The Last Pier Part 38

Maybe the time had come to drop a million propaganda leaflets to the German people in a confetti war.

Neither the doctor, nor Agnes, nor Cook, nor Kitty, nor even Selwyn in his unopened letters from jail mentioned Lucio Molinello.

This was because: The doctor had not heard The Story.

Agnes was too far inside a different world.

Selwyn had no knowledge of anything outside the prison walls.

Cook had forgotten all about it.

And Cecily, the Champion of Overheard Things, was too far away and too removed to question this aberration.

Suggesting that the only kind of significant Bliss was the one called Ignorance.

I WAS A FOOL to have come, thought Cecily, grief exploding again and again. What good is there in remembering? Pouring herself a gla.s.s of water, her clothes now dry, she went outside again. The pale after-rain sun slipped behind a cloud as the watcher who had observed her so patiently walked up to the house. In the dampness of the late afternoon he had an air of mourning. The day, having stolen his shadow, was now shaking him with its avalanche of memories. He hesitated, his hand hovering on the lock. Then, making up his mind, the watcher turned from the house and followed Cecily, instead.

Having found the spot where history lay in rotting boxes, Cecily did not know what came next. She had brought no flowers. What use were flowers to the dead? She'd never given them flowers in life, why start now? Nor was she the sort to clear the ground of weeds and rubbish. All around she noticed newer graves crowned by newer, garish offerings, resting on the mounds of freshly turned earth. At least two centuries lay sleeping in the churchyard.

In Loving Memory. What did you write if your memory wasn't loving? Or not even a proper memory?

In Confused Memory?

Or In Small Fragments of Memory?

Perhaps.

Agnes had wanted her daughter buried in the grounds of St. Mary's Church. She had married Selwyn there and now she wanted G.o.d to witness what happened to the union he had blessed. In the graveyard, two yew trees of enormous height bent towards each other sharing gossip. They were well fed from the ground and watered by constant marshland rains. A few roses grew indifferently for the harsh winds had destroyed most of their flush.

Lying against the wall was a memorial plaque dedicated to all who had fallen in the war. Cecily saw Joe's name in gold letters.

Joe.

Representing the Maudsleys.

Joe, husband of Franca for only three weeks. Arriving on leave, blown to smithereens in Dunkirk afterwards.

There was no one about. Neglect flourished around the yews. Rain was threatening once again and summer seemed to have fled. She went inside the church. The watching stranger followed slowly behind. Once, a century before, a similar church had stood further up the coast. But bit by bit the sea had claimed it for its own and now all that was left were fifty-two bells beneath the waves. St Mary's of Bly had been built in a similar style, pebble by skilful pebble, in the hope that memory at least would not die. One day, many years hence, Britannia would again be forced to admit defeat and leave the sea to its own destructive devices. And this beautiful land, with its Martello towers and hidden underground bunkers built to look like paG.o.das, would lie in neglected sea-rot.

In the church the light stained by gla.s.s fell on the high altar, while fresh flowers left traces from another, more recent summer funeral. A box for offerings stood empty beside a few flickering candles. A font devoid of water waited to be blessed. There was no one sitting on the polished pews but Christ was ever present. In wood and gold if not in flesh. His mother, her blue sash represented by a flick of paint, carried an image of her son. Both mother and child stared at Cecily with mild curiosity in their eyes.

'At the heart of my life,' the Mother of G.o.d told Cecily, speaking directly to her 'is a murder. There's no getting away from it.'

Cecily noticed the statue spoke with an Italian accent.

'They tell the story, everywhere,' the voice confided. 'All over the world. Though not always from my perspective.'

She laughed. Cecily had never heard a statue laugh before. It was, in a sense, a cynical laugh. There was a pause during which the tide rolled away. Cecily saw there were painted pearls in the statue's eyes.

The candle flickered. Cecily sat on the second pew. Just as she once had. Other ghosts came and joined her, sitting quietly in twos and threes.

They were wearing old-fashioned clothes, smelling of camphor, their faces bathed in sepia light.

'We don't belong in this place any more,' they whispered. 'The lifespan of our story is over. Forget us!'

Cecily looked up at the wooden rafters where twenty-nine years ago voices had been raised in song.

'The first sorrow that has come to our land,' the vicar had said.

