Little Wishes

by Michelle Adams

  It was impossible not to feel foolish, being engaged without a ring to a man she wasn’t all that sure about. Yet for some reason she still felt obliged to defend it. “Look, if you must know, he hasn’t been home to collect it yet. It’s a family heirloom.”

  He was still smiling, but this time sincerity shone from it. “It’s none of my business. But if I was marrying you, I certainly wouldn’t be leaving you without a ring. I’d want everybody to know you were mine.”

  “Oh,” she said, aware that her face was growing hotter by the second. A cool draft crept in from the window and so she moved toward it.

  “But that’s beside the point. You’re marrying Dr. Warbeck, aren’t you?”

  “Y-yes,” she stuttered. “Yes, I am.”

  A moment of silence got the conversation back on track. “So, jokes aside, you didn’t just come here to say thank you or return my clothes.”

  She shook her head. “No, there was something else. I wanted to ask you about what happened,” she said. “I thought it was better to do that in private, without prying ears. It’s about how my mother ended up in the water.”

  He took a heavy breath in and did up the buttons on his coat, all traces of that cheekiness lost. “I know somewhere we can go, if you like. It’ll be warmer there than it is here, at least.” Picking up a small satchel of his own, he turned to the steps. A moment later he stopped, that smirk returning. “Come on, then. That is, unless you think people will talk, what with you being as good as married and all?”

  * * *

  They left the lifeboat station behind and walked through the village, just stirring from the blustery night before. The small cottage in which Elizabeth knew that Tom lived with his parents produced a thin slither of smoke from its chimney. His mother was probably already working. Thoughts of Tom’s brother came to mind. Gossip had reverberated around the village after Daniel’s death, the women decrying what a terrible shame it was to lose a little lad like that, whispering of how he should never have been left alone, but Elizabeth couldn’t remember exactly what had happened.

  After a climb up the headland, they reached the old Mayon Lookout. It was a small structure, cubical almost, a granite buttress carved from local rock standing high on the craggy prominence. From here you could see across Longships reef to the lighthouse of the same name, all the way to Cape Cornwall in the north and Land’s End in the south. The building had lain derelict since it was decommissioned as a coastguard lookout in the 1940s, yet as Tom pulled open the creaky wooden door, she saw evidence of life before her in the shape of a small pile of black ashes in the corner of the room, a gas cooking stove, and a wicker fishing creel that looked to have seen better days. The crumbling window frames shook as the wind struck the glass.

  Standing on the threshold of the old lookout, Elizabeth listened as the hinges on the fishing creel creaked when Tom lifted the lid, then watched as he produced a hand-stitched quilt, which he shook out into the space before him. It gave off a faint scent of the ocean as he passed one end to Elizabeth. “It’ll be much warmer if you get under here.”

  She wanted to, but the story would travel faster than a coastal wind if anybody saw her sneaking away with a local boy like that. A Hale, no less.

  “Nobody saw us coming here,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “And you’re quite safe. I’m not about to try anything.”

  It felt adventurous in some way to be with Tom, independent and exciting. The door slammed shut behind her, and she found a position on the stone floor. Keeping his word, Tom draped the quilt over her legs, and Elizabeth was aware that as he did so his face brushed close to hers, his breathing audible. A smile crossed her lips when his gaze flicked to hers, and suddenly her mouth felt dry. When she thought of the gossip that would abound if anybody knew, her smile faded, and with that Tom pulled away.

  “Who sewed this?” she asked as she looked down at the quilt for a distraction. It was how she imagined the earth might look from above if she could see all the irregular rock walls and multicolored fields knitted together.

  “My grandmother,” he said, pointing to some of the scalloped edges. “And then my mother added these bits. It’s kind of a family tradition. Something they hand down upon marriage. In fact, I think this bit might have been my great-grandmother’s.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth said. “What are you doing with it?”

  “It’s the best quilt we have in our house. And it’s cold up here.”

  “You could just go home,” she suggested. “That’s what most people do after work.”

  “Suppose it depends on the home.” It was an idea she could understand. Since her mother got sick, she had wanted less and less to return home at the end of the day.

  “It’s very nice,” she said, not wanting to think of her reluctance to go home, or face the truth her family was trying to hide.

  “Grandpa was a herder, you see,” Tom said, his attention focused on the quilt. “One of the landsmen. Kept sheep out near Kelynack.” It was a small settlement only a few miles from there. “That’s why Nanna chose browns and yellows. For the land. Mum added the blues for the sea, because Dad is a fisherman.” It was his turn for a moment of unease, as he tried to clarify what he had said. “At least, he was a fisherman, before he started drinking.”

  Elizabeth knew that Pat Hale’s drinking corresponded to the loss of Tom’s brother, but she didn’t want to ask about it. So instead she watched as Tom set about lighting the small gas stove, after which he produced a pan from his fishing creel. He filled it with water and set it to boil before sitting down next to her. The warmth felt good, so Elizabeth held her hands close to it. When he opened the edge of the quilt, resting his legs underneath, it didn’t feel wrong, but still her gaze flicked to the door to ensure they were alone. It surprised her to realize that she wanted that, to be just the two of them.

