Ember Island

by Freeman, Kimberley

  Now they were both dead. And Tilly was alive.

  Tilly took a deep breath, was about to put the letters back when she spied a small leather wallet at the bottom of the suitcase. She pulled it out and it fell open, a large sheet of paper folded in it, written all across in French.

  It was a passport from the French Foreign Office.

  To all it may concern, please allow Miss Chantelle Marie Lejeune to pass freely without hindrance and to afford her assistance and protection should she stand in need. Dated the fifteenth day of March in Paris 1889.

  And then underneath, a description.

  Stature: 5 feet 3 inches. Eyes: hazel. Hair: red gold. Complexion: fair. Face: small round.

  Underneath, Chantelle’s signature.

  The thundering of the brass knocker reverberated through the house, frightening Tilly to pieces. Her blood jumped in her veins. She remembered where she was, what she intended, and made for the window to climb down. From here, she could look down onto the street. A black carriage waited with the badge of the St. Peter Port police painted on it. Her heart doubled its speed. She pressed herself against the side of the house and sidled up behind the tall hedges, to see if she could hear what was going on.

  By the time she caught the conversation, Laura’s voice was already distressed.

  “What? Both of them?”

  “I’m afraid so, ma’am. We found their bodies in the conservatory. They must have tried to jump from an upper-story window.”

  Tilly’s ears began to ring. She pressed her palms against the stone to keep herself from falling.

  “That’s a devil of a thing,” Ralph said. “Laura, calm yourself. Go inside.”

  Sounds of movement. Tilly froze, but then she realized Ralph had sent Laura back into the house and walked a few paces out with the constable. Tilly could see through the corner of the hedge the shoulder of his blue frock coat, the back of his glazed top hat. She willed herself not to move a muscle, not to make a sound.

  “If you have any information that can help with our investigations,” he was saying.

  “Dellafore was tupping our cook. You can come through and see where she slept if you think it will help.”

  Then they were gone and Tilly had to somehow find the courage to run while they were inside, in the very room she had been in moments before.

  Forcing strength into enervated limbs. Running back for her trunk, then bolting for the garden gate and back into the narrow lane behind, then down to the harbor, to the ships that would take her off this island of nightmares, into an uncertain future.

  •

  Tilly was not quite five feet three inches, but she could stand tall. Her hair was too dark to be called red gold, but perhaps they would only notice the word red. Her eyes were more green than hazel, but hazel was a color open to interpretation. Her face was more oval than round but her cheeks were full and rosy. She looked nothing like Chantelle, and yet the description on the passport was vague enough not to arouse suspicion. As for the signature, she practiced it a hundred times on a scrap of notepaper while she waited for her ferry. Writing the name over and over—Chantelle Marie Lejeune—forced her mind awfully and with stony reality on what had happened, what role she had played. And yet, this was her chance to get away and never look back. The police believed her dead alongside her husband; rather than believing her to be responsible for her husband’s death. If she wanted to have any kind of future beyond this moment, she had to allow them to keep believing that.

  From St. Peter Port to St. Malo. From St. Malo to Paris, from Paris to Marseilles, she practiced that signature over and over until she could write it as though it were her own, as though she were Chantelle Lejeune. Her French, thanks to Grandpa, was flawless. She changed her banknotes and found her way to the deep port at La Joliette, lined up at the first counter selling accommodation on long-distance steamers, and booked the first berth leaving that day. To Australia; to the other side of the world.

  That would do.

  ELEVEN

  She Is Not My Mother

  2012

  The storms stayed away for a week. Blue sky after blue sky, sun sparkling on the sea and dazzling off the rough yellow-green grass that grew along the side of the dirt track that led up to Starwater. It gave the roofer a chance to come and seal the roof properly. The three days he was there I found it very difficult to work. I was too distracted. I wasn’t sure of the protocol: make him coffee? Check on him from time to time when the roof went quiet to make sure he hadn’t fallen? While the roofer worked outside, Joe worked inside. He’d filled my fridge and had set about pulling off the plasterboard. I found I could ignore him more easily because he kept saying, “Ignore me. Do your work.”

