Ember Island

by Kimberley Freeman

  Papa has ever been a stranger to me, but I think that is about to change. At the funeral he held me tightly in his arms while I cried. He stroked my hair, and he kissed the top of my head and told me not to be sad because she is no longer in pain and has gone to a better place. He did not shed a single tear, but something in him has softened, I can feel it.

  Now she is in the ground, the next room is very quiet. Sometimes I feel sad about that. I remember the times when I would have a bad dream and run next door, only to press myself against her soft chest and have her shush me back to sleep.

  But it has been a very long time since I was able to take any comfort from her, so above all things I am relieved. I can get on with remembering her as she was, before that awful illness took its hold on her body, twisting her all out of shape, and erasing all her loveliness and light.

  •

  I lay awake for a long time after reading the diary. These were my ancestors. This was my family history. I would be nobody’s ancestor. That’s what had been too much for Cameron in the end: nobody to carry on his genetic heritage. It had been important to him in a way that I never fully understood, but perhaps it made more sense now, thinking about my link back to Eleanor. Do we honor the past by projecting ourselves forward into the future? By carrying on genes and traits and family stories? I was mulling over these things when my phone beeped. I was used to it going off at odd times, as the signal flickered and flared depending on the weather and the wind. I reached for it in the dark. It was an SMS from a number I didn’t recognize.

  Nina, please contact Elizabeth Parrish urgently about a piece I am writing. I need urgent information from you. Please do not ignore this message.

  I switched the phone off and put it in my bedside drawer. My hands were shaking with anger. Urgent. For whom? Not for me. I wasn’t going to talk to her. Please do not ignore this message. Why did I find that last part so menacing? It wasn’t a threat. Was it?

  I tried to put it out of my mind. I needed to spend the week writing, not thinking about nosy journalists and what they might want from me.

  TWELVE

  This Is the Life

  I sat on the shady verandah enjoying watching the morning sunshine on the long grass that covered the hillock and the blue sea beyond the island. Earlier in the week, I’d dragged the kitchen table out on the verandah. I spent a lot of time out there, laptop flipped open, trying to write. This morning, I packed the laptop away and put a jar of water and wild crocuses in its place. Stacy would be arriving soon, and I had a plan that we’d eat takeaway fish and chips for lunch and wash it down with a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. She’d insisted I didn’t need to meet her off the ferry, so I was keeping an eye out for her.

  Eventually I saw a figure in the distance with a wheelie suitcase and a huge floppy hat, and I stood and leaned over the verandah railing to wave madly. She waved back, ran-walked the rest of the distance, and was soon pulling her suitcase up the five front stairs.

  “I told you I’d find my way,” she said.

  “I didn’t doubt you.”

  She whipped off her hat. Her hair was in two tight plaits underneath. “I’m going to drop my suitcase in my room and then I’ve got business to get out of the way.”

  “That sounds ominous. Shall I get the wine?”

  “It’s not ominous, but you should get the wine anyway. It’s evening somewhere in the world.”

  We met back at the verandah table two minutes later, and I poured us a glass of wine each. Stacy handed me a manila envelope. “Congratulations on your new boat.”

  “My new . . . ?”

  “I’ve been in touch with George and Kay and made arrangements for them to sign the boat over to you in lieu of the rent they owe. Stamp duty and registration are all paid too.”

  I glanced through the paperwork, holding the sheets down as a warm sea breeze went past. “Wow. I have a boat. What am I going to do with it?”

  Stacy leaned back, sipping her wine. “Learn to drive it? Or do you say sail it? Does it have a sail?”

  I peered at the description in the papers. “I’ve no idea. Joe will know.”

  “Joe!” she said. “See if he’ll take us out in the boat. He can drive it.”

  “I don’t have his number.”

  “There are three hundred people on the island. He won’t be hard to find.” Then she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You know where he lives, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then why the reluctance?”

  “No reason. It’s just . . . you know, he’s my employee.” I’d been avoiding Joe all week after the awkwardness of dinner with his parents. When he arrived for work, I hid in my office and didn’t come out to chat. He seemed just as happy to get on with stripping plasterboard without having to engage with me.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’m only here for the weekend. We can have a picnic.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, trying to sound light and noncommittal.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  I laughed. “Are we in high school again?”

  She sat back in her chair, looking me up and down with a smug smile, swishing her wine around in her glass. “I can always tell when some man takes your fancy. You go all quiet about him.”

  I put my palms up reflexively, a stop gesture. “Please. Don’t.”

  “Why? What’s wrong? You’ve been single nearly a year . . .”

  “It . . . I never really told you what went wrong with Cameron.”

  “You didn’t need to. He was vain and he sponged off you.”

  “That’s not why we broke up.”

  “It should have been.” Stacy smiled to soften the blow of her words. “Sorry. You know I was never fond of him. Why don’t you tell me what really happened then?”

  I realized I hadn’t spoken this particular pain out loud to anyone. “He wanted children and I . . . well, as you know I can’t. I let him go. That’s why it hurt so much to see him with Tegan that day.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  “No.”

