PREVIOUSLY in LARCHFIELD: Sorcha the Health Visitor pays an uncomfortable visit, and Dora retreats from the cold into bed, where she loses herself in Dante’s Inferno. She wakes to find herself with Wystan, and learns a valuable lesson about Limbo. Back in the present day, Dora discovers a wormhole in Paradise, where she can almost hear what the Divines are saying.
EPISODE TEN: In which Wystan and Gregory take a trip down Loch Long to Coulport and finally get to be alone. In the present day, Dora decides to take action in the garden.
Chapter twenty-five
Wystan
Loch Long is reachable by ferry from Helensburgh pier, disembarking at Coulport. It takes less time than one might think, because travel on the Clyde is direct, unlike the road, which twists along the contours of the shore. But Loch Long feels far away, and Wystan and his new friend Gregory need to be far away. Helensburgh is closing in on them; its eyes are everywhere.
So this they do one Saturday, Gregory wrapped in the sweater Wystan’s mother sent for her son. It’s thick wool, beautifully knitted and stitched. She must have gone to London and ordered it specially, not knowing that he could get a sweater much more cheaply here, and one more directly suited to the weather. On Gregory’s body, it becomes splendid. Over it, he wears a dirty oilskin jacket. He grins, happy.
Mrs Clyde has prepared Wystan some tongue sandwiches, and he has a hipflask of wine for them to share.
The newly docked ferry at Helensburgh disgorges dozens of people, all come to town from the surrounding villages for shopping or entertainment. Wystan and Gregory walk the wobbly gangplank; Wystan buys the tickets from the man behind the counter and they descend to the lower level. The pier master and the boatman exchange banter, then the rope is cast. The Julianne churns away from the pier’s barnacled pillars into the Clyde, towards the open sea.
Alongside them all the way are the dramatic frontages of the villas bought by wealthy shipbuilders of the past, which make Helensburgh what it is. But, now that work on ‘Ship No. 534’ has stopped, leaving hundreds out of work, there is something poignant about the houses’ splendour. These houses are going to be sold, split off, divided, their gardens partitioned and sold off as lots. The road will become a row of grand façades, behind which lies the struggle to make ends meet. As the ferry sails alongside Lower Hel, Gregory nods at the glamorous ribbon of dwellings. ‘These rich folk,’ he says. ‘I don’t think they’re hurting.’
‘They will be soon,’ Wystan says. ‘There’s no one can escape what’s coming. Unless . . . unless we all try Russia’s model.’
‘What’s that?’
Wystan’s face softens as he regards his friend. ‘We must find a way to get you up to my room. I have a lot of books I think you would like. A lot of people are thinking about these questions, you know. A lot of people, my friends down in England, for instance, are thinking of how we can get out of this mess.’
Gregory says, looking at his hands, ‘There’s no point in all that talk. One day, I’d like . .’
‘What?’
‘To have a girl of my own. A house. A family. I’m stuck at home with my ma and da. Pawnshop and breaker’s yard – that’s what I’ve got to look forward to. Until you, that is.’
‘I’d like the same, you know. Family. Marriage. I can’t have it, either, but for different reasons.’
They are silent for a few moments. The pier at Coulport chugs into view. The pebbled beaches glitter; torrents of rainwater from the hills clatter down the shingle.
Gregory says, ‘A rich man like you, from down south. When you’re tired of me, you can have a lassie of your own and weans.’
Wystan says, ‘I was engaged. She found out about me. And I was sad about it, but also relieved. It’s you who will grow tired of me . . . You’ll find your lassie and our time together will be something you never talk about.’
Gregory, though unworldly, is not stupid. Everything that is wrong in his life is for want of cash, of employment. Wystan has both of these – how can he not be the happiest man on earth?
The ferry pulls into Coulport pier, performing a nimble turn on the spot and unsteadying the boatman as he gets into position to throw the rope.
The shore of Loch Long is an unspoilt series of inlets and bays, and soon they find themselves in a deserted spot, where Wystan lays down his jacket and gets out the hipflask and sandwiches.
When they have finished eating and passed the flask between them, Wystan stretches and lays his hat over his pale face. Gregory says, ‘Let’s have a swim!’
‘It’ll be bloody freezing!’ Wystan protests, but Gregory is already hoicking off his shoes and trousers. ‘Come on, Wiz!’
