Jenni Fagan - The Sunlight Pilgrims

Tucked in between the pages is a folded letter. His mother’s scrawled handwriting:

Dearest Dylan ,

I suppose you might have sold the caravan and gone abroad and now some holidaymaker is reading this. If that is the case, then please just put this book in the bin. It’s only drawings. I was never any good with words. If this is you, then I am sorry I never kept contact details for your father, but here is what I know: he is one inch taller than you. (Do you remember I used to tell you that you came from a race of giants and you would never believe me — well, here are some cuttings about tall skeletons found in Wisconsin, Bulgaria, Africa, New York, Greece, the Netherlands, Ireland. I know there are fake ones of these online but some of them are real. I do believe that somewhere down the line, these were your people.) Your father lived in Hebden Bridge. I don’t imagine there are many tall men there. I don’t have any wisdom for you, sorry, only a recipe for Scotch broth and some (at best) average drawings. I just wanted to tell you that holding your hand when you were a kid, watching The Wizard of Oz on the big screen in our pyjamas, sitting on the back step eating our cheese sandwiches together or hanging out with Gunn, drinking gin — they were the very best minutes of my life. I could have travelled the world and nothing would have beat them. I’m sorry I didn’t teach you how to let the world in (other than in film) but I never figured out how to do it myself.

All my love ,

Vivienne

(Mum)

xxx

He picks up a pen and a Post-it note. He writes: Why are there no tall men in Hebden Bridge? He focuses on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. He clicks on the three-bar heater, his fingers and nose already numb from cold. He flicks through a selection of newspaper clippings about tall skeletons found around the world. There is a skeleton with a 20-inch skull and dark eye sockets found in Peru. It is on display in a museum, its teeth still protruding. There is one in Greece at 7.6 feet, another in New Orleans at 8 feet 2 inches. There is a clipping about Robert Wadlow, all 8 feet 11.1 inches of him, the tallest person ever recorded. It makes his own 6 feet 7 inches seem pretty insignificant.

He clicks the kettle on.

Drops a teabag into a mug.

She never said anything nice like that while she was alive. Not once. She was probably pissed when she wrote the letter. Impending death makes people act nice out of desperation. He looks out the window. The sky is so blue. It’s piercing. The caravan-site store he visited earlier was not so bad. It’s in a cool old metal tractor storeroom and well stocked. He can go back later to get more supplies. The book lies open on the table. He can imagine Vivienne sitting here. Looking out at the mountains. Reading, reading, reading. Dylan opens the cupboard to try and find something to eat and the Tupperware box and ice-cream tub just sit there.

— Morning, he says.

He closes the cupboard door.

Gunn MacRae died on May Day; she curled up in her bed like a fragile child and Vivienne lay down with her and stroked her hair and sang her songs until she went over to the Other Side. Dylan watched them both from the door. He can see her now. Her profile like that of a Roman. Thin arms. A smile like she knew something about something but she wasn’t telling anyone jack-shit. There is an ache he cannot shift and he is uncertain how something this physical has the remotest chance of going. Scoured out. That’s what he is. He goes over to the window. There is still no sign of the moon-polisher. If he had a camera he would have filmed her and made it into a short. Maybe that’s what he should be doing with his life now. Making films and living, instead of watching them and merely existing. It’s a thought. He picks up Vivienne’s book and find a P.S. on the next page –

P. S. Your grandmother told me she prised the keys to Babylon from a corpse’s fist. He was a Lord of some kind, apparently they used to have orgies in there with laudanum and plum brandy, you know the sort. It came to the family in the worst of karma really, so of course we’d never get to keep the place for ever. I answered the door to Babylon one night to find the devil on our back step. He held a top hat in his hands. He was wearing a Savile Row suit with scruffy old trainers. He asked if Gran was home. I said no, but he could smell mince and hear her singing loudly upstairs. He asked what she was cooking, I said shepherd’s pie and he said it was his favourite.

It was awkward.

Mum xxx

The field over at the park is frosty but that isn’t enough to stop the locals, who are still building a bonfire. The air is crisp and it has that Guy Fawkes vibe that he almost forgot existed. The pile of broken furniture is stacked up and all the stuff he didn’t need is going to burn and he supposes he isn’t leaving. At least not for now. Right now he needs to walk. Dylan tucks the cuttings into the back of the sketchbook, then wraps it up in Vivienne’s woollen cardigan and puts it under a pillow in the little bedroom. He rummages for a hat and yanks on a beanie that smells musty. He finds a pair of fingerless gloves. There is a toothbrush in a wrapper in the bedroom cupboard and a small travel-size tube of toothpaste. He brushes his teeth hard and takes a long drink of water. He bought two bars of chocolate from the shop and some oatcakes; it’s a good enough breakfast, hits at least some of the main food groups. He eats the oatcakes and stares up at the entire Clachan Fells range. It isn’t wise to walk a mountain in Chelsea boots.

Not wise at all.

The goats will laugh at him.

Or the sheep.

Or whatever it is that lives up there — wild pagans dancing naked around fires at night, wearing animal horns on their heads. That would be something. There don’t appear to be any of those so far, but he did hear two people in the shop talking about a druid who owns a castle nearby and has a sex room in one wing. Dylan has not seen any druids — not that he’d know what one looks like. What he can see are some cows in the distance. What he should do is find an Army & Navy store and buy some wellies or a waterproof coat or something. That would take time, though. It might be okay to go just a little way up the mountain. All that space is too tempting. He can’t resist it. It’s like that clean feeling on Christmas mornings: waking up in the attic, going through to the kitchen where Gunn would have a real Christmas tree next to the old hearth, a sock hanging up that she knitted herself a hundred years ago.

The air inside the caravan is almost as cold as outside — it’s a constant nip and he clicks off the fire, pulls on a jumper and grabs his jacket and he’s out the door into the wind. He has to take a few steps back to see if the woman is at home, or Stella. What do you say to a woman who polishes the moon? Pleased to meet you, Dylan MacRae, borderline-Nephil. It is one of Vivienne’s more endearing myth origins. A child created by a fallen angel and a mortal woman. Never just — one-night stand, didn’t catch his name, sorry, son, love you anyway.

Dylan crunches along the lane. In this light the caravans appear tired. The two at the top of the lane have dirty windows and assorted debris stacked up in their gardens. Rose Cottage is at the end and it has flowers around the door and plastic pink flamingoes in the garden. No. 9 next door is the best-kept caravan. The silver sheen looks like it is treated with something. There is a neat, upright chimney poking out the top and smoke curling up. She has a wood-stack in her back garden and what looks like tarpaulin over random bits of furniture. He wants to knock on her door.