Lifeboat

by Zacharey Jane

  It was a glorious afternoon to be on the water, sunny and calm. Ominously calm, by the feeling in the pit of my stomach, but the ferryman seemed unconcerned as he whistled quietly to himself at the helm. We didn’t speak. I spent my time running through possible conversations in my head, to convince the psychiatrist that he should help me. Any fee he demanded I would pay myself.

  My boss’s words came back to me, and I realised why I disagreed with her. I believed I was doing what any caring person would, but not from neediness or loneliness or lack of friends my own age – from empathy. She had no idea what it felt like to be so alone.

  The ferry puttered on, its lulling metronome occasionally punctuated by the calls of seabirds wheeling overhead. My mind drifted across the sunlit water to the treetops shimmering on the hillsides, thick and green. We passed deserted jetties lurking in quiet bays. I wondered what sort of man lived so far from the people whose minds were his business.

  I imagined a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and a pipe, even though this was an old-fashioned image. At university the psychology crowd were the wildest; the age of psychedelic exploration had started, although I knew that such philosophies would not be given much credence in this quiet country.

  We reached my stop just before three; it was the last on the ferry’s route. The sun hung heavy and ripe above the horizon, spreading light across the surface of the sea like golden oil.

  As the jetty loomed into sight I felt apprehension beneath my bravado. The isolation of the bay did not speak of a person who welcomed strangers dropping in. It was impulsive, and possibly foolish, to force myself upon a man who so obviously sought seclusion. I’d been given no invitation and no encouragement. I gripped my briefcase tightly and disembarked, my step showing more determination than I felt.

  Standing on the jetty, listening to the ferry motoring away, I realised I had no idea how to find this doctor. One lone road crooked like a dusty finger between the hills, which were covered in lush foliage that glowed with the thick lustre of a wet oil painting.

  I stepped out on the road, as the ferry rounded the headland and disappeared. The scuffing of my shoes on the sandy gravel was now the only sound in the empty bay, apart from the ever-present ocean.

  After half a mile I began to worry, so deserted was my location. But I kept going, trusting that the librarian’s aunt had not mistaken the address. My anxiety drove me; in leaving the office without permission I had disobeyed both the chief of security and my boss and placed my employment in jeopardy. I could not return empty handed now.

  The road narrowed to a cart track, tall weeds marching in a line down the middle. The trees closed in overhead, forming a canopy that dimmed the light of the already receding sun. I carefully placed my briefcase down on a clear patch of grass and wiped the hair from my damp brow. I was dressed for the office: dark knee-length skirt, white blouse buttoned at the wrist and neck, and a short, formal jacket with contrasting white stitching. I removed my jacket and undid one of my shirt buttons, flapping the front to cool myself.

  Suddenly, a small black goat scampered around the bend, giving tiny leaps, in a way that would have seemed cute or comical to anyone not scared of goats. I shrieked and grabbed my briefcase, holding it up like a shield. The goat skidded to a halt and lowered its tiny horns in a manner I found quite threatening. We stood, face to face, either side of the track, me with my briefcase, the goat with its horns. As the horns looked more capable of doing damage, I backed away slowly. The goat followed.

  ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ I said lamely, thrusting my case towards it as one might swish at a fly. The goat half-reared and shook its horns at me. I leapt back in fright; my foot found a hole in the bank and I fell, with a terrified squeal, legs in the air.

  Then the nightmare got worse. I looked up from where I lay, case still clutched to my chest, as the air about my head became a mass of goats, crashing and surging in a devilish tide about me. I curled into a ball, sure I was about to be flayed by a dozen tiny hooves. The thick smell of unwashed animal choked me and a cacophony of bleating battered my ears. I lay there, wishing for the good sense to faint when I heard a barking, and the sea of goats parted to reveal a shaggy black-and-white dog. I was only slightly less scared of dogs, but fortunately this one seemed my saviour, driving the goats away, stopping only for a cursory sniff of my quivering body. Released from the goaty forest, I could see the trees again.

  ‘Hello there!’ called a voice.

  I peered up through my dishevelled hair and saw a man in a big straw hat carrying a rough walking stick.

  ‘I see you’ve met the goats,’ he called cheerily. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring his helping hand and scurried away as fast as I could, putting the goat herd firmly between his flock and me. He sang out to the dog and it ran off, driving the herd back around the bend, whence they had come.

  ‘I take it you’re not a goat person?’ he asked, with an amused smile. I didn’t reply.

  ‘We were coming to meet you, but were delayed,’ he said. ‘You telephoned earlier today?’ he continued, starting to speak a little slower and looking at me intently. ‘And spoke to my housekeeper?’

  I nodded. There was no tweed jacket and definitely no elbow patches. The doctor wore old cord trousers, pulled up into cuffs at the ankles, revealing sandal-shod feet. Where I had imagined tweed, he wore a T-shirt. He looked to be in his late fifties, his hair cut very short. An entwining tattoo decorated his left forearm. His eyes were a light blue, and at that moment twinkled in an amused and friendly way; at least he was more welcoming than his housekeeper. He looked like a souvenir from some strange, exotic land and not at all what I expected. And then there were the goats. I wished I had not come.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said, ignoring my silence. He held out his hand to shake mine. In those days it was not customary to shake hands with a female and his gesture warmed me to him. I managed a smile.