  “Do you like being a fisherman?” she asked him.

  Checking the water as bubbles began to rise, he shook his head. “Not much, but it pays okay. I don’t really like the sea.”

  “I love the sea,” she told him.

  “I doubt you would like it very much if you did my job. There’s not much fun to be had waking in the dark and waiting for fish to catch every morning.” He dropped a tea bag in the water and dabbed at it with a spoon. “I’d have rather stayed at school like you did. But after Daniel died I had to leave. We needed the money.”

  Was it all right to probe if he was the one who brought it up? The need to ask him about his brother swelled so fast that she began talking before she even realized. It was a personal matter, and yet after what he had done for her mother last night, she felt somehow as if it wasn’t an intrusion.

  “What happened to your brother?”

  The light from outside was weak, but what was there cast his features in a golden-yellow haze as he stared straight ahead. The sight of him thinking made Elizabeth want to reach out and touch him, hold him close to her body. His soft gaze spoke of a depth for the way he felt about the world, she could sense it. Even though she wanted to know his answer, know all about Daniel, she wanted even more to stop time right there and then so that the moment they were sharing might never end.

  “He was sailing when he shouldn’t have been. Winter weather, the sea too rough.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said, bringing one hand up to her open mouth. It made what he had done for her mother last night even more commendable. “And still you jumped in.”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, anybody would have done the same.”

  Elizabeth didn’t believe that for a moment. A lot of people would have been too scared, would have called for help and decried what an awful tragedy it was without once getting a foot wet. “My mother was so lucky you were there.”

  “Well, you can thank my father for it. If he’d been at home, my mother wouldn’t have sent me out to look for him and I wouldn’t have been there to see her slip.”

  Elizabeth thought of the
breakwater, the gently sloping wall that was built to withstand the power of the sea. It had a heavy footprint, and anybody who fell from the top would surely have hit her head on the way down. Was it possible that in her confusion, her mother had jumped?

  “So, she did . . . slip?”

  The tinny resonance as his fingers tapped the edge of the cup broke through the silence. The light intensified, streaming through the window as the sun breached the crest of the land. “Of course, Elizabeth. What else could have happened?”

  The truth was on the tip of her tongue, but she thought of her father and how angry he would be. Still, she wanted to tell Tom, because there in that shelter with him she found that for the first time in months she could breathe, when she had never even realized before that she had been drowning.

  “She’s been ill. Confused.” Guilt swamped her in the place of the truth. The betrayal of her family didn’t feel good, and yet as Tom reached for her hand, she found that she wanted to keep talking. “She tried to take a boat once before.”

  “I’m sorry about that. But she slipped, Elizabeth. That was all.” And then he changed the subject. “I seem to remember that you once liked to paint. Do you still do it?”

  “Yes,” she said, surprised he knew, relieved the conversation had moved on.

  “Are you any good?”

  “Some people say I am, and sometimes I think I am. My father just thinks it’s a silly hobby.”

  Silence lingered between them until Tom set the mug down. “There’s nothing silly about what makes you happy.” The sun was much stronger now, and the heat under the quilt was becoming unbearable. The sound of the waves roared beneath her as they brushed the rocks of Longships reef. It looked magnificent, the water bright with sunlight, but the beauty of it failed to raise her spirits. Since her mother had become sick, she had found it hard to enjoy the world around her, conspiring as it was to take her away.

  “Do you ever dream of a different life, where there are no expectations of you? Where you wouldn’t have to fish to help your family?”

  “Dreaming is a luxury of the rich, Elizabeth,” Tom said as he stood up. He set the tin mug back onto the floor, upside down so that it might drain in his absence. “My job is to put food on the table for my mother. That’s all I know.” It was clear that their meeting was coming to an end. They were two people in the same place and yet they had two totally different lives. Wind blew in as he opened the door. “But I’d like to see your paintings sometime, hear more about your dreams.”

  That didn’t make sense to her. “Why would you want to? Doesn’t sound as if you much believe in dreams.”

  “Of course I do. And wishes, desires that people have for the future. It’s dreams that make us who we are.”

  The wind dropped a little as they descended the steps. “I thought you just said dreams were for the rich. Surely you must wish for something if that’s what you think.”

  They walked alongside each other, slower than they’d ascended, as if perhaps neither of them wanted their meeting to end. Elizabeth knew that she didn’t. “I suppose I do. Just not dreams like you’ve got.”

  “Like what, then?” she asked, stopping on the trail. He continued a few more steps, then turned to look at her. “Please?”

  “A nice life. Enough food. Everyday things.” The idea forced Elizabeth’s arms across her chest. How foolish she felt again. How selfish and grand her ideas really were.

  His hair blew in the wind, and soon enough he turned and continued down the path. Was that it, their meeting was over? Disappointment flooded her; she wasn’t ready for that. “Can we meet like this again?”

  He smiled as she rushed to catch up. “You want to?”

  It wasn’t a good idea, she knew that. And getting away with it this time didn’t mean she would again. People would love to gossip about her being out with Tom, a boy from a disreputable family, and she the doctor’s daughter. People would think it improper, and James wouldn’t be pleased. But still, she had enjoyed this morning, and liked the fact that coming here had been her own choice.

