A Brief History of Montmaray (5 page)

Then his eye narrowed on me. ‘You’re
Robert’s
girl,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ I said carefully.

But all he said was, ‘Robert had three children, not two.’ Then he refused his tea and slammed the door shut. I kept thinking of Hamlet and ‘there is method in his madness’, but I can’t see that there is much method in it for Uncle John. Unless his method is to make Rebecca feel so sorry for him that she waits on him hand and foot, but she would do that anyway – she reveres him. Also, I’m not entirely certain he’s
mad.
I think it’s just that he prefers to stay in bed (I sometimes feel that way myself, especially in winter) and that he has a lot of thinking to do and sometimes this leaks out into talking to himself. After all, I talk to myself all the time – this journal is nothing
but
talking to myself. And the awful things he must have seen and heard during the war would make
anyone
dislike sudden loud noises and the sight of blood. Not that Veronica has much sympathy for this point of view. Still, I suppose if he wants Veronica’s compassion, he should stop shouting and throwing things at her. She always seems to get the worst of it when he’s in a rage.

But I can hear noises now – the others are back! I had better go and help with the packages.

Carlos is a hero. One of the bags went overboard when they were loading the gig, but he leapt into the sea and dragged it back. Veronica was worried that there may have been some letters lost, but I’m not too concerned. The only letters we really care about are from Toby and we’ve just had one from him. At any rate, the two big hams were saved, as well as the fl our and the candles (six dozen of them!), so we gave Carlos the best spot in front of Vulcan to dry out and scratched behind his ears the way he likes, all of which he accepted solemnly as his proper due. At the moment he is lying on the hearth rug looking very noble, despite Henry and Jimmy being draped all over him. It’s mainly his furrowed brow, I think, and his penetrating black gaze. The Portuguese water dog is such a
majestic
breed. We’ve had them here at Montmaray for hundreds of years, although Carlos is the only one left now, George’s poor old Missy having died two winters ago. They’re supposed to have travelled on the Spanish Armada and been thrown overboard with the mules and horses after the battle was lost and the ships were scuttling home. Or else they were brought here by Portuguese fishermen. Although I prefer the Armada story, it’s more dramatic.

Anyway, now we are all slumped around the table, recovering from an enormous lunch. All the villagers stayed, except George, who always makes excuses (I think Uncle John’s brooding presence behind the door intimidates him). We had ham with honey glaze, boiled potatoes with parsley, a salad made from nasturtium leaves and spinach, and afterwards, oranges and walnuts. I am now so full of good food and so unwilling to move that I think any of Aunt Charlotte’s reproaches about our idle, extravagant lives would be quite, quite justified.

It is much later and Veronica has just finished giving Henry her spelling lesson (I did all the washing up instead and think I got the better end of the deal). Henry was in a very bad mood because firstly, Jimmy went back to the village to mess around with fishing nets and she wasn’t allowed to go with him, and secondly, Rebecca called her
Henrietta
all through lunch. Veronica had to promise a Gory Story to get Henry to pay any attention at all and even then, Henry spelled
city
with an
s
and
cake
with the
k
in the wrong place and no
e.
Her reading is almost as bad. And she doesn’t even care. She says George can’t read and he knows everything anyone would ever need to know, so why should
she
have to learn? She then recites a list of FitzOsbornes who lived perfectly happy lives despite being unable to spell their own names, beginning with our great-grandmother, who signed the marriage register with an
X.
Veronica now regrets having told Henry this fact.

It’s hard to believe Henry and Veronica are related, they’re so different. Veronica begged and begged for us to be allowed to go to boarding school, just for a year or two, when Toby started at Eton. It was no good, though. There wasn’t enough money, of course, but Aunt Charlotte also has a horror of overeducated females. The way she told it, the English counties are littered with aging spinsters who accidentally displayed a spark of intelligence at a debutante dance and were banished forever from civilised society. Certainly neither my mother nor Veronica’s went to school, and I don’t think they were taught anything more than needle work, piano and dancing at home. After all, young ladies are meant to marry and have children; proficiency in Latin and Algebra won’t help much with
that.
I can’t imagine Henry getting much benefit from school, if Veronica and I
were
to go to England and take her with us. (We couldn’t possibly leave her here alone with Rebecca, they’d kill each other within a fortnight.) Perhaps we could enrol Henry at one of those hearty schools where the pupils run around on playing fields with lacrosse sticks all day. Although the idea of Henry armed with a lacrosse stick is rather terrifying...

