Gull Island

by Grace Thompson

  ‘Richard didn’t say you stole that money,’ Mrs Carey said firmly. ‘He said you were careless in losing it.’

  ‘He thinks I pocketed it, I know he does, he as good as admitted it too, only he made sure no one heard him say so! But where is it? If I stole it then what am I supposed to have done with it? Damn it all, Mam, I haven’t got the money to buy a packet of fags!’

  Mrs Carey opened her purse and gave him half a crown.

  ‘If he didn’t think me guilty why did he sack me?’ He put on his hurt-little-boy expression.

  ‘He was upset with you and that wicked Hattie for – you know – the way you two carried on. Her fault, mind, I know that. But you shouldn’t have done what you did. Richard’s fond of Kate and was upset at the way you treated her. Perhaps that was the real reason, I don’t know.’

  ‘Self-righteous bugger! And him no better than the rest of us.’

  Since Kate and Idris had separated, Kate had been in the habit of bringing any letters for her husband to the shop with her and arranging for someone to deliver them to Mrs Carey. In the rush and muddles of spring cleaning, and arranging the stock for the new season, the post became mixed up and a letter from Luke, addressed to Rosita and Richard, found its way into a pile addressed to Idris.

  Idris pushed it to one side, intending to give it to Richard when he saw him, but then he became curious. It would be easy to explain that he opened it by mistake. He was interested to learn that it was an invitation for Richard and Rosita to visit Luke at the cottage and meet Martine. Martine was coming to England and intended to visit Wales after a short tour of the London sights. They intended to be away for five days, returning the day before the day of the invitation. Idris made a careful note of the dates.

  Idris read and reread the letter. A plan that seemed to have been hovering in his mind, just waiting for the final ingredient, was now complete.

  Copying Luke’s rather large handwriting was easier than he’d imagined. The new, forged letter was brief and worded in similar style, asking Rosita only to meet Luke and Martine on the island on Sunday, a week before Luke’s original invitation. Luke’s cottage would be empty and he would be 200 miles away. It was, he had written, to plan a surprise for Richard and had to be kept a secret.

  Something happened a few days after he had handed the letter to Rosita with apologies for having opened it in error, an event which threw the whole country into turmoil and grief. King George VI died in his sleep.

  All entertainments closed down. The radio played only serious and sombre music and everywhere windows were dressed in the purple and black of mourning at the passing of a much-loved monarch – a man who could have left the capital for a safe refuge during the terrifying bombing of London but had chosen to stay and share his subjects’ danger. Like many others, Rosita felt the loss of a figure who had been steadfast and strong during those awful years.

  Rosita immediately changed her window displays for something fitting the occasion and found pictures of the King and his Queen with which to decorate the displays, together with pictures of the young Elizabeth. The newspapers she sold all bore boldly black-rimmed messages of sympathy to the Queen Mother and Queen Elizabeth II.

  So great was the shock and sadness that Rosita almost forgot the arrangement to meet Luke and Martine. She had already made her excuses to Richard and in a sudden rush she picked up the scarf she had bought as a gift for the Frenchwoman and drove to the beach where the island stood isolated and still, half-hidden in a chill sea fret.

  There was no one at the cottage and the tide had not yet cleared the causeway. Surprised that Luke had made a mistake about the tide, she sat in the car and waited for the water to recede so she could get across. That would be at midday according to the tide table she had consulted.

  She was nervous, every inch of her wanting to stay away from the island. She shuddered involuntarily, remembering her previous experience when she had been in danger of dying of hypothermia. Only Luke could have persuaded her to cross the slippery causeway again. Perhaps that had been his idea, she mused. Perhaps he had asked her to go there to live down any residual fear she had of the place. She looked across, hoping for a glimpse of him to reassure her. She had a strong urge to abandon the plan and go home, but she couldn’t show Luke she was afraid, could she?

