Listen to the Moon

  But despite everything, all the progress, all the hope, it was obvious to Jim and Alfie that from time to time Mary was near to despair. The weeks and the months had gone by, and still Lucy would not speak to any of them, or could not. So it was impossible to know what she understood and what she did not. All questions went unanswered, and were scarcely ever acknowledged even with a look. She avoided eye contact almost entirely, except just occasionally with Alfie; and even then, if their eyes met, she would look away quickly.

  Every time the doctor came over to Bryher, he and Mary discussed Lucy’s condition, in depth and at length: what might be the cause, or causes, of Lucy’s unwillingness, or inability, to communicate, and what might be done about it. Dr Crow had become both fascinated and disturbed by this strange and unfathomable child at the Wheatcrofts’ house, and kept a meticulous record of every visit in his journal.

  From Dr Crow’s journal, 28th July 1915

  Just returned this evening from Bryher, having called on four patients, including Jack Brody and Lucy Lost. Rather fatigued. Mrs Cartwright has made me fish pie again. I can never abide it, but dare not tell her so. Eleven years she has been with me now as housekeeper, and for eleven years I have been hinting to her that fish pie is not to my taste. Nothing I say makes any difference. She is an admirable woman, and a great help to me in the house, looks after me, and the patients, most diligently. But her fish pie… her fish pie is execrable.

  Lucy Lost in the Wheatcroft household is an enigma to me, a sheer bewilderment, but a wonder too. Physically, there can be no doubt that she is much improved. The cough that has troubled her for so long, ever since she was discovered on St Helen’s, has all but left her. Her chest is clear, her temperature normal. Her ankle is quite mended. But she has put on very little weight. She is, in my opinion, still far too thin and frail. But Mrs Wheatcroft is caring for her wonderfully well, of that I have no doubt.

  Mary Wheatcroft is a woman who knows her own mind. How long and hard she fought to bring her poor brother Billy home from the asylum a few years ago. I was with her in her fight, witnessed her fierce courage and determination throughout it all. She was like a tigress. And she has cared for him, day in, day out, every day since. She’s a marvel. And now, not content with that, she has taken on Lucy Lost, and with the same fierce determination too. She mothers the child as if she were her own. I might even say, though not to her of course, that she over-mothers her, such is her overwhelming affection for the girl.

  Indeed, the whole family seems to have welcomed her wholeheartedly into their midst. None of them seem in the least perturbed by Lucy’s strange ways of being. Jim Wheatcroft does confide in me that the music she plays almost constantly on my gramophone makes him want to scream sometimes. And he often scolds me – as indeed he did today, tongue in cheek, I hope – for bringing what he sometimes refers to as “that ruddy machine” into the house in the first place.

  But they know, and I know now, that the music she listens to has awoken something in her, some distant memory, it is to be hoped, and has without doubt given her an interest in life again. She is finding herself through the music – I am convinced of it. She is clearly a great deal happier, although it is true that she still never smiles – something, I know, that greatly upsets Mrs Wheatcroft. I suspect that deep down this is because she has little to smile about. But at least the child now seems to be quite at ease in the house with her new family around her.

  I can see she likes to wear the clothes Mrs Wheatcroft has made for her. She likes to make bread, and to have her hair brushed by her in front of the fire. She still does not speak of course, but she does hum to the music. I believe she finds a real and deep joy in it, as I do. I do not think I am being fanciful, but sometimes I believe I can see the light of understanding in her eyes, as she listens to the gramophone, in particular when she plays the last record I brought to her, the Mozart piano piece. I have forgotten the name of it, but it is beautiful, supremely beautiful, and she loves it.

  There is still no telling of course where she came from, nor who she might be. The only three words she has been heard to speak: ‘Lucy’, ‘piano’ and ‘William’. She has not repeated any of them, I am told. She does not seem to me even to want to speak, so she does not try. Observing her, I have the feeling that there is within her a deep sadness that inhibits both her speech and her memory. The music has helped lift the sadness a little, but only a little. (Quite why she appears to be so obsessed with piano music in particular, I cannot imagine. Sadly, she now has all the piano records I possess.)

