Ember Island

by Freeman, Kimberley

  I decided I really liked Joe’s family.

  “So what are ye doing on Ember Island, lassie?” Dougal boomed during a lull in his good-humored ribbing of his wife. “You working or playing?”

  I had just taken a mouthful of food and chewed rapidly to swallow before I spoke, but Joe spoke ahead of me. “Nina’s on holidays. She’s a . . . journalist.”

  “Journalist, eh?”

  “What paper do you write for?”

  I swallowed, not sure what to say. Why had Joe lied about what I did? “Just a local Sydney paper,” I said, hoping I sounded convincing. My voice was too small for lies. “Covering dog shows and so on.”

  “Joe was saying Starwater has always been in your family,” Lynn said.

  It wasn’t entirely true, but I was out there on a limb, going along with Joe though I didn’t know why. “Yes, my great-grandmother Eleanor Holt owned it. She was quite a lady.” I told them a few Eleanor stories and the topic of what I did for a living moved on and disappeared.

  Joe leaned over while Lynn and Dougal were up clearing the table. “Trust me,” he whispered. “If they get a whiff that you’re famous, they’ll drive you mad. Mum will have you guesting at book clubs and Dad will show you his unfinished memoir.”

  I laughed softly. “Thank you. It’s nice to pretend I’m not a writer.”

  “Well, you do write about those dog shows.”

  We shared a giggle, and Dougal looked over his shoulder at us fondly. I pulled away a little from Joe then, remembering my vow not to get involved. It was just so nice to feel that spark of initial attraction, to flirt a little. I had so few small pleasures in life that I was clinging to this one.

  “Will ye have a pudding with us, Nina?” Dougal said.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Sticky toffee,” Lynn said, uncovering an oven pan.

  “The sauce will kill ye,” Dougal added. “Made with butter, cream, and sugar. Nowt else. A heart attack waiting to happen.”

  “You’ll never die,” Lynn said, flicking him playfully with a towel. “You’ll stay around to torment me forever, you ratbag.”

  They were so affectionate with each other, laughing and cuddling and play fighting. It was no wonder that Joe was such a good-hearted man, that his son was so demonstrative.

  Lynn placed bowls of sticky, warm deliciousness in front of Julian and me, then scooped frosty vanilla ice cream on top. She turned to Joe and said, “Are you having some, Jonah?”

  “Sure,” Joe said.

  “Jonah?” I asked, smiling at him. “Your name is Jonah? And you work with whales?”

  “Ah, that’s a tale,” said Dougal, refilling my wineglass. After the beer earlier, my head was beginning to swim, but he wouldn’t be refused.

  Everybody sat down to eat—the most evil dessert I have ever tasted—and Dougal filled me in. “Lynnie and I couldn’t have our own child. We tried for years—”

  Lynn butted in. “Six years,” she said, in a voice so impassioned that I understood just how long those six years had been for her. Heat rose in my solar plexus. I remembered Cameron’s face and voice, as he pleaded with me, “Can’t we just try? Can’t we investigate the possibilities?” Easy for him to say. It wasn’t his body that was going to be investigated, its integrity called into question, found faulty.

  “Yes, dear, now keep quiet and let me talk,” Dougal said. “We tried for six years and then we waited another eight on an adoption register. It was August the first when we got the call. Whale migration season. Lynnie and I were overwhelmed with the news. We walked down to the pier to wait for the boat across to the mainland, to go and pick up our bundle of joy, and a pod of humpback whales was passing. Och, ye’ve never seen anything like it, lassie. Heavy as trucks, but thrusting themselves out of the water like they weigh as feathers. So I said, let’s call our boy Jonah, because of the whales.”

  “Of course, Dougal here has never read the Bible in his life and tells me Jonah rode whales and was some kind of whale king,” Lynn laughed. “After we’ve named our boy and signed off on the paperwork, I looked it up in an encyclopedia and found he was eaten by a whale.”

  “I have read the Bible. The best bits, anyway. I misremembered that part from Sunday school.”