Wystan wants simply to sit and watch his friend cavorting in the shallows, but there is something about the boy’s enthusiasm which cuts away at his inhibitions. He stands and removes his clothes, then thinks, ‘Oh, fuck it,’ and runs into the sea himself, the cold sending aching shocks up his legs. He giggles and screams at the same time. ‘It’s the frozen fjord!’ he cries as Gregory splashes him. There is no one to see them playing beneath the hot, welcoming sun.
Then, Wystan notices a kind of cloudiness in the water, blurred circles advancing towards them. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, pointing, but it is too late, the ache of the cold water is replaced by the searing agony of a jellyfish sting. Not one, but three, four, all down his thighs.
Wystan screams for real and hares out of the water, not noticing the mussel shells and barnacled stones that cut his feet. He crumples on the beach, clutching his leg and sobbing with the pain.
‘Jesus, Greg! It’s jellyfish!’
Gregory is already by his side, and strikingly calm. He bends over his writhing friend and winces as he examines the angry stings. ‘That’s a bad one, Wiz,’ he says. ‘Look, I know what to do.
Stretch your leg out.’
Wystan tries to do so, partially accomplishes it, retches from the pain. His naked friend stands near, and, after a moment of concen- tration, urinates a vast, steaming jet all over Wystan’s leg.
Wystan shrieks.
‘It’s what you do! Piss over a jellyfish sting. Cancels it out. Any fool knows that.’ Gregory starts to laugh, sending the jet in spurts, which miss their target.
‘You bloody maniac!’ Wystan cries, but it’s true, the pain is sub- siding slightly, or at least the angry, scraping part of the pain. The mass of redness is differentiating into four red points.
‘Aye, you’ll live!’ Gregory says, and, giving himself a shake, turns and starts getting dressed.
‘What do I do now? Put my clothes on, stinking of piss?’
Gregory shrugs, still laughing. ‘Rinse it off! You’re wailing like a girl!’
Wystan hobbles to the edge and flicks cold water over his leg. His teeth chatter. The water soothes, like ice on a burn. When he turns, limping like a hurt child, Greg is there with his arm out for him to lean on, and he takes it and pulls his friend close. Wystan feels suddenly reckless – perhaps the pain has seared away any inhibition – and, without checking first, he kisses Gregory, feels the warm damp of his mouth on his own. For a moment, Gregory’s response is complete, and Wystan forgets the pain in his leg, he forgets everything except their breathing and kissing, their chilled skin pressing together. But it lasts just a moment before he snaps instinctively away, for it is daylight and, never mind that they are apparently in the middle of nowhere, a fishing boat could go by, a person could bring their dog on to the beach. The hard fact of daylight turns the thrill into an ache of unsatisfied longing.
As Wystan gingerly pulls on his clothes, the sun vanishes behind a cloud. A fat drop lands on the back of his neck; when he looks up, he receives a face full of rain. It comes from nowhere, as instantaneous as a tropical fall. When they had set off, the sky was cloudless, and, of course, Wystan has not brought anything waterproof. He has not been on the west coast long enough to understand that there are often four seasons in one day, and the unsettled weather is amplified by the Gulf Stream running nearby.
Just ahead of them on the road is a tiny church made of tin, barely larger than his bedroom at Larchfield. It has a small steeple, and light glints on the corrugated roof as if it were solid silver.
Around it, the weeds have been cleared and a neat path leads to the door.
‘I don’t go to church no more. I’ve got no Sunday best,’ says Gregory.
‘Never mind that. I’m soaked!’ And Wystan pulls his friend by the hand, up the path to the door, which opens beneath his touch. The rain clattering on the roof is deafening. A fly drifts by the east- facing window.
The church can accommodate perhaps twenty people. A plain altar stands at one end. Gregory and Wystan sit down on a pew. ‘Come here, my dear chum,’ Wystan says, and he eases Gregory on to his lap and wraps his arms around him. Gregory sits a little awk- wardly, a giant boy atop another. There is no room for both sets of legs and so Gregory rests his on the pew in front. They sit like this for several minutes, while Wystan tries to brand upon his memory the boy’s warmth and the peace that he feels with his head buried against his side. Gregory’s hand creeps over his, and Wystan lets it sit there, even as he feels a throb of fear in this little house of God, where, more than anywhere, he wants to feel right. Does God not see the love between them? Is God angry?
The door opens. Voices: two women. Wystan pushes Gregory off him; he tumbles heavily into a seated position beside him and their faces flame.
‘Who are you?’ one of the women calls from the door. The boys turn to see a small, swarthy woman with her hair in a straggly bun. A long, flour-stained apron reaches almost to the floor. Her companion is a beefy woman with strong arms. She is carrying a mop and bucket.
