Calypso Dreaming Read online

  Calypso Dreaming

  CHARLES BUTLER

  Dedication

  To Stephen, Ute, Æfleda,

  Wulfric and Dunstan,

  who made a go of it.

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PART ONE: THE GOD-BOTHERERS

  1. Sweetholm

  2. Crusoe’s Castle

  3. The Asklepian

  4. The Cursing Candle

  5. The God-Botherers

  6. Genesis

  7. Winstanley Explains Himself

  8. Harper

  9. Joseph

  PART TWO: THE TOR

  10. On the Beach

  11. Queenie

  12. Revelation

  13. Good Fences

  14. The West Walkers

  15. The Lady’s Finger

  16. Finding the Lady

  17. St Brigan

  18. Calypso and the Healer

  19. Mr Robinson Underground

  20. Plagues on Both Houses

  21. Dusk on Sweetholm

  PART THREE: CALYPSO DREAMING

  22. Transfiguration

  23. Longholm

  24. The Iconoclast

  APOCRYPHA

  KEEP READING

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PART ONE

  THE GOD-BOTHERERS

  1

  Sweetholm

  “Sweetholm! Do you remember it?”

  Tansy peered through the telescope. In its depths a piece of clockwork was counting out their time and turning it to cash. The island bobbed up against the glass. It was low and flat, but for the abrupt brown hill at the western tip.

  “Of course she doesn’t remember, Geoff,” said Tansy’s mother. “She was hardly walking when she came last.”

  “You’d be surprised what sticks sometimes. Even at that age.”

  Tansy opened her mouth to reply, then clapped it shut again. Dad was wrong, of course. Of course and as usual. But she didn’t need to say it. Not today, when everything ought to be perfect.

  “I remember it from the photos Uncle John sent. It looks closer than I imagined, though. Is it really five miles out? I can see buildings.”

  “Five miles by ferry,” said her father. “But that’s going from Plinth. And the ferry’s got shoals to negotiate, remember. Tricky waters.” He gestured to where the water was stippled with dark patches. “As the gull flies, we’re closer here on the headland. Of which, as you can see, Sweetholm is geologically an extension – and Longholm beyond it.”

  Geoff unfolded the map on his knee, standing like a flamingo with something to prove as a thermal billowed up and ballooned the paper.

  “It’s not that we don’t believe you, Dad,” said Tansy, turning back to the car.

  Their car was parked in the small semicircle of gravel at the head of the Down. A lane ran back, dividing one bleating field from another. It led into the main road down to Plinth. There were two cars parked there, their own and a black Volkswagen in which an elderly couple were eating sandwiches under the late June sun.

  Geoff ignored the retreat to the car and put another coin in the slot. He moved the telescope over to the next bay along their own coast, and the harbour town of Plinth. Every day in summer a ferry set sail from there to Sweetholm, with a cargo of ornithologists, hermits and trippers, though Sweetholm was just too far away to make a day trip comfortable. That was where the beauty of the place lay – in its splendid near-isolation. Then he noticed the time and that the ferry was already docked.

  But in such a place hurry was impossible. With the telescope still whirring, Geoff climbed into the car then inched it to the road and let it drop, braking all the time, down the steep, ear-popping hill into town. It was eleven in the morning and some of the shops were only just opening. One man, unlocking the door of his picture gallery, glanced at the car as it parked beside the ferry offices and shook his head with an air of frank reproof. Geoff looked out instinctively for No Parking signs, but found none. Perhaps they just looked disreputable in the unwashed Volvo.

  Tansy and her mother waited as Geoff dealt with the ticket side of things. Her mother seemed exhausted, with her head on her hand, her hand propped on an elbow, her elbow wedged into the car door. It seemed as if she were thinking of something else, or of somewhere she would rather be than here, teetering on the brink of an adventure.

  The ferry was the open-air kind, with room for four vehicles at most. The mate hauled boxes of supplies into the dark hold. Even before she was out of the car, Tansy noticed the boat’s slight movement and the slapping of the water against its sides. But there was no wind to speak of as they descended to the deck. Then the ropes were cast, the water churned and they had left Britain behind.

