Whit

CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

A charged, uneasy silence hung in the air.

Zhobelia mumbled something.

'Great-aunt Zhobelia?' I said quietly.

She muttered something else.

'Great-aunt?' I said.

'… I am, I'm hearing voices now,' she muttered. 'Oh no.'

'Great-aunt, it's me; Isis. Your grand-niece.'

'I'm going to die. That must be it. Hearing little Isis. It'll be her next, then him.'

'Great-aunt, you're not hearing voices.'

'Now they're lying to me, telling me I'm not hearing them. What have I done to deserve this?'

'Great-aunt-'

'Sounds like Calli, not Isis. Just a child. It'll be them next: Aasni and then the white man. I wonder what they'll say?'

'Please, Great-aunt Zhobelia; it really is me. It's Isis. I'm under the other bed. I'm going to come out now; please don't be alarmed.'

'No, it's still her. That's funny. I thought dying would be different…'

I got slowly out from under the bed on the far side, so that I wouldn't suddenly emerge right in front of her. I stood. The room was dark. I could just make out the dark masses of the furniture, and sense my great-aunt's bulk in the divan bed.

'Great-aunt; over here,' I whispered.

I sensed movement at the head of her bed, and heard skin or hair move on fabric. 'Oooh,' she breathed. 'Oooh! I can see it now. It's a ghost.'

Ye Gods, it was like being Miss Carlisle's Johnny again. 'I am not a ghost, Great-aunt. It's Isis. I'm really here. I am not a ghost.'

'Now the ghost is saying it's not a ghost. Whatever next?'

'Great-aunt!' I said, raising my voice in frustration. 'For goodness' sake; will you listen? I am not a ghost!'

'Oh dear. I've upset it. Oh no.'

'Oh, Great-aunt, please; listen to me!' I said, stopping at the foot of the other bed. 'It's Isis. Your grand-niece; I've come here from the Community at High Easter Offerance. I have to talk to you. I am as human as you are and not a supernatural apparition.'

There was a silence. Then she muttered something in what I suspected was Khalmakistani. Then, in English: 'You're not little Isis. She's just… little.'

Oh, good grief. 'Grand-aunt, I am nineteen years old now. The last time you saw me I was little. But I'm not any more; I am a fully grown woman.'

'Are you sure?'

'What?'

'You're not a ghost?'

'No. I mean, yes, I'm sure I'm not a ghost. I am real. I would like to talk with you, if you don't mind. I'm sorry I had to hide in here in order to get to see you, but the young lady would not let me in…. May I talk with you?'

'Talk with me?'

'Please. May I?'

'Hmm,' she said. I sensed her moving. 'Touch my hand.'

I moved forward, then squatted near the bed and put out my hand, eventually finding her hand. It felt warm and small. The skin was loose and very soft and smooth.

'Oh,' she whispered. 'You're warm!'

'See? Not a ghost.'

'Yes. I see. You're not a ghost, are you?'

'No. I'm real. I'm Isis.'

'Little Isis.'

'Not little any more.' I stood up, slowly, still holding her hand, then squatted again.

'Are you really Isis?'

'Yes. Isis Whit. I was born on the twenty-ninth of February, nineteen seventy-six. My mother was Alice Cristofiori, my father was Christopher Whit. My brother's first name is Allan. You are my Great-aunt Zhobelia Asis; your sister was Aasni, who…' I had been going to say, 'who died in the fire that killed my parents', but I thought the better of saying that, and after a moment's hesitation said, '… who was my paternal grandmother.'

She was silent.

'Believe me now?' I asked, squeezing her hand gently.

'I think so. Why are you here? Have they sent you away too? I thought here was only for old people.'

'Well, yes, I suppose I have been sent away, but not to here. I came here to see you.'

'You did? That was very nice of you. Mohammed comes to see me sometimes, but not very often. He drinks, you know. The girls have been; Calli and Astar. And the Glasgow ones; they talk the old language. I can't understand them, usually. I keep telling them they must talk slower but they don't listen. People never listen, you know. Especially young people.'

'I'll listen, Great-aunt.'

'Will you? You're a good girl. You were very good as a baby; you hardly cried, did you know that?'

'Other people have-'

'Are you really Isis?'

'… Yes, Great-aunt.'

She was silent for a long moment. 'I missed you growing up,' she said, though without obvious emotion, unless it was mild surprise. I wished I could see her face.

