Chapter 6

Marilyn insisted they left the washing up until morning and they settled down in front of the living room fire. Jay produced a pipe and a tooled leather pouch.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked.

‘What’s in there?’

‘Just tobacco.’

She surprised herself by believing him. ‘Go ahead. I don’t mind at all. Most of it’ll go up the chimney anyway.’

She watched him intent on the job of filling the smooth wooden bowl, collecting up every crumb of spilt tobacco.

‘You don’t see many of those these days. Surely cigs are easier?’

He rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Commonplace. Anyway, you can’t beat this.’ He crumbled a flake of tobacco between his fingers and held it out for her to smell. ‘If you’re going to do a job do it well, I say.’

He produced a Zippo from the pouch and disappeared momentarily in a cloud of fragrant smoke. She breathed in luxuriously, suppressing one of the rare moments of regret she’d felt since giving up. Something else she’d determined to change about her life when she and Matt split up.

‘If I ever did settle it would probably be somewhere like this,’ said Jay out of the blue. ‘Woods, trees. A mighty forest. The kind of forest travellers get lost in. For days. Wandering round and round, trees looking the same, each clearing a relief until you realise there are more trees the other side of it… Until you come to one with a house. A house not unlike this one. Like the house the children came to.’

‘The children?’

‘In the story.’

Story? After a day in which her world, or the Stoneleigh part of it, had literally been turned upside down, not even the idea of listening to a man she hardly knew telling stories in her own living room seemed strange. It was good not to have to think for a while. Let him do the talking.

‘They’d been walking for days.’ He waved the pipe in a gesture that encompassed days, weeks, months. ‘They’d lost everything – homes, friends, families – just the three of them left there were, two boys and a girl. They’d also lost their pursuers. Outrun them, outwitted them. Outraged them. And now they were free. They didn’t want freedom; they wanted to go home. But their homes no longer existed, so freedom was their only choice. They had no food, it was cold. Then they came to a house in a clearing. They were afraid; they’d learned to fear everyone they didn’t know. But where else could they go? The oldest boy knocked, and an old woman answered.

‘“Come in, I’ve been waiting for you.”

‘She invited them in to the warm fire and fed them with a hot, wholesome broth. As the younger two were falling asleep in the cosy cupboard bed at the side of the room, the oldest boy asked: “How did you know about us?”

‘“The forest told me. If you hadn’t arrived I’d have come to find you.”

‘She led him to join the others under the warm blankets. As he drifted off to sleep he half-opened his eyes and thought he saw a huge raven circling the room before it flew out through the window. He called out to the old woman once in his fear but there was no answer and sleep soon overtook him.

‘The next day the children were allowed to rest, but after that the old woman had them working for her. The youngest boy swept the house, the girl gathered and prepared the food, the oldest boy tended the pigs and collected firewood. The old woman slept by day as they worked, but every afternoon she woke up, looked over the work they’d done and gave them a hearty meal from the ingredients the girl had prepared. Every night they ate the food she gave them and fell asleep straight away afterwards in the cosy bed, grateful for the new home she’d given them. Sometimes, the oldest boy thought he saw the raven leaving the room, or returning before dawn, but mostly he was too tired to give it a second thought, and by morning he’d forget. One day, the oldest boy looked at the girl as he fed the fire while she sat spinning.

‘“What were we sad about when we came here?”

‘“I don’t remember.” She looked at the youngest boy who was polishing the old woman’s shoes. “Do you remember feeling sad?”

‘The little boy shook his head. He couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t lived in the cottage in the woods. The girl realised she only had a few vague pictures in her head of her home, and after a few days those had gone too. They continued, strangely content. The oldest boy couldn’t remain content for long. He wanted to know who he was. He tried and tried to remember why they were there, why they had been sad, but it was no use. The others began to get annoyed with him for fretting. He never dared ask the woman they had come to know as Grandmother.

‘One day, he was collecting firewood and he cut his hand on a thorn. He saw his own blood drip onto a leaf. He looked up and saw the black and white flash of a magpie watching him. The bird spoke and the boy nearly dropped his bundle of sticks in surprise.

‘“What’s the matter, young man?”

‘“We’re happy here, Grandmother looks after us, but I don’t know who I am anymore.”

‘And the magpie said, “She wants children. She wants to keep you here as her own. She’ll care for you, but she’ll never let you remember in case you decide to leave.”

‘“I want to go back. I want to remember.”

‘“Your memories will bring you sadness. Are you sure?” said the magpie.

‘“I want to be myself,” said the boy.

