“’Ow did you do this without me noticin’?” Robin exclaimed.
“It wasn’t easy,” Duncan said. “We thought for sure you’d want to stay away from the dock for a while, but you were here, helping clear away the wrecks. We sneaked down here one night and moved the remnants of Bucca into the shed.”
“I had to dig in the wet sand by candlelight. It was awful,” said Ben Blackwall, “but worth it.” He corrected himself when he realised how it sounded.
“But she were in pieces…” Robin said.
“Yes, well, like I said, everyone pitched in,” said Duncan, gesturing to the assembled crowd.
Robin had quite lost the run of himself and was dabbing his eyes and nose with a big linen handkerchief he had pulled from his back pocket. He tucked it away again and, still sniffling and smiling, he loomed over Duncan and hugged the toymaker off his feet.
“I can never repay you for this kindness, Duncan. Thank you,” Robin said as he set him back down again.
Bramble walked along the edge of the boat and meowed loudly, pawing at Robin’s arm when he saw Duncan being hoisted. Robin laughed and held out a chunky finger to the kitten, who cautiously licked it before rubbing his face against it.
“Don’t worry, little ’un, I won’t ’urt ’im,” he said.
The force of Robin’s hug had dislodged Duncan’s many-lensed glasses from his nose, and he smiled as he fixed them back into place.
“You should thank Edwin,” he said. “He’s the one who rallied the village.”
“Oh, I’ll thank ’im properly; don’t you worry!” Robin replied with a cheeky wink.
And deep inside, down in the pit of his stomach, down in the vault of his soul, Robin felt the knot begin to unravel.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
EDWIN WAS IN the backyard of his bakery. He’d wheeled a large cart down the laneway by the side of the building and was busy loading it up with rubbish leftover from the storm. There were still plenty of scraps from trees lying around, as well as bits of straw, glass, and wood left over from the repairs. Parts of the destroyed buildings a couple of doors up had found their way into his yard, too. Bricks and chunks of plaster littered the ground. Edwin, knowing this would be a messy job, had dressed in his oldest clothes. A faded, moth-eaten cotton shirt and chestnut-coloured corduroy fall-front breeches. He was struggling to chop up a particularly uncooperative piece of broken joist when he heard a friendly greeting from the laneway.
“Evenin’, Edwin,” called Robin.
He stopped in midswing and turned to greet his friend. “My, my! What’s all this about, then?”
Robin was smiling that big dopey smile of his. The one that made his cheeks puff out and his sky-blue eyes twinkle. He was standing with one arm behind his back, wearing a fawn-toned linen suit—which was thoroughly wrinkled and probably had been even before he’d put it on—with a striped cotton shirt and a small muslin cravat, tied in a bow. This all clashed terribly with his trusty navy-coloured cap, which rested—as it always did—on his bulging ears. Edwin didn’t think he’d ever seen Robin in anything other than a knitted woollen jumper and overcoat.
“Well,” Robin said, “I thought it might be nice to make an effort.”
Edwin rubbed his hands clean on his breeches. “You look very dashing I feel thoroughly underdressed.”
“Speaking of which, I got you this…” Robin produced from behind his back a package wrapped in paper and tied with twine, which immediately slipped from his grasp and landed in a pile of sawdust on the ground.
“Ah, bleddy useless fingers. Sorry…” He started to bend down to retrieve it, but Edwin beat him to it, and he lifted the parcel. While a great deal of time had been spent preparing this, it was clear Robin had wrapped it himself. The paper was rumpled and torn where it had been wrapped and rewrapped, and the string frayed where it had been snapped by hand instead of cut. Edwin opened it and found inside a new cream-coloured linen shirt. Identical to the one that had been torn in the caves.
“Oh, Robin, you didn’t have to do this. It’s much too expensive,” he said, hugging the fisherman. He didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d already repaired the other shirt and didn’t need another one.
Robin laughed and bent down to pick up the axe. With one easy swing of his arm, he cleaved the stubborn block of wood in two, squinting to avoid the splinters flying in every direction, and tossed the logs into the cart.
