‘No, not me.’
‘I’m harbouring a bloody murderer.’
‘What the Detective wants – it’s not me.’
‘Who are ye anyway, old lady? So many secrets.’
‘Not anymore,’ I say. ‘I’m writing it all down.’
Chapter 5
Cornwall, September 1940 – February 1941
Angel had stacked and threaded branches together. She’d propped them against two trees which had fallen against the side of the gully, offering firm support. The afternoon sun scorched the gully, but it was dark inside our den. Slivers of sunlight broke through the gaps in the branches, falling across Angel’s face.
‘Where’d you get that?’
‘It was in the junk yard. I stole the battery from old Al and borrowed his wheelbarrow. Can’t get it to work, though,’ she said, bashing the wireless. ‘Guess there was a reason it was junked.’
‘I can look at it,’ I said. ‘I used to fix things with my da. The neighbours would come to us if they ever needed their wireless looked at.’
I came back the next day with some tools I borrowed from Tom. I opened it up. It wasn’t anything complicated, just a couple of loose wires. I tightened the last screw and said, ‘You can have the honour, Miss Angel.’
She turned it on and it was all fizz and crackles.
‘The Martians are trying to speak to us,’ I said.
She tuned it as I put away the tools.
‘I’m glad you could fix it. I got it for you, because you said how you liked the wireless…’ She trailed off, her tongue sticking out slightly as she tuned it.
Tom didn’t have a wireless, said something about it being a sin, but he still asked Mr Moore everyday about the news. I guess secondhand sin isn’t as bad, but if you ask me it’s cheating. ‘Compromise,’ I could hear David say, and I guess that was Tom’s version of compromise. Maybe he scrubbed himself clean that bit longer just to make sure the secondhand sin was all washed away.
‘You said how you listened to it at home and I know you miss David’s records. We can listen to music and we can dance.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling pleased but embarrassed. I poked at some old toy Angel had brought and said, ‘You know, the Idiot’s been giving me a hard time, ever since the play.’
‘He’s a shit.’
‘I know. He’s just been more of a shit. He said he was gonna hurt CP.’
‘That shit. What’d you do?’
‘I just said he better not or I’d shoot him, right through the heart.’
‘Yes!’ she yelled. She’d picked up reception. We sat chewing on wild berries, listening to the news then Glen Miller’s In The Mood came on and Angel got up and danced out the entrance of the den, shimmying her shoulders and wiggling her arse. I laughed and clapped and followed her out. We danced liked mad things, possessed creatures of the forest. I grabbed a hold of her, spun her round and pulled her close, kissing her before letting go and dancing a circle round her. When the song ended we collapsed onto the grass, laughing and trying to catch our breath. We’ll Meet Again came on and Angel hummed along. It made me feel sad, but not bad sad, just kind of quiet and caught up in my thoughts. I took hold of her hand and held it tight, listening to her as she sang along to the chorus.
We met every evening at the den. We’d eat our berries, play cowboys and Indians in the gully, listen to the wireless. One night we both fell asleep there, waking up curled up together, freezing. We walked home in silence, leaving each other at the fork in the road just after we entered the town. I watched her walk away in the dark.
Angel wasn’t allowed out for a week but all I got was a slap across the face and told never to do it again. Tom wasn’t much bothered, as long as I did my work.
The week without her was strange. I didn’t go to the den the first couple of days. I went to the beach and went swimming and caught some fish to take home. The third day I went to the den and listened to the wireless but it felt wrong without her there so I didn’t go back. The week after was a strange kind of bliss. We swam, we went to the den, we had a fire on the beach. Apart from Angel having to be back by nine sharp every night we did what we’d always done. But it didn’t feel the same. We knew it could all be taken away. It was taken away the day I shot John.
Tom didn’t believe I’d shot him. But I had. Only it wasn’t through the heart.
I was out hunting. John would sometimes come with me, even though Tom had given him other tasks after he realised how useless he was at it. John tagged along and I put up with him. Ever since my threat he wasn’t so annoying. He was mostly quiet, which gave me the creeps, but it was still better than his taunts.
I had a rabbit in sight, waiting for the right moment, when I heard a shot just beyond the hillock, followed by a whooping. I cursed the Idiot; my rabbit had gone.
I went to look for John, finding it hard to believe he’d managed to hit anything. When I found him, he was crouched down, hunched over something and there was a horrible noise. I circled and saw what it was. He’d shot a rabbit, but badly. It was wounded, and he was shoving a stick into its wound. I shot it in the head. Blood spattered on John. Barely thinking, I swung the gun over and shot him in the foot.
I walked away. That was that. The beginning of the end of my life in Cornwall.
Tom didn’t believe him. And I lied. When I left John I was so angry that I was ready to barrel on in to the house and confess with pride, but as I walked through the woods and past the den, all I felt was fear.
I walked in and said to Tom, ‘John shot himself in the foot. I need help to get him home.’
John accused me the moment he saw us, but Tom said nothing. John had stemmed the flow with his shirt and we removed it, putting a temporary bandage in its place. I lifted John onto Tom’s back and the Idiot pinched my arm. I bit on my lip as he kept pinching and pretending he couldn’t get onto Tom’s back because I wasn’t helping properly. He let go of me and climbed onto Tom, piggybacking the whole way home, ranting about how I’d shot him. Tom didn’t say a word.
We dropped him off at the doctor, who fixed him up. He kept him there overnight and told us he could return the next day, but that he’d be laid up for a good few weeks. Tom, who still hadn’t spoken, grunted.
I knew my workload would double and there’d be no more evenings with Angel, but somehow I felt that was right. I had to pay for what I’d done. I’d have to pay for my lie.
It was in the evening after supper that Tom sat me down and asked me.
‘Did you shoot him?’
‘No.’
He nodded. Just like that, he believed me. I knew if I confessed I’d be sent away, maybe be locked up, and I would never see Angel again.
‘You’ll need to cover his work while he’s recovering,’ Tom said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What was that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you’ll look after him. Serve him his food, change his bandages, whatever’s needed. We’re not having our lives disrupted by this.’
The thought crossed my mind that I should have shot John dead.
‘Yes, sir.’
I expected taunts, for him to make things difficult for me, to be smug as I changed his bedpan and brought him food, but there was nothing. There was no expression on his face and he wouldn’t look at me. I did what I had to do and I left. Doing double the chores was exhausting, but Angel helped when she could. Tom didn’t believe it was right for women to do manual labour, but when he wasn’t supervising, Angel would help me out.
It was much later, back in London when I was telling Queen Isabella what had happened that she said to me, ‘Goblin, are you telling me you hadn’t even thought about revenge?’