Qinmeartha and the Girl-Child LoChi

Qinmeartha and the Girl-Child LoChi

with The Beach of the Drowned

John Grant

Published by infinity plus at Smashwords

www.infinityplus.co.uk/books

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This compilation © John Grant 2011

Cover image: a detail from Regulus by JMW Turner

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of John Grant to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Qinmeartha and the Girl-Child LoChi was first published in slightly different form in 2002 as half of a Cosmos Double; copyright © 2002, 2011 by John Grant

The Beach of the Drowned was first published in slightly different form in 2009 in Under the Rose, edited by Dave Hutchinson; copyright © 2009, 2011 by John Grant

Other books of fiction by John Grant include:

Albion

The World

The Hundredfold Problem

Strider's Galaxy (as Paul Barnett)

Strider's Universe (as Paul Barnett)

The Far-Enough Window

Dragonhenge (illustrated by Bob Eggleton)

The Stardragons (illustrated by Bob Eggleton)

Take No Prisoners

The Dragons of Manhattan

Leaving Fortusa

CONTENTS

Qinmeartha and the Girl-Child LoChi

1: Qinmeartha

2: Girl-Child LoChi

3: Farewells, Welcomes

4: Not the Munsters

5: Night Times

6: Alas, Poor Jas

7: Friendly Pariah

8: Qinmeartha the Insane God

9: She Who Seeks to the Ends of Roads

Bonus Novella:

The Beach of the Drowned

About the author

Advertising feature: more from infinity plus

Qinmeartha and the Girl-Child LoChi

see LoChi

girl-child LoChi

her back bends not for the heaviest load

she is

starwatcher

she is

cloudrider

she is

she who seeks to the ends of roads

—fragment found in West Street, afterwards

1: Qinmeartha

Looking out the window across Ashburton, Joanna caught sight of the reflection of her own face in the glass. Behind her Aunt Jill, sitting in the old yellow armchair that had come down through perhaps too many generations of the family, was neatly framed by the reflected image.

Joanna smiled. The juxtaposition seemed to be telling her that she and Aunt Jill were the last of a kind.

The bells of St Leonard's began unmelodically to lurch into sound. Ever since arriving in Ashburton – full name Ashburton-by-the-Moor – three years back, Aunt Jill had been fighting a losing battle against the bell-ringers, who practised every Tuesday night and Thursday night, very loudly, and apparently to no beneficial effect. Today the peals should have been in their Sunday best, but they sounded much as usual.

The reflected Aunt Jill was making little irritated movements, and Joanna turned away from the window.

Bloody bells, muttered Aunt Jill. Bloody, bloody bells. It was the strongest oath she ever used. She got to her feet and gestured at the littered tray in front of her. More tea?

I'll make it, said Joanna, glad for something to do. They'd run out of things to talk about, but Joanna had said that she'd leave about five, and couldn't now say she'd go at four. She was awash with cups of tea drunk in a brittle silence interrupted by doomed attempts to find new topics of conversation.

In the little kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, she wondered what it was that had created this new distance between herself and her Aunt. Joanna had been only fifteen when her father had died in a light-aircraft crash, eleven years ago, and two years after that her mother had died also – of grief, according to all the family friends, although Joanna knew there had been quite a deal of alcohol mixed in with the grief. Aunt Jill, her mother's spinster elder sister and Joanna's sole surviving relative, had moved into the family home, just off Seymour Street, near Marble Arch, and had taken over Joanna's life. She must have done a good job: Joanna's GCSEs had been screwed up by her father's death, but her A-level results were excellent. In a way, Joanna reflected now, Aunt Jill had been more of a mother to her than her real mother had been.

Except this weekend. Something was bothering Aunt Jill, and Joanna couldn't find out what it was. She'd tried subtle hinting and got nowhere. She'd tried unsubtle interrogation: likewise. The old woman – not that old, but a lot older than Joanna's twenty-six – would volunteer the information in her own time. Maybe.

Maybe Aunt Jill had a boyfriend? That could be it. She was the other side of sixty, but life didn't stop then – at least, according to all the over-sixty-year-olds Joanna knew. But surely Aunt Jill would have told her? Maybe, Joanna thought as she poured the steaming water into the pot, maybe it's somebody terribly unsuitable.

She grinned. Aunt Jill always seemed to get a bit of a kick out of Joanna's more unsuitable lovers, to be full of questions that often tottered over from the personal into the distinctly tasteless. It'd be funny if she came over all coy just because she'd fallen madly, passionately in love with the local poacher or someone.

The grin faded. No – it couldn't be that. However much they might pretend to each other, no two people ever know each other completely, but Joanna was certain she knew Aunt Jill well enough to be able to read that much in her. It was something more serious than – Joanna found herself subvocalizing the words in a pompous tone – an unsuitable liaison.

The tea was ready. There was no excuse for not going back into the drawing-room.

Aunt Jill looked up as Joanna entered, a polite smile on her face, as if everything between them were just fine. It's been a good weekend, hasn't it, Joanna? she said brightly, for at least the tenth time in the past hour.

Yes. A lot of fun.

I never thought these old legs would take me to the top of Hay Tor ...

Joanna smothered a sigh as she poured a thin stream of tea into the too-small, too-fragile cups. She was already bored with the subject. All weekend Aunt Jill had been busily prattling away about superficialities, anxious to bar the conversation from heading into deeper waters. She was running out of those superficialities now, beginning to repeat herself.

I'll really have to get moving soon. The weather might get rough up nearer London. The excuse was valid, but didn't sound any the better for that.

Aunt Jill obviously recognized it as well, but seemed relieved. Yes, she said, putting down her hardly touched cup abruptly, sloshing some tea into her saucer. There might be rain. Or mist.

