Rook

  Praise for Rook

  ‘Rook is an astonishingly vivid book; colours, textures, sounds, landscape, weather – a locality so precisely evoked that it rises up from the page as you read, and surrounds you with the fabric of the imagined lives which inhabit it. They are fascinating and compelling lives, and the plot delves into the layers of their past actions and secrets, delicately peeling them away ... an utterly engrossing novel’ Lynn Roberts, The Tablet

  ‘A mesmerising story of family, legacy and turning back the tides, from acclaimed novelist Jane Rusbridge, Rook beautifully evokes the shifting Sussex sands, and the rich stream of history lying just beneath them’ Living North

  ‘A powerful tale ... intensely written’ Lifestyle

  ‘Compelling, absorbing and beautifully written’ Patricia Duncker, author of Hallucinating Foucault

  ‘The Anglo-Saxon material is genuinely fascinating and the writing itself is really fine – often lush and ambitiously poetic, but always controlled’ Daily Mail

  ‘What a good novelist Jane Rusbridge is! I love the way she combines dexterous storytelling with deliciously descriptive, poetic prose. The people, the landscape they inhabit, even the birds in the air, are all vividly rendered in this mesmerising and multilayered story’ Marika Cobbold, author of Drowning Rose

  ‘A wonderfully written and atmospheric novel rooted in the landscape and history of the village of Bosham and its surroundings on the Sussex coast. The expressive and emotional power of natural, temporal, musical, interpersonal, and mental rhythms and relations permeate Rusbridge’s narrative and prose’ wordsofmercury.wordpress.com

  ‘An affecting work, closely woven, beautifully tempered, and it bears out the promise of Jane's first novel, The Devil’s Music, in fine style; it's a superb piece of writing’ cornflowerbooks.co.uk

  ‘Rusbridge’s fine perceptions of the natural world, the way her writing is steeped in the landscape, history and culture of West Sussex, help define her as a talented new regional voice’ Rachel Hore, bookoxygen.com

  ‘A novel of complex relationships and the uncovering of buried secrets; the language is lyrical and the rhythm of the prose melodic, reflecting the music that is so much a part of Nora ... An exquisitely written, atmospheric and deeply affecting novel’ susanelliotwright.co.uk

  ‘A book to live in and to feel in all its textures and layers. Jane Rusbridge can do this because her lyric writing is excellent – accurate, potent and evocative. Definitely a book for the connoisseurs of language’ litlove.wordpress.com

  ‘A story of human fragility in the inexorable presence of the past, and of compassion that enables us to survive our own histories – an enthralling read’ trishnicholsonswordsinthetreehouse.com

  In memory of my parents,

  Hugh and Jeanne Winchester

  At walking pace,

  Between overgrown verges,

  The dead here are borne

  Towards the future.

  Seamus Heaney, ‘A Herbal’, Human Chain

  Contents

  1

  May

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  June

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  July

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  August

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Autumn

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Winter

  44

  45

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  Also available by Jane Rusbridge

  Q&A with Jane Rusbridge

  1

  Sussex, mid-eleventh century

  The battlefield was churned to mud, air slugged with the smell of charnel. Late in the day they found his two brothers and, thinking he might be close by, sent down to the nearby camp for her, with Gytha, his mother. Like the others he had been stripped, mutilated. Edyth knew him immediately, although there was no head.

  She knew the swell of muscle in his shoulders and the splay of underarm hair, the beady knots tangled there; the thicket on his chest – a few hairs, straight and white, around his nipples – and the dark line that ran off-centre down to his groin, now black with blood. She fell on all fours, fingers in the gawm, to kneel astride him, to press her nose and mouth to his chest where his smell was strongest, but even there he was cold, where the beat of his blood had always warmed her, his flesh lardy as a dead pig’s. Her fingers kneading his shoulders slid away and she recoiled from the heap to face into the wind and lose the raw smell of blood. She thought of their children.

  The year was dying: wind and wet leaves, a mist rolling in from the swan-räd. Her teeth began to chatter. The leech of fear must have sucked strength from him at the end of the day’s fighting, dusk about to fall. Other women wept as they floundered in quagmire, searching, hands or bundled cloth clamped over their mouths and noses.

  ‘Is it him?’ His mother, Gytha, had never liked her. She gripped Edyth’s arms and shook until her bones tumbled. ‘We can offer gold,’ Gytha whispered. A hand under Edyth’s chin jerked her face to the watery sky. ‘My son’s body weight in gold so we may take him away and bury him.’

  They will not allow it, Edyth thought, but she held her quiet and gazed down the hill towards the woods where smoke rose from the camps. Gathering rooks blackened the leafless branches of trees. Her body remembered his weight knocking the breath from her. He should have been exhausted after riding and marching for weeks, a battle and the slaying of his brother at Stamford. The days in London would not have provided respite. Thinking to soothe, she had brought aromatic salves and oils to his tent, ready to massage his lower back and rub deep into his hip where bone-ache made him grunt as he swung off his horse. He was no longer young but his body was broad and, a warrior since boyhood, his mind was tooth and claw. His feral pacing told of exhilaration at the thought of battle. He ignored her oils and potions, grasped her by the neck and kissed her. She felt the clash of teeth, her hands in his matted hair, his tongue opening her.

