The House on Hummingbird Island Page 13

  Gladstone lifted his hat and rubbed his forehead with the back of his fist.

  ‘Is Carlisle giving you trouble, mistress?’

  Everything oscillated and swam; the reds and oranges and greens had become pulsing circles of colour that came and went before Idie’s eyes. She held out a hand to the branch of a tree to steady herself.

  ‘I – I – I don’t like him. He doesn’t want me here.’ Idie swayed and recovered herself.

  ‘You’re not yourself, mistress,’ said Gladstone. ‘It’s fever perhaps?’

  ‘Why is Carlisle here?’

  Gladstone rubbed his forehead again, then with a long, low exhalation said, ‘He can live here long as he likes, keep his house till the day he dies. It was what your mother wished. She wished that because your father wished it.’

  Idie held a hand to her forehead and bowed her head and whispered, ‘I know, but why did they wish that?’

  The leaves stirred and whispered to one another.

  ‘That’s not for me to say, mistress,’ said Gladstone eventually.

  The pain in Idie’s head throbbed as if to burst her skull; the light burned her eyes and she covered them with her hands, giddy and swaying.

  Gladstone stepped forward. ‘You’re not well – Sampson, help.’

  Idie’s legs gave way and she fell.

  51

  Idie spent two days resting in the cool and dark of her room. On the third day she felt strong enough to go down with Mayella to the kitchen, for Celia wanted to fit a dress. They helped Idie up on to chair and she stood there, still a little weak, her hand in Mayella’s to steady her. Celia’s head was bent over the hem, a flock of pins in her mouth. The air of the kitchen was heavy and still. Idie turned a quarter-circle so Celia could begin work on the other side. The air thickened and seemed to swell with the heat, and Idie’s head began to swim.

  Everything was silent, but for the drip-drip-drip of the old brass tap and the clicking of the kitchen clock.

  ‘She grown some more . . . She’s got a nice waist, nice hip,’ said Mayella, who was, Idie noticed, not in fact looking at all at waists or hips but instead staring dismayed in the direction of a paltry flying fish by the sink. ‘How we going make lunch with one fly-fish and one breadfruit? That all you buy, Phibbah?’

  Phibbah, inscrutable, chewed her unlit pipe. Her long, sharp knife lay beside a breadfruit on the marble chopping board. Carried on a swathe of heat from the stables, voices wafted in through the window, riffling the still of the room.

  Celia removed the pins from her mouth and placed them on the table. She shifted to the window and stood there, wary and attentive. Not a blade of grass moved. The birds fell silent as if the hammer blow of the noon sun had stupefied every living creature. Idie, standing on the chair, waited. She heard Gladstone’s voice, first almost inaudible, then louder.

  ‘Where’s the will, Carlisle?’

  A shadow passed across Celia’s face as though a ghost had walked there. Her eyes narrowed and flickered. Phibbah’s knife remained poised, suspended over the breadfruit.

  ‘Give me that will, Carlisle. I want to know what’s in it.’

  ‘You’ll never see it, Gladstone Mayley,’ Carlisle answered, jeering.

  ‘Carlisle’s got no respect. No one talks to my granfer like that; he an old man,’ said Mayella. Celia pulled the leaf of the casement window to. She held the needle to the light, but Idie saw the tremor in her fingers, the quivering thread. Mayella turned and slipped from the room. A fly droned above the table, its buzzing filling the room till it settled on the breadfruit, and for a few seconds there was silence, everything paused and held in time, Phibbah’s knife hovering above the breadfruit, Celia’s needle and thread in the light of the window, everything utterly still but for the ticking of the clock and the dripping of the tap. Somewhere something heavy crashed and fell, the sound of timber crashing and splintering, of metal clattering on stone. There was a piercing shriek, then a sustained, shrill scream. A figure staggered from the yard, shirt unbuttoned, jacket open – Carlisle – dazed and blinking in the white sun. A look of wild release overtook him and he was running towards the gates and laughing with a strange violence and hysteria.

  Sampson ran out from the yard and stood, open-mouthed, arms helpless and loose on either side, as if too astounded for a second to move or call out. Then, ‘Help! Miss Celia! Phibbah! Call the mistress. Is Gladstone.’