'I was sorry you went away,' I told her. 'I think we all were.'

'I know. Perhaps I shouldn't have. This is very strange, talking to you like this. What do you look like? Shall we put on the light?'

'Won't the nurse see the light is on?'

'Yes. She can see it under the door.'

'I have an idea,' I said, patting her hand.

Zhobelia's clothes had been laid neatly on the bed I had been hiding under. I moved them to the top of the chest of drawers and pulled the cover off the bed. I rolled it up and placed it at the foot of the door.

'Here,' Zhobelia said, grunting. There was a click, and a little yellow electric lamp like a miniature strip-light came on above the bed. I stood up, smiling at my great-aunt. She sat up in the bed, blinking. Her nightie was pale blue, with little yellow flowers. She looked a little puffy and pale about the face, not as Asiatically dark as I remembered. Her hair was frizzy, quite long and still surprisingly black, though shot through with thick, crinkly white hairs. She felt on the bedside table and found her glasses. She put them on and squinted at me.

The room seemed to spin about me as the feeling of half-familiar dizziness I'd experienced earlier struck me again.

Zhobelia seemed oblivious. 'You look like your mother,' she said quietly, nodding. She patted the bed. 'Come and sit here.'

I went shakily forward and sat on the bed; we held hands.

'Why did you leave, Great-aunt?'

'Oh, because I couldn't stay.'

'But why?'

'It was the fire.'

'It was terrible, I know, but-'

'Do you remember it?'

'Not really. I remember the aftermath; the shell of the mansion house. It's been rebuilt now.'

'Yes, I know.' She nodded, blinking. 'Good. I'm glad.'

'But why did you leave, afterwards?'

'I was afraid people would blame me. I was afraid of Aasni's ghost. Besides, I'd done my bit.'

'Blame you? For what? The fire?'

'Yes.'

'But it wasn't your fault.'

'It was. I should have cleaned the pressure cooker. And burning the money was my idea; I saw it, after all. My fault.'

'But you weren't - pardon?'

'The pressure cooker. I should have cleaned it properly. The valve. That was my job. And I saw the money would cause a disaster. I knew it.'

'What money were you talking about?'

She looked as confused as I felt. Her eyes - their dark brown irises surrounded by yellowy whites magnified by her thick glasses - looked watery. 'Money?' she asked.

'You said burning the money was your idea.'

'It was,' she said, nodding.

'What money, Great-aunt?' I asked, squeezing her hand gently.

'The money. Salvador's money.'

'Salvador's money?' I asked, then glanced back at the door, afraid that I had spoken too loudly.

'The money he didn't have,' Zhobelia said, as though all this made perfect and obvious sense.

'What money he didn't have, Great-aunt?' I asked patiently.

'The money,' she said, as though it ought to be self-evident.

'I'm sorry, Great-aunt; I don't understand.'

'Nobody understood. We kept it secret,' she said, then turned down the edges of her mouth and shook her head, looking away. Suddenly a smile lit up her face, revealing long, thin teeth. She patted my hand. 'Now, tell me all that's happened.'

I took a deep breath. Perhaps we could come back to this mysterious money later. 'Well,' I said. 'When… when did you last talk to somebody from the Community? Was it recently?'

'Oh no,' she said. 'I mean, since I had to leave. I can't remember what they've said to me. No, no.' She frowned a little and gave the appearance of racking her brains, then apparently gave up and smiled broadly, expectantly at me.

It felt as though my heart slumped at the prospect, but I smiled gamely and squeezed her hand again. 'Let me see,' I said. 'Well, as I said, the mansion house was rebuilt… the old organ - remember the organ, in the farm parlour?'

She smiled happily and nodded. 'Yes, yes; go on.'

'That was installed in the mansion house to give us extra room in the farm; we always meant to have it properly looked after but we never did get round to it… Anyway, Salvador moved back into the mansion house… let's see; Astar had Pan, of course, Erin had Diana-'

'I'm cold,' Zhobelia said suddenly. 'I'd like my cardie.' She pointed at the pile of clothes on the chest of drawers. 'It's there.'

'Oh, right,' I said. I got her cardigan and settled it round her shoulders, plumping up her pillows and generally getting her comfortable.

'There we are,' she said. 'Now.' She clasped her hands and looked expectantly at me.

