The Restless Sea, page 42
Betsy goes into labour a couple of weeks earlier than expected. Olivia sends for Aunt Nancy and a medic, and they deliver it, small and pink and screaming, into a world still at war. He is a boy. Olivia cannot bear to hold him in her arms; she feels it would be betraying her own poor dead baby. She gazes at Betsy, willing her to love the child with all her heart, amazed that Betsy seems so disinterested. Betsy calls him Alfred, after her father. Alfie nuzzles into her child’s body, all scrunched and wrinkled. Olivia feels a protective ache surge through her. She wishes Charlie could be here to see. She still has not heard back from him. She wonders whether he has received any of her letters. Perhaps he has been moved on. Or worse.
Alfie is the opposite of his mother, content to gurgle in the drawer they have made up for him, or to lie on a blanket on the lawn, gazing at the slow-moving clouds. But even the best babies can be unsettled, and Olivia persuades Betsy at last that a change of scenery will be good for the child, giving him some distraction, and that Betsy will regain some of her strength and her figure if she uses her muscles a bit more.
They start near the cottage, wandering the shoreline, Alfie swaddled in a blanket and barely visible against Betsy’s chest. Around the bothy, the summer flowers are blossoming: blue irises with delicate hearts of gold, fragrant lavender and thyme, white daisies twinkling like stars. It is a riot of scent and colour, and butterflies and bees of all shapes and sizes bumble and float over the top. Olivia hopes Betsy will soften. She shows her the sticky fronds of sea anemones in a rock pool, and the way a petrel skims low over stormy water. Betsy appears untouched, until one afternoon, when she points at three cormorants on a rock. They are standing in the sun, wings outstretched. ‘It’s like the dirty old men in the park,’ she says. ‘Showing us their bits and pieces.’ She cackles to herself, and Olivia realises it’s the first time she has heard Betsy laugh properly, a happy song from a forgotten part of her soul.
She takes Betsy and Alfie to Loch Maree, the magical loch dotted with wooded islands that lies above Loch Ewe. Alfie gurgles on the banks, while dippers hop and dive from the rock around them. On the River Ewe, Olivia shows Betsy how to catch wild brown trout, spotted and supple and tinged a peaty colour, but Betsy is most likely to return the fish, watching them dissolve back into the yellowy-brown depths of their watery home. Sometimes she persuades the girl to paddle in deeper pools, laughing as they balance on the slippery stones. Once, Betsy brings Alfie into the water, and, in contrast to the baby’s soft pink skin, Olivia notices that Betsy’s is turning brown as hazelnuts and her muscles as hard. In the wider parts of the river, the salmon sometimes leap out of the water, twisting and turning in the air like silvery dancers.
Some of Betsy’s wildness has gone. In the early evenings she rests with Alfie on the sofa in the same place that her brother once slept, her face soft like a little girl’s, and Olivia thinks that maybe everything is going to be all right after all. But then she remembers that she still has not told Jack, and the lie tightens its icy claw. And still Charlie does not write.
Olivia and Betsy are on a rare visit to Aunt Nancy. While they are playing with Alfie on the intricately patterned carpet, a group of candidates from the Highland Fieldcraft Training Centre are ushered into the drawing room by the company commander. Olivia stays where she is on the floor, but Betsy stands, smoothing her hair and placing herself delicately on the arm of a sofa.
The group has just finished their ten-week course and are heading to the Aultbea Hotel for a congratulatory meal. But first, they have been sent to apologise to Aunt Nancy for using a thunderflash to blow some of her salmon out of the water to eat.
The young men gather in the doorway, looking more like chastised schoolchildren than the officers they are about to become. One of them, a spotty soldier with tousled hair, says, ‘We’re sorry, Lady McPherson. We didn’t realise it would be so effective.’
‘That’s not really the point, is it?’ she says. ‘One fish or six: it’s theft, and theft is wrong.’
‘Yes, Lady McPherson.’
‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ says the company commander.
Aunt Nancy nods.
