Eleven

I was not looking forward to my sitting with Ray and found myself regretting the challenge I had so recklessly issued. Whether it was he or the unwitting Tom Kelly who had subjected me to the terrors of Slieu Whallian, I suspected that the more I saw of him, the more readily would those indeterminate barriers go down and I should slip with increasing ease into other dimensions.

To add to my wretchedness my pride was urging me to cancel the dinner date with Neil. The probability that I owed it to Hugo still rankled but the fact remained that with a concentrated day of Ray ahead I needed the thought of Neil to steady me, even if our evening together would be a contrived arrangement.

When Ray called for me I saw at once that there was a bandage on his hand and felt a stab of fear before I realized why. “What have you done to your hand?”

“Nothing serious, it’s just a nuisance. My penknife slipped and there’s quite a deep gash round the base of the thumb. Matron insisted I went for an anti-tetanus jab.”

My own hand throbbed briefly, stopping as my will-power clamped down on it. I said on a high note, “I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to wear.”

“I brought some things with me.” He handed over a large paper bag. “I hope they fit.”

I opened the bag and drew out a long woollen skirt and matching stole in soft blue and green plaid. “Ray, they’re lovely! Whose are they?”

“My sister’s. She doesn’t mind. Go and try them on. That white blouse you wore the other day should go with them.”

In my bedroom I changed hurriedly and found that the plaid skirt fitted to perfection. I draped the stole round my shoulders and turned to survey my reflection in the full-length mirror. There was no denying that the ensemble was very flattering and my pleasure in it helped to smooth away at least some of the constraint between us.

Ray gave a sigh of satisfaction. “Perfect. It’s the Manx tartan, you see; traditionally made up of the blue of the sky, the green of the hills, the purple of the heather and the gold of the gorse. Sure now, it could have been designed for you.”

The sun was shining as we drove out of the lane and turned left for Ballaugh. Outside the school gates the stuffed guy, his face hidden by the wide-brimmed hat, lolled grotesquely in his barrow.

“Poor Guy Fawkes, what a death sentence!” I said lightly. “To be burned every fifth of November till the end of time!”

“I’ve always felt sorry for him myself, but then it wasn’t my parliament he tried to blow up. I suppose the ‘come-overs’ from the mainland brought the custom with them at some stage. Hallows’ E’en isn’t imported, though. Witches are part of our own history, as you found out yourself.”

Beneath his casual tone lay a deliberate reminder of his power over me and of the challenge given and accepted. It served as a timely warning that however innocuous our companionship might seem I would be wise not to lower my guard.

We followed the road for some five or six miles before Ray turned off and circled round the base of a small hill. “That’s where we’re aiming for,” he told me, indicating the summit with a jerk of his head. “It’s easy enough going up this side but there’s a very steep climb on the other. Can you manage the picnic basket if I take the painting equipment? I’ve to be careful not to strain this blasted thumb.”

As we started the climb I saw that Ray’s assessment of ‘easy going’ was not the same as mine. It was a full ten minutes before we were on level ground, but as I stopped to get my breath back I saw that it had been well worthwhile. Up here we were surrounded by grey rock, dried heather and turf, a scene surely unchanged over thousands of years, while beyond lay the coastline, majestic and awe-inspiring with its towering cliffs, its white shingle and the depth of blue which stretched unbroken to the Irish coast.

“I wanted it all, you see,” Ray said, watching as I took in the panorama, “hills, sea, gorse and heather – and you in your Manx tartan. The composite picture. Have a look round while I set everything up.”

I went cautiously over the uneven ground, picking my way round wind-bent bushes and outcrops of rock. He was right about the steep drop on this far side. The road seemed a surprisingly long way down. Here the salt wind blew full in my face and the gulls, screaming discordantly, were tossed up in the currents of air like scraps of white paper.

Something about the timeless majesty of the surroundings triggered in my imagination a misty awareness of those who over the centuries had stood here before me: Vikings, keeping watch and ward, Celts, Scots, all of them leaving some indefinable imprint on this exposed jut of land as, perhaps, would I.

“Ready when you are!” Ray called and I turned from my brooding and went back to him. He had set up one of the small stools by a clump of gorse, browning now but still with a touch of gold in its depths.

“I want you in semi-profile,” he told me, “staring out to sea. Yes, I know the wind’s blowing your hair. That’s the way I want it.”