‘The magpie told him not to eat the food the old woman gave him. He would have to leave that very night – he would have no choice, as the old woman would know. She was at her most dangerous in her raven-winged night, but if the boy waited until morning she would trap him.

‘The boy’s cut began to scab over and as the blood dried the magpie’s voice became a bird’s screech as it flapped off. The boy ran back to the cottage and called the girl and the youngest boy to him. But to his dismay, he couldn’t remember what the magpie had told him. Soon he had forgotten what kind of bird had spoken, if it had happened at all. The girl huffed and went back to her spinning, and the little boy went out to dig some potatoes for their meal, singing to himself. The older boy was sad; not the deep sadness they’d been running from, but regret that he couldn’t remember something beautiful, and his friends wouldn’t help him remember.

‘That evening he caught the cut on his hand as he was feeding the fire and he watched a bead of blood well up. He felt lightheaded.

‘“I don’t want any supper tonight, thank you,” he told the old woman. “I’m not feeling well.”

‘She peered at him. “Did anything happen while you were out?”

‘“Nothing,” he said, and she seemed to believe him.

‘He went to bed and she brought him a bowl of steaming broth. “You must try and eat something to keep your strength up.”

‘He nodded and put the bowl to his lips, but only pretended to drink. “It’s too hot. I’ll drink it once it’s cooled.”

‘The old woman bustled off to watch over the other two and he rolled over and tipped the contents between the bed and the wall. When she came back he feigned a wan smile. “Thank you. I feel much better now.”

‘But he felt worse. He tried to sleep, but was plagued by images of houses burning, people he loved whom he knew were no longer there. He felt a deep sadness and had an urge to leave; he worried at the cut on his hand to keep himself awake. He tried to hold back his tears in case the old woman heard, and was grateful when the other two came to bed and he eventually heard the beating of wings that he feared but was waiting for.

‘When all was quiet he got up, pulled his coat around him, tiptoed to the door and went out, easing the door closed behind him. He heard a croak and the beating of wings. As a black raven bore down on him, he scratched at his cut and drew a drop of blood. In a flash of black-and-white, the magpie darted into the path of the raven. He watched, terrified, as the two birds tore into one another in a storm of feathers.

‘“Go!” screeched the magpie.

‘Back at the house, the youngest boy awoke with the dawn. He felt a small sticky patch on the blanket. He lifted his finger and saw in the pale light that it was blood. As he looked at the stain on his finger he heard snatches of wings beating, birds screeching, footsteps running. Somehow he knew it was his friend; he wanted desperately to go with him. He shook his sister awake and told her of the birds and the empty space beside them.

‘“Don’t be stupid. Go back to sleep or Grandmother will hear you.”

‘He dozed for a while and by the time it was fully light he hardly remembered the dream of the birds. The old woman gave them their breakfast porridge by the fire and the two of them set about their chores. The younger boy went out to fetch firewood – hadn’t that always been his job? Who else had ever been there to do it? – and as he reached the edge of the garden he saw a black-and-white shape motionless on the ground. He rubbed a red patch that had appeared on his finger overnight and as he reached out to touch the dead magpie he thought he caught a glimpse of a boy running through the trees. At the same time he felt a hand on his shoulder and started in fear.

‘“Come back to the house, little one,” said the old woman. “You need your coat or you’ll catch your death of cold.”

‘By the time he went out again there was nothing there. The youngest boy never lost the red patch on his finger where the drop of blood had stained it. If he rubbed it he’d catch a glimpse of a magpie in another place that somehow felt like home, and see the face of a half-remembered friend in his mind’s eye. He didn’t understand these images, and they felt like the saddest things he knew, but he was glad he had that red patch on his finger.’

A candle sputtered and flickered rapidly before settling again to a steady flame. Jay moved to put a log on the fire, raising a shower of tiny sparks.

‘What a sad story,’ Marilyn said. ‘Where did he go, the older boy? He must have been so lonely.’

‘Brought it on himself. Imagine refusing a gift like that. The chance to forget all your troubles.’

‘Gift? She had them imprisoned.’

‘Wasn’t it better than sadness and loneliness? I tell you, it was a gift. Crafty things, magpies. They’ll steal anything, even when it means nothing to them.’

‘That magpie sacrificed its life to help the boy remember who he really was.’

‘Perhaps he’d have been better off if it hadn’t. Perhaps the magpie was simply jealous. I would be… The gift of forgetting all the bad stuff in your life.’ He rubbed his index finger absently with the tip of his other; shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps you’d just end up making the same mistakes over and over again.’

