Rawblood Page 11

  He shrugged, and seemed to wish to speak again, but thought better of it, slung my cabbages down from Sadie, and bade me a friendly good night. As they went round the hill Robert was laughing. It sounded evil to my ear.

  I went down towards Rawblood, eager, the cabbages jostling in my arms. I had received from this encounter a renewed energy, and consciousness of the necessity of what we did here. There was much work awaiting me and I went to it gladly.

  LATER

  At dinner (pickled onions, pickled gherkins, dried apricots – not good – and a duck, roasted with a ravigote sauce – very good) I told Alonso of my meeting, in full unvarnished detail. He whistled a quick indrawn breath and said, ‘I had not thought to trouble you with this. It presents a strange appearance, I know, and locally my credit has suffered.’

  ‘You may confide in me with perfect confidence,’ I cried. ‘I sent the fellow about his business, you may be sure – do not fear that I will be taken with his fancies!’ Alonso’s pain roused in me much fellow feeling.

  ‘Well, I will, it’s quickly told: the Mystery of the Rawblood Ghost. Not an edifying tale, I fear. It began shortly after my return. There was some murmuring amongst the servants. A footman had woken in the night, and found that he could not breathe, due to a hand over his mouth. Mrs Hitchens saw something in the pantry. I know not what, but she broke a row of preserves.

  ‘As the days went on matters worsened – there were cries and running in the night, and the servants were heavy-eyed by day. They trembled at the approach of dark. So I took steps to nip it in the bud. I brought the Reverend in from Honiton. I thought, What harm can come of it? And perhaps it will sufficiently allay their fears. He visited the place, threw water about with a fine disregard for my curtains; mumbled some cant words; declared it clean; and left.

  ‘I was wrong. It was a great error. For it lent credence to their fear – by taking counteractive measures I had approved the existence of it, do you see?

  ‘That very night one of the housemaids ran from the house, with a deal of noise. She said that a person had been in her chamber. Well, it may have been so; she was well looking, and I suspect that—anyhow. The household turned out, naturally, myself included – such a brouhaha! She stood on the lawn – and perhaps there was some congenital disease in her family, or something had happened to disturb her modesty, or – I know not, but there was a gashly white in her face, and her eyes started from their sockets so that she rolled her eyes like a spaniel. We stood about her, in a circle of nightcaps and shawls, and she in the centre like a sacrifice, her hair down her back, and face turned towards the moon, her mouth agape – uttering that frightful noise.’

  My friend paused here, and I could see the movement of feeling across the hollow mask of his face. He went on: ‘Nothing could persuade her to come in, or to stop her moaning. And yes, the night was cold, and she took ill from it. I think her wits wandered a little from the fever, for she spoke after in a child’s voice – a high reedy tone that quite chilled the heart – her mind was overthrown. All she would talk of was the … person in her room. Pale, she said, and with eyes like … Anyhow.’ He shook himself. ‘No, it was not a salubrious or pleasing occurrence, to happen in one’s house! I sent her to Exeter, to Everett’s house there – you understand me.’

  I did; it is an asylum that Everett presides over. I nodded a little without expression, to show him my faith in his judgement, and that he might continue without recrimination from me.

  ‘And,’ he said, ‘it was not taken kindly by the other servants; they would not then stay. They began to speak of the past happenings in this house, all those years ago … The “apparition” that was seen then. The Rawblood Ghost then came into being, in their minds. A white figure, a cold woman who haunts the generations of Villarcas at Rawblood and tears the life from them …

  ‘Charles, it gave me such pain. That the tragedy which took my mother and my father was to be revived; that they were to appropriate my real loss to construct such nonsense, to feed their superstition – it was intolerable. I let them go, and gladly. That those I had counted my friends, who I had known since I was born, would make such a scandal, which they knew must cause me grief … It cut me to the quick. I was angry. I have lived all my life with that horror close behind me—’

  I caught his hand in mine and said, ‘I know.’

  ‘I had not shared this incident with you,’ he said, ‘for it shames me to think on it, that I pandered so – there is no better word! – to their ignorance. And worse, with no result. Is it never to be done, Charles? Never?’