  ‘Very good,’ he said jogging my arm up and down vigorously. ‘Now, shall we follow the herd?’

  We walked in silence, the doctor taking the occasional swipe at the weeds with his stick. As we rounded the bend the track opened up into a grassy paddock, bordered by hills, with a fence and open gate to the left. Beyond the gate the dog waited, keeping an eye on the herd of goats, now grazing peacefully. The doctor gave a fluting whistle, which sent the dog off with a bark, driving the goats through the gate and then up a steep tree-lined track. The goats knew the routine, trotting docilely in front of their keeper.

  ‘But I don’t suppose you came about the goats,’ said the doctor, carrying on from his first remarks to me as if the conversation had never stopped. ‘My housekeeper tells me you’re from immigration.’

  ‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind me arriving this way?’

  He stopped for a moment, looking at me seriously.

  ‘But there’s no other way to come.’

  I didn’t know what to say, not sure if he was serious.

  ‘But you’re an immigrant yourself,’ he continued, smiling so benignly I still couldn’t tell if he’d been joking. We walked up the hill after the goats.

  ‘English?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your accent is excellent.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We are fellow countrymen. How did you find me?’

  ‘Through the library.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. Why did you find me?’ he stopped again and looked me up and down. ‘No, don’t say. You’ve come this far, let’s wait until we get to the house and then you can tell me all about it.’

  We came upon the goats again, milling about a shady yard, nibbling the remains of scattered hay. The dog waited at the yard gate, wagging its tail.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, dropping a pat onto the animal’s back and, to my relief, closing the gate on the goats.

  The dog shook her head with satisfaction and sauntered off ahead of us, through a lush garden towards a house fifty yards away. There was an orcha
rd to the left of the house, disappearing down the hillside to the bay; I could hear the soft sounds of the sea. To our right was a vegetable patch, well ordered, but decorated with a profusion of colourful mobiles, swinging from tree branches and swirling atop totem-style posts. Light ricocheted off dangling mirror pieces and metal sculptures, giving the garden a watery feel. One tree was completely festooned with blue ribbons fluttering like exotic plumage. The colours and the dancing light reminded me of a coral reef.

  ‘Welcome,’ he announced, holding open a gate in the fence that encircled the house and garden. I was pleased that it looked quite goat-proof.

  ‘And again, welcome,’ he said, ushering me through the front door of the house.

  He lead me down a hallway, decorated on every surface with wooden masks, featuring bared teeth, bones and staring eyes. The images were at odds with the comfortable smell of baking that sweetened the air, and I found myself weaving through the passageway, loathe to touch any of the pieces.

  ‘Through here,’ he said, leading me to double doors, ‘we should be comfortable.’

  Glad to be out of the hallway I entered the room quickly. Before me was the ocean, so close it was as if the room had been built upon a towering jetty, hung between sea and sky, commanding a 180-degree view of a horseshoeshaped bay.

  I walked slowly to the windows, which ran from floor to ceiling, and looked down. The room jutted out like a verandah perched over the boulders of a cliff that dropped to a deep, clear bay. Even from this height I could see the rocks on the ocean floor.

  ‘Do you like sailing?’ the doctor asked, standing beside me. It was not such an unusual question – half the population of the island were sailors of some description.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I do not. However, I admire what I don’t understand. This bay is very sheltered, but one has a marvellous view of storms passing beyond the headlands.’

  The knots in my stomach had intensified.

  ‘There’s a storm coming,’ I said. He reached out to tap at the glass of a wall barometer. The needle didn’t move.

  ‘It won’t register yet,’ I said. ‘Probably tomorrow afternoon. It will be a big one.’

  He looked interested, but did not comment, instead gesturing to a couple of comfortable-looking leather armchairs.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ he said. I chose the nearest chair and sat.

  ‘Now, how can I help you? I can’t imagine you came to buy a goat – but you know I don’t practise anymore?’

  ‘Yes. Your housekeeper told me.’

  ‘And you came anyway; an official request?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He sat back, clasping his hands about one knee. There was a great energy about him, even in repose. I wished he were wearing tweed.

  ‘I am an interpreter. For the government. Mostly I handle lost fishermen, seamen with incorrect papers, that sort of thing,’ I paused. ‘But at the moment I have a case which is different. A couple were found adrift in a lifeboat, in our waters, just over a week ago.’

  ‘Shipwrecked?’

  ‘We don’t know. They have no memory of how they got there. Or of who they are.’

  His face registered his interest and surprise.

  ‘But they dream. Quite powerful, narrative dreams, which has lead me to believe, hope, that their memories are not irretrievably lost.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I need you to help me.’

  ‘That’s all?’ he asked. I nodded. He eased himself forward in his chair.

  ‘How am I to help you? I don’t practise anymore.’