It seemed odd to be talking of mist when the sunlight was washing in through the window. Down here in Devon, October sometimes saw periods of weather that were better even than the summer, as if the world had arranged things so that the locals, swamped by grockles all through June, July and August, should be rewarded for their tolerance by some fine weeks to share among themselves. Joanna shivered at the prospect of London, which always seemed grey to her at this time of year.

You've packed, said Aunt Jill. Sure you haven't forgotten anything important.

Nothing except to talk properly with you, thought Joanna. I've got everything, she said. Doesn't matter anyway, you old fusspot. I'll be back down here soon.

Which was a lie, and they both knew it. Joanna always intended to come to Ashburton every fortnight or three weeks to make sure Aunt Jill was getting on all right, but somehow things got in the way – commitments, overloads of work, things like that – and she was lucky if she made it down here three times a year.

Aunt Jill collaborated in the lie. Yes, she said, of course you will be. There's always that to look forward to.

~

The bells were still filling the sky with discord as the two women stood by Joanna's Mini in front of the Crafts Centre, Ashburton's main centre of social life apart from the pubs. It sold bad coffee, expensive wholemeal food, and a place where you could sit and talk.

Are you sure you've got everything? said Aunt Jill yet again.

Everything, Joanna said, patting the roof of the car as if it were a parcel she'd just finished tying up. Aunt Jill ...

She paused, not knowing if she had the courage to press further.

Yes, dear?

Is there anything – Joanna found she was twisting her hands together, like people did in books – anything you want to talk to me about?

What do you mean? That dreadful artificial brightness again.

"Is there anything ... well, you know, wrong?"

No, darling! Aunt Jill was attempting to pass it off with a laugh. What could there be to be wrong? We've just had a lovely weekend, and I'm happy because you're looking so well. Of course there's nothing the matter.

Aunt Jill, smelling of some perfume that Joanna was certain was no longer manufactured – something with a lot of lavender in it – leaned forward in the sunlight and kissed her on the cheek. Was the hug she gave a little too vigorous? Was Joanna's imagination running away with her? All right, she said, rummaging in her jacket pocket for a cigarette. Just so long as everything's OK. I do worry about you, Aunt Jill.

I'm flattered.

I love you very much, you know. Joanna found her cigarettes but her matches were playing harder to get. It matters to me that you're all right. Do take care.

Of course I shall, said Aunt Jill, looking up crossly towards the spire of St Leonard's. Those bloody, bloody bells. I'll be all right, dear. You'll see. I'm a tough old boot, you know. I got through the war. I'll be all right.

Joanna shrugged. The lady was maybe protesting too much, but it was easier to believe her than to worry about it.

OK, she said, climbing into the Mini, gripping her cigarette between her teeth, feeling vaguely inadequate but not knowing what to do about it. So long as you're sure.

Do call me when you get home, just to let me know you're safe.

Standing in the evening sunlight, Aunt Jill suddenly looked smaller than Joanna had seen her before.

I will, said Joanna through the open window. I promise.

2: Girl-Child LoChi

It would be Easter in a couple of weeks.

Joanna had had a good drive down from London, and was feeling relaxed rather than tired by it. Slowing down as she came in off the A38 onto Fleet Street – the road that led into Ashburton's centre from the east – for the first time she wondered how much of what had happened in the past six months she could tell Aunt Jill, how much would have to be censored. Quite a lot, she concluded. There are some things that don't cross the generation gap, however much Aunt Jill is supposed to have been a bit of a goer in her young days.

She parked the red Mini in Ham's Lane, just in front of the Crafts Centre, as usual. Climbing out of it, she looked up at the windows of her aunt's flat, just above the Blue Horse. They were blank, like eyelids closed against the sunshine. Aunt Jill would be watching her from there, so she waved cheerfully, then dived into the back seat to fetch out her squashy grey bagful of clothes.

Greta appeared at the door of the Crafts Centre, smiling uncertainly. She was of middle age and looked it, despite a lifetime spent eating nothing that came out of a packet or tin. She claimed to cook everything served in the Crafts Centre from raw materials, no shortcuts, but her neat blue designer apron never seemed to show any food-stains.

Hi, said Joanna.

Hello, said Greta slowly. You'll have come to see your aunt again?

Yes, Joanna said. It was an obvious question, and for a second it worried her. Greta wasn't exactly a conversational expert, but she wasn't usually as dim as this either. It's been a while.

Been a while, Greta echoed. She turned and went back into her shop.

Joanna hefted the bag onto her shoulder and crossed the road. The Blue Horse was open, even though it was the middle of the afternoon – Jas must have decided the grockle season had begun – and Joanna was briefly tempted to push her way in through the swing doors to the cool, friendly darkness. No – Aunt Jill must have seen her arrive. Later on, perhaps, Joanna would be able to drag her out of the flat for a drink or three.

The flat's entrance was through a concrete corridor and up a little flight of stairs at the back. Listening to the bell's ping-pong, Joanna saw that the tiny garden was a mess, with weeds already growing in a tangled mat across the earth. She frowned. Aunt Jill wasn't an enthusiastic gardener, but she was determinedly dutiful. Had she been ill sometime during the winter, and not said anything – not wanted to bother Joanna? It would have been like her.

Ping-pong again.

Not that Joanna could have done much about it, even if Aunt Jill had told her. There had been too much going on in London, too many emotional quagmires that had to be either navigated or circumnavigated. The things she wasn't going to be able to talk to Aunt Jill about.

The symmetry of the situation struck her as she stood waiting on the doorstep. When last she'd been here in Ashburton she'd been aware that there was something Aunt Jill was withholding from her. Now it was the other way around. Splitting up with Mike – well, that would be OK: Aunt Jill had shown something akin to impatience when Joanna's