Island-in-Waiting

by Anthea Fraser

  ISLAND

  -IN-

  WAITING

  Anthea Fraser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471310263

  Copyright © Antonia Fraser 1979

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  One

  Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been if I had not gone to the theatre that evening five years ago; whether, without the legacy of summoning voice and abnormally vivid dreams, I should still have visited Hugo in the Isle of Man and, once there, become so involved in the fabric of its past. Or were the dreams themselves the gateway to all that lay ahead?

  As I waited in the departure lounge at Heathrow, however, I had no suspicion that those dreams would overlap into my waking life and dominate it. I knew only that once again, after barely two weeks at home, I was running away from my parents’ exasperation, and wondered dejectedly why I alone of the family should have been denied a share in its brilliance.

  For brilliant the rest of them undoubtedly were. My father was Professor of History at one of the Oxford colleges, my mother head of an exclusive girls’ school, while brother Hugo, after an outstanding university career, had recently been appointed to the staff of the famous St Olaf’s College in the Isle of Man. It was to Hugo I was running now.

  “We regret to announce a delay of fifteen minutes in the Isle of Man flight.”

  The disembodied voice broke into my musings and I turned my head. It was then that I saw him through the crowd, tall and fair, infinitely reassuring and familiar. I started to my feet with a smile and began to make my way towards him. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, a startling fact slammed into me, bringing me to an abrupt halt. I hadn’t the slightest idea who he was!

  I stood immobile, a rock in the moving sea of people, struggling to tie down my undeniable recognition, and, drawn by the force of my gaze, he turned towards me. His eyes met mine briefly and moved on. Clearly he didn’t share my awareness.

  Hoping no-one had noticed my discomfiture I returned to my seat and opened the magazine I had bought for the flight while my chaotic thoughts continued to crash into each other.

  The recognition had been so instantaneous, so natural and instinctive, that it was impossible to dismiss simply as a mistake. He didn’t resemble anyone I knew, nor, I felt sure, was he an actor or politician whose face was known to everyone. It had been a deep, personal familiarity I had felt and started to act on, as though the most natural thing would have been to hurry to him and receive his kiss. I could only thank Providence that reason had reasserted itself before I’d made even more of a fool of myself.

  The flight was called and I moved with the crowd into the windy October night and across the tarmac to the waiting plane. He was already seated as I walked down the aisle to my place and as our eyes met the feeling of intimacy again washed over me. It was obviously one-sided. His own glance held only the guarded appreciation of any man face to face with any reasonably attractive girl.

  The incident had disturbed me considerably and as I fumbled with the seat-belt I was trying to regain some measure of calm. After all, no harm was done; he was quite unaware of my narrowly averted faux pas.

  “Just relax, dear,” advised a motherly voice on my right. “No need to feel nervous.”

  I turned to meet the kindly smile of a middle-aged woman who had taken the seat next to me.

  “Thanks, but I’m not worried about the flight.”

  “Sorry if I spoke out of turn, I thought you seemed a bit flustered. You’re used to all this, are you?”

  “Fairly. I flew home from France two weeks ago.”

  “Lucky you! Have a nice holiday?”

  “Not exactly, it was hard work! I was in Paris for eighteen months on a cookery course and then spent the summer working at a hotel in Provence.”

  “Well now, fancy that! Not that I like all that foreign stuff myself, mind. Give me plain English cooking any day. And what are you going to do with yourself now?”

  What indeed? It was partly to postpone making such a decision that I had come to visit Hugo. My parents, slightly mollified by my diplomas, had expected me to rush out immediately in search of suitable employment, and their quite genuine pleasure in welcoming me home had worn noticeably thin as we continued to fall over each other in the tiny Oxford flat.

  “Have you been to the island before?” my new friend enquired when I had parried her last question.

  I hesitated. “Apparently not.”

  She raised her eyebrows with a laugh. “Apparently?”

  “My family tell me I haven’t, but when my brother’s appointment came through – he’s a master at St Olaf’s – I was sure I knew the island. Perhaps I saw a documentary on it once.”

  I was looking forward to seeing Hugo again, even though I must now share him with a wife. He had married during my stay in Paris and the only time I’d met Martha was when I’d flown over for the wedding. It had not taken me long to realize that my new sister-in-law was as brilliant as the rest of my family. I could only hope that her presence wouldn’t lesssen the rapport which, despite the six-year age gap, had always existed between Hugo and me.

  The long descent had already begun and I turned to look out of the window, eager not to miss my first glimpse of the island.

  “That’s Douglas down there,” my companion informed me. “Doesn’t it look grand with the lights all round the bay?”

  The rushing landscape beneath us was coming closer and closer and minutes later we touched down at Ronaldsway Airport. People were already on their feet and further up the aisle the man I had thought I knew was taking his briefcase from the rack.

  “Have a nice holiday, dear!”

  I said good-bye to my travelling companion and when I looked back he had gone. With a small sigh I freed myself from the seat-belt and collected my things.

