Island-in-Waiting

by Anthea Fraser

  “I’ve some sketches of the island to show you. They may give you an idea of where you’d like to go on Saturday.” Before I could think of an excuse he led me firmly down the passage and into a small room with canvases stacked all round the walls. “This is my private sanctum. I keep my equipment here, where it can be safely locked up. Some of it is quite valuable.”

  Dubiously, with the idea of escape still at the forefront of my-mind, I looked about me. On the easel at one end of the room was the half-completed portrait of an old woman and even I, with no knowledge of art, could see the expertise in the simple, telling strokes which had captured an impression of yearning loneliness. Interest overcame my hesitancy.

  “That’s wonderful, Ray! Who is she?”

  “My grandmother. The family’s pretty long-suffering about sitting for me. There are one or two sketches of them among the landscapes.”

  He gestured towards the nearest pile of canvases and I started to flick through them: seascapes, an imposing mountain scene, the impudent face of a small boy, a man with penetrating eyes and a small goatee beard –

  The canvases slithered to my feet in an untidy heap. Some corner of my mind noted Ray’s stillness but my eyes were locked on the top canvas, a face I knew I should never be able to forget. “Who –” My voice didn’t sound the first time: patiently I tried again. “Ray, who is that man?”

  “Another relative.” His voice shook slightly. “The black sheep of the family, in fact – my Uncle Tom.”

  Black sheep – the ram darting into the road. I shook my head to clear it. “Uncle Tom?” I repeated stupidly.

  “That’s right. Tom Kelly.”

  My voice seemed no part of me. “Is he – he’s a hypnotist, isn’t he?”

  Ray let out his breath in a long sigh. “He was once, yes.” The walls of the little room tilted ominously. “Could I sit down?”

  “Of course.” He lifted an untidy pile of papers from the room’s only chair and I lowered myself on to it, my hands tightening convulsively round the edge of the seat till the wood bit deeply into the palms. He stood watching me, the papers still in his arms. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I had to do it, Chloe. I had to be sure.”

  I dragged my eyes to his face. “You mean you knew?”

  “That you were the one he couldn’t bring round? Yes.”

  “How?” The word was only a whisper, as though I didn’t really want an answer.

  “We used to be pretty close, Uncle and I. I was over on the mainland when it happened and he phoned me in one hell of a flap asking what he should do. We’d had a game going between us for years – telepathy, hypnotism, all kinds of tests of will-power. He wanted me to join up with him as a double act but I was at art school by then and there seemed mote security in carrying on with that.”

  “You mean he wanted you to try to wake me?”

  “He didn’t know what he wanted. He went to pieces completely. Nothing like that had ever happened before. By the time I got to Oxford he’d changed his mind and clammed up. Wouldn’t tell me a thing about you, even your name. As you can imagine, having dropped everything to go to his assistance I was pretty rattled about it.” His eyes slid away from me. “So I – muscled in on the act, as you might say.”

  The silence between us was thick and suffocating. “Go on,” I said.

  “It was like bugging a phone, but as it turned out only partially successful. I think the old devil imposed a block somewhere along the line. I could get through to you all right, but nothing came back. It was maddening, knowing you were receiving but not your reactions. All that came over was a kind of quivering electrical response.”

  He turned from me and lit a cigarette. “We had one hell of a row about it. He knew I was tapping the current somewhere and he couldn’t stop me. What really got him was that it was himself had taught me how.” He blew out a succession of smoke rings as I sat unmoving. “I don’t know why I went on with it; sheer bloody-mindedness, I suppose. At any rate every now and then, to prove to myself I could still call you up, I made contact, and gradually it got me hooked. I just had to find out who you were.” He paused again and again I remained silent.

  “Uncle had gone to ground in some grotty little office in Chester. In spite of being cleared he wouldn’t even contemplate hypnotism again and of course he wasn’t trained for anything else. So I went to all the trouble of rooting him out but the stubborn old fool still wouldn’t budge and of course your name had been kept out of the papers – protecting minors or something. So my only hope was to bring you to the island.”

  It seemed imperative that I make some move to assert myself. My brain was reeling with implications too enormous to comprehend but I managed to say shakily, “I came here to visit Hugo.”

  He ignored the interruption. “It’s been a long wait. I was beginning to get desperate. Oh, there were a couple of false alarms – wishful thinking really – but when you did come I knew at once, even before I saw you.”

  I closed my eyes, remembering the mental bombardment from the garden gate – and the little symbolic black cloud.

  “Sometimes,” I said hastily, staring down again at my twisting fingers, “I have very vivid dreams. I think they’re set here and some of them seem to take place in the island’s ancient past. Is that – do you –?”

  He shook his head. “Not guilty. You’re probably receiving them direct from old Tom. You’re still linked to him, after all, and he’s nuts about the place. When I was a kid we’d walk for hours out on the fells while he told me all the old legends about bugganes and phynnodderees and the rest. It was himself took me to see Granny Clegg. She’s a weird old soul living down on the harbour at Peel, and what she doesn’t know about the island isn’t worth knowing at all.”

