The Headland: Part 3

It was a rare and beautiful morning in the colliery; the sky was iridescently blue and cloudless and the pavements were filigreed with frost. John Coxon opened the shop door and stepped out into the silvery rawness of the street. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and the little shops around him were thrumming with activity as the day roused itself. Pavements were swept and gritted, shop doors were unbolted and bags of coins clattered into tills. In the baker’s window next door, Margaret was piling flaky, sugar-sprinkled mince pies into baskets. She waved and lifted a pie ‘Do you want one, John?’ she mouthed, smiling. John could see her plump freckled arms were dusted with flour and her face was rosy from the heat from the ovens. He shook his head and quickly retreated into the shop before she had a chance to come out and talk to him. Margaret tried to be kind; they had been neighbours for two decades. She had known Stella, and the girls, of course. But even after all this time, it had been thirteen years since the girls disappeared, she still treated John as if he was a three-legged puppy: wounded and helpless. She would bustle up to him in a billowing cloud of sugar and flour, grasp his hand and ask how he was. Her compassionate and mournful expression was as fixed and unnatural as a Greek tragedy mask. She seemed to think John needed more, more of everything, more talk, more company, more food. Being accosted by Margaret was like grappling with a well-meaning but determined octopus: it was simply impossible to get away. John sometimes wondered if he should have left the colliery, moved to somewhere people did not know him. But he felt instinctively that wherever he was, he would never be able to set down the dark burden he carried with him. The loss of the girls and the torment of not knowing what happened to them had branded him, scarring right down to the bone. Some demons are impossible to outrun. It would be madness to even try. 

John closed the shop door behind him and turned the sign to ‘Open’. It was the breezy, candy-coloured sign from the old ice cream parlour; the only remaining memento from Cichella’s. The jukebox, the 1950s booths and Formica tables, the kaleidoscopic jars of sweets and the gleaming silver coffee machine had all been cleared out years ago.

Thirteen years. In those thirteen years, John’s life had completely eroded, like cliffs crumbling into the sea. Sometimes the devastations were sudden and dramatic: the death of Tony Cichella or the discovery one morning that Stella had left him. Mostly though, the demolition came gradually, with a torturous apathy. Despair and loss seeped in to every dark crevice and dissolved his old life, slowly washing it clean away.

One year after the girls’ disappearance, Tony Cichella collapsed and died in the ice cream parlour. He wasn’t an old man: he was just in his early fifties, but his heart had simply given up. The shop had been empty when he collapsed. It had been empty for months. Once a place of celebration and laughter, it had become a place associated with tragedy and horror. Children were too frightened to go in. Adults worried about finding the right words to say to the family and felt embarrassed by their inadequacy. It became easier to hurry past the shop, eyes firmly fixed on the pavement. The few friends and customers who did still enter for a cup of coffee or sweets for their children, did so out of loyalty rather than desire. Even the most steadfast were relieved to leave. The shop was filled with an absence, an emptiness that was almost opaque. When customers stepped from its suffocating murkiness, their relief was tangible. They breathed deeply and squinted into the sun. They looked like earthquake survivors, brushing off the debris of catastrophe, grateful to be walking out into the unburdened daylight.

Tony didn’t notice the shop was failing, or maybe he noticed but didn’t care. It was his reason for getting up every morning, his reason to keep going, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. How else could he live with the guilt, John wondered? How could he endure the routine ephemera of everyday life, the till receipts, the confectionary catalogues, the bags of loose change, knowing that he was the cause of the girls’ abduction? Ten minutes. Just ten minutes late to collect his granddaughters from the church hall one November night. When viewed in the context of a life, that thin sliver of time was insignificant, was tiny. It was the pause of breath taken at the end of a sentence. It was the blink of an eye. It was one footstep forward. It was a petal falling from a flower. Yet that insubstantial flake of time had the destructive power of a boulder crashing into a stream; it changed the course of so many lives. John tried not to blame Tony. Those ten minutes were never mentioned by anyone in the family, never discussed. John knew they haunted Tony. How could they not? A year after the girls vanished, Tony was dead and the ice cream parlour closed for good. 