  Luke and Martine must already be there, having reached the island by boat. She stood and stared, even waved in case they were watching and waiting for her, hoping for a sight of them, before beginning to cross the wet, dangerous path. It wasn’t a cheering prospect to walk over the slippery rock alone. And draped in mist, the island looked far from enticing. She shivered as vivid memories of the last time she had been there returned to frighten her. Perhaps, knowing how Luke loved a bonfire, they were gathering wood and preparing to light a friendly beacon for her. But although she looked across repeatedly, no smoke issued up into the cold, misty air. It seemed that her guess had been wrong and they hadn’t gone out to wait for her. So, where could they be?

  She turned and walked back to the cottage, half-hoping that they had changed the plan and were waiting for her in the comfortable living room, the thought of one of his huge log fires increasing the dread of crossing to the cold mist-wrapped island. But the cottage was still as silent and empty as before. She looked for a note to tell her the plans had changed but again she was disappointed.

  She found the key which Luke allowed her to use and went in to wait. By the look of the tide there was another half-hour or longer before she could begin to cross. There wouldn’t be much time out there and back before dark.

  Much as she dreaded to walk to the now eerie island, she knew she had to go. She trusted Luke and didn’t want to let him down if he was planning something special. She stood and looked out of windows that were encrusted with salt. Although not yet midday, it was gloomy and winter clouds hung low over the sea. Really, this seemed less and less like a plan prepared by the careful and sensible Luke.

  Luke had met Martine at Dover and although they ran and hugged each other like loving friends, they both sensed almost at once that things were not the same as when they had shared the running of Café de Jacques. Martine looked the same as he imagined her – older, of course but still with the wide and wicked grin that had always cheered him.

  ‘Luke! You have lost your beard! Have you framed it to hang on the wall to show your grandchildren?’ she teased. ‘And your spectacles, they are enormous! Like the ears of Mickey Mouse!’

  He responded to her teasing with a smile and for a moment hoped their meeting would recover from the initial numbness.

  She was dressed more smartly than before and it surprised him a little. She had always shown little regard to her appearance and the neat check suit and matching coat and hat looked odd. For a while they pretended, laughing and exchanging news of their separate lives, but the magic had gone.

  They hugged and kissed but time had played one of its cruel tricks and made loving friends into strangers. There was stiff formality where there had always been relaxed camaraderie. There was excessive politeness in their conversations. Martine spoke less English, her lapses into French adding to the separation. They spoke of past friends and each had to think deeply before remembering. Worse, Luke pretended to remember when the name meant nothing and he suspected the person was known to Martine after he had left her. Words dried up and others were left hanging in the air unanswered, unanswerable.

  The hotel where Luke had booked a room was not grand. He had chosen a quiet place not too close to the centre of London and having travelled there by train, he showed her to her room and left her to bath and change. They arranged to meet in the dining room.

  ‘I hope it’s all right with you, Martine,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t book anything for tonight. I thought our greatest need would be to talk. Tomorrow we’ll go out on the town. Shops, dinner and a theatre, whatever you wish.’

  ‘Parfait, mon petit Luke.’ Although her smile was as warm and loving a
s always, there was something in her eyes that made him suspect that all was not well.

  ‘There is something wrong?’ he asked later, when they sat eating fish à la Bretonne, fish in a delicious sauce containing celery and leeks and carrots.

  ‘I am so very ’appy to see you again, why should there be something wrong?’ she asked. ‘Are you not pleased I am ’ere?’ Her accent was more pronounced; she took time finding the English words.

  ‘Delighted, my dear Martine,’ he said. ‘I hope to persuade you to stay for ever.’

  ‘For ever, it is a long time, yes? Time changes everything, us included.’

  ‘We’ve grown older.’ He smiled. ‘At least, I have. You look the same as when I said goodbye, so long ago.’

  She touched his arm affectionately. ‘Merci, cherie,’ she whispered.

