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He circled a pillar. ‘I like the way it’s a cluster of mini columns glued together.’
I took a photograph.
‘Do you have paper in that bottomless pit of a bag?’ he asked.
I rummaged and found part of the Medici list, the first sheet, which I had already completed. The back of it was creased, but he didn’t mind. From out of his back pocket he retrieved a stubby pencil. I offered him the guidebook and he rested the paper on it for support. While he sketched the pillar, I took snapshots of him. He didn’t seem to mind. A few minutes later he showed me the result of his scribbling. The sketch used understated pencil strokes yet still managed to capture all the elements of shape with a hint of shade. The absence of sandstone colour didn’t matter.
Moving on, he pointed out the Saxon grave markers, then the tracings in the stonework that masons had carved. I read aloud snippets from the guidebook. We continued to move together through the ruins. The previous day at Pickering Castle, we had been busy with our own tasks; mine prescribed by a tatty list, and although he had the freedom to choose he sought my approval, which touched me deeply, more than I might have anticipated. After I had finished photographing Pickering Castle I watched him painting. I had missed the sketch stage and the application of the background wash. He worked on texture with a finer brush and darker mixes of paint, and I had enjoyed the hypnotic process in reverent silence.
Visiting Whitby released us from the constraints of professional detachment. Now I could see no reason not to speak of other matters. However, the weather kept me procrastinating. The breeze, which felt like the oven door had been left open, dried my throat and I gave up reading aloud. Joseph crouched in the shade, and I joined him. The water bottle was nearly empty; the remaining liquid brackish and tepid. We rested, letting the sweat seep through our cotton t-shirts. I wasn’t ashamed of the perspiration. I considered it an emblem of my stubbornness that such discomforts were tolerated. If, as Dad had predicted, it had rained for days on end, I would have grown accustomed to a different kind of wetness and considered that acceptable too.
Slightly sleepy, I drifted, allowing my imagination to roam freely.
A boom echoed. I started, and looked up at the blue skies, half expecting to see something fly through the air. But it wasn’t coming from the sky. The blast was repeated, this time, I was sure, I heard it out at sea. I shivered, alarmed by the abrupt onset. The stone behind my back shook, as if an earthquake had struck. I pressed my palms onto the ground to anchor myself.
‘What’s wrong?’ Joseph asked, leaning over me, concerned.
Cocking my head to one side, I listened. The explosive sound faded quickly until there were just the voices of people and the squawk of seagulls.
He handed me the water bottle and I pressed it to my lips.
‘I get the impression you’re an incorrigible daydreamer—’
I spluttered. ‘You do?’
He pressed his palm against mine and held my hand. ‘It’s okay, you know. If you don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But I do.’ I wove my fingers between his. ‘I’m scared to tell you.’
The tension in his square jawline amplified. He spoke softly. ‘Is it something you’ve done since you were a child?’
I blinked. Why had he said that? ‘Yes, kind of. But more recently, they’ve become intense and frequent. I hear and see things in my mind that take me back in time.’
He pursed his lips, chewing them slightly. ‘It’s just at Rievaulx, you seemed, how can I put it, too far gone. Like out of it.’
‘I guess it can look that way. But I’m not unconscious or having a seizure. I’m just elsewhere. How did you know?’
He released my hand. ‘Oh, kids at school sometimes have that faraway look when they’re bored.’
‘I’m not bored,’ I said adamantly. ‘Quite the contrary. I’m connected, like a conduit, to other… people… places.’ I ended limply, hearing the craziness of what I was saying.
He smiled. ‘And you see stuff?’
‘Yes.’ I cringed. ‘But no hallucinations, if that’s what you’re inferring.’
‘No. Daydreams is what you said.’ He inhaled and rested his back against the wall. His hair was damp with sweat. ‘Is it happening everywhere?’
‘Mostly at these kinds of places. Ruins especially.’ Only the fragmented remains of the past; broken pieces and, I realised, broken people too, going by the recent ones.
‘What did you see just then?’
He was paying attention, the artist at work, observing and reporting back. Instead of answering, I flicked through the guidebook and showed him a page. He read it.
‘The bombardment of the abbey in the First World War.’
‘Yes. I heard the explosion. I felt… I imagined vibrations in the walls. The sound came from out at sea, where the battleship was.’
He examined the text. ‘Did you know this before—’