I settled myself on the stool and he arranged the folds of skirt and stole to his satisfaction, moving my head with a finger beneath my chin. “That’s fine. Now keep as still as you can and we’ll break for coffee in an hour or so.”

For a while I sat motionless looking out across the short scrubby grass to the cliff edge, etched clear as a pencil line against the blue of the sky. The wind rustled in the drying gorse behind me and I was grateful for the soft warmth of the stole. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the movement of Ray’s arm as he sketched in the preliminary lines of the portrait. It was very peaceful.

“Are you going to the famous sherry party on Friday?” he asked after a while. “No, don’t move your head! Martha and Hugo won’t be able to get out of it; there’s one a term and attendance is more or less compulsory. Supposed to give us all a chance to meet socially, if you please, as if we don’t see enough of each other as it is! Still, I usually manage to amuse myself by watching people’s reactions to each other. It’s amazing how they can say one thing with their mouths and something entirely different with their eyes or a movement of their heads. You can learn a lot if you know what to look for, and them never guessing they’ve given themselves away.”

“And you can also misinterpret a lot,” I put in severely, remembering his remarks about Neil and Vivian.

“Not I, my love. I can gauge these things to the nth degree – relationships that are brewing and others about to break up. Take Sheila Shoesmith and young David, for instance. I shouldn’t give them more than a couple of weeks. How they’ve managed to keep it from Martin this long I’ll never know. They’ve been making good use of the sports pavilion the whole of this term. Do you know them, by the way?”

“I’ve met Sheila,” I said stiffly, “but-”

“David’s the games master, which you must admit is appropriate! More brawn than brain, of course, but at least he’s bright enough to play two dolly-birds at the same time – he’s got our delectable mademoiselle eating out of his hand as well. You know Claudine? Now there’s a girl not afraid to toss her bonnet over the windmill! Wouldn’t the fur be flying if Sheila found out? Sure, I might drop the odd hint and stand back to see what happens!”

“I don’t want to hear any more,” I interrupted. “You know, I’d hate to see the world through your eyes, Ray. You make it all so – shabby.”

“But interesting, Chloe my love, interesting! It would be a dull world if we were all strait-laced, now wouldn’t it? And you can take that disapproving look off your face, for if I paint it in it will spoil the picture entirely!”

He lapsed into silence and I could only be thankful. My neck was beginning to feel stiff and there was a stabbing pain between my shoulder blades. Before my fixed gaze the purple horizon shimmered and danced.

“O.K.,” Ray said at last. “Five-minute break. There’s coffee in the flask.”

I stood thankfully, rubbing my stiff back.

“Warm enough?”

“So-so. The coffee will help.” I clasped my hands round the hot mug and walked over to the easel. The figure that was myself was still vague, a mere outline set against its background, yet the contours of the face were recognizable as my own. I stood looking at it while I drank the coffee in cautious sips and Ray, sprawled on the grass, watched me in silence.

“Right,” he said abruptly, getting to his feet. “Break over. Back to work.”

“I have the impression,” he remarked, breaking a silence of some fifteen minutes, “that your worthy brother doesn’t entirely approve of our association.”

“Can you blame him?” I asked acidly.

He looked up. “He knows? About the connection we have?”

“No, actually he doesn’t yet, but I gather your reputation with women isn’t all that it might be.”

He smiled sourly. “Telepathy has its uses.”

A coldness caressed my neck under the fall of hair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well now, my love, you might not have noticed but I’m not the most popular character around here. Wouldn’t win any prizes for the ‘chap most likely’ or anything like that. So it’s extraordinarily useful to be able to persuade the odd delectable bird that she’s simply dying to jump into bed with me. It’s surprising how often it works.”

I turned to stare at him in incredulous horror. “You really do that?”

“Why not? I’d go a bit short if I didn’t.”

My mind swung dizzily to our first meeting and the tumult of sensations that had whirled inside me. Later I had even wondered whether –

“You tried it on me, didn’t you?” Accusation rang in my voice.

“You weren’t as susceptible as the others, though. Surprising, when I can usually get straight through to you. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It might take longer but I’m enjoying the struggle, and there’s no doubt you’ll come round in the end. Wasn’t that why I brought you here?”

I couldn’t believe he was serious, but all the same it seemed time to put the record straight. “Ray, I might as well tell you

“You’re wasting your time with Neil Sheppard, you know. Vivian’s got him all neatly sewn up, and Pam conveniently acts as a blind. Suits him admirably, I shouldn’t wonder – all the perks and none of the responsibilities.”