  “Yes,” she said. Her heart raced a little, a sense of excitement tingling in her fingertips.

  The moment of silence before his answer was excruciating. “Well, then I’d love to,” he said eventually, much to her relief. “Maybe you can show me your paintings later, let me see what your dreams look like.”

  As they arrived outside his cottage Elizabeth could hear Tom’s family inside, and other voices just up ahead. “I’d better go,” she said.

  “Before somebody sees you,” he replied with a smile. For a second he leaned in, and she thought he was going to kiss her. Her breath caught in her throat, but then he just brushed her shoulder. Following his movement, she saw dust from the old walls of the lookout scatter to the ground. “Shall we meet at seven tonight, or is that too late?”

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered as he pulled away.

  Her stomach turned over on itself as she walked toward home, as if nerves had gotten the better of her. What was that sense of disappointment she felt? Was it because she was leaving, or because when he’d leaned in, she’d thought he was going to kiss her and yet he hadn’t? Maybe it wasn’t disappointment at all; maybe it was nerves after all. The urge to glance back just one last time took control over her movements. And as she gazed over her shoulder, there was Tom, still watching her. He waved, and her stomach turned again. No, she thought, it wasn’t nerves. It wasn’t disappointment either. It was excitement, the anticipation that for the first time in her life she didn’t know what was going to happen next.

  Now

  The train was not an easy option, but it was the only option. Driving there was out of the question. Although Elizabeth knew that she was sailing into unknown waters, she also knew that she had no other choice. Her stomach was in knots, somersaulting with every twist and turn as the train rocketed through the countryside. The words on the pages of the book she had brought to pass the time seemed to dance around, and she was unable to get through more than a few lines before she was right back where she started. Eventually she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythmic pulse of the tracks, thinking about the boy she’d met when she was seventeen. The picture she had in her mind was as clear as it was then, standing on the stairs dressed in her father’s clothes, completely out of his depth. Her thoughts wandered to the moment when he emerged from the water with her mother at his side, and how his voice on that night had calmed her more than anything else. His presence in her life had brought such freedom, allowed her to consider what she wanted, and who she was. Before Tom she had never contemplated how the dreams that burned inside her might come true.

  After two changes the train pulled into Paddington Station and she stood up with her suitcase, her palms sweaty and her grip on the handle poor. Her stop at Plymouth was nothing compared to this, the cacophony of announcements combined with the rumble of feet and stink of engines. Many years ago, she had walked through this same station with such certainty and excitement, but now as she stood on the platform with the bustle of bodies moving all around her and no idea where to go or where to start, she felt as if she had been transported into a different world. Her little village was so quiet, a place where the hours felt endless, where you could hear the waves breaking against the shore even when it was busy with tourists. Here people moved as if the hours offered little more than minutes, their heads down, angled into the screen of their phone. Overwhelmed by it all, and with no clue where to go from there, she took a seat on one of the benches to give the crowds a chance to disperse, herself a moment to collect her thoughts.

  By the time she got moving she realized that almost everything seemed different from before. It had been over forty years since she had been to London, and even after ten minutes of trying she couldn’t work out the map. The machine in the wall from which, if her observations were right, she was supposed to acquire tickets was an even bigger mystery. People punching in numbers and inserting cards, r
ushing off at speed. Where were all the people who worked here? Why couldn’t she talk to an employee? Through the sea of heads, she came across a line, a huge bank of ticket sellers beyond, but between her and the cashier was a queue five rows deep. It made her think of rock concerts she had seen on television. Things Kate liked when she was young. Her fingers brushed her purse, the phone just inside. Should she send her daughter a message, tell her what she was doing? No, she decided. There wasn’t time for that right now. Hoping her legs would see her through the wait, she headed toward the line but was stopped by a young man in the queue.

  “Do you need some help?” Elizabeth looked up. His face was round, his beard a fluffy auburn mass that seemed strangely familiar. What a relief he seemed, appearing like an angel, and she wanted to reach out and hug him for suddenly making her feel that her inexplicable decision to come to London was not only right but necessary. “You look a bit lost,” he said.

  “I am. I have no idea how to work those machines, and I’ve come all the way from Cornwall and now I don’t know what to do or where to go.” Emotion was building, a mix of relief and anxiety, all of which seemed to work together to form a lump in her throat.

  “Where are you trying to get to?” the man asked.

  “I don’t even know that,” she said before reaching in her bag and rummaging for that slip of paper with the address from years before. The address she could only hope Tom was still living at. “A place called Hampstead,” she said, reading the paper.

  “Sounds like you’ve had quite a journey,” he said, reaching for her suitcase, pointing toward the machines. “Come on, I’ll help you. It’s easier than it looks.”

  Perhaps it was the exhaustion, the anxiety, or just absolute relief, but she reached out and took the young man by the arm. “Thank you,” she said, blinking a tear away. “I would have been here all day in that queue, and I don’t have the time to waste.”

  “This is London.” He laughed. “Nobody has.”