The Cornish Widow, page 6
I resolve the problem by lying on top of the bed. Then I gaze at the night light on my bedside table, but before long, I've cricked my neck, and I'm going cross-eyed. The candle is too close to watch comfortably. Sighing, I stand up and move it onto the nearest corner of my dressing table, then I adjust the window until it is fractionally open. I test my position on the bed again and eye the candle. The flame flickers to the rhythm of the draft, and I find myself drawn to the dancing light. I recline on my soft pillow and yawn, worrying that I'll fall asleep before I can give the experiment my best effort. And there's another problem. The draft from the open window is cold and distracting. I'll have to get into bed after all.
I lay unmoving under the eiderdown, pleasantly warm as I stare at the hypnotic flame. The light glows soft and orange while my eyes grow heavy. I relax and drift, numb and immobile, then a tingling starts in my little finger. Pins and needles, I assume, but it's a passing thought and barely registers. Then the feeling creeps up my arms, like an army of ants. It warms and chills, leaving me sleepy yet curiously alert. I'm not worried and yield to the sensation, and soon vibrations course through my body like static electricity. I am still lying prone on the bed, aware of my surroundings but not distracted by them. I am comfortable and safe.
My focus is on the candle when something penetrates the glowing light. A moth has flown through the open window and is circling, its gossamer wings flirting with the naked flame. I hope it will not succumb, but I cannot tear my eyes away. I need not worry. It glides towards me and settles on the eiderdown within a hair's breadth of my left hand. I move my little finger close enough to shoo it away, but it does not connect, and I realise the moth is further away than I thought. I try again and make a gentle flicking motion with my fingers. They pass right through the little creature. I watch, bemused but not afraid, as I raise my hand and place it over the insect, fascinated to see the two things merging. I raise my head, sit up straight, and put a hesitant foot on the floor, followed by another. I lean over and put my hand on the floorboards where it rests for a moment, then I take a deep breath and push. My hand disappears up to the wrist, and I view my arm disinterestedly while acknowledging that something has indeed occurred. I stride towards the window, long confident steps, and smile at the easy, familiar movement. I turn and face the bed to see myself lying prone under the cover. I am free of my weak and useless body. The sensation of dream walking is more joyful knowing that I've conjured it myself. It is liberating to have control.
I remember my promise to Oliver Fox, and no sooner do I imagine the library than I feel pulled towards the outside of Pebble Cottage. I screw my eyes tight and fight the urge. I want to make every moment count and walk there unaided. I don't know how long I will stay in the dream state. It rarely lasts long and might end at any moment, so I want to take full advantage. I look at the clock and note that it is now five minutes to midnight. I reach for the door, and my arm passes through, followed by my body. I don't feel a thing. Then I walk downstairs, but my feet don't touch the steps. The sensation is hard to describe, and I miss hearing my footsteps on the hard wooden stair. I traverse the hallway, push through the front door, and I am outside, turning my face into the wind. It should be cold this late at night, and I can see from the shimmering treetops that it's windy, but it doesn't affect my skin. There's no chill air, no goosebumps. I can see and hear, but I've lost all sense of feeling, and I wonder if I can still smell.
I lift my skirts and run toward the hotel. Though only half prepared for this, I had the foresight to stay dressed. Our cottage is moments away, and I am only outside for a few seconds. As soon as I arrive at the hotel door, I allow myself to think of the library, and instantly I'm there, standing in front of the cold, unlit fire. It is dark, and I can see the leather chairs by the pale moonlight. It feels strange to be there at night. Apart from my most recent dream, all previous travel has been outdoors, and I don't know whether I can perform normal basic functions. I decide to sit on the couch and partly succeed. But it is an uneasy combination of being both in and on the sofa at the same time. I am neither comfortable nor uncomfortable without form or substance, and I'm unsure how to feel about it. I sprawl across the sofa, head on one arm, my feet on the other, but it does not help. I am immune to external sensation in this strange state and decide I might as well be upright for all the relief that sitting affords.
