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Sea Music
SARA MACDONALD
Sea Music
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003
Copyright © Sara MacDonald 2003
Lines taken from Old Man, Tears and Sowing from Collected Poems, copyright © Edward Thomas, reproduced by kind permission of Everyman’s Library
Sara MacDonald asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007150731
Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007396740
Version: 2017-05-02
Dedication
For Milly Who says, the past is gone. The present is what matters, and the future.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Keep Reading
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Prologue
It is not cold here in this land of blue sea, but shafts of ice reach out to pierce my skin with memory of coldness. Sometimes I dream of snow and the muffled silence it brings. I dream of snow with the sun glistening on its smooth surface, catching tiny particles of blue ice, incandescent and blinding.
I wake in the dark in a strange place of fierce storms and I remember what horror can lie beneath the silent beauty of snow.
I listen to Fred breathing beside me, his body warm. He is far away in sleep and the faces swoop down at me in the dark, their voices hover in the air, like distant whispers I cannot capture.
I get out of bed, go downstairs and wander about the little cottage, afraid that this life is only a dream and I am about to wake. I sit in the corner chair by the window and wait for the sun to rise out of the black water.
I will hear Fred wake, I will hear the bed creak, then his bare footsteps coming down the stairs. He will come to where I sit and he will reach out gently to stop me rocking. He will fold me in his arms, then he will pick me up as if I weigh nothing, throwing his hair out of his eyes, as he carries me back up the stairs to bed.
He will hold me tight to him and I will breathe him into me. This is my life. I have this life now, here with him. I can feel him smiling into my hair as he tells me about the plans for our new house across the garden.
How can this beautiful man love me? But he does. He does.
I will not always be this in-between person who walks on the sand dunes above the glittering sea, watching my dark shadow move ahead of me as we walk together, the girl I was, the woman I am now.
The house is almost finished. We live here in the cottage all the time now. No more long journeys at weekends. The house is wonderful. Light is everywhere; it fills every corner, it slides across the floor and colours the rooms in buttery sun. Great windows open up and let the untamed garden into the house.
I am so happy I tremble. I kiss Fred’s hands because I cannot speak. I run through the empty rooms laughing and Fred leans in the doorway, his long legs crossed, pushing tobacco into his pipe, watching me with those dark eyes that hold love and amusement.
I make myself walk into the village. I am afraid at first. People stare because I am foreign. Sometimes, in the shop, they stop talking. When I am nervous I forget my English. Then, slowly, people begin to talk to me and I learn their names.
The farm workers in the fields behind the house bring me vegetables and creamy milk from the farm. Fred laughs at me – he says I flirt atrociously – but it is not, as he teases me, because I am floosy, it is only because I am so thin.
The builders’ rubble has been taken away. At last we move in. I can plan the garden. It is going to be perfect. One day Fred comes home with a little mixed dog and we call him Puck. I love him. When we walk on the beach, people come up to me and they ask, ‘How is Puck? How are you?’
Summer is here, the fierce winds are warmer, but I am ill and cannot bear to go out. Fred is pale with worry. Suddenly the doctor tells me I am having a baby. I cannot believe this, I have to keep saying it over and over. After all we have been told, Fred and I are having a baby.
Fred says I must not hope too much, it is early days, I must be careful. But I know. I know this child will be born.
When Fred goes back to London to work for his finals and he cannot see to worry, I dance round the garden and sing because of the happiness of this incredible miracle.
Christmas comes and then the New Year. I lie in my bed, or in a chair that Fred places by the window in the sun. I am careful, waiting. Waiting for spring and my baby.
Our child, a boy, arrives safely on 18 March 1951. He weighs 6lbs 2oz. We call him Barnaby, after one of Fred’s favourite uncles. Barnaby. Such an English name.
Small shoots spring from my feet and take hold in this light, sandy soil and root me here in this extraordinary foreign place filled with blue sea and sky. The past is gone. Marta is gone. My future is here. Is now. I am Martha Tremain, the doctor’s wife. This is who I am.
Chapter 1
Lucy finds Abi dead under the cherry tree. The little cat has crawled away to her favourite place and still feels warm to Lucy’s fingers. She knows it is stupid to feel so upset about an old tabby cat, especially when people are being killed all over the Balkans, but this one small cat has been with her most of her childhood.
