Dunswold--Part 1
Suffolk 1964
She sat in silence, facing away from him, staring out at the landscape. Beyond the empty fields, the sea caulked the joint between surface and sky, a thin strip of grey lead.
He drove carefully as if the slightest jolt might break her. At one point he turned to her, intending to mention some lambs in a field, but looked away again without speaking.
When they arrived, he said, “You go in. I’ll bring the luggage.” She got out, and wandered down the path, lost. He took their cases from the car, one in each hand and one under his arm. “Mind your back,” he said when he manhandled them into the hall.
Deborah stood there, staring into the darkness at the back of the house. The light through the stained-glass of the door bathed her in a prism of colour.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was miles away.”
“I know—you have been all day.”
“Yes—I’m tired.”
He put the cases down. The house smelled faintly of polish and carbolic. Deborah wandered off into the darkness.
A shape appeared behind the glass of the front door. “Major Mulcahey? The ministry man said I should come in to clean twice a week. I saw your car outside, so I thought I’d better make myself known. Ada Haylock.”
She wore a floral housecoat. On her feet, blue slippers. “Mrs Haylock. They said there would be someone. My wife’s having a look round.”
“All should be in order. I went round with the duster yesterday ‘cos I knew you were coming today. An empty house can grow stale if you don’t give it a go ‘round every couple of days.”
“Of course. Ah, Deborah, there you are. This is Mrs Haylock—she’s coming in to clean twice a week.”
Mrs Haylock went to Deborah and took her hand.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m a bit tired, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, of course you are. Why don’t you both sit in the parlour, and I’ll make a nice cup of tea? There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea when you’re feeling a bit tired, is there. Puts the world to rights.”
“Local character,” he said when Mrs Haylock had gone into the kitchen.
“Yes—a local character.” She touched her hand to her cheek and tears came into her eyes.
He smoothed back his hair with his fingers, pressing hard into the scalp. It was becoming a habit—he must stop himself doing it.
In the parlour, two chairs sat either side of a low table. French doors led out onto a lawn with trees on the perimeter. On the mantelpiece an ornate clock measured out the afternoon in loud ticks. Bronze mermaids held the dial clear of the pendulum.
“This room will be very cosy in the winter, what with the fire,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose it will.”
Deborah sat down and stared into the empty grate.
Mrs Haylock brought in the tea things and arranged them on the low table. “I used to come in three times a week for the officer before you. He was a single man tho’. Couples are much tidier. I do for Captain Wickham and his wife too—I dare say you’ll be working with him.”
“I dare say,” he said.
“Such a lovely couple. They’ve got a television. Can’t say as I’m that keen—I prefer the radio. Have you got a television?”
“No, no… We prefer the radio too, don’t we, Deborah?”
She nodded, still holding her cheek.
“Kept us going during the war,” Mrs Haylock continued. “Always something nice to listen to. Even the sound of static was better than nothing.”
Mrs Haylock finished laying out the cups and straightened up. “There’s your tea then. If you want the gardening done, let me know, and I’ll get my son to come over. I’ll be getting off. Only came in to make myself known.”
He stood. “I’ll show you out, Mrs Haylock.”
When he returned to the parlour, Deborah hadn’t moved. The tea sat undisturbed on the table. He stood in the doorway and watched her for fifteen ticks of the clock before he said, “How are you feeling?”
“Empty.”
“But you like the house?”
“The house is fine.”
He sat back down on the chair opposite her and began to say something, leaning towards her as he did so.
“Don’t start now, Martin. I’m too tired.”
“I’m not starting.” He smoothed his hair again, stiff fingers raking against his skin.
“But it’s always the same thing. I’m sick of talking about it. Just leave it. When the time is right… If you’re not satisfied with that, then I don’t know what to say to you.”
“Fine.” He took out the unfinished tea things, put them in the sink and washed-up. He broke one of the teacups.
***
On Dunswold Spit a forest of aerials sprouted from the shingle—a huge metal ear that faced East and strained to hear coded whispers from two thousand miles away.
Beneath the iron forest, a concrete bunker complex was buried in the ground with operations rooms, kitchens, beds and medical facilities. People too; scientists and military men that translated the mumblings from far away into English sentences and whispered these to their masters in London. Mulcahey was now in command of this installation. He met his colleagues (all very friendly and professional), found his office and looked through the daily reports. Nothing much of interest. Then, like many people in his position (a new job, a new office) he wondered whether he’d made the right career move. Was it going to be all that he’d hoped? He hadn’t worked with civilians much before. You couldn’t go around barking orders at them—they had to be persuaded, reasoned with, cajoled.
Then there was Deborah. Had it been fair to take her away from the few friends she’d had in London and transplant her into a place that she didn’t know? But she was an army wife. She knew they could be called away at a moment’s notice when she’d married him. And the house was nice—much better than their pokey little flat in Caterham.
‘The thing they didn’t talk about’ was always in the background somewhere. He’d thought, maybe selfishly, that a change of scenery might help Deborah to move on. They both needed to move on.
***
At the end of the day, Mulcahey’s driver took him back along the military road that led to the village. They were about to cross the pontoon when Mulcahey saw a small figure in the distance, standing on the shore and looking out to sea. He bade the driver stop and got out. The shingle stretched for miles in both directions, dotted throughout with coarse, fleshy plants that sprang up between the stones.
“You can go, corporal Collins,” he said. “In fact, don’t bother with the car. I’ll walk tomorrow.”
The car turned in the road and drove away.
Deborah stood some distance away, her hands in the pockets of her coat, staring out to sea. Mulcahey struggled over the stones until he was within hailing distance.
“Ahoy there,” he shouted.
Deborah didn’t turn to face him but shrugged her coat about her more tightly.
“What are you doing down here? It’ll be dark soon,” he said.
“I needed some fresh air. That’s all.”
He put his hand on her shoulder to turn her away from the sea, but she resisted.
“There’s someone out there,” she said.
He shielded his eyes and scanned the water. “I don’t think anybody would be out there this time of year—it’s freezing.”
“I saw them.”
“Did you? Probably one of the locals.” This time he did turn her away, and led her back across the shingle and over the pontoon bridge. Mrs Haylock was there speaking with another woman.
“Good evening, Major and Mrs Mulcahey,” she said.
“Good evening,” he said.
“There’s a man swimming out there in the sea,” Deborah said.
Mrs Haylock looked at her friend and then said, “I don’t think that can be the case, Mrs Mulcahey. Maybe you saw a dolphin or some other sea creature. I know we’re all a bit mad, but not that mad to go swimming at this time of year.”
“Or any time of year,” her friend said.
“It was probably a dolphin,” Mrs Haylock said. “You do get them around here sometimes. The old sailors used to mistake them for mermaids, so Mr Haylock says.”
“Oh, yes, you’re probably right,” Deborah said.
***
That night Martin made love to her. Not roughly, tenderly, but also authoritatively and firmly.
“I’m sorry, Deborah. I love you, but I have needs,” he said afterwards. She pulled her nightdress back down and turned on her side, away from him. Soon she was asleep.
***
In Ada Haylock’s house, Mr Haylock had already gone to bed, seeing as he was an early riser. Mrs Haylock stood by her kitchen window and mouthed silent words into the darkness. She lit a candle and put it on the ledge. Then she, too, went to bed.
***
Off the coast, a shape glided through the water, sinuous and lithe. It surfaced and raised its head to gaze at the stars and then, with a subtle arching movement, it disappeared beneath the waves once more.