  I put my arm about him. He shed a tear, like an ashamed child. It is most unnerving to see Alonso thus; it is like seeing a mountain or a tree cry.

  ‘And this is why,’ I said, ‘you would have me swear not to bring any soul near the house.’

  ‘I will not give them more fodder.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I am so sorry for your trouble, my friend. Does Shakes not subscribe to this local antipathy? Does he not fear the spectre?’

  ‘No,’ said Alonso, thoughtful. ‘He does not. It would not surprise me to find that he is immune from such things. I find it credible that Shakes defies all natural laws.’

  I laughed heartily, and raised my glass to him. ‘Well. I like the way we go on here! I can almost thank the Rawblood Ghost for introducing me to so delightful a style of living.’ I waved an apricot at him. ‘I only regret that I should have given Gilmore such a trimming. If he tells of it, it will lend weight to the tale. I fear I have given him more matter for gossip. It comes of the strange thoughts that have set upon me – I have been meditating too much on the past. My own, ours, what memory lies in the earth, and the house; I know not why, it is in my mind.’

  ‘Mine, also – I think that in trying to turn the course of knowledge – to dam a little here, to dig a trench there, to try to turn that great wide river even a little in its relentless flow – a man becomes aware of his place in the world; of what he will leave behind, and what came before him. We are turning metaphysical, Charles.’

  I protested, and thinking to turn the conversation into easier matter, said, ‘But the history of the Villarcas, and your esteemed parents – why, I confess, that does seem to me romance of the best kind, meaning it happened here, in the world, between two people, and not between the pages of some novel.’

  ‘The best, you say? Do you believe that, my friend, with all that ensued? For myself, I will remain a bachelor as long as I may.’

  His temper has not improved over the days. When I had proposed that a housekeeper from Taunton or Exeter could be hired, who might not share the local prejudices, his decided negative was close to violence. His curses, delivered to a young woman who had come to the back door peddling her hedgerow blackberries, were something to hear. If I had not that day determined the source of my ‘face’ at the window I should have come to know shortly after, by his discourse and his actions, that no flesh and blood woman could be in the house. He is in deadly earnest: none but us three shall come near Rawblood.

  Though he works as ever with the precision and constancy of an engine, this work takes everything from him. Alonso looks – if I may say so – haunted. His face, as I have said, is a Pompeii; his eyes are filmed over in recent days with some care or feeling which I cannot fathom.

  And yet, and yet … despite this it seems to me that his cheek has a hint of colour, which it did not have when I arrived. And the lines of his face are carved a little less deep. Does he look somewhat improved? Somewhat … younger? I will wait to remark upon it, for I do not wish to torture him with my wishful thinking.

  Turning his abrupt gaze on me, Alonso said now, ‘Gilmore has a short memory, for my mother’s family, the Hopewells, were here before the Dempseys … They lost the house but the Villarcas got it back. Now, tell me, do you not think her a fine figure?’

  Puzzled by this erratic speech, I said that I could not venture an opinion, since surely …

  �
�Charles! Tell me, you need not spare my feelings. Do you not admire her looks?’

  I began to feel alarm, observing the level of the decanter.

  ‘I am sure she was the best of ladies,’ I said. ‘But she has passed to a better place than this, and perhaps you should reserve discussion of her for a time when the port is not on the table.’

  ‘Port be d--ned. You are unobservant. Truly, have you not noticed that she dines with us every night?’ This said with a peculiar teasing note which I recalled from the old days; with it came the recollection of how detestable my friend could be when in this mood.

  I said, ‘I am not here for you to make game of me. I do not care for such jokes, and I am persuaded that after reflection you will be sorry that you were tempted to speak thus, and glad that I would not encourage it.’

  ‘I make only a little game of you, Charles. For I meant only to show you … There she is, you know. I had her put there, so that we may sit together.’ He pointed behind him.