For a while, the shop stood as empty as a ghost ship. After Stella left, John asked Lucia if he could use the premises himself and she’d agreed. John had never enjoyed working at the pit. Arguments with workmates were a daily occurrence and he was sullen and rude to his managers. When he turned up for work, he was late, often hungover and very occasionally still drunk. Many days he didn’t bother to turn up at all. He was desperate to be sacked, but it never happened. His colleagues had too much compassion; allowances were always made. In the end, he resigned and set up his carpentry business in the old ice cream parlour. It was a relief. He answered to no one, he set his own hours and he made sufficient money to pay his bills. For John, that was enough. That was more than enough. 

On the Saturday morning before Christmas, he was hungover. He’d open the shop for the morning only, he’d thought, and then go back to bed. He’d been drinking in a pub two collieries over the night before. It was easier that way, easier to have distance and anonymity. There was a woman, Tracy, he’d hook up with there. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know about the girls. To Tracy, he was just John. Not Poor John or the father of those two girls or worst of all, the father must have done it. He’d overheard that once in the colliery pub. He’d smashed a beer glass over the man’s head when he’d heard it. The man had been persuaded by others not to involve the police. John wouldn’t have cared if he had. You can’t steal from a man who has lost everything; you can’t hurt a man who feels nothing. Prison might have been a relief, if anything. John sipped his coffee and thought about Tracy. She was getting a bit too keen, a bit too interested, asking too many questions. She’d asked to see his flat, to meet his family, to see his shop. He’d find somewhere else to drink. He didn’t have the talent or the inclination to get close to anyone. He would not have said he felt lonely. He would not have said he felt anything at all. He moved through the world quietly, separate and alone. For John, love had been an overnight snowstorm that had transformed the drab landscape of his life into something shimmering and otherworldly. But the storm had passed and it would not come his way again. Of that, he was certain.

He picked up his diary and sat in an old leather armchair. He longed to see the pages scribbled with addresses of jobs and appointments but the papers were blank, offensively unmarked. There were no appointments until the New Year. He walked over to the walnut 1930s’ cocktail cabinet he’d picked up at a house clearance in the village. It was shabby and dull and one of the doors didn’t close properly but knew it could be transformed into something beautiful. With a bit of love, the wood could be made to glow like polished amber, revealing the dark tendrils of the grain that swirled like oil on water. He opened the top of the cabinet to inspect the mirrored interior, now as foxed and fissured as a frozen pond. Maybe this would be the project to keep him occupied over the Christmas holidays. He wasn’t sure there would much of a market for a restored cocktail cabinet in the colliery. But he would welcome the work, the distraction, if nothing else.

He was crouched in front of the cabinet when the door opened behind him with its familiar dull chime. He stood up and turned and saw a woman standing there. In one hand, she held an old oil lamp, in the other she grasped a red leather lead attached to a large, grey bristly dog. She looked as if he was in her thirties, maybe ten years younger than him. She looked familiar to John, yet he could not place her. Her hair was very long and the colour of dark honey. It was parted in the middle and hung loosely in waves that spiralled like curling smoke over her long dark coat. Under her coat, she wore a long red printed dress that almost touched the floor. Standing in a puddle of winter sunlight, with a lamp in one hand her stately dog by her side, she looked otherworldly, like someone from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. John imagined himself walking up to the woman and slowly wrapping a corkscrew spiral of her hair around his finger. He took a step forward and then stopped himself. 

‘Do you mind if I bring the dog in? I’d rather not leave her outside. There’s a rakish looking jack russell tied up at the bakers and it’s already giddy on pasty fumes,’ she spoke with a Northern twang, but it was softer than the usual colliery accents he heard, as if the hard edges had been rubbed smooth. Her skin was the colour of milk. Where was it he had seen her before?

‘Aye, the dog’s fine, pet. I love dogs,’ he walked over to the woman and reached out his hand to stroke the dog’s head, but as soon as he did so, the skinny animal curled its lip, let out an almost imperceptible snarl and moved to stand in front of the woman.

