A Brief History of Montmaray (24 page)

‘She’s coming closer,’ said Simon. The captain seemed to have some idea of what he was about – he was steering clear of the treacherous shoal a half-mile off South Head. ‘She’s definitely heading towards us.’

Was it a friend or an enemy? We had no choice – we had to take a chance. We turned and ran back to the cottage. Simon hoisted Veronica over his shoulder while I grabbed the satchel and Carlos.

‘Mother?’ called Simon. As far as I was concerned, Rebecca could stay on the island and rot, but it turned out she had wandered off towards the rowboat. She even helped Simon drag it into the water and, at his urging, took up a pair of oars.

‘Hurry,’ I moaned, cradling Veronica’s head in my lap. The rest of her lay crumpled on the floor of the boat, covered in the blanket. Carlos scrambled over us to take up his favourite position at the prow and we heaved off. If it came to the worst, I thought savagely, if the ship turned out to be full of Nazis, at least he’d manage to tear a few bloody chunks out of them before they shot us. Meanwhile, Simon and Rebecca were battling the waves. Beyond the cove, they rose like white-tipped mountains, whipped into enormous peaks by the increasing gale. The boat felt as flimsy as paper, as we slammed down into a trough and then were tossed into the air. One of Simon’s oars was torn from his grasp.

‘It’s no use!’ he cried. ‘We’ll never make it!’

It was terrible. It was as bad as the day we’d buried George.

It was the stuff of nightmares.

I leant over the side of the boat, as I’d done so many times before in my dreams, but I wasn’t scared this time. I was furious.

‘Damn you!’ I screamed into the wind and the water. ‘Don’t you
dare
try to stop us!’ A wave reached up and slapped me in the face. ‘Isabella!’ I shouted, leaning over further. ‘Don’t let them!’

And perhaps it was my imagination, but the wave that surged up behind us at that moment seemed to push us closer to the ship. I peered down into the depths and saw a pale shape glide beneath us.

‘Isabella!’ I screamed. ‘Help us! Help
her.
’ Veronica stirred in my lap. I was vaguely aware of Rebecca starting to flail at me, of Simon twisting in his seat to restrain her, but I ignored them, focusing on the damp wood under my fingernails and the black, swirling waters. The boat had shifted sideways now, and wave after wave was urging us on. I stared down into the sea.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

The pale shape sank lower and lower, and then it was gone. I glanced up, swiping impatiently at my wet face. The lights of the ship were brighter than ever. I could hear the thrum of an engine idling down to a stutter, men shouting in a language I couldn’t understand, the clatter of chains against a metal hull. A wave swamped us, then another, but we were almost there. A rope landed with a wet thud at Simon’s feet. He threaded it through the metal loop at the prow, cursing his frozen fingers, and then we were being hauled on, faster and faster. The moon blotted out as blackness rose above us, as we bumped gently against the towering hull. I could smell rust and oil and engine fuel.

‘Let go,’ said Simon, trying to peel Veronica away from me, but I only clung to her harder, and in the end they hauled us both up together in a canvas sling. We were lowered onto the deck, into a huddle of men.

‘Please,’ I said, grasping the nearest sleeve. ‘She needs a doctor, her arm...’

A bearded face pushed itself forward. I peered up at the man and I almost sobbed with relief.

It was the Basque captain.

SIMON HAS GONE TO telephone again and I’m sitting here by Veronica’s bedside, waiting for him to return and marvelling at the electric lamp dangling above us. There’s also a sink in the corner with a tap that jets forth hot water, a cream-painted radiator shaped like a concertina, and a window that doesn’t rattle, with thick curtains drawn across it. Utter
bliss.

The publican’s wife has just brought me a pencil (I must have left my pen aboard the ship), as well as another bowl of soup. She says it’s beef and barley and a few parsnips and carrots, nothing special. I may have no idea what date it is, but I
do
know that this soup is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I fed Veronica a few spoonfuls – beef is supposed to be good for blood loss – before she fell back to sleep. She is still unnaturally pale, but her pulse is better and there is no fever at all. We have the Basque captain’s first mate to thank for that. He cleaned her arm, stitched it together neatly and kept checking on her bandages. He even fixed my own hands (there were a few grazes and torn fingernails from all that adventuring Simon and I did). Then Captain Zuleta himself gave up his cabin for us, and insisted on making a detour so he could deliver us to the nearest English port. I always did say he was a nice man and it’s lovely to be proved right.