She digs a hole to bury her deep next to Puck. She does not want her found and dug up by badgers or foxes. The cat is still loose-limbed and floppy, and Lucy places her in the hole cradled by roots as if she is still sleeping in the sun, but she cannot bear to push earth over the little feline face.
She picks bluebells and mint and garlic flowers and lays them over Abi’s eyes and head, makes a cover between the cat and the rain-soaked earth. Then she takes the spade and buries her. As Abi disappears from view Lucy suddenly sees herself under the ground too, a cold and literal walking over her grave.
Barnaby appears from the house and takes the spade from her, makes good the small grave and chats about what flowering thing they can plant on top of Abi. Lucy tells him about the horrible sensation and wonders if it is an omen. Barnaby says, smiling in that comforting way he has, ‘Lucy, remember when you and I went to pick her up from the farm? You were only six and that little cat has been a part of your childhood. You have just buried a chunk of your life, that is all.’
Lucy knows he is probably right. Barnaby has been central to her childhood. He has given her security and unconditional love. He has never let her down, ever.
She turns, shading her eyes from the sun, and stares back at the house. In the conservatory her grandparents are moving around each other aimlessly. Fred is looking for his newspaper and Martha, despite the warmth of the day, is clothed in many woollen garments. It is like looking at a bizarre backdrop to some surreal play.
A lump rises in Lucy’s throat. She is deserting them. She is leaving Barnaby with this and she has not even had the courage to tell him yet. She feels torn and suddenly apprehensive of the future. For Barnaby, for Tristan and for herself. These are her grandparents and she should be here for them. Lucy turns away, bends once more to the small grave and pats the earth flat.
Barnaby is watching her. ‘What is it, Lucy?’
‘Tristan has just been posted to Kosovo.’
Barnaby sighs. ‘Oh, Lucy, I am sorry.’ He picks up the spade and pulls her to her feet, putting his arm round her as they walk back to the house. ‘Tristan will be all right, Lu, I am absolutely sure of it.’
Martha is waving vaguely at them. Lucy does not think her grandmother has a clue who they are, but she and Barnaby both wave back, smiling.
Gran. Lucy feels again a lightning snake of sadness. She wants to protect and keep everything in this house safe, as it has been all her life, and she knows it is impossible. She has no power over her grandparents’ old age, state of mind or eventual death.
Barnaby locks the church door and stands on the porch looking out to where the sea lies in a semicircle round the churchyard. The tide is in and the estuary lies black and full, silhouetted by small, bent oak trees.
Barnaby walks past the ancient gravestones towards the water. He is reluctant to make the small journey across the road back to the house. He stands looking towards the harbour, listening to the throb-throb of the boat engines in the evening air as the small, colourful fishing fleet makes its way carefully over the bar and back to the quay.
Barnaby longs to spend this spring evening with another adult, a woman, if he is truthful. The familiar feeling of wasted years shoots through him briefly and painfully. It is not just loneliness that accentuates his single state; it is the slow, tragically funny and innocent return to childhood of both his parents, as if they have mutually given up being adult together. There is no one but Lucy to share this with: to laugh with, so he does not cry.
Lucy has been wonderful, rarely impatient, always concerned and tender with her grandparents. But she is another generation and she cannot share his memories. She has Tristan, her own life to lead.
There is Anna, but his sister does not want to accept what is happening to her parents. She is, as always, heavily involved with her career, and a husband. Anna, normally so practical, is in denial.
Barnaby turns away and makes his way down the church path and across the road to the house. Martha is peering out of the hall window, watching for him, or someone she recognises, within the fussy haze in which she now lives.
He opens the door and calls out, ‘I’m home.’
His mother dances towards him on tiny feet. ‘How do you do? I’m Martha Tremain,’ she says graciously.
Barnaby takes her small hand. ‘And I am Barnaby Tremain, your son.’ He smiles down at her, watching the bewildered expressions of doubt pass over her still-beautiful face.
Martha sees the laughter in his eyes and she laughs too, a little burst of relief. Of course. It’s Barnaby.
‘Oh, darling,’ she says. ‘How silly! I’m going quite dotty, you know.’
‘Rubbish,’ Barnaby says, kissing her. ‘Where’s Fred?’