‘She won’t bite, don’t worry. She’s just not that fond of men, I’m afraid. Never has been. I suppose she doesn’t see many. Can I just put this down here? I’m amazed I’ve managed to get it here in one piece on the bus. I wasn’t planning on bringing Hetty, but she had other ideas,’ the woman placed the lamp down on the cocktail cabinet and ran her free hand through her hair. The action unlocked a memory, and John suddenly remembered why she was familiar. He’d seen her with her dog walking along the cliffs at the headland. He’d seen her several times that summer and autumn, the grey dog always by her side. The wind would lift the spirals of her hair as she walked through the grasses that billowed like an ocean. She’d always been alone. He’d noticed at the time her clothes were slightly discordant, long ethnic skirts fringed with beads or coins, jeans that were flared as if it were still the 1970s, dozens of thin golden bangles chimed on her wrists. It was as if she’d come from another time or place. Whenever he saw her, his eyes snagged upon her as firmly as scarf on a blackberry bush. He could not look away. He felt a compulsion to walk towards her and an equally potent desire to run quickly in the opposite direction. The two forces were equally balanced and each negated the other. He’d done nothing, simply observed her from the sanctuary of his stasis. She had passed quite close to him once and he’d called ‘hello’ to her but his voice was carried out to sea on the wind, muted by the crying of the gulls. She hadn’t heard; hadn’t even glanced his way. John had walked away quickly, he didn’t want to frighten her in that bleak and lonely place. He understood, more than anyone, that evil existed in the world, and that women and children often suffered its harrowing consequences the most. 

In the shop, John took a step away from the dog. ‘Why doesn’t she see many men? Are you a nun? Or a lesbian?’ As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He’d developed the habit of saying whatever he thought, of not giving a fuck. He didn’t mind alienating people. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. His brother once called his conversational style one of ‘truculent detachment’. He didn’t want to offend the woman in the shop. She’d turned to look at him. Her eyes were green and flecked with gold. They were the colour of the first days of autumn, when the lushness of summer softens like the amber bloom on a ripening pear. She didn’t look offended. She looked mildly amused, serene even. ‘No, I’m not a nun. Or a lesbian. I’m a primary school teacher.’ 

John nodded. Of course, she was a teacher. How could she be anything else? ‘Well, I wasn’t far off then, flower. That’s almost the same thing. On both counts. I’m going to try again with that dog. Dogs usually love me. That jack russell you saw next door is called Napoleon. He’s all over me like a rash. Honestly, dogs follow me down the street. Did you say she’s called Hetty?’ 

The woman nodded and smiled wryly, ‘Yes, Hetty. Be my guest. You’re not her type though, so please don’t be offended. I hate for your ego to be bruised when she rejects you. And she will. The only men she likes are elderly chaps with white hair. She loves my headteacher, Mr Gibson.’

John crouched down on his knees and reached a tentative hand out to the dog. ‘Hello Hetty, aren’t you. . . err. . . shaggy?’ The dog’s eyes narrowed and her ears flattened against her head. A rumbling growl resonated through her whole body. John stood up and raised his hand, ‘Hang on a minute pet, I am not going to be defeated by this dog. That is not going to happen.’ He disappeared for a second through the ribboned curtains that led to the old kitchen. When he’d gone, the dog spun happily on the spot and smiled up at the woman. 

‘Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Hetty. You were quite the little rip just then.’ John returned brandishing a half empty packet of ginger snap biscuits. ‘Can I?’ he asked.

‘Please do. She’ll adore you now, but it will only be temporary. When the biscuits are gone, you’ll be back to being a rogue. A contemptable man of the male gender.’

John took out a biscuit and snapped it in half. The dog watched him intently and took a few tentative steps towards him, her black nose twitching eagerly. 