In spite of himself he had given Cecily a look. Pure evil, he had admitted to Aunt Kitty later. Cecily knew, she had overheard.

The rafters looked down at her, now. They reported that a sh.e.l.l fired immediately before the Blitz had just missed striking the spire. Something good happened, then.

The Mother of G.o.d, ignoring all the ghosts, told Cecily that repet.i.tion was the essence of storytelling. No matter how many retellings, it would never lose its power.

'Love,' she said, with certainty, 'has an eternal flame.'

Holding her son, watching him, powerless to change the narratives other people attributed to him, he remained, nevertheless, her story, she continued. Growing, leaving, going his own way, like an adolescent, misinterpreted, given speech bubbles to suit the whims of other men, still he had remained her son until the end. Entranced, Cecily listened.

From somewhere the scent of frankincense interrupted the smell of the sea.

Then, unexpectedly, sitting in the church now filled with light, Cecily became acutely aware of another presence behind her. Human, not celestial; flesh not spirit. She heard footsteps on tiles and the creaking of the pew behind her. She had a sudden clear insight but dared not turn round. Her face flushed delicately. My G.o.d, she thought, swallowing her fear, not knowing what she should do. She was frightened in case she had got it wrong. So she stared unblinkingly at the candle flame, its centre as blue as a pair of eyes from long ago.

Can love mutate, she asked herself? Was it wrong if it did? Was it wrong to look for love amongst the ashes? She was that dreadful thing, a rich woman unable to gather moss.

Sitting in the second pew in the church beside the sea these twenty-nine long years later, she remembered all of this as though it were unsteady footage shot with a hand-held camera.

A moving picture on old 35mm film. In vivid colour. Accidentally tinted in a piercing, acid blue.

Blue.

Blue like her sister's eyes.

Blue like the room in which her father had bedded her mother.

Blue like all the bluebirds Cecily had never seen.

The Mother of G.o.d watched Cecily as she sat on the second pew. She could not offer any comfort because she was stuck on her pedestal and could not move. She was a handicapped Mother, flawed like all mothers, everywhere.

Behind her, Cecily felt rather than saw the stranger move slightly. Her heart missed a beat and her hands began to shake. She was certain she knew who it was. But why was he here? Had he followed her across the beach? The heat that had started up on her face now increased. She was too petrified to move in case the sea had finally arrived to drown her.

There was nothing else for it.

Plucking up courage, Cecily turned and saw who it was that waited so patiently for her.

It was Carlo!

As still as a waterbird at rest.

Something caught in Cecily's throat, something else stole her voice.

She felt faint.

Why was he here? How had he found her?

And the sky outside turned a delicate blue like a curlew's egg in spring.

There were now two candles in the rack.

Dripping wax, like tears.

Cecily and Carlo stood staring at them. Anything was better than looking at each other.

The Curate walked in smiling bland words of welcome.

'Are you from this parish?' he asked and when they didn't answer, added, 'Welcome, anyway. The church is always open.'

The Curate knew the telltale signs of pain even when it was well hidden. He kept a slight smile on his face. Business as usual, it seemed to say.

Cecily and Carlo were silent. Then, without a word they turned as one and walked down the aisle. Towards the open door and the sea where a squadron of seagulls, white against the tender summer air, docked, all together, near a fishing boat. And where the remains of a tattered pier could still be seen faintly in the distance, still standing, though only just, on jauntily corroded legs.

HISTORY HAD RETURNED when it was least expected, showing a gentler side. Mellowed over time, it was preparing to tell its tale. Cecily looked at Carlo and looked away, again. What she saw had the force to drown her.

Carlo was wearing dark gla.s.ses even though there was hardly any sun. Together they walked without a word towards Palmyra House. Cecily tall and willowy, wearing a violet cardigan that unintentionally matched the colour of her almond-shaped eyes, and a primrose yellow dress, a shade she had always loved. Her face was pale, her dimple deep even in repose, her mouth soft and vulnerable. Carlo saw all of this only dimly. She saw he carried the white stick of the partially sighted. But, perhaps because of the faintness of his vision, what little he did see struck him even more forcefully. Cecily had grown up.

It was soft weather with the quality of a hallucination. Cecily brought herself back across decades. When she smiled at him he was dazzled. Light and shadow raced across the land. Neither spoke but they walked side by side along the footpath towards the house. Cecily did not help him. Carlo seemed to know by touch every b.u.mp in the rough ground. Questions he had asked himself for years were surfacing and clamouring to be asked while conversely, she had become tongue-tied.