  I tried. I really tried. I applied myself with force to the task. I’d reread the last Widow Wayland book. It bristled with Post-it notes where I’d analyzed and notated what worked well. Then realized I couldn’t go any further forward with the new story until I fixed up the problems with the start. So I resigned myself to rewriting huge sections, only to find I got myself mixed up, lost track of time and plot threads, made things a worse mess. I’d done a week’s work and I was going backwards. My nerve was failing.

  So on the Friday, when Joe quietly slid the mail onto my desk and there was an envelope there forwarded from Marla with my publisher’s logo on it, I was overcome with a sense of thickening dread. What was going to be in here? A legal document holding me in breach of contract? A harshly worded letter about their disappointment? A newspaper exposé and a please-explain note?

  It was none of these things, of course. My publishers were infinitely patient with me. My editor had told me several times that every author she knew suffered with bouts of writer’s block or became convinced they were an impostor or saw their success as random, senseless, a horrible mistake. What made me think I was different from them? I opened the envelope and slid out a mockup of the cover art for the next book.

  I could no longer sit still. I jumped out of my chair and started to pace, the cover in my hands. It was striking: a shadowy picture of the Widow (beautiful, as always), a ruined abbey, some medieval illuminations. My name—Nina Jones—occupied its usual position in its usual font with “the international bestseller” beneath it. In the place where the title should be, they had written Title Goes Here, and I remembered I had promised them a title by the end of last month. Or was it the month before? It had completely slipped my mind.

  Joe was back, watching me pace. “Are you having a break? Can I make you tea?”

  I glanced up, distracted. “Ah . . . no. I should . . . I should keep going.”

  “Hey,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “Is that your new book cover?”

  I held it out to him, trying to appear bright despite the dark whirlpool of fear and self-doubt inside me.

  “That’s an interesting title,” he laughed.

  “Yes, I know. I have a few ideas. I just . . . I just can’t seem to, um . . .” I ran out of words.

  Joe looked at me curiously. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m so far from finished. The cover is done, and I’m . . . not.”

  “But you’ll be fine. You’ve done it before. You just need to get over this writer’s block. I really admire you, what you do. I’m not creative at all.” He handed the cover back. “You should pin this up. For inspiration. In the meantime, I shouldn’t be in here bothering you. Let me know if you want anything.”

  I almost called him back. I didn’t want to be by myself. The inside of my head was a scary place to be on my own. But the last thing I needed was another person in my life offering me consolation and reassurance about my work. Or worse, jollying me along and asking me about daily word counts.

  Because the amount I would have to write every day to finish this book on time was more than I was capable of, and I knew it.

  I returned to my desk, stared at the black words on the white screen. I felt completely lost, terrified, depressed. Why had I
ever signed this contract? Why had I thought I could do it? I’d been lucky the first three times. Why had I believed I could reproduce that luck again? I should have walked away.

  I was too sick and frightened for tears. I put my head on my desk and listened to my own breathing for a few minutes. Then, rather than pin it up for inspiration, I screwed the cover into a ball and put it in the bin. If I was going to get this done, I needed to forget there was a vast publishing machine ticking along without my manuscript, hoping like hell I could get it done.

  •

  I had stopped for lunch—spaghetti on toast, something I never got sick of—when my phone beeped. It was a message from Stacy.

  Call me when you get this. Business.

  I put the phone back on the table and finished eating. I’d had such good intentions of getting straight back into work after lunch, but maybe some fresh air would be good for me. Get my brain stimulated so it didn’t keep trying to rewrite the same hundred words over and over. The phone booth was the only reliable place to make a business call, so I put my plate in the sink and headed down the hill.

  I had to wait ten minutes for an elderly woman to finish talking to a young friend or relative who had just had a baby. I tried not to look impatient while I waited, but I knew the afternoon would get away from me if I didn’t get back to my desk soon.