‘Anything in particular?’

He looked away and busied himself firing up new life in his pipe bowl. His silence suggested she’d gone too far.

‘I like the way you told it.’

It was an over-obvious olive branch but he glanced up, clearly willing to accept it. He relaxed visibly, smiled.

‘The odd jobs pay better when I can get them, but the stories – busking – are way more fun. It’s a question of balance.’

He blew a smoke ring, let it hover and speared it with a thin stream of smoke.

‘Your turn.’

‘You’re joking? You’re the performer; I’m happy to listen.’

‘Everyone’s got performance in them somewhere. I’m guessing yours is in your work.’

She smiled. ‘Nice concept. Ceramics as Performance – discuss.’

‘From what I’ve seen you do it well. Have you got any more you can show me?’

She got up and held a candle to illuminate a lamp base she was proud of, organic curves intended to catch the light. ‘It’s better when the bulb’s working, of course.’

‘Adaptation – the key to life. Put this power cut experience into making a chandelier next time.’ He grinned. ‘Actually it’s lovely as it is. You’ve got a real talent.’

‘It’s not my best.’

‘What is?’

She shrugged. ‘Depends on my mood. Most of the time I don’t think I’ve made it yet.’

‘A good place to be.’

‘Would be if I could feel more inspired at the moment. I need to be more settled.’

‘Make sure you don’t lose the edge.’

‘I know what you mean, but there’s a difference between edge and being all over the place. It doesn’t help that my temporary workshop is at the craft centre, so I feel as if I’m still beholden to Matt.’

‘Your ex, right?’

She nodded.

‘Is he creative, too?’

She shook her head. ‘The kind of performance he understands is economic. We established the place mainly to sell my stuff, and other people’s on commission. Subletting spare space to others. It was doing quite well. Still is – he’s carried on running it. He was the one with the business head – or so he liked to tell me. I didn’t argue. We met at college; I was the artist, he was doing business studies. Anyway, when we split up we agreed I’d keep this place on – it was originally my parents’ holiday cottage, but that’s another story – and he’d continue with the craft centre. I still get a bit of money from my share.’ She frowned. ‘In theory. I haven’t seen anything for a while – I’m using a spare workshop there till I get my own place sorted, which is worth far more than anything I’d get from a share in the business.’

‘Sounds reasonable enough. You mentioned selling through other shops…’

‘Yes, it’s coming on all right. I just feel like inspiration’s a bit elusive at the moment.’

‘If you’re doing OK as you are, and managing to keep producing, why worry? Inspiration for what?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t feel like I’m making a difference. People seem to like it, and I’m proud of what I do, of course I am, but sometimes I can’t help asking myself what’s it all for.’

He laughed quietly. ‘Does anyone – anything – truly make a difference? You obviously love this place, this landscape, and that comes across. So you’re sharing it with others. Isn’t bringing beautiful things into a grey world difference enough?’

Perhaps it was the wine, but Marilyn felt herself cautiously warming to the man. There was no hint of mockery or irony in what he said, and though she knew he could simply be trying to flatter her, she decided to relax and simply enjoy Jay’s company for what it was. She brought a few more pieces to show him.

Eventually she looked at her watch. ‘It feels later than it is. I’m tired, sorry – awake half last night with that storm. I think I’ll turn in now. Feel free to stay here by the fire as long as you like.’

‘I’m knackered myself, to put it politely.’ He glanced towards the stairs. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me staying?’

‘You’re welcome to the barn if you’d prefer,’ she said. ‘Seriously, Jay, I’m grateful for your help. It’s the least I can do.’

As she passed the closed door of the spare room a few minutes later she thought again how little she knew about this man who was staying under her roof. Where he was from, whether he really lived like he’d said and if so, what had led him to it. He’d told her next to nothing, but then she’d hardly asked. At least he hadn’t tried anything on; it surprised her to realise how safe she felt despite this stranger in her house. She shut her own door firmly and drew the curtains on the mess outside. As she drifted off to sleep she almost forgot about the damage to the barn as a wave of optimism turned her present circumstances from an insurmountable obstacle to a temporary challenge.

Jay huddled restless in his sleeping bag, surrounded by the clutter of the room. He’d had a phase of sleeping well recently, even weathered a thunderstorm relatively unscathed – surely he should be able to get a good night’s sleep indoors? His mind kept turning to the young woman in the next room, and he wished she were either a long way away – or even closer.

