‘Stars!’ he exclaims. ‘I’m glad you think so well of ’em, for they’re all we’ve got, or likely to have.’
He will not think now. His skin prickles, receiving the impression of the tumbled room, his tear-streaked wife packing away their linen, the cold smell of autumn air seeping in through the door neither of them has bothered to close, for there’s no safety or privacy left here to guard. Soon the Hockings will come up from the farm, wondering, knowing, guessing. Stanley will help to pile their books into boxes with his big clumsy hands. And William Henry will want to talk. He will want to tease out what has happened in his slow, taunting Cornish voice.
He must not think, he must keep still and let it all happen to him without resisting it. Clare is going to have a child. He thinks of her, ruffled and sweaty with wind and sun, drawing his portrait on the edge of the cliff. How she frowned as she concentrated. Her tense little fox-face was not pretty at all, and she did not care. She thought of nothing but her drawing. He smiles.
‘It is good that he left a child,’ says Frieda, kneeling to roll up a rug.
‘What?’
‘That young man. Her cousin. It is good that he left something behind him that she will love.’
‘Oh – love,’ he says, tasting the word as if it comes from a foreign language. ‘Yes, I daresay she’ll do that.’
They look at one another, then she stoops and packs on, indefatigable. Her crown of rich rough hair glistens, though the day is sunless. She has rolled up her sleeves for work and there are shadows in the creamy hollows inside her elbows. She has stripped off her rings, and her bare fingers move confidently, filling up space in the boxes. He watches her for a while, his face smoothing, relaxing. Suddenly it sharpens, attentive as the muzzle of a fox scenting down the wind. The scent blows sharp, then thins to nothing, leaving an itch against his senses. The packing-cases vanish; Frieda blurs to gold. He goes to the table, shoves the muddle of their things aside, pulls paper and pen towards him, and begins to write.
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
ZENNOR IN DARKNESS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Helen Dunmore, Zennor in Darkness
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