Listen to the Moon

  So, with heavy heart now, I made my way across the island to see young Philip Blessed who has been in bed for a while now with the whooping cough, one of three children on the island currently suffering from this disease. The others are almost well again, but Philip has a weak chest, and has been taking longer to recover. But I discovered Philip up and about and quite cheerful, and hardly coughing at all. Mrs Blessed was cheerful too, and clearly much relieved that Philip was getting well again. I could tell she was eager to sit me down, give me a cup of tea, and talk. (Tea is such a dreary drink, and there are so many times in a day of visits when a doctor has to drink it.)

  It was Mrs Blessed who first told me the extraordinary story about Lucy Lost, how a couple of weeks before she had got herself lost in the fog all day, and everyone had been out looking for her, and how, not knowing where she was at all, she had been riding around on Peg – “and that horse has the very devil in her, Doctor,” she said – when Silly Billy found her and took her in. It was, I have to say, a rather garbled story, and one that at first I found somewhat difficult to believe. But, sure enough, shortly after I had left the Blessed household, and was walking past the church, I saw Lucy Lost come riding down the hillside from the top of the island. I noted at once that her whole demeanour was altered. Gone was any sign of that pinched, haunted look, the dull, sunken eyes. There was colour in her cheeks, and a new light in her eyes. She even waved at me in greeting, and smiled as she passed me by. I hoped of course that she might also speak, but she did not. She rode bareback, and in bare feet too, and was clearly at ease and at one with the horse.

  The horse seemed happy too, which is remarkable enough in itself. I looked on in amazement, and then called out after her that I’d be coming in to see her presently. She did not appear to hear me.

  Mrs Wheatcroft was effusive in her welcome, a much changed and altogether happier person, it seemed to me. I heard the whole story then from her too – I didn’t like to tell her that Mrs Blessed had told me much of it already.

  “Do you know, Doctor,” she said, “that is the first time Billy has ever had anyone in the boathouse in five years, ’ceptin’ me and Jim and Alfie, of course. I mean, you know how surly and grouchy Billy can be with strangers. I told him about Lucy coming to live with us, all about how Jim had found her, and that, but I hadn’t never introduced them. Didn’t like to risk it, in case he went and upset her. And then Uncle Billy finds her out in the fog and takes her back and looks after her, and sits her down to do some sail-making with her, for goodness’ sake.”

  We sat down over yet another cup of tea, and some of her delicious tatty cake – without question the best I have ever had on the islands. Even tea is easier to drink with Mrs Wheatcroft’s tatty cake. (Would that Mrs Cartwright made a cake like hers!) She thanked me then for all I had done, and told me how my gramophone and my records, and now the horse, had done such wonders for Lucy.

  “Miraculous, Doctor,” she said. “And I do mean it too. It is miraculous. My prayers have been answered. Lucy is stronger and happier every day. I never saw such a change in anyone.”

  She leaned towards me then, put her hand on my arm, and whispered confidentially, “Don’t go saying nothing, Doctor, but I think Alfie is smitten with her, and she with him. When she’s not on that horse, she’s off around the island with him. She still won’t go out in the boat, and she won’t go diving off the quay with him neither – Alfie says she’s fearful of water. But do you know she’s even taught Alfie how to ride that horse? He’d tried before, and been thrown off every time. Had a nasty fall last time, always swore blind he’d never try again, but somehow she managed to get him up on her. No bits, mind, no spurs, no whips. I been watching her teaching him. All she does, she blows gently into the horse’s nose, smoothes her neck, kisses her ear. But she never says nothing – she still don’t speak. Hums like a bumble bee, all the time, Alfie says; but she don’t speak, Doctor, never a word, just shows him what to do. Alfie blows a bit, smoothes Peg’s neck a bit, strokes her ears, then up he gets and away he goes. Works a treat every time.”