  Edyth lifted her eyes and, seeing the clench of Gytha’s face, turned to the other women. She told them she could not touch him again, but they should look above the hard swathes of muscle at his shoulder to that tender ridge where the neck begins to sweep upwards. There, she told them, they would find an imprint of the crooked marks of her teeth.

  May

  2

  West Sussex, early twenty-first century

  In the half-light, a woman runs, her mouth snatching at air. Along Salthill Creek towards the sea, a rope of hair twisting between her shoulder blades, she ducks the salt-stunted branches. She has long limbs, strong lines to her cheek and jaw and, although she was born here on the Sussex coast, her colouring and build are more characteristic of the Scandinavian. She wears a simple sweat-wicking top, Lycra shorts, gloves, a canary-yellow cap pulled low to hide her eyes and the most expensive trainers she can afford.

  At this hour, night has not yet become day. No one else moves in the fields and hedgerows, along lanes, down the ancient footpath or out upon the water. A mist ghosts the land.

  Lack of breath woke her, the sensation of weight pressing,
of Isaac’s body plastered to hers, slippery. The smell of his hair came back to her, an oil he used, foreign, perhaps, and a little old-fashioned; black hair, silky as a pelt. She lay poised on the dream’s edge, desire tipping her body like vertigo, but too soon her fidgety mind dragged her awake, alone in her childhood bed with a crinkled sheet beneath her.

  Nora hates this time of year. Sap and dripping green; riotous birdsong and the sun’s sudden surprising warmth; the bounce of new growth as her fingers raked the grass for scattered pieces of her wind chime, smashed to smithereens by recent gales. Apple blossom petals stuck to her hands. The old tree fooling itself it can still bear fruit.

  The mud of the creek path is slick underfoot. Every time one of Nora’s feet slips, muscle jolt and the flare of adrenalin disrupt her rhythm. Her weak knee twinges. She’s too slow. The toe that’s missing a nail rubs against the firmness of the new and very clean trainers. Before she left, the ibuprofen bottle, nearly empty, rattled as she tipped into her palm the extra two pills which now scrape like concrete in her throat. She can’t even do this right.

  Nora runs harder, thoughts spattering.

  ‘Where would you be,’ Ada’s voice had crooned, her lips so close to Nora’s body she jerked away in shock, hand instinctively pressed to her ear, ‘if I’d done the same?’

  The middle of the night, Nora was halfway through a virtual tour of a cottage in Norfolk and Ada should have been in bed, not there, leaning across the desk, her breath sweet as pear drops.

  ‘Remember?’ Ada pushed her face up close to the computer screen and for a moment seemed distracted, screwing up her eyes to peer at the image of a white sofa, a log-burner, alight. ‘Cosy cottage for two,’ she read, then clicked her tongue and drew herself up to her full height. ‘You came back from London so worn out from travelling Europe, so many concert appearances—’ Her hand swept the air aside.

  Nora tried to rise from the chair, but her mother’s body was too close. She sat down again.

  Ada’s face was blank. Her fingers slid over the lapels of her kimono.

  ‘Mum, you should be in bed.’

  ‘Mother’s Ruin,’ Ada shook her head. ‘And don’t we know it.’ Her voice dropped low. ‘Such a waste, and your hair in rats’ tails from the wind and rain, the dress sticking to you, sodden, skin and bone, your hip bones, my word, your ribs, one could have played the xylophone on your chest, like some little Orphan Annie you trailed through the village in the middle of the night, didn’t bother to consider a taxi, or the worry you might cause –’

  ‘STOP!’ She gripped her mother’s upper arms to move her away and Ada’s head fell back like a puppet’s. Horrified, Nora dropped her hands, pushed them down her sides. Bone showed in the set of Ada’s jaw. ‘Oh, I know what you did.’ Her head turned from side to side, ‘Don’t think I don’t.’ She waggled a finger.

  Nora drags her forearm across her forehead: the air is damp, her face wet. She should have said something. She will have to, soon.

  She runs on. A few bars of the Martinu Cello Concerto, No. 1, bustle through her mind and her body reacts involuntarily, squaring up for the hurly-burly of battle with the orchestra but, with a jerk of her head, like dodging a blow from a branch, the music is banished.

  Rachel, her star pupil, leaned in the doorway of the school music room yesterday, dwarfed by the cello on her back. A few strands of hair had escaped her plait and glistened across the navy school jumper. Rachel’s talent is instinctual, fierce as a rage. ‘I haven’t had time to practise,’ she blurted. Her face reddened as if the words were a lie, both hands running over and over her plait, one following the other in an unfamiliar repetitive gesture. She needs to find a way to help Rachel have more confidence. If she was a good teacher, like Isaac, she would be able to instil in all her pupils a faith in their own resources; the belief that the impossible does not exist.

  Nora keeps running. She has run every day for almost a year. Even in the semi-darkness, this landscape is familiar, a part of her; she grew up playing here, fingers and feet in the mud at the creek’s edge where the roots of misshapen trees are exposed more and more each year with the movement of tides and earth.