  They spent five days in London admiring the splendid buildings, many still wearing the scars of bombing, they wandered in the parks and along the Serpentine and the majestic Thames. The afternoons were spent at exhibitions, evenings at the theatre, but whatever they did there was an atmosphere of strain. Luke knew without being told that Martine wished she were somewhere else. His enthusiasm was false; Martine’s was soon abandoned completely.

  ‘Shall we forget the rest of the week and go straight to Cardiff?’ he suggested as they pushed their way through the crowd around Buckingham Palace. ‘London can be very tiring and perhaps five days is enough at one time.’

  ‘Luke, mon cher ami, I ’ave enjoyed everything you ’ave planned for me.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I think I should go back to France.’

  ‘Go back? I was hoping you’d stay longer, not go back sooner. In fact, I’d hoped you’d never go back.’ But even as he spoke, he knew he was deceiving himself.

  ‘It’s best that I go.’

  Arguing seemed pointless; she was only saying what he had detected. She no longer felt comfortable with him and it was best they faced it. The love and affection they had once held for each other was no longer there.

  Changing her ticket was easy and he saw her off on the train that would take her to Dover with mixed feelings. There was disappointment but more than that, there was a sense of failure. He had failed to make her see him as the same person who had left France ahead of the German advance twelve years before.

  Yet there was a sense of relief too. He had been showing a tourist around London, nothing more. Once she had gone, he spent the days searching bookshops and by Saturday he had gathered an alarmingly large collection. He thought he would stay over the weekend and see another play. It was a long time since he had treated himself to a holiday and Martine leaving was no reason to abandon this one.

  Late on Saturday afternoon, he changed his mind and, struggling into a taxi with his books packed in boxes, he went to Paddington and caught the train for Cardiff. He would arrive late but he would have a lazy day on Sunday to recover. He remembered his invitation to Richard and Rosita to meet Martine. He would have to cancel, but there was plenty of time. A whole week.

  He felt unashamedly lighthearted as he travelled home and stepped inside his house, where the spare room had been decorated for Martine’s visit. New covers on the bed with curtains to match had been chosen by his housekeeper. A freshly washed rug beside the electric fire. Flowers in a vase were drooping but he knew they would have been changed in time for Martine’s arrival. He took the sour stems from the water and threw them into the bin. A funereal bouquet for a dead friendship.

  On Sunday he felt restless. His intention had been to rest but he woke early and dressed before seven o’clock. He was in limbo, having planned to visit a few places with Martine until the following weekend and arrive back in time for her to meet Rosita and Richard on the seventeenth. Now, with a week in which to inform them of the change of plan, he wandered around the house unable to decide how to spend the day.

  He was tired, but he couldn’t sit still. Eventually, after a light lunch he set off for the cottage. It was a way to use up the afternoon. Tomorrow he would go to the shop and see what had happened during his absence. His mind wandered over the books he had bought. They would need pricing and entering in his catalogue, the titles checked to see if any were on customers’ request lists.

  He was surprised to see Rosita’s Anglia parked near the beach. Getting out of the car, he looked around for a sight of her. The tide had parted, leaving access to Gull Island free but he didn’t even consider her walking across on a day like this, with low cloud shortening the day and the island half lost in mist. She wouldn’t have gone there, not after her last experience.

  He went to the cottage and as soon as he stepped inside he knew she had been there: perfume on the air and a chair slightly out of place. But where was she now? Unable to see her, he walked briskly up to the end of the lane and with increased anxiety, ran to the station and phoned Richard.

  ‘Isn’t there something very secret going on this afternoon?’ Richard chuckled. ‘Rosita only hinted – you know how difficult she finds it to keep some things to herself. I understood she was meeting you and Martine?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘But I got the impression she was meeting you on the island.’

  ‘In this weather? It’s lost in mist and very cold. What gave her the idea that …’

  There was no time to waste on words or theories. ‘I’m on my way!’ Richard said.

