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‘Lord knows,’ he said. ‘Just half of her. She be blue.’
‘Blue,’ I repeated.
‘Thee ghost.’ He nodded.
‘Ghost?’ I examined the height of the wall. ‘What did you mean by half of her?’
‘That’s what she looks like. Half a body. Just her upper half,’ he explained. ‘Blue, she is, jumping to her death from on high to ground. Terrible, falling like that.’
‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Nobody has for nearly three decades.’
‘Oh,’ I said, disappointed, and raised my camera to my eye.
‘Except me,’ he said proudly. ‘This ’ere is where I wait for her. I close my eyes, and she jumps.’
I nearly dropped the camera, tongue-tied, and very aware of what he was referring to. Was it truly gone, this gift Loretta alluded to, which had condemned Izzy to some false diagnosis of madness and, if I hadn’t lost it, was this going to be me in years to come – senile and unchaperoned, lurking at the bottom of a wall, waiting for an endless loop of fate, played out for my satisfaction and nobody else? Izzy, me and a few others, had this condition – or whatever Joseph might call it – and since I had allowed it to control my aspirations for too long, it was beginning to feel like a curse again.
He tapped his walking stick on a stone. ‘Can’t seem to stop her,’ he said, frowning. ‘I don’t like coming here on my own, even with Robbie.’
‘I can understand.’ My throat was dry.
The old man broke into a beaming smile. ‘She might land on me.’ He patted his leg. ‘Come on, boy.’
He wandered off chortling, the dog bouncing by his heels.
I tried to not to believe him, but as I continued to explore the ruin, a coldness descended. I had been unperturbed by my surroundings until his description of a blue ghost, now it felt as if icy blueness had crept into my bones and frozen them solid. It struck me how terrifying loneliness could be. Throughout my summer trip, I had, with only a few exceptions, discovered little about what drew people to visit castles. Instead, I had shared my time with myths and ghosts, battles and death, and even the nicest people I had met I had kept at a distance while I sought excuses to avoid speaking of my assignment, as if embarrassed by its objectives.
I missed my friends at the Hare and Hounds pub. Even my shifts behind the reception desk had provided more conversations than the last few weeks, and what company I had accepted during my stays at the bed and breakfasts wasn’t for my benefit. I had tolerated my hosts, even the eccentric ones, but I’d learnt little from them given my limited experiences of life beyond Coalville. The truth sank in. I had abandoned a good job to take photographs in the vain hope of capturing my perfect castle, when what I actually needed to do was carve out a proper career, like my great-grandmother, who had achieved so much in a short lifetime.
I wasn’t crying on the outside, but inside I was heartbroken. For a brief while, I dreamed of a different future, one that might merge with Joseph’s – assuming I had judged him right. My last chance for taking this different path remained Conisbrough Castle.
Would he wait for me? Then it dawned on me why he might not. In my selfishness and relentless focus on daydreams, the successful twinning of Medici and Loretta, I had failed to appreciate his own fears and doubts. He might not wait if he thought himself not worthy.
Thirty-Nine
Conisbrough
Icarried the easel, hating the damn thing. The paintbox rattled, a reminder of better times.
Whenever somebody walked in front of me, interrupting my view, I wished it was Robyn. But nobody crept up on me. The castle was the easiest to transform into a painting: rounded hillock, ditches, circular wall and preserved keep. Robyn would love the white stone keep with its angled walls and vaulted ceiling. Which lords and ladies had sat beneath those carvings, feasting on their hunts? I bet that her Medici would get her to photograph it. I started to see what appealed to Robyn; or maybe I wanted the location to be a perfect romantic setting for a reunion.
After I finished painting, I wrote a message on a notepad and tore it off. The woman in the ticket kiosk had taken convincing; I had given her a believable sob story. My phone was broken and my friend was due the next day. Or perhaps the day after that. Could she pass this on to her? I folded the sheet and wroteRobyn (photographer)on it with a pencil.
The lady, austere and unamused, fanned herself with a guidebook. ‘Storm coming,’ she said, frowning.
‘Will you keep an eye out for her?’ I held out the note. ‘She’ll have a permit for photography. A big camera bag. Short hair.’ I touched my neck.
‘Can’t promise; lots of visitors on these hot days.’ She rifled through a drawer behind the counter. ‘I’ll put it here for safe keeping.’ She dropped it inside and slammed the drawer shut.
I had delayed and wasted as much time as possible, but nothing could alter the fact that we were so out of sync it was unlikely Robyn would catch up with me, assuming she ever intended to. I guessed not. Fate had played its hand; I had scared her off, and who could blame her. I had too much history and faking a different name had never wiped the slate clean. Eventually, somebody had the knack of piecing fragments together, and the ones that were especially hawkish always seemed to know the details as if it had happened yesterday and not fifteen years ago.
‘You’re one of the Smith brothers, aren’t you?’
‘Those evil boys, Christ, how do you sleep at night?’
‘What was it like growing up with them?’