‘It was the Canadians’ fault,’ says a voice from the back. ‘They showed us how to do it.’ Some of the men giggle, and Betsy joins them from the sofa, hiding her smile behind her hand, her eyes shining over the top.
Aunt Nancy is not amused however. ‘You can’t blame anyone else for your actions,’ she says. ‘You boys are about to become leaders of men. This is not a laughing matter.’
The soldiers start to talk over each other, but the company commander ushers them out of the room before returning to offer more profuse apologies about how the boys are in such high spirits after finishing the intensive course. Betsy joins the recruits in the hall outside, listening to their tales of exhausting marches and jumping off moving lorries, using cotton grass to dress wounds, abseiling and rock climbing through hailstorms, climbing trees, crawling through the snow, shinning along ropes, passing ammunition across a burn in spate using a tree trunk. Betsy hangs on their every sentence, encouraging them with gasps and murmurs. The young men assume that Alfie belongs to Olivia, even though Olivia can still barely bring herself to touch him. Betsy does nothing to shatter the illusion. Olivia is just glad that the girl seems finally to be enjoying herself.
It is the middle of the night. Pitch black. Alfie won’t stop crying. It is very unlike him. Olivia lies on the sofa, listening to the cries, waiting for Betsy to calm him, but the noise grows more insistent. Olivia gets up, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. She lights a candle and knocks on Betsy’s door. There is no answer, apart from Alfie’s furious cries. She pushes open the door and pads into the room. The shadows stretch and contort around her until she picks out the drawer with Alfie in it. By now, he is a bawling mass of scrunched-up fury. He has wriggled free from his blanket, and his little pink legs are kicking wildly in the air. Betsy’s bed is empty, the rumpled sheets cold. Olivia hesitates for a moment. She has tried so hard to keep her distance from Alfie – not able to trust that she won’t be swamped by sadness if she touches him. But she cannot stand and listen to his panicky hiccups any longer. She stoops to gather him into her arms, expecting the cloud of despair to descend, but instead she feels nothing but warmth as she lifts his squirming body.
Alfie tucks himself into her shoulder, and she soothes him, stroking his soft, warm head and moving around, humming a lullaby. He is calm within minutes, his snuffly breathing regular, and his body limp. Olivia checks the wardrobe, suddenly worried that Betsy may have run. But her clothes are still there. She can’t have gone far.
Olivia carries Alfie outside, on to the steps. There is no sign of Betsy there either. She stands for a while, relishing the sensation of Alfie’s body curled against hers, his tiny legs dangling, his head heavy with sleep. The night sky is peppered with stars, the only sound the rush of water, and, in the distance, the clank of ships at anchor.
When Betsy eventually appears, the sun is beginning to rise in the pale morning sky. The click of the door wakes Olivia from her light sleep. Alfie is still nestled into her shoulder. ‘Where have you been?’ she asks.
‘Nowhere,’ says Betsy. Her eyes are sparkling, and a smile plays on her lips.
‘Alfie was crying,’ says Olivia, acknowledging internally that this must be what Betsy looks like when she’s truly happy.
‘He looks all right now.’
‘Who were you with?’
‘What’s it to you? You’re not my mother.’ She is suddenly the Betsy of old: flinty and defiant.
‘But you’re Alfie’s mother. And he needs you.’
‘He had you …’
‘How often have you done this?’
‘This is the first time.’
‘You need to be careful … or you’ll end up with another baby.’
Betsy laughs, a hollow sound. ‘You think that’s what I’ve been doing? Once a tart, always a tart?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘You with your perfect manners and your never doing anything wrong …’
‘And what about Charlie?’
‘You’re such a bleeding hypocrite.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s all Charlie this and Charlie that …’
‘Charlie’s been a good friend to me …’
‘Well he’s with me now,’ says Betsy, glaring back at her, black eyes flashing. ‘And you’re meant to be with my brother.’
‘I am with your brother.’
‘I bet you haven’t told him about Alfie yet.’
‘I thought you didn’t want me to.’
‘That don’t make it right. You should have told him. You should have been honest with him from the start.’