  Stacy pressed her lips together for a moment, in thought. “What does this have to do with Joe?”

  “I can’t put myself in that position again.”

  “Wait. You’re worrying about children? You haven’t even been on a date with him!”

  “He likes kids. He has one. He probably wants more.”

  Stacy leaned across the table and patted my hand. “I only want you to ask him to take us out on the boat. I promise I won’t force you to bear his offspring.”

  This made me laugh and I finally agreed. We put the wine back in the fridge and made our way down the hill and across the sunny path until we found Joe’s shed.

  I knocked. It echoed loudly. The door opened and little Julian was peering out.

  “Nina!” he said, nearly knocking me over with an enthusiastic hug.

  “Julian, this is my friend Stacy. We’re looking for your dad.” But I’d already seen him, set up with his books at their little round dining table while Julian played a loud game on his PlayStation. “Sorry to disturb you while you’re working,” I said.

  Joe was at the door a moment later, shaking Stacy’s hand and brushing away my apology. “It’s fine. My brain is starting to hurt and Julian’s been blowing up cars for long enough. TV off now, mate.” He returned his attention to us. “Can I offer you a cup of something?”

  “No, we really didn’t want to trouble you . . .” I started.

  “But Nina has a new boat,” Stacy interjected.

  “A boat?” he asked.

  “The boat,” I said. “George and Kay’s.”

  “And we were hoping that you weren’t busy tomorrow,” Stacy said, flashing her eyelashes. It always worked on everyone: men, women, children.

  “You want me to take you out in the boat?” he asked. “Sure, I’d love to.”

  “Can I come?” Julian asked.

  “He’s welcome to,” I said. “We’re go
ing to have a picnic.”

  “Grandma’s taking you across to the mainland to see Aunty Pam,” Joe told him.

  “Aunty Pam smells funny. Nina smells nice.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?” Joe said, smiling so warmly that parts of me melted.

  Stacy kicked my ankle gently, grinning.

  “But Aunty Pam still has your birthday present from last month,” Joe added.

  Julian nodded, all businesslike. “I’m sorry, Nina. I can’t come on your picnic after all.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Maybe next time.”

  Joe returned his attention to Stacy and me. “I’ve got a few things to do in the morning, so why don’t we meet at the boat shed around midday?”

  “Great!” Stacy enthused.

  “You know it’s whale season,” Joe told her. “Not making any promises, but we might see one or two.”

  “Are they scary?” Stacy asked.

  “They are . . . big.” Joe chuckled. “You know you’re alive when you’re cruising alongside one, that’s for sure. Keep everything crossed.”

  I started to wonder if Joe, who seemed to me so close to nature, might be able to make the whales appear with that earthy magic he had.

  As we walked back to Starwater, Stacy wore an irrepressible smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know,” she said.

  I did know. I absolutely did.

  •

  I had just slipped between the covers that night, when Stacy knocked lightly on my bedroom door.

  “Come in,” I called.

  The door opened. Stacy wore pale pink pajamas and had her long dark hair in a plait. “Look what I found,” she said, holding out some folded sheets of paper.

  I sat up, alert. “Where?”

  “I dropped my earring and it rolled under the dresser. I had to move it and this was right between two bricks, where the mortar should have been.”

  I took it from her and opened it, reading the first lines by the lamplight. “The Secret Confession of Eleanor Holt. I can’t make out the date.”

  Stacy peered at it. “1869?”

  “Well, she wasn’t born then, so I think it must be 1889. She was ten.”

  “Can you read it? Her handwriting is appalling.”

  “Sure.” I flipped back my covers. “Hop in.”

  Stacy squeezed in next to me and I started to read.

  “To whomever finds this letter, in confidence. On this day, I record that Mr. Burton, our chaplain and some-time scripture teacher, did act in a most inappropriate fashion towards me. This letter shall serve as a record of said actions &c &c.”

  Stacy laughed. “What ten-year-old writes like that?”

  “My great-grandmother apparently,” I replied.

  “I know where you get your writing gene from, then,” she said.

  I didn’t answer, peering at the next line.

  “Mr. Burton took us for religious lessons today, in the chapel. There were only five of us there as two of the Randolph children were ill with the vomits. Mr. Burton made us read proverbs until Bertie fell asleep, and then dismissed us at one so that we could have lunch.

  “He held me back after the Randolphs had run off and said that he had something to show me. I was curious so I followed him to the back of the chapel, under that dreadful sad carving of poor Jesus. He pulled a chair from the corner of the chapel and placed it beneath a hatch in the ceiling, then stood on it and felt around for a moment. The hatch fell down, and a wooden ladder slid out.

  “ ‘This was built by the first chaplain on the island,’ he told me. ‘So that he could light the lantern beside the cross each night. We long ago gave up lighting the lantern.’ He ushered me ahead of him. ‘Go on, climb up. I’ll show you what’s up there.’