“Least I could do since I ruined the other one. The market traders have started comin’ back to the village. I ’ope it’ll fit you,” he said, looking around. “I didn’t realise there ’ad been so much damage round ’ere.”
“There wasn’t, really. Most of this was just blown in from elsewhere. Do you want to come up for a drink? I’m just finishing up now, anyway. It’s getting dark.”
In Edwin’s lodgings above the bakery, they sat facing one another on a long, worn settee, leaning against the scrolled arms and resting their elbows on the low serpentine back. Robin had removed the jacket to his suit and already loosened the cravat, which now hung open around his neck. He popped open the first few buttons of his shirt, as it was tight around his staunch neck. “Now I remember why I never wear things like this,” he said.
Edwin’s living room was painted turquoise and had two windows made up of small, lead-lined panes facing onto Hill Road. Between these sat a shallow bay window, similarly paned. On the windowsills sat two copper candelabra, ornately sculpted to look like leaves that had been twisted and pulled into a standing position. It was dusk now, and the candlelight turned the windows into faint mirrors.
The settee sat against a wall, facing these dim reflectors. On another wall was a pot-bellied stove, which currently held a blazing fire and gently warmed the whole quarters. There was almost no art to be found, save for a small, simple charcoal drawing of his late brother, which hung on the wall in a plain frame between his bedroom and bathroom. Ambrose had looked very similar to his younger brother, except he managed to have a full head of hair. A model of the Merryapple lighthouse—Duncan’s gift—sat on a table by the windows.
His lodgings were clean and homely, but slightly ramshackle. Everything was just a little bit frayed around the edges and off-kilter. He worked long hours and found it hard to find time for the upkeep of his home. More than once, he’d arrived back, kicked the boots off his tired feet, and fallen asleep on this faded olive sofa. Being positioned above the bakery, his home had a permanent aroma of freshly baked bread. Robin often remarked that each time he visited he thought it smelled like home.
In the flickering candlelight, they were keenly aware this was the first time they’d been alone together since the lighthouse.
“How are things between you and Morwenna?” Edwin asked as he handed a small glass of whiskey to Robin.
Robin took a deep breath. “I don’t know; it’s so…complicated. When I were a lad, I used to dream about Dad coming back with Rose. That ’e’d left to find ’er and bring ’er back to Blashy Cove, so we could be a family. Now I find out there is no Rose—there never was. That maybe Morwenner and Dad could ’ave… I don’t know. I wish I could talk to ’im.”
Robin spoke of the Wolfe-Chase’s visit and the conclusions they had all reached. Edwin’s heart went out to him. He’d gone through so much in the past few days—he’d found his mother and lost his father. Again. Lost the version he’d built up in his mind, at least. He wished he could do something to help, but he knew all he could offer was a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on. Robin sat back in his seat and took a sip of whiskey.
“I think I'm grievin’ for Rose. Isn't that silly? With everythin’ else goin’ on, I’m grievin’ for a woman who never existed. But I thought she did, you see. I felt like she did. I imagined ’er leavin’ me in Bucca's Call. I imagined ’er sailin’ back to Blackrabbit under the cover of darkness. I wondered what ’er life there was like. If she ’ad an ’usband. Other children. I built a whole life for ’er in my mind. In my �
�eart,” he said, tapping his chest with a bulky, clenched fist.
“I wondered if she thought about me at all. And then, all of a sudden, she were gone. Now, don't get me wrong, I'd rather ’ave a real mother than an imaginary one, but inside, you see, inside it felt like I'd lost someone real.”
Edwin nodded. He understood. He could see the heartache written on Robin's face, living in his eyes. Duncan was right—Robin was an open book. They sat in silence for a while, absorbing what he’d said. Letting it all sink in.
“How is she coping?” Edwin said at last.
“She’s been very quiet. It’s all been too much for ’er. She said she ’ad made up ’er mind to tell me, but I got there first. Blindsided ’er. It’s funny; I were blindsided myself, in the light’ouse.”
Edwin furrowed his brow and thought back.
“I didn’t mean to…” he started, but Robin cut him off.