‘I wanted to tell him face to face …’
‘Or you’re trying to save your Charlie’s skin …’
‘I’ll tell him in my next letter,’ she says.
‘Let’s hope for your sakes it’s not too late by then,’ says Betsy, grabbing Alfie as she retreats to her bedroom, leaving Olivia all alone.
Olivia doesn’t mention the events of that night again, but she doesn’t tell Jack either. Betsy withdraws once more. She spends her days in and near the cottage, playing with Alfie on the steps or staring into the distance. She won’t let Olivia help with the child, and Olivia is relieved in a way, as she hopes it means Betsy is feeling protective of him. Betsy remains aloof, until one autumn morning, when the flocks of woodcock begin to arrive from Russia and Finland. Olivia has a spare day to go stalking, and she is surprised when Betsy asks to come with her. Olivia accepts the gesture – happy that Betsy is trying to make amends.
They leave Alfie with Aunt Nancy and Clarkson. It is the first time Betsy has been free of the baby during the day. It is also the first time she has been up into the hills. It is a perfect autumn day. They collect Thistle from the farm. Betsy bonds with the pony, stroking his grey neck, whispering in his ear.
‘You like ponies?’ Olivia asks.
‘Reminds me of the rag-and-bone man,’ says Betsy. ‘He had a stocky pony like this. They used to call on us before the war. Me and Jack would feed it sugar lumps if we had some, or bring a bucket of water on a hot day, while my mum looked for empty jars and rabbit skins and bones if we had any left from Sunday dinner.’ She stops for a moment. ‘My mum never let us go without,’ she says.
‘Jack told me a bit about her. She sounds a remarkable person.’
Betsy nods, but her mouth is a thin line again, as if she won’t allow more thoughts to spill out.
‘Why don’t you lead him?’ says Olivia, handing her the rope, and Betsy seems pleased with the responsibility.
They climb to the rowan pool and leave Thistle there. Then they climb some more, stopping to take in the high peaks of hills stretching away around them, above troughs filled with liquid silver. Behind them lies the loch, and beyond that the sea. In the distance the Hebrides are wreathed in tendrils of white cloud. A ptarmigan croaks among the heather, easy to spot as the beginning of its winter plumage turns it into a splodge of mottled white and brown.
They rest and eat sandwiches, and then continue, until eventually Olivia spies a suitable stag. She motions to Betsy to drop to the ground and follow, inching slowly forward, head down. Prickly fronds of heather scratch at her chin, up her nostrils. She slides the rifle out and across the ground, jamming it into her shoulder. She uses her bag to rest the barrel on. The rifle is steady. She pulls herself up and forward a little. When she is happy that everything is in place, she slowly lifts her face.
Her heartbeat slows. Time slows. She forgets secrets and pain. The stillness fills her soul. She lines the shot up on the beast’s shoulder. She squeezes the trigger. There is a sound like a cable wire snapping as the bullet zips from the rifle and across the lichen-covered rocks, and the stag crumples to the ground.
Olivia stands, reloads the gun. She is ready to give chase if the deer moves. But it doesn’t. It is a clear and true shot.
She relaxes. ‘He’s down.’
Betsy kneels behind her and says nothing.
Up close, the stag is large. A warm yet lifeless body of fur. That’s all it takes. One shot to stop a heart beating. To take a life. Betsy and Olivia watch the deep brown stain grow where the blood is soaking away into the ground. Its strong, wild smell fills their nostrils. Betsy bends to stroke the creature’s neck, still warm with life. ‘I’m glad I didn’t get rid of him,’ she says.
‘Alfie?’
Betsy nods.
‘I am too.’
Then Betsy stands and moves away. ‘Doesn’t mean I want to keep him, though.’
‘But you’ve been so good with him …’
‘But I don’t want to be a mother. I don’t want to boil bones in a saucepan and pretend it’s soup. I don’t want to go without so he can have new clothes …’
‘You won’t have to. Jack and I can help …’
‘You’d take my baby as well as my brother …?’
