The House of Storms Read online

  Cissy Dunning climbed the path towards the weathertop as the trees in the valley streamed like wrack in a storm. The wind pushed and pulled at her in cold, sudden swerves.

  She found Weatherman Ayres striding the inner gantries, puffing a cheroot and whistling a thin version of the same song the wind over the weathertop was screaming. There were several barrels on the lowest deck, red-stamped with what, although she couldn’t read the guild’s language, had the look of prohibitions and warnings.

  ‘All just part of what’s necessary,’ he explained as she caught her breath.

  At least it was warmer in here, but her skin crawled and itched from the electric air. ‘What on earth are you up to, Elijah Ayres?’

  ‘Just that delivery I mentioned to you.’

  ‘You said that would be shifterms yet.’

  ‘You know how these things change. Remember that big storm that blew out all the bulbs on the chandeliers? Well, we were just catching the very edge of it. One of the worst hurricanes in memory to hit the Gulf of Thule, and the Proserpine was caught pretty badly just as she was being fitted and loaded.’

  She ran her tongue around her teeth and sighed. She’d heard this before, which was the worst of it. ‘Ralph Meynell’s still here, and he’s acting oddly. And I really should never have agreed with that mother of his that he and Marion Price should spend time together in the first place. And she’s coming in the morning, for Elder’s sake.’

  ‘We’ll be well done by then. And the lad won’t trouble us, not down in Clarence Cove with the sort of night I’ve got brewing. And it’ll be the last, I promise you. After that—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘A whole new life.’

  ‘You’ll see, Cissy,’ he said, hands upon her hips now, eyes as brightly alive as the dials around him. ‘You and I, we’ll be the swank. We’ll be the gentry.’

  He smelled sharp and matchy as he leaned forward to kiss her, of something more than clean oil and cheroots and electricity. She held him away. ‘You and I need to do some talking.’

  ‘We’ve said it a million times, Cissy,’ he murmured. ‘Now is the best time for us to leave Invercombe.’

  ‘That’s all well and good. The fact is, I’ve composed my letter of resignation, and I’ll be handing it to the greatgrandmistress when she comes tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Cissy.’

  ‘So I’m retiring, and I really do think, may the good Elder help me, that you’re the most sweet and strange and infuriating and fascinating man I’ve ever known. But what I’ve been meaning to say to you is to do with all this nonsense we’ve been telling each other about jewels and fine houses.’

  ‘Cissy—’

  ‘No. You listen and let me have my say for a change. Look at you and look at me. Look at your hand. Look at mine. Look at the colour of our skins. It might be all right for us to walk arm in arm here at Invercombe, but just how many couples like us do you see parading Boreal Avenue?’

  ‘That’s the—’

  ‘I still haven’t finished. Dreams are fine things, and so is love, but no amount of money on that ship is going to buy you and me the life of the guilded gentry. So what I’m saying is, yes, perhaps we could have a garden and maybe even a maid, but it’ll have to be somewhere quiet where people can talk as much as they want but they don’t need to bother us. A nice little cottage in Cornwall, I was thinking. I’ve always loved a rowdy sea. They mind their own business there, and Cornish-men don’t really have tails. We can wander the cliffs and talk about all the places you say you’ve been to our heart’s content. Now. How does that sound?’

  The fog was thickening as Marion reached Clyst. It swirled with her into the cottage kitchen, where Mam was boiling up some more underwear.

  ‘Hope you’re not expecting any kind of dinner yet. Everything’s to pot, what with Owen and Denise off at the end of the shifterm—and isn’t it about time you got paid?’

  Sitting down at the long family table, Marion studied the burns and the scarrings where Dad, much to Mam’s irritation, had used it as a workbench. She’d left a note back at Invercombe which Cissy wouldn’t find until tomorrow, asking to make sure her severance pay was forwarded here.

  ‘I went to Bristol with Ralph recently,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Did you, eh?’

  ‘We took the time to go up to the B—the civic cemetery. I found Sally’s grave.’

