OCTOBER 2017Viola became a spy too, crouching low in the ferns, fronds spearing her cheeks.
They kept their distance, so as not to be seen, and so Michael would not be considered to be trespassing and invite down that terrible fury.
The mist obscured their view at times, drifting towards the cliff edge, but when the vapours parted, when the curtains opened, the scene took Viola’s breath away. Those fat grey stones rising up from the meadow grass gave her a sense of dread – of the past, of the huge unfathomable distance of it stretching out behind them, of the people who had placed the stones there in the first place, using just their bare hands and rudimentary tools. It was as if these forebears had understood this future would exist – this exact one, with Michael and Viola in it – so had left them a monument as a message, as a warning.
Balancing on his haunches, grinning proudly, Michael had played the role of the smug tourist guide as he introduced Viola to the sight of the Eldest Girls and their ceremonials. Viola had been careful to keep her amazement to herself, lest Michael should think he held all the power.
‘I do know one of them,’ she’d whispered to him, lying nonchalantly. ‘I got talking to the blonde one in the Provisions Store once.’ The truth was, of course, that Michael had brought to her attention something wonderful, something life-changing.
Everything about the girls, ethereal in their white nightdresses, particular in their rituals, mesmerised Viola – confounded her too. When they lit matches, she presumed they would smoke a joint, cigarettes at least. That’s what rebellious girls did on the mainland – they inhaled substances or swallowed them, numbed themselves, then loaned out their bodies to boys, piecemeal, in return for status. Instead these girls burned herbs, wafting the air with their scent. They lit candles in jamjars as they muttered indecipherable prayers. It was weird – the weirdest! – but could Viola say it was any stranger than drinking and smoking your way towards an unwanted fumble?
When the girls formed a circle, holding hands and speaking low, the real magic happened. They tipped back their heads, eyes closed to the last meagre helpings of sun, and the earth began to hum.
‘Oh my god, can you hear that?’ Viola gasped the first time it happened.
‘Hear what?’ said Michael.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she’d replied.
If he had to ask, he couldn’t hear.
The ground pulsated, singing with something, speaking to Viola in the purest way. This was the true reason she was here on Lark, the vibrations said, so she could make friends with the Eldest Girls.
Such conviction was out of character for Viola; it had to be caused by a spell. When it came to friends, she never did the picking, was rarely first-picked. She was not distinct enough to be popular – or to be bullied, aside from the inevitable comments about her ginger hair. She occupied the social middle ground back home, forming alliances with those who trod the same path. The idea that this group of magical, disobedient creatures would welcome Viola Kendrick, an average human being, was implausible, yet still Viola knew it was her unavoidable fate.
She needed to start going to school, to St Rita’s, be close to the girls. This became her goal. She would tell her mother that it was the best course of action for both of them; Deborah Kendrick’s interest in teaching had already begun to slide away.
It had been a rule that Viola must complete all her schoolwork before walking Dot, but that boundary had shifted.
Viola’s refrain every morning went: ‘Do I have to do all of this?’
No longer was it met with a firm, routine, ‘Yes!’
‘I suppose we could finish up a little early,’ her mother had taken to saying. Or, ‘Maybe just one chapter is enough.’
With November approaching, Deborah Kendrick’s replies had grown thorns. ‘You’re a big girl, Viola, you can work out for yourself what needs to be done!’ She had started wearing a thick, home-knitted cardigan, with holes in sleeves and a missing middle button, every day and even to bed. She sat out on one of the broken wicker chairs on the veranda, surveying the land – ‘Just plotting what to do next, Vee-Vee.’ The tools leant against an outhouse, turning orange with rust. The cup of tea in her mother’s hand went cold before she remembered to drink it. Deborah Kendrick’s only excursions were to chapel on Sunday – but straight home, no shift at the tea urn – and to the Provisions Store. And really, where else might she go?
It was Viola who was the wanderer.
She walked Dot whenever she wanted to now, the dog being hardy enough to stand it. Viola learnt when to trek across estate land and avoid the routines of the gamekeeper, how to hit the cobbles at an hour when a fishing boat came in so there was something to see. At the end of the afternoons, when the bell at St Rita’s sounded, the echo of it reaching across the fields, she made for Cable’s Wood to meet Michael, onwards through the pines to the irresistible Sisters’ Stones.
Those hours she spent walking, Viola considered how to get what she wanted – to go to school – how to position it to her mother without sinking her any further. Deborah Kendrick was gradually slipping, slipping, going under once again.
Then, the island intervened.
Viola returned from a spying trip one afternoon to see the Land Rover parked in front of the farmstead, the Customs Officer leaning against the bonnet. He nodded at her as she passed with Dot, a hello that also felt like an apology. On the veranda, a man had pulled up one of the wicker chairs so he could sit close to her mother, who looked fixedly out at the horizon of trees, not at their visitor. Viola came slowly up the wooden steps, the guest turning in his seat, smiling, standing.
Mr Crane.
‘Ah, here she is!’ he said, as if talking to a much younger child. ‘Viola Kendrick! We were just talking about you!’
Viola stalled on the top step. She felt Dot stall too, sensed the dog looking up at her, enquiringly, asking, What now?
‘I wonder if you could tell me how you are doing with your home-schooling, Viola?’ The man strode towards her, hitching up the belt of his trousers. When he reached her, he placed a hand on her shoulder, too gently. ‘Do you think that you are getting all that you need from it?’
He leant in, bringing them eye to eye, this huge man and she a slight girl, a gesture that told Viola she could tell him the truth, that it would be all right; he would rescue her. And she needed rescuing, she wanted out. This was her way to win. But Viola could see her mother leaning forward in her chair, making herself seen behind the bulk of the man. She was giving Viola a slow, warning shake of her head, her mouth making an exaggerated shape – ‘no’.
The vibrations at the Sisters’ Stones had been strong, this message was stronger.
‘It’s going really well. Thank you,’ Viola said, returning Mr Crane’s gaze. Her lungs felt tight, squeezed empty of breath.
Mr Crane straightened up abruptly, his smile gone. He stared at her for a moment, the acknowledgement of the lie passing between them.
Above, a red kite squealed plaintively in its search for prey.
‘That so,’ he said, not kindly, but not unkindly either, and there were few pleasantries exchanged after that, before the man tendered his final goodbye.
He made his way down the stairs towards the Land Rover, and as he went, he ever so quickly and hardly at all pinched Viola on the cheek.