‘Well then,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am not sure. Liberty, I suppose. I lived so long under constraints. You wonder why I grub about in the mud – it’s what I remember from childhood. Barely ever wearing shoes – picking gorse for cordial, watching the ponds boiling with frogs. And then there was Michael, and he was – civilised. He would pave over every bit of woodland, have every sparrow mounted on a plinth. And he had me mounted on a plinth. My waist pinched, my hair burned into curls, the colour on my face painted out, then painted in again. And now I’m free to sink back into the earth if I like – to let myself grow over with moss and lichen. Perhaps you’re appalled to think we’re no higher than the animals – or at least, if we are, only one rung further up the ladder. But no, no – it has given me liberty. No other animal abides by rules – why then must we?’
If Will was able to set aside the obligations of his office, they were never far away; as she spoke he touched his throat as if hoping to find there the comfort of his white collar. How could he begin to believe that she was content to be as much animal as woman, careless, without a soul, or the prospect of its loss or salvation? What’s more, she contradicted herself on every turn: impossible to reconcile an animal Cora with the one who seemed always to be grasping at fresh ideas just beyond her reach. The silence that fell had the effect of a full stop at the conclusion of a long confusing sentence, and it was not broken for a time. Then, with a deliberately relieved glance at the clock – and smiling, because she’d taken no offence, and hoped she’d given none – Cora said, ‘I should go. Francis doesn’t exactly need me, but he does like to know that come six o’clock there will be dinner on the table, and that I will be eating it. And I am already hungry! I always am.’
‘I have noticed.’ She stood; he opened the door. ‘Then I’ll walk with you – I should do my rounds, like a surgeon in a hospital – I must pay calls to Cracknell, and to Matthew Evansford, who took a vow of temperance the day the body was found on New Year’s Eve, and has taken to wearing black and getting in a state over the serpent, and the End Times. You may have seen him when you first came to All Saints – all in black, and looking as if he ought to have a coffin on his shoulder.’
Out on the common again, with the sun lowering, and no wind; they walked with lightness of heart, conscious of having traversed uncertain terrain without serious injury. Cora spoke admiringly of Stella, perhaps by way of apology; Will in turn asked to be taught how it was that fossils were dated by the layers of sediment in which they were found. On the All Saints tower sunlight sparkled on the flint; beside the path the courteous daffodils all nodded as they passed. ‘And do you still think – seriously now, Cora – that you might find a living fossil (the ichthyosaur did you say?) in such a dull and shallow place as the Blackwater estuary?’
‘I think I might – I believe I might. And I am never sure of the difference between thinking and believing: you can teach me, one day. And after all I can hardly lay claim to the idea: Charles Lyell was firmly of the opinion that an ichthyosaur might turn up, although I admit no-one took him very seriously. Look – I’ve ten minutes of liberty left – let me walk with you to World’s End, and the water. I’m sure we’ll be safe: April’s too gentle a month for sea-dragons.’
They reached the water – the tide was out – mud and shingle gleamed in the westering light, and someone had wreathed the bones of Leviathan in yellow branches of broom. Sedge grew in soft pale sheaves that shimmered when the wind took them; a little distance away they heard the deep implausible booming of a bittern. The air was sweet and clear: it went in like good wine.
Neither was ever certain who first shielded their eyes against the dazzle on the water, and saw what lay beyond. Neither recalled having exclaimed, or having told the other ‘Look – look!’ only that all at once both stood transfixed on the path above the saltings, gazing east. There on the horizon, between the silver line of water and the sky, there lay a strip of pale and gauzy air. Within the strip, sailing far above the water, a barge moved slowly through the lower sky. It was possible to make out the separate pieces of its oxblood sail, which appeared to move under a strong wind; there quite clearly was the deck and rigging, the dark prow. On it went, flying in full sail, high above the estuary; it flickered, and diminished, then regained its size; then for a moment it was possible to see the image of it inverted just beneath, as if a great mirror had been laid out. The air grew chill – the bittern boomed – each heard the other breathing swiftly, and it was not quite terror they felt, though something like it. Then the mirror vanished, and the boat sailed on alone; a gull flew below the black hull, above the gleaming water. Then some member of the ghostly crew tugged a rope, or dropped an anchor – the vessel ceased to move, only hung on silent, wonderful, becalmed against the sky. William Ransome and Cora Seaborne, stripped of code and convention, even of speech, stood with her strong hand in his: children of the earth and lost in wonder.
The Reading Rooms
The British Museum
29th April
Dear Mrs Seaborne –
I write, as you see, from the Reading Rooms at the British Museum. My collar got me my pass, though when I came to the desk they looked me up and down, since I had soil beneath my nails from planting out broad beans. I’ve come to cram for something I must write on the presence of Christ in the 22nd Psalm, but instead find myself determined to get to the bottom of what we saw last night.
You recall we agreed (once we’d regained the powers of speech) we couldn’t possibly be seeing the Flying Dutchman, or any other supernatural apparition? You wondered if it were a mirage of some kind, like those lakes that appear in the desert and deceive dying men with promises of water. Well – you were not far off the mark. Are you ready for a lesson?
I believe we witnessed a Fata Morgana illusion, named for the fairy Morgan le Fay, who set about bewitching sailors to their death by building icy castles in the air above the sea. Cora, you’d be amazed how much of it there is about! I copy out here an extract from the published diaries of a certain Dorothy Woolfenden (forgive my handwriting!):
1 Apr 1864, Calabria: Having risen early I stood at my window and witnessed a remarkable phenomenon – which I should certainly not believe were it related to me by any other – the weather was fine – I saw upon the horizon above the Messina Strait a gauzy haze through which I gradually perceived a shimmering city. A great cathedral was built before my eyes, with pinnacles and arches – a grove of cypress trees which all at once bowed as if buffeted by a gale – and only for a moment a vast and glittering tower in which were many high windows – then as it were a veil descended – the vision ended – the city was gone. In my astonishment I ran to tell my companions – they had slept, and seen nothing – but believe it to have been the infamous Fata Morgana, which draws men to their doom.