The Visitor (31 page)

‘That's a pretty thing to say! And what about you? I know. Your belly's a bag of pilchard tails.'

‘Your blood is salt-water,' he says.

‘And your head's all maps, no wits.'

‘So I've no wits at all?' Nicholas says.

‘None,' she informs him.

‘Well, now that's a blow. I'll have to let the Master know as his figures will be backward.'

‘I expect he already knows and he's keeping you on to be kind.'

‘It's a good job I'll soon be ridding him of the chore then,' he says.

Pearl's skin goes cold. ‘When?'

‘Next week. That's when the
Isabella
's due.'

‘But that's so soon.'

He spreads his hands wide. ‘I can't stay. Not with the way things are. And if I'm going to leave Morlanow I think I might as well cut my losses and go abroad.'

‘What about your parents?'

Nicholas shrugs and sits down, his hands gripping his hair and his knees pulled up to his chest. ‘They'll be glad to see the back of me.'

‘No, surely they won't,' she says.

‘Pearl, how can you not see?' He looks up at her and the frustration is laid bare on his face. ‘The only reason I'm still here is you. My father turned me out last week.'

Pearl's breath comes quicker, rasping. Nicholas hears and comes to her side. He smoothes the stray hairs from her face.

‘Shh, shh. It's all right, limpet-legs.'

But her chest doesn't ease. ‘Why didn't you tell me?' she manages to croak.

‘They didn't want a fuss, people knowing. Especially at chapel. They're hoping I'll leave off defending the east coast men. And besides…' He leans his face close so that she smells the seafront on his clothes, the mustiness of his hair. ‘I didn't want you to fret. I've been sleeping in the Master's hut.' His breath is on her cheek. She feels her hands lifting to his arms. ‘It's cramped but I've been all right,' Nicholas says, his lips hanging close to hers. ‘I think of you.'

They sit together on her shawl and at every point her body is in contact with his her skin sparks.

‘Where will we go?' As she says this she wonders if it even matters. Once they have left Morlanow everywhere will be the same to her: new, and not home.

‘The packet's coming from Naples,' he says. ‘But I'm not sure where she's bound when she leaves here. She's due to unload timber onto the train but no pilchards are ready for her to take back.'

‘Getting on a ship and leaving, it's not the only way,' she says. ‘We could go to Plymouth. Get the train and go over the bridge. That's far enough, isn't it?' She waits for him to say something and when he doesn't she blunders on. ‘Or to Bristol, London even.'

Each is far away but by following a trail of sleepers and puffing steam there's the means to get back. She sees her mother and father waiting at the station, forgiveness in their eyes. She will always be able to come home. She won't go as far away as Polly.

Nicholas takes her hands in his. ‘That map, it's filled my head for too long.'

He looks into her eyes. The train and the station and the list of familiar names on the timetable all blur before her. There is only Nicholas.

Then they are kissing. She's not sure who began it because it has no beginning or end, only stretches on and on into the night. She feels the tip of his tongue flick against her teeth, her tongue. She bites his lip without meaning to but he only kisses her harder. She leans into him and feels the buttons on his shirt press into her chest. She holds his shoulders, his thin, delicate shoulders she has wanted to touch for so long, and then his hands are at her waist. She lies back on the shawl. There are no words between them. She has no words for what is going to happen.

He shifts his weight so that he is above her. She thinks of how it was in the boat, of her fear. She wasn't ready then but tonight is different. She is different. Nicholas puts his hand on her thigh. He squeezes her leg through her skirt but then his fingers rest in the folds of fabric when she wants him to do more, to do something she can't even explain. She has to show him; she rucks up her skirt. The night air is cold on her bare skin. Nicholas' hand slides up the inside of her thigh to the thin cotton of her drawers. She can feel his fingers through the material and wants him so badly to press through it, to touch her.

She pulls off her clothes, feeling the rough weave of the shawl against her, and then helps Nicholas with his. His legs are cold and pale and when he presses himself against her thighs she feels faint. She is frightened and happy at the same time but these feelings are too much for her body. Her hands are trembling. Her chest is hot and tight but she won't tell him to stop. She can't.

He uses his hand first. The pebbles beneath her seem to melt away. The shawl is warm and damp. Then there's pain, as she knew there would be. He wants to stop when she cries out but she won't let him, biting down on the sound until the first hurt has gone. He whispers to her, noises that aren't words but murmurs of care and she thinks that she's making them back to him. The pain ebbs and something takes its place, something stronger, deeper. A motion inside her that she hasn't felt before. Her chest swells with the force, her breath coming in deep pants. The night air is cold in her mouth. Now she doesn't recognise the sounds she's making. They have changed too, into something louder, animal-like. She's shouting and the sea is loud suddenly too. The tide is with them, in them, running its waves over their now hot bodies. They are in the water. They are swimming.

She wishes whole days away. All that matters are the nights. When she gets into bed her body forces her into a doze, worn out with lack of sleep, but it's poor rest. She's only waiting for the scattering of sand against her window.

Thoughts of Nicholas consume her. She's known of people for whom drink has become more holy than the Lord. Mr Tremain for one, his hands unsteady and a furtive, seeking look in his squinting eyes. And there's a worse sin than taking to drink. As she drifts on the edge of sleep a memory plays out before her. Alice was often to be found in the arch beneath the harbour wall, her body reeking of spirits and her skirts all pulled awry. Once, Nicholas nudged the sleeping woman with his boot and was rewarded with a curse. Pearl fled, terrified by Alice's grey lips drawn back across her face and the warm cloying stench of seaweed. She rushed to her mother in the palace, telling her of poor Alice's plight, wisht and alone under the arch. But instead of going to help Alice, her mother and old Mrs Pendeen and Aunt Lilly and all the other women made their hands dance faster through the gurries of pilchards, none lifting their heads to meet Pearl's eye.