  Granny Clegg. There would come a time when she might be able to help me –

  I said sharply, “It doesn’t seem to occur to you that I might resent being taken over like this. Anyway, you’ve proved your point, or you seem to think you have, so will you please stop it now and let me go.”

  “Let you go, is it?” There was a note in his voice which brought the gooseflesh to my skin. “Now why should I do that? Haven’t I only just succeeded in getting you here? No, I’ll not let you go, Chloe, don’t think it. You belong to me. Surely you can see that? I told you so yesterday.”

  My heart lurched. The unexpected intrusion of Tom Kelly had momentarily blotted out the extent of my problem with Ray. Now I saw that this was deeper and more threatening than I could have imagined and to ward off the sudden personal element I said quickly, “What did you mean about my still being linked to your uncle?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? The connection was never broken. O.K., you were brought round eventually, but by someone else. The particular line joining your mind and his was never cut and the dreams you mention seem to show something’s still passing along it, like a telephone receiver that hasn’t been replaced properly.”

  Somewhere in another world a bell rang and the corridor outside echoed with hurrying feet. “I must go,” I said mechanically.

  There was a tap on the door and a boy put his head round. “Excuse me, Mr Kittering, H.M.’s looking for you, sir.”

  “Right, thanks.” He glanced at me as I rose unsteadily to my feet. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you, and we still haven’t fixed anything for Saturday.”

  “I really think I’d rather –” But he had already taken my arm and opened the door and we emerged to see Neil coming down the corridor towards us. I stopped abruptly, pulling Ray to a halt.

  “So there you are.” Neil spoke directly to me. “Hugo said you were here somewhere.” He frowned slightly, searching my face. “Are you all right, Chloe? You’re very pale.”

  “I’ll have to go,” Ray interrupted. “I’ll phone you this evening.”

  He walked quickly away down the corridor and Neil said gently, “You don’t l
ook overjoyed at the prospect.”

  I moistened my lips. “I think I’ve had enough of him for one day.”

  “Then come out somewhere with me instead.”

  I stared at him uncomprehendingly, still trying to shake myself free of the clinging strands of fear, and he smiled, his mouth going up in the way that somewhere deep inside myself I remembered so well. “That doesn’t seem to strike you as a much better alternative!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said with an effort. “I’d like to, thank you.”

  “Fine. Do you play squash?”

  It was difficult for me to adjust to what he was saying. “I haven’t for a while, but I used to.”

  “Would you like a game, then? We’ve some quite good courts here. If Martha could kit you up I can provide a racket.” His eyes moved assessingly over my face. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “I’ll have to go; I’m due to invigilate but I’ll put my name down for a court on the way and pick you up about eight.”

  The air outside was sweet and clear and cold after the stuffy central heating in college. I stood drawing in lungsful of it before I climbed into Martha’s little Ford and set off for home.

  Tom Kelly. I’d forgotten he was a Manxman, but now I remembered the jingle that had been his signature tune – ‘Kelly from the Isle of Man’. And there was another tune – but it was dangerous to think of that.

  He loved this island, Ray had said, was sure to know the legend of Sigurd and Fafni, about the strange gatherings on the mound and the dance on the seashore.

  Somehow I had reached the cottage. Martha came out to meet me as I climbed unsteadily out of the car. “How did it go?”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “The lunch, girl! Did you manage all right?”

  “Oh – yes, I think so, thanks.” I felt a deep need to confide in her, to share the mounting fears of my unwilling involvement with Ray, but she and Hugo would simply prevent my seeing him and I knew that wasn’t the answer. Running away from his phone call this evening was a temporary respite, no more. I now knew that the unaccountable phenomena that had been assailing me ever since I came to the island had their roots five years in the past, and I suspected that I shouldn’t be free of them until they had played themselves out to the end.

  Martha, delighted to learn of my date with Neil, willingly lent me her plimsolls and tennis whites and as he’d promised Neil brought one or two rackets for me to choose from. Fortunately I managed to give him quite a good game. There was relief in physical exercise, in slamming the ball and concentrating on it to the exclusion of all else. When our time was up Neil slipped a casual arm round my shoulders as we walked from the court.

  “Well done! I enjoyed that – we must do it again.”

  It was only then that some movement on the shadowed balcony overlooking the court made me glance up with an instinctive fear of finding Ray looking down on me. But it was Pam Beecham who dodged back out of sight and I released my indrawn breath. I don’t think Neil saw her; in any event he made no comment and nor did I.

  “I could of course offer you an exotic cup of cocoa at Staff House,” he said as I joined him again outside the changing-rooms, “but personally I feel a glass of something at the King Orry might be more acceptable.”

  I hesitated. “Does Ray ever go there?”

  “Not as far as I know. I’ve never seen him. Has he been bothering you in some way, because I can soon –”

  “No,” I said hastily, “it’s nothing like that.”

  “I gather Hugo’s not too happy about your seeing him,” he remarked as he opened the car door.

  “Why, what did he say?”

  “Oh, nothing specific, it was just an impression I had. I can’t say I blame him though. You looked really shaken at lunch time. What is it between you two?”