  She does, I have noted, especially like to be with young Alfie. Mrs Wheatcroft confirmed this impression. This morning, Mrs Wheatcroft tells me, before Alfie went off to school, Lucy followed him outside to feed the hens. Whilst Mrs Wheatcroft is delighted by this, she did confess to me that it vexed her that Lucy seemed to go out so willingly with Alfie – and without being asked too – when she herself has so often tried unsuccessfully to persuade Lucy to accompany her out on to the farm, to go to see Uncle Billy down in his boatshed, or on the Hispaniola, to go shrimping, or on walks around the island.

  (I saw Uncle Billy working away on his beloved boat as I came away from the house, and he waved to me cheerily, and he was singing. He is clearly in good heart. His moods will return of course, they always do, but he has been well for a good while now – or as well as a seriously delusional depressive will ever be. I am sure this is entirely due to Mrs Wheatcroft’s diligent care and attention.)

  This morning was, I am told, the very first time Lucy Lost has ventured outside since she was found, and this must be a sign of significant progress. I did emphasise again to Mrs Wheatcroft how important I felt it was now to encourage Lucy to go outside rather more, to make a habit of it if possible. I told her that walking will make her stronger, and improve her appetite, that the natural world about her will make her happier, which it does, of course, with all of us – this I firmly believe to be true. Mrs Wheatcroft told me again that she is reluctant to oblige her to do anything, that Lucy only turns away from her if ever she tries. But she has assured me she will try to encourage her as she can. More fresh air, more walking, more chicken-feeding – that’s the best medicine for her, I told her.

  After I left the house, I met Alfie down on the quayside on his way back from school, and I took the opportunity to commend his efforts on Lucy’s behalf, and to tell him also how important it is that he should continue to take Lucy out and about whenever he possibly can. He has promised he will try. He is a fine boy. They are indeed, all of them, a fine family. Mrs Wheatcroft, in particular, is a marvellous woman, strong and handsome too, yet formidable, determined, outspoken, ferociously so at times – in some ways, not unlike Mrs Cartwright. Neither of them is a woman to cross, I should say. Such women make me glad I am a bachelor, and confirm in my mind my determination that I should always remain so.

  But then again I have to acknowledge a sneaking envy of Jim. Formidable though his wife may be, she is none the less a very personable and pleasant woman, and I should imagine therefore the best of companions. A man like Jim Wheatcroft deserves such a woman. I think there is no one on these islands better thought of than he, though many of his fellow fishermen tell me that he is far better at growing potatoes and flowers than catching fish. But then fishermen are inclined, I have discovered, to be somewhat critical of one another’s prowess, even unkind sometimes.

  As I crossed back to St Mary’s this evening under gathering storm clouds, my thoughts turned to poor young Jack Brody, whose leg – what is left of it – still won’t heal, still pains him night and day, and always will, I fear, despite anything I can do. He cannot speak in words that make any sense. I see in his eyes that he only wishes to be out of it, that every moment of every day is an agony for him, that it shames him to be like this, that he’d make an end of himself if he could. He is scarcely more than a boy. His sad plight brought to mind all the thousands of dreadfully wounded young men living out such lives all ove
r the country, and the thousands more there will be before this terrible war is over.

  I stood at the prow of the boat and breathed in deeply, hoping the salt sea air might clear the heaviness in my heart. But there was no comfort there. As I looked out over the surging grey sea, all I could think of was our brave ships far away over the horizon, and the German submarines lurking beneath the surface, and the terrible losses they have inflicted upon us. The thought of all those poor drowned boys, of their grieving mothers, and the thought of Jack Brody, condemned to wretchedness and pain for the rest of his life, saddened my heart more than I can say. Lucy Lost, though, is a beacon of hope to me, as she is to so many on these islands.

  Lucy would often stand in the kitchen these days, gazing out of the window, particularly when she was waiting for Alfie to come home from school. She would linger by the door, longing – or so it seemed to Mary – to go out, but never quite daring to do so on her own. No matter how much Mary encouraged her, Lucy never ventured further than the front doorstep, unless it was with Alfie. Seeing to the hens with Alfie, picking up the eggs and feeding them, morning and evening, had become the highlight of every day for her.

