Zenna Dare Read online

  Full beautiful — a faery’s child,

  Her hair was long, her foot was light,

  And her eyes were wild.

  ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’,

  John Keats 1795–1821

  The boarding house in Penzance was a passable establishment. It was run by a Mrs. Hancock, who did the job with as much fervour as a captain would on his ship. She even employed bells for meal and retiring times. Nine young ladies lived there and some had places in the village. Lottie worked in Trevelyan House in the next street. Lord Trevelyan held music evenings in one of his rooms on a Sunday. It was one of the first places Mr. Drew took me to sing. All the girls in the boarding house had their own money, however small an amount. I had a whole pound Grandmama had left me, but other than that I was beholden to Mr. Drew. My lodgings were paid for by my scholarship and I did not understand at the time who was the benefactor. I was known and introduced only as the student of Mr. Drew. He had others too and some who had been so successful as to have sung at Drury Lane in London. The young Queen went to the theatre at least two or three times a week. This was my dream: to sing for the Queen. It was only a dream, of course. Even if I had won a singing competition, how could someone like me become so illustrious? Then I would remember the stories of the famous Peg, who came from a very poor family last century and became the envy of all at Covent Garden.

  The singing lessons could be exciting or frightening, never tedious. The very first time, Mr. Drew had to lay his hands on either side of my diaphragm (as he called it) to show me how wrongly I was breathing, I nearly gave up altogether. No one had laid hands on me in such a way before and I could barely concentrate on his words for the embarrassment. He was not one to smile much during a lesson. He was always telling me to feel, feel the music, let it take the lead. He was quite a task-master but that made it easier, for although his dark looks could not be called handsome, his air of command and knowledge reduced me constantly to a state of awe and shivers.

  On Sundays I went to the Bible Christian Chapel with Lottie, my new friend from the boarding house. I became accustomed to the exuberant ‘Praise the Lords’ and ‘Amens’ that punctuated the lively sermons. Apart from wearing black dresses, it was not unlike our Wesleyan meetings at home. On Saturdays, Mr. Drew and some other musical friends of his party would take a ride in a carriage. I became a steady member of this group and became privy to places and events I would not have known had I stayed in Camborne. If the tastes of this party conflicted with those of my parents or Lottie’s chapel group I managed to suppress any misgivings at the time. I explained to myself that this was my musical education.

  St. Michael’s Mount was one of these places. For some reason due to his musical talents, I suppose (for he was a clever violin and pianoforte player as well as a singer, I found out later), Mr. Drew was invited to the castle by the St. Aubyns. We’d arrived at Marazion to walk across the cobbled causeway but the tide was in so Mr. Drew arranged for a boat. I will never forget the air of mystery that place birthed in me; the turrets rising out of the rock as it were, the water surrounding it making it seem I had stepped back into the very myths that explain its existence.

  The great Sir John had been dead seven years so it was James who received us at the wharf. He showed us into the blue drawing room. At first I was speechless at the beautiful furniture from times long gone, and then I was invited to sing.

  Afterwards, Lady St. Aubyn was beside herself. ‘Don’t you think she’s ready, Richard? She is delightful. Oh, where did you discover her?’ I tried not to mind being talked of as though I were a piece of pretty china picked up from the dirt. Richard Drew’s sardonic reply shocked me at the time, ‘In our county’s deepest mining pit, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, you must take her to the Assembly Rooms at Truro. Even London.’ Mr. Drew was considering me as the lady spoke, with her hands clasped in delight, and I was shaken to see it was not a new thought to him. He had known all along, since he heard me in the field, what he had wanted to do with me. I cannot deny I was somewhat excited along with that nagging tug on my insides that I still encountered in his company. The man could stir in me some feeling that I could not identify. It was not the happy lurch one feels when a loved one is standing close. No, it bordered more upon fear. But fear of what? That was what puzzled me.

  Outside, we took cordials and sandwiches in the western gardens, looking out to sea. Tom Ashton, a jovial young man, who sang well but wanted to be an actor, was telling us the story of the Mount. ‘St. Michael appeared to fishermen in the fifth century. Can you just imagine it?’ And suddenly Tom jumped up, swung himself over the stone wall and stood on the parapet.

