Distant Voices

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘It feels a bit wobbly.’ She found herself saying it apologetically, conscious of her own inadequacies rather than the shortcomings of the gangplank.

  ‘Take a deep breath and run,’ he advised. He had folded his arms to watch.

  ‘Couldn’t you just send Collie down?’ She gave a small laugh – a deprecating shrug.

  He sighed. ‘I doubt she’ll come.’

  She had realised by now that he was enjoying the situation and the realisation spurred her at last into action. Four quick steps and she too had jumped down onto the deck to stand next to him. He hadn’t moved. His arms still folded, he had made no attempt to steady her as she arrived.

  ‘This way.’ He turned towards the steps which led beneath a hatch into the main cabin. For the second time she hesitated.

  She had only ever really trusted one man. Their relationship had encircled and empowered her. It had given her all she needed in her life to be strong and secure and in her own eyes, a reflection of his, attractive. Then one day she had returned home unsuspecting, happy, confident in a future extending into contented companionable old age, to find a note. The enchanted circle had been no more than a smoke ring, puffed into non-existence by another who had sneaked in beneath her lack of suspicion. The certainties of life had no more substance than a house of cards and she found herself a naïve, worthless nonentity in her own eyes.

  Only Collie sustained her, lying patiently across her knees, a six-stone teddy bear, with a warm flannel tongue to lick away the tears. Months passed. To outsiders she was herself again. Only the dog knew the nights of self-questioning and despair, the emptiness inside her and the shattering of trust. Blithely certain that she had got over ‘it’ he had called her a couple of times to check – big deal – that she was all right. He did not know or care that never again would she believe or trust another human being.

  And another human being was staring at her now, standing on the steps which led down into his lair and in that lair was the only friend she had left in the world.

  ‘Collie!’

  Her cry was suddenly desperate.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, when the dog is patently a goldie do you call it Collie?’ His tone implied a conversational level suitable for a three-year-old.

  She smiled at last and he saw the thin pale face with its halo of dark straight hair and deep grey eyes spark for a moment into animation.

  ‘She’s called Colleen.’

  ‘I see. An Irish dog. I should say that explained everything.’ The humour, if it was there at all was so tart and spare as to be all but indiscernible. He turned and disappeared into the cabin.

  She waited, conscious of the cold breeze lifting the weight of her hair on her neck, the shift of the tide and the loosening of the plank in its contact with the solid earth, although lashed this end, she noted, to the rail.

  Seconds turned to minutes. The silence was unnerving. The tape which had still been playing when she first set foot on the deck had stopped and not been replaced.

  At last she could bear it no longer. First one foot on the ladder then another, her knuckles white on the companionway rail.

  The first thing she saw was Collie, traitor that she was, lying at the man’s feet. He was standing in front of an easel beside a large glass window, let into the stern. Even from where she was standing she could see that he had been painting the birds. The rich colours of the shelduck and oystercatcher leapt from the canvas, vibrant and astonishingly real.

  ‘Coffee?’ He nodded towards the table where amongst a debris of paints and brushes and unwashed cups and saucers she could see a red enamelled coffee pot. She wanted to, but good sense prevailed. ‘I don’t suppose I have time. The tide seems to be coming in.’

  He smiled. ‘Another time then.’

  And that was that. She slipped the leash onto Collie’s collar, thanked, apologised, stammered, blushed and left. She doubted if he had heard any of it. He was still standing by his easel, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his old jeans, his eyes fixed on the middle distance where the tide race and wind met to hurl white horses across the mouth of the estuary and out towards the island.

  She went back of course. Not the next day, nor the next, but on Monday when the sun broke through the heavy cloud and brought an icy wind in from the Arctic she put on her jacket and scarf and, keeping Collie on the lead this time, went for a tramp down the beach.