  First thing in the morning she would listen to her Mozart piece on the gramophone, then go out with Alfie to open up the hens, and last thing at night she’d help him shut them up. Even before he was ready, she’d be waiting there by the back door as Alfie put on his cap. “Coming, Lucy?” he’d say, shaking the bucket of corn. He could see that she was full of anxiety every time she stepped outside, but that even so she wanted to do it. She’d follow him out, moving like a frightened fawn, looking around her nervously, staying close to his side, holding on to his elbow sometimes, all the way across the garden to the henhouse. Alfie tried all he could to persuade her to carry the bucket of corn for him perhaps, or to open the henhouse door, but she would stand back, watching him, nervously chewing her knuckle, and always clutching her teddy bear, always swathed in her blanket.

  It was many days before Alfie managed to get her to come up close to the henhouse when he opened it, to throw a handful of corn to the hens, or to collect the eggs or fetch the water for them. He could see that throwing the corn made her particularly fearful. The hens would come running towards her and cluck around her feet, and when they did she’d always cling on tighter to Alfie’s arm, or hide behind him. It was collecting the eggs she really took to, just so long as the hens were far enough away and busy feeding. Each egg seemed like a wonder to her as she picked it up. She’d hold it to her cheek and feel the warmth.

  Afterwards, at breakfast, Mary would get her to choose her own egg, and soon Lucy was boiling it herself, buttering her bread, and slicing it, then dipping her ‘soldiers’ in. Every egg was a treat for her, and that was just the start of it. There were still no smiles, no words; but Mary minded less now, because Lucy’s appetite was becoming almost as voracious as Alfie’s. And within a week or two all that earlier nervousness over the feeding of the hens had vanished. She had made everything to do with the hens her responsibility – just as long as Alfie came with her.

  Alfie meanwhile was beginning to feel a fondness for her that he had never felt with anyone before. She could not speak, yet he felt they were somehow in tune with one another, easy together, trusting. There came an evening when this silent friendship was sealed in a most unexpected way. Lucy was sitting by the kitchen window, and looking out at the darkening sky. She was humming quietly to the music on the gramophone, when she suddenly got up, came over to him and took him by the hand. Mary and Jim were as astonished as Alfie was. Lucy was insistent, pulling him to his feet. He went out with her into the moonlit garden. They could hear the sea lapping listlessly on Green Bay. They could see the glow of the lamp in the window of Uncle Billy’s sail loft. There wasn’t a breath of wind. They could hear singing.

  “That’s Uncle Billy, Lucy,” Alfie said. “I told you about him and his singing, didn’t I? Mother said he was in a grump today when she took him his lunch. Better now, by the sounds of it. Only sings when he’s happy. I’ll take you down to meet him one day, shall I? I’ve told him all about you. Only if you feel like it, of course.”

  But Lucy wasn’t listening. She was tapping him on the shoulder urgently, then pointing up at the moon. Alfie looked. It was full, and seemed close, as close as he had ever seen it, so close he could see quite clearly the mountains on its surface. Alfie felt her hand creep into his. He knew somehow that he mustn’t speak, that she wanted him to join her in her silence, and simply listen. It was, he thought, as if they were sharing a secret, a secret they shared only with the moon, a secret that couldn’t be spoken.

  They stood there for long moments, listening to the sea. Then she began to hum, that same tune, her favourite tune. Alfie hummed it with her, because he felt she wanted him to. When it was over, they stood there listening for a while longer, listening to the moon now, it seemed to Alfie, as much as to the breathing of the ocean. He could make no sense of what had happened, only he was sure it had been as precious a time for her as it had been for him, a time he would never forget.

  It was while Lucy and Alfie were opening up the hens one foggy morning a week or so later, just before Alfie went off to school, that she happened to look up and see the horse. Peg came wandering out of the fog through the field towards the house, grazing as she went, tugging at the grass, swishing her raggedy tail. When the horse lay down and rolled and rolled, loving every moment of it, and snorting and farting as she did so, Lucy looked up at Alfie, and smiled. It was the first time Alfie had ever seen her smile.

