The Mirror World of Melody Black (26 page)

Of course, there were many more people in the late summer and early autumn – I think the car park outside the village can accommodate several hundred vehicles – but they were always clustered in the square, or at the castle or priory. It was still rare to see more than a handful of hikers passing down this road at any one time. Since November, whole days have gone by when I haven't seen a soul.

Aside from the lack of people, the thing that most struck me when I arrived was the darkness. The darkness and the silence. Both, at times, can be absolute.

It's ironic, but after so many nights in London praying for peace and quiet and darkness, I found that the first few nights here I couldn't sleep. The truth is I'd had no prior experience of this kind of environment. I've always lived in the city, and I wasn't prepared for how the total absence of sound and light would feel. On nights when there isn't any wind or rain, you can't hear anything beyond your breath and the occasional creak of a cooling floorboard. On nights when there isn't a moon, you can't see even your own body in the darkness. You feel as if you're nothing more than a thought in the void.

That first night, I didn't fall asleep until the sun came up and the birdsong started. The three subsequent nights, I slept with the landing light on.

I've never been good at identifying accents, especially northern accents. Yorkshire, Lancashire, Geordie – they all sound pretty much the same to my ear. After more than three months on this island, I think I'm getting slightly better, but I still couldn't say for certain whether there is a specific local accent, much less describe it. All I know is that everyone I've spoken to is from the north, and every time I open my mouth, I might as well be holding up a sign that reads
NOT FROM AROUND HERE
.

I speak the Queen's English, and I've always taken this fact for granted. But what I've become aware of, more recently, is that people from outside London and the Home Counties actually regard
this
as an accent. It was brought to my attention in the Crown and Anchor one evening, when I got into a small argument with one of the barmen and confessed that, as someone without an accent, it's quite difficult for me to differentiate between the various regional dialects.

He looked at me with this slightly irritating smile on his lips, then said, ‘But you do have an accent, pet.'

I've since discovered that if a man addresses you as ‘pet', it means he's from Newcastle.

‘Excuse me?' I replied.

‘You do have an accent.'

This was so patently absurd that I assumed, for several moments, that he must be winding me up. That or there was something wrong with him.

‘No, I don't. Of course I don't. What accent do I have?'

He shrugged. ‘A posh one.'

I spent the next ten minutes trying to explain the difference between being ‘posh' and having clear enunciation, but I'm sure the distinction was lost on him.

Of course, when I first arrived here, I didn't even have to open my mouth to identify myself as an outsider. The problem was I'd had very limited packing space, and most of the clothes I had packed were inappropriate. I was still going through the phase where I was hyper-conscious of my appearance; I was making an extra effort to take care of myself, and a big part of this was ensuring I looked nice every day – because I knew how easy it was to let things slide. One day you go without make-up, and before you know it, you're wearing last week's jeggings and haven't washed your hair for three days.

So the first time I walked into the village, I was probably a little overdressed. Not London Fashion Week overdressed – just my smart three-quarter-length coat, pumps and some moderately expensive fitted jeans – but still. In a place like this, anything more than a fleece is considered glamorous. And I suppose the fact that I'd painted my nails a sparkly silver the night before did not help.

The man behind the counter in the post office looked me up and down, slowly and without subtlety.

‘Hello,' I said. ‘I'd like a book of twelve first-class stamps, please.'

It took him a couple of seconds to nod and snap into action. No one here does anything quickly.

‘You here fo' jus' the dee?' he asked.

Scottish is one of the few accents I can identify with some confidence. In fact, I can even draw some sort of distinction between the different areas of Scotland: if you sound a bit Scottish you come from Edinburgh and if you sound extremely Scottish you come from Glasgow. But that doesn't mean I'm able to decipher it at pace, and by the time I'd started to translate what was being asked of me, the man had already moved on.

‘It's jus' that the tide'll be in soon. You'll no' want to be leaving it too late.'

‘Oh. Right.' I obviously looked like a rescue mission waiting to happen. ‘No, actually I'm staying for a bit. And I know about the tides.'