They were back, both of them; and the year was 1939, again.

All across Europe uniformed soldiers marched to the rhythm of an old terror. The dead piled high, naked, shoeless, armless. And one wantonly bombarded town was no different from another unless their individual stories were told.

What Lucio had wanted more than anything else was to take Agnes away with him to Bratto, to his old home, to the woods and valleys of his childhood. To show her his wife's grave in the little churchyard behind the church, the same one where Lucio had been christened. To show her his mother's testaroli oven and the fire made of chestnut wood. But history would decide what could and could not be done. History was the pulse that beat on the earth's surface. This is what he had told Carlo.

They had heard the rumours of what was being done to foreign nationals. Germans, Austrians, Jews, even. It was said that a camp was being set up to house them. In a few weeks, Lucio's contacts had warned, an exodus would begin. The men in the War Cabinet were panicking. Not knowing what to make of these rumours, Lucio trusted no one.

'You must be very careful,' he told Carlo. 'You are the one who will have to look after the others if anything were to happen to me.'

War had only just been declared, his uncle was a reckless man. Carlo feared he was walking into danger. And the look on Lucio's face as he hurried out was worrying.

Which was why Carlo had followed him that night.

Something moved in the trees. One small animal stalking another.

Lucio hadn't gone to Palmyra House. He changed his mind, decided to let Agnes sleep. It was late and the younger children were in the house with her. Tonight was her first night without her son. Only sleep would help. So Lucio decided to swim in the river instead. He had no idea that Carlo was following him.

There was an icy current in the river. All other sounds were obliterated beneath the water.

The sound of explosives.

The sound of police cars screeching.

And ambulances bringing stretchers for the dead.

Lucio swam, leaving no ripples. He felt as though a thousand ancient eyes watched him as he went across to the other bank. He held his clothes above his head to keep them dry, the coolness of the water and the river tiredness in his muscles made him unaccountably happy. In the darkness a smile drenched his face. It will be all right, he told himself. The war will pa.s.s, all that is needed is patience.

Breaking off his story, Carlo began to sing the words of an old song they used to sing as children. Listening, Cecily felt nailed to the spot.

Try to remember the kind of September When gra.s.s was green and corn was yellow Try to remember when life was so tender that Love was an ember about to billow.

It was chance that made Carlo see Selwyn cycling towards the Ness but it was curiosity that made him leave his uncle swimming happily in the river and follow Selwyn instead. To Carlo, Selwyn had always been a slight enigma. Even when they had played against each other at the tennis match, Carlo had no sense of the man. In this time of danger, Carlo felt he should heed his uncle's words more urgently.

Investigate everything, trust no one.

There was something strange in the way Selwyn, throwing his bicycle in the gra.s.s, broke into a run.

'I was a little like you, in those days, Cecci,' Carlo said.

The old familiar name rocked gently between them.

The tide was going out. Neither Selwyn, nor Carlo following behind, needed a boat to cross to the Ness. There was a small underground alcove at the jetty used once as a storage place by local fisherman to keep their tackle. The council had had plans to clear it out but the war had made them forget. Selwyn waded to the island. From the sea end of the Ness it was possible to see the faint outline of the Martello tower in the distance and also the town's car park. But for that and the white foam of the sea, empty now of ships, there was nothing.

Carlo heard the piercing whistle of a curlew across the marshes.

It was the way, crouching in the shadows, he saw what happened next. He saw Selwyn open the door of the storage s.p.a.ce as if there were no time to lose. He saw him search frantically until he had found what he wanted. Carlo was puzzled.

Selwyn turned his torch off and hurried out in the direction of the old wooden pier. Carlo waited. In the barely discernable gloom the structure was a sad sight. A dark, broken place next to a dark, abandoned place full of wind, bones and sighs. Selwyn crossed to the furthest end of what was grandly called the promenade. There was an old boat with oars beached behind the barbed wire. There were notices everywhere full of warnings.

Beware Of Rotting Boards, Keep Out, Exposed Wires.

Selwyn walked under the wire and stood looking at the boarded-up building.

Walking back towards Palmyra House, twenty-nine years later, this is what Carlo told Cecily.