'Right,' I said. 'Well, as I was saying, Erin had her second child, Diana…'

I went through the litany of births, death and marriages and the various comings and goings of Communites and Orderites, trying to recall all the important incidents and events of the past sixteen years. Zhobelia sat nodding happily, smiling and cooing softly or widening her eyes and sucking air in through her pursed mouth or frowning and clucking her tongue as she felt appropriate for each related occurrence.

The story of our family and Faith led me naturally through to more recent events, and I gradually sharpened the focus of my tale to the point of my visit. I had little idea of how much my great-aunt was actually retaining of all this, but I felt I had to make the effort.

'The zhlonjiz?' she said when I got to that part of the story. She laughed. I glanced back at the door again.

'Ssh!' I said, putting a finger to my lips.

She shook her head. 'What a fuss. All a lot of nonsense, too. That was something else we never told the white man,' she chuckled.

'What?' I asked, puzzled.

'We could have made that,' she told me. 'It was easy to make. The main thing was… now, what was it? What do they call it? I should know this. Oh, old age is so… Ah; TCP!' she said triumphantly, then frowned and shook her head. 'No, that's not it.' She looked down at the bed cover, brows furled, mouth pursed, muttering in what I guessed was Khalmakistani. She switched to English. 'What was the blinking stuff again? I should know, I should know…' She cast her gaze to the ceiling, sighing mightily. 'Ah!' She pointed up with one finger. '…Sloan's Liniment!' she cried out.

I reached forward and gently placed my hand over her soft lips. 'Great-aunt!' I whispered urgently, with another glance at the door.

'And coriander, and other herbs, and spices,' she whispered, leaning closer. 'Our grandmother, old Hadra, sent us the recipe, you know, but it was all a lot of old nonsense anyway.' She nodded, clasping her hands and sitting back, looking smug.

'Zhlonjiz?' I asked. 'It was… ?'

'Sloan's Liniment,' Zhobelia confirmed, rheumy eyes twinkling. 'Embrocation. You rub it in. Chemists sell it. Not mail order.' She reached forward and tapped me sternly on the knee. 'Stuff and nonsense, you know.'

I nodded, slowly, not knowing what to think. I wondered what the other herbs and spices were. I wondered if it made any difference.

My great-aunt tapped my hand. 'Keep going,' she said. 'I like this. It's interesting.'

I continued my tale. As I had been telling it I had been turning over in my mind both how much detail to go into regarding Allan's duplicity, and whether to mention my Grandfather's sexual advances to me. I considered mentioning both only in passing, but in the end I told the full story much as I would have done to a close friend, though I did say that Cousin Morag made exotic rather than erotic films. I confess I also did not reveal the full extent of how I used poor Uncle Mo's weakness for the drink, and will not pretend that such diplomacy was principally for his benefit.

When I had finished, Zhobelia just sat there, hands clasped, looking unsurprised. 'Well,' she said. 'That's him. He was always like that. You're an attractive girl. He was always a one for the ladies. We knew that. Didn't begrudge him it; it was just his nature. As well have complained that he snored; he couldn't help it. Couldn't help himself.' She nodded. 'Helped himself. Yes; helped himself. Wouldn't want me now. I'm old and dried up. Prunes they give us for breakfast sometimes, yes. No, good for you, little Isis.' She looked up at the ceiling, frowning and seemingly trying to remember something. 'That Mohammed. You know what I call him?' she asked, sitting forward and fixing me with a stern look and tapped me on the knee. 'Do you? Do you know what I call him?'

'A liqueur Moslem?' I ventured.

'No!' she barked, so that I put my finger to my lips again. 'I call him a very silly boy!' she said in a hoarse whisper. 'That's what I call him.'

'I think he's sorry,' I told her. 'Mohammed doesn't want to upset you. He wants to give up drinking, but he can't. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps he will, one day.'

'Huh. When I see it I will believe,' she said, dismissively. She looked away, shaking her head. 'This Allan, though.' She looked at me, squinting. 'Such a quiet child. Colic as a baby, you know. Yes. But after that, very quiet. Always watching. Always thought he was listening, knew more than he let on. Had a funny look sometimes. Sly.' She nodded. 'Sly. That's it. Sly.' She seemed very happy with this word, and looked at me with an I-told-you-so sort of look.

