The Visitor (35 page)

Nicholas is in front of her. ‘I told you Skommow Bay would be easier.'

He takes her hand and pulls her clear, half carrying her the few remaining feet to the sand. Pearl is covered in pilchard scales. She brushes them from her skirt but they won't shift from her skin. She glitters in the thin light. Nicholas stares at her jewelled hands, turns them this way and that. He seems to have slipped through the fish without tearing any scales and is unmarked, as if he has glided over them.

They climb the hill, Pearl's boots slipping through the grass and finding mud. Her damp skirt weighs her down. Her head swims. She must keep going. Just a little further. Just a few more steps. The fog lessens, giving sweeter air. The washed up fish and the tension of the seafront seem mercifully far away.

Finally they reach the hill's brow and sit down. Pearl leans into Nicholas's chest. She is suddenly tired; tired of waiting, tired of lying, tired of not being certain of anything anymore. Not even of herself. When the
Isabella
turns her hull on land it will be better. Pearl will sleep and sleep as the ship courses across the sea. When she wakes there will be a new life waiting for her. Nicholas will marry her. He will do right by her and all will be well. If only she can sleep, all will be well.

Her shoulder is gently shaken. She struggles to open her eyes. Nicholas is smiling at her in the crook of his arm. ‘You can't go to sleep here, limpet-legs.'

‘Can't I?' she says. ‘Just you watch.'

A short thunderclap – a loud, crisp bang. Then another. She feels Nicholas jolt. He scrambles to his feet and Pearl crumples to a heap. He looks down onto the tight pack of Morlanow below, his hands gripping his hair.

‘What was that noise?' Even as she asks, she knows.

‘Gunfire,' he says.

Pearl gets to her feet. Nicholas puts an arm round her. From the drying field she can just make out the shapes of people. They look to be running through the whitened streets. The boats moored off the harbour wall lurch as if a storm tide has risen round them. Noise drifts to the drying field: shouts, cries, more gunfire. A twist of smoke is rising from the harbour wall. The Master's wooden office is on fire.

‘Stay here,' Nicholas says, leaning into her hair. She feels the warmth of his breath against her scalp.

‘You're not going down there? Nicholas, no! It's not safe. They'll go for you, if they're after the east coast men. You know they will.'

He's pulling away from her, trying to free himself from her panicked grip. ‘The Master might be in his hut. They might not help him.'

‘I'm coming with you, then,' she says. ‘You're not leaving me here.'

‘No, Pearl. It's safer up here. I'll come back when I know it's safe. Promise me that you'll wait.'

‘But—'

‘Please, limpet-legs. Please wait.'

She hesitates, then nods. ‘You'll be careful?' she says.

He's nodding, moving away. ‘I will. I'll go across Skommow Bay and round the back of the palace.'

‘Nicholas—'

‘Wait here, Pearl. Wait for me.'

She watches him run down the field until he enters Skommow Bay through the big wreck at the bottom of the hill, as they did as children. Then he's lost among the broken hulls and tilting masts.

A chill jitters through her as she turns back to look at the seafront below. People are massing there, but with the fog she can't see clearly. How long should she wait? Are her mother and father safe? Is her father chasing down east coast men?

She wrings her hands until the skin is raw and rips her fingernails with her teeth. Minutes go by. The huer's bell rings again. There's the sound of many tramping feet. And whistles. Shrill, commanding whistles, different to those of the train. The fog looks to be getting thicker as she stares down at the harbour. She paces a patch of ground, wearing it bare.

And what of the packet? The packet might put to sea without her and Nicholas, the captain thinking it safer to try his luck in the fog than risk the wrath of Morlanow's men. She and Nicholas must leave today. The net is drawn too tight now.

She dithers only about which way to go. Following Nicholas through Skommow Bay is most likely the safest route but even though she is afraid of what might be happening on the seafront, she will not cross that ground.

Once she is moving down the hill she feels better, stronger. A course is set in place and she can only follow the pattern where it leads. At this moment, it leads to the seafront. The shouts grow louder as the beach rises to meet her: angry words, curses and cries of pain puncture the fog. Once under the arch she crouches amid the stinking fish, clutching her sleeve to her mouth and nose.

The seafront is crowded. The features of men she knows are twisted in anger. They run and bunch, grab strangers by the collar and hurl them down, slamming them with fists and anything else to hand. Broken oars. Lobster pots. Everywhere, people are running. Her eyes flick from each cluster of violence, searching for her father and Nicholas amongst the seething, reddened faces. But she can't see them from the arch.

On the slipway, two men tussle. One is James Pengelley. A beautiful voice in chapel, singing the wonder of salvation. His hands go to the throat of the other man, the former whaler Nicholas waved to. The men wheeze and grunt, wrestling each other before toppling on to the pilchards in a sprawling heap.

Onto the front proper and running its length, checking every face. Overturned carts block her way, their horses loose in the road. Flames still surge from the Master's hut, filling the street with smoke, but there's little left of it except ash and twisted spars. There can't be anyone still inside. She looks around but can't see Nicholas or the Master. As more shots burst overhead she runs across the road, huddling against the corner of the fishermen's stores. She has to know that her father and mother are safe. She won't leave Morlanow without knowing that, and she can't leave without Nicholas.

The whistles again – loud and close, so many of them and coming towards her. A wave of unknown men in dark blue pours from the street behind and launches itself into the fray. She sees some policemen go down before their truncheons are raised, felled by well-aimed punches. Others split fighting groups, dragging the Morlanow men from the east coasters and whoever else has fallen foul of their hands. She backs away, her hands scrabbling against the stores' wall.

She must wait out the danger, keep herself safe so that she can board the packet and leave when she finds Nicholas. If she can't find him, then he will find her, coming to her house when he sees she isn't at the drying field. Somehow, they will board the packet and go, as they have planned.

