The Grave Tattoo

‘It’s only been a few weeks, Mum,’ Jane protested.

‘Months, more like.’ Her mother turned into the kitchen, confident daughter and husband would follow. The scrubbed pine table where the family had eaten countless meals was laid for dinner, water glasses gleaming in the soft light. ‘Perfect timing,’ Judy continued. ‘The joint’s just ready. Sit yourselves down.’

Five minutes in the house and London felt like a foreign country, Jane thought as she watched her mother pile roast potatoes and parsnips round the thick slices of lamb. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, this was where she belonged. This was where she felt most alive. Impossible to imagine that only that morning she’d been confronting a London gangsta in his own living room. If she told her parents, their mouths would fall open in shock, their eyes agleam with concern and incomprehension. And they’d be right, she thought, reaching for the plate and setting it down in front of herself.

A couple of melting mouthfuls into the lamb, Jane heard the back door open. ‘Only me,’ her brother’s voice called from the hall through the rustle of an outdoor jacket being removed.

Judy looked faintly guilty. ‘Matthew, what a lovely surprise,’ she said as her son walked in, pushing damp curls away from his forehead.

Matthew Gresham took in the scene and gave a bitter little smile. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘I brought that magazine Diane said you wanted,’ he said to Judy, tossing a rolled-up copy of a gardening monthly on the table as he dragged a chair back and plonked himself down like a sulky child. Jane watched it uncurl, waiting for the other shoe to drop. ‘What are you doing home in the middle of the week in the middle of term?’ he said, his voice deceptively pleasant. ‘You blotted your copybook, Sis?’

‘Study leave,’ Jane said. ‘It’s good to see you, Matthew,’ she added, trying to appear pleasant.

‘All right for some,’ Matthew said. He sniffed the air. ‘Nice bit of lamb. You been slaughtering, Dad? I’ll look forward to something more exciting than pasta arrabbiata for Sunday lunch.’

Judy’s lips tightened but she said nothing. Jane wondered how differently her brother might have turned out if her mother hadn’t been so willing to let him rule the roost as a child.

‘Your mother makes very good pasta,’ her father said. ‘You can’t beat home-made tagliatelle. And it takes a lot more time to prepare than a joint. Which you’d know if you ever turned a hand in the kitchen.’

Matthew flicked his eyebrows upwards. ‘So what’s this study leave all about, then? Time out to mend a broken heart?’

Jane shook her head, a rictus smile plastered on her face. ‘I see the charm and diplomacy is still a work in progress. No, Matthew, this is nothing to do with Jake. There’s some documentation I need to look for up here and my professor agrees with me that I need to do it sooner rather than later.’

‘Documentation you need to look for? You’re not still banging on about Wordsworth’s lost masterpiece?’ Matthew stretched across and picked a fragment of lamb from the serving plate, popping it into his mouth with a murmur of appreciation. Then suddenly he snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, I get it. You’ve convinced your gullible boss that the body in the bog is–ta da!–none other than Fletcher Christian.’ His face soured again. ‘God, you’ve got it so easy down there. Fancy a few days in the Lakes with a bit of home cooking? I know, come up with some daft notion and sweet-talk the world into dancing to your tune.’

‘Give it a rest, Matthew,’ Allan said. ‘Your sister’s not in the door five minutes.’

‘And it’s not as if you’ve got much to complain about,’ Judy said brightly. ‘A beautiful baby boy, a lovely wife and a good job. There’s millions would be happy with your lot.’

‘So is that it, Jane?’ Matthew continued relentlessly, ignoring his mother. ‘You’re going to waltz back in here and find Willie’s epic on the Bounty and make your fortune?’

Jane swallowed her half-chewed mouthful and glared at her brother. ‘I’m pursuing a line of research. But if I do find anything, it won’t be me getting rich, it’ll be Wordsworth’s heirs. Or whoever has title to whatever it is I find.’

Matthew looked scornful. ‘Let’s not be naïve here, Sis. OK, you’re the only person in the world who believes in the magic manuscript. But if you do find it, it’ll be the making of you. A brilliant career, all off the back of the Lakes.’

