Lifeboat

by Zacharey Jane

  ‘Do you think that the age at which I see myself in my mind’s eye is important?’ she asked.

  ‘As a clue to your memory loss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thirty-one to now is a long time for you to have been amnesic.’

  She shook her head and said: ‘I mean that it may have been an important period in my life.’

  Our conversation paused while I put the boat about, turning to tack back towards the land.

  ‘So why seven years old for you?’ he asked when we had all resumed our seats.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really questioned it.’

  ‘Where were you then?’ he asked.

  ‘The convent – the one I grew up in.’

  ‘And what happened that particular year?’ she asked.

  ‘Aren’t I supposed to be asking you these sort of questions?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but our answers are always so predictable …’ He turned to her, smiling.

  ‘I can’t remember!’ they chanted in unison. She put her arm around him and gave him a squeeze. It was a casual, familiar move and once again I saw them as a couple, lovers even. Was that so far-fetched?

  ‘You haven’t answered yet,’ he said. She took her arm away, but they remained seated closely together.

  ‘My best friend left.’

  ‘Well that’s something,’ she said. ‘Why did she leave?’

  ‘Her parents came and got her.’

  ‘She had parents?’ he asked. ‘I thought it was an orphanage.’

  ‘It was a convent that took in war strays, many of whom were orphans, but most just sheltering in the country for the period of the conflict.’

  ‘Did you miss her?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. A lot,’ I realised for the first time just how much I had missed her. ‘I remember crying for weeks.’

  I also remembered wetting the bed again and the trouble that caused me.

  ‘Did you hear from her much?’

  ‘No, never again.’ And now I wondered why.

  ‘That’s awful. You poor little thing.’

  It was my turn for a hug.

  ‘Never mind. I am sure you made other friends,’ she said.

  I let that one go unanswered, because I hadn’t.

  ‘It’s hard to make a new best friend,’ he observed. I looked up and met his eyes, and thought that they were the kindest eyes I had ever seen.

  Squaring my shoulders, I said: ‘I think the worst thing was that somewhere in the back of my head I dreamt that my parents would come one day and claim me, just as hers had. I told you that my mother was not dead. So when they never did, I assumed it was my fault, as children do. I was only seven, a silly child.’

  ‘No, not silly,’ he said softly. ‘A completely beautiful, understandable child who just wanted to be loved. That’s all children ever want. I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said quickly, attempting to laugh.

  ‘But it’s not right,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll get over it.’

  She turned to him. ‘Come now, sir, with our captain’s permission I would like to test your sailing skills again. May he have the …’ She indicated the tiller. ‘Steering thingy.’

  ‘Tiller,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  I was pleased to hand back to him – he sailed better than I did.

  At lunchtime we moored in a sheltered bay; just us and the seabirds. Steep cliffs climbed up from the waterfront, trying to puncture the cloudless sky. The boat rocked gently in the sun while I poured the wine and laid out the luncheon. My preparations of the night before were well rewarded. We drank to our days sailing and to sailors in general.

  ‘If we continued this way,’ I told them, pointing as I spoke, ‘we would eventually sail into the main harbour.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ she said. ‘Can we?’

  ‘Not today. It’s an exposed journey and there’s a storm in the offing somewhere, so I wouldn’t risk it. I don’t think we’d have time to get back before it hit.’

  ‘A storm? Really?’ she said sceptically, looking around.

  ‘They can come up pretty quickly, this time of year, with little warning.’

  ‘So how can you tell?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know – just can. I have a knack for guessing the weather.’

  ‘A fisherman’s daughter,’ he suggested.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Something I heard. That fishermen’s daughters can tell the weather,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Or was it that they had webbed feet?’

  ‘Oh, you terrible man,’ she cried, laughing and pretending to hurl the contents of her glass at him. ‘And look, you have let my glass go empty. Quick, a refill. You know what they say about old women with empty glasses?’

  ‘No, ma’am, what?’

  ‘They get thirsty.’

  The taxi awaited us upon our return to the bay. We sat in a contented silence for the quick drive home, topping the hill overlooking the main harbour as the flames of a glorious sunset licked over the waves of the bay below.

  ‘And we are really allowed to stay at your house tonight?’ she asked. I nodded.

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Did today bring anything back to you?’ I asked the woman. ‘Even if it’s just a shadow of familiarity?’

  ‘No, it did not, although I had a lovely day.’

  She started to say more, but the taxi arrived at my house. Her gratitude embarrassed me. I enjoyed their company for its own sake; I felt connected to something for the first time in years.

  We ate a light supper sitting out on the front verandah, overlooking the garden. Big tree ferns swept the railings and lush flowers pushed their way out through the glossy foliage, surprising me with their tenacity – I never did any gardening. Occasionally I would trim back the fern fronds obscuring the view from my favourite deckchair, but that was all. I liked the privacy of the fern-frond barrier, feeling like a hunter watching from the safety of a hide.

  She pointed to a birdbath that sprouted like a giant mushroom from my front lawn.