  ‘Won’t have moved on its own, will it?’ Mam was still avidly stirring and inspecting the smalls, her face wreathed in steam.

  ‘I just wanted to say … Well, it’s a lovely spot and I don’t think you need worry about buying a stone marker. I think you should save the money.’

  ‘Ha! As if we had any …’

  Marion subsided. All she was doing was worrying at her own guilt. It wasn’t that Mam had given up thinking of Sally—neither had Dad, or Denise, or Owen. She was there in their silences, and the shape of a rock or a turn of the wind. She was there in Mam’s face now as she studied the laundry and licked her lips and rubbed her hand down her skirt and pronounced that it was probably time to get a bit of dinner going.

  They didn’t live badly; Marion realised that now. They had food to eat, shoes when they needed them, a roof for shelter, the dignity of knowing who they were—in fact, a whole way of life. Being shorefolk really was a kind of guild, and a good deal better than many. You didn’t need the certificates and stupid oaths and daft ceremonies to believe in what you were.

  She helped Mam lay the table, then Dad and Denise and Owen returned. Dad ate his food in quick pecks. Marion knew the signs; with a fog this dense, there would be a delivery tonight in which he and some other local men had been enlisted. Owen, on the other hand, was talking about all the things he’d need to do before he went off to Bristol. He seemed relaxed and confident. Now he’d reached a basic plateau of the level of knowledge required to become a mariner, he understood that the rest was mostly the window-dressing every guild put up to make their work seem more daunting than it was. Marion had still been toying with the idea of telling her family that she was heading with Ralph for the Fortunate Isles, but Dad was already leaving the table and Owen had forms to complete and Denise was working on embroidering her apprentice piece and Mam had yet more laundry to boil. It seemed a shame to disturb any of them in the purpose of their lives.

  ‘Things going all right at the big house?’ Denise asked her later as they sat together on her bed upstairs and she threaded last bits of crimson into a waistcoat. ‘Isn’t Ralph supposed to be leaving?’

  ‘His mother’s picking him up in her car to take him to Highclare Academy tomorrow.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be with him, then?’ She bit through a thread. ‘Last night together, all that sort of thing?’

  Marion shrugged. Her gaze travelled towards the orange box where she had buried the tickets for the Verticordia amid old clothes and bits of forgotten schoolwork.

  ‘Hold that candle for me, will you? There …’ Denise flattened the waistcoat out. ‘Not bad, as long as you don’t look too hard at the back. Don’t you think it’s about time, by the way?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Time you admitted to someone what you’re doing.’

  Marion tried to frame an innocent question.

  ‘Just stop it, will you! A good job I haven’t got any scissors in my hand or I’d stick them in you right now, Marion Price. Dad may be too busy fretting about the small trade and Owen polishing his new badges and Mam boiling her pants, but anyone with any sense can see you’ve had a bee up your bum these last few shifterms. And do you really think I don’t take the trouble to have a good occasional rummage through what’s left of your things?’

  ‘You’ve seen the tickets?’

  ‘Of course I’ve seen the bloody tickets! But why are you calling yourself Mistress Eliza Turner?’

  Marion nodded. It was a relief to be able to confess to someone, and at least she knew now that Denise could explain ever
ything to Mam, Dad and Owen once she’d left. Still, when she’d finished, Denise continued to look at her somewhat disbelievingly.

  ‘It’s true, sis—you’ve seen the tickets.’

  ‘You haven’t told him, have you?’

  Marion blinked.

  ‘Didn’t you take that potion? You, of all people, Marion!’

  ‘I think it was before that.’ She sighed. ‘It might even have been the first time. After that, we tried to be careful.’

  ‘How many months?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen a physician?’

  ‘I’ve felt fine until recently. Now, I’m starting to dread breakfast.’

  Denise chuckled. ‘They always say that’s the sign of a healthy baby. Ralph has no idea?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘That’s men for you. They only grumble as if it’s your fault when you get your monthlies. Still, it’ll have to come out if you and him are going off to this island, won’t it?’