I despaired of ever getting my great-aunt to appreciate the seriousness of the situation. Well, my situation, anyway. I felt exhausted. It must have taken a good hour to tell the recent history of the Order and Community and the full tale of my adventures over the last fortnight. I had to stifle my yawns, clenching my jaw and pretending I was just stretching. Zhobelia gave no sign of noticing.

'The thing is, Great-aunt,' I said, 'he's lying about me. Allan; he's telling lies about me and I think he wants to take over the Order; I'm not just worried for myself, I'm concerned for everybody at the Community; for the whole Order. I think Allan wants to change it, make it… less than what it has been. More… commercial, perhaps. They have started to send out letters begging for money,' I said, trying to bring us back to that subject. 'We have never done that! Can you imagine, Great-aunt? Us; asking for money. Isn't that disgraceful?'

'Tsk,' she said, nodding in agreement. 'Root of everything, and such. Tut. Hmm. Yes.'

'We have always managed to do without money from others, that is what is so terrible.'

'Terrible. Yes. Hmm. Terrible,' she said, nodding.

'Money has played almost no part in our Faith's history,' I persisted, feeling desperate and slightly underhand.

Great-aunt Zhobelia sat there, gathered her cardigan around her and leaned forward, tapping my knee again. 'Do you want me to tell you about the money?'

'Yes, please. Do tell me.'

'You won't tell anybody else?' she whispered, glancing to either side.

What to say? She might not tell me if I refused to give such an assurance, yet - if this somehow affected my situation - I might need what she could tell me as ammunition. I wondered what the chances were of her finding out if I promised and then broke my promise, and started calculating the odds. Then some part of my brain further up the chain of command put a stop to such faithlessness.

'I'm sorry, I can't make that promise, Great-aunt,' I told her. 'I might need to tell somebody else.'

'Oh.' She looked surprised. 'Oh. Well, I shouldn't tell you then, should I?'

'Great-aunt,' I said, taking her hand. 'I will promise not to tell anybody else unless to tell them is make things better for all of us.' I didn't feel that really said what I meant, and Zhobelia looked confused, so I fell back and regrouped for another try at it. 'I will promise not to tell anybody else unless telling them is to do good. You have my word on that. I swear.'

'Hmm. Well. I see.' She looked up at the ceiling, brows gathered. She looked at me again, still puzzled. 'What was I talking about?'

'The money, Great-aunt,' I said, wringing my poor tired brain of its last drops of patience.

'Yes,' she said, waggling my hand holding hers up and down urgently. The money.' She looked blank. 'What about it?' she asked, her face like a little girl's.

I felt tears prick behind my eyes. I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. I closed my eyes briefly, which was a mistake, because it seemed to encourage my tears, leaving me with blurred vision. 'Where did this money come from, Great-aunt?' I asked wearily, in a kind of befogged daze. 'The money you were talking about, from the time of the fire; where did it come from?'

'Royal Scotland.' She nodded.

'Royal Scotland?' I said, baffled.

'The Royal Scottish Linen Bank.'

I stared at her, trying to work out what on earth she was talking about.

'That's what it said on the bag,' she said, back in her isn't-it-obvious attitude.

'What bag, Great-aunt?' I said, sighing. I had the impression 1 actually was already asleep and this was just me sleep-talking or something.

'The bag.'

'The bag?' I asked.

'Yes; the bag.'

A feeling of déjà vu, intensified by tiredness, swept over me. 'Where did the bag come from?'

'Royal Scotland, I suppose.'

I felt like one of two people rowing a boat, only my partner wasn't actually rowing, just stirring their oar in the water, so that we kept going round and round in circles.

'Where did you find the bag, Great-aunt?' I asked, flatly.

'On the-' she began, then sat forward and beckoned to me. I leaned towards her so that her mouth was at my ear. 'I forgot,' she whispered.

'Forgot what, Great-aunt?'

'We don't have it any more. We burned it. Saw what would happen and thought we'd get rid of it. I'm sorry.'

'But where did you get the bag, Great-aunt? You said-'

'From the chest.'

'The chest?'

'Our special chest. The one he didn't have a key to. That's where we kept it. And the book.'

'The book?' Here, I thought, we go again. But no:

'I'll show you. I still have a box, you know. The chest we lost in the fire, but I saved the book and the other things!' She clutched excitedly at my shoulder.

'Well done!' I whispered.