But now Veronica is telling Henry the promised Gory Story. It is about Robert FitzOsborne at the Battle of Hastings (not my father, obviously, but the much earlier Robert FitzOsborne). Heads are getting chopped off with battle-axes, arrows are taking people’s eyes out and horses are coughing up bloody froth, then falling down dead right on top of the Saxons. Henry is loving it.

‘And after the battle,’ Veronica continues, ‘as one of William of Normandy’s most favoured knights, Robert FitzOsborne was given a hundred men and sent south to cross the Tamar. He surveyed the land till he found a high point, bounded on three sides by ocean and river, and there he built a castle...’

This is my favourite part. I watch men scurry like ants, quarrying flat the solid rock, cleaving the rock into vast blocks, hauling barrels of sand and lime up onto the mound. At night, the work continues by the light of burning rushes. The round walls of the keep rise ten feet high, twenty, thirty. Not for the FitzOsbornes a flimsy wooden motte-and-bailey castle, but a proper stone keep, right from the beginning.

‘Just like the Tower of London,’ says Henry proudly.

‘Only because there was a great deal more stone than timber in Cornwall,’ Veronica says, never one to let a good story get in the way of the facts. ‘And the castle was really quite small. A couple of rooms, a chapel, and no one’s sure about the roof – thatch or shingle probably...’

‘And battlements,’ Henry says, but Veronica shakes her head.

‘No, no, not at that stage. Later they shipped in limestone from their own quarries in Caen and added the curtain walls, a gatehouse and watchtowers on each corner.’

‘And battlements,’ Henry says. ‘And when they were attacked, they hid behind them and rained down arrows, while their enemies fired dead horses over the top with an enormous catapult.’

‘Henry, you know perfectly well no one ever attacked that castle until Cromwell,’ says Veronica.

‘Yes, and Cromwell fired dead horses, too,’ says Henry. ‘Just like he did when he was fighting King Arthur and his Merry Men.’

Veronica is starting to clutch handfuls of her long dark hair, never a good sign.

I think I’ll go and finish this in the gatehouse.

Much, much later and nothing got written in the gatehouse after all. I noticed at once that the grit on the windowsill had been swept away and the basket attached to the pulley system was missing. Leaning out the window, I saw the basket balanced on a shelf of rock that vanishes at high tide. Beside it is a shallow cave where driftwood tends to collect in great piles – something to do with the ocean currents and the shape of the Chasm, I believe. It’s very convenient, it saves us having to go all the way to the cove for firewood.

Simon was down there, hacking away at what looked like the remains of a wooden crate. He swung the axe with neither grace nor skill (Henry could have done a better job), but there was something compelling about the determined set of his back and the sturdy plant of his feet upon the rock. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt. I could see his forearms, see the muscles shifting under the Londonpale skin. And all at once I was thrown into a rather embarrassing memory (and thank
Heavens
Veronica is too honourable to read this journal without my permission) of the time I came across Toby and Simon bathing in the Great Pool. Not that I saw very much of Simon, he had his back to me and was thigh-deep in water, but still...

Isn’t it odd, that something I barely registered at the time could have lurked in the shadows of my mind all those years? And then suddenly emerge with such force that as I sagged against the windowsill, I could actually
smell
the weedy pond water, feel the damp grass crushed under my feet and the sun burning into the back of my neck, hear Toby giggling as he sent a spray of water towards Simon. And then, just as my face heated up and I decided I really oughtn’t to be gawking out the gatehouse window at Simon, he turned to toss a chunk of wood into the basket and caught sight of me, hanging half out the window with my face pink and my hair upside down. He tilted his head and gave me his half-smile.

‘Oh, hello!’ I cried breathlessly. ‘Er, just ... just wondering if you want me to pull up the basket yet!’

He looked at the basket and its meagre contents.

‘Or I could come down and help!’ I said. ‘I’ll help load the wood, it’s much quicker with two people!’