  ‘I’ve thought about telling him—I’ve been so close. But he’s been through so much. His father’s died. And then, when he started talking about our going away, I didn’t want to make him feel as if he had to do it. I wanted him to feel that he was starting a life with me because he wanted to. Not because of some …’ Marion trailed off. She was still having problems with the word baby.

  ‘Of course, the other reason for not telling him is that it might put him off the whole idea entirely.’

  ‘That’s not Ralph.’

  Denise sucked her teeth. ‘You’re lucky if you’re right.’

  ‘You don’t know how much he’s giving up to do this. I don’t think he realises himself.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t work out?’

  ‘I’m not helpless, Denise.’

  It grew dark. Owen called up the ladder to say that he was going out. Dad had slipped off already and wouldn’t be back until morning. In the kitchen, Marion kissed the top of Mam’s forehead as she dozed before the fire, and worked open the cottage door. The wind outside had stilled, and the air tasted of salt and smoke. It clung to her face and clothes in greasy droplets. Faintly, up along the edge of the shore, bonfires were glowing. Nights such as this, before a big delivery, the shoremen put up as much smoke as they could to help with the fog Weatherman Ayres was creating.

  She turned to Denise. ‘I hope you find everything you want in Bristol.’

  Her sister chuckled. ‘They say my academy’s right beside a toffee factory. But who’d have thought it, eh? You running off with a greatgrandmaster to some tropic island. They’ll be singing songs about you, Marion, soon as word gets out. But you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  The two sisters hugged. More by touch than sight, Marion made her way up to the shore road. Even there, it was difficult to keep a proper sense of direction. She wondered about Ralph, but decided that she didn’t have time go back to Invercombe. She passed haggard trees and glimpses of unrecognisable walls, until she finally reached a swirl of light and lampposts of Luttrell High Street. Rousing the ticket clerk at the station, she bought two single tickets for Templemeads with what money she had left from her withdrawal from the Turner account. The platform was deserted, but there was a fire going in the waiting room. Marion sat down on the bench. She waited.

  Sore and breathless, clambering towards what he thought was the shore path, Ralph found himself one step away from falling into the scummy depths of the seapool. Dull lights. A thicker smog of smoke plumes. The canvas bag banged his leg. Then, he was sure he glimpsed Weatherman Ayres hurrying out of the fog before the night closed in again. Just when he was thinking of retracing his steps, and then wondering how he could possibly do so, he found the coast road. From there, it was somewhat easier. Then, unlit, hooves muffled, a big wagon came by so suddenly that he was nearly run over. Pushing himself up from the hedge, he coughed and wiped his mouth and wandered on. Luttrell was a changed town, and his recollection of the station’s exact location was as vague as the fog itself. He passed muddy yards, the too-close moan of balehounds, then, quite literally, fell over a porter’s wooden handcart. Marion had said she’d buy the tickets, but the platform was empty, and for a moment his heart froze, but he entered a waiting room, and there she was, sitting amid its slightly brighter smog. Their clothes felt wet between them as they embraced, and she tasted like the night—a colder kind of flesh than the Marion he was used to. He was late. Loud and insubstantial, the train was already arriving, its carriage lights flickered like scenes from a cinematograph. Ralph turned unthinkingly left towards first class, but Marion took his arm and drew him towards third.

  Three lads climbed on at a station called Aust. To Ralph, what they were saying was almost incomprehensible as they sat splay-legged on the hard benches and shared a narrow-necked brown jug, but it became apparent that they were asking him and Marion where they were bound. Got no tongue, has he, yer master? Not particularly liking the way they were looking at Marion, Ralph assured them that he had, and the lads burst into eye-bulging, thigh-slapping laughter. Well ark at im. Proper lush. Fancy some o this? The reddest-faced of the lads was holding out the jug on the hooks of his fingers, which Marion took and drank from, and passed on to Ralph.

  ‘Go on, John.’ She wiped her chin. ‘Elder knows when we’ll have anything else.’