It was Anthony who sent him to our rescue. It turns out the aeroplane made it back to England but only just (the Dratted Engine, again), and none of the pilots he knew wanted to risk a flight to Montmaray with the storms that were forecast. So Anthony telephoned Julia from the airstrip and Julia contacted her uncle, who knew someone high up in the Navy, who put out a signal, which was picked up by the Basque captain, whose ship happened to be the closest to Montmaray.

But why had he chosen to sail through waters so treacherous when there were safer routes northward? I like to think Isabella had some part to play in that. I think she was watching out for Veronica. And I wonder if it was mere coincidence that Rebecca lost her footing as she started to climb the ladder up to the ship’s deck? It was only Simon’s quick reflexes that saved her from slipping beneath the hull. It’s interesting, that’s all I’m saying, given how sure-footed she was along the cliff ledge. I think I’ll share my thoughts on the matter with Veronica after she wakes up, when she’s feeling more herself. Of course, once she’s feeling more herself, she’ll probably scoff at the idea that we were saved by her dead mother. But then I’ll say, ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Veronica, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ After all, I was there, I saw it, I felt it. And one can’t really argue with Shakespeare.

On the subject of arguments, I was all for calling the police and having Rebecca arrested the moment we set foot on land, but Simon managed to talk me out of it. He said it was pointless until Veronica was feeling better and could make a formal statement; besides, he was sure that it had been an accident. I suppose I can’t expect him to say anything else; people can be very stubborn when it comes to their mothers. At least Captain Zuleta took me seriously, for all my difficulties making myself understood in English – he had Rebecca placed under some sort of Captain’s Arrest and locked in a cabin far away from ours once he realised how Veronica had been injured. I think Henry’s claims about him being in love with Veronica may have had some truth to them – he kept making excuses to hover around Veronica, even though she wasn’t doing anything but sleeping.

The rest of the crew fell in love with Carlos – they chatted away to him in their various languages and kept feeding him bits of their meals. No one fell in love with me, thank Heavens. I think I’ve had enough of love for the moment, it causes such problems. I’ll wait and see what I feel for Simon in the weeks to come, but I hope I’ll be more Sensible about him from now on. Living with Aunt Charlotte should make it easier – she’ll probably lock me in my bedroom for the rest of my life if she suspects anything unseemly. Besides, I’ll no doubt be meeting lots of other, more suitable, young men now...

Oh, Simon is back – he spoke to Toby this time, who said the motor car Aunt Charlotte sent ought to be arriving very soon. They had to reset his broken leg, poor thing, but he says he’s feeling much better now and that he and Aunt Charlotte make an excellent pair, stomping around on their crutches. Henry seems to have met her match in Aunt Charlotte, according to Toby. Henry’s even wearing a skirt with her jersey, Aunt Charlotte not approving of young ladies wearing trousers. I can’t wait to see this...

Heavens, what’s that horrible noise? It’ll wake Veronica. Oh, I think it may be the motor car...

Neither Toby nor Simon ever explained that motor cars were so
smelly.
They’re quite cold, too, even though the chauffeur gave Veronica and me enormous furs to wrap around ourselves, and Carlos is stretched out on the floor, acting as a very heavy footwarmer. Simon and Rebecca are sitting in the front, yards and yards away, separated by a set of windows with velvet curtains. I wonder if it’s warmer where they are. It’s an exhilarating experience, though, driving along in a motor car. I don’t think I’ve ever travelled so fast and so smoothly. Even with my head bent over my journal, I’m not feeling the slightest bit seasick – I mean, roadsick. Landsick. Whatever it’s called.

The motor car’s not the only exhilarating experience, though. There are electric street lights each time we drive through a town, and rows of very tall trees, and once a passenger train running on tracks alongside the road. The windows were lit up and there were hundreds of people sitting inside. It was quite overwhelming – until that moment, I’d only ever seen a dozen people at a time in one place. I wish Veronica were awake so I could point out things and exclaim over them with her. There
was
a moment when we halted abruptly at some traffic lights and she was jolted awake. She glanced around, bewildered. Then she caught sight of me, said, ‘Oh, Sophie, you’re here,’ and slumped back against me. So although it makes me very sleepy, just watching her, I am determined to stay awake. Someone needs to be in charge, in case anything happens. It’s about time it was me.

Except now I’m getting rather stiff, having sat here, unmoving, for what feels like hours since our last rest stop. And the road’s grown bumpy. We’ve turned in past a pair of gateposts with some strange stone creatures curled up on top ... good Heavens, they’re sea monsters! Are we here at last?

