The Essex Serpent(87)

Of course I’ve always been in disgrace with Frankie, but now more than ever. I believe he has seen something in Stella he was always looking for in me, and never found. He respects her! Why wouldn’t he? I don’t know that I ever met a braver being.

And however kindly you write, I often feel I might fall from grace with you. I doubt the wisdom of so much that I have done: letting Luke loose on Joanna – that strange night in June – even having come here at all!

Martha says I’ve been selfish – that I’ve tried to tether everyone to me and not cared what they might have wanted. I said that this is how we all live or else we’d only ever be alone, and she slammed the door so hard she broke a square of glass.

Only Stella seems not to be angry with me. I spent an afternoon with her – did she tell you? – she kissed my hands. I am afraid for her mind – one moment she sinks into despair and the next she seems to have already got her foot in the pearly gates. And such a beauty, Will! I never saw anything like it – with her hair fanned out on the pillow and her eyes blazing I think any painter would run weeping for their brushes. She does not believe the serpent to have been found. She hears it, she says: it whispers, though she doesn’t say what.

Tell me how you are. Do you still wake too early and drink coffee in your dressing-gown before anyone else wakes? Did you ever finish reading that awful novel about Pompeii? Have you seen a kingfisher yet? Do you ever miss Cracknell and wish you could lean on his gate and watch him skin his moles?

Can I see you soon?

Yours,





CORA





Rev. William Ransome

All Saints Rectory

Aldwinter

20th September

Dear Cora –

Stella told me you’d come. I would have known it anyway: who else would spend a small fortune on Harrods sweets? (Thank you, by the way: I’m watching her nibble it now, and I’m glad to see her eat something besides teacups of hot Bovril.)

She’s very taken with Francis. She says they’re soul companions; something to do with her new fad for decking the house with odds and ends. I told her I’m writing you a note and she says can he come and visit again soon, as she has something to tell him? The doctor says while her coughing’s not too bad she can have visitors for a short while.

Did you feel it – the change in the Aldwinter air? I know you’ll have heard how we found that poor dead thing on the shore, and how it woke us all in our beds with its stink. How I wished you’d been there – I remember thinking so at the time – I remember wondering how you could have gone away –

That night it was like May Day and the Harvest Festival come at once. All night they sat out there on the common, singing and dancing with the relief of it. I felt it myself, though I knew there’d been nothing to fear! Poor Evansford looks quite destitute without a day of judgment to look forward to. On Sundays there are a few more bare pews. Well: I don’t grudge anyone a clear conscience.

Even so, it’s hard not to despair. The house seems quiet as a grave. I’ve stopped closing my study door since no-one ever comes in. The children write nearly every day and are coming next week. When I imagine them running up the garden path I want to hang a banner up – I want a gun salute!

Stella’s glad they’re coming, but her heart has moved on. Sometimes she tells me she will live, and says it to console me – then she says it’s eternal life she’s looking for and I think she’s running to the graveyard. I love her. We’ve loved each other so long I’ve never been a man and not loved her. I can no more imagine life without her than without my own limbs. Who will I be if she is gone? If she is not looking at me – will I still be here? Will I look in the mirror one morning and find my reflection gone?

And how can this be true when news of your coming made me happier than I ever had any right to expect?

Every evening at around 6pm I walk west for a while, away from the marsh and the estuary. Even now I almost think my nose will never be rid of that awful stench – I find I prefer to turn my back on the water and go into the woods.

I’d like to see you. Come out with me. You like a walk, don’t you?





WILLIAM RANSOME





5


She waited on the common in her man’s tweed coat, watching all the while for Will. It was too warm an evening for the collar high at the nape of her neck: autumn was as tentative as summer had been mild. But Cora had lately felt uneasy in herself, and not only when remembering the press of Will’s palm on her waist: she wanted to be swathed in heavy clothes, unwomanned by lumpish fabrics and heavy shoes. If Martha had not hidden the scissors she’d’ve done away with her hair, and satisfied herself instead with plaiting it severely from her face like a schoolgirl in the morning.

It had been so long since she’d seen her friend she almost wondered if she’d know him – anxiety at how he might greet her made her mouth run dry. Might he show his sterner side – part chastening, part disappointed? Might he speak warmly, as once he had, or with the diffident manners that chilled her?

The wind blew over the Blackwater and brought with it the scent of salt; in the long grass mushrooms grew and their caps were pearly as oyster-shells. When he came it was silently, as if he’d stolen up like a grinning boy: a light hand touched her arm above the elbow; a voice said, ‘You needn’t’ve dressed up on my account.’ The measured cadence and country slowness on the vowels was so familiar, and so dear, that she could not think why she’d been a little afraid, and spread the skirts of her coat in a curtsey.