I pace the room, excitedly waiting for Mr Fox so he can acknowledge my success. But when I look at the clock, it is five minutes past midnight. He is late, and a wave of disappointment engulfs me. At least my emotions still work. I stand by the fireplace, staring towards the mirror, and immediately experience a surge of fear. Once again, an overwhelming sensation is pulling me away, and I know that it's trying to draw me back against my will. I concentrate and think of the candle, take deep breaths, and I am steady again. The idea of looking in the mirror and not seeing my reflection frightens me beyond reason, filling me with existential dread. I am here, but I am not. I exist, yet I don't. My mind is buzzing, but I imagine the library in the daytime with Peter and his books and soon feel calmer.
I can’t face what I'll see if I look in the mirror and I banish the thought from my head. I walk towards the window and peer outside but stop in the certain knowledge that someone's behind me. I turn around. Oliver Fox has materialised through the door and is gliding my way. As I step forward, he sees me, and his jaw drops in shock as if he has confronted a ghost, which I suppose he has. But no sooner have I registered his presence than he's gone – vanished. Not in a puff of smoke, nor gentle evaporation, but there one moment and gone the next. It is an anti-climax, and I am left feeling deflated.
Duty over and still feeling strong, I return to the window and watch the sea crash over the bay. It is high tide, and the waves have stolen the beach, leaving only a narrow strip near the caves – my caves. My heart fills as I burst through the walls, down the slope and onto the beach, running with arms out, hair loose – free of my broken body, free of Mrs Ponsonby's rules, free of the constraints of my life. I am at my cave in no time – not tired or out of breath, but present in the moment. Yet, something is wrong. I can't taste the salty air or feel the dank oppressiveness of the cave. I miss the cold more than I ever thought possible. Freedom has come at the expense of humanity. My haven isn't the same without a book to curl up with and a blanket over my knees. I shouldn't have come.
I turn away and start back along the sand. Then the unexpected screech of an owl assails my ears, and I am pulled backwards with a sickening whoosh. I am in my body on my bed, shallow panting with a racing heart. I test my pulse. Its throb makes my fingers tingle. The room is chilly from the open window, and I shiver, but not with cold. I have dream walked many times before and accepted it as normal. But tonight, for the first time, I'm frightened. I snuggle under my eiderdown, glad to be alive and in no hurry to repeat the experience. Within moments, I am fast asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lunch and Other Distractions
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1930
I wake late feeling exhausted, with memories of the previous night tumbling through my head like unruly children. The waking dream was so disturbing that I don't know whether to believe it. I take a few moments to marshal my thoughts and try to assemble the memories in the correct order. I recollect falling asleep, but everything else is blurry. I rise, pour cold water into the basin on the washstand, and splash my face. As I look up, my reflection greets me in the mirror, and the resulting stab of fear reminds me of last night's foray into the library. My memories flood back, and I feel a growing unease about the experiment. It wasn't worth it for the fleeting moments I spent with Oliver Fox. Still, I have done as he asked, and there is no need to repeat the experience if I don't want to. I gaze through the window, looking out to the rear of the hotel and glimpse the beach, reminding me of the soulless cave. No, I don't want to experiment again. I am prepared for the dreams to come to me, but I won't chase them.
I grab my stick and limp to the wardrobe. My limbs are as heavy and stiff as if I really did run along the sand last night. My lower back aches, and there's a nasty twinge in my hips. I sniff and blow my nose, wondering if I have caught a cold, then I look at the clock, noting that it is nearly half past eight. I could get used to having a timepiece. It is surprisingly helpful, and I don't know how I ever did without one. It won't be returning to its home in the dining room.