  As she finished talking, Lucy came running into the house, quite breathless, as contented a child as I’ve ever seen. When I talked to her, she looked at me and smiled. She had never looked me in the eye before. Much encouraged by this, and by everything I had heard and seen, I spoke to her, asked her how she was. She did not reply. Instead, she turned away, went straight to the gramophone and put on a record. I confess to having felt at that moment a keen sense of disappointment at her continuing silence, which is absurd, of course. Her transformation has already been quite miraculous, as Mrs Wheatcroft had said. I should not have expected more.

  But there was indeed more. She came and sat and had tea with us, and wolfed down her cake. This was a different child altogether, silent maybe, but not nervous any more, not reticent. And, when she heard Alfie come whistling up the path, she was on her feet and at the door as quick as a flash. Alfie barely had time to have his tea before she dragged him outside. From the window I saw them both riding off down through the field, Alfie riding up behind, and both laughing out loud. I think Mrs Wheatcroft may well be right. They did indeed look quite smitten with one another.

  So what has caused this girl to recover so miraculously, as she clearly has? I am a man of science. My medicine helped, I have to believe that. I hope that the music helped also, but I do have to acknowledge that it was very probably the horse that was her best medicine, that and the love of a good family. Let us hope they can between them help her find her voice and her memory, and restore her completely. I dread to think that a child like Lucy might still end up in the asylum in Bodmin, like Uncle Billy. To be different in this ignorant world is often mistaken for madness. And we all too often put away those we believe to be different. Difference frightens people, and Lucy Lost is most surely different, very different.

  There is, however, some worrying news. Mrs Wheatcroft told me today that she has arranged, albeit reluctantly, with Mr Beagley, at Tresco School, for Lucy to go to school with Alfie next term. Mr Beagley has apparently insisted that as the child is of school age it is his duty to see to it that she attends, as all other island children do, that there can be no exceptions. It seems he threatened to report her to the authorities if Lucy did not attend.

  He is in my opinion an officious little man, far too fond of himself and of the power he is accustomed to wielding in his school. There is something of the tyrant in him that I do not like. Everyone knows he does not spare the rod and he is most certainly lacking in the sensitivity one needs to be a good teacher. I have to hope both he and the other children will treat Lucy kindly. School can be a very unforgiving place. Children can be very unkind, even cruel, to one another, particularly to a new child, to a stranger not from the islands. And Lucy is the strangest of strangers, one that still does not speak, a different sort of child altogether, who does not seem to know who she is, nor where she comes from.

  I have not spoken of my concerns to Mrs Wheatcroft, for I do not wish to alarm her unnecessarily, but I am not at all sure that school is the right place for such a child at the moment, particularly Mr Beagley’s school. She is without doubt much improved, but she is still fragile in her mind. I can only hope that her recovery will not in any way be undermined by life at school. I have every confidence that Alfie will do all he can to look after her and protect her, but I fear there is only so much he can do.

  A calm crossing back to St Mary’s this evening, the sunset blood-red and lingering long. I am tired as I put down my pen, fearful for Lucy Lost, for Jack Brody, but hopeful too. I have to be. Hope, we must always live in hope.

  MARY AND JIM LEFT IT to Alfie to break the news to Lucy about her having to go to school. It was only Alfie she seemed to listen to and understand at all. If ever they did try to speak to her these days, she’d turn to Alfie for reassurance, for some kind of explanation or interpretation. If anyone could reach her, it would be Alfie. So in the end, whenever they wan
ted anything explained to her, both Mary and Jim left it to Alfie to do the talking. And even then in answer to any questions there would only ever be a shake or nod of the head. But it was clear to all of them by now that she understood at least something of what Alfie was trying to tell her.

  Alfie picked his moment to explain to her about school. Lucy was riding Peg up over Watch Hill, and he was walking alongside her, picking blackberries as he went, and handing one up to her from time to time. “You got blue lips, Lucy,” he told her after a while. But she wasn’t listening. She was shielding her eyes against the sun, watching a bird gliding high overhead then twisting, then diving, plummeting down through the air.

  “That’s a peregrine falcon,” Alfie told her. “They nest on White Island, in the lighthouse, you know, near St Helen’s, near where we found you. Beautiful, isn’t he? They can dive at over ninety miles an hour, d’you know that?” This seemed the right moment. He reached up and touched her elbow. “Lucy, I got something to tell you. And you have to listen too. It’s school time again soon, next week. Holidays will be over, worst luck. You want to come with me?”

