Beastings Page 7

  It was maybe a hundred or more feet in length and forty feet at its widest part but it was squeezed in the middle to create a figure of eight shape. The tarn was so narrow in the middle you could nearly walk across it. It wasn’t deep. It was surrounded by man-planted pines neatly arranged in lines two or three decades earlier.

  Flies and skaters broke the surface and the occasional gulping fish rose to feed on them. They were small fish. About a hand’s length. Sleek and silvery. Perch probably. The quarry of the pike. Tench perhaps.

  She walked around the tarn and into the trees and then sat down.

  It was getting dark. The trees across the tarn were becoming washed out through the twilight haze and were blurring at the edges.

  She watched the water and listened to the sounds of the birds getting ready to roost. She sat for a long time. She watched the sky turn and the clouds soften and the light wane then she stood and stripped to her underwear and unclothed the baby and walked into the open. She waded into the water.

  The cold felt like nails being driven into the soles of her feet. The girl tried to walk quickly but her feet sank into the tarn bed’s silt. It billowed up around her as she disturbed it. Turned it cloudy. It felt unctuous on her skin. Oily almost.

  When the water came up to her waist and her breath was short she clasped the baby tighter to her bare breast and then turned and pushed herself backwards into the water. It stole the last breath from her lungs – pressed it out of her – and for a few seconds it felt like she couldn’t see properly. The baby squealed as the girl’s feet scrabbled for the bottom and she lurched and stumbled out of the water. It was too cold. She felt it in her bones. She was aware of her entire skeleton. She dashed back into the trees and took some large breaths.

  In the gloaming she studied her naked body and it looked alien to her. Her breasts hung down pale and swollen. The nipples dark. A map of blue veins pulsing beneath the translucent skin. She scraped away a tiny crust of dried milk from her teats.

  Her hip bone protruded in a way that seemed odd and detached. She ran her hands down and felt that her calves were covered in hard stubs of dark hair that spread to a finer down on her thighs. It laddered up from her crotch too.

  She had not seen herself this way for a long time. And though she had barely eaten there seemed to be more of her than she remembered.

  Shivering she felt her way around her body with numb fingers.

  As she did something changed. Her skin began to tingle. It became pink and she started to feel warm. Her network of bones no longer ached. The warmth spread from within. The shock of the cold mountain water had awakened her. The shock had enlivened her.

  The water was biting as she waded back into it but when she held the baby above her head and submerged herself when she let the water close in over her head it was as if the girl was in a tepid bath. Her body was taking care of itself. Blood and a pulse were all she needed.

  She stood and splashed water on the baby and cleaned its parts and cupped some water into its mouth then climbed out and dried it. She wrapped it again and tied it by an ankle to a tree stump again.

  The evening had been the length of a year.

  Their survival would depend upon these repetitions.

  When she turned back to the tarn it was near dark and the moon was dancing on the water that was still rippling from her disturbance. The girl slipped back into it one more time. The girl cleaned herself; the girl washed herself. She floated on her back and pointed her toes to the benevolent face that looked down at her from the sky then she ducked underwater and opened her eyes and stared into the darkness and held herself there her heart beating her blood coursing and feeling utterly hidden; submerged in the night – a part of the stone and the water and the fell and the stars.

  5.

  SPRING HAD UNFOLDED itself into summer and Mrs Hinckley had coughed the cough of the doomed and the doctor visited her regularly and her husband sulked and seethed with the same look of quiet resentment towards every living thing that the girl had seen in every man and the baby began to grow into its oversized head. This was the girl’s new life now. Subjugation again.

  She felt a bond with this tiny helpless creature that cried and screamed and excreted though in those moments of quiet when it grabbed onto her finger and stared into her eyes and smiled she experienced feelings that were new and scary and alien and beautiful. Things that neither of the child’s parents had ever felt. The feelings grew as the green season spread through the town and up the fells.

  The girl began to set aside little things. Items for herself. Food and clothing for the bairn. Things they wouldn’t miss. Bits of string. Pens. A bobbin. A knife. Shoelaces. An old newspaper she couldn’t hope to read.

  The girl had never had possessions before. Ownership of objects was new. So was the love for another entity. A living thing.

  She knew that He said sell your possessions and give to those in need for this will store up treasure for you in heaven but she had never had the opportunity. In these objects she created secrets and these secrets signalled baby steps towards a daring new direction awaiting exploration.

  And the girl began to have original thoughts too. Ideas that developed unfettered and without the Sisters stepping in to call her sinful. Thoughts that went undetected and unpunished.

  Thoughts about movement. Thoughts about a new life somewhere in the land beyond. She and the baby together as mother and child. Just the trees and the fells and sky above. Or the island. Somewhere with no-one to bother them. No chores or soot or the fists of drunken men. No interference no violation. No nocturnal visitations. Just she and the baby at peace.

  In the moments when she wasn’t working the girl began to think about life – about living and feeling alive – perhaps for the first time.