‘Fred?’ Martha shrugs eloquently. She does not know, her face is blank again, but Barnaby can see his father and Mrs Biddulph out on the lawn. His father has Eric, the ginger tomcat, on a lead and is trying to get the cat to sit. Eric is not finding the lesson in the least amusing and Homer, his little Lab cross, is sitting on the grass, looking puzzled.
Poor Mrs Biddulph looks cold and ready for home. Barnaby opens the French windows and calls out to his father. The old man’s face lights up and he moves with surprising agility towards his son. Mrs Biddulph unclips the lead from Eric, who stalks off into the undergrowth, his thin tail twitching with indignation.
Mrs Biddulph is not pleased. ‘I’ve been trying to get Dr Tremain inside for at least an hour. He hasn’t had his tea yet.’
Barnaby gives her his best smile. ‘Never mind. Whisky time, I think, Dad?’
‘Good idea, old chap. Sun’s over the yardarm.’
Barnaby laughs and takes his father’s arm. ‘It is indeed. Mrs Biddulph, thank you so much. Will we see you tomorrow?’
‘I can’t really say. Mrs Thomas has taken on new staff. Young girls won’t stay five minutes,’ Mrs Biddulph says scathingly. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t ring and tell you.’
Barnaby prays there is not going to be a stream of indifferent girls to confuse Martha even further. Mrs Thomas, who runs the Loving Care Agency Barnaby uses, is universally unpopular with her staff.
‘She pays crap, expects the earth and buggers everybody around,’ Barnaby was told by an efficient, purple-haired girl who lasted a week.
Once indoors Barnaby closes the French windows. Mrs Biddulph puts on her shapeless wool coat, a garment she wears winter and summer.
‘I might see you tomorrow or I might not, Vicar. Good night all.’ Mrs Biddulph departs at speed, already thinking about Mr Biddulph’s tea, the bus, and getting home in time for the Antiques Roadshow.
Barnaby gathers both parents up, herds them into the sitting room and pours whisky into their familiar heavy tumblers. They watch him like expectant children and take their glasses greedily.
‘Thank you, darling.’ His mother raises her glass to him and smiles her sweet vacant smile.
‘You having one, old chap?’ his father asks.
‘Indeed I am.’ Barnaby sits tiredly in the armchair and looks at his parents fondly. All so normal. All calm and Sunday eveningish. If he closes his eyes for a moment he can almost believe he is twenty again and spending another soporific weekend with his parents, comforted by routine but restless to be away.
‘What’s Hattie cooking for supper, I wonder.’ Martha’s voice wavers against his closed eyelids. He opens them. His father is staring at his mother.
‘Hattie isn’t here any more. She died, didn’t she?’
Martha’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh dear, shouldn’t we have gone to the funeral? Shouldn’t we have sent flowers?’
Barnaby takes a long deep drink from his whisky glass. ‘Mum, Hattie retired about ten years ago, then sadly she died. You did send flowers, and you did go to the funeral, so that’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes, darling. Sometimes I forget things. How silly.’
‘I’m going to finish this drink, then I’ll start your supper. Cheers! Here’s to summer.’
‘Cheers, darling.’
‘Cheers, old chap.’
There is silence as they drink and watch him. A blackbird sets up a squawking in the cherry tree, which is about to explode into blossom.
‘Naughty, naughty Eric cat,’ Martha murmurs, and Barnaby smiles and begins to relax.
His mother gets up and wanders round the room. ‘I’m rather hungry, darling. I’ll just go out to the kitchen and tell Hattie to do us all an omelette.’
Barnaby sighs, gives up and gets to his feet. ‘I’ve just told you, Mum, Hattie is no longer here. It’s just me tonight. You’d like an omelette?’
‘Why isn’t she here? I didn’t give her the day off. It’s too bad.’
Moving to the door, Barnaby hears his voice rising, although he is trying hard not to let it. ‘Hattie is dead, Mother. Look, I’ll put the television on for you. I think it’s the Antiques Roadshow. Sit and watch that with Dad, and I’ll be back in a minute with your supper.’
As he closes the door he hears his mother say, ‘I didn’t know Hattie was dead, darling. When did she die?’
‘Oh, ages ago, M., ages ago,’ his father says. ‘Think I might have another drink.’
Barnaby stares into the middle of the fridge, fighting an aching tiredness. He cannot see any eggs and an overpowering depression suddenly overtakes him. He hears the front door open, then the glass inner door shut with a bang that makes him wince.