  She shook her head. But she was listening.

  “Thing is, Lucy,” Alfie continued, “Mother says you got to, else she’ll be in trouble. She don’t want you taken away, see? And they could too, Lucy, if you don’t go to school, if they think Mother’s not doing right by you, not sending you to school, not looking after you proper like she should.”

  She looked down at him now. He could see she was trying to concentrate, trying hard to understand.

  “You been to school before, haven’t you? Must’ve been. Be about the same here, I reckon. All schools are about the same,” he went on. “My school’s not so bad, honest it isn’t. ’Ceptin’ for Mr Beagley, that is. Beastly Beagley. You just have to keep out of his way, that’s all. You seen me go off in the boat in the morning, and come back in the afternoon, haven’t you? We’ll do it together, shall us? You’ll be fine, promise.”

  She shook her head again, more vigorously this time. Then with a click of her tongue she geed up Peg, and trotted over the hill and away. Alfie called after her. “Ain’t no use running away, Lucy. You got to go. We all got to go to school, Lucy. It’s a rule. I’ll look after you, honest I will. You’ll be all right, honest.” But by now she was too far away to hear. Alfie had the distinct feeling that she’d understood quite well enough, and just didn’t want to listen any more.

  That evening Lucy stayed up in her room and would not come down for supper. In the end Mary took it up to her, but she just lay there, curled up on her bed, face to the wall. Mary talked to her, stroked her hair, kissed her, but Lucy would not even turn to look at her, let alone eat. Alfie went upstairs later to see if he could do any better, but it was no good. When he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, she pulled away from him and buried her head in the pillow, crying quietly. He left her and came downstairs.

  “It’s no use,” he said. “I’ve upset her bad. She ain’t ready for it, Mother. We can’t make her go, not unless she wants to. I don’t blame her neither. I wouldn’t go, ’less I had to.”

  “If she won’t go, Marymoo, then she won’t go. S’all there is to it,” said Jim. “She’s got a mind of her own, that one. Quite like someone else I know – her mother’s daughter, if you see what I’m saying. Nothing more to be done about it. She’ll come round. Maybe we just got to give her time to get used to the idea.”

  “And what if Mr Beagley won’t give her time?” Mary said, fighting back the tears. “You know what he’s like. You want him reporting us, do you? And he would too, I’m telling you. He’d rather see her taken away and locked up in that madhouse like Uncle Billy than miss a day of school. Rules, rules, that’s all he cares about.”

  At that moment the door from the staircase opened. Lucy was standing there looking at them, stony-faced. She had a folded-up piece of paper in her hand. She walked over to Alfie and gave it to him, then turned and went out. “Never knew she could write,” Jim said.

  “Not writing, Father, it’s a drawing,” Alfie told him. “Look.” The drawing, in pencil, was of a boat, a rowing boat full of children going across the channel to Tresco. Mr Jenkins was rowing – they could tell that from his peaked cap. And the quay on New Grimsby harbour and the houses on Tresco were all quite recognisable too. There was a girl in the water, hand waving, a girl who was drowning. And right across the picture Lucy had drawn a cross, heavily indented. “It’s the school boat,” Alfie said. “It’s the boat, don’t you see? She’s trying to tell us she don’t want to go in the boat. That’s what it is. It’s not the school she’s frightened of. It’s the sea, it’s the boat. I told you, didn’t I? She’s scared stiff of the water, won’t go nowhere near it.”

  “Then how the divil are we supposed to get her across the channel to school?” Jim asked. “Can’t hardly walk on water, can she? She ain’t Jesus, is she? S’cuse me, Marymoo – slip of the tongue. And she can’t hardly fly herself to Tresco. What’re we going to do?”

  “Somehow, we got to get her into that boat,” Mary said, and turned to Alfie, reaching out to grasp his hand. “You’re the only one who can do it, Alfie. You got to persuade her. You got to, else they’ll come and take her away. If we give them any cause, they will. I know they will. Mr Beagley will see to it. And then we’ll lose her for good.”

