Read Online Memories of the Storm by Marcia Willett - Free Book Online
Authors: Marcia Willett
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responsibilities, from herself
even. Where could she go to recapture that
brief sense of freedom that she'd experienced
earlier?
Suddenly she knew the place: a bridle path where
Tess could run between pale, chalky fields, following
the scent of a fox or putting up a pheasant
with a whirr of its indignant incandescent wings.
Tess's bright, rust-gold coat would be a clear note
of colour amongst the dun-coloured countryside:
bright as the honeysuckle's berries and the bloodred
rosehips.
* * *
The damp air was cool and soft. Behind smoke-grey
cloud the pale gold disc of the sun showed faintly,
hard-edged as a metal coin. Cobwebs as big as tea
plates, slung between twigs and branches in the
straggling hedge, caught and reflected back the
luminous shimmering light. Their hump-backed
occupants crouched watchfully, racing out at the
lightest vibration of a silvery filament to capture
their unwary prey. Hands in pockets, Lucy followed
in Tess's excited wake, looking for treasures that
she might take back for Jerry. His painful joints,
coupled with a severe reaction to insect bites, had
begun to make country walks an anxiety rather than
a pleasure but he liked to enjoy them second-hand,
and she was learning to make a little excitement out
of them for him rather than feeling guilty that she
was still fit and free.
Guilt and fear: all her life she had wrestled with
these demons yet, though she had never conquered
them, she refused to abandon the struggle. Lately,
as Jerry tried to come to terms with his illness, so
she had begun to analyse her own character in the
hope of becoming stronger through understanding
rather than simply condemning herself for her
failures. The shock of finding that she must be the
carer and that Jerry – who had always taken control
and been her refuge – should now look to her for
mental and physical assistance had been terrifying.
In attempting to deal with this role reversal she
was making a greater effort to combat her own
weaknesses.
Just lately, during those wakeful nights lying
beside Jerry and willing him to breathe peacefully,
she'd begun to look back at that part of her life
she had so carefully concealed, searching for clues.
Now, she was trying for a more positive approach.
She'd started to realize that her own negative
reactions to her fear – 'Oh, why are you always such
a fool!' or 'Why don't you grow up!' – merely served
to diminish her already low self-esteem. Against her
will, instinct was forcing her back into her past as if
the answers might be somewhere there. Cautiously,
as if bracing herself for what she might see,
she'd allowed tiny glimpses to show themselves. She
could believe, at least, that it was partly due to her
mother's influence that she'd grown up to become a
superstitious child.
At first it is a silly game, hopping across the London
pavement, holding Mummy's hand: 'Don't walk on
the lines, darling, or the bears will get you.' 'See the
magpie, Lucy? Only one. "One for sorrow." Oh,
quick. Look for another one.' 'Touch wood . . .'
Her mother never goes anywhere without her little
carved bird mascot, kissing her daughter three
times for luck, and, though she makes these little
rituals into a game, deep down there is a hint of
something else: fear. When she dies, killed by a
bomb whilst playing at a lunchtime recital, Lucy's
first terrified thought is that some good-luck
formula must have been neglected. Nobody ever
finds the little mascot and the small Lucy makes
the inevitable connection. So it begins – that first
insidious need to feel protected from an unseen
adversary.
Her father is strong, and she clings to him, yet
even he is not powerful enough to protect himself
and, in the end, succumbs to the invisible power of
evil: blown to pieces whilst attempting to defuse
an unexploded bomb. After that, as indelible as
pokerwork, three things remain burned into her
memory.
The first, a whisper – a woman's voice, urgent
and needy: 'It's because of Lucy, isn't it? If
even. Where could she go to recapture that
brief sense of freedom that she'd experienced
earlier?
Suddenly she knew the place: a bridle path where
Tess could run between pale, chalky fields, following
the scent of a fox or putting up a pheasant
with a whirr of its indignant incandescent wings.
Tess's bright, rust-gold coat would be a clear note
of colour amongst the dun-coloured countryside:
bright as the honeysuckle's berries and the bloodred
rosehips.
* * *
The damp air was cool and soft. Behind smoke-grey
cloud the pale gold disc of the sun showed faintly,
hard-edged as a metal coin. Cobwebs as big as tea
plates, slung between twigs and branches in the
straggling hedge, caught and reflected back the
luminous shimmering light. Their hump-backed
occupants crouched watchfully, racing out at the
lightest vibration of a silvery filament to capture
their unwary prey. Hands in pockets, Lucy followed
in Tess's excited wake, looking for treasures that
she might take back for Jerry. His painful joints,
coupled with a severe reaction to insect bites, had
begun to make country walks an anxiety rather than
a pleasure but he liked to enjoy them second-hand,
and she was learning to make a little excitement out
of them for him rather than feeling guilty that she
was still fit and free.
Guilt and fear: all her life she had wrestled with
these demons yet, though she had never conquered
them, she refused to abandon the struggle. Lately,
as Jerry tried to come to terms with his illness, so
she had begun to analyse her own character in the
hope of becoming stronger through understanding
rather than simply condemning herself for her
failures. The shock of finding that she must be the
carer and that Jerry – who had always taken control
and been her refuge – should now look to her for
mental and physical assistance had been terrifying.
In attempting to deal with this role reversal she
was making a greater effort to combat her own
weaknesses.
Just lately, during those wakeful nights lying
beside Jerry and willing him to breathe peacefully,
she'd begun to look back at that part of her life
she had so carefully concealed, searching for clues.
Now, she was trying for a more positive approach.
She'd started to realize that her own negative
reactions to her fear – 'Oh, why are you always such
a fool!' or 'Why don't you grow up!' – merely served
to diminish her already low self-esteem. Against her
will, instinct was forcing her back into her past as if
the answers might be somewhere there. Cautiously,
as if bracing herself for what she might see,
she'd allowed tiny glimpses to show themselves. She
could believe, at least, that it was partly due to her
mother's influence that she'd grown up to become a
superstitious child.
At first it is a silly game, hopping across the London
pavement, holding Mummy's hand: 'Don't walk on
the lines, darling, or the bears will get you.' 'See the
magpie, Lucy? Only one. "One for sorrow." Oh,
quick. Look for another one.' 'Touch wood . . .'
Her mother never goes anywhere without her little
carved bird mascot, kissing her daughter three
times for luck, and, though she makes these little
rituals into a game, deep down there is a hint of
something else: fear. When she dies, killed by a
bomb whilst playing at a lunchtime recital, Lucy's
first terrified thought is that some good-luck
formula must have been neglected. Nobody ever
finds the little mascot and the small Lucy makes
the inevitable connection. So it begins – that first
insidious need to feel protected from an unseen
adversary.
Her father is strong, and she clings to him, yet
even he is not powerful enough to protect himself
and, in the end, succumbs to the invisible power of
evil: blown to pieces whilst attempting to defuse
an unexploded bomb. After that, as indelible as
pokerwork, three things remain burned into her
memory.
The first, a whisper – a woman's voice, urgent
and needy: 'It's because of Lucy, isn't it? If
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