  John? Then he remembered. The stuff—some kind of cider, but thick and slippery—caught in his throat. What a way to travel, wheezing and patronised by boozy marts, but at least the fog slowly cleared. In lights and yards and back-to-back houses, Bristol finally arrived.

  They passed beggars and wandering widows around the fringes of Templemeads Station as they debated the quickest and safest way to reach Sunshine Lodge. They trudged vaguely north. Warehouses and railings formed dead ends amid kingrats and dragonlice and slurry and mud.

  ‘You’ve got the tickets?’

  Marion gave her coat pocket a rustling slap. A few minutes later, when at last they were amid houses, she put her hands to her mouth and scooted off down an alley. Ralph put down the bag and felt the cold city air nuzzle against his skin as he listened to the sounds of her being sick.

  ‘It’s that ghastly cider, Marion. You should never have accepted it.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re nearly there.’

  They’d the reached the street with its steeply cambered cobbles. Couples sloped past, loud and bleary. The same woman in the same hairnet unhooked the same key at Sunshine Lodge. Putting down his bag, weary beyond weariness, Ralph gave room 12A’s light switch a cautious prod. Surprisingly, the bulb glowed, although it did little to add to the look of the place. Peeling off her boots and socks, Marion slumped on the creaking bed. Ralph sat down on the other side, facing the wall.

  ‘I need to find a bathroom.’

  Marion and the bedsprings chuckled. ‘Look under the bed. I imagine there’s probably a bucket.’

  There was, but he couldn’t bring himself to use it. Feeling his way down the unlit stairs, he ended up using an outside wall which smelled as if it was solely maintained for that purpose, but told himself as he climbed back up that he’d have to get used to these things. Marion seemed already asleep, curled up and fully clothed. Not wanting to turn off the light, he lay down on top of the greasy blankets beside her, his back bowed by the droop of the mattress. This was nothing like the summer room where they had made love. Even the stains on the ceiling had changed. There was no sign of the Fortunate Isles, or any recognisable sea or continent. This was the landscape of his fever dreams, deformed by illogic. Then the light blinked out as a distant generator stopped humming and the night went black. Somewhere not far off, but much too loud and long for the sound to be happy, a woman was laughing. Marion was softly snoring. Her breath smelled of vomit and cider. He rolled over, swallowing back the urge to cough.

  His skin itched. He wished he’d brought more of his
notebooks. He wished he hadn’t thrown away his father’s stones. What sort of message was it, anyway—to send your son the life of a lesser guildsman, when his father had always been resolutely proud to be a telegrapher? Or perhaps there was no message, or one which he’d misinterpreted in this childish desire to avoid responsibility. Ralph sighed. The bed sighed with him. But he couldn’t go back. He was here and he was with Marion. They must face their future together.

  He closed his eyes. Tried to think of white beaches and transparent oceans filled with teeming evidence; beautiful fish. He strove to sleep.

  Weatherman Ayres was convinced that there was nothing to beat a good delivery, no matter how much Cissy complained. After all, she was as happy to accept the better vintages, the fresher fruit, the cash-in-hand, and to his mind, there was an essential rightness about the small trade which the ordinary stuff of life often lacked. Even the arrival of the Proserpine, whose sponsors and investors went all the way up to the big-noses of Hotwells, had a feeling of decency. To him, smuggling was a moral obligation, and he’d probably have done what he was doing tonight even without the substantial packet he was getting for his troubles, although admittedly that helped.

  The men hallooed as he and one of Wyatt’s more reliable undergardeners rolled the barrels of explosive to the shore where a big rowboat was being readied. Someone waved a brand. They loaded and pushed out, dipped oars, and passed around a flask of the best stuff, which was sharp and tart and sweet, and just what this night needed. Ghost-like, they slipped out through the swirling dark. Weatherman Ayres trusted these men as he would never have trusted any fancy mariner. There was Scobie and Jack and Little Paul, and there was Bill Price, who was father to the girl Marion. They eased the boat into the tide’s deeper rush, certain in the knowledge that no other vessels would be about on this black a night. Back at Durnock Head, wooden hoists were being erected. Wagons would be waiting on the back road.