.'

Even though nothing more can be seen of the fish until low tide, no one can bear to leave the seafront. Morning has fully opened its arms around the bay and with its light the clouds untangle their dark knots and disappear, taking the rain with them. The sun, which has been hiding its head while the seine nets were shot, now hangs full and strong. Morlanow begins to steam, the damp burning up in the air.

She finds her mother by the slipway, standing with her father and Mr Polance. Her father's hands are clamped round a tin mug of tea. Shadows hollow his eyes and there's a blue tint to his lips and skin. He's shivering without noticing, it seems to Pearl, because he's laughing with Mr Polance at the same time.

‘It's a good haul, I reckon,' her father says. ‘They were packed deep. Like that season – what was it? 1872?'

Mr Polance whistles. ‘If it's as many as that we'll be blessed,' he says.

‘Just as long as they pulled the net in quick enough,' her father says. ‘She was starting to lift. I hope to goodness they got her fast in time.'

Mr Polance sees Pearl approaching on her own. ‘Hello, my sweet,' he says to her. ‘Been watching from the cliff? Your father did a fine job today.'

Her father pats Mr Polance on the back and then lays his cold, wet hand on Pearl's head. Her mother fusses.

‘Look at the state of you!' she says. ‘Did you crawl up the cliff path?' Pearl notices the mud slashed across her wet pinafore. ‘You'll have a chill in no time, my girl,' her mother says. ‘I should get you into dry clothes.'

‘I don't want to miss the tuck. Please,' Pearl begs. ‘The sun's out now. I'll dry. And I'm sorry for the mud.'

Her father strokes Pearl's hair. ‘You're made of sturdier stuff aren't you, Pearl? Tough as a seine boat.'

Pearl puffs her chest out.

‘Have you seen my boy?' Mr Polance asks her. Pearl nods and points back along the seafront where Nicholas is walking through the crowd towards them, slowed by those who want to shake his hand.

Mr Polance waves. ‘Heard you give the call,' he shouts. ‘Brave job, my boy.' When Nicholas reaches them his father grips him round his back and smiles into his son's cheek. ‘Your grandfather was pleased, no doubt. Where's the old salt?'

Jack is lingering behind her mother, unnoticed by anyone else. Pearl realises she hasn't thought of him all morning, not once. He's paler than usual and looks soaked through, as if he has jumped in the sea rather than stood in the rain. He watches Nicholas and Mr Polance.

The Master appears from the direction of the palace, buttoned up in a greatcoat and looking completely dry. Her father and Mr Polance straighten up, her father brushing the wet hair from his face.

‘Tuck nets need to be made ready,' the Master says. Her father and Mr Polance put down their mugs of tea and go onto the sand where
Fair Maid
is pulled up. There's no fierceness in the Master's voice but he has a way of making people jump to attention. Mr Tremain hasn't left his boat but sits in it where it's been pulled up on the beach, looking out to sea, Jack forgotten again.

‘I'd best be getting to the palace then,' her mother says, giving Pearl a quick kiss and leaving the children with the Master.

There's silence then as the Master looks over the children. They know and don't know this burly, squinting figure. He was touched by the measles a long time ago. The touch got into his eyes and left them weak, likely to water. His face is stern mostly, but it often looks as if he's crying.

‘I'm told you gave the call to drop the net, Nicholas,' he says.

Nicholas is struck dumb at being addressed by the Master. It's all he can do to nod. The Master bestows a smile on him and ever so gently so as you would miss it if you blinked, touches Nicholas on the shoulder.

‘Thank you,' he says. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘You'll go far, my lad.'

None of the children can say anything. Pearl looks up at Nicholas. He seems embarrassed by the Master's words.

Jack makes a loud huffing noise and kicks his foot against the ground. ‘I saw you,' he says to Nicholas. ‘All you did was shout two words through the trumpet. Anyone could do that.'

‘You didn't get to do it though, did you, Jack? No one asked you to give the call.'

Jack pouts and kicks the ground again. ‘It's not fair.'

‘Stop your whining,' Nicholas tells him. ‘I'm going to watch the tuck. Pearl?' Without waiting for an answer, Nicholas takes her hand, and they are walking away from Jack, down the slipway onto the beach, and she doesn't look back.

Pearl doesn't see Jack for the rest of the day. She knows he's nearby, probably close enough to watch the tuck, but he keeps out of sight. Several times Pearl turns round sharply thinking she'll catch him, but he isn't there.

When the tide drops, her father and his crew get back into their boats again and row out to the circle of cork that marks their trapped fish. Fishermen who aren't seine men stand by their own little boats, ready to take out any passengers able to pay for a better view. The seine men don't mind too much, as long as those watching don't get in the way. The water soon teems with boats and the visitors leaning from them. Some of the women have changed their umbrellas for parasols now the sun is crowning the sky with its heat. The parasols look like enormous birds with their wings outstretched, drifting along the water. Pearl saw a painting of a swan once, when the artists opened up their studios on Show Day. This is what the parasols look like; white swans bent from bone frames, their cotton skins pure against the dirty feathers of the gulls.