  ‘Careful!’ We all admonished him, but it did not deter him.

  ‘They saw him standing right over there on that ledge of rock high above the sea, in the mist. Pilgrimages were made here in the Middle Ages and there were miracles. A woman named Christina had her sight restored.’ Tom landed back on the grass. ‘And when the Spanish Armada came, it was the people here who saw it first and raised the alarm … with fires. Right from up there —’

  Suddenly, I felt Mr. Drew’s presence behind me. It was always like that; I always knew when he was in the room even when my back was turned. How could the young girl I was, who still had to watch her aitches, and with the dreams I dreamt, stand against the personal power he exerted? Especially when he held the promise of everything I yearned for?

  ‘Come walk with me awhile, Miss Rundle,’ was all he said and immediately I arose, apologising, leaving good-natured Tom in mid-sentence. Mr. Drew and I stood by the rocks looking over towards Penzance where Tom’s Spanish ships must have come to conquer. ‘My dear, you are becoming quite confident.The experience you have had singing in the local taverns and song and supper rooms has been quite beneficial. Yes, quite. Next week we shall visit Truro where you will sing in the Assembly Rooms, then, perhaps—’

  I forgot myself enough to interrupt. ‘You think I’m ready, Mr. Drew?’

  ‘Indeed,’ was all he said. He sounded amused, though he did not smile, as if there was something I did not know; but how could I imagine what my singing was like to those who listened? No one in Camborne said it was remarkable except perhaps Grandmama, and who believes their grandmothers? This was the first true encouragement that my teacher had given me this long year.

  ‘You mean —?’ I still was not sure.

  ‘Yes, we shall go on tour, my dear.’ He smiled then. ‘The lessons will continue, but we shall present you in the county’s best music halls —’

  ‘And then?’ Was this what I wanted? This was a point of decision —return home and marry? Or sing?

  ‘Then, we shall see.’

  It’s possible he could tell by my reticence that I would need to think about it. He did not say any more, just took my arm and walked me back across the green to the others.

  Jenefer

  Caleb’s actually asked me out for a proper date. Apparently the football clubrooms at Dutton Park have a dinner dance every Friday night. He’s here early, bearing a gift. Not roses for me or chocolates, but a spare rabbit hutch from school for Hamilton to borrow. Actually it’s the sweetest thing to do and it does more for me than a dozen roses would have. (Well, almost.) Kate’s pouting again while Caleb explains to Hamilton.

  ‘This can be his outside run, mate. See here?’ And I watch Hamilton’s gingery head bobbing next to Caleb’s dark one. ‘We’ll put it here on the lawn and he can eat fresh grass when he feels like it.’ There’s hay already in the box where it’s closed in and there’s chicken wire on the bottom. ‘Wanna go get him? See if he likes it?’

  Sher Khan is very happy. Having grass sprout up through the floor of your house must be rabbit heaven. ‘Is he okay now, mate?’

  Hamilton smiles. ‘The pineapple worked. And the hay.’

  ‘I’ve been asking a guy out at the farm. He knows more than a vet e
ven. He reckons Sher Khan shouldn’t get too many hairballs now.’ Hamilton gazes up at Caleb like a worshipper at a shrine. Caleb just roughs up his hair a bit while Kate stands there brooding.

  The clubrooms look like any other venue in the city, like a hotel room or nightclub but without the dry ice and strobes. It’s not line dancing as I feared, but a reasonable local band is playing songs from the top singles plus a few of their own. They’re not bad. The dinner dance isn’t restricted to teenagers either — it’s nothing like a school formal. Some older people are there, ones who are interested in sport and in supporting it, I guess. One guy stops by our table and starts talking to Caleb.

  ‘Ready for the footy, mate?’

  Caleb grins. ‘Sure thing, Mr Wilson. You umpiring again?’

  ‘Do horses eat hay, mate?’ And they both laugh. Mr Wilson passes on after a quick, polite nod at me.

  ‘The football season ready to start, is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah, not yet. But Willy likes to be sure of his players ahead of time.’

