Beyond the Sea

by Melissa Bailey

  For a while, Freya sat on the sofa, watching. Sam had loved storms. He had always sat quietly, gazing out of the window, mesmerised by the onslaught of nature. Now, she wondered whether he had ever watched a storm from the top of the lighthouse. She doubted it. That he would have gone up alone in such circumstances. But she didn’t know. Impulsively she rose and made her way to the door of the tower. She turned the handle, stepped forwards and instantly felt adrenalin pulse through her. The staircase was alive with noise. The wind howled as it circled around the tower and the rain drummed, amplified as it lashed the walls. As she put a foot on the stairs, Freya thought she felt them shake. She had heard of this before from keepers. How those stationed on rock lighthouses in the middle of the ocean tried to ignore the movement of the tower in heavy wind and simply prayed that the foundations had been laid well enough to withstand the weather. The wind must be gale force or thereabouts, she thought, feeling the reverberations of the building with each step she took.

  By the time she reached the lamp room, the storm was almost overhead. Rain pounded against the glass doors of the gallery, the boom of thunder was louder and lightning forked ever closer. Dense black cloud hung low over a dark churning sea, both illuminated intermittently by the sweep of the lamp. Freya watched mesmerised, her eyes roving over the sky, the ocean and the land below her in succession. After a few moments, her gaze caught on something out at sea. She stared at it disbelieving. Then she looked down at her bare feet for a while before looking up again. Was it a boat? She really couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t simply imagining it. But looking out again, her eye stumbled upon the same object. She moved closer to the gallery doors. It was a boat, with a light upon its mast, she was sure of it. A boat not dissimilar from her own, perhaps bigger and sturdier. But, regardless of that, in this ocean it was in difficulty.

  Freya’s heart pounded. She ran to the tower staircase and yelled for Marta as loudly as she could, over and over. Then she moved back to the gallery doors and looked for the boat once more. She found it, lurching, tossed upwards, then pressed downwards by huge waves, heaved sideways by others. She watched the torrid rise and fall. It was in trouble, there was no doubt of that, and it was heading closer and closer towards her. Could that be right? She blinked hard, unsure. But the boat was moving, propelled by the turbulent sea, in the direction of the island. Before long it would hit the beach.

  The realisation forced her gaze from the window and had her running down the stairs. The noise of the storm swirled around her in the tower as she descended. When she reached the bottom, she yelled to Marta again as she headed for the sitting-room window. She could now make out the boat from here, its light intermittently visible. Still she waited for the sweep of the lamp to be sure. She counted down the seconds and then followed its path. One, two, three. The boat was illuminated in the darkness. No doubt about it, it was heading this way.

  ‘What is it? Is everything okay?’ Marta stood behind her, eyes wide, worried.

  ‘A boat. In trouble,’ was all she said, pointing to the window.

  As Marta looked, Freya picked up the phone. Then she put it down again, thinking better of it. The boat would have contacted the coastguard the moment it ran into trouble so they were no doubt already on their way. ‘Get dressed. Quickly,’ she said.

  Moments later they were heading down the path to the beach, torches in hand. The boat was much closer now. For a moment Freya wondered whether it would be possible for it to