'Thank you! Would you like to see it?'

'Yes, please.'

'It's in the wardrobe. You get it for me, there's a good girl.'

I was directed to the full wardrobe, which was stuffed with colourful saris and other, plainer clothes. At its foot, amongst a litter of old shoes and fragrant white mothballs, there was a battered shoe-box secured with a couple of dark brown elastic bands. The box felt quite light when I lifted it and brought it over to Zhobelia, who seemed quite animated at the thought of what was inside. She bounced up and down on the bed and motioned me to bring her the box, for all the world like a child waiting on a present.

She pulled the elastic bands off the old shoe-box; one band snapped, seemingly just of old age. She put the lid of the box down on the bed beside her and started sorting through the documents, newspaper cuttings, old photographs, notebooks and other papers inside.

She handed me the old photographs. 'Here,' she said. 'The names are on the back.'

She shuffled through the other stuff in the box, stopping to read occasionally while I looked at the old snaps. Here were the two sisters, looking young, wary and uncertain in front of their old ex-library van. Here they were with Mr McIlone, whom I recognised from the few other photographs that we had at High Easter Offerance. Here was the farm at Luskentyre, here the old seaweed factory, before and after renovation, and before and after the fire.

There was only one photograph of Grandfather, sitting in bright sunlight on a kitchen chair outside what I guessed was Luskentyre, turning his head away and putting his arm up to his face in an action the camera had captured as a blur. It was the only representation I had ever seen of him, apart from a couple of even more blurred newspaper photographs. He was barely recognisable, but looked very thin and young.

'Ah. Here now…' Zhobelia lifted a small brown book - about the size of a pocket diary, but much thinner - from the shoe-box. She looked inside the little book, taking off her glasses to read. A piece of white paper fell out. She picked it up and handed it to me.

I put the photograph of my Grandfather down on the knee of my leather trousers. 'Ah-ha,' she said matter-of-factly.

I unfolded the piece of paper. It felt crinkly and old, but also thick and fibrous. It was a bank-note. A ten-pound note, from the Royal Scottish Linen Bank. It was dated July 1948.1 inspected it, turned it over, smelled it. Musty.

Zhobelia tapped my knee again. Having attracted my attention, she gave me a stagy wink as she handed me the small brown book.

I put the bank-note on my knee along with the photograph of Grandfather.

The little brown book looked faded and worn and very old. It was warped, too, as though it had once been saturated with water. There was a British Royal Crown on the front cover. It was really just two bits of card, one thinner piece placed inside the other thicker cover, and not secured. The inner card carried a list of dates and amounts of money, expressed in pounds, shillings and pence. The last date was in August 1948. That piece of card was marked AB 64 part two. I put it down on the bed cover. The other piece of card was marked AB 64 part one. It seemed to be some sort of pass book. It belonged, or had belonged, to somebody called Black, Moray, rank: private. Serial number 954024. He was five feet ten inches tall, weighed eleven stone five pounds and had dark brown hair. No distinguishing marks. Born 29.2.20.

The rest was a description of injections he had received and what sounded like army punishments: fines, detentions and losses of leave. Perhaps it was just tiredness that meant I didn't haul up short at the date of birth, for I found myself thinking that I had no idea what any of this had to do with anything, until I looked from the book to the photograph of my Grandfather as a young man, still on my knee.

The world tipped again, my head swam. I felt faint, dizzy and sick. A terrible shiver ran through me as my palms pricked with sweat and my mouth went dry. My God. Could it be? Height, weight; hair colour. Of course the scar wouldn't be there… And the birth-date, to settle it.

I looked up into the eyes of my great-aunt. I had to attempt to swallow several times before I had enough saliva in my mouth to make it possible to speak. My hands started shaking. I rested them on my thighs as I asked Zhobelia, 'Is this him?' I held up the small brown book. 'Is this my Grandfather?'

'I don't know, my dear. We found that in his jacket. The money was on the beach. Aasni found it.'

'The money?' I croaked.

'The money,' Zhobelia said. 'In the canvas bag. We counted it, you know.'

'You counted it.'

'Oh yes; there were twenty-nine hundred pounds.' She gave a sigh. 'But it's all gone now, of course.' She looked at the ten-pound note sitting on my knee. 'We burned all the rest, in the canvas bag.' She nodded at the white ten-pound note resting on my leg. 'That's the last one left.'