  The boat was there, but even from the distance she could see it was empty. It looked abandoned. There was no smoke at the narrow chimney and no dinghy bobbed from the stern. The gangplank had gone. She stood for a while, staring at it wistfully. It looked lonely now. At the weekend the other yachts had gone. Winter was coming fast and they had no doubt retreated to their safe marinas to await the coming of spring. Only the one boat remained, dark on the water. As the tide swung her gently to the mooring ropes she could see the name now. Araminta.

  Without knowing why, she sighed. She turned away, head down into the wind, the dog’s lead round her wrist, and plodded on, feeling the coldness of the wind now on her face, realising the evening would soon be there. She must turn back. Go home to the empty flat where she no longer bothered any more even to put flowers.

  ‘Just to the end of the groyne, Coll,’ she addressed the dog firmly. Collie looked back and wagged her tail. ‘Then we’ll go back and make hot buttered toast and get disgustingly fat, the two of us.’

  The dog beamed. It had an uncanny knack of understanding when food was being discussed. Together they traced the edge of the tide, kicking and sniffing respectively at bits of driftwood and weed, then as one they turned and began to walk back.

  He was trudging down the shore, laden with backpack and two shopping bags, his head down into the wind as hers had been. It was Collie who recognised him first. The lurch with which she set off to meet him dragged the lead out of Jill’s hand.

  He looked up and for a moment she thought she saw a smile flicker round his eyes. ‘Well. The collie from hell.’

  ‘Hello.’ She found it was quite easy to smile after all. ‘I thought you must have packed up and gone away for the winter, with the rest.’

  ‘Wimps and townies.’ He hauled the pack off his back and dumped it on the ground with his other bundles. The small tender, she noticed now, was drawn up well above the water line under the stark branches of the trees. He caught the painter and hauled the dinghy down towards the water. ‘Do you want to go out to the island tomorrow?’

  ‘The island?’ Startled by the invitation, she stared past him out into the estuary.

  He had begun to pack his things into the little boat, tucking the bags under the thwart. ‘I’m going to take some photos. The forecast is good. Cold and bright. Should be calm. The mutt can come if she can sit very still.’

  ‘You mean we’d go out in that?’ Jill couldn’t hide her horror as she stared down at the tiny boat.

  He smiled properly this time. ‘It floats.’

  ‘Maybe not, with me and Collie in it.’

  ‘Weigh more than twenty stone between you?’ He raised a laconic eyebrow.

  ‘Of course not!’

  Her indignation pleased him. He nodded. ‘Thought it unlikely. No problem then. I’m leaving about eleven. That way we can use the tide and minimise the effort.’ He smiled again. ‘Come if you want to. Don’t if you don’t.’

  With that he turned his back, catching hold of the edge of the boat and dragging it down into the water. In seconds he had vaulted into it and slotted the oars into the rowlocks. He did not say goodbye.

  Jill watched him for a moment – disconcerted to find he was facing her as he rowed towards the Araminta. He nodded, once, but that was all.

  She turned away, knowing she wouldn’t have the courage to go.

  She was there at ten to eleven, dressed in jeans, a thick sweater and jacket, her hair tied up in a blue silk scarf, a thermos and some sandwiches in a haversack on her shoulder. Collie was excited, leaping about ahead of her,
and Jill had serious reservations about taking the dog. Supposing they capsized out in the deep water? In this weather they would drown in seconds.

  He was waiting for her with the boat, his arms folded, his eyes once again on the distance. Turning as the dog bounded up to him he gave that tight half smile she was beginning to recognise. ‘I’m glad you came.’

  His camera and drawing things were packed in a waterproof bag, tightly wedged in the bow. Her haversack joined them and she followed, with Collie, grinning delightedly, at her feet. The boat seemed very low in the water with its load, but he rowed easily, heading confidently out into the waves.

  ‘You haven’t told me your name.’ She had to raise her voice over the wind and water.

  ‘Roger.’

  She could see that was all she was going to get. ‘I’m Jill.’

  They didn’t talk. Her hand firmly clamped round Colleen’s collar Jill sat staring out at the water, revelling in the wind and the emptiness around her. To her astonishment she found her apprehension had vanished; she suspected that her own grin was as big as Collie’s as she stared at the dog which sat motionless, ears streaming in the wind.