Wystan jumps to his feet. ‘Wystan Auden, madam,’ he says. ‘And this is my friend, Gregory. We are visiting from Helensburgh and happened upon this church. Tell me, are you having a service soon?’
Gregory is looking resolutely at the flagged floor. A blush gleams at his ears.
‘Yes, we are.’ The woman with the mop gawps at Wystan. ‘Are you stopping?’
‘No,’ says Gregory.
‘Well, the rain’s stopped now,’ she says. ‘We’ve a lot of work to do here before the service.’
‘Of course, madam.’ Wystan bows slightly and backs away. Gregory scuttles behind him. The wispy woman in the apron calls, ‘Hey, you, young man.’
Gregory stops but does not turn.
‘I’m sure I’ve seen ye. Are you Vance’s boy?’
‘No,’ says Gregory and keeps walking.
‘Ah’m sure I’ve seen ye. You’re a long way frae home.’
‘I’m no Vance’s boy!’ says Gregory, overtaking Wystan. He runs out.
The women exchange glances. The beefy one nods at Wystan.
‘We don’t see many strangers here. What are you doing with our lad Vance?’
‘He’s showing me round,’ says Wystan.
Her companion shoos at Wystan as if he were an unruly dog. ‘Off with you. No respect!’ She calls out after Gregory: ‘Now, you get home right away to your father.’
Wystan manages to exit the church without running – though, in truth, the women scare him. He catches Gregory up. ‘I don’t think they saw anything,’ he says, putting his hand on his friend’s arm, but Gregory brushes him off.
‘They recognised me!’ he hisses.
Wystan can think of nothing to say as they wait for the ferry. When at last they board, Gregory stands at the bow, his face rigid with shame.
They pass the return journey in awkward silence. Back in Helens- burgh, Gregory mumbles a goodbye and strides away, and Wystan feels every soreness in his body and in his heart. How could he have been so stupid?
He goes straight to his room and writes to Christopher, this being the only thing that will make sense of what has happened.
Chapter twenty-six
Dora
‘Virgil!’ Dora called from the front door to the dog. Let out for his morning pee on to the lawn, he often got lost in some smell or other, taking ages to return. Dora scanned the shadows of the garden for him.
Before coming to Paradise, Dora could not have identified a rhododendron. Now her garden was being swallowed by ponticum, the greedy invader. The hedge at the bottom of the lawn was closing fifteen feet high now, its fronds obscuring the horizon. The fat pink blossoms, which had seemed so exotic when she first saw them, were, she now knew, the hallmark of the feral plant. They indicated that, unchecked, the advance across the garden would proceed at more than a metre a year. More of them, meant to line the lawn, had sprouted into straggly trees, which cast a dead shade over the lawn. All that growth did nothing to screen Dora from the Divines, however; it seems to draw them in closer.
‘Virgil! Come on, boy!’ Dora called again.
Kit was in the kitchen, standing over the paper with a coffee. He was wonderfully rumpled; neither of them could face ironing, and he pulled his shirts out of the tumbler and put them on as they were. The lambswool jumper which Dora had bought him for their first Christmas had developed small holes. They had come to the conclusion that there was some kind of moth infestation in the chest of drawers. But Kit liked the jumper and wore it anyway.
A yelp, and Virgil came belting round the side of the house, tail between his legs. He flew past Dora and cowered in the corner of the kitchen.
‘What the—?’ Dora stepped out into the garden, better to see what had happened. She glimpsed Mo disappearing round the side of the house, clearly on her way back to her staircase. She was fully dressed and carrying a walking stick.
‘What just happened to Virgil?’ Kit had joined her on the door- step. ‘He cries if I touch his side.’
‘It was Mo!’ said Dora. ‘I just saw her with a stick. She must have hit him.’
‘What?’ Kit stepped outside and looked round the deserted garden.
Dora ran back through the house to the kitchen, just in time to see Mo’s feet vanish at the top of the staircase. Triumphantly she returned to the hall. ‘I just saw her go back up. It was her, definitely.’
Kit shook his head and knelt by the dog in the hall, gently stroking his ribs. Virgil had recovered a little and licked his hand, flinching when his side was touched.
‘Poor boy . . . Nothing broken, eh?’ He looked up at Dora. ‘I think, from now on, we’ve got to take him out on a lead for a pee.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He’s going to get himself into trouble if he’s left to his own devices. Do you think he got stuck somewhere?’
Dora stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘I just told you what happened. Mo was out there!’
‘Did you see her hit him?’