  Perhaps Isaac has died. Perhaps the dream is his way of telling her he is no longer in the world.

  The sea is close now, the air rich with the salty tang of rust. To the east of the creek path, the squat trees and hawthorns with their delicate twirls of new leaf-growth have given way to open grassland. Nora’s muscles stretch and tighten. She is as lithe and strong as she has ever been, her lungs greedy for the pump and squeeze of her heart. She tastes the salt from her sweat and concentrates on lifting her heels, tilting her hips forward, pushing her elbows further back to get more benefit from her arms. In the silence of early morning, the only sound is her breathing. This she can do. She tugs off her cap, a hat from childhood, too tight and hot.

  When she was small, the desire to be bigger and stronger and faster sparked like fuse-wire in her chest. The frustrations of being a child and the arguments with Ada and Flick often prompted her to run away. She’d sneak out from Creek House at night and race along the flint-walled lane to Bosham church where, in those days, her fist could fit inside the keyhole carved deep into the planks of the ancient door. The key was lost or stolen, no one knew when or how. Nora would wait, anchored in the shelter of the outer porch, fist jammed in the keyhole, until the thud of her heart quietened enough for her to listen beyond the percussion of the millwheel to the millstream’s pianissimo ripple and the silted whisper of Salthill Creek.

  The step down into the mussel-fragrant air of the church is worn; the door with its metal-studded planks impenetrable as a drawbridge. More than a hundred years ago, while working to lower the church floor, stonemasons uncovered a child’s coffin under the centre of the chancel arch. It was roughly hewn in stone, Saxon, and buried in the position saved for those of high standing where, according to long-held village tradition, King Cnut had buried his young daughter. Later, children in the village marked the place with a memorial slab, etched with the words: IN MEMORY OF A DAUGHTER OF KING CANUTE. Today she will go there to light a votive candle for Noah, wedge the taper into the holder with care, so as not to snap any of the hardened dribbles of wax. The flame will smoke a little. She will stand and watch the wisps curl upwards to vanish between the rafters.

  Nora has run a long distance. Her heart jostles her ribcage with exhilaration. A race, she’s in the lead. She can run. She has run every day for a year.

  My Saxon princess, her father used to call her, his hand on her hair.

  By the time she’s running up the drive to Creek House, several of Nora’s fingers are white and numb, the blood gone from them to pump instead deep inside, to her muscles, her inner organs. She fumbles with the front-door key. In the hallway, Ada is halfway up the stairs with a cup of coffee. It’s not yet seven o’clock.

  ‘Early for you.’ Nora shoves the front door closed with a foot.

  Without turning, Ada flicks a limp hand in dismissal and continues to climb the stairs, her movements jerky and stiff as a puppet’s. She’s in another of her moods.

  In the kitchen, Nora takes a long drink from the tap and notices that the pieces of the broken wind chimes, the shell fragments and salt-bleached sticks which she’d lain along the window sill ready to be untangled, have disappeared. Checking the clock, she does her stretches. She needs to shower and get dressed for teaching, but first she wants to find the broken bits and put them somewhere safe, so she moves around the kitchen, searching under newspapers and letter piles, coats and heaps of dry washing; she treads on the pedal of the compost bin and peers in at potato peelings and egg shells. Eventually, standing at the bottom of the stairs, she calls up. ‘Mum?’

  Ada has vanished.

  Nora bounds up the stairs to rap on her mother’s bedroom door. ‘Mum?’

  The door swings open and Ada stands in the doorway, her hands pressed either side of her face. ‘Good gracious me, Nora! What
on earth are you creating about now, and at this ungodly hour of the morning?’

  3

  ‘Your mum said you won all sorts of prizes. A virtuoso, you were.’ Eve wrestles with the barn-like outer door of the boathouse, struggling to fasten the latch and padlock because woody tendrils of ivy have jammed the hinges. Towering above Eve, Nora reaches easily to lift a clump out of the way. She leans a shoulder against the battered wood and shoves.

  ‘All the exotic places you played. Like Russia. You never told me.’

  ‘It was a while ago now.’

  ‘She’s very proud of you, isn’t she?’

  ‘Mum? God no.’ Nora keeps her voice light. ‘Mum thinks I’m the bad penny.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Nora looks down on the roots of Eve’s mass of shoe-string plaits, the anchoring strands of hair like the aerial roots of ivy. She gives the door another hefty shove and the metal latch slots into place.

  ‘I turned up again,’ she says.

  Eve snaps the padlock shut.

  This afternoon, Eve has picked the theme of Special Occasions for their visit. From her plastic crate-on-wheels, she pulls a portable CD player, plastic flowers, a champagne bucket and photographs, arranging everything on a side table.

  Nora can’t get used to the silence and inertia, the circle of chairs with its jumble of occupants shut inside their own heads. Today the only sound comes from a woman slurping drink from a child’s spouty beaker.

  Come and play some of the old favourites, Eve had said, They’ll love it. Music and singing, it lights them up, please come, if you’ve got time. Of course Nora has time; these days she has too much time.