  Hugo was waiting in the airport buildings, huge and welcoming and more bear-like than ever with the addition of a new beard.

  “Chloe! Comment ça va? Good to see you!”

  I returned his hug with enthusiasm. “Good to see you, too! It’s been a long time.”

  “I left Martha at home struggling with dinner. I’d better warn you that cookery just isn’t her scene. Poor lamb, she’s terrified at the prospect of entertaining a Cordon Bleu professional!”

  “She’s frightened of me? I don’t believe it! I’m the one with the inferiority complex! You know how I retreat into my shell at the first hint of intellectual conversation!”

  He laughed. “I can see I’m going to have a great time running from one of you to the other with words of encouragement! Here’s the luggage coming now.. Which is yours?”

  I pointed out my case, Hugo retrieved it and I
followed him out through the windy darkness to the parked car.

  “I’m afraid you won’t see much tonight.”

  “It’s strange, but I still have this feeling I’ve been here before. There’s a clear picture in my mind of glens and round-topped hills.”

  “Which description, though accurate, doubtless fits quite a few places! By the way, you realize you’re no longer in the United Kingdom?”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “I’ll leave Martha to explain. She’s become quite absorbed in the island’s history – even thinking of doing a paper on it.”

  “I thought art was her subject?”

  “She read history as well. That’s how we met.”

  “Clever girl! Didn’t you say in a letter that she teaches at St Olaf’s too?”

  “Part-time, yes. She takes art classes three afternoons a week. We’re only ten minutes’ drive from college so it’s quite convenient. We could have lived in Staff House, of course, but we’d had enough of communal life at varsity. There’s something very satisfactory about being able to retreat behind your own front door at the end of the day.”

  “Do the rest of the staff live in?”

  “Some. Quite a few of the married members have flats in Mona Lodge, just outside Ballacarrick.”

  “And your cottage is actually in the village?”

  “Yes, but Manx villages aren’t like English ones. No neat little village green with a duck pond and general stores. Most of them simply consist of a straggle of houses with a church and school alongside. This is St John’s we’re skirting now, where Tynwald is held every summer. You’ve heard of it, I suppose, the island’s independent parliament?”

  I rubbed a circle in the steam on the car window, but the rain sluicing down outside proved an impenetrable barrier. “I think so. Does the world Tynwald mean ‘parliament’?”

  “Yes, and it’s also used for the actual ceremony held once a year. It comes from ‘thing’ – assembly, and ‘vollr’ field. The legislative system is Scandinavian, of course, and the whole place is steeped in history. Perhaps that’s why it appeals to us so much!”

  Something in his words touched a chord inside me and set it vibrating. Everyone was so sure I had never been here, and yet –

  “I hope the weather holds for you,” Hugo was continuing. “This rain should have cleared by morning but if the mist comes down you won’t be able to do much.”

  Mist. Again, more strongly, some inner memory stirred. The word seemed to materialize, cloaking itself in its own trailing shroud and wrapping round me with a deep, penetrating chill. Mist, the forlorn cry of seabirds – and a feeling of sudden, unexplained terror. I shivered involuntarily.

  “Cold? This heater’s on the blink, I’m afraid. Not much further, though.”

  The car sped on under writhing, wind-torn trees, between thickly wooded plantations, past isolated cottages crouching in the shadows. My heart began to flutter uncomfortably at the base of my throat. Steeped in history, Hugo had said. And folklore too, I felt certain. No race could have lived here all these centuries without becoming aware of other, unseen inhabitants, timeless as the hills themselves.

  “Home stretch!” Hugo’s voice made me jump. “That was Ballaugh we’ve just come through. We’ll be there in a couple of minutes now. Here’s the turning.” We left the main road and a moment later swung into a driveway and the car came to a halt, its wheels churning gravel. To our left a porch light shone in welcome. Hugo took my arm and ran with me through the driving rain to the shelter of the cottage where Martha was waiting to greet us. She was a tall girl, only an inch or so shorter than Hugo, with long dark hair and helpless-looking eyes behind enormous horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “Hello, Chloe. Welcome to the Isle of Man!”

  She turned to Hugo who kissed her soundly and for a brief moment I felt an outsider. Then his other arm came round my shoulders. “Chloe’s a bit chilly. Is there a good fire going?”

  I followed Martha through the door on the right into a fair-sized room dominated by a stone fireplace where an open fire crackled cheerfully. Thick woven curtains in warm orange shut out the wind-filled night. There were deep, patently comfortable armchairs, a sofa, shelves and shelves of books, and Hugo’s old desk in one corner. Immediately at home, I moved to the hearth and held out my hands.

  “How lovely to see an open fire after years of central heating and smokeless zones!”

  Hugo selected a log from the side of the hearth and threw it on the fire. “Sit down and warm yourself. I’ll put the case in your room.”

  Left alone, Martha and I smiled at each other a little nervously and both started to speak at the same time. I said: “I hear you teach at St Olaf’s.” And she: “I hope Hugo warned you to bring indigestion tablets!”