‘Well, no . . . but she definitely did something! Can’t you see what she’s doing? Controlling the garden. Trapping me in a smaller and smaller space.’
‘No one can control us, darling. But we do need to be above reproach.’ Kit looked at his watch. ‘Got to go. I won’t be late home.’ He kissed her forehead. Dora accepted the kiss dully, only the white of her knuckles showing the rage which now gripped her.
There was movement upstairs and blurred voices. Terrence’s, for once, had some volume. Perhaps he was questioning Mo.
Kit picked up his briefcase and, with a stroke to Virgil’s head, was gone.
The morning continued to unfold, as every morning did, no matter what happened. Dora was feeding the baby in her arms, rocking her gently near the sitting-room window, while she looked out over the lawn. The rhododendrons were malign in some way, she was sure of it – they were the type of plant to surround a fairytale castle with an impenetrable barrier, while those inside slumbered their lives away, forgotten by the real world.
Virgil wheeled away from the window, where he’d had his paws up on the sill. He had returned to his usual activity of trying to connect the noise from upstairs to something he could see. It was slowly driving him mad that he could not. He trotted to Dora and pressed his nose into her lap, whining.
‘Oh, Virgil, what are we going to do with you?’ she murmured. The dog’s distress was amplifying her own. Not only could he not come to terms with the noise from upstairs, but the procession of cars and strangers passing the windows and ambling down the drive completely confused him. He yapped at anyone who passed the window. In his hopeless way, he was trying to be a guard dog.
There was movement out in the garden: children were running on to the lawn. Dora blinked, wondering if they would disappear when she opened her eyes. They were still there. These must be the children of the Divines’s friends; she had heard their voices and endured their pounding feet on her ceiling, but this was the first time she had seen them in person. Virgil rushed back to the window with an explosion of yapping, like the clashing of bin lids.
The scene on her lawn unfurled like a film with the sound down and her dog’s barks replacing the soundtrack. There were so many children on the grass. Was it all the neighbourhood children as well? Two older girls – one with a cropped T-shirt that revealed her child’s rounded belly, and one with a high ponytail around which was wrapped something like tinsel – started doing cartwheels towards each other. An overweight boy with hair clipped to an army fuzz kicked a football towards them. Behind them were the forms of many more children, climbing the straggly trees. The youngest was a toddler in pink frills and a hairband with bunny ears. She wobbled in the space, sucking her thumb and looking round uneasily. Then she burst into tears and ran off to the side.
What on earth were they doing?
‘Virgil!’ she said sharply, but he ignored her. Dora dragged her- self to her feet and, with the baby in one arm, she grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him away from the window and off to the kitchen, where she locked him in. Returning to her chair, the barks, which were now the grief-stricken cries of an abandoned dog, seared through her bones.
Beatrice resumed drinking from her bottle. Could she feel her mother’s heart pounding right next to her ear? For Dora was in the grip of a physical tumult in response to the sight of the children. Now, they were swarming on to the Lady Maureen, climbing up the sides and hauling each other up and running, squealing, up and down the deck. Then one of them yelled some kind of command and off they poured again, sweeping on to the lawn, filling the air with shrieks. Dora was paralysed: there was nowhere in the house where she could go to escape them. She was pinned to the spot, obliged to watch the children – and a voice in her head reminded her sternly that it is never the fault of the little children – trampling her lawn with complete contempt – although, every child is a child of God and we should be more like the children – how can she blame the children? But she did blame the children! Why did she have to care about the children? They did not care about her.
And that lawn was hers. It was the only space she had to look out at.
It was the only thing on earth that she owned.
Mo lumbered out. ‘Time for a snack, kids!’ she called and turned back with a smile at Dora through the window.
The children scampered down the lawn and round the side of the house and up the staircase, their countless shoes clanging on the metal. Dora paced the sitting room, weeping, scratching again at the skin on her arms. Virgil circled and cried at her feet. He unequivocally concurred that there was danger infusing the very atmosphere. This was corroboration . . . but it was making everything worse, not better. Dora took Beatrice into the master bedroom, whose single window was on the side of the house and offered no view of the lawn. She turned the stereo on loud to drown out the noise from upstairs and danced with the baby. She built a little tower of blocks to entertain her, which Bea toppled with a plump fist, cackling with delight. When it was time for Beatrice’s midday nap, Dora checked the sitting-room windows and saw that all the children and Mo had gone.