  They beached in a small shingle cove, ringed with stunted pine trees, pulling the boat up above the tide while Collie gambolled happily round them.

  She sat on a pile of stones and tried not to watch him as he unpacked his camera. The quick sure movements of his slim fingers as he slotted the lenses back into place, the powerful wrists, the intense concentration in the face fascinated her. He was the antithesis of Justin, who had smothered her with his shambling good humour, who had infuriated her with his vagueness and captivated her with his charm.

  Looking away at last she stared out towards the sea, her eyes narrowed against the breeze. The island was strangely sheltered. The air seemed almost balmy. The trees, evergreen and resinous, had a spring-like quality which she found strangely relaxing.

  It was Colleen, pressing nervously against her legs, who alerted her to the figure standing in the trees. Accustomed to the dog’s unfailing sociability Jill frowned. She glanced at Roger but he was preoccupied with his camera, squatting on the shingle, rummaging in a waterproof bag containing his rolls of film. Collie pressed closer. The distinctive line of hackles on her back rose and she whimpered.

  Jill put a warning hand on her collar. ‘It’s not our island, girl,’ she whispered. ‘Other people are allowed to be here.’

  Roger heard her. He glanced up. ‘Have you seen something?’

  ‘There’s someone standing watching us. In the trees.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought there might be. He’s probably from the monastery. Just ignore him.’

  ‘Monastery!’ Jill echoed. She couldn’t resist a quick glance. The figure was still there, unmoving, and now she realised the slight oddness was due to the uncanny stillness of the man, who watched, arms folded, his silhouette made unusual by the habit, knotted at the waist. That was why Collie was growling softly in her throat. She had never seen a monk before.

  ‘Should we be here?’ She asked Roger at last as he straightened and slung the camera round his neck.

  ‘We won’t go near their end of the island.’ He smiled that sudden revelatory smile which he dispensed so rarely. ‘Come, we’ll go down to the rocks.’

  There were flocks of birds there, paddling along the tide line, probing the stones and mud with their bills. Jill put Collie on the lead and took her for a long walk along the top of the low sand cliffs while Roger set up his hide.

  The monk was standing now at the edge of the cliff staring across the estuary towards the mainland. Jill froze, her hand tightening on the lead. She needn’t have worried. Collie had dropped, head on paws, hackles raised in a crest all down her back. It was the same man, she was almost certain – or did they all look the same in that dark heavy robe?

  He did not turn or acknowledge in any way that he knew she was there, and afraid that her presence might in some way compromise vows of silence and seclusion she crept away.

  They walked in the pine wood, keeping a wary eye out for any further members of the brotherhood, and then eventually made their way back to the boat. There they sat in a patch of sheltered sunshine and shared sandwiches and Jill drank coffee and poured some water into a plastic bowl for Collie. Without being told she knew Roger would have lost all sense of time once he had crawled into that tiny hide out on the rocks. It was strange how soon the birds seemed to have forgotten the man who had disappeared inside it. Unconcerned they made their way up to and round it, plodding over the flat rocks and through the wet sand.

  The sun began to drop in the west and Jill felt a shiver of cold. The shadows of the trees crept long and black across the beach. She was beginning to get worried about the darkening strip of water over which they had to row when at last she saw him emerge from the hide, dismantle it, roll it up and walk back towards her, accompanied by the alarm calls of the birds on which he had been spying.

  ‘We saved you a sandwich.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He took it and ate ravenously.

  ‘Did you get good pictures?’

  He nodded. ‘The best. The light was perfect.’ He accepted a mug of coffee and absent-mindedly he patted Collie. In the distance a bell had started to toll.

  ‘Is that for the monks?’ Jill saw the dog’s hackles rising again.

  ‘Compline.’ He shivered. ‘Come on. We’d better load up. I don’t want to be on the water in the dark with no lights.’