‘Here you go Hetty,’ he held out the biscuit. Hetty snaffled the first piece and swiftly and retreated to the woman’s side. After several attempts, John was able to scratch the dog behind her ears. And when he refused to get the last biscuit out from the packet, she leant against his legs and peered up at him adoringly. ‘There you are, you see. I told you. Success.’ John handed over the last biscuit and crumpled up the empty packet, stuffing it in his pocket. ‘You’re a raggedy old thing aren’t you, girl,’ he said as he reached out to scratch her ears again. The dog contemptuously curled her lip again and uttered a fearsome snarl before resuming her position in front of the woman. She watched John with a cool haughtiness. ‘Bloody hell. The adoration only lasts as long as the biscuit jar is full. Well, you’re not the first. I’ve met bitches like you before, Hetty.’

‘I am sorry. She has strong feelings about people. She finds beards particularly unsettling. I should have warned you about that. She was a rescue dog. Found abandoned, half dead, tied up on an allotment somewhere. Lord knows what she endured. And let’s stop comments about bitches please. Proud primary school teacher and proud feminist, if you don’t mind.’

‘Fair enough, flower. Feminist, eh? See, that is the same thing as a lesbian isn’t it? It’s just one with more books and a subscription to The Guardian. Is she an old girl, Hetty?’

‘Very. According to the vet she’s about 125 in dog years. When it comes to men, bearded men, she is like a cantankerous old woman in black who delights in prodding people with an ivory walking stick. I’m sorry. Thank you for the biscuits though.’

‘She’s a character. I like it. She’s protecting you too, the way she stands in front of you. That can only be a good thing. Unless of course, your attacker is carrying a packet of concealed ginger snaps. In which case, you’ve no fucking chance. Can I ask you something?’

‘If you like. It’s not about lesbianism is it?’

‘No, it’s not. Although I do reserve the right to return to that subject.’

‘Go on.’

He paused, ‘How do you feel about beards?’

John wasn’t sure, but he thought the woman flushed slightly, she smiled and looked down at her feet. ‘I feel very positively about beards, on the whole. Alan Bates in Women in Love. Al Pacino in Serpico. All very fine examples of beards. Of course, at the other end of the spectrum there’s Peter Sutcliffe. But there’s always one bad apple. This is a peculiar conversation. I only came in about a lamp.’

‘Aye, I see that petal. But before we move on to that, I would just like to clear something up. Honestly, I don’t think you’re a lesbian. Or that feminists are lesbians. Or nuns. Or primary school teachers.’

‘That is good to know. Thank you for the clarification.’

‘I mean, both you and I know that lesbians don’t exist.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Well, I’ve never met one. I think about them a lot, but have never ever met one. They are like mythical creatures, I think.’

‘Like wizards?’ 

‘Aye, or sprites, trolls, giants.’

‘Can we talk about my lamp?’

‘If we must.’ John walked over to the lamp and picked it up. ‘This is lovely, where did you get it?’

‘Church fete. It was fifty pence. Aren’t the colours glorious? I was wondering if you could rewire it for me. Mr Gibson said you’d be able to.’

‘Aye. Of course. How is Mr Gibson? Not seen him for a while. He’s great, isn’t he. I bet the kids at your school love him.’

‘They do. He’s like a kindly wizard. How do you know him? Did your children go to the village school?’

John paused. He felt a fissure open up between them. He felt the shop still, as if holding its breath. ‘No. I’d have loved them to go to the village school, just for him really. Too far away. They went to the colliery school. I’ve done some carpentry work for Bill, shelves, kitchen cabinets that sort of thing. I can do this for you, pet. Ten quid. Does that sound alright?’ 

‘That would be fine. Thank you. This is such a beautiful thing, so elegant,’ the woman said, running her hands over the smooth wood of the cocktail cabinet. ‘I can imagine Tallulah Bankhead mixing herself a dirty martini from this.’

‘I’ve never heard of Tallulah Bankhead flower. Dinner lady?’

‘Dissolute Hollywood actress from the deep south. Lesbian, apparently, which will no doubt be of interest to you.