  Tansy’s parents stood on either side of the ferry, having settled into a mutual sulk. They had their backs to each other, like a pair of novelty bookends. The female bookend was a bit queasy: Hilary had never been good with water. The other passengers had drifted into groups. Three men with backpacks made their way to the bows and stood, eyes shielded, to catch the white wing of a seabird flashing fifty yards out on the tinselled water.

  “Isn’t that a Mediterranean gull?”

  “Yes, look!” Tansy heard them exclaim with quiet excitement. “This far north!”

  The gulls all looked the same to Tansy. She supposed birdwatchers would be migrating daily to the island. Meanwhile, another group of passengers was chatting with the captain, whom they clearly knew. Locals, she guessed, wanting to distinguish themselves from the tourists with whom they shared the boat. She remembered what her mother had said about the islanders: “They’ll never let us in, Geoff. They’ll talk to their sheep more than they will to us. And you expect us to house-sit here all summer?”

  “Well, John’s made a go of it and he’s no more an islander than I am. You do come out with the most awful prejudices, Hilary,” said Geoff. “You never used to be so cynical.”

  “I speak as I find. As I have found.”

  To which there was no answer – except the gabble of the water turned by the ferry’s prow and the wash pushed out behind it. Tansy stared down at her palms. All at once she felt immensely old, older by far than her parents. As old, possibly, as the limestone pebble scuffing the boards at her feet. She looked south to Plinth, now fast receding, and welcomed the invisibility offered by distance. A curse couldn’t follow them across the water, could it? Those experiments with Kate Quilley, the Cursing Candle and the rest – surely the sea would wash the memory of their magic from her? But she was not easy until they had rounded the rocky islet of Longholm and seen its sleek, unreflecting blackness ooze up between them and the village.

  The only other passenger was a young man, tanned and lean with several days’ black stubble. He had spent half the journey sitting at the wheel of his old white camper van before stepping unsteadily on to the deck. He was looking at his watch now. Like Hilary he seemed impatient for their journey to be over, but not because of seasickness. More as if he had an appointment on Sweetholm that he dared not break. There was nothing in him of holiday excitement, no curiosity to see the Longholm seals, which the captain was bringing to their attention. The camper van, now Tansy looked at it, was actually a converted ambulance. You could see the words underneath the paint job, ghosting through: Wessex Health Authority. At the front someone had once painted ‘AMBIENCE’ in backward letters, but now that lame joke too was censored with white paint.

  There were grey seals on Longholm. The captain had brought the boat about, to give their cameras time. He stood there sucking at his pipe, while the tourists crowded to the side of the boat to watch the great, clumsy-sleek lumberers rear thei
r heads or slide down the rocks to reappear as a black, inquisitive dome, no more than a shadow in the waves’ cup of shadows.

  The young man hung back a little, as did the Sweetholm locals, who had seen it all before. Not for them the undignified jostle to the side of the ferry. But with him it was not disdain. Tansy found herself wondering if he was superstitious about being snapped by the cameras. Or perhaps it was the domed heads of the seals themselves he found repugnant.

  Geoff had taken Hilary by the arm. “What’s wrong? Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” The arm wriggled free. “I just want to be off this boat. Can’t you see I’m ill?”

  “Then take a nip of this at least.” Geoff had a hip flask in his hand.

  “Why aren’t we moving?” asked Hilary, almost shouting. She turned to the captain. “Are you going to take us to Sweetholm or do we have to wait for a tow from one of these wretched seals?”

  The captain gave her a slow, wide grin. He was charmed.

  “Aren’t you even going to answer me?”

  Laboriously, the captain consulted his watch. “We always come about at Longholm Point. People like to see the seals.”

  “They’ve seen them now, so please let’s get on.”

  Still with the same grin the captain turned to the controls and pushed a lever forward. The engine hubbubed, and the ferry turned through a foaming circle of water and progressed unhurriedly to its destination on the far side of Sweetholm.