I stood up abruptly. “I refuse to be your captive audience while you let your disgusting imagination run riot. I’m not listening to any more.”

“Well now, I touched a sensitive spot there, didn’t I?” He looked up at me. “Sit down, little Chloe. I’m trying to paint you, remember.”

I stood glaring back at him but my threat was an empty one. I should merely look foolish if I flounced down the hill and had to stand waiting by his car until he chose to come after me. Rebelliously I sat down again.

“We’d better get this clear,” I said shakily after a minute. “Once and for all, there will never be anything between us other than this mental hook-up. It’s important that you accept this because I might be staying on after all.”

“I knew it all along. Didn’t I tell you, and you so stubborn about it? You’ll probably end by staying even longer than I do.”

I turned sharply, forgetting my pose, and met his raised eyebrows. “And what have I said now?”

It wasn’t rational, but with spreading coldness I knew the reason for my instinctive alarm. I should indeed be here longer than Ray, because his days were already numbered. Underlining my icy premonition the sun slid suddenly behind a bank of cloud. “I’m cold,” I said sharply.

He put down his brush. “We’ll have lunch, then, and give the sun a chance to come through again.”

In silence we unpacked the hamper and Ray spread a groundsheet on the still-damp grass.

“Remember me telling you about Granny Clegg? I’ll take you down to see her when we’ve finished here. She’s a weird old body but she knows all the island stories. She’ll make your hair stand on end with her tales of the foawr and the lhiannan-shee.”

My hand brushed against his as I laid out the sandwiches and I felt him tense. “I’m glad you’re staying, Chloe. You’ll find I’m right about the other thing, too, so why not stop struggling like a good girl?” He reached for me and as I ducked away his expression changed. “Has it not occurred to you that I don’t need your permission? No-one’s within miles of us here.”

I stared at him with suddenly pounding heart, noting the sweat on his upper lip and the little pulse beating at his temple.

“Ray, please –”

“Ray, please!” he mimicked savagely. “Damn it, girl, have you no blood in your veins at all?” His arms came tightly round me, pinioning mine to my side and crushing the breath out of my body. Acute panic fused with the conflicting emotions that had been troubling me all morning into a brief, white-hot explosion and even as I tried to cry out, I knew that it was happening again. Perhaps this time it was a means of escape.

The cool October wind had fallen away and it was May, the old May Day before the change of the calendar. I was standing on the edge of a green field round which clustered a crowd of merrymakers, everyone decked out in garlands and chaplets of yellow flowers. The centre of the field was empty but as a horn sounded near at hand, two parties of young men advanced into it. To my surprise I saw that while one team was dressed in light open-necked shirts, the members of the other were wrapped closely in thick woollen coats and scarves and wore garlands of holly and ivy. It seemed that a mock battle was taking place, though I could not understand why, and for the first time during these switches I was aware of my own identity, of not belonging. I turned from the field to lay a hand urgently on the arm of the man beside me.

“Please help me!” I began, “I shouldn’t be here!” And recoiled in horror as my hand went straight through his arm. Was he a ghost, then? Or, in this time band, was I? Certainly he hadn’t even turned his head to look at me.

I stumbled away, swerving out of the path of the crowd and shutting my mind to the knowledge that I could if I wished go straight through them. And now they had started to sing and the insistent beat, thé compulsory words branded themselves on my brain so that I found myself singing with them:

‘Robin-y-Ree! Robin-y-Ree! Ridlan aboo

abban fal dy ridlan, Robin-y-Ree! ’

The green grass of the meadow came rushing up to meet me and I felt the hardness of it against my face and heard Ray’s voice, sharp with fear. “Chloe! Chloe, for God’s sake what happened?”

I forced my eyes open to find myself lying amid the wreckage of the picnic lunch while Ray, kneeling beside me, was rubbing my hands between his own and the roughness of the bandage scratched my skin. Behind the fear in his eyes was a feverish excitement.

“What happened?” he demanded again. “What was it you were saying, can you remember?”

The memory was becoming blurred and my tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar words. “‘Abban fal dy ridlan, Robin-y-Ree!’”

He drew a deep breath and sat back. “Tell me everything!” he commanded, and I had no will to withstand him. Mechanically I described the field and the crowds while his eyes remained fixed almost hypnotically on my face. At last, because the words ran out, I stumbled to a halt.