I sit on the bed and roll my woollen stockings over my legs, tempted to go back to bed. If I tell Mrs Ponsonby that I'm unwell, she won't make a fuss. But my presence at the Pottses' supper party matters to her, and I can't risk letting her down. If I do, the trip to Plymouth will disappear in a flash, no matter how justified my absence. By the time I finish dressing, brush my hair, and apply a little cold cream, I feel better and less concerned about last night's events. I'll speak to Mr Fox, then try to forget all about it. Cheered by this decision, I leave my room and prepare to go downstairs when I see myself in the mirror and reconsider my outfit. I haven't put a scrap of makeup on. I never do. My hair is straggly, and my dress shabby and old. I must speak to Elys today and ask her to measure me for the dress she promised. In the meantime, I'll try and change into something a little less old-fashioned.
Leaving my best dress for the supper party, I select a navy blue frock. It is long, slim-fitting, and passable. My hair needs a good cut, and the best that I can do is pin it tidily. It takes three attempts before I am satisfied. Finally, I open the top drawer of my dressing table and remove a few items of makeup that I've hardly used. I apply a little rouge and the barest trace of lipstick. It is not much, but the effect is pleasing and not too dramatic. I limp downstairs for some breakfast, but as I walk past the sideboard, I see a note addressed to me in Mary's handwriting. I hook my stick over my arm and slit the envelope open. It's good news – Mary is already here. She arrived early this morning and will have settled on the beach by now. My heart thuds with excitement. A friend of my age to talk to will provide more pleasure than I have had in a long time. I forgo a proper breakfast and cut the crust from the loaf on the table, butter it and hold it between my teeth while I don my coat. Then I slowly head off, eating as I go.
It is clement outside. The day is mild, and there is barely any wind. It is perfect weather for painting, and I am delighted for Mary, who has travelled a long way to capture the beauty of Porth Tregoryan. I look to the right, but the beach is empty; Mary is not by the caves, but I turn left and soon see her. Mary has thoughtfully positioned herself only a short distance from our cottage. She has set up her easel and is daubing paint onto the canvas with a palette knife, her jaw set in concentration. Mary hears my stick on the sand and looks up as I approach. "Connie," she exclaims, her face wreathed in smiles. She breaks from her work and walks towards me, linking her hand through mine and leaning into me.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," she says. "Let me look at you."
She steps backwards and peers into my face. "You look different, healthy," she says.
"Thank you," I reply, wishing I could say likewise. But something is wrong. Mary is pale and angular. She has lost weight, and her eyes lack their usual sparkle.
"It's lovely to see you," I offer instead. "It has been too long."
"I know. What with being away and everything..." Her words trail away, and I find myself momentarily tongue-tied.
"Look. I have brought you a seat," Mary says, pointing to a deckchair beside her easel. "It will be alright, won't it?"
"It's perfect," I say, lowering myself with the aid of my stick.
"Do use this, dear," she says, passing me a blanket. I don't need it. My coat is lovely and warm and the weather unseasonably mild, but I take it anyway in recognition of her thoughtfulness.
"What are you painting?" I ask, gazing at the canvas.
She points towards Newquay. "I want to capture that view," she says. "Or rather my interpretation of it."
"Lovely," I say, relaxing into the deckchair. "Now, Mary, you're looking very tanned. Have you been travelling?"
"Yes," she says. "Earlier this year. But I've been back for some time now. I'm surprised you can tell."
"I long to travel," I say, imagining the thrill of setting off on an adventure. "Where have you been? Tell me everything about your journey."
"Tangier," she says and describes the city and its people. She talks at length and in detail as she paints, knowing that I am unlikely to leave Cornwall, much less travel to North Africa. I am not envious and enjoy hearing her stories. Then, just as she starts describing her rooms at The Continental Hotel, she pauses and chews her lip.
"Somerset Maugham was staying too," she says, and I relish the precious titbit of information. I read Maugham and know that his protagonist Philip Carey has a club foot. It is unusual to read about an imperfect hero.
"He was there when the news arrived," Mary continues. "Mr Maugham was very kind to me."
"What news?" I ask.
"News about my brother," she whispers.
"Crawford?" I reply, then curse myself for the thoughtless question. Mary was one of three children, and her younger brother died many years ago. It could hardly have been anyone else but Crawford Newson.
She nods.
"What happened?"