  The Haven was the island’s one harbour. Elsewhere, the land plummeted in stark cliffs or was skirted with lavish margins of mud. The undredged quicksands were an asylum for wading birds. The sand and mud squirmed with life, but had also sucked down sheep, dogs, even (the guidebook said) occasional unwary humans. A party of Edwardian nuns had made their last pilgrimage to the site of St Brigan’s ancient chapel and been swallowed, a hundred years before.

  In the Haven a broad shingle beach lashed back the seafront. The land stuck a long jaw seaward, just beneath the water’s surface. The rocks allowed only one route to the jetty, a maze in which the jetty seemed at first to be almost overshot, then curled back upon, sidled up to almost, and surprised by the sudden weight of a ferry upon it. Water gushed out to counter the land’s push. Lorry tyres strapped to the jetty cushioned the stone wall behind. No one awaited them.

  Now the nimble mate leapt out to moor the ferry and a hydraulic switch lowered the ramp over which the meagre island traffic was to roll. The cyclists first, and the young man in his camper van, which spluttered a little as it took the one asphalt road on Sweetholm uphill and past the patchwork of shopfronts, the cottage gardens and the harbour master’s house. Past Sweetholm Post Office too, where you could get your card stamped with a date-marked puffin and sent back to the mainland by the same boat. This, for the next three months, was to be their home.

  “Where’s Uncle John’s place?” asked Tansy, peering along the sea front.

  “Inland, up behind the village. You can’t see it from here.”

  The Haven buildings had a huddled look, precarious between wind and ocean. Even on a summer day like this, with the breeze no more than a slight shifting of the light on the whitewashed cottage walls, Tansy was glad to be climbing to the moor above the Haven, beyond reach of the sea’s white fingers. There was no one to be seen behind the green rail above the beach, but a lad in jeans and a cap was fiddling with a bale of netting nearby.

  It was quiet here, an odd reflection of unpeopled Plinth, so near, so far away beyond Longholm. Not quiet in the Plinth way, though. This was a busy quiet, almost a furtive one. Somewhere, in those pretty cottages or up on the unseen inland moor, a tremendous subject was claiming the island’s attention. The Haven was a face in which only the eye-whites showed.

  “Tansy, are you coming?” called Hilary. She and Geoff had already strapped themselves in, both anxious to get the journey done at last. What waited for them at the end of it would decide their summer happiness. And that might decide their whole lives together. It didn’t make for relaxation.

  2

  Crusoe’s Castle

  Geoff had made most of the running, Tansy knew. She had heard him once on the phone, begging Gloria Quilley not to end it, making promises he’d never keep … Hilary had guessed that much from the letters she’d found. But for all Hilary’s resentment of her husband it was on to Gloria that her hatred and contempt had latched. If that was unfair, the unfairness was the price of their family remaining together. That, and this make-or-break summer on Uncle John’s island. Here, without the props of ordinary life, the routines and camouflages gone, they would see what, if anything, remained. What was strong, what was weak. What was left of love in them.

  Halfway up the steep hill out of the Haven, turning a corner, they came upon the white camper van. Slowly as he was driving, Geoff had to brake, then back the car downhill a little before creeping round on to the verge.

  “Careful, Geoff, you’re inches from that wall,” warned Hilary, but Geoff was a master of the tight manoeuvre and crept a little closer just to show her. Beyond them, the young man was leaning into his van’s bonnet.

  Geoff stopped beside him. “Need a hand?”

  The young man did not reply. He seemed not to have heard.

  “The hill too much for her, was it?”

  “Who?” the man responded this time, looking a little startled. “Oh, the camper? Yes, maybe. Don’t worry, I’ve a good idea where the trouble lies.”

  “We’re going up to the Robinson place. Hop in, if you want to phone for a mechanic – we’ll give you a lift.”

  The man glanced at their car, in which every spare inch of seat space was taken up by bags and boxes.