  I have never had occasion to notice this painting in particular. I doubt I could have described any painting in this house, or any work of art in any house at all, although I must have encountered them. I am not one for the Arts, and fol de rols, and things of that sort. Music is but an indifferent sound to my ear – I cannot for the life of me distinguish the tuneful from the discordant; the beauty of dance leaves me unmoved. But looking on it – there is something of life that has been lent to this assemblage of canvas and oil.

  The background is dark, suggesting a long bleak landscape, but there is a light in the sky, as if behind the hill the sun was setting, or a great fire burned. A cave draws the eye over her left shoulder, with a strange altar visible within, and heathenish markings along its walls, which are obscured by blackening and charring. If there was a fire, the viewer knows that it happened long ago. In the foreground is the central figure, the subject of the portrait.

  She is a woman entering the middle years, and no attempt has been made to hide the marks those years have placed on her. The skin is white, and bears the pallor of invalidism. And yet there is a determination and vitality about her; she sits as if she had paused for one moment only in the frame, to indulge the painter. The hair is dressed in the absurd, flamboyant style of forty years ago, but it has lustre, and movement; a curl which lies on her shoulder looks as if it might be shaken any minute by a stray breeze. The eyes are blue, and large, and stare from the frame. A hand is raised, as if in admonition. A ring gleams there, red and white. It is the ring which now sits on Alonso’s little finger.

  How odd that a series of marks on a canvas can, seen at a distance, convey so much character, and feeling! I think her a fine figure but I would not want her for my wife: she does not look like a biddable woman. I said so, and Alonso was amused. I left him, as I do each night, sitting before the fire, with a glass by him. I wonder, when does he take his rest? For he seems to be abroad at all times – I have seen him strolling on the lawn under the stars at ungodly hours; I have seen him coming out of the dawn, from the moor, when I am only yawning, and rubbing the dust from my eye.

  He renewed his offer of laudanum, to aid my rest: but my day of exercise had tired me sufficiently for sleep of the soundest kind. I assured him somewhat testily that I would do well enough without it, and was presently gratified by drifting comfortably into slumber, thinking of Mary Villarca’s pale skin.

  My sleep was troubled, a little: I dreamt that Alonso leant over me. He cradled my head, and poured some liquid into my mouth – when I protested he hushed me, and fed me from the cup, and gazed on into the distance. I was swept into dark folds of cloth like swaddling and could not speak. Presently his form receded through arches of blue light, thrown sharp and thin against the black night – and I saw, weeping, that he was gone into the cathedral without me. I was left outside, surrounded by a high and sonorous song, like the hum of tender bees.

  In haste, late at night

  There is someone here. They are behind the door. I hear them. Someone watches my sleep.

  8 OCTOBER

  The Materia Medica cannot hold me. I have put down Darwin’s latest offering. The work is entitled The Formation of Vegetable Mould, through the Action of Worms; so I do not think I can be blamed for this action. But it is not the book which is at fault. I regret to say I threw what purported to be the latest ‘novel’ across the room this afternoon: some immoral French thing about theatres and fallen women. That is the sort of nonsense which Alonso is fond of. Not I. But then nothing pleases me today. I am suffering somewhat. I have become a drunkard. I have no recollection, for instance, of that crazily scrawled line – I will not call it an entry – of last night. Who did I believe watched me? Anyhow my mood is not aided by the communication received today via post.

  The letter is short, but to the point. In broad terms it is laid out that my sister Meg is ungovernable, and that Mr Bantry will not keep her.

  I do not understand women. How is it not borne upon this girl, my sister, that it is my sole support, and the Christian spirit in these people, the Bantrys, that prevents her being indigent, and thrust upon the world with nothing but what she stands up in? Mrs Bantry suggests that I come to visit, that perhaps my influence will sway her. I am puzzled how to answer her. It is hard, she says, that the girl has no mother and no father. Her mind lacks firmness, as a result. She is led easily astray. There are hints of moral turpitude. She would benefit from the guidance of a brother. I will never return to That Place save perhaps in my coffin, and I hope to avoid it even in that circumstance. Those terrible hills. Bury me anywhere, I say, but there.