  Finally, I had Stacy on the line.

  “Hello, island girl,” she said. “So you finally got my text? I sent it last night, you know.”

  “I see other people around here with mobile service. I don’t know why it avoids me.”

  “Maybe you should change your carrier.”

  “I’m not going to stay that long. I hope.” But how long was it going to take to finish? I shook my head, clearing my mind. “What’s the business?”

  “Somebody’s trying to get access to your papers.”

  My papers, the old manuscripts and correspondence for my novels, were all housed at the Fryer Library on the mainland. I’d donated them, along with most of Eleanor’s papers, the previous year, but put a restriction on their access so that I could approve who used them. When I’d moved to Sydney, I’d left Stacy in charge of managing their access. “Who is it?”

  “A journalist named Elizabeth—”

  “Parrish,” I finished for her. “Damn it, why won’t she leave me be? What does she want from me?”

  “I don’t know, Nina, but it’s easy enough for me to deny her access.”

  “Please do.” I was uncomfortable. A little afraid. “I’ve told her I won’t talk to her. I don’t know what she thinks she’s going to get from reading my old fan mail.”

  “You want me to call her? Tell her to leave you alone? I can use some lawyer speak.”

  I laughed. “No. Just deny her access and let’s hope she gives up. And I’ll see you in a week?”

  “You sure will. I might just have a surprise for you by then.”

  “What is it?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” she said. “Now get back to work.”

  “I will,” I said. Not sure if I was lying.

  •

  Around five, I heard voices outside the house and gratefully closed my laptop for the day. I trudged out to the verandah in time to see Joe greeting a round-faced woman in her early sixties with dark hair and eyes. She accompanied Joe’s son Julian.

  “Mum,” Joe said, “this is Nina. Nina, this is my mum.”

  “Hello, Mrs. . . .” I turned to Joe. “I don’t even know your surname.”

  “McKiernan,” she said. “But please call me Lynn.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Lynn,” I said, extending my hand. “And hello, Julian.”

  Julian was busy climbing up onto the verandah railing and walking along it like a gymnast. I smiled at Joe. “Thanks for all your help this week. The same three days next week?” Joe had worked for me Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I would have had him stripping walls every day, but he had his thesis to be working on.

  “Yes, if that suits you.”

  “Are you heading back over to the mainland for the weekend?” Lynn asked me.

  “No. I’m trying to avoid the mainland,” I replied. It was a week before Stacy could get back to see me, and so the weekend beckoned, long and empty.

  “You here alone?” Lynn asked, sensing my melancholy.

  “I am.”

  “Come home with us, then. I’ve made a lasagna. There’s more than enough for all of us. Joe’s dad would love to meet you.”

  I was surprised by the invitation and hesitated. I didn’t know if it was wise to see Joe outside of work times. There was already a warmth between us that shouldn’t be there; and I was determined not to get myself tangled in the same mess I’d been in with Cameron.

  Julian piped up. “You should come,” he said. “I can show you my Star Wars Legos.”

  His little face was so shiny with excitement that I couldn’t refuse. “Okay, then,” I said.

  “Lovely,” Lynn said. “We’ll open a nice bottle of wine.”

  “I’ll just slip some shoes on.”

  We all walked down the hill together in the soft afternoon light. The sun was setting behind clouds and had sent amber-gold rays out across the sky. Our shadows were long. Julian ran ahead and ran back, blowing away the cobwebs that had gathered on him sitting still in school all day. It was as though I could see the sea air freshening his cheeks, invigorating his skin. I thought about what a wonderful place this must be to raise a child. Lynn swung open the gate to their property and we headed up the long driveway.

  Julian ran back and pointed out a steel shed. “That’s where Dad and I live. Dad, can I show her my Legos? Please?”

  “I doubt she’s interested in Legos,” Joe said.

  “No, I’d love to see it,” I said. I was curious about how Joe lived in a shed.