  Just then Erin and Tim come and sit at our table for a while. Tim’s watching the band and makes a comment about the Celtic Festival coming up soon in the town. They must be really into it for Caleb says this band won’t be playing. I wonder how he knows.

  ‘Nice to see you out, Jenefer,’ Erin says. She makes it sound like I’ve been cooped up in a castle for years and have just been freed, but I get the impression being seen in the clubrooms is a good move. Though if she felt like that why didn’t she ask me to something? I catch her glancing from Caleb to me and I can’t read her expression. I wish it wasn’t so important to do what meets with everyone’s approval. If I like Caleb, isn’t that all that should matter? I sure hope it’s enough but I don’t see anyone else with someone who looks different from themselves. We are the only ones. I wonder if Caleb has noticed or if he ever thinks about it.

  ‘C’mon, Jen-e-fer.’ Caleb’s pulling me up and we follow Erin and Tim onto the dance floor. He says ‘Jenefer’ like it’s come from a song and I try to forget that everyone seems to be staring at us. Maybe I’m imagining it or they know I’m new to town, and I hope like hell it’s got nothing to do with Caleb. I doubt I’d make a very good Juliet. We’re dancing as a foursome, not a couple. There’s more room than in places in the city, room to get entirely breathless. Then suddenly Caleb comes closer, takes my hand and swirls me round just for fun. We start laughing and just on the next turn I see a Nunga girl with her boyfriend. What chills me is the look of dislike on her face. The image of her lip curled up at me stays with me for quite a while even when I can’t see her anymore. I don’t dare say anything to Caleb. He might think I’ve imagined it, nor do I want to cause trouble.

  The time goes fast, too fast; I find I’m really enjoying Caleb. He’s got a look in his eyes that shows he’s having fun too and that it might be to do with me. He’s so funny at times, cracking stupid jokes. Ben Walker would never have been like this; he was too intent on being cool and moody to relax enough. When Caleb suggests it’s time to call it a day, I agree, wondering what will come next.

  It’s after we get home that it all happens, not remotely what I had in mind either. It’s not so late for us; I’m about to ask Caleb in for coffee as he turns off the engine, and I hear it straight away. Low sobbing. Hamilton. Caleb’s out of the ute and over like a shot, kneeling beside him. Hamilton has the torch and he’s jerking it around, shining it in all the flower beds, under the bushes.

  ‘Mate. What is it?’ Caleb doesn’t waste time on why Hamilton isn’t in bed. Hamilton dissolves into Caleb’s shirt. ‘I — I came out to bring Sher Khan in and s-someone turned the hutch on its side and Sher Khan — got out.’ He shudders.

  I think of dogs first. ‘Maybe Sher Khan has gone back to the other rabbits in the bush, Hamilton. What say you come to bed and look in the morning.’ I’m not used to Hamilton defying me but he does.

  ‘No.’ Quite definite. ‘He’ll be waiting for me to f-find him. He might be s-scared. I can’t leave him out here. Not all night.’ I’m hoping Caleb can think of something to get Hamilton in, but even he surprises me.

  ‘You’re right, mate. He’d want you to find him.’

  ‘Caleb —’ And I almost whisper, What if he’s not here, or worse, what if he’s dead? Do we want Hamilton to find him mauled and bloody? But Caleb moves on, helping Hamilton look. Guess he doesn’t think it was dogs, then. I can’t just stand around doing nothing, so I help too, but I feel useless without a torch. Hamilton’s calling Sher Khan. Will a rabbit come like a dog? By this time I’m getting wild. If not dogs, who else would do such a thing? Take a kid’s pet, or let it loose?

  Don’t know how Caleb does it, but suddenly he’s calling Hamilton over to him, softly. He’s crouching down by the pepper tree. ‘Mate … look here.’ Then there’s Hamilton’s little cry, and a shaking Sher Khan is whisked inside. To Hamilton’s bed, I bet.

  It’s too late now for coffee — we’d disturb Steffi but Caleb doesn’t mind. He’s tipping the hutch up the right way, puts it nearer the house. Then he comes back to me. I’m wondering what to say. Thanks for saving Hamilton’s mind? How do you say thanks for that? Caleb doesn’t say anything either. The yellow light from the street lamp shines through the pepper tree. I remember that bit, just as Caleb lifts a hand and runs his finger down my cheek. It makes me lift my chin so it doesn’t stop and that’s when he kisses me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I finally say, before he swings himself into the ute, but we both know what it’s really for.

