‘Please – let him play: he understands me, I think,’ said Stella, and together they watched a moment as he set them out in the pattern of a seven-pointed star, now and then glancing up at Stella in what his mother saw with surprise to be an expression of adoration.
‘They took my babies away,’ said Stella, drearily, losing for a moment her lightness of heart: ‘I remember their faces, of course – I have their photos here – only I forget how it is to feel their arms around my neck and the weight of them in my lap – it makes me happy to see him there – let him do what he wants.’ Then she leaned against the curved wing of the chair, and Stella saw the high colour on her cheeks burn brighter. When she raised her head again her hair was dark at the roots with sweat.
‘But they’re coming back again – Katherine Ambrose is bringing them to me,’ she said. She touched the Bible. ‘Our heavenly father never gives us more than we can bear.’
‘I daresay,’ said Cora.
‘And they say the Essex Serpent is found, and no more than a rotting fish!’ Stella leaned forward – secretive, confiding – ‘But Cora, do not be deceived. Just last night a dead dog was cast up at Brightlingsea with its neck broken, and no sign yet of the Banks girl –’
How gleeful she is, thought Cora: I believe she is almost willing the serpent back into the Blackwater!
‘I hear it whispering in the night,’ said Stella, ‘though I never can make out the words …’
Cora took her friend’s hand; but what after all was to be said? Her eyes glittered, as if she saw not the hand of judgment but of redemption. Stella made a few marks in her notebook, then shook her head as if waking from a light sleep and said, ‘And how is Martha: cross to find herself back in Aldwinter, I’m sure.’ She’d not yet lost her habit of gossip, and for a while they ran through all their mutual acquaintances while Will filled the room with his absence.
Francis sat some distance away, observing in his usual fashion. He saw how Stella clutched the notebook, stroking its blue cover; how one moment her attention fixed avidly on what his mother said, then dissipated as she grew dreamy and vague. Sometimes she’d fall to phrases that sat oddly on her tongue – ‘The fact is, and I know you agree, that this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality!’ – then immediately after say, briskly, ‘Magog doesn’t seem at all bothered by Cracknell’s death: her milk’s as good as ever.’ And all the while his mother’s eyes grew darker, as they did when she was troubled: she patted Stella Ransome’s hand, and nodded, and never contradicted; she said, ‘Tell me again how it is you plait your hair so beautifully: I try, but I can never get it right!’ and poured another cup of tea.
‘Come again soon, won’t you?’ Stella said, when Cora rose to leave. ‘How sorry you must be to miss Will – I will give him all your best. And Master Seaborne,’ she said, turning to Francis and holding out her hands: ‘We should be friends, you and me: we understand each other. Come again and bring me your treasures, and we’ll compare them, shall we?’ And Francis put his hand in hers, and felt how hot it was, and how very much smaller than his own; he said: ‘I’ve got three jays’ feathers and a chrysalis. I’ll bring them tomorrow, if you like.’
Cora Seaborne
2, The Common
Aldwinter
19th September
Dear Will,
I’ve come back to Essex. The house is cold: I write this sitting so close to the radiator I have one burning knee, and one freezing one. There’s a penetrating dampness coming from the walls. It feels personal. Sometimes in the night I think I can smell something like salt and something like fish – only very faintly, coming through the window – and for all they tell me it was nothing but a poor dead fish overtaken by the tides, it’s easy to imagine the Essex Serpent’s still there, watching and waiting, perhaps on the doorstep wanting to be let in …
I live in a state of disgrace. Martha is cross with me: when she brings me tea she slams it down and I’m invariably splashed. She wants to go back to London, and I can’t help thinking she’s going away from me somehow. Luke has asked me not to visit, though Spencer has brought him to Colchester for a change of air, and I almost think I could walk there to see him! Spencer writes, but he signs himself Yours Sincerely and doesn’t mean a word of it. Katherine Ambrose has taken to giving me a kind sort of look I can’t bear: it’s an understanding one, as if she wants me to know that whatever I’ve done she’ll side with me. Frankly, I’d rather she gave me a slap.
Of course I’ve always been in disgrace with Frankie, but now more than ever. I believe he has seen something in Stella he was always looking for in me, and never found. He respects her! Why wouldn’t he? I don’t know that I ever met a braver being.
And however kindly you write, I often feel I might fall from grace with you. I doubt the wisdom of so much that I have done: letting Luke loose on Joanna – that strange night in June – even having come here at all!
Martha says I’ve been selfish – that I’ve tried to tether everyone to me and not cared what they might have wanted. I said that this is how we all live or else we’d only ever be alone, and she slammed the door so hard she broke a square of glass.
Only Stella seems not to be angry with me. I spent an afternoon with her – did she tell you? – she kissed my hands. I am afraid for her mind – one moment she sinks into despair and the next she seems to have already got her foot in the pearly gates. And such a beauty, Will! I never saw anything like it – with her hair fanned out on the pillow and her eyes blazing I think any painter would run weeping for their brushes. She does not believe the serpent to have been found. She hears it, she says: it whispers, though she doesn’t say what.
Tell me how you are. Do you still wake too early and drink coffee in your dressing-gown before anyone else wakes? Did you ever finish reading that awful novel about Pompeii? Have you seen a kingfisher yet? Do you ever miss Cracknell and wish you could lean on his gate and watch him skin his moles?
Can I see you soon?
Yours,
CORA
Rev. William Ransome
All Saints Rectory
Aldwinter
20th September
Dear Cora –
Stella told me you’d come. I would have known it anyway: who else would spend a small fortune on Harrods sweets? (Thank you, by the way: I’m watching her nibble it now, and I’m glad to see her eat something besides teacups of hot Bovril.)
She’s very taken with Francis. She says they’re soul companions; something to do with her new fad for decking the house with odds and ends. I told her I’m writing you a note and she says can he come and visit again soon, as she has something to tell him? The doctor says while her coughing’s not too bad she can have visitors for a short while.
Did you feel it – the change in the Aldwinter air? I know you’ll have heard how we found that poor dead thing on the shore, and how it woke us all in our beds with its stink. How I wished you’d been there – I remember thinking so at the time – I remember wondering how you could have gone away –
That night it was like May Day and the Harvest Festival come at once. All night they sat out there on the common, singing and dancing with the relief of it. I felt it myself, though I knew there’d been nothing to fear! Poor Evansford looks quite destitute without a day of judgment to look forward to. On Sundays there are a few more bare pews. Well: I don’t grudge anyone a clear conscience.