*

The dry weather holds. At night she and Nicholas make the most of it, slipping through Morlanow to the hidden places it offers. The far end of the beach below the drying field, Witch Cove's stony shore, and the palace. There are many ways to disappear. The sea hides them too, shielding their nakedness, dampening their voices. They swim until they are out of their depth and can't see the shoreline.

Others will see sin in her meeting Nicholas but there should be no wickedness in loving someone. It's a gift to be able to do so and to be loved back in this way is the greatest blessing she has ever known. Of course God is meant to love her too but His love isn't the same as this. It hasn't been enough.

She knows that she and Nicholas should be married, not for God's approval but in case of a child. She knows that that is what must happen. But Nicholas hasn't said the words and when Pearl hears the sand against her window she has only one thought. When daylight drags them apart once more and tiredness descends, Pearl tells herself that once they are away from Morlanow Nicholas will make it right between them. They can't marry here, that's all.

Nicholas loves her. She's certain. He hasn't said it, in those words, but the look he gives her when she stands before him, her clothes discarded on the ground, tells her that it's true.

The packet from Naples will be on her way. Every breaking wave brings her closer to Morlanow. The village ticks on around Pearl, keeping her locked within its cogs. Still there's washing to be done and the chicken run to be cleaned out. The palace calls her to its empty floors where she joins the other women waiting for the next shoal. There are trips to any patch of ground that might harbour an overlooked potato or turnip. Sluggishness and hunger dog her. Invisible pressing stones weigh on her shoulders. Day follows day, each bleeding into one great stretch of tired longing.

Morlanow fixes its eyes on the sea, desperate for a blush to appear beneath the surface. The season is drawing to a close and many bussa jars hold only dust. But all that can be seen from the huer's hut are the sails of east coast boats coming in to unload their varied summer trawl. No one notices where Pearl's gaze lingers.

Her mother and father fret at her lack of colour and the heavy shadows beneath her eyes. They are forever whispering when she leaves the room.

‘Have you a pain, my sweet?' her mother asks as she and Pearl draw water from the pump.

There are grimed channels of sweat on Pearl's arms. The sun's brighter than her eyes can stand. She bats away a fly and doesn't answer. How can she explain the ache inside her? It's a kind of pain but one that carves her up so wonderfully.

Her mother stops working the pump handle and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘It's the lack of good food on your plate, I shouldn't wonder. My poor girl. We have to think ahead, to have you settled in a home of your own.' She puts her hand on Pearl's check.

Pearl pulls her head away sharply. ‘Love isn't the same as food,' she says. ‘I can starve two ways.'

She can't bear to look at her mother holding her arms out, her mouth jibbering its confusion. Pearl drags the pump handle. Her mother picks up the bucket they have already filled and sways awkwardly back to the house. The heat resettles in her wake.

Jack is everywhere. Even when Pearl can't see him she feels he is close. His step is the gull suddenly taking to the air. His eyes are the lights in the huer's hut. Only when Nicholas wraps his arms around her does the sense of Jack's presence disappear.

At chapel there is no escape.

Her mother takes her arm. ‘Why don't you sit here?' she says to Pearl. Pearl doesn't have the energy to protest. She lets herself be steered so that her parents are on the outside of the bench and she's closest to the middle of the building. What does it matter where her body rests? Her mind is far away from here, with Nicholas, in the closeness of the dark.

A stiff hat is placed on the bench next to her. Jack sits down. He nods to both her parents who beam back at him. He looks at Pearl for a long moment without speaking. His sunburnt skin is angrier than usual, from shaving, and a lick of hair sticks out behind his ear. He has cut it himself. Pearl imagines him struggling in front of the mirror, trying to do a good job and more than likely getting in a rage.

She tries to gauge what he's thinking but can read nothing in his pale blue eyes. He simply stares. She shivers against his look. Jack lowers his head as if in prayer. ‘Feeling cold, Pearl? You need a decent hearth to sit by. My father's not long for this world. When he passes over, the house will be mine. It's not much but it could be yours, too.'

She matches his whisper but makes sure her voice is light, whimsical. He can't think she's taking any of this seriously. She can't let him entertain the idea. ‘You shouldn't wish such a thing for you father,' she says. ‘And what about Alice and Samuel? They're your family too.'

Jack presses his hands on the back of the pew in front of them, staring hard at his stretched fingers. ‘They're not family. And they're not worth your care. Neither is Nicholas. He can't look after you right. Can't provide for you.'

‘I don't know what you mean,' she says. Though she keeps her gaze on the preacher arranging his papers at the front of chapel she's aware of her mother's face angled towards her, trying to hear their conversation. Her father is pretending to study his hymn book. Pearl tries to move away from Jack but her mother stiffens next to her and elbows Pearl closer to him.

‘There are things you don't know,' Jack hisses. ‘I'm trying to protect you.' He glances at her mother and father. ‘We all are.'

‘I don't want any part of your stirring, this trying to cause a row,' she says.

As he tries to hold her hand the organ shrieks into life and the congregation gets to its feet. Pearl folds her arms across her chest. Jack's mouth pours forth the glory of God and Pearl struggles to steady her breathing. The singing packs together into one great wail, banging against the blood that throbs in her ears. She can't make out any words. This is the sound of the fallen, not the saved.

Despite the morning's promise of sun, little light has found its way into chapel. The Minister speaks but his words possess no truth for her. They are as bare as the palace floor. His voice is broken by shuffling as people rise to sing and then fold their knees to pray. Up and down, up and down goes the sea of bobbing heads. She will leave it all behind. She must. Nicholas is right. A prayer of wickedness tramples through her head.
Let the packet come. Let the packet come
.