“You couldn’t ’ave known, but when I was lyin’ in bed in the Moth & Moon, I ’ad made up my mind to talk to Duncan, to try to clear the air between us. At long last.”
“But I forced you to do it before you were ready.” Edwin realised.
Robin rubbed his earlobe and sat back in his seat. “You did. And to be ’onest, for a minute there—just a minute, mind—I were mad at you for doin’ it. It were all for the best, in the end, but I do wish I’d ’ad more time to prepare.”
“Robin, I’m sorry, I never meant to… You know that I would never…”
Robin smiled at him. “I know; don’t worry. What about you? What ’appened with your mum?” Robin swigged from the glass.
“We got a letter from her yesterday. Well, I did, anyway. She’s gone back to Blackrabbit Island to live with her sister. It seems they were hit worse by the hurricane than we were. Many of the buildings in her sister’s town were damaged or outright destroyed. It will be a long time before they recover. I don’t think she’ll ever come back here, though.”
“I bet your dad’s glad to ’ear that.”
“He’s coping surprisingly well. I swear he’s healthier and more alert than he’s been in years. Freed from under her thumb, he’s even walking a little straighter. I feel so sorry for her, though. I know what she did was wrong, but, well, she’s my mum.
“I still can’t believe she knew this whole time. She knew Barnabas Whitewater fell. Morwenner told me somethin’ else, mind,” Robin said, tugging his ear again. “That night, she’d told Dad they couldn’t see each other anymore. And it made ’im angry.”
“It still doesn’t mean he pushed Mr. Whitewater. Maybe he was angry, and maybe he did tell Barnabas the truth—there probably was a scuffle of some kind—but Barnabas still fell. It was still an accident. You spent your whole life thinking your dad was a certain way. It’ll take some time to adjust to thinking of him as he really was.”
Robin took another drink. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Oh, there’s something else,” Edwin said.
Robin visibly braced himself. “I’ve come to strongly dislike those words.”
“I’ve taken May Bell on as my apprentice. I spoke to her mother a couple of days ago. She’d wanted more responsibility than just running bread all over the village. She was always trying to help, trying to do more for me. She’s got a lot to learn, but she’s smart and determined. I think she’ll do well. You and Eva were right.”
“Always listen to your elders.” Robin laughed.
“Don’t let Eva hear you call her that,” Edwin warned. “I think it’ll make a difference, having some help around the bakery. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I haven’t been happy recently. To tell the truth, I was beginning to feel like I was haunting my own life. Just a pale shadow, going through the motions. Duncan invited me round to his home last night, and he helped me put things in perspective.”
“Really? That’s a surprise. I didn’t think you two were that close,” Robin replied.
“We’re not, well, not really. At least, we never were before.”
“What did you talk about?” Robin asked, taking another sip from his glass.
“You, mostly.” Edwin smiled.
“Oh dear, I dread to think what ’e said about me,” Robin said, pulling an exaggerated face.
“You do him a disservice. He still cares for you, in his own way.”
“I still care for ’im as well. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ’ave found it so ’ard to talk to ’im in the light’ouse.”
“I must admit, I always thought he was a bit…cold. But I’ve gotten to know him better. He’s just…guarded, I suppose is the word. I’ve seen his softer side now, though. He’s sentimental, I think. More sentimental than he’d have you believe,” Edwin said, eyeing the toy lighthouse. “He kept the wooden robin from his childhood. He kept the coat you bought him.”
He thought about mentioning the note he’d seen fall from Duncan’s pocket in the lantern room, but decided it wasn’t his place to do so.
“I think he’s afraid of losing everything again, so he holds on to the good things. Even if they’re tainted, tinged with sadness, they’re still worth holding on to for the good things they represent. The better times. He’s lost so much in the past—his childhood home, his family, the life he built for himself on Blackrabbit Island. I think he sees the value in the little things.”
As he spoke, he could see Robin mulling his words over in his mind. The big man’s kindly, sky-blue eyes moved slowly from side to side. They were a little brighter now, a little less sad, he thought. His gaze flickered across Robin’s form. How different he looked in those clothes, how dapper. The expensive linen of his suit, far finer than the workaday cloth he would usually wear, draped his titanic form in subtly seductive ways that Robin was, naturally, completely oblivious to, but which Edwin couldn’t help but admire. The gathers and folds of it, the peaks and troughs.
