48
On the 3rd of July, my father and I, together with the Carmichaels, set off on an excursion to Margate Sands. We travelled first class on the train. I sat by the window, and while Rachel was the furthest away from me, I was attuned to her voice, detailing her patient and sweet manner, as she supervised Eleanor’s needlework. It was almost painful, the intensity of this sinful thrill in my blood.
The guilt was accentuated by the concert my father had taken me to the previous evening, where I had heard Beethoven for the first time. I had expected his ninth symphony to be as polite as the hymns we heard in church, and so the rousing torrent of music – being dashed from calm to storm and storm to calm – had astonished me. Several times, I had glanced up at my father to make sure he had brought me to the right concert hall, amazed that I should be permitted to experience such emotion; but his eyes remained fixed on the orchestra, his jaw fierce; and in the finale, as the choir stood and sang from the depths of their souls, I clenched my fists to fight the tears in my throat. Was it a blasphemy that no hymn in church had given me faith in God the way this music had? Surely it was not: for music of such truth, such beauty could not exist unless there is divinity in the world. As though to assuage these concerns, God had opened his book and concocted this 49visit to the seaside, for which my gratitude was a sweet ache.
There were sighs and shivers when we stepped out on to the platform. Back in Oxford the sky had stretched out like a big billowing blue sail, from which a benignant sun had shone down; here the sky looked as though it was in a most foul temper. The foaming waves seemed to toss forth gusts of icy chill. On the beach, we huddled together beneath several parasols, sharing round pies, lemonade and sandwiches thick with roast beef and Worcestershire sauce. I thought the food was delicious but I noticed that Rachel treated it as though she was a despondent bird: every mouthful was picked apart into crumbs, before finally being surrendered to her mouth. An ache spread through me; I longed to fill her with such a happiness that she would treat every meal like a joyful feast.
A shrill wind slipped under our skin and whistled through our blood as Father guided us children on a brisk walk to the rock pools to search for fossils. They glimmered with scuttling curiosities; upon being the first to discover one, Eleanor let out a cry. Observing that Rachel had wandered away from our party, I stole over to the larger rocks – and there I found her, weeping vehemently.
I felt frightened then, though Father had told me that women cry very often, prompted by little reason. Kneeling down beside her, I dared to reach out and touch her hair, the way that Father consoled me when I fell and cut my knees. She emitted a sigh. When I curled my hand away, she smiled through her tears and whispered a request for me to continue; we sat in this pose for a while and I kept on stroking the same place, until it felt quite warm. 50
A most curious sensation of déjà vu came over me. I imagined that we had spoken together like this before, while strolling across a wide green park, beneath a row of thick-leafed oak trees. Rachel’s expression then was morbid, but when I nudged her and pointed out a fairground on the horizon, a flicker of delight passed over her face, as though reminding her that happiness was possible.
Finally, she spoke:
‘Do you ever feel as though you are living in the wrong century? As though you were born at the wrong time?’
I immediately felt lost; then I considered a book that Father had recently shown me, which included some cave paintings. ‘Well, I suppose it must have been jolly fun to have a spear and hunt animals …’
She frowned.
‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘You are so natural in this world. Perhaps it is because you are a man in a man’s world.’
‘We are in God’s world,’ I corrected her gently. ‘But I don’t think he’s being very fair or kind to certain people—’ I broke off, muttering a silent apology for any possible blasphemy.
‘Perhaps God is punishing me,’ she said, sluicing sand through her fingers.
‘If you went to confession, then perhaps you might feel better,’ I said. ‘In the Bible, you know, many of God’s Chosen Ones heard voices. Moses did, and Cain. And Elijah too.’
She gave me a sharp look, clearly furious that her secret was so well known, and then wept a fresh bout of tears.
‘Oh God – I do hate to cry … As it happens, I heard the Voice this morning. He said to me, Rachel awoke on 51Thursday morning to discover that the Carmichaels had planned a trip to Margate Sands. The day was interrupted, however, when they were disturbed by a sudden flurry of snow.’
‘But there is no snow,’ I said softly. ‘Snow would be absurd. It is just a little chilly.’
‘Yet I had no knowledge of this trip to the beach, for Mrs. Carmichael is apt to forget to tell me anything, and Mr. Carmichael – well, I do my best to avoid him. The Voice spoke true.’
‘Then you are God’s special messenger, his Chosen One!’ I cried. ‘Why, if the Vicar knew—’
‘No!’ Her eyes widened. ‘You must never speak of it to him. Eleanor’s mother already mentioned my … concerns, and do you know what he said? He said I could not possibly be hearing the words of God, for God only speaks to male prophets. Jesus had ten disciples who were all men.’ At this, she let out a small laugh. ‘What is a gift for men is a curse for women. The Vicar would gladly drown me as a witch, or have me locked away in an asylum until I rot. This must remain our secret, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I cried. ‘I do promise you, Rachel. But my father is friends with Mr. Darwin, and he says that the world is changing and we must grapple with our faiths and allow them to adapt too, no matter how painful. If I were to speak to him, he might—’
‘Perhaps sometime soon, but only when I am ready. For now, be careful what you say. Do you understand? Or you will never see me again.’
‘I promise.’ I offered my hand and she shook it, sniffing back the threat of further tears and nodding vigorously. 52‘My father says that there is no better cure for an ill than a holiday. Perhaps Mrs. Carmichael would allow you to leave Oxford and visit home for a few days?’
‘Oh, I cannot go back,’ Rachel murmured, and I wondered if she was referring to Manchester, where Father had said she was born. ‘I cannot go back and I cannot stay. I feel at home neither there nor here. Mrs. Carmichael says that one makes a home in the heart and there peace is to be found, but I cannot feel any.’ And to my shock and consternation, she suddenly picked up a rock and dashed its edge against her left hand. A series of red welts welled up on her knuckles and blood trickled over her fingers.
A shadow fell over us.
‘An accident, I presume?’ Father asked, but there was something knowing in his tone, and I noted that Rachel kept her eyes downcast. I felt a surge of anger towards him, wondering how he could be so callous, when he commanded: ‘Well, then, Thomas! Pass her your handkerchief – be a gentleman!’
I hastily pulled it from my pocket and watched as Father knelt down and slowly bound her hand with surprising gentleness. There was no pin to secure it, so he removed a brooch from her shawl. A faint pinkish snake appeared on the handkerchief, just as I felt something wet touch my forehead. In my enervated, jangled state, I thought that it had been placed there by the lips of the Virgin Mary in order to reassure me, but when I glanced up I saw that it was snowing.