‘That’s not what I meant …’
‘I’m going to go and get the pony.’
Betsy clambers away down the hillside.
Olivia kneels and pulls the stag’s head back, manoeuvring the heavy carcass so that it is pointing slightly downhill. She checks its hooves, its legs, its tail for signs of illness. She takes out her knife. She feels for the centre of the chest, warm and muscly. She sticks her knife into the thick hide, pulls it back and forth to make the hole larger. A thick river of blood pulses out, soaking into the bracken and heather. She sticks her hand in, feeling for the white sinewy strand of the oesophagus. She scrapes it clean, then cuts and ties it. With a grunt, she rolls the beast over and uses her fingers to search for the line that marks the centre of its belly. She carefully slices into the skin. She reaches inside with both hands to pull out the rumen, a balloon-like sack of bulging sinews and innards. It is also warm and lumpy, and she works it out of the beast’s stomach, being careful not to pierce it.
By the time she has separated the spleen from the belly and tied the oesophagus, Betsy is returning with Thistle. Olivia does not show her relief. Instead, she gently continues to work the entire inside of the hind outside. She moves the guts away from the beast, and then slices the rumen open so that its murky green-yellow contents spread out across the heather.
‘There,’ she says.
‘It’s disgusting,’ says Betsy.
‘It’s got to be done,’ says Olivia. ‘We’d never get it home otherwise.’
Betsy helps Olivia lift the stag on to the back of the pony. When the deer is secure, they start the descent. It has been a long day and they are both exhausted. There is blood spattered across Olivia’s clothes, and a streak has dried to a dark rusty colour on her face.
They are traipsing back past the rowan pool when Betsy starts to speak. Her voice is small and tight, and Olivia has to strain to hear. ‘Do you think Jack would choose you or me?’ she says.
Olivia stops, pulling on Thistle, who tugs his head away from her, annoyed that the food and new bed of straw that are waiting for him are no longer getting closer. ‘Don’t be silly,’ says Olivia. ‘He’s not going to have to choose between us.’ She thinks guiltily of their engagement.
Betsy refuses to meet her eyes. ‘He is. You and me, we don’t exist in the same world …’
‘Of course we do. We’re here now, together …’
Betsy snorts derisively. ‘That’s not what I mean. Our lives are upside-down. This is what you people call “war spirit”. But when the war’s over, things’ll go back to the way they were. I’ll be treated like nothing more than one of those maidservants your kind used to keep.’
‘Things have changed … Lots of people will carry on looking after themselves when this is over.’
‘You mean people like you?’
‘I intend to carry on working …’
‘Then who’s going to look after my brother? Have his tea on the table? His clothes clean and pressed?’
‘We’ll work it out …’
‘And what of me and Alfie? Would we live there too?’
Thistle nudges Olivia impatiently, yanking at her arm.
‘Let’s see what happens with Charlie …’
‘Charlie’s not interested. He’s never bothered to write. Either he’s dead, or he doesn’t want to know.’
‘We don’t know that. Please stop worrying. We’ll work something out …’
But Betsy is already beginning to move on. Behind her, Olivia notices that the rowan leaves that were orange and gold are now beginning to wither and fall, leaving only the blood-red berries on their naked branches.
Olivia hauls the tin bath in front of the fire in the sitting room. She leaves Betsy in charge of boiling up the water. It always takes for ever, and she is due to deliver some instructions to a waiting convoy. When she returns, the pan has almost boiled dry. She curses. Betsy must have fallen asleep. Olivia shovels more coal into the stove. There is no sign of Betsy in the kitchen. Olivia puts her head around the door to the sitting room, expecting to see Betsy and Alfie asleep on the sofa together. But there is no sign of either of them there, only the dry bath and the embers of the little fire. She runs to the bedroom, calling Betsy’s and Alfie’s names, but the sound echoes through the empty cottage. The wardrobe is bare. Alfie’s drawer is a silent hole. Betsy’s bag is gone. She was not trying to make amends. She was saying goodbye.