The man squinted at me for a while.

‘You in film?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Film, TV. We get a lot o' film and TV people on the island. Lots o' those historical pictures.'

‘Oh. I see. No, I'm not in film.'

‘Ah, you're a pilgrim, then?'

This, I think, was intended as a joke.

‘No. Clearly not.'

‘On the run?'

‘Escaped from a psychiatric ward.'

‘Ha!'

‘Actually, I'm a house-and cat-sitter. Miranda Frost's house and cats. Do you know her?'

‘Aye. One o' the few that do. Strange lady. Bit of a recluse.'

‘Yes, that's her.'

‘You a friend o' Miranda's?'

‘No, not exactly. Not at all, actually. We've only met once. For work. It's a little complicated. I'm a journalist – that's the day job when I'm not cat-sitting. I interviewed her.'

It was a lot of information, I knew, but with each additional sentence, the man looked a little more bemused.

‘You interviewed her?' he asked eventually.

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Why would you interview Miranda?'

‘Er . . . the usual reason, I suppose.'

He looked at me blankly, still squinting.

‘She's a poet,' I pointed out. ‘She's one of the most prominent poets in the country, right behind Andrew Motion and Carol Ann Duffy.'

Nothing.

In every future encounter, I ditched the more convoluted backstory and just told anyone who asked that I was Miranda Frost's niece. Except this rarely helped matters, either. It's astonishing, really, but on this minuscule island with its minuscule population, I've met perhaps five people who are aware of Miranda Frost's existence; and only one of them knew she was a poet.

It might have been a quip, but the Scot in the post office was not the first to suggest I could be running away from something. My mum, Dr Barbara, Beck – they all questioned my coming here. I've questioned it myself – or I did in the first couple of weeks. I think it was the legacy of how I left London, the day I got out from St Charles.

I didn't see Beck that day, although it wasn't as if I planned it like that; not exactly. I was released on a Friday morning while he was at work. He wanted to be there – we talked about it on the phone the night before – but in the end I told him I wasn't sure I could handle it. I thought it would be easier if we stuck to what we'd agreed: space and time, for us both.

It wasn't easy. There was an eerie quiet in the flat. Not the same quiet I've experienced here, of course, but a London quiet – the white noise of traffic heard through glass. Nevertheless, after weeks spent on a hospital ward, everything suddenly seemed very still.

I'd left my mother parked right outside the building, telling her I'd only be five minutes. But I think I was in and out of the front door in three. I grabbed a rucksack that had been squashed at the bottom of the wardrobe, filled it with clothes – just clothes, whatever was closest – and then left.

‘That's it?' my mum asked after I'd slung the bag onto the back seat.

I shrugged. ‘There's not much I need.'

‘Oh.'

I could tell she wanted to add something for the next fifteen minutes, but it was only when we were on the motorway and leaving the city that she said, ‘Darling, are you absolutely sure you're going about this the right way . . . '

I love my mum, and I'm very grateful to my mum; she dropped everything and came to rescue me when I needed her. However, nothing tells you that your life's gone off track like waking up in a parent's spare bedroom with only a bag of crumpled clothes for company.

Technically, I kept telling myself, I wasn't moving back in with my mother; I couldn't be since I'd never lived in this house before. My mum relocated to Exeter shortly after I left for university, and I'd only ever stayed here as a guest – a couple of Christmases and the odd week in summer. So it wasn't as if I had to suffer the indignity of moving back into my childhood bedroom or anything like that. Still, what with her bringing me a cup of coffee every morning, and opening the curtains and preparing my breakfast, it was difficult not to feel like I'd regressed by a decade.

Then there was the constant issue of how much I was smoking – sometimes voiced, sometimes conveyed in a glance, or just through the knowledge that I was being watched. I knew it was all born of the same concern, the same impulse to take care of me that was so evident in the neatly folded clothes that appeared on my bed every few days, or the lunchtime phone calls from work, just to check how I was. But after a week or so, I was finding it increasingly hard to bear.