  ‘Do you ever put out seed?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. You’d get parrots.’

  ‘You like birds?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I am sure I do,’ she said, as she leant out over the railing holding back a fern branch so as to see better. ‘Oh, look at those tiny birds – aren’t they lovely,’ she said, pointing at some colourful flutters of feather playing amongst the bushes like children tumbling in the sun, busy about nothing.

  She moved over to make room for me beside her.

  ‘They’re finches, aren’t they?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘He’ll know. Where is he?’ She looked around. He had wandered into the kitchen. I could hear him rummaging around in the drawers.

  ‘Come out here,’ she called.

  He emerged from indoors.

  ‘Look,’ she said, moving aside and gesturing for him to squeeze in beside us. ‘They’re finches, no?’

  ‘I think so,’ he murmured. He leant forward for a better look.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Yes, they’re finches.’

  ‘Finches.’ She seemed pleased. He pulled back a fern branch and looked out to the harbour.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, brandishing a big kitchen knife. I shook my head dubiously as he cut off the frond neatly at the trunk. He moved along the verandah and did the same with all the larger fronds, then stepped back to admire his work. It brought the ocean closer. We saw the storm I had predicted gathering. And now that I could see the whole sweep of the harbour, the town looked smaller, friendlier.

  ‘I could do the whole garden for you if you’d like,’ he said, as I sat down.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Maybe next weekend?’

  ‘Okay. That would be nice.’

  ‘Will we be here next weekend?’ she asked, sounding frail, h
er body sagging.

  I couldn’t reply.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said firmly. ‘Come sit beside me.’

  He drew her to the cane lounge, placing her down and seating himself beside her. He kept hold of her hand as they watched the storm clouds draw closer. Lightning illuminated their faces in the gathering dark. I noticed that they wore the same expression, revealing a similarity in their features I had not seen before. They say couples that spend their lives together begin to look alike. I thought I saw it in these two. In a way, the last few weeks were their whole lives.

  I wondered about their relationship before the lifeboat and about what lay hidden inside their heads, hidden below the waterline: a reef full of beauty or something that would scuttle them?

  She turned to me. ‘How old would you say I am?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Fifty? Sixty? Seventy?’

  ‘Maybe sixty, at the most,’ I said. She had looked so much older when they arrived – they both had – but the years had washed from their faces like sand left clean by the retreating tide.

  ‘Old enough to be your grandmother, but with nothing to show for it. What are my achievements?’

  ‘They could be substantial,’ I answered.

  ‘But if I cannot recount them, they are as nothing, they never happened.’

  ‘Yes they did; they still exist. You were not born on that lifeboat.’

  ‘Maybe I was. But sometimes I do feel like I’m about to discover myself, like I were on board a ship sailing through islands hidden in mist. They loom up and just as I’m making something out they slip by, back into obscurity. It’s a bit like permanent deja vu. Or maybe I did something terribly evil and this is my punishment.’

  ‘Worse to know what you did,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so. What could be worse than being about to die without knowing what your life was?’

  ‘About to die?’ I asked.

  ‘At the end of my life,’ she explained.

  I nodded.

  ‘So what do you think we should do?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait patiently,’ I said. ‘I expect an answer soon from the publisher. If this man is your father we have your identity. And then I expect yours to follow shortly after. Even if there is no prior relationship between you, you were on the same lifeboat, so logically one would assume you evacuated the same ship.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said. ‘The lifeboat had no markings, although it was, judging by its size and features, from a substantially sized vessel. The water and supplies on board suggest that it was either well provisioned or packed with enough time before that vessel sank. A commercial vessel would have an identifiable lifeboat, so I think our ship may have been private. I have seen a few such vessels harbouring here until the storm season passes. They are all privately owned, with full-time crews.’

  I wondered why I had not explored this path.

  ‘You could easily have crewed such a boat,’ she said. ‘But what about me?’

  ‘I have decided that you are a wealthy woman,’ he said. ‘The yacht was yours.’

  ‘And you were my skipper.’

  ‘But no vessels have been reported lost, commercial or private,’ I said.

  ‘To report something lost one needs to know where it was supposed to be to begin with. What if we hadn’t told anyone where or when we were going?’

  ‘I’ll look in to that tomorrow,’ I promised.

  We sat talking until she fell asleep, leaning against his side. I did most of the talking, explaining the journeys I planned, taking the opportunity to show off my maps.

  ‘You plan to sail here?’ he asked, pointing north from the island.

  ‘Yes. It’s only a few days away.’

  ‘And will this all be solo sailing?’ he asked.

  I’d never thought that far.

  ‘I suppose,’ I replied, ‘I could take a crew.’

  ‘It’s not safe for you to go alone. Promise me you will not do that.’

  ‘What do you know of these places?’ I asked, without thinking.

  He faltered as he replied: ‘Nothing. I just don’t think it is safe for a girl to sail alone. I have heard stories, like everyone.’

  I felt touched by his concern. For a moment I was taken by the idea of asking him to come with me. But I didn’t ask. It would have been an empty request; my plans were just dreams and I could make no promises to him as to his future.