  “In any case, he was already our little Jonah, though he’s all grown up now and prefers Joe.” Lynn reached across the enormous table to pat Joe’s hand. “And it’s no surprise he should be interested in whales. He’s watched them come up here every year of his life and they are great, grand creatures.”

  More gentle ribbing passed between them, more laughter, and Julian shouted “I love whales!” because he was keen to be part of the conversation. Somehow I managed to fit every last sodden crumb of the toffee pudding in, though my stomach was sore. It was hard to feel sorry for myself while half drunk, full bellied and surrounded by warmth and family. Then Dougal turned to me and asked me directly, “So, lassie. Are ye married? Are ye seeing anyone?”

  “Dad . . .” Joe protested.

  I opened my mouth, hesitated, knowing I had to shut this down. Joe had to know I was unavailable and it wasn’t as though I could easily tell him why. I wouldn’t be on the island for long; it didn’t matter if I lied. “I have a boyfriend,” I said, then cleared my throat. “His name’s Cameron.”

  “Then where is he, love?” Lynn asked, puzzled.

  “He’s back in Sydney. He couldn’t come with me, he has . . . work.”

  I could feel an uncomfortable distance opening up between my shoulder and Joe’s. He was disappointed, maybe angry. Perhaps he thought I had led him on. Perhaps I had led him on.

  A little of the warmth had left Dougal’s voice. “What kind of work does he do, then?”

  “He’s a poet,” I said.

  Dougal laughed loudly, then realized I was serious and feigned a coughing fit.

  “A poet, eh?” said Lynn. “He must be quiet and sensitive.”

  “Um . . . I guess so.” They weren’t the first two words that came to mind with Cameron. Obsessive and vain?

  “Well, then, it’s a shame he had so many poems to write he couldn’t be here with ye. I hope you enjoy your holiday, nevertheless,” Dougal said, regaining his warmth.

  “And you’re always welcome to come for dinner. Any time, dear. Any night of the week.”

  “Come every night,” Julian said, hooking his elbow through mine.

  “I will certainly come again,” I said, heart beating hard as the awkwardness slid past. Joe insisted on walking me home, while Lynn and Dougal wrestled Julian off to have a bath and clean his teeth. The sky was clear and warm, a sea breeze ruffled the palms. We were silent for a while, then I said, “I’m sorry I hadn’t mentioned Cameron to you. There hadn’t really been a chance.” There. That would put an end to it.

  “You don’t need to be sorry. It was nosy of Dad to ask.”

  “I . . . I hope that isn’t weird for you or anything.”

  “My parents are always weird for me,” he laughed.

  “I think they’re fantastic,” I said.

  “So do I. But they’ve embarrassed me more times than I can count. I’m used to it.” We walked on a little further in silence, then he said, “Is he really a poet?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Does he make a living out of it?”

  “He teaches as well. Writes articles for magazines sometimes.” But mostly he had lived off me. And now he was sponging off Tegan and her rich daddy. We were at the foot of the pathway up to Starwater now. I cleared my throat, keen for a change of topic. “I’ll see you on Monday then?”

  “You want me to take you up to your door?”

  I think we both felt the awkwardness. “No, I’ll be fine,” I said. “There are no murderers on the island, right?”

  “Not anymore. Not since they closed the prison.”

  I smiled at him. That thrill was still there and I knew he could feel it too. But that ship had sailed. I told myself over and over it was for the b
est. Next time I fell in love, it had to be with somebody in his fifties who had had a family and was looking forward to a quiet retirement with a clean house. Maybe with a cat. “Thanks,” I said. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  We parted ways and I trudged up the hill and let myself into the house. I felt a little lost, all on my own after a warm evening of company. But I put myself to bed and decided to read the next little diary entry I had pulled out of the brickwork. This one was dated a year before the last, written when Eleanor was only eleven. It didn’t surprise me that she wrote beautifully, even as a child. The deep well of language had always been inside her. If only I had inherited that instead of a box of old papers.