  My father hanged himself before Meg was born. My mother died as she came into the world – an unlucky, red-headed infant. I have said that I would keep her – and I do. I send money that she may live on eggs and cream and not trouble me. Yet trouble me she does.

  In times past, Meg would write. She must have been small, then. (How did she find the money for a frank? Did she steal it? I am in despair.) It was hard to know how to answer those childish scrawls. They were disturbing, to say the least. There was always some ludicrous grievance, some allegation of mistreatment, some fantasy of persecution … Hysterical, deserving no reply, and I have enough to do, God knows. At some juncture in the passing of the years, her letters stopped. Sadly there seems to be no improvement in her conduct.

  What can be done? Am I to bring Meg to share the hospitality of Mrs Healey? Predisposed as she seems to be to vice, am I to leave her to her own devices, with the City of London at her feet? What will she do while I work? Perhaps darn my linen or polish my boots! No, I think not.

  These are not matters to be addressed in a letter to a farmer and his wife. I need only think of them bringing the letter down to the curate to be read, and dictating their reply to his curious ears … I think Meg must be married. It is much the best thing. I must put it aside, for now. The money has been sent this month. Mrs Bantry will not turn the girl out of doors.

  I have put so many miles and years between myself and That Place. I wish it would not dog my footsteps.

  ‘He that, being often reproved, hardeneth his neck, shall he suddenly destroyed, and that without remedy.’

  Proverbs 29:1

  9 OCTOBER

  It was my usual torment.

  I was on the sea. I floated on the great, deep expanse. I was small and alone. The great shape travelled below me in the dark. There was no help. I was to be dragged down in the vastness by the monster. In the glassy swell I kicked my feeble legs.

  Its ancient pointed head broke the surface beside me. The beast reared. The teeth were white, were razors. The throat was deep. Its eye was black and dead. It snapped. CRACK went its jaws as they closed. The spray flew. Great bloody gums. It disappeared into the foam. It swam beneath me in muscular circles, coming closer with each turn.

  It reared up beside me in a wall of spume; it snapped. CRACK, CRACK. Then it was gone again. I swallowed mouthfuls of the cold salt water. The great lonely
miles of ocean were all about me and below. I paddled, desperate. Beneath the surface, great jaws fastened about my leg.

  I woke.

  The fearful noise went on without respite – CRACK, CRACK! Part held by the dream, and with limbs too new to serve me, I shuddered under the sounds, which, with maddening slowness, became intelligible: I was awake, and in Rawblood, and there was some person or other below, at the front door.

  There are some dreams which act upon a man like excessive exercise: his body and his mind are cudgelled about by them, and he awakes to the day more exhausted than when he lay himself down. Such was my state.

  So I took too long to descend. I paused for the things which one must do in the morning. I should not have. Some time during my mindless ablutions the incessant beating stopped – I was glad of it. I presently made my weary way towards the front door. As a doctor one’s being and mind are attuned to answer summons, to attend to urgency. Here is a truth I have discovered through years of practice. Such is the volatility of man that when order is disturbed, when there occurs an unlooked for event, sooner, or later, but with due inevitability, a doctor will be needed. We are the constant remedy to all emergencies.

  I was shuffling my way towards the stairs when a sound rent the air like a knife. The howling of a broken-legged horse? The shriek of a steam engine? I could not say. My body was as weak as an Italian noodle, my eyes resembled badly opened oysters, and my mind was far from acute; neither seemed more or less likely than the other.

  In the dim hall the front door was a flaming arch of daylight – against it stood two black figures. They wrestled strangely, swaying to and fro in a dance. One of them was a curious shape, misshapen like a snake that has eaten. This rotund figure shrieked, and the other raised its arms against the noise in defence or in supplication. I ran towards the light.

  In his arms Henry Gilmore bore a child, whose pale face was dominated by black, dilated eyes. The face was swollen, and the tongue rolled crazily from the lips. It took me some time to recognise the plump Robert; he now bore witness to some scene invisible to us, and cried out at it; the source of that piercing note became apparent, emerging unreal from the small mouth. Alonso leant against the jamb, his arms held stiff before him, warding himself from the small bundle.