  Then the child took ill. For three days its breathing was tight and it became restless. Its sleep pattern broken. The girl tended to it. She warmed milk for it and she cradled it. She sniffed its soft head and she rocked it back to sleep. But the rhythm of the house was disturbed for the duration of the child’s illness and Hinckley stomped around the house and complained of plain food and a lack of sleep and anything else he could think of. And the louder he got the more the house appeared to shrink in size.

  On the fourth evening the girl was out in the yard tending to the wood pile when she heard the baby wailing. Not crying but wailing. A howl of sorrow; a scream of sickness.

  It was a warm clear cloudless evening. She put down the sledgehammer and splitting chock and went into the house. She climbed the stairs and crossed the landing and there he was. In the nursery – in their room. The child’s father. Hinckley. Holding the baby aloft. Lifting the baby and shaking the baby. Shouting at the baby. Shaking and shouting shut up shut up for Christ’s sake shut up until its scream became locked in its throat and its face began to twist with discomfort. A tragic-looking shadow crossed its eyes.

  The baby’s face was a dark red as if it were drowning in its own blood; its hands hung loose and head rolled unsupported. She ran into the room and reached for it and her sudden appearance surprised the child’s father enough for him to release his hold on its tiny torso and for the girl to take the child to her chest. She turned away from him.

  She took out a breast. The sound of breathing filled the room.

  His and hers.

  The child’s.

  IT’LL BE DARK soon said the Poacher. We should set in for the night.

  Set in?

  Aye. Make camp.

  We’re not stopping.

  What do you mean?

  I mean we’re not stopping said the Priest. We’ll walk through the night.

  And how do you propose we do that Father.

  With our feet and God’s guidance.

  The two men walked in file. The Priest first then the Poacher. The dog circled them running three miles fo
r their one.

  It’ll be dark.

  I thought you were a Poacher.

  I am.

  Well then. The moon will be out.

  We need rest.

  He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

  What’s that Father?

  Your hangover is your problem. And the way you drag that foot like that. If I had known –

  Known what Father?

  It doesn’t matter.

  We’ll walk through the night till we find this girl.

  What about food?

  What about it?

  I’m hungry.

  You’re always thinking about your appetite said the Priest. The hill behind him framed his long head.

  You want more than you need he continued. Hunger is a weakness.

  But then we’re all weak at some point.

  Hunger is greed said the Priest. Greed is sinful.

  With respect Father everyone has to eat. Aren’t you hungry?

  You’re all consumed by appetite and desire. Do you know why?

  Why?

  Because you’re spiritually empty.

  My stomach is empty.

  So eat.

  I need to catch me something first.

  Like what?

  Rabbit’d be good said the Poacher.

  So catch a rabbit. Then catch me up.

  You won’t wait for me?

  No.

  But I’ll need to skin it. Clean it. Build a fire. Then cook it.

  So do it.

  What about the dog Father?

  He stays with me. Only the dog can find the girl. We’ll go on ahead.

  But how will I know how to find you.

  You’re the poacher.

  I know but.

  A child’s life is as stake and you’re thinking about yourself said the Priest. If you want to go hunting rabbits like a didicoy that’s your business. But I’m here for a purpose.

  Well can we at least rest for ten minutes?

  The Priest stopped. He was a dozen paces ahead of the Poacher and as he turned in the crepuscular light he looked paler and more drawn than before. His eyes seemed black. His cheekbones drew triangular shadows on his face and his teeth seemed even smaller. The milk teeth of a man-child thought the Poacher.

  Five minutes he said.

  I know you won’t deny me the call of nature.

  Just do what you have to do. Go over there. Behind that crag. I’ll go this way.

  Aren’t you even going to sit? asked the Poacher.

  I’ll sit if I want to. You just think about yourself.

  Fine.

  I’ll enjoy a break from your rabbiting.

  That’s a joke isn’t it Father. You’re having a laugh with me.

  He who sits in the heavens laughs said The Priest. The Lord holds them in derision.

  The Priest waited until the Poacher had walked uphill and then he walked in the opposite direction and around a house-sized crag. From beneath his collar he lifted a chain over his head and unscrewed a small vial from it. Using the screw as a small spoon he lifted a small heap of powder to his nose and inhaled twice in each nostril. It was hard to see it in the fading light but he felt it clear and precise and searing. The moon was out. A perfect circle. A metallurgical wonder. A steel plate forever welded to the sky.

  He looped the chain over his head and breathed deeply.

  THE DAYS HAD become longer and clearer and Mrs Hinckley’s phlegm thinned and her cough became less violent. She began to spend more time downstairs drinking tea and looking out of the window. Her face a colourless sheet of fell slate.

  Here she could watch the birds peck at the crumbs and strips of fat that she left on the bird table.

  She saw bullfinches she saw meadow pipits she saw willow tits. Once a redstart.

  And she watched the girl when her back was turned. She observed her strangely restricted movements and the tight way she carried herself. Huddled as if to amplify her insignificance or minimise the space she occupied in the world. A shuffling huddle made old before her time.