  Idie found Clement and Mayella in the forge, Mayella’s hands and blouse red with fresh blood. In her arms was Gladstone, beside him on the ground a flat-headed hammer. Mayella stroked his bloodied hair, circled his staring eyes with a tender forefinger, kissed his smooth, broad forehead.

  A little apart from the Mayleys stood Enoch Quarterly, his eyes loose with fear. Celia stood to the other side, cowering against the wall. All were dumb with horror.

  Phibbah knelt. She pulled Mayella’s head towards her and held it there against her chest, and with her other arm reached down and closed Gladstone’s eyes.

  ‘What happened, Clement?’ whispered Idie when she was able to speak.

  Sampson answered for Clement. ‘They shout an’ argue all about the will. Carlisle he push Gladstone ‘gainst the wall an’ shake him an’ shake him like he shake de whole world with his anger, an he fall an’ the hammer it fall too from the shelf an’ –’

  Celia moaned. She was transported by the sight of Gladstone, like one pulled from a long sleep into a violent and terrible world, her white cheeks flushed with rose as if she were a wax doll to whom blood had suddenly been given and it was rushing now in her veins where it never had before.

  Idie bowed her head, faint with horror, fear and grief. ‘Where’s Quarterly?’ she whispered.

  ‘He gone,’ said Sampson.

  ‘I will call the police,’ she said.

  Sampson glanced at Enoch, paused, then went to him and said, ‘It were an accident, Enoch; it were what your son wanted, but it were an accident.’ He turned to Idie. ‘Mistress, is best maybe I call only the priest.’

  Enoch nodded at Sampson, gratitude in his eyes, and Idie saw that she was tangled in the web of loyalties and enmities, in the lines of family and blood and love that criss-crossed Bathsheba.

  The dressing of Gladstone was done by Phibbah. Mayella, her seven sisters and the Baptist church took control of the house. People came and went long into the night, praying in the library where Gladstone now lay, weeping in the hall, gathering on the lawn. Gypsy huddled in the rafters, rubbed her eyes and tugged her ears. Baronet, disgruntled at all the people that were coming in and out of his hall, removed himself to the stables.

  Through that long and ghastly night Idie sat in the library with Mayella and Phibbah and with all Mayella’s seven sisters and five brothers, but Mayella was stiff and cold with Idie, and Idie wondered if it were better she weren’t there. She longed for Austin to come, and thought she might send word to him, but the heat and the giddiness was in her head again and there was no one to send for him, for all were absorbed in their grief. Mourners left and more mourners came and Mayella asked over and over, ‘Carlisle, where’s he? Where’s he?’

  Near dawn she said, suddenly, ‘Gladstone asked Carlisle three times what was in the will that Carlisle make him sign. Carlisle say it no business of his, and Gladstone told Carlisle, “I signed that paper and is my right to know what in it. One day I going to tell the mistress that I don’t know what was on the will I signed.” That when Carlisle push Gladstone to the ground and shake him and . . .’ Idie was still wondering what was in the will that Gladstone had signed when Mayella turned and said to her with sudden violence, her dark eyes burning, ‘It’s on your account my granfer died. He loved this place, this house, this land.’

  52

  The funeral took place the next afternoon in the green-white tin shed Baptist chapel. Gladstone’s boat lay below the altar. Old Enoch was rambling and incoherent. Clement, Reuben and Sampson were among those that carried the coffin on their s
houlders and placed it in the boat.

  Neither Carlisle nor Celia were there. Mayella and Clement stood together beside Nelson and all their brothers and sisters. The congregation overflowed the chapel and the yard and so stricken was the outpouring of grief for Gladstone it seemed to Idie that the roof might burst and Gladstone go sailing straight to heaven in his boat and that at heaven’s gate the drums would beat and the trumpets blow and the silver sunfish splatter the seas, and she hung her head.

  It’s on your account my granfer died. He loved this place, the house, the land.

  Afterwards, she stepped out of the chapel and stood alone in the shade.

  Sampson drew Mayella aside and took her hand and Idie heard him whisper, ‘Next time I here is for I marry you.’

  Idie saw how, for all her grief, Mayella’s beauty lit up when Sampson spoke to her, as if the sun had placed its palm on her for the first time.

