It seemed wrong not to tell Mags about the wedding photograph straight away – I had always told my sister everything, but for some reason I wanted to keep this as my secret, at least for the time being. I sensed that there was a mystery attached to the picture – a secret reason for it being hidden away like that – and I wanted to solve the puzzle myself, without Mags taking over.
She knew that there was something on my mind. That night, she whispered to me from her bed, ‘Are you all right, Pet? Are you scared about an air raid or something?’
‘I’m fine,’ I replied.
‘No, you’re not,’ she insisted. ‘I can always tell when you’re lying, Pet. Sisters always know.’
She hmphed quietly, and I heard her bed creak as she rolled over towards the blacked-out window. I was aware of an odd, new distance opening up between us.
Now that I think about it, it was around this time that Mags started to behave strangely. She muttered in her sleep, and one morning I caught her in a sort of trance, sitting on the edge of her bed with one sock on and one sock off, staring dreamily at the wall. When I asked her if she was all right, she snapped at me to leave her alone. So I did. I plodded up the lighthouse stairs with my sketchbook and pencil and sat in the lantern room. I felt the need to draw something, but I ended up just thinking about the hidden photograph and doodling a pattern of waves.
It was one of those grey, heavy autumn days when endless banks of cloud roll in from the horizon, and the sun never quite manages to take hold. I watched a boy come up the cliff path towards our cottage, carrying a brown paper parcel. As he got closer, I realized it was Kipper Briggs – a boy from the village. Kipper is as big as a man, broad-backed and large-handed. He was the same age as Mags, though he had left school a couple of years ago to work for his father (Arthur Briggs was the fishmonger in the village and he owned half a dozen fishing boats, which used to head out of the harbour every morning come rain or shine).
I watched Kipper climb the last, steep stretch of the path and come through our garden gate. It banged shut behind him, and a seagull flapped haphazardly across the garden, startled by the noise. I put down my sketchbook and pencil and ran down the stairs to meet him; he was probably bringing Mutti’s order of fish for the week.
Kipper is not a pleasant boy to be around, I’m afraid – and I’m not just talking about his aroma (children can be very inventive when it comes to cruel nicknames, but whoever christened Colin Briggs ‘Kipper’ didn’t need much of an imagination – only a basic sense of smell). Kipper used to be famous for stealing the lunches of the smallest children at school. I remember him taking an iced bun from Mags, and gobbling it up right in front of her furious face. Mags had only been about ten years old at the time, and Kipper must have been much bigger than her, but she’d kicked him in the shins for that.
By the time I had run down the lighthouse stairs, I was a bit dizzy. Rather than going through the cottage, I came out of the main lighthouse door and stopped for a second, holding on to the door frame to steady myself. There were two figures standing by the garden gate – Mags must have seen Kipper coming too, and she’d got there before me. I don’t know who had said what to whom in the short time it had taken me to get down the stairs, but it didn’t take me long to realize that they were on the brink of a fight.
‘Don’t know why Dad’s still doing business with you lot of crummy krauts,’ Kipper was sniping. Mags held out her hand for the parcel, but Kipper kept it just out of reach. He danced around her. ‘Oh, you want this, do you, Jerry? Come and get it . . .’
Mags’s face didn’t even flicker, and she didn’t try to grab the parcel; she wasn’t playing Kipper’s game. She folded her arms, keeping eye contact with Kipper. She looked almost bored, but I know Mags, and I knew her heart would have been thundering.
‘Come on,’ Kipper taunted, backing out through the gate again. ‘Come and get it, Magda . . . Or are you scared?’
‘I’m not scared of you, Kipper,’ Mags said evenly. ‘But I am afraid of getting too close – I just can’t stand the smell, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, you think you’re funny, don’t you, Frau Smeeth! You think you’re it. Up here in your so-called castle. Think you’re better than us, don’t you? Well, you’re not. If you don’t take that back, I’m going to lob your parcel right off the ruddy cliff!’
It was at this point that Kipper, now reversing quickly towards the cliff edge, his eyes fixed on Mags, collided with our enormous ginger cat Barnaby. Barnaby yowled and tore back towards the cottage, and Kipper started falling backwards, his arms windmilling wildly. He was heading for the edge of the cliff and I shrieked before starting towards him, along with Mags, who was already halfway there. At the very last moment, Kipper’s foot went down a rabbit hole and he fell, not backwards towards the edge, but to his left, cracking the side of his head on one of the standing stones.
‘Are you all right, Kipper?’ I called.
Mags laughed. It wasn’t a cruel laugh as such – more relief than anything, I think – but it made Kipper even angrier. Now he was humiliated too. ‘You’ll be sorry!’ he snarled at us both, as if we had done this to him on purpose. He pushed himself up, blinking back tears and clutching the side of his head. ‘You’ll be sorry! Everyone knows what you all are – and everyone knows what you’re up to!’ He stumbled towards the cliff path and flung the dirty parcel towards us. It landed soggily at my feet. ‘She’s been seen!’ he spat. He pointed a trembling finger towards the lighthouse. ‘My dad told me – he’s seen her. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows.’ Then he finally turned and limped away.
We were both silent for a moment. The clouds over the sea were as heavy as boulders. I could see a thin, dark line of liquid trickling down the standing stone where Kipper’s head had cracked against it.
‘Seen who, Mags?’ I breathed, not daring to look up at my sister. ‘What was he talking about?’
‘He’s talking rubbish, Petra,’ she muttered. ‘Kipper’s an idiot. Just ignore him.’
But, as she turned back towards the cottage, I saw that my sister’s face was white as chalk.