  ‘But if you did, could you help them?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said, clasping his hands together in front of him. ‘Dissociative amnesia. Not common in such an extreme form, but not unheard of. You say they both have it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you say a couple? A man and a woman, I assume? Husband and wife? They know each other?’

  ‘They don’t know each other. Or they don’t remember each other, but we surmise that they must have known each other to end up in the same predicament.’

  ‘Indeed. But that they both suffer the same condition is rare, and I would venture, almost unbelievable.’

  He stood and walked to the window, hands clasped in front of him. Although his garments had not changed, in this stance I could imagine him as the learned professional I required.

  He turned to me. ‘You’ve come out of your way to see me and all I can say is what I would have told you on the telephone: I don’t practise anymore.’

  I felt myself becoming angry, just a small flame licking around the edges of a damp log.

  ‘But you are the only person in this country who can,’ I said, keeping my voice even.

  ‘Am I? How so?’

  ‘You are the only psychiatrist, sir.’

  ‘An honour indeed; but why a psychiatrist?’

  I had the feeling that the doctor was testing me. I shifted forward in my seat as I searched for the words to respond. He waited quietly; I could hear the sound of the surf below and the birds in the garden. Somewhere in the house a door closed with a distant clunk.

  ‘Because who they are is still in their brains somewhere – it has to be. People’s sense of “self” can’t just evaporate.

  ‘And that’s what you do, isn’t it? You fix what’s in people’s heads.’

  He smiled at my description.

  ‘Did – that’s what I did. And psychiatrists don’t “fix”. We treat and hope that what we do has a positive effect. It’s all anyone can do. And I don’t do either anymore.’

  ‘But we need you – they need you. There is no one else,’ I said.

  ‘My dear, there is always someone else.’

  ‘Not here, not on this island.’

  ‘Then I’m sure you will find someone elsewhere – it is not unheard of. Look at you for instance; they imported you.’

  I closed my eyes to cover the surge of desperation that threatened to burst my composure.

  ‘No,’ I said, looking up. ‘They won’t.’

  I groaned softly and looked down at my hands, limp in my lap.

  ‘Why won’t they?’ asked the doctor gently, sitting down.

  I looked up. ‘Because they’ve arrested them. They think that they’re criminals, pirates, and they’ve arrested them. There was a fight, he was injured, they’re both in hospital unconscious. I think they’ve done nothing but they can’t defend themselves because they don’t know who they are.

  ‘But I think they’re not criminals, and only someone who can get into their brains can help me, I need you to help me, please,’ I finished. A tear trickled slowly down my cheek.

  The doctor was silent.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘this is very silly.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said.

  For want of a hanky I wiped my eyes on my hand. I looked up through the windows, following the flight of a seabird across the bay. The doctor rose and, for a moment, I thought he was coming to embrace me, but instead he moved to the door, calling to someone I couldn’t see.

  ‘We’re ready for coffee now, please.’

  He resumed his seat and sat waiting quietly. A woman, presumably the housekeeper, arrived carrying a tray, which she placed on the side table nearest the doctor.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. She nodded and left the room without glancing at me.

  ‘Cake?’

  Two large slices of chocolate cake sat with a jug of coffee.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The coffee was hot, warming me all the way down on my first gulp. I began to feel better.

  ‘No memories at all?’ he asked, continuing as if nothing had happened in between. ‘Quite a mystery, it would seem.’

  I waited for him to continue, afraid of saying the wrong thing. He took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Very old. About sixty, I would say, maybe a little younger,’ I replied, not understanding why it was rel
evant.

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Ancient, indeed.’

  ‘Not an age to be lost at sea,’ I said tersely, resenting his amusement.

  ‘No, no, of course not. What language do they speak?’

  ‘A few. I think she is originally English. He is harder to place, maybe Spanish, which he speaks fluently.’

  ‘How’s the cake?’

  ‘Oh, lovely.’

  ‘My own recipe – I’ll give you a copy before you go. I like to bake. It’s one of the things I do well. Psychiatry was one of the things I did not do well.’

  ‘Is that why you retired?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t retired.’

  ‘But your housekeeper said you were retired.’

  ‘I just don’t practise psychiatry.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked, knowing it was none of my business, but wanting him to give me a good reason why he wouldn’t help. I expected a short, polite rebuff.

  Instead, he took a mouthful of cake and chewed slowly, staring at the remains of the slice in his hand as if reading his reply within its crumbs.

  ‘Escape,’ he said, ‘and disillusionment. A young man’s ideals shattered, that sort of thing. I was once young too, you know? Hard to believe I am sure.’

  I blushed, although I knew he was only making fun.

  ‘Unlike many of my peers, I survived the war. Out of gratitude I thought I should help remedy some of the ills left in its aftermath – psychologically speaking. But I found that very little I did helped, so I came to the conclusion that I was not a good psychiatrist.

  ‘I had no stomach for electro-therapy or lysergic-acid treatment or insulin-induced sleep therapy – all the new treatments embraced by my peers. To me, it seemed to do more harm than good – not very modern of me.’

  ‘And you came here?’

  ‘No. I took a position in an old-fashioned clinic for the rich and traumatised, where I made a great deal of money. And then I came here.’