“Afterwards? Do you know what happened to Delphine? She sort of vanishes from the public eye-not that she was ever really in it. Aubrey was very protective of his family. But after he was killed in the war, no mention is ever made of her again in any of the books…” Zach paused at the look on Dimity’s face. Her eyes were focused on things he couldn’t see, and her mouth made tiny movements, as though there were words inside not strong enough to come out. She looked for a moment as though she could see terrible, terrible things.
“Dimity? Do you know what happened to her?” Zach pressed gently.
“Delphine… she… No,” she said at last. “No, I don’t know.” Her voice was unsteady, but when she blinked and looked back at the magazine, a tiny smile lit her face once more. Zach had the strongest feeling that she was lying.
“May I?” He took the magazine from her and flicked forward a few pages, to the first picture of Dennis that had surfaced for sale, about six years ago. “What about this one? The date would suggest that the drawing was done here in Blacknowle. Did you ever know this man, Dennis? Do you remember him at all?” He passed the magazine back to the old woman. She took it, but reluctantly, and barely glanced at the picture. Two spots of color appeared in her cheeks, and a mottling started to rise, staining her neck. A blush of guilt, or anger, or shame… Zach couldn’t tell. She took a quick, shallow breath, and then another.
“No,” she said again, sharply, holding the magazine away from her as if she couldn’t bear to look. Her breathing stayed high and fast in her chest, clearly audible, and her fingers shook slightly as she flicked back to the picture of her and Delphine. “No, I never knew him.”
Careful not to put her off talking at all, Zach let her return to the earlier picture without asking any more questions about Dennis, or the fate of Delphine. He realized he was every bit as keen to know about Delphine, the girl he had spent so long trying to know from her portrait, as he was about her father, but he saw that it would have to wait, and be tackled gently. For now he was happy to sit and listen as Dimity talked about the first time she met the Aubrey family, and the house they took for the summer in 1937, and how she was careful to keep her acquaintance with them hidden from her mother for as long as she could.
“You think your mother would have disapproved of them? I know that some people in the village thought the setup was far too liberal…” he said, and then wished he hadn’t. Dimity scowled at the interruption, and sat silent for some moments as she seemed to digest his words, which were obviously wrong in some way. In the end she ignored the question and carried on with her tale.
The second time she met them was four days later. She’d been torn between her desire to go back and see Delphine again, and her uncertainty-one that bordered on fear. Fear of not understanding them, not behaving the right way, of what Valentina might say if she ever found out about the drawing; that sketch that had seemed to capture a little bit of her soul, trapping it forever on the paper. At fourteen, Dimity no longer had the body of a child. She had breasts, still growing, that felt bruised all the time. Valentina pinched them sometimes, grinning, amused by them for some reason, and the unusual pain made Dimity feel sick in the pit of her stomach. Her hips had spread-so quickly that rose-colored marks appeared in the skin, and then faded to leave faint silvery stripes. She walked with a sway that slowed her rapid gait, so that some heads that had once turned away when she went into the village now turned towards her instead. In some ways, Dimity found that worse. She was not ready to be looked at the way their visitors sometimes looked at her mother, when they arrived at The Watch with their hair slicked down and their boots pulled on hastily, not laced properly. Soon to be kicked off again.
She made her way to the wide beach that lay along the coast, west from Blacknowle; taking the long route inland because a group of boys were hanging about on the cliff path. They still threw things and called her names, but they made other suggestions now, too. They grabbed at her, tried to pull up her skirt or blouse; unbuttoned their trousers and came swaggering over with the floppy lengths of their dicks waggling to and fro, or sometimes poking up, stiff as an accusatory finger. She was still taller than most of them; could hit just as hard and run as fast. But the time would come when that would change, she guessed, and on instinct she avoided them more than ever before. Wilf Coulson was with them that time. He saw her from a distance, but he didn’t wave or call out, or alert the others. He was still as thin as a lath, still a boy, still plagued by his sinuses. When he saw her, he stuffed his skinny hands into his pockets and turned his back; deliberately didn’t look or draw attention to her as she quickly widened her route and dipped out of sight behind a fold in the land. She would give him something for this loyalty, when she saw him next. She was always mixing up new treatments for his nose, or things to help him grow, but what he wanted more often than not was a kiss.
It was low tide-the full moon had just passed, towing the water far out from the shore to reveal a narrow arch of dark brown sand. With a bucket looped on one arm, Dimity made her way along the water’s edge, barefoot, setting her feet down as carefully and gently as she could so as not to startle her prey. It was a still day, warm and bright. Through the shallow water, her feet were luminous white; and the sand, carved into hard ridges by the water, felt good on her soles. There was no sound but the wheeling cries of gulls overhead, and the gentle slosh of her stealthy steps; the water was sparkling. Where the sun warmed the sand, it smelled glassy and clean. The holes she was looking for were no more than an inch or so across. If they felt the vibration of her approach, the razor clams, with a contemptuous squirt of water, dug themselves deeper into the sand, out of reach. In her right hand Dimity carried an old, thin-bladed carving knife, bent into a crook at its tip. When she spotted a hole, she placed her feet on either side of it, softly, softly, crouched down, and, with a quick stab and twist, pulled the clam from the sand before it could escape. The creatures hung disconsolately out of their shells, bubbling and reaching, trying to find something to cling to, to pull themselves to safety. She had ten in her bucket already when she heard people coming, and knew that the harvest was ruined.
Four figures-two large, two smaller-walking towards her from the opposite end of the beach. The children were squealing, running in crisscross patterns around their parents. Feet thumping into the hard sand, splashing the water high onto their dresses. Dimity could feel the vibrations through her own feet as they got nearer, and when she looked down, a few telltale puffs of sand and water marked the retreat of the clams. With a flash of annoyance, she looked up again, and then remembered that Delphine had said she had a sister. She realized who they were. Irritation became confusion and caused her cheeks to flare. There was no way she could turn away, nowhere to hide. In that instant Delphine recognized her, and ran ahead of the others to meet her. Half happy, half awkward, Dimity raised her hand in greeting.