Her mother and the other cellar maids are already inside the palace, laying the salt on the floor. Pearl should be there too but she wants to see the fish come in.

Fair Maid
has cleared the corks and now sits in the middle of the circle marked by the net. Her father and Mr Polance take the small tuck net between them and gently lower it into the water. There's a long pause when nothing seems to happen but they must be casting the net underneath what she hopes is a burden of fish. The greedy hake will be waiting, circling the protective wall of the seine net and ready to charge the pilchards if they are given an inch. Pearl hears the seine men's chant, the
one two three
, and they begin to heave the smaller tuck net to the surface. The air in her chest rattles against her ribs. The water inside the circle of corks changes its skin, wobbling like a mug of tea on a knocked table. Waves grow on the wobble, rocking up foam. The water ripples violently but only inside the circle of corks. Overhead, the gulls strike up a more piercing shriek and dive for the fish they know are close. Pearl finds herself leaning into Nicholas, wanting to avoid the consuming disappointment of not enough pilchards in the net.

The water boils, spluttering itself to the colour of rust. Still the men heave on the net. Clusters of silver spot the reddish mess of water, tumbling clearer and clearer, until the silver smoothes into tails. The shoal appears as a single body for one moment more, caught a few inches below the surface. Then, with one last haul of the net, the shoal woman is broken into a million fish, thrashing and fighting each other in their desperate attempts to escape. Once Pearl thinks of the shoal as separate fish they are as good as buried in salt. That beautiful woman is gone.

The seine men let out whoops of joy as they secure the tuck net. Pearl's breathing eases and she realises her hands are buried inside Nicholas's coat pocket. She has been pulling at him each time the men heave up the net, as if he's a prize catch she can't let slip away.

‘Leave off, limpet-legs,' he says, ‘you'll tear it.'

She stows her hands behind her back, embarrassed. Dipper boats are heading out to empty the tuck net of its spluttering contents. Her father and the others take baskets from inside the seine boat and skim them across the glimmering quiver that is the pilchards. They begin to sing as they dip and lift each basket in unison, in time with the hymn Pearl knows so well.

The waves of the sea Hath lift up their voice,

Sore troubled that we In Jesus rejoice;

The floods they are roaring, But Jesus is here;

While we are adoring, He always is near.

When they lift the full baskets clear, it looks as if they've each captured a wealth of stars, but the men must be quick. As soon as the fish are taken from the water, a clock inside them begins to tick out their freshness. Their scales droop light, their bodies go limp. So the baskets are tipped straight into the waiting dipper boats. The seine men plunge the baskets into the fish, again and again, filling the dipper boats until they're low in the water. Those rowing the laden dipper boats back to shore sit up to their waists in pilchards, like many-tailed mermen.

It will be all right, it will be all right
, Pearl murmurs. The shoal has provided for Morlanow and the Papists. Thousands of hogsheads will journey from her home to far away shores. This first catch is only the beginning; a great season has unrolled its glory today. The dippers are coming into shore. Men stand ready with gurries to carry the fish to the women waiting in the palace. Pearl turns to Nicholas to tell him that it will be all right, but he has gone.

PA
RT THREE

1936 and 1889

One

He was coming back.

She curled herself around the memory of the cairn and knapweed flowers on the cliff path, the promise they gave. But she was afraid too. It had been such a long time.

Jack sighed in his sleep and pulled at the bedding. She let him take it, leaving herself draped in the thin sheet of moonlight that cut through the curtains. The moon was waxing, almost a quarter full. The glow was reassuring. It gave the room and its contents solid, recognisable edges. All was given up to the searching fingers of the beams. Nothing could hide here.

From beyond the window came the sound of something metal crashing to the ground. Mrs Tiddy's cat flirting with the toms and knocking things about, she thought. In the quiet that followed she could hear the sea. There was never silence in Morlanow. The day's work on the palace seemed to hang in the air, as if a chisel had only that moment ceased its ring.

The curtain twitched. The moonlight trembled across her bare legs then resettled. Neither she nor Jack liked complete darkness. When they were children, the fires under the cooking slabs in their separate yet matching houses were never allowed to go out. The safe smoulders hovered just beyond their eyelids, to be ready for stirring back into flames in the morning, and to keep keygrims at bay.

Pearl shivered and pulled the bedding back over herself, easing it from Jack's tight grip. The thought of keygrims made her skin goosey even though it was another mild night. Her mind slipped and shimmied on the outskirts of sleep, fixing a name like a brand on all her thoughts: Nicholas. In the palace. On the drying field. Leaping from the harbour wall.

The sea turned over more loudly. She could hear the slap of water on rock, like wet boots stomping home, even though the new house was far from the shore. All those years living by the sea, so close she felt it tapping on the windowpanes. Perhaps its sound had crept inside her head and taken root, repeating itself endlessly so that now when she thought she heard it, it was only the echo of waves long broken.