‘Hi, Barnes, it’s me,’ Lucy calls out unnecessarily. He hears her making a run for the kitchen to see him alone before Martha hears her and dances out of the sitting room to see her beloved granddaughter
‘Help me, Lucy. What on earth can I give them for supper? The fridge seems empty.’
Lucy claps her hands over her mouth. ‘Oh, bugger, I forgot. I told Mrs Biddulph I would do the shopping. She will get things she likes and Gran and Grandpa hate.’
She opens the door of the freezer and pulls out fishfingers and chips with a flourish. ‘Here we are! Gran loves them.’
Barnaby looks doubtful. ‘She seems to live on them. I’m not sure your grandfather is so keen.’
‘Darling Barnes,’ Lucy says briskly, ‘they both ate a huge roast lunch. I keep telling you, honestly, they don’t need two cooked meals a day. You just make work for yourself.’
‘I know, bossyboots, but food is their one comfort and distraction. Look, there is some cheese at the back of the fridge; that will do for Fred.’
‘I’ll eat chips with Gran.’
Barnaby raises his eyebrows. ‘If I remember rightly, you too had a large Sunday lunch, or was I seeing things?’
Before Lucy can answer Martha flies in. ‘Lucy, Lucy, how lovely …’ She lifts her cheek up for her gangly granddaughter to kiss and Lucy hugs her.
‘Hi, Gran. I’m about to cook you fishfingers and chips. I’m going to pig out on the chips with you.’
‘Darling child, how lovely!’
Barnaby lays four trays out three times. Martha, longing to be helpful, promptly puts them away three times.
‘How can I help, darling?’ she keeps saying to Lucy. Lucy brings her alive in a way even I cannot do, Barnaby thinks, in a way the young spark the old with their energy and cheerfulness.
They have supper on their knees in the sitting room. Barnaby sits next to Fred and shares his cheese and biscuits.
‘Barnaby and Gramps are both going to dream their heads off, darling, whereas you and I are merely going to get porky,’ Lucy whispers to Martha.
From across the room Fred looks at his tiny wife and his tall, skinny granddaughter sitting beside each other on the sofa.
‘I am extremely concerned,’ he says drily, ‘that my antique sofa is going to give way under all that weight.’
He regards them so seriously from over his half-moon glasses that they all burst out laughing.
Glimpses, Barnaby thinks, small, joyous glimpses of people you love, swinging back.
Chapter 2
A north-easterly wind blows in from the sea and hits the cottage head-on so that the small house shudders. The storm has gusted and rampaged around the coast for days, taking roofs and everything it can lift and hurling them around the gardens. It blows itself out in the first light of day and returns again at dusk. Trees bend and tear in the wind, their branches strewn across the road like broken limbs.
Lucy tosses and turns in the night to the mournful cry of curlews down on the estuary; wakes abruptly and lies anxious in the dark, feeling as if she is poised, waiting for some nebulous disaster that is edging her way.
She sits up, shivering. The church beyond the window looms out of the dark. The dawn sky is lightening to a faint pink above the gravestones which rise eerily up like small tors. She gets out of bed and pulls a pullover over her childlike pyjamas.
She misses the warmth of Abi jammed into her back. She goes downstairs to make some tea, switching on all the lights in the cottage. Carrying her tea back to bed she sits on the window seat in her bedroom, clutching the warm mug, listening to the wind begin to drop.
As a child she sat here so many times in the holidays, feeling relaxed and happy to be with her grandparents, listening to the church bells and the seabirds. Waiting for the first light when she could pull on shorts and T-shirt and run across the road, down the narrow path by the church to the beach.
When she was small, Fred and Martha still occasionally rented the cottage out, but when Fred retired he needed the spare room of the house for a study and they kept the cottage free for Barnaby or Anna and Lucy to stay in. If Lucy came alone she would sleep in Fred’s study. The room always smelt comfortingly of tobacco and leather, but the cottage was where she was happiest. It was like having her own den. She would walk with Anna or Barnaby across the garden to have breakfast with Martha and Fred at the round table in the conservatory surrounded by Martha’s geraniums.
Lucy and Tristan still often walk across the garden for breakfast, but it is Barnaby, not her grandparents, who cooks the bacon and makes the toast now.
Lucy suddenly longs for Tristan. Kosovo looms as foreign and unpredictable as another planet.