  Gweniver

  Cornwall, June 1846

  For neither men nor angel can discern

  Hypocrisie, the onely evil that walks

  Invisible, except to God alone …

  Paradise Lost, John Milton 1608–74

  Midsummer’s Eve in Penzance: what gaiety there was. We all, Tom Ashton, Lily and Mr. Drew’s other students, enjoyed the madness in the town that night. Young men with burning banners ran through the streets; bonfires lit up otherwise murky street corners; people burnt candles on their doorsteps. All the young boys and girls began dancing, forming long lines, the last two making an archway for the others to run through.

  The next day was Midsummer’s Day and the place was thronged with people. There were cattle, donkeys and horses for sale. In the market square, amidst the noise of a brass band, standings were erected for the sale of fruit and sweets. The ice-cream cart was a great attraction. I had never seen one before, nor had the children who lived there, by the way they crowded around it. Mr. Drew, I, and the others strolled through it all: the booths for small shows; the peep shows (not that we ladies looked); freaks of nature; a deplorable cock fight on the green. There was even a small circus. Tom enjoyed himself in the shooting gallery and even threatened to join the boxing booth. It was about this time, as we were making way for a horse and cart to move through the crowd, that a serious argument occurred between two parties.

  Crackers were discharged which so enraged one group that serious consequences would have ensued had a spirited gentleman on horseback not dispersed the crowd. It was after this incident that Mr. Drew hired a carriage, as if he had had his fill of Midsummer’s Day in Penzance.

  ‘Come, I have something to show you,’ he said to me. The others were not invited to accompany us.

  He drove the vehicle himself and we followed the coast all the way to a pretty place called Cove of Lamorna. At the time I did not think of the song I sang at the fair in Camborne. It may be that he remembered. Perhaps that was why he took me so far.

  The sea was up high by then, being late afternoon, splashing onto the rocks, yet the cove was sheltered. He led me down there, taking my hand wherever the path was rough, as I manoeuvred my full skirt and numerous petticoats that he insisted I wear.

  ‘Gweniver.’ I did not start at the use of my first name. Being my teacher he had early dispensed with calling
me Miss Rundle when we were alone. I was staring out to sea, wondering how well I would choose my path. Nor was I altogether thinking of the way across the rocks.

  ‘Gweniver, see that rock out in the water?’ I fixed my gaze where he was pointing, noted the spindrift rising round the blackness of the lone rock. It put me in mind of the wrecker stories Clarice would tell us at night years ago.

  ‘There is said to be a lady who sits there, showing herself before a storm. She sits and sings most plaintively if there is to be a wreck, and all along the shore, the spirits have echoed her in low moaning voices.’ I shivered as he paused.

  ‘Young men have swum off to the rock, lured by her songs, but they never return. I am not so young and mindless, but Gweniver,’ and here he turned me towards him. ‘You are that woman to me. I have swum to your rock and I can never return. You lured me from the very first day I heard you singing in that field.

  ‘Come with me, Gweniver. You have the talent to take even London by storm, let alone Cornwall.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘No buts.’

  He was smiling, sure of what I would answer, but how could I explain? Sing, I must. I knew that much and so did he, but what was involved in the proposition he was offering? Even then I did not know, could not know, he would want my very soul. There was still a look in his eyes that disturbed me at times, even then, when he was finally singing my praises and smiling. As for luring him, could I believe him? What was he saying? He took my hand, turned it over and kissed the palm but I wanted to snatch it away. It felt cold, unprotected, and he kissed it again. Naturally, I thought he must know the kind of family I came from: simple, strict, Wesleyan. Surely he understands. And so I relaxed. My skin warmed and his dark eyes looked up from my palm.

  ‘I care for you, Gweniver,’ he whispered. Did I hear him truly? Was it loud enough for me to hear above the noise on the rocks? Or was it my fancy that made me relax, made me think that he would not hurt me, that he would want the best for me. For that is how I understood love, and so I made my decision: I went on tour.