  •

  October 5, 1890

  I have decided to start this diary because my mother is dying and I have nobody else to speak to. My teacher is without much compassion, my classmates are without much brain, and Papa says I need to be strong and not lean so much on him.

  The thing that makes me saddest of all is that Mama is the person to whom I would love to tell my troubles. So when she dies I will suffer the double blow of losing her, and losing the person whose lap I would rest my head in to cry. I feel as though I am on a ship in deep water, sinking slowly.

  Mama has been sick for two months. At first she would sleep a lot. She was hard to wake in the morning and couldn’t wait to get into bed at night. Some nights she went to bed before me. The tiredness grew worse. She couldn’t make it through the day without having to put her head down. I heard her making jokes with Papa about getting old, but she’s only 36 and I once met a lady who was 80 who could stay awake all day.

  Then she started growing thin. She had no appetite, she complained about a constant back ache.

  Still, I didn’t worry about it because she and Papa didn’t seem worried about it. But then one Tuesday, the day the surgeon always came over from the mainland to check on the sick prisoners in the infirmary, Papa called the surgeon to come up to the house and look at Mama. I was playing with my peg dolls on the southern verandah so I didn’t hear what he said to Mama, but then he and Papa came out on the eastern verandah and I could hear them quite clearly.

  “The lumps under her arm. How long have they been there?”

  “She’s never mentioned them. I presume she’s had them for some time.”

  “It doesn’t look good, Superintendent Holt. That and the back pain. I’ve seen it before.”

  His words lit a little fire in my heart, a soft whoosh of flame.

  “Should I get her across to the mainland?” Even under these circumstances, Papa sounded perfectly measured.

  “It won’t make a difference. I don’t think she has long.”

  A silence. I wished I could see Papa’s face. My body buzzed with fear.

  “What will happen?” Papa asked, in a quiet voice.

  “Well, she will simply grow tireder and one day she will lie down and not get up again.”

  I sobbed out loud, once, then clapped my hand over my mouth. I leapt to my feet and ran down the stairs and into the garden, fearful of being caught eavesdropping (Papa simply hates me eavesdropping), but also feeling shocked and not sure what to do with my body. I climbed the giant fig tree, with its teeming roots, and sat on the rough branch a while and cried.

  It was some time later, perhaps half an hour, that Papa found me.

  “Come down,” he called from the ground. He didn’t look too stern.

  “Is it true?” I asked. “Will Mama die?”

  “Come down.”

  I did as I was told and clambered down from the tree. I jumped the last three feet and he caught me, and held me close for a moment before lowering me to the ground. He never hugs me usually.

  I looked up at him, waiting for my answer.

  “Your mama is very sick. You overheard what the doctor said, I gather.”

  “Not all of it. I ran out here.”

  “She will grow more and more tired. She won’t be able to get out of bed at all. Then she will sleep a lot. She will feel some pain, but the doctor will give us something to help her. She will look very ill. One day she will not wake up from her sleep.” He nodded once, decisively, as if he had imparted to me all I needed to know. “This may take a few weeks or a few months. In that time, you are not to ask her to do anything for you. Not so much as read a line of a book. In fact, you will do anything that she asks, without a flicker of defiance. Do you understand all this?”

  I felt hollow. “Yes, but . . .” I trailed off into tears.

  Papa put his hand on my shoulder. “You must remind yourself that you should not cry because that will upset your mother. You will live on and see many more sunrises and sunsets. She will be watching down on us both from Heaven.” On the last word, Papa’s voice wavered a little and it fed that little flame of heat in my heart. Papa never wavered. Never. The world was upside down.

  That was July. She has been confined to her bed for five weeks now, and I sit with her every day to read to her and chat with her and embroider while she dozes. But lately her smiles do not come as easily, and today . . . Today was the worst day of all.

  I had been reading to her—Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which is my favourite story in the world—and she had fallen asleep just as Lady Bertilak makes her second attempt to undermine Gawain’s courtesy. So I closed the book and leaned over to kiss her cheek, and I accidentally leaned on her elbow under the covers.