She tucked the baby in to sleep and made a proper bed for Virgil in the kitchen. He curled up in the basket and seemed relieved to be shut away from the front of the house. Dora pulled on her boots and went out of the front door. She didn’t know quite what she was going to do, but it was going to be something. She went into the tool shed. As she stepped into its mossy gloom, she felt suddenly very focused. Amongst the tools that she and Kit had accumulated was an old handsaw. Beneath Dora’s finger, the serrations were blunt. She would have had to press very hard to break the skin, and, for a moment or two, she stood fascinated as the little triangle of metal dipped into her fingertip, creating a dimple of pink. It was tempting to stay there and simply press harder, and observe what happened when the blade did break the skin. An hour or two might pass easily that way, and she would find out if she was squeamish or not; this was one of many things she did not know about herself anymore.
Dora carried the saw down the lawn to the hedge at the very end of the front garden. The hedge muffled the sea and obscured everything beyond the garden. She squinted at the branches, a crazed mixture of rhododendron and hawthorn, with trunks some four inches across. Her neck ached as she craned back far enough to see the tops, which leaned over in massive, neglected bulk.
Right in front of her was a rhodie trunk. Dora stuck the saw into a gap next to it and began to pull back and forth. The saw was blunt, but the action nevertheless tore into the bark. Dora’s arms began to ache and it was soon a two-handed job. Cramp invaded her fingers. But she was halfway through the trunk, now, and it creaked and wobbled. Being so close to felling this first trunk gave Dora energy and she sawed harder, sweat breaking out beneath her T-shirt and on her face. When there was just an inch or so left, she grabbed the trunk and pulled it towards her, splintering it from its stump, tearing it free from the hedge with an almighty flurry of leaves.
Light gushed through the gap. The sea was visible, and briny air swept across Dora’s cheeks. For a moment, she forgot her trou- bles as she realised the potential. The hedge was some sixty feet long, with perhaps forty trunks to be sawn. If she did this, and reduced the height to the normal six feet all the way along, they would be able to see out. They would have light. Dora would have a view!
It did not occur to Dora that this was a job of gargantuan pro- portions, one that needed several people, motorised saws and some kind of exit strategy for all the branches. All Dora saw was light. Escape.
She dragged the rhododendron trunk to the middle of the lawn, glancing at the trees lining the drive. If she cut those too, the garden would come alive. They were much bigger, though; they would require her to climb up into their branches like a tree surgeon and slice her way down.
But that was possible. Suddenly, things were possible.
Dora was excited now. She picked up her new friend, the blunt saw, and selected her next target. There were two hours until Beatrice would need to be woken. She paused and strained her ears to hear a cry, but there was nothing. Knowing that the only thing between her and relief was the constraint of her own body galvanised Dora like nothing else.
Glancing up at the house, she saw Mo at the window. The old lady was watching with binoculars. Normally, this would have fright- ened or enraged Dora, but now, strangely, it was encouraging. Dora started on the next branch, and then the next, and in two hours she had cleared fifteen feet, and created an enormous pile of trunks and branches.
Dora’s legs and arms burned with scratches. Leaves and thorns filled her hair. She made the long trek back to the house, forgetting, for once, to check the upstairs window. Beatrice was still deeply asleep, and Dora lifted her warm shape to kiss the little cap on her head. ‘Sorry, my love, for not checking you,’ she whispered. ‘But Mummy has made light in the garden!’ Dora’s skin was smeared with dirt and blood and smelled of the earth. Her baby smelled of sleep and milk. It was a delicious mixture, which suddenly felt right, strong. Dora released Virgil from the kitchen and he followed them to the sitting-room window. She slipped the teat into Bea’s mouth, and, with the dog at her feet, gazed at the rectangle of dazzling light she had made.
A little later, Dora took the baby out to admire her handiwork. Close up, the pile of branches was unbelievable, as if some kind of miracle had taken place and something, someone had been vanquished.
Perhaps some red shoes might be poking out from under the branches. Anything was possible.
Dora and Beatrice were still outside when Kit drove in from work. He saw his wife sitting on the lawn with his daughter, the saw glinting in the sunlight, and he brought the old Volvo to a sharp halt. Clambering out, his gaze travelled from the hole in the hedge, to the massive pile of logs, like a pyre, then to Dora.
‘Oh my God,’ he said.
She would have preferred congratulation, an embrace, some rec- ognition of the superhuman achievement that had taken place in their garden. But, perhaps, if you come home from a normal day at work and find your wife streaked with blood, a saw by her side and the jagged devastation of your garden’s trees, you are more likely to do as he did, which was to approach Dora carefully and say, ‘Is Beatrice all right?’
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And finally…
A duckling having a blissful scratch outside my window….
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