It was in this mindset that I embarked on the mammoth job of working through my backlog of emails. There were 804 of them, spread out over 23 pages. The sheer number was enough to make my head reel, and after half an hour of staring at all those neat but incomprehensible rows and columns of text, it was clear this was yet another task I could not face alone. So I enlisted my mum's help. More specifically, for the next hour or so she sat at the screen while I issued instructions from the armchair.

I suppose it's a generational thing, but I'm continually baffled by my mum's inability to apply the common sense she uses in every other walk of life to the realm of IT. The really puzzling thing is that she manages to use a computer every day at work, just like the rest of us. In fact, she works for a marketing consultancy, so she even has to advise other people on online profiles and social media and the like. God help the soon-to-be-bankrupt firm that knows less about social media than my mother.

‘Okay,' I told her. ‘It's probably simplest if you start by just deleting all the junk.'

‘Very well.' My mum waited expectantly. I nodded for her to proceed. She clicked her tongue a couple of times. ‘So what needs to go first?'

‘Just start with the stuff that's
obviously
junk.'

‘Abigail, this is your email, not mine. How am I supposed to know what's junk and what isn't?'

‘Because it will be obvious. It will be really obvious.'

My mother sighed with unwarranted exasperation. ‘Give me some examples.'

I massaged my temples for a few seconds to let her know how dense she was being.

‘Start with all the generic mail from eBay and Tesco and Amazon. Then delete anything from a bank or credit card company that isn't NatWest. Then delete anything about PPI or compensation for an accident at work.'

‘You had an accident?'

‘No, of course I didn't! Delete anything that says I've won the lottery. Delete anything from a pharmaceuticals company. Delete—'

‘Oh, really, Abby! Why would there be mail from a pharmaceuticals company? What on earth have you been buying?'

‘Delete anything referring to Viagra or hot singles or penis extensions.'

‘You don't have to get crude.'

‘Jesus, Mum! It's the internet; crudity's the fuel that keeps it running. Delete anything with a subject heading that's all in capitals. Delete anything that uses more than one exclamation mark . . .'

After an hour, 804 emails had become 77. This was the fallout from the past month and a bit. A fair amount of work stuff, a lot of
where are you
s. Two credit card statements that made my eyes hurt. The emails from Beck and Francesca, and even one from Daddy. That was probably the worst thing I had to deal with: his attempt at sensitivity, read aloud by my mum, was so cringe-inducing that I found myself being almost swallowed as I sank deeper and deeper into the armchair.

‘He does try, you know,' my mother said. But she did not sound convincing.

And somewhere in the middle of all this was the email from Miranda. It was dated nine days ago, and the subject was
Cats?
But there was no message beyond that.

‘It's completely blank,' my mother told me. ‘Nothing. I think she must have hit send by accident.'

‘No, she didn't. It's all right. I know what that's about.'

Needless to say, I'd completely forgotten about Miranda Frost's rather odd proposition. But hers was the first email I replied to. And it was by far the easiest.

There was no crossover between the two of us. Due to a combination of train, plane and tide times, she was several hours gone by the time I arrived on the island. After a seven-hour journey from Exeter to Berwick, I took a taxi to her cottage. She had left the front door key under a plant pot and a note on the kitchen table:

Abigail,

Cats are not like human beings. They are natural grazers and prefer to eat little and often. For this reason, I usually feed Jasper and Colin three small meals a day at 7 a.m., 1 p.m. and 7 p.m. These times are, of course, only suggestions, but you'll find that if you delay the morning meal much later than 7, Colin (the larger of the two) will come to get you. Please do not leave him scratching at the bedroom door. They have wet food – half a pouch each – for every meal, and you should also ensure their biscuits and water are topped up every evening. Do not be alarmed if Jasper disappears for 24 hours every now and then. He likes to hunt. If you find any dead rodents in the garden (he seldom brings them into the house), there is a small shovel next to the compost bin.