‘And how do you think people would make a living round here if it wasn’t for heritage tourism?’ Jane countered. ‘There’s other parts of England just as beautiful, but they don’t have anything like the tourist income we have. The history of literary connections with the Lake District is one of the main reasons people come here. Whether it’s Wordsworth, Beatrix Potter, Ruskin or Arthur Ransome. Their legacy has given back much more than they ever took out of the area.’

‘But this? This won’t be something that generates money and jobs in the tourism industry, will it? This is not going to help create jobs for the kids I teach and their families. It’ll be a handful of outsiders getting rich.’ He shook his head. ‘I never thought you’d be one of the ones treating this place like a cash cow.’

‘There’s a long and noble tradition of that, Matthew. Wordsworth and his friends were a part of it too. Do you despise them as well?’ There was an edge to Jane’s voice now. She knew it would be enough to make Matthew back down.

He threw his hands up in surrender. ‘You’ve always got an answer, Jane.’ He pushed his chair back, the feet screeching on the stone-flagged floor. ‘I better be getting back. I’ve got lessons to prepare. Nearest I’m likely to get to study leave.’ He stood up. ‘How long are you here for?’

‘A couple of weeks. When’s the best time to catch Diane on Saturday?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘Pretty much any time, if it’s raining. Which it looks like it’s set on for the next few days.’

‘Tell her I’ll drop in. I’m dying to see Gabriel.’

‘Sure you can spare the time to play aunties and nephews? I mean, you are supposed to be studying, right?’

‘Grow up, Matthew,’ Allan said wearily.

Matthew snorted. ‘I’m not the one playing hunt the metaphorical slipper, Dad. If anybody needs to catch the boat from Fantasy Island, it’s Jane. Wake up and smell the coffee, Sis. There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Time to join the rest of us in the real world.’

Modifications were made to the Bounty before she set sail for the South Seas so that she could accommodate our cargo of breadfruit on our return voyage. On account of this, conditions were exceeding cramped for all on board, for officers as much as for the common seamen. Such close quarters always breed squabbling among the men, and it was impossible for we officers to hold ourselves aloof from the petty disputes that can fester on board ship. But that was as nothing compared to the tyranny of Bligh. He was a martinet with the men and no less so with the officers. For the most part, I was fortunate enough to be excluded from this general treatment. Bligh still seemed desirous of my good opinion and had me to dine in his cabin whenever I was not on watch. I confess I felt discomfort from the first at being singled out thus. I did not wish the men to think I was allied with Bligh. Nor was I easy in my mind as to the nature of his affection for me.

11

Damp mist held the heavy tang of the polluted city close to the ground. It clawed at throats, making smokers cough harder, and shrouded heads in streetlight haloes. The glow from windows was romanticised by the fog, but it was fooling no one. The pavements were quiet; it wasn’t the sort of evening to tempt people away from their own TVs.

Tenille stretched and checked the clock on the PC. Just after ten. It was time to make a move. Part of her wanted to stay here, snug in the cocoon of Jane’s flat, isolated in a place where she could pretend her life was different from its ungentle reality. But another part of her wanted to test the mettle of Jane and her alleged father. She gathered her stuff together and trudged towards the door. She took a last look around, checking the door key was still in her pocket, then stepped out into the night. After the warmth of the flat, the clammy cold made her shiver as she hurried along the gallery to the stairs. She had just begun to climb the two flights to her floor when she heard a low boom. The fog muffled it, making it impossible to divine its direction or identify its source. But unexplained noises were hardly an unusual event on Marshpool Farm, and it barely registered on her consciousness.

Heading towards the final turn of the stairs, Tenille realised there were footsteps coming down the steps towards her. The footsteps of someone big and confident, judging by the sound. Instinctively, she dodged to one side, making room for whoever it was to pass. Round here, making room could sometimes mean the difference between getting home in one piece or not.

She rounded the stairs and came face to face with John Hampton moving quickly down. A confusion of feelings hit her: apprehension, anxiety and curiosity. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even break step, merely glancing briefly at her, his face blank of expression. As he passed her, he said softly, ‘Not a good time to go home, Tenille.’

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