“Duncan gave me one bit of advice,” Edwin continued. “He told me to hold your hand as often as I can because the day will come when I won’t be able to, and there’ll be nothing in this world I’ll want more.”
“And is it what you want to do?” Robin asked cautiously.
Edwin tilted his head back, recalling the events of the past few days.
“When I was at your bedside after you collapsed, it brought a lot of things back to me. It reminded me of seeing Ambrose on his deathbed, but it also…it made me think about what would happen if you died. What I would have missed out on. I thought I was falling for you a long time ago, and I was going to tell you, but then you met Duncan. I put those feelings aside, chalked them up to nothing more than a passing infatuation. And it was fine. Really, it was. We were friends, close friends, and it was enough. But then you were lying there, and I thought you might…well, like I said, it brought a lot of things back.”
Edwin’s hand rested on the back of his settee, and Robin reached out, laid his weighty, rugged hand on top of it, and gently squeezed. How warm it felt.
They decided some fresh air would be a good idea. Edwin retired to his bathroom, where he splashed some water on his face and under his arms, then returned to the living room where he pulled Robin’s gift on over his head. While Robin sat and watched, Edwin let the garment drape over his solid chest and soft belly. It was a perfect fit. He lit a candle inside a lantern, and the two men walked downstairs and out onto Hill Road. It was a beautiful clear night, the stars felt closer than ever, and the moon was almost full. They waved to the people they passed by, and soon they were standing on the cobbled road leading to the Moth & Moon. The great tavern loomed ahead of them—lit by a thousand candles, or so it seemed—with its apex like a mountain summit. The sign had been returned to its rightful place above the door, and the softly-ticking wooden moth had resumed its endless journey. They gazed over to the pier, where Bucca’s Call swayed happily on the tide. The sea gently crashed against the shore in a hypnotic rush and ebb.
“That sound usually calms my heart,” Robin said. “But tonight, it’s beating faste
r than ever.”
“Before we go in, Robin,” Edwin said nervously, “I wanted to say…this might sound silly, but I hope…I hope what my mother said, what she did, I hope it doesn’t affect how you think of me. I hope you know what you mean to me.”
Robin tipped his cap back, put one hand on Edwin’s waist and the other just under his ear. He carefully pulled him in close, looked into his sea-green eyes, and kissed him. Still holding the little lantern, Edwin put one hand on the side of Robin’s big, round face, feeling the softness of his cheek, the strength in his neck.
“That was worth the wait,” Edwin whispered.
He lifted one end of Robin’s untied cravat, twirling it playfully around the end of his finger.
“Edwin, I’ve spent a lifetime experiencin’ what ’appens when people ’old you to account for someone else’s actions. You proved to the whole village that my father didn’t kill Barnabas Whitewater. You showed them what really ’appened that night on the ’eadland. You even got me and Duncan talkin’, after years of ’eartache. I never thought I’d know this kind of peace.”
Framed by the tavern and bathed in moonlight, Robin held Edwin close and kissed him again.
“You saved me.” Robin smiled.
The sky blazed red and pink as Robin Shipp and Edwin Farriner lay aboard Bucca’s Call with nary a stitch between them save for the old, navy-coloured, flat-topped cap, which had decamped from its historic home and claimed temporary sanctuary on Edwin’s shaven head. They lay there, using pillows formed from their garments, comfortably sprawled with hands entwined on the platform that nestled across the little boat’s benches, watching the sun climb higher and higher.
Robin turned to look at the island. From there, he could see the whole village. Roofs were fixed, windows were replaced, and apart from the missing buildings on the corner of Hill Road, where work on a new museum had already begun, all signs there had ever been a hurricane were gone. But while life was getting back to normal for everyone else, he knew his had changed forever. Sunlight glinted off the brightly painted houses and dazzled on the water as Bucca’s Call, with her gleaming new hull and pristine sails, gently bobbed on the waves. Before long, Robin’s stomach began to rumble.
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