He rolled over and rummaged in his rucksack for his book and clip-on light, but managed no more than a few sentences. He regretted choosing Crime and Punishment – he was enjoying it on one level but Raskolnikov unsettled him far too deeply. He considered getting up and browsing Polly’s shelves for an alternative, but settled for his CD player and headphones. The music, a compilation made by a friend he’d met at a drop-in centre where he’d spent some time volunteering, was pushed into the background by the unease that came in waves. He thought again of the young lad at Holdwick market place. Told himself to forget it. So he reminded him a bit of Ivan. And? All sorts of people looked vaguely like all sorts of other people. But hadn’t the lad stared at him before he turned away? Of course, he told himself firmly, wouldn’t you be staring in his shoes? Wouldn’t you be wondering what the old git’s looking at? But…no buts. And definitely no resemblance.

He glances up and feels the world shift as he sees the boy standing by the door. There isn’t enough space for him in the cluttered room but he always finds a way in when he wants to.

‘I thought you weren’t coming back,’ Jay says. He keeps his voice quiet, despite the overwhelming dread that grips him. He wonders why he always tries to deceive the boy with outward calm. This one cannot be deceived.

The boy says nothing.

‘You promised me you wouldn’t come again. After last year.’

The boy still says nothing but Jay can tell he is thinking that such promises are meaningless. Any promise that can’t be kept is meaningless. The boy walks away and Jay follows him. He has no choice. His familiar terror that he won’t be able to find his way back is heightened by the hope that this time he might have something to come back for. He realises with sickening certainty that this is why the boy has returned.

He passes the silent carcases of empty houses, walls pockmarked with bullet holes, here and there the gaping wound of shellfire, rafters like ribs. All with the life bled from them, from the houses, from the hamlets and villages they used to be part of. He wonders how much, if any, of it was his doing. It doesn’t matter what he did, which of these sad ruins is the testimony – he was there, and when he comes back he is responsible for it all. Things are always the same; it doesn’t get any less with time. He feels his feet sink into the rutted lane with the weight of crushing responsibility, adding to the chaos caused by neglect and the old passing of military vehicles.

With the harsh cawing of the crows in the trees above him, he continues until he reaches the village and recognises the corner where he took up his position. The burning buildings that surrounded him then are still here, surprisingly intact despite the ubiquitous pockmarks, their windows blackened holes. The smoke has gone, though in places the line between the remains of the ruined buildings and the rubble-strewn street is indistinct. There is silence. He feels the boy watching him. He thinks he sees movement from the alley the boy fled down. He hurries away, unable to face the accusation in his eyes. But perhaps that’s what he should do, face it. Ashamed, he slows, turns.

A dog emerges and pads towards him, from the building with the bloodstain on the wall, hunger and menace in its attitude. It sees him and bares its teeth. He grabs a piece of wood from a broken table – he won’t touch the gun he is carrying for the sake of a mangy dog. They face one another over the rubble and the scattered dispossessed belongings, and he hears the crackling gunfire echoing. Then laughter. The echoes scare him; the laughter scares him more.

He is on the square now. The laughter came from a wizened old man who sits by the shattered stump of the monument and watches him with piercing eyes. He stops, glances back to see the dog slinking away. Smothered by the cloying smell of burning, now old and damp, watched by the eye sockets of the ghostly shops and houses, he tries to force his feet to move, to run. When he looks again the old man’s face is vacant, unseeing, lost. It is not a face that could have produced laughter. The old man is looking at a space just beyond him. He turns his head and his stomach lurches as he sees the square is no longer empty. One white-shirted arm is flung out from the heap of bodies as if in casual repose, the skeletal corpse-face flung back and staring at him with empty eyes.

‘I didn’t do this!’ he yells, turning and looking round wildly for someone other than the old man to hear him.

‘You were here,’ the grey, dead face says quietly from beneath his feet.

He turns away.

‘You let it happen,’ says the old man.

He closes his eyes to shut them out. When he looks again the square is empty except for the boy watching him from where the old man had sat. It is menacingly quiet. Suddenly he is running, pulling himself away from the absurdity of it all, away from that place. Zora is waiting for him where the dirt track runs into overgrown, neglected fields. He can’t shake the smell of old burning and decay, it is on him, it is part of him. It is also on her. They are the same.

She beckons. He stands facing her, refusing to approach.

‘Come to me. Let me comfort you. Let me make it right.’

‘No.’ It should be so easy, but every word is leaden. ‘Please go. Leave me in peace.’

She reaches out her hand.

‘I can help you. Come to me, Šojka.’

‘I’m not Šojka!’

He pushes her away from him, turns and stumbles away across the rutted, muddy fields.