  “I can’t explain,” I said helplessly, “at least, not at the moment. If I tried to you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Apparently I’m not to be given the chance. Still, if you prefer not to talk about it, fair enough. I just thought it might help.”

  The King Orry was quieter than it had been on Sunday and we found a corner settle near the huge old fireplace. Several times I caught Neil’s eyes consideringly on my face, but he didn’t question me any further and our conversation was light and general. I was tired after the physical exertion and the mental traumas of the day and soon after ten he said, “I think I’d better take you home, young lady, before you fall asleep in your chair.”

  We didn’t speak much on the way back and at the cottage he got out and opened the gate for me. “Thanks for the game and the drink,” I said dutifully.

  “My pleasure. And Chloe –”

  “Yes?”

  “Take care.” For a moment his eyes held mine. Then I nodded, attempted a not very successful smile, and turned to walk up the path to the house.

  Seven

  It was bitterly cold. A thin icy wind was blowing straight in from the sea, lancing through my threadbare skirt and the shawl I wrapped tightly about my shoulders. Around me, people stamped their feet and rubbed their raw red hands together for warmth, but the despair in their eyes was not for their own discomfort.

  “The King’ll not let it happen,” the woman beside me said suddenly. “’Tis old history now and Her Ladyship came to no harm. Wasn’t it the Island he was thinking of, and no wrong in that?”

  “Master George’ll explain,” a man answered reassuringly. “There may still be time.”

  But even as he spoke a shudder ran through the crowd, and straining over the heads in front of me I could make out a figure escorted by guards being helped up on to the little mound. The woman beside me fell to her knees keening in a high-pitched whine which, together with the strong wind, made it exceedingly difficult to hear the prisoner’s final speech. But he was standing straight and true and through my streaming tears I saw that white blankets covered the hillock so that not a drop of his blood should soak away into the ground.

  As the shots rang out the scene wavered and starred like a shattered mirror, but down the long years its lament still reached me: “Dty vaaish, Illiam Dhone, te brishney nyn gree – Thy death, Illiam Dhone, is breaking our heart.”

  With a sigh, I spooned out the last helpings of blackcurrant sponge and loaded them on to the tray Kitty held ready. The unexplained phenomenon I’d experienced in the early hours of the morning had left me decidedly on edge – my second excursion into the past in the space of a couple of days. I was unable to dismiss it simply as a dream, however special, even though I had not, as on the last occasion, been wide awake immediately beforehand. In fact I had been lying drowsily in the limbo between sleep and waking remembering the evening spent with Neil. Then, suddenly, the anxious crowds and the cold wind blowing.

  “Where the hell were you last night?”

  I jumped and turned to meet Ray’s belligerent gaze. The word ‘Ronaldsway’ came instinctively to my mind but I blocked it off and answered as levelly as I could, “Playing squash.”

  “You knew I was going to phone.”

  “But you didn’t say what time. Did you expect me to wait in all evening?”

  “I certainly didn’t realize I had to queue for your favours!” His eyes held mine, furious but with an underlying bewilderment which, to my consternation, I found rather touching. He had obviously expected my instant capitulation to whatever plans he had for me, and the first hint of defiance left him floundering.

  “Anyway,” I added more calmly, “it was only to make arrangements for Saturday, wasn’t it?” And I realized as I spoke that my brief moment of sympathy had irrevocably committed me to a full day in his company.

  He stared at me a moment longer, his mouth still sulky, then he relaxed. “O.K. Ten o’clock suit you?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Neil didn’t come to the kitchen to see me. There was, of course, no reason why he should. Once as the door swung to be
hind one of the hurrying girls I caught a quick, unwelcome picture of him sitting beside Pam, their heads together laughing at something. Either she had forgiven him for the previous evening’s defection or she was taking extra care that it shouldn’t happen again.

  I tugged off my apron and hung it on its hook. The tight band round my head was threatening to turn into a full-scale migraine and the lingering smell of food in the small room added to my malaise.

  With a sense of relief I pulled the door to the quadrangle shut behind me, welcoming the cool breeze on my face. Directly opposite a stone archway led through the science wing to the college gardens and, unwilling to face the immediate prospect of the car journey home, I made my way towards it, emerging from the shadowed archway into brilliant sunshine. The playing-fields stretched away to my left behind the assembly hall and I could see a few boys in the distance kicking a ball about before the game began. Ahead of me, beyond the stretch of neat lawns and flowerbeds, the five boarding-houses stood in a row like ancient guardians. I stood for a moment looking across at them, but the sunlight was too strong for my aching eyes and flowers, grass and glinting grey stone merged into a blinding kaleidoscope.

  I was just deciding to return to the car after all when the sound of footsteps made me turn in the sudden hope that Neil might be hurrying after me. But it was John Stevens who joined me with a smile.

  “I believe we have you to thank for saving us from the rigours of starvation? On behalf of us all, much thanks!” Automatically I fell into step beside him. “It’s a pleasure. I’m quite enjoying it.”

  “Confidentially, there’s been a distinct improvement in cuisine the last couple of days! Annette St Cyr’s a nice little thing but it’s her husband who’s the real chef and he keeps well away!”