  She was a strange one. Many of the St. Mary’s lot were. Damaged goods they were. Bad girls. Born into nothing and then abandoned into even less. Some of them were the bastard children of passing labourers. Some orphaned. Others just born straight backwards.

  But the Sisters did God’s work. Mrs Hinckley knew that. They were saintly; thankless saviours of these young women.

  And this one – she was a worker. No doubt about it; dumb but not stupid. Mute but capable. Good with the child too. She doted on it as if it were her own. Odd but no shirker. Touched by His hand and made simple.

  Soon Mrs Hinckley began to do a few light chores to get her strength up. The washing and folding of clothes. Cleaning the pots. The pantry shelves.

  That’s when she noticed the child’s clothes. There were fewer than before. The blue bonnet and some blankets were missing. Two pairs of booties. She checked the dirty clothing basket and the dresser and she checked the line then thought nothing more of it.

  Then the spare bib went. And the nappies were down too. She asked the girl about it.

  The bairn’s missing some clothes she said. Have you seen them?

  The girl turned and looked away which wasn’t unusual.

  Mrs Hinckley laid a hand on her shoulder.

  The clothes. Have you seen them.

  The girl shook her head.

  She left the room.

  Walked upstairs.

  That night after the girl had been sent on upstairs she raised it with her husband.

  The lass. I think she’s stealing.

  Money you mean?

  No. Clothes from the bairn.

  How do you work that one out?

  There’s bits gone missing. Bibs and the like. Blankets.

  They’ll be in the wash or summat.

  I’ve checked.

  Are you sure you’ve not mislaid them.

  I’m sure.

  Have you spoken with her?

  I raised it.

  And how did she respond?

  How do you think? Same as usual: with silence.

  She’ll have to go then he said. Tomorrow.

  You think.

  First thing sniffed Hinckley. I told that nun there on our doorstep. I told her I’d not tolerate thieving.

  Maybe we should give her a day or two. Give her the benefit.

  I thought you said you were sure.

  I think I am.

  Think’s not good enough. Would you swear to it?

  Mrs Hinckley hesitated.

  No.

  Well then.

  Well then she said. I’ll keep a close eye on her.

  You do that.

  Let the thief no longer steal she said. But rather let him labour – doing honest work with his own hands.

  You sound like one of them bloody Sisters you do said her husband.

  THE NEXT MORNING the fires weren’t lit and there was no tea mashed in the pot. Ash sat in the blackened hearth like dirty snow. Hinckley would have to break kindling and boil his own water for a wash.

  And he wasn’t about to do that.

  He took the stairs two at a time and went into the nursery. It was empty. He crossed the landing into the bedroom. His wife was in bed again. His wife was turned away to the wall again. The curtains drawn again. He put a hand on her shoulder. It was done without tenderness.

  Where’s the bairn? he said.

  She stirred slightly. Groaned.

  He shook her harder. Prodded her.

  The bairn.

  She rolled over and coughed.

  In the cot.

  The cot’s empty.

  It can’t be.<
br />
  I’ve just been in and the bairn isn’t there.

  I don’t –

  The bairn isn’t there. Where’s the girl at?

  She went to speak but another cough came out instead. Something loosened inside her. She sat up. Coughed again.

  That imbecile he said. Where’s she at?

  Hinckley back-handed his wife across her papery cheek. Her ears rang and fire spread across her face. It was the first time he had struck since her illness. Since the child.

  Listen to me. Where is she? Where’s the imbecile?

  Hinckley’s wife struggled to catch her breath. It caught in her throat before she could speak. She brought her hand to her cheek and looked at her husband.

  I thought she was in the room with the bairn.

  She’s not in the room with the bairn.

  She has to be.

  Then you’re telling me I’m blind woman.

  He turned and left the room. He went down the stairs. He bellowed.

  Where’s my child?

  His wife rose from the bed as Hinckley came up the stairs two at a time again and went back into the nursery. He came out. He filled the landing for the moment. A shape cast against the stairwell window.

  How long? he said. How long since you saw her?

  She was just here. I was sure I heard her.

  How long since you saw her for Christ’s sake.

  She searched the landing with her eyes for an unseen answer.

  Last night she said quietly. After supper. Same as you.

  Go to Mary’s Hinckley said.

  I don’t understand.

  Go to St. Mary’s. She’s gone and taken my child with her.

  My child stung her. The bairn was their child. More hers than his even. He might have seeded her but it was she who had borne it and she who had birthed it.

  Her legs went weak and she grabbed for the banister. She bent double and sobbed. The sob turned into another hacking cough.

  She gripped the spherical end of the hand-rail and then rested her forehead on her hand. Saliva hung from her mouth. She spoke through it. Pleaded through it. Created tiny sobbing bubbles with it.

  Why has she gone?

  God only knows. She could be hours away. Now go to Mary’s.

  I don’t feel well.