“What was it?” I asked after a moment.

His voice shook with excitement. “It seems to have been one of the old traditions, the battle of Summer and Winter. The chorus of that song, ‘Topknots of scarlet and ribbons of green’ – hell, Chloe, you must actually have been there How else – unless Uncle Tom – but even so, the power that would have been needed –”

Dizzily I sat up, a hand to my head.

“Has it happened before? Anything like this?” And again, as I hesitated, the imperious “Tell me!” So I told him, about Illiam Dhone and then about the strange, snake-like dance on the hard sand near Kirk Michael.

“The Flitterdaunsey,” he muttered almost to himself. “I remember Uncle telling me about it. It used to be held on Good Friday, when people went to the shore to gather flitters – limpets. Iron and steel couldn’t be used on Good Friday so the barley bread was moulded by hand, and after the picnic any remaining food was thrown into the sea with the words He stopped, his eyes burning into me.

“ ‘Gow show as bannee ornn’”, I supplied dully, though I wasn’t aware of having heard the words before.

“That’s right: ‘Take this and bless us’. Chloe, why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

“I was afraid,” I said in a low voice.

“Of what?”

Of admitting the extent of my involvement. I hadn’t answered but I think he understood because he didn’t press the point.

“Take me with you next time!” he said softly.

“How can I?” I burst out. “If I’d any control at all over it I wouldn’t let it happen!” I scrambled unsteadily to my feet. “I don’t want to talk about it any more. Please will you take me home?”

He rose to his feet. “Very well, we’ll go now, but not home. We’re going to Granny Clegg’s, remember. Perhaps she can tell us more about May Day and the Flitterdaunsey. Now –” as I started to protest – “go and see if you approve of the way your portrait’s coming along.”

Obediently I walked over to look at the picture. Although the details were still vague the figure now had an almost uncanny resemblance to myself, with a depth about it that suggested he had been looking into as well as at me. I was reminded of the portrait of his grandmother, with its yearning sense of loneliness.

“Well?”

“It makes me a little uncomfortable.”

“Good. So it should. Now help me pack the hamper, will you? This infernal bandage keeps getting in the way.”

We drove straight down the coast road to Peel and gradually, as Ray kept the conversation carefully inconsequential, my tension began to ease. The harbour was throbbing with boats of all descriptions and he pointed out Peel Island with the old ruined church of St German humped against the skyline. “According to tradition St German was sent by St Patrick to found the Manx church. That would date it from the fifth century. And there’s Peel Castle and Fenella’s Tower. Walter Scott wrote about that.” He flashed me a glance. “The castle’s haunted, naturally, by the Moddy Dhoo, or Black Dog. If you see it, they say you ’ll die soon after.”

We drove slowly along the cobbled quayside and stopped in front of one of the old-time fishermen’s cottages, whitewashed and snug now in the mellow sunshine.

“You’ll have to shout,” Ray warned me. “The Granny’s as deaf as a post.”

His knock on the wooden door was answered by a tall angular woman in an apron. Her hair was scraped severely back and tied in a knot on top of her head, but her eyes, so deep a blue as to appear purple, were startlingly beautiful. They were oddly incongruous in such a setting, as though something lovely and fragile were imprisoned in the uncompromisingly awkward frame.

“Good day to you, Kirree. Would your mother be at home?”

“Isn’t it yourself that knows she never crosses the threshold?”

“I’ve brought Miss Winter to see her, if it’s convenient.”

The glorious eyes switched to me and I felt them lance into my brain. Then she nodded briefly and stood to one side. Ray motioned me ahead and we went in, bending our heads to avoid the low lintel. The one-roomed cottage had made little concession to the twentieth century. To my delight a spinning wheel stood in one corner, and a closer look at the skirt Kirree Clegg was wearing intimated that it was still very much in use. From the depths of a rocking-chair beside the turf fire, Granny surveyed us with beady black eyes. She was a tiny figure all in black, her grey hair screwed into the same style as her daughter’s, her face seamed by myriads of wrinkles.

“’Tis herself you’ve brought, then,” she greeted Ray, nodding vigorously. “Didn’t I tell you, daughter, when you dropped the knife at breakfast? Well now, child, I was expecting you.”

I moved to take the small claw she held out in my direction. “Good afternoon, Mrs Clegg.”