  “I don’t think there is such a thing on Sweetholm,” he answered tangentially. “A mechanic, I mean. Thanks, but I’ll just roll it down off the road. I’m sure the farmer will give me a tow once he sees I’m blocking his gate. I can walk the rest of the way.”

  “You’re not staying near John Robinson’s place by any chance? If so we’ll be neighbours.”

  But no, the man was not staying nearby. Geoff prodded him with further questions. Was this his first time on the island? Did he perhaps intend to camp, and where?

  “I’ll be with friends,” he replied, with an abruptness he did not bother to disguise.

  “You see, Geoff, in places like this even the tourists are sullen,” remarked Hilary as they drove off.

  “He wasn’t sullen at all. Remarkably good-humoured, considering. Could have done with a shave, though.”

  “His clothes were falling off his back. And men like that travelling alone, well – you never know, do you?” Here she shot a glance at Tansy in the mirror. “You never know what they’re like.”

  Tansy felt obliged to say, “He wasn’t alone though, was he?”

  “Pardon, Tansy?”

  “He wasn’t alone. He had a girl with him, didn’t he? In the back.”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” replied her mother, as though that settled the matter.

  “She didn’t get out during the crossing,” said Tansy. “But she was there just now. You must have noticed her.”

  It had been obvious enough, after all. The floral cushion cover pinned over the van’s window had been lifted, and a small white face had shown there, peering curiously into a light that seemed too painfully bright for it. A beautiful child, of four or five. There was no doubt. But those eyes, so large and dark, had no lids with which to squint the light away, so that this girl could do nothing but stare and stare. A shocking, as well as a beautiful, face. But for all her staring, Tansy did not think the girl had seen them either.

  Within two minutes they had reached Uncle John’s smallholding. At first they missed it entirely, hidden as it was by a high stone wall and a hairpin entrance. But Tansy happened to look back and see what was only now visible, a sign with the words Crusoe’s Castle painted in black calligraphic script.

  “Oh, Geoff, it’s beautif
ul!” said Hilary.

  It was two storeys of the local limestone, a solid, yeomanly building declining into a sprawl of brick and mortar, a woodshed and a barn.

  “Well, this is more like it,” breathed Hilary. “The photos don’t do it justice.”

  “And the inside’s a gem,” said Geoff. “Carved panels, hangings, all the rest of it. If anything, John’s gone a bit overboard. Too fancy for round here. If it was up to me—”

  “Yes?” prompted Hilary.

  “Well, I’d strip it down a bit. Do something cheap and cheerful.”

  “Yes, you would,” said Hilary. “Cheap, especially.”

  If this shaft was aimed over Tansy’s head, it missed. Gloria Quilley’s Day-Glo taste in clothes had given Hilary a convenient handle for her scorn. Sighing, Tansy followed her parents up to the front door. With luck, the house would be startling enough to make them forget their tedious, half-unspoken row.

  The heavy knocker brought no response. Geoff glanced to right and left, lest John might be crouching in the undergrowth. “Halloa!” he called. He stepped back from the door and began peering through the bullet-glass windows.

  “Someone’s got green fingers,” said Hilary, admiring the window box. Looking at Tansy, she added, with a sudden breezy cheeriness, “Come on, Tansy, squeeze a smile out of that long face. This is meant to be a holiday.”

  Tansy saw that her mother was taking some pleasure in John’s non-appearance and Geoff’s discomfort. Another bad sign. But she smiled back.

  “Mr Robinson, is it?” said a voice behind them.

  Geoff turned, looking startled. Recovering himself slightly, he guessed at the name of the tall man before him. “Mr Jones?”

  “Call me Davy,” said the man, whose vast, tanned hand had already engulfed Geoff’s slim white one and was shaking it with a heartiness that bordered on ferocity.

  “Of course. John mentioned how helpful you’ve been to him.”

  Outdoor work had weathered Davy Jones’s skin. His face was obscured by a long Viking beard that tapered to a point. Pale blue eyes smiled at them and lips, surprisingly full and childlike, grinned at Hilary and Tansy in turn as Geoff introduced them. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you – I lost track of the time. John said you’d be here for twelve.”