  “It’ll be all right, Mother.” Alfie was trying to sound as reassuring as he could, but he wasn’t sounding at all convincing, even to himself. “One way or another, I’ll find a way to get her across on that boat, you’ll see.” Even as he spoke, Alfie had no idea at all how it could be done. Time and again, he had witnessed Lucy’s reluctance to go anywhere near the sea. Even riding up on Peg, she liked to keep her distance from the water’s edge. He’d tried to cajole her many times to get into Penguin so they could go out fishing together, but so far she had always refused, point blank. And when he ran splashing into the sea to swim she’d never come with him. She’d never set foot in the water, no matter how calm it was, nor how warm.

  In those last days before the school term began, Alfie tried to encourage her again and again to come fishing with him in Penguin. But nothing he said or did could persuade her even to come near the boat. He could see it was upsetting her, so he gave up trying. Night after night, Alfie lay there, wondering how he was ever going to manage to get her into the school boat on that first morning of term. It came to him after a while that it might not be so much the boat she was frightened of, but the sea itself. So he decided to do all he could to entice her into the water.

  He took her kite-flying on Green Bay, running through the shallows, splashing, whooping and laughing. She didn’t need any instruction. She flew his kite like an expert. She loved doing it too, but would never go anywhere near the sea. Skimming stones didn’t work either. Alfie would stand knee-deep in the water, showing her how to choose the right stone, how to throw it. She knew how to do that too, and was clever at it, but every time she would stand well back from the water’s edge, not even getting her feet wet. No matter what he did, nothing would induce her into going anywhere near the water.

  Alfie did notice how often she appeared distracted by the boats moored out in Green Bay, most of all by the Hispaniola, particularly when Uncle Billy was working on it. She would stand there sometimes, just gazing at it, as if waiting for Uncle Billy to come over and say hello. He never did. Alfie knew well enough he wouldn’t come, that Uncle Billy wasn’t like that. But he could see Lucy was disappointed. Once, while they were out there, they heard him breaking into his ‘Yo-ho-ho’ song.

  “Uncle Billy’s happy today,” he told her. “If we wave at him, he’ll like it all right, but he won’t always wave back. Uncle Billy don’t do waving, not often. But we can try.” Alfie waved then, and, moments later, Lucy did the same. As Alfie had said, Uncle Billy didn’t wave back. He didn’t even acknowledge they were there.

  “He’s not unfriendly, you know that, Lucy, don’
t you?” he said. “He’s just a shy sort of a person. Likes being on his own, don’t like being interrupted. Didn’t speak to me for two years after Mother brought him home. He’s all right with me now; he’s all right with all of us. But he don’t say much even so, not even to Mother. Everyone else on the island is a stranger to him, and he don’t much care for strangers. Mother says he don’t like the way they look at him. He hears what they call him, the things they say behind his back about him, all about the madhouse he came from. There’s some who think Mother should never have brought him home, but that’s because they’re scared of him. They got no cause to be. Uncle Billy’s the kindest person I ever knew. Fetched you in from that fog, didn’t he? Looked after you. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. He don’t like being stared at, that’s all. That’s why he stays in his boathouse all on his own, ’less he’s working on the lugger, that is.

  “Don’t you worry none. Uncle Billy likes you all right. He wouldn’t be singing else. I reckon maybe he’s singing just for you. I mean, like Mother says, you’re family now. But even so, if we go over there now to see him, it might upset him. And when he gets like that he gets sad, so sad he won’t eat even. Mother says he don’t like us to come too close, to come into his boathouse or near his boat, not unless he asks us first. And Mother knows him better’n anyone, understands him. After all, they grew up together. Twins they are. Brother and sister.”

  Even as he was talking, Alfie was realising more and more that Lucy was unusually intent on his every word. The more he told her, the more she seemed to want to hear about Uncle Billy. She was really listening. If she was that interested, Alfie thought, then it had to be because she was understanding most of what he was saying. He hoped all the time that she might even ask him a question. She looked at times as if she wanted to, but she didn’t.