  Idie crept away and returned to Bathsheba alone.

  Everything was still and silent. She felt hidden watching eyes. A cold, trickling fear threaded her veins. Who was there? And where was Homer? And Gypsy?

  She broke into a run, screaming, ‘Homer! Gypsy! Millie!’ She raced up the stairs to the veranda, tripping and stumbling and screaming, ‘Homer, Homer!’

  There was no Gypsy in the rafters, no Crockets on the trolley. Idie whirled around, calling into the trees and skies. She flung open the door and ran into the hall. Brushing the hair from her eyes, she paused and stood in the centre of the hall, listening, all her senses taut. The door to the dining room was ajar, the door to the study ajar. Idie went to the study.

  Celia was there, looking a little odd and stiff, sitting sideways to the desk, her legs crossed. A cut crystal vase of scarlet ginger lilies stood on the desk before her. That had not been there that morning when all the flowers had been white for Gladstone. Celia looked at Idie, her eyes hard and vacant, and Idie wondered at the sudden reversal that had come over her; yesterday she’d been as one drawn into life for the first time, now she was again withdrawn and empty.

  Idie took a deep breath and said inwardly, She is my aunt. I must look after her as my mother would have wished. Be calm, be gentle, Idie Grace.

  ‘Are you quite all right, Aunt Celia?’ she asked.

  Celia smoothed the collar of her dress and toyed with a trinket on her wrist and said in a shallow, brittle voice, ‘I am fine, very fine. Just taking some afternoon tea and doing correspondence.’

  Idie saw the blank paper in front of her, the closed inkwell and said, very slowly, ‘I see.’ She half turned, then paused, picking her words carefully. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t come to the funeral, Celia.’

  ‘Gladstone was a foolish man.’

  ‘Carlisle told you that, did he?’ asked Idie.

  ‘Gladstone couldn’t read or write. Carlisle is educated—’

  ‘I see. This all has to do with Carlisle, doesn’t it . . . ? Aunt Celia, you must stay away from him.’

  Delilah’s little scarf, the one Celia had knitted for her, lay across the lacquered surface of the desk. Celia picked it up and threaded it to and fro between her fingers, pulling it out one side, threading it back through the other. ‘I read and write.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Again Celia pulled the scarf through her fingers.

  ‘Where’s Delilah?’ asked Idie.

  Celia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Her eyes went to the door. She threaded the scarf through her fingers once more.

  ‘Where is Delilah?’

  ‘It’s not proper to have her follow me, now I am a lady.’

  ‘Oh my word. Carlisle says it’s not proper, does he?’ Idie stepped closer and whispered, ‘Where’s Delilah? Where’s Homer? And Millicent? Where are they all?’

  A look of cunning came into Celia’s eyes.

  ‘WHERE ARE THEY?’

  Celia whispered, ‘Hidden.’

  ‘Hidden?’

  ‘In Phibbah’s rooms.’

  Idie discarded the June-bug theory once and for all. Celia had cunning in her and duplicity. She’d hidden Delilah and the animals from Carlisle, yet she was still his puppet. Idie stepped away from Celia and said, ‘Well now, being a lady, Aunt Celia, I am sure you will keep Delilah safe because you know how she loves you.’

  ‘She loves me,’ repeated Celia in a soft, faraway voice.

  ‘And because you are a lady, you will keep Delilah and all of them safe till I return, and you will tell me where Carlisle happens to be.’

  Celia’s eyes darted towards the dining room, then back to Idie.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Idie, turning. Celia snatched at Idie’s sleeve as if to warn her of something, but Idie pulled free and marched across the hall.

  Carlisle sat at the head of the table, a crystal decanter of dark liquor beside him. He put down his glass, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked at her.

  ‘Where’s Delilah?’ Idie asked, very quiet, very controlled.

  He laughed. ‘Gone. It’s not yours. None of it is yours. That’s why they’re gone. All of them. Because I’ll be master here soon, Mistress Idie, this house’ll be mine. Mine. It’s my inheritance; it’s what your mother wanted.’

  Idie answered, calm and steely, ‘No, it’s not, Carlisle Quarterly; it’s not what she wanted.’

