She nodded. 'I didn't want you to know. But I had to give you that letter. I'd promised to do that if ever I got the chance. I had to give it to you, didn't I?'
'Of course,' I said. 'Please tell me all that happened. I'd rather know everything. I know it's painful to you, but please — you do understand?'
She nodded slowly. But she didn't speak for a moment. She sat looking out across the sea. I sat on the heather beside her, trying to see in the profile of her face the little girl in pigtails who had wandered hand-in-hand with my mother across these cliff tops. She must have been a pretty child. She was pretty now. She had a broad, open face with high cheek bones and a short, stubby nose. It was the sort of face that made me think of a Chekov play. Perhaps she also had her dreams of a Moscow she was always just arranging to visit but never did.
'I was four years old when Mummy and I came to live at Cripples' Ease,' she said. 'I remember your mother — Miss Nearne she called herself — didn't like me at first. And I didn't like her. Probably she resented us and though I didn't know why then, I must have sensed that resentment. And then one day I fell inside one of those old engine houses. It was that one out there by Kenidjack Castle. I'd been chasing a lizard. I cut my knee and couldn't get out. There's a sort of well where the boiler used to be. It was quite deep with sheer stone sides. I cried and cried, but nobody came. I thought nobody ever would. Mummy was always out somewhere and there was only Miss Nearne. It was dark when she found me. She took me back and bandaged my knee and then she told me a fairy story to stop me from being frightened any more. But long before she'd finished I'd fallen asleep. So, of course, the next night I wanted to hear the rest of the story. And after that she always told me a fairy story at bedtime. And she started taking me for walks and telling me little stories about the animals and birds we saw. She told me about the piskies and the miners who'd worked these cliffs.' She looked at me and her eyes were sad. 'You see, we were both lonely. And she knew such a lot of things.'
'Yes,' I said. 'She was a school teacher before she married my father.'
She nodded and looked out towards the sea again. 'I know And she used to tell me about her little boy who was a few years older than me. She talked a lot about you. She made up stories about you. She lived in a dream-world of her own, and she let me share it. And I loved it. Soon she began teaching me properly I went everywhere with her. I helped her with the milking and with that little garden she made. I tried to keep it tidy after her death — as a sort of memory for the kindness she had shown me. But there was the war and I had so little time. Now, I'm afraid, it'll never be a garden again. I wish it had never happened,' she added, with sudden passion.
'Why did she stay on here?' I asked. 'I mean after the old man married your mother.'
'I don't know.'
'Was it because of you — because she was lonely and all the love that she had lost was concentrated on you?'
'Perhaps,' she said slowly. 'She treated me as though I were her own child. At first it was all right, whilst Mummy had her own car and was having a gay time. But then during the depression, I think she must have lost a lot of money. She sold the car and began to be at home much more. That's when the rows started. Mummy had to occupy her mind with something and she suddenly remembered she had a child. But I was always with Miss Nearne. I think she became jealous. Anyway, when they started to have rows, — I'm afraid I took Mummy's side. You see, I was growing up then. I was less dependent on Miss Nearne and just beginning to be interested in the outer world. Mummy was always nicely dressed and her conversation was of people, real people — mostly men, I'm afraid. I saw less of Miss Nearne then and more of Mummy. And Miss Nearne gradually drew into herself.' She turned to me again. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I suppose, in a way, it was my fault. But I was only a kid. I didn't understand how people feel.'