The streets she runs though are a blur of bloodied faces. Their pleas for help melt in the air as she rushes past. On her own street she hammers on Nicholas's front door until her fist goes numb. She tries the handle but it's locked. She thinks she catches the curtain settling, having been pulled aside, but can't be sure. She bangs on the door again.

‘Pearl!'

She turns to see her mother peering round their own barely opened front door. Her mother waves to her, squeezing her arm through the gap. ‘Where've you been?' her mother shouts.

Shots sound at the end of the street and Pearl darts in before she has time to think, to lie. Inside, her mother locks the door and shoves a chair under the handle, then pulls Pearl upstairs to her room where she huddles against her on the low-slung bed.

‘Where's Father?' Pearl says. ‘Is he out there? I couldn't see him.'

‘I don't know. I don't know where he is. He didn't come back from the front. He was meant to come back when the bell rang.'

Pearl prises her arm from her mother's grip and gets to her feet. Her mother won't meet her eye. She rocks gently back and forth.

A tight band forms round Pearl's chest and begins to squeeze. She backs away, the fear that has followed her from the drying field shifting into something harder, sharper.

‘What's happening?' Pearl says, her mouth drying over the words.

Slowly, her mother lifts her face to Pearl but only shakes her head. They stand and look at one another until Pearl hears her breath thicken into rasps. Her mother holds out her palms; they tremble.

‘We couldn't risk you telling him,' her mother says. ‘You see that, don't you, my sweet?'

The net is closing round Pearl but she knows now: her hands aren't the ones that are pulling it tight. Her mother is standing, coming towards her.

‘The east coast men have brought sin here. Sin that corrupts decent flesh,' her mother says, her arms outstretched.

Pearl takes a step back, then another, then spins and bolts from the room. She takes the stairs three at a time and drags the chair out away from the front door. She can't breathe. The floor tilts beneath her. Her mother's tread is on the stair. Pearl's fingers fumble on the lock. She is nearly gone, nearly free.
Nicholas. Nicholas, I'm coming
.

The grain of the door blurs, twisting into waves, waves that are lilting the sides of a great ship. Her sails are raised and she is turning from port. She is turning away.

‘I have to… to go… I'm leaving… I'm leaving with Nicholas…'

But her voice is a whisper in her ears. Her body goes limp and a reddish haze covers her vision. The shade of a pilchard shoal racing to land. Her legs buckle and her face falls hard on the earth floor, dust filling her mouth. She must get to Nicholas. She must leave. But the darkness is coming for her.

Twenty-One

The resistance of tightly tucked sheets. Coolness on her forehead. A hand stroking hers. Pearl breathes deeply to rouse herself and a throb follows each breath, her chest shuddering between gasps. Her eyes flicker and she sees her father. His bottom lip is split and swollen and his nose looks crooked.

As she stares at him he brightens, leaning his head on her hand. ‘Oh, my sweet. We thought you were lost, that the good Lord had seen fit to call you home.'

Pearl struggles to lift her head. The pain in her chest pins her to the bed. She hears a whistle through her lips and remembers the shriek of many others. She has to get to the packet – it's time to leave.

Her father holds down her arms. ‘You mustn't move so fast. Doctor said.'

She tries to think back, to stop her thoughts whirling, but can't remember the doctor coming. ‘What's the matter with me?' she says.

‘Doctor thinks your heart took a flutter, serious one, so your mother says. You've to rest now, for a few days at least.'

Neither speaks for a time. The only sound is the roof creaking its beams awake. The stillness is sharp, exposing the memories of the fighting like the shore at low tide. All is tangled and salt-swollen as flotsam. So much to be teased open and understood. But not yet. Not today. First she must find strength to leave this room and then she must find Nicholas. There will be time for thinking on their journey across the sea.

She is in her own bed, the curtain open to let in the stark light of day. The fog has finally lifted. There's a corner of rich blue sea just visible. Pearl eases herself on to an elbow, all the while her father hovering at her side.

‘Where's Mother?' she says.

Her father paws the hair from Pearl's face, his hands clumsy but gentle. ‘Taken to her bed,' he says. ‘Was too much, watching you fade like that. She's been in quite a state.'

‘And you? Your face.'

He fingers his cheek, probing the hint of a bruise, and sucks in his tender lip. ‘Came up behind me. Two held me down while one laid in. Lucky the constables had arrived by then or I'd have been for it.'

The whistles tinkle in her ear again. ‘How did they know to come?' she says.

‘The Master tipped them off. For the best really, far as I can see, despite what some are saying. He sent word to Pentreath and the policemen came on the train. We hadn't counted on the Govenek men fighting alongside the east coasters. We were outnumbered, by our own neighbours.'

Pearl swallows. Her throat is lined with coarse sand. She has to find the words, though. She has to know.

‘It was bad, on the front,' she stutters out. ‘Did anyone, was anyone…'

Her father cups his hands over his face. When he speaks she can barely hear him. ‘Five,' he says. ‘Five souls were lost. Three of our own and two from Yarmouth. They're lying in the Council rooms now.'

She is as cold as the sea in winter, caught in an undertow of freeze. ‘Who of ours?' she manages to ask.

‘A Teague boy, from Fish Lane. Edward Richards. And Peter next door.'

So Jack's father launched himself in too, sober enough to get out of his chair for once. Wickedness heats her skin, fires her cheeks. Good riddance to him, and the others. They were taken and Nicholas wasn't. Their bodies lie stiffening in the dusty Council rooms while he breathes and thinks of her.

A tremor in her arm. Pearl sinks back on to the mattress and closes her eyes, the light suddenly too rich for them. Her pale lids glow red with the pressing sun. She buries her face in her pillow, drowning the red in black.