  Luke ran back to the beach and in the gathering gloom could just make out a figure approaching the beach of the island. The figure wore trousers but he knew it was Rosita. What on earth was she thinking of? Before he began to follow, or even call out, another figure emerged from the shadows and began to move after her. It could hardly be Richard. So who was it?

  Rosita stopped and looked towards the island. There seemed to be a pile of wood on the beach. She bent over to continue the half walk, half crawling movement towards it. The stones were covered in green slimy weed and the shallowest pools were already rimmed with frost. She was beginning to feel very cold. She stood and looked towards the pile of wood. So that was it. Luke was building a shelter. Was there going to be a party on the island for their engagement? What fun, so long as he waited until the weather was kinder. But where was he? Why didn’t he and Martine show themselves? This was getting silly!

  It wasn’t like Luke to let her come out here on her own. If he were there, why didn’t he come and help her? Perhaps there were others too. Perhaps Richard was in on the surprise and they were about to jump out and cheer as she reached the grassy level. Imaginings urged her on. And her implicit trust in Luke.

  She stopped more frequently, trying to warm her hands under her arms as they stiffened with the cold. As she drew nearer she saw that the wood was nothing more than debris brought in by tide and wind. For the first time she began to feel anxious. Had she misread the letter? She did things in such a rush these days. Could she have mistaken the date? She turned and looked back. A figure dropped low and lay still. From where she stood, the shape appeared as inanimate as the rocks around it.

  Luke watched from the beach. He knew that, used to the rocks as he was, he could make the journey to the island in half the time taken by Rosita and the person following her. He waited until both shapes had reached the beach and climbed up onto the grassy plateau then he hurried in their wake. Running, leaping with the confidence of familiarity, he set off across the causeway, cautiously watching, ready to drop out of sight the moment one of them looked his way. For the moment he didn’t want to be seen by either. Without risking Rosita’s safety, he wanted to find out exactly what the other person was planning.

  Rosita heard footsteps and turned with a smile of relief. ‘Luke! I was wondering where you – Idris? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’ He took her arm and led her forcibly up towards the cliff edge on the other side of the island.

  She began to struggle and he slapped her, the shock confusing her and allowing her to be
dragged faster.

  ‘Richard refuses to re-employ me. I think you should persuade him to take me back.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’ Confidence was growing, but then she saw how close they were to the edge, the sea below moving against the cliff edge, innocent and quiet.

  ‘Be careful, Idris! Don’t push me too close to the edge!’

  He pretended to slip and pushed her to the edge of the dangerous drop. They were out of sight from the land and alarm bells were ringing in her head. Alone here with Idris, and her feet slipping on the surface, the sea waiting greedily below. He eased his grip and she moved away, down towards the beach. Idris ran to her, dragged her back and pushed her again, and this time there was no mistaking his intention. His jaw was thrust forward, his eyes cold, his practised charm no longer evident.

  He was forcing her towards the sea far below them. She screamed, although it was a reflex action; there was no one to hear her and come to her aid. But miraculously, someone did. Luke appeared and with a growl of rage, he pushed Idris out of the way and grabbed Rosita as she began to stumble.

  ‘Thank goodness you came at last,’ she sobbed as, ignoring Idris’s frantic denials, she clung to him in relief.

  Recriminations and denials, accusations and bluff filled the air as the three people hurried across the rocks to the safety of the land. Idris walked away from them, determined to get to his car, but Richard had raced down the lane and slewed his car across in front of his. Richard stood facing him as he tried to manoeuvre it past.

  ‘I think you’d better explain what you were doing following Rosita and trying to push her over the cliffs,’ Luke shouted, so Richard had an idea of what had happened.

  ‘I wanted to talk her into pleading with you to give me a job, that’s all,’ Idris said. ‘Honest, that’s all.’ Richard was ominously quiet. ‘For Kate and the girls,’ Idris added. ‘I did it for Kate and the girls.’