Veronica is stirring now. This gravel drive seems to go on for miles and miles, but now the trees beside us are thinning and oh, there’s the most
enormous
white rectangle of a house, with hundreds of windows blazing at us in the early morning sun. The car is curving around a fountain (yet another sea monster, this one erupting from the pool) and we’re crunching to a stop in front of a long colonnade.

And the front doors have burst open and Henry, looking most peculiar in a kilt, is rushing towards us, followed more slowly by Toby on crutches and a very tall old man in black. No, he’s not old, he just has extremely blond hair. I think he might be the butler. A couple of women in black dresses and starched white aprons have also appeared. They’re helping Veronica out of the car; meanwhile, Henry is tugging at my elbow and shouting something in her usual, insistent manner.

‘Leave her
alone,
Henry,’ says Veronica. ‘She’s
writing.
’

Veronica’s correct; it’s very important I finish this final page of my own brief history of Montmaray. History, I’ve learnt, can take many forms. I flash a reassuring smile at Henry and she’s off again, rolling around on the manicured lawn with Carlos, who is emitting little yelps of joy. Toby is leaning on his crutches and trying to hug Veronica, and Simon is issuing orders to the butler, and Rebecca has wandered off down the drive. I take a deep breath, scenting not salt and sand, but leather upholstery and cut grass and new brick. And now I will close up my book and climb out of the car, my chin as high as Queen Matilda’s, and I will step bravely into the future.

This novel is a blend of historical fact and imaginative fiction. Real people and groups mentioned include King Henry the Eighth, Catherine Howard, Queen Elizabeth the First, Fabergé, the Romanovs, the Bolsheviks, Salazar, Franco, King Alfonso the Thirteenth, William of Normandy, Cromwell, Napoleon, Henry St John, the Marquis de Torcy, Louis the Fourteenth, Queen Anne, the Duke of Marlborough, Hitler, Mussolini, the Suffragettes, Marx, Stalin, von Ribbentrop, the Mitford girls, King Edward the Eighth, Wallis Simpson, Oswald Mosley, the British Union of Fascists, Freud, Mrs Beeton, Otto Rahn, Deutsches Ahnenerbe, Reichsgeschäftsführer Wolfram Sievers, Himmler, the SS, the Cathars, the Druids, Wagner, the Salian Franks, King Edward the Third and Oscar Wilde. However, the FitzOsbornes and any other characters who appear in the story are figments of my imagination.

Similarly, although Montmaray does not exist, many of the events mentioned in the novel did occur. These include the Battle of Hastings, Catherine Howard’s beheading, the Spanish Armada, the War of the Spanish Succession, the Battle of Malplaquet, the Treaty of Utrecht, Napoleon’s invasion of the Peninsula, the Great War of 1914–1918, the influenza epidemic of 1918, the stock market crash of 1929, the burning of the Reichstag, the Spanish Civil War and the abdication of King Edward.

The incident of the Communist protesters getting lost on the way to Downing Street and having to ask a policeman for directions comes from Jessica Mitford’s memoir,
Hons and Rebels.
The libel case involving Gef the Talking Mongoose is described in
The Long Week-end: A Social History of Great Britain 1918–1939,
by Robert Graves and Alan Hodge.

Other information about life in the 1930s came from several books by Anne de Courcy, including
1939: The Last Season
and
Society’s Queen: The Life of Edith, Marchioness of Londonderry,
and from biographies of the Mitfords, including
Life in a Cold Climate
by Laura Thompson and
The House of Mitford
by Jonathan Guinness with Catherine Guinness.
The Story of Cornwall,
by A.K. Hamilton Jenkin, provided useful information about Cornish customs, including the engraving on the hurling ball.
The National Trust Book of British Castles
by Paul Johnson,
Geraldene Holt’s Complete Book of Herbs
and ‘Homing Pigeons’ by E.S. Starr (an article published in
The Century
magazine in July 1886) were also invaluable sources.

Quotes from the following poems and plays were used:

The Bell-Buoy
by Rudyard Kipling (
1
)

Hamlet
by William Shakespeare (
1
and
2
)

The Tempest
by William Shakespeare (
1
)

The Holy Grail
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (
1
)

Lady Clara Vere de Vere
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (
1
)

The Passing of Arthur
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (
1
)

The Jumblies
by Edward Lear (
1
)

I’d also like to thank Zoe Walton, Zoë Sadokierski and the rest of the team at Random House Australia, as well as Rachel Skinner and Rick Raftos.