  And her eyes flew open and she roared at me. “You foolish child! Are you trying to torture me? Am I not already in enough pain without you pushing your whole weight onto my aching joints?”

  I leapt back and told her how sorry I was and could feel tears brimming but remembered what Papa had told me and sniffed them back. Then Papa, who had heard her shout, came into the room and roared me out. I ran outside and sat heavily on the steps to put my head on my knees and cry.

  Papa came out after a few minutes and sat with me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t know her arm was there.”

  “Hush,” Papa said, quietly. “All is well, child. She is in much pain. You cannot even imagine how much pain she is in. It strips her raw.”

  “Can I go back in and say sorry again? Has she forgiven me?”

  “No, I think it best if you spend less time with her. You should be concentrating on your school work. It may yet be some time before she passes and you are too young to be good company to a dying woman.”

  I wanted to cry, but she is my mother! But this was the moment that I realised she is no longer my mother. That woman is already gone. She has been dissolved by illness and pain, and in her stead is left this husk who is impatient and angry with me and I cannot bear it. I cannot bear it.

  October 15, 1890

  Mama looking very unwell. Papa allowed me to sit with her for an hour today. I can see her skull under her skin. She barely speaks. Papa says that is because the medicine that takes away her pain also takes away her ability to know what is going on around her. I am frightened of her. She looks like a monster. She is not my mother.

  October 19, 1890

  I spent the whole day reading Malory in bed and cuddling Pangur Ban. I could hear Mama in the next room. She breathes strangely now, as though there are razors in her throat. I don’t like the sound. I wish I could go to another room. I want my mama back. I don’t know the creature in the next room. I want my mama back.

  October 27, 1890

  Dawn is breaking and I don’t know what’s happening and nobody will come to me and tell me. Very late last night I woke because there were voices and footsteps rushing about and I went to Mama’s room to see. Doctor Groom was there, he’s been staying one or two nights to tend to Mama, and Papa was kneeling at the bed with Mama’s hand in his and I think he was crying. I have never seen my papa cry! Why was he crying? Doctor Groom pushed me out, he said, “Go away, child, go back to sleep.”

  Do they think I am still asleep?
Is Mama dead? Surely I would know, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I feel it somehow if my own mother died? Wouldn’t the strings that hold the cosmos together quiver, like a spider web when a fly lands in it? I am afraid to go next door in case she is dead, or in case she isn’t and she’s more horrible to look at than ever, or in case Doctor Groom shouts and says that he told me to go away and why would I bother them all at such a time.

  I don’t know what else to say or write.

  November 1, 1890

  Two days ago my mother was buried in the graveyard at the southern end of the island. She passed in her sleep late in the night on October the 27, when she was 36 years and 107 days old. She had only four grey hairs on her head and her hands were still smooth. Papa invited me in to see her body and kiss her cold cheek the next morning, and I did it but then wished I hadn’t because I felt as though I had a frost of death on my lips all day and sometimes I still have the feeling and I don’t like it.

  The day we buried her was very hot. The chaplain, who is a large, doughy man, was sweating furiously as he read from the Bible. The sky burned blue and the sea sang behind us. Every now and again a breeze would rise off the water and rush past, cooling my flushed cheeks and sticky skin. The whole thing seemed over so quickly, considering how long Mama suffered before she died. I rather suspected the chaplain rushed through it because of the heat.

  There are two graveyards on this island. One for staff and family, and one for prisoners. The one for prisoners has no names on the headstones. The crosses are bare except for a prison letter and number. The headstones in the family graveyard tell sad stories of people like Mama, who were “much beloved” or “missed for always” or “at rest.” Mama’s headstone has not been carved yet; it is coming over from the mainland, but Papa has told me it will say, “treasured wife and mother, now at rest with angels.” I think that is a lovely epitaph, and asked Papa who thought of it. And was surprised to hear that it was him.