  We laughed and the ice was broken.

  “How was France?” she asked eagerly. “I’m longing to hear about it.”

  “Hard work most of the time. We didn’t get much chance to socialize.”

  “What a waste! Didn’t you meet any devastating Frenchmen?”

  “There was one, at the hotel where I worked during the summer. I’ve had a couple of letters since I came back.” Fleetingly I thought of Jean-Claude and the warm, Mediterranean nights. It seemed – it was – another world from this dark, wet little island in the middle of the Irish Sea.

  “I do hope you’ll make allowances for my cooking,” Martha was saying anxiously. “As Hugo probably told you, I flap around in an aura of burned pans and hard potatoes. He has lunch at college during the week, which has saved him from an ulcer so far, and luckily there’s a good little restaurant quite near where we go if my attempt at dinner is a complete write-off.”

  That she wasn’t exaggerating was unfortunately soon apparent. The delicious-smelling casserole proved to be undercooked, the carrots hard and the meat stringy. Hugo and I chewed on stoically while Martha, almost in tears, kept up a stream of apology. Only when the plates had been cleared away and cheese and biscuits produced were we able to teeter back on to an even conversational keel.

  “Any thoughts on the future, Chloe?” Hugo asked, handing me a cup of coffee. “How are you planning to make use of that impressive array of diplomas?”

  “At the moment I haven’t a clue.” But his casual enquiry was having the opposite effect from my parents’ pointed questioning and already the first tentative ideas were beginning to take shape in my head. “I’d really like my own restaurant, but that’s aiming rather high at this stage. Perhaps I might start as a free-lance chef, advertising my service for dinner parties and so on. There’d be no overheads and the pay should be good. I suppose London would offer the best scope.”

  “Imagine cooking because you enjoy it!” Martha said wonderingly.

  “It’s the only thing I can do. Hugo must have told you I’ve no brains.”

  “I certainly did not, nor is it true. Your talents are non-academic, that’s all.”

  “Tactfully put!” I set down my coffee cup. “I’m also quite a good non-academic washer-up, so –”

  Martha shook her head. “Not tonight, Chloe. We can manage perfectly well and you must be tired.”

  “If you’re sure then, perhaps you’ll excuse me. I’d like to do my unpacking, such as it is.”

  When everything was put away and I was ready for bed, I drew back the curtains and stood looking out of the window. The wind had blown the rain clouds away and the night was fine and clear. A host of scudding cloudlets sailed quickly over the face of the moon and were gone.

  Below me lay the neat little garden and beyond that what appeared to be a field, but the moon wasn’t bright enough to show it clearly. A car passed along the road with a brief flare of headlamps. I could only guess that the dark mass which shut off the night sky to my right was one of the island’s many hills.

  Today, I reflected, had held its share of riddles. My thoughts went back to the tall, fair man who had seemed so much a part of me, though commonsense f
orced me to admit we had never met. And there was the same inexplicable sense of familiarity about this island which I had never visited before.

  “Well, here I am,” I said silently to whatever or whomever might be listening. “What do you want of me?” Then, before any answer could come, I pulled the curtains back across the window and climbed hurriedly into bed. It was not a comfortable question to leave hanging on the night air, and ridiculously I wished I could retract it. The answer might be more than I was prepared to accept.

  Two

  That night I had one of the ‘special’ dreams which I had come to anticipate with an equal mixture of curiosity and dread. There was no easy definition of them, for apart from their brilliant clarity they had no uniformity. Some were long and involved and some over as soon as I registered them, a single blazing picture branded on my brain; but whatever their length or content I woke from them keyed to an unnatural pitch of excitement which lasted throughout the following day.

  The dream my first night on the island belonged to the distant past, and holding my mind passive I went through the now-established routine of ‘playing it back’. The strongest remaining impression was of heat, a golden summer day with the sun directly overhead, its fierce glare glancing off the helmets and shields with an intensity which hurt the eyes. In the foreground a small oddly shaped hillock was peopled with important-looking men and on the topmost tier a man in rich robes sat under a canopy listening to a charge read in some language I couldn’t understand.

  And that was all; just the memory of sun blazing from a molten sky and the subdued excitement of a vast crowd milling round the foot of the mound.

  The sound of running bath water filtered into my consciousness and I filed away the dream in the mental slot prepared for it and turned to more immediate matters. It was Sunday morning, my first day on the island. I swung my feet out of bed and went to the window. The rain had vanished, the wind dropped and the view before me was breathtaking.

  Beyond the shining pathway of the garden and its tangle of dew-wet flowers lay a hedge of bright yellow gorse gleaming in the morning sunshine, while to the right the solid blackness of last night revealed itself as a hillside richly covered with multicoloured trees, a hundred varieties of gold and brown and different shades of green. In a corner of the field beyond the garden crouched another whitewashed bungalow and a plume of blue smoke was curling its tentative way into the clear air.