Her eyes well, and she puts her brush down before gazing towards the sea. I stare at her profile, tracking the tear that trickles down her cheek. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and turns towards me.
"He drowned."
"Mary, no," I say, reaching for her hand. She clasps mine and kneels on the sand beside me. "I am so sorry," I say, lost for words. I don't know how she's managed an hour of chat about Tangier without mentioning her brother. He must be at the forefront of her thoughts. "When did it happen?"
"In April, while I was away," she says.
"How awful. Couldn't your brother swim?" I ask.
"Very well," says Mary. "You never met him, did you?"
"No, but I have read reviews about his books. I hear he was a wonderful writer."
"Crawford led an interesting life," she says. "He travelled all over the world and was a real adventurer like the ones you read about in Boy's Own. To die in Salcombe harbour like that is unthinkable. Even now, I can hardly believe it."
"You poor thing," I say. "And his wife – it's a terrible thing to be a young widow."
"Laura is coping in her way," says Mary. "She would manage even better without the awful rumours."
"Rumours?"
"Yes. Silly stories invented by people who ought to know better."
I wait, unsure whether to ask more. I am dying to know the details, but further questions would be insensitive. Mary senses my reluctance, sighs, and continues.
"Crawford was staying on a yacht moored off Salcombe estuary," she says. "But on the Saturday night of Easter weekend, he went to a dance with his friends at the nearby hotel. They had a high old time by all accounts, and he left in the early hours of Sunday morning before boarding a collapsible dinghy to row back."
"How many sailed?" I ask, thinking how dangerous it would be with a large party aboard.
"Only three," says Mary. "My brother, his friend Harry Hollings, and a local doctor's daughter."
I raise an eyebrow and quickly lower it before Mary notices.
"The wind was up," she continues, "the tide was strong and the sea choppy. A sudden swell tossed the dinghy around, and it sank. Harry and the girl swam for the shore, but Crawford headed for the yacht. They both survived but never saw Crawford again."
"How far were they from the shore when the dinghy sank?"
"I'm not sure," says Mary. "But it's so unfair. The girl was wearing a fur coat, yet she made it back while my brother died."
"Do the rumours concern the doctor's daughter?" I ask, unable to help myself.
"Partly," Mary replies. "I mean, his friend was there, so he wasn't in a compromising situation, but even so..." Her words die away, and I squeeze her hand.
She tucks a curl of hair behind her ears with paint-stained fingers and continues. "They didn't find Crawford's body," she says. "And the rumours are unspeakably awful. They claim he didn't die but disappeared by choice."
"Why would he?" I ask, shocked.
"For family or financial reasons, they say," she replies.
"Were there any?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Crawford seemed perfectly happy with Laura, and she adored him. And if he had money troubles, we could have helped. You know how successful my father was, and I have an annuity as well as my earnings."
"I know," I say. Mary lives an idyllic life in an artist's colony in Bosula. Her widowed mother is wealthy, and so are several of the other residents. They would, no doubt, have been morally and financially supportive.
"Besides," she says. "Not only was Crawford a successful novelist, but his articles and poems were always in great demand. He didn’t have financial problems, and I don't know why these rumours have persisted."
"Was he happy?" I ask.
Mary frowns. "Well, yes. I suppose so. Although the last few times I saw him, he was out of sorts – preoccupied, I suppose."
"In what way?"
"It's hard to say. One moment, Crawford would be larking around, telling stories and full of bonhomie. The next, he would be quieter and introspective. I left for Tangier in January and saw him at Christmas. He didn't live with us in the colony, and our last meeting was at his home. I arrived before the others and let myself in the back door. Crawford was in the study with the door open, and I went inside. He was scribbling away, hard at it, and couldn't have heard me. When I coughed, he started as if someone had let off a firework. I have never seen him so pale and shaken. He poured a drink before shooing me out of his study. But not before I saw the contents of his jotter."
"Was he writing?"
"No. Crawford was sketching – it was an odd sort of picture – ore like a symbol, but it meant nothing to me. Then Mother arrived, and he switched on the charm as usual."