  “I’ll get the lasagna in the oven,” Lynn said, giving Joe an affectionate rub on the head. “You take your time.”

  So Joe, Julian, and I turned off the path and picked our way through the overgrown grass to the shed. It had windows and a door, and boxes of pink and white impatiens sat outside it. Joe unlocked the door and reached around to switch on the light.

  Inside was one big space, but very homey. A small kitchenette, carpet squares on the ground with a lot of Legos spread out on them, a saggy couch, two single beds in opposite corners, and a bookshelf made of old bricks and long planks of wood.

  “Welcome to my mansion,” Joe said with a half smile, and I realized he must feel embarrassed.

  “It looks very comfortable.”

  “We don’t have a bathroom.”

  “We bush-wee!” Julian declared with delight.

  “Only in the middle of the night when we don’t want to disturb Mum and Dad,” Joe clarified, face flushing.

  I laughed it off. Julian dragged me over to his Legos and insisted I sit on the ground with him on a big round rug woven with a city streetscape. While Julian showed me his spaceships and figurines, Joe fetched two beers out of the fridge. He opened them both and brought one over to me.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking his bottle against mine.

  “Cheers,” I said.

  We looked at each other a few moments and I let the warmth wash over me, all the while berating myself for letting him raise his expectations.

  “How long have you lived in the shed?” I asked.

  “Four years. Before that we lived over on the mainland for a while but it’s hard. Rents are high and I’m living on a scholarship. As brilliant as Julian is at Legos, it’s not a big earning profession.”

  I ruffled Julian’s hair. He didn’t notice, he was so absorbed with his Legos.

  “I had the opportunity to do this PhD and the whale-watching job came up at the same time. It worked really well for a while. I bought the shed and fitted it out, paid Mum and Dad some rent . . . But, as you know, George and Kay lost the business.”

  I leaned back on the seat o
f the velour couch. “What were they like?”

  “A little clueless.” He laughed. “Sweet people, though. You probably don’t want to hear that. They owe you a lot of money.”

  “I don’t care much about money,” I said.

  “Anyway, Julian and I are only here until I’ve finished my thesis. Then I hope I’ll get a great job somewhere and we’ll be off. And then we’ll buy a house. With a bathroom. No more weeing in the garden.”

  “An admirable goal,” I said with a smile, tilting my bottle to my lips.

  We sat with Julian on the round rug, drinking our beer and chatting. Whether it was the beer or Joe’s presence, I don’t know, but I started to feel relaxed. I started to feel okay, as if things might work out and the world wasn’t so bleak. Lynn called us for dinner after a half hour, and I went inside to meet Joe’s father, Dougal.

  Joe looked nothing like his mother, but even less like Dougal, who was a burly Scotsman with bright ginger hair. He called me “lassie” and gave me a very warm hug, and invited me to sit down. Julian demanded I sit on the long bench seat next to him. Their dining table was so big it took up most of the kitchen, with Lynn having to breathe in to move around us as she set out the lasagna and the salad bowl. It was made of scarred wood, no tablecloth, the cutlery all thrown in the middle for us to help ourselves.

  “Och, it’s grand to have a guest for dinner,” Dougal said.

  “It’s lovely to be here,” I said. “This table is huge.”

  Lynn slid into her seat. “We love to entertain, but don’t get the chance much. Every Christmas we have a big group of extended family that come over from the mainland, but usually it’s just the four of us sitting here. Go on, eat up.”

  I served myself a small portion of lasagna, only to hear Dougal tsk-tsk and tell me I needed to put some meat on my bones. Joe looked pained. Julian was leaning his head on my shoulder. I thought about my family dinners growing up. The carefully laid table, the insistence on using the right fork at the right time, my mother clearing her throat softly every time I put my elbows on the table. Joe’s parents argued merrily with their mouths full, Julian ate cherry tomatoes with his fingers, everybody helped themselves to seconds. The wine flowed freely, too. I had never seen my mother touch a drop.