  “I was not at all sure that I should go up the ladder, but I reminded myself that this was the chaplain and he was a man of God and so would not willingly put me in danger. I climbed up, while he watched me from below. Then I found myself inside the hot and dusty ceiling of the chapel, having to bend my head because the roof was directly above me. Ahead, I saw a half-size door.

  “ ‘Keep going,’ Mr. Burton said, and I did, finding the door easy enough to open, and then I was on the roof, on a walkway about three feet across that led to the big wooden cross that stood above me.

  “ ‘You see?’ said Mr. Burton, for he was behind me now. ‘Is it not a lovely view?’

  “I believed Mr. Burton misunderstood the best purpose of the walkway. It was not so much a good place to see, but a good place not to be seen. Nobody knew of this place, I was certain. Papa had certainly never mentioned it. I imagined myself slipping away from classes and coming here to write on the walkway, hiding my stories in the warm, dark ceiling. I was quite taken with the idea.

  “But then, Mr. Burton touched me. He extended his fleshy hand and rubbed the back of his knuckles lightly across my cheek. I flinched and he laughed and said, ‘No need to be so precious, Miss Holt. I won’t hurt you.’ And he looked at me in a way that made me confused and ashamed, and I cursed myself as a ninny for letting him bring me up here.

  “ ‘I would like to go down now,’ I said, for he was blocking my way and I didn’t want to push past him and have him touch me again.

  “ ‘You will be such a beauty when you are sixteen, Nell,’ he said, and his voice was thick and I was frightened. But then I remembered that my father was the most strongest man on the island and I said in a big voice, ‘Let me past or I will tell my father.’

  “Mr. Burton stood aside, but he was laughing, and as I squeezed past him he moved a little so I rubbed against his belly. He thought it terribly funny, but I simply felt embarrassed and hot in my face, and came back here immediately to record all this and now I feel better for having it out. I cannot tell Papa for he already has so much on his mind and I know I shouldn’t have gone up there anyway. So if you have found this, you are the only other person to know.

  “Yours sincerely, Eleanor Holt.”

  Stacy took the letter from me and scanned it. “That is super creepy.”

  “The poor little thing, thinking it was somehow her fault for going up there.”

  “She’s lucky she got away without something worse happening,” Stacy said. “The nineteenth century wasn’t a great time to be a woman. I wonder, is the chapel she’s written about the same little church that’s still down near the Stockade?”

  “It is. It used to be considered part of Starwater. But there isn’t a big wooden cross on it anymore. Just that tacky light-up one on the front.”

  Stacy yawned and climbed out of bed, handing back the letter. “Thanks for the bedtime story. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  After she left I reread the letter. From my great-grandmother to me. Though she didn’t know it would be me who found it. I wished I could reach back through time and take that little girl in my arms and tell her not to worry about wretched Mr. Burton, tell her how incredibly clever she was and what a wonderful writer she would grow up to be. I fell asleep into half dreams about shadowy old churches and shelves full of dusty, empty books.

  •

  Sunday afternoon, I saw my boat for the first time. It was a seven-meter fiberglass 1979 Shark Cat with near-new twin outboard motors. Or so Joe told me. I just saw a boat. A yellow one. He had backed his van up to the door of the boat shed and unlocked the roller door. Stacy, slathered in nuclear-proof sunscreen and wearing a gigantic straw hat, waited with me on the grass. We had a picnic basket between our feet: Stacy may have been a high-flying property lawyer, but she was also a magnificent baker of savory muffins and lemon curd tarts. The bottle of champagne was my contribution.

  Joe hooked up the trailer and tugged the boat out of the shed. I peered into the empty space. Cobwebs and mold. The creeping cold that only stone buildings can harbor.

  “Nina! Come on!” This was Stacy calling. She had started down the path after Joe and the boat trailer. I h
urried down after her, the picnic basket awkwardly held against my hip.

  Joe knew what he was doing, of course. He’d been getting this boat in and out of the water and steering it round the bay for two years. He was confident and comfortable in his body, dressed in cut-off jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Stacy and I did as he said, strapped on our life jackets, and got in when we were told.

  Then we were off, powering out into the bay. The boat was in poor repair. The vinyl on the long bench seats was torn and the sponge was falling out; one of the front windows was cracked and taped up with duct tape; and the waterproof carpeting was almost worn through. But Joe assured me that it was safe and that I’d got a good deal.

  “Where are we going to go?” I asked.

  “Out a little way and then north. We might see a dugong, maybe a few turtles. Heaps of jellyfish. Go look over the side. Relax.”

  So I did. I leaned over the side and watched as we cut through the water. A flotilla of pale blue jellyfish surrounded us. The sun was warm on my back and I felt a warm sense of being in good company on a good day. I even managed to forget about the book for a while. Stacy opened the picnic basket and pulled out crackers and cheese and a flask of coffee. She poured one for Joe then settled next to me with a plastic cup. “This is the life.”

  “Thanks for my boat.”

  “Any time.”

  We cruised a little further, and Stacy and I chatted and ate and made up stupid jokes. I could see my reflection in her sunglasses and—even though I was thinner than I had been and my hair looked a bit wild—I was surprised to see myself laughing.