John relaxed. The conversation was ebbing and flowing companionably again. ‘Please stop going on about lesbians, you’re sounding a little obsessed, flower. I’m beginning to feel a little bit embarrassed for you.’

‘I am slightly obsessed with Tallulah Bankhead. Her last words were reported to be ‘Codeine. Bourbon’. It’s a world away from the life of a village primary school teacher.’

‘I don’t know. I would have assumed Codeine and Bourbon were essential tools of the job. I don’t think I could do what you do. Still, it must be a happy job. My girls loved their primary school.’ 

The woman laughed again. She was lovely when she laughed. John felt as if he was unfurling. As if delicate tendrils were opening in his chest, inching their way towards her sunlight and warmth. Then he saw it, the sudden darkening of her face. He’d experienced it so many times before, the moment when someone had met realised who he was, who his girls were. He’d said too much, been too unguarded. He’d crushed the sweet, teasing intimacy that had begun to bloom between them. She would look at him the way everyone else did, with pity, embarrassment, fear. The woman bent down and kissed her dog on its nose. When she stood up she had composed herself. The cloud had passed from her face and her voice was clear and bright. ‘Yes, mostly it’s a joy. Mostly.’ 

John pretended to examine the lamp. ‘I can imagine.’ He felt unsteady, a tree bending and churning in a gale. He longed to talk about the girls, he realised. He needed to talk about them. And yet he never spoke of them. This was a dangerous revelation. The divergence between the thoughts in his head, and the words that came from his mouth was unassailable. The air around him seemed to vibrate with words unsaid. Words that had remained unspoken for thirteen years. He felt he had been waiting for this moment, for the moment a comfortable connection with someone might start to overthrow the malignancy of silence. 

‘Actually, you mention making bookshelves for Bill, well I really could do with some shelves putting up in the alcoves on either side of my fireplaces. My books are just piled up on the floor at the moment. Hetty helps herself to the occasional paperback while I’m at work and gives it a good gnashing. She likes poetry best. Poor Stevie Smith and Philip Larkin have both been recent casualties.’ 

John turned towards the woman. He didn’t even know her name. 

‘I can come and give you a quote, if you like. I’ll drop the lamp off when it’s finished and measure up then. Where do you live?’ 

‘Up in the village. On the green.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Yes. Me and Hetty. There was a man for a while. And a cat. They left. I do miss him . . . Atticus was such a wonderful cat.’

John smiled. He couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed a conversation more. He picked up his diary from the leather armchair and handed her a pen. ‘Write your name, address and number down and I’ll give you a call when the lamp’s done. I’m John. John Coxon.’

‘I’m Miss Finch, sorry, teacher’s habit, Alice.’ She leant the diary on the cocktail cabinet while she wrote in it. ‘I’m off the butchers now to stock up for Christmas. If wrangling an elderly lurcher and antique lamp on the bus was problematic, I expect a lurcher and carrier bag of meat products will be even more of a challenge. Thanks John. It is nice to meet you . . . despite the whole lesbian debacle.’ She handed the diary back and headed towards the door. ‘Come on, Hetty.’

‘I’ve seen you before, Alice, I think.’ John called, ‘Walking on the headland with Hetty. I started walking there this summer to clear my head.’

Alice turned, ‘Yes, it’s our favourite walk. There’s something wonderful about liminal spaces, where the land meets the sea, where the sea meets the sky.’ She pulled the door open, but paused for a few seconds before speaking. ‘I expect we’ll be there on Christmas morning, if the weather’s not too bad.’ She looked over her shoulder and smiled at John. Her face was as open as a child’s. 

After she’d left, John looked at Alice’s elegant script curling across the empty page of his diary like ivy across a stone wall. He locked the front door and turned the old sign to closed. He looked around the room. The absence that lived there, that smothered everything with its ashy dust, for a moment seemed to have departed. In the morning light, the room looked as bright and clear and full of hope as the first page in a new diary. The shop seemed to be echoing with words, their words. They sounded like tiny bells. There were so many words John imagined he could take a sweeping brush and gather them all up, wrapping them in tissue paper to savour later.