  “So you like horses, do you?” he said. “I’m telling you, you got to watch out for that Peg, Lucy. She’s got a real nasty streak in her, she has. She does her work all right, but she don’t like people one bit. Bites your bum whenever she can, likes to have a good kick at you too. And, whatever you do, Lucy, don’t you never try to get on her and ride her.”

  Lucy seemed transfixed by the horse, and was clearly not listening to a word he was saying. “I hope to goodness you understand what I’m saying, Lucy. I been talking to you for a long while now. What is it? Three months? And I still don’t know for sure if you’ve understood a single word. I think you have, but I’m not certain. You don’t have to speak to me, not ever, not if you don’t want to. Just nod if you understand me, right?”

  Lucy nodded then, without turning round. She could not take her eyes off the horse. “That’s good then,” Alfie went on, as surprised as he was excited. “I’ll go on doing all the talking then, shall I? And you can do all the listening, and the nodding. That suit you? And you’ll talk when you’re good and ready, is that it?”

  She nodded again.

  Alfie went off to school with a spring in his step and a song in his heart that day. Lucy had smiled! Lucy had nodded! Lucy had understood, definitely understood.

  Long after Alfie had gone to school she was still out there in the garden, still gazing at Peg. Jim came out later, and found her there on his way down to the boat. He called Mary outside to look. He spoke quietly so that Lucy wouldn’t hear. “Marymoo,” he said. “I reckon that’s the first time she’s stayed a while outside the house, on her own, without Alfie.”

  “Then why don’t she speak to us, Jimbo?” Mary said. “She’s got so much to say, I know she has. Why don’t she let it out? There’s so much she could be telling us, so much we don’t know about her.”

  “And a fair bit we do,” Jim told her. “We certainly know she likes music right enough, don’t we? She hums her tunes. That ruddy gramophone is on all the time, isn’t it? That’s something, surely to goodness. And look at her. She likes horses too, even Peg, and no one likes Peg. She’ll come round. We got to give her time, Marymoo. I mean, look how she’s come on. She’s up and about all the time now. She even eats like a ruddy horse these days, and she loves feeding they hens. And she’s taken quite a shine to young Alfie, if you ask me. He’s done wonders with her, Marymoo, wonders. And so have you, so have you.??
?

  “You think so, Jim?” Mary said, turning to him, and becoming tearful. “You really think so?”

  “You heard what Alfie told us before he went off to school,” Jim went on. “When she saw Peg, she smiled at him, didn’t she? That’s the first smile! And he’s dead sure now that she understands a whole lot more than we ever thought she did. Honest to God, I never thought that girl understood a word anyone said. For God’s sakes, did you ever think she would smile? Well, she has. So cheer up, girl.”

  “That’s twice now you’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain this morning, Jim Wheatcroft,” Mary said, suddenly herself again. “You should wash your mouth out with soapy water.” She pushed him away from her playfully. “Go fishing, do something useful, why don’t you? And don’t go too far out in this fog. I don’t like the look of it at all.”

  “Oh, stop your worrying, Marymoo, it’ll lift,” Jim told her. “Bit of sea mist, that’s all it is.”

  IT WAS LATER THAT MORNING, when Jim was out fishing in the fog off the back of Samson, and while Alfie was still at school, that Lucy went missing. Mary had gone out for a few minutes to dig some potatoes for supper. She had left Lucy sitting by the gramophone, listening to her music as usual, but when she got back Lucy was gone, and there was no music. The record was still going round and round on the gramophone, the needle clicking away rhythmically, ominously, in the silence of the house. A terrible fear came over her. Lucy would never have left it like that, not if she was at home. She ran upstairs to Lucy’s bedroom, calling for her all the time, but knowing already in her heart of hearts that she had gone. Downstairs again, she saw Lucy’s blanket, folded neatly on Jim’s fireside chair, her teddy bear lying on it, arm outstretched. Wherever Lucy went, in or out of the house, she had always taken them with her. Mary had never known her to be parted from either of them before, not for a moment.