  ‘Now I think it is time for bed,’ he said. ‘I will sleep out here, if that’s all right? I do miss the night sky.’

  He stooped and gently picked up the woman; she looked tiny in his arms.

  ‘Where would you like me to put madame?’

  Reluctantly I rose from the comfort of my chair and led the way to the bedrooms.

  He laid her down and drew the sheet over her. She didn’t stir, but she looked comfortable, curled up with one bare foot tucked under the other and her hands crossed beneath her chin. Her face appeared softer than when she was awake.

  ‘Not quite so formidable when unconscious,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Almost lovable.’

  We both smiled. He picked up a folded blanket from the other bed and went back to the lounge on the verandah. I wondered why I had never slept there myself – it did make the most beautiful bedroom in the house.

  ‘You have everything you need?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you. And thank you for today. I cannot remember a day I have enjoyed so much.’

  I laughed. He kissed me on the forehead.

  ‘Goodnight, child,’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Curled up in my own bed, I heard the lounge creak as the man made himself comfortable. It was good to be sharing my home. The house felt like a cat with a full belly, the breeze purring through the open windows. I lay there for some time, listening to the rain and free-falling back through the pleasures of the day.

  Later, I was disturbed from my slumber. Through sleep-filled eyes I saw a tall figure standing in my doorway. I turned in the bed to sit up and the figure was gone. I listened for the noise of footsteps, floorboards creaking, but everything was silent. Perhaps I had dreamt it. I went back to sleep.

  DAY SEVEN

  I was awoken by her scream, just before dawn when the night is at its darkest. The storm outside had passed. It took me a few moments to place the sound, whereupon I threw back the covers and ran to her. He was there already, sitting on her bed holding her to his chest, her arms pinned in a bear hug. I stopped at the doorway, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I watched as her struggles subsided, then stepped forward quietly and clicked on the bedside lamp. The soft light illuminated her face, which glistened with tears. He was stroking her hair and rocking her slowly, making soft shushing sounds. I went to a cabinet and found a handkerchief, which I handed to him. As he let her go she breathed in deeply and covered her face with her hands, then slowly released the breath and looked up.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to him.

  He gave her the handkerchief and sat away. She blew her nose.

  ‘And thank you,’ she said to me, holding up the handkerchief.

  ‘A nightmare?’ he asked. She nodded.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  She shook her head, as if to clear it.

  ‘The same,’ she said. ‘The same one. But then it changed and I was running away. Someone was after me, trying to kill me. There was mist and water, I had to escape, but I kept falling into the water, being swept away. Hands were reaching for me, trying to pull me under. It was horrible. Then I woke up. I’m sorry I disturbed you,’ she said, looking ashamed.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Don’t apologise. This is beyond your control. I’ll make some tea.’

  I clanked about the kitchen in the almost dark. The overhead fluorescent seemed like an assault when I turned it on, so I snapped it off quickly and worked by the creeping light of dawn. I found the morning very peacefu
l. The air carried a cool crispness that was fresh and optimistic. A breeze rattled the kitchen blind and I sniffed the air like a dog, scenting more rain on its way, mingled with the scent of earth and grass.

  The kettle steamed out its song, breaking into the silence of my thoughts. I made a pot of tea, carefully preparing the pot and warming the mugs, as I had been taught. I put the milk into a small jug that had come as part of the tea set. I’d never used the jug, always pouring my milk straight from the bottle, but I placed it upon the tray with some satisfaction.

  The house was quiet as I carried the tea through. At the door to her room I stopped. The two of them lay fast asleep, her lying curled beneath his protective arm as they shared the single bed. I backed slowly from the room and took my tray to the verandah.

  In the cool of the dawn the sensation of the tea felt like having a warm bath slide inside me. The world lay quietly, waiting to see what the sun was doing that day. Even the docklands were still.

  The noise of a screen door slapping shut broke the silence. It was my neighbour, watering the hanging pots on her verandah. Now the ferns were trimmed I could see her house clearly; she saw me looking over and waved. I had never met her, was hardly even conscious of having seen her before, but I waved back and smiled.

  ‘Fresh this morning,’ she called.

  ‘Yes. Beautiful,’ I replied. She came closer, leaning over her rail to water some plants below. I got the impression that she had been awake for hours. She lived alone. I think she was retired.

  ‘He did a good job with the trimming. It looks very nice,’ she said, nodding towards my house. ‘Are your parents staying long?’

  It took me a moment to work out whom she meant.

  ‘Oh. No. Not long.’

  While I debated correcting her assumption, she finished her watering. A kettle started to whistle in the background.

  ‘I’d better get that. Enjoy the day,’ she said and disappeared indoors with a little wave. I resumed my examination of the harbourscape below.

  There was still no sign of stirring from the guest room. I was bemused at their embrace, but not surprised. I didn’t imagine romance, just solidarity.

  I watched a trail of ants busy across the verandah, carrying away grains of spilt sugar.