  ‘I didn’t realise there was still a monastery on the island,’ she said half-way back across the water. She was sitting, her arms tightly wound round Collie’s neck against the cold. Shivering she buried her face in the dog’s thick ruff. ‘I think I remember hearing that there was a ruin there.’

  ‘There is.’ He was rowing fast. ‘One of Henry the Eighth’s ruins. Beautiful.’

  ‘So they rebuilt some of it?’ She was peering over his shoulder now, looking out into the darkness. The water had a strange oily intensity in the distance. It was sinister; forbidding.

  He didn’t answer. He was pulling harder on the oars and she felt a sudden frisson of nervousness. Supposing they became lost out here in the cold and dark?

  He read her thoughts at once. ‘Don’t worry. We’re nearly there. I’m not going to risk losing my cameras.’

  ‘Thanks!’ Her indignation was real.

  He smiled.

  On the beach she helped him pull up the boat and unload his equipment. It was almost full dark now. The water behind them gleamed with an eerie luminosity and already a sheaf of stars was bright in the heavens. He looked up.

  ‘There’ll be a frost tonight. You’d better get home.’

  For a moment she was hurt. She had thought he would ask her into the boat – offer her dinner. But why should he? They were barely acquaintances. She nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s a walk to the village. Perhaps I’ll see you again?’

  He smiled. ‘Knock on the side of the boat when you’re passing, and I’ll provide some breakfast for you and the dog.’

  She waited three days. Then he cooked them bacon and toast with free range eggs from the farm on the cliff and real coffee, perked on the black stove in the galley. He showed her the photos and she was astounded by their professionalism. It was as she was looking through his sketches of shelduck that he asked the question.

  ‘Where’s your husband?’

  She looked down at her hand. She had taken the wedding ring off the day she found out that he had gone to someone else, but the tell-tale circle of pale skin on the tanned finger betrayed her.

  ‘He left me.’

  ‘Did you love him?’ His voice was strangely hard. She glanced at him and saw he was staring out of the window towards the island.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you still love him.’

  ‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m trying not to.’

  ‘Don’t!’ He swung round and she was astonished at the sudden intensit
y of pain in his face. ‘Never try and deny love. However much it hurts, it is better than emptiness.’

  He walked across the cabin and back, with quick restless steps, as though unable to contain his sudden emotion. He swung back to her. ‘I’m going to the island again this afternoon. Do you want to come? Only for a couple of hours. I need a few more pictures; not birds this time – just general views of water and trees. Collie would like it.’

  At the sound of her name Collie sat up, ears pricked.

  Why not? There was nothing to return home for. No washing or ironing or cooking. As yet no job to fill the lonely hours.

  ‘Okay. I’d like to.’

  She let him wander off alone again, sensing that he needed no company; that she and Collie would interrupt his concentration. Instead she went once more down to the rocks and then up to the cliff where the monk had stood. It was almost no surprise when she sensed Collie cringing behind her and turned to find the monk standing near her. He was staring out again towards the sea. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.’ She backed away, embarrassed, the dog winding around her knees.

  She was about to walk away when he slowly turned towards her. His face was shadowed in the cowl he had pulled over his head and his arms were folded. For several seconds he stood looking at her, then he took a step forward. Disengaging his arms from his long sleeves he reached out to a bush growing out of a crack in the rocks. He broke off a spray of leaves and held it out to her.

  She put out her hand, and when he didn’t move closer she took a step towards him. Collie whimpered. She took another step and accepted the sprig from his fingers. Their hands did not touch.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled. She could not see his face and she felt a strange nervousness tightening across her chest. He gave a small half bow and turning away he began to walk slowly back towards the trees. In only a few seconds he had vanished into the shadows.

  Jill looked down at the sprig in her hand. It was rosemary. She looked round, surprised. How could a rosemary bush survive out here on the cold, exposed cliff? She walked over to the spot where he had picked it. All she could see was gorse, clinging in the crevices with sparse grass and brambles.