  He took some rum and laughed. ‘It is. I have the paper to prove it.’

  Idie fought for control of her anger, and finally, through her teeth, said, ‘You are butler here, Carlisle Quarterly, no more than that. You may wish that Bathsheba were yours, but it is not.’

  ‘Your own mother gave this house to me in her will. You didn’t know that, did you, Miss Grace? Her will makes everything over to me. When I give that will to the bank, then –’ he drank again and rose unsteadily – ‘all of this will be mine, Miss Grace.’

  Idie shook her head from side to side, telling herself, No, no, she never did that . . . my mother would never have done that.

  ‘I’m going to tell you one more thing you don’t know . . .’ He laughed again and waited, watching Idie. There were beads of sweat on his brow. ‘We’ve the same blood, you and I.’

  Idie gasped.

  Carlisle laughed. ‘Honey, my own mother, was your grandmother, the mother of your father . . .’

  Idie put her hands over her ears and backed against the wall, but he laughed and she felt his breath on her face.

  ‘That’s right,’ he growled, adding with a curling tone, ‘mistress.’

  Idie smelt the drink on him.

  ‘I was taught in the same schoolroom as your father, treated like a brother to him.’ He placed a hand on the wall on either side of Idie, pinning her there. ‘You see, I am the half-brother of your own father.’

  His foul rummy breath lapped her face. Idie pressed herself against the wall.

  ‘Your father killed my mother the day he came into this world. He was no good from the day he was born. He killed her –’

  The anger was coiled in Carlisle like a spring.

  ‘And your mother, Miss Grace, was insane. Insane, crying at the trees and the sun and the birds, begging for the dark . . .’

  Insane?

  Carlisle leaned closer and hissed, ‘They didn’t tell you that, did they? She was afraid of the light, afraid of birds and trees and flowers, afraid . . .’

  Idie tried to step back, but he caught her and she bent her head and covered her eyes and her nails clawed the skin of her face.

  ‘Insane, Miss Grace. A lunatic.’

  Blinding illumination shot through Idie, shaking her to her roots, howling through the foundations on which she’d built her happiness.

  ‘Her own child wasn’t safe. Nothing was safe with her, not even her own child. That’s why you were sent away. They didn’t tell you that either, did they? Didn’t tell you that she killed herself?’ He stepped back to see Idie’s face.

  ‘Insanity runs in the blood, Miss Grace. You have it too.’ He laughed. ‘The
fear of the light. . .’

  He laughed again, and in that second she broke free and fled.

  PART IV

  October 1915

  53

  The fever that had before only simmered in Idie’s veins returned, full blown and furious. She was febrile and burning, sweating and shivering, her skull straining as if it couldn’t contain the heat in her head.

  They had to take me away from her to keep me safe. It runs in the blood. There will be no escape from it, no escape from myself.

  There’d been a doctor some time ago – how long – a doctor had been there and his words found a space in Idie’s crowded head: ‘It’s nothing more than a simple fever. Give her fluid and bed rest. Plenty of fluid, plenty of rest. Keep her cool. Keep the windows open.’

  So the windows had been opened and the scent of the trumpet flowers flooded the room. Homer was unsettled and noisome, his feathers glowing whitely in the night. Shadows vibrated across the room, the palms made close muffled sounds, the vines rattled against the shutters and Idie tossed and turned, groping for the peace that comes with sleep. Palm leaves scraped the sky, their giant fingers grotesque and distorted. Heat moved in leisurely swathes across the room bringing voices on its back: Madness runs in the blood, you know.

  I am mad. It is in my blood. I will fear the light. There will be voices in my head. Already the moon that is in the sky is not right; she isn’t as she should be. She’s yellow and fallen on her back and the stars are hung incorrectly, disorderly and too bright. They’re bright with tears and sliding through the black and nothing can stop them falling.

  The candle flickered. The flame grew long and thin and the pale face in it grew narrow as a snake tongue, then twisted and strangled itself. Idie shivered and turned away. Idie’s nightdress was damp and clinging, her mouth dry and bitter. She shut her eyes. She’d have no candles for there were faces in all the flames. It was the madness in her that made her see the faces, made her fear the light.