The button-black eyes probed into mine. “You’ve travelled far this day, I’m thinking.”

I said nothing, knowing that the distance she spoke of was measured not in miles but in years.

“’Tis temporary, this gift of yours, but not done yet. And there’s trouble ahead.”

I winced and withdrew my hand from hers.

“Trouble, and danger in the mist.”

“Oh come on now, Granny, is that the way to greet a visitor, at all?”

“I tells what I sees,” the old woman insisted stubbornly. “Sure and she’s not a simpleton. Doesn’t she know it herself already?” Her eyes slid past me to Ray and a glazed expression clouded them. “Begun in September, done ere November,” she muttered indistinctly.

He gave a nervous laugh. “Aren’t you full of the croaks of doom today!”

“Evil comes home to roost, son, and don’t say I wasn’t after warning you.”

“Never mind me, now. Chloe wants to hear some of your fairy tales.” But the old woman had turned away to stare into the depths of the fire, shaking her head and rocking gently.

“You’ll be getting no more out of her today,” Kirree said matter-of-factly. “Will you stay for a cup of tea?”

But the old woman’s words, mystifying though they were, had disturbed us both and after a quickly exchanged glance Ray shook his head. “Not today, Kirree, thanks all the same. Since the Granny’s not herself we won’t bother you any longer.”

“It’s welcome you’ll be another time,” she said kindly, “and Mother will read the lassie’s hand if the mood takes her right.”

“Thank you,” I said awkwardly. My eyes went back to the tiny rocking figure muttering to herself in the depths of the old chair. “Good-bye, Mrs Clegg.”

There was no reply and after a brief exchange of formalities Ray and I were outside on the quay again. We had been in the cottage barely ten minutes. Unaccountably it seemed much longer.

Back in the car we drove in silence for some time, until I said suddenly, “She didn’t seem at all deaf.”

“She was hearing with her inner ear today. Clairaudience and clairvoyance often go together.” He paused. “I wonder what that doggerel about September and November was supposed to mean.”

I’d wondered, too. And about the danger in the mist she had foreseen for me. The dream, perhaps.

“Has she ever told you anything that came true?” I asked uneasily.

“Nothing momentous. She’ll say something like ‘There’s a letter coming from across the sea’ when I’d written to someone on the mainland and was expecting a reply anyway.”

“Has she read your hand?”

“Once or twice, over the years. Again, all very vague and ambiguous. ‘Beware the coloured stars ’ – that kind of thing, and she leaves you to unravel it as best you can. No, she’s a bit of a dead loss when it comes to fortune-telling, but she’s really great on legend. A pity she was in one of her more wafty moods today.”

The blueness of evening was settling over the countryside as we came up shadowed Glen Helen and by the time Ray finally drew up outside Hugo’s cottage the stars were out.

“My timetable’s full for the rest of the week, but you’ll give me another sitting on Saturday, won’t you?”

A tremor of unease inched up my spine. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll have to behave myself, is that it?”

But that wasn’t the only reason why I felt a strong reluctance to sit for Ray again.

He reached for my hand and, as I stiffened, said quickly, “Relax, I’m not going to force myself on you. That’s been my mistake all along, hasn’t it? I’m used to having to fight for what I want but I should have realized it was different with you. You’ll come to me in your own good time. I know that now.”

I said with difficulty, “Ray, I tried to explain –”

He lifted my hand to his mouth and held it there while I sat like a rock staring at the shaggy bent head and feeling his lips move over the surface of my palm. And such was the strength of his will that, appalled, I began to wonder if he was right. I tugged my hand free and said breathlessly, “You’re wrong, quite wrong. You must believe me.”

“No, my darling,” he said softly, “you must believe me. I’m not one for making pretty speeches but we belong together, you and I. The fact that you came when I called you proves that. I’ll wait if I have to; just don’t let it be too long.”

I gazed at him speechlessly and he met my look with those deep, burning eyes unwavering on my face.

“Good-night,” I said in a rush, and almost fell out of the car. I had reached the front door before I heard him drive away.

Martha’s exclamation on the tartan skirt and Hugo’s deceptively casual enquiry about the sitting I dealt with as best I could. In the last ten minutes my relationship with Ray had changed out of all recognition, becoming at the same time deeper and more threatening. For despite my protestations he had felt sure enough of me to commit himself, and that was dangerous. I could only guess at his reaction to any imagined betrayal.