I must have sounded an absolute fool. When flustered, I talk and talk instead of staying sensibly silent. But he was too polite to object, and I realised I’d been hoping for just such an excuse to spend time alone with him. So I climbed down the ladder to the courtyard and then descended the two dozen rusty iron spikes hammered into the Chasm wall below the drawbridge. It’s safer than it appears, but I was wearing my best (my only) dress, which I’d changed into once I realised everyone was staying for lunch. I tied the hem in a knot on one side so it didn’t billow too much, but I probably showed far more leg than is decent. Not that Simon appeared to notice. Of course, for all I know, fashionable young ladies in London are wearing hemlines up around their
knees
this season. Plus, worrying about my dress stopped me thinking about the sheer drop to the waves below – there’s only a finite amount of worry a person can do at any one time, as Veronica once pointed out to me. It was helpful to realise this, because there are so
many
things that terrify me – deep water, the dark, rats, blood, spiders, any kind of bones except fish bones, bees, enclosed spaces and albino rabbits, just for a start.

Up close, Simon chopped wood even more badly than was apparent from above (he must be terribly out of practice), but I wasn’t quite foolish enough to offer to take over. Instead I busied myself gathering up bits of wood, scraping off the seaweed and barnacles before tossing them in the basket, while trying not to trip over any of Henry’s rubbish (she and Jimmy have been building a raft in the cave) or drop anything on Simon’s jacket (which was folded on a rock with his rather nice gold watch sitting on top).

I couldn’t think of anything fascinating to say, so I concentrated on trying to decide whether Simon really is handsome or not. His face is all planes and sharp angles, with thick brows and deep, dark eyes. I noticed he had quite a lot of blue-black stubble along his jaw, even though he’d shaved only hours before. He’s taken to slicking his hair back with some sort of oil, too. It doesn’t suit him, it makes him look severe and much older (although I suppose that could be the effect he’s aiming for). He certainly hasn’t any of Toby’s golden-haired, blue-eyed good looks, but Toby is a completely different type of boy. Perhaps that’s it – that Toby is a boy and Simon is a man.
A man of the world,
I thought with a lovely shiver.

Then it occurred to me that Simon might have some advice regarding my dilemma. At any rate, it would be
something
to talk about. The silence was becoming awkward – for me, at least.

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Simon. Has ... has Toby said anything to you about Veronica and me going to England?’

‘Not to attend school, I presume,’ he said, tossing a chunk of wood in the basket.

‘No, to be presented at Court. It’s Aunt Charlotte’s idea. And after that – well, you know...’

‘Society awaits,’ he said dryly. He straightened and gave me an appraising look. I could feel myself starting to blush – again. ‘Well then, that’s very exciting news for you, Sophia. And, of course, for
Her Highness.
’

I’d asked him to call me by my first name years ago, but I can’t imagine Veronica ever extending him that courtesy. He does manage to infuse her royal title with such disdain that it turns the words meaningless. Mind you, she never calls him anything but
Simon Chester,
usually spat out as though they’re swear words.

‘Yes, but the thing is,’ I continued, ‘Veronica refuses to leave Montmaray. She doesn’t have the slightest interest in Society. And I can’t possibly go without her. So I wondered if, well, if
you
might...’ I trailed off with a pleading look.

‘Are you suggesting she’d listen to
me?
’ He almost laughed, then caught himself.

‘Well, no, but you could give me some ideas about how to persuade her,’ I said. ‘I mean, I haven’t been to England. What might make Veronica want to visit?’

‘Why do
you
want to go?’

I thought about it for a moment. I wasn’t entirely sure I did want to leave Montmaray, but there were certainly
some
things beckoning me towards England. I sighed. ‘Dress shops. Parties. The cinema. But
that’s
not going to help. She’s so much more ... I mean, she’s an intellectual.’

He narrowed his eyes and I was reminded of the lessons the four of us – Toby, Simon, Veronica and I – had shared, before Toby went away to school. Veronica had always been clever, but Simon had focused so intensely, worked so doggedly, that he nearly always matched her in the tasks our tutors set us. It might seem nothing much to boast about, given that she’s five years his junior, but then he’d lived in the village, with hardly any access to books, until he was twelve. For him to have achieved as much as he had was evidence, I thought, of his innate intelligence. At any rate, I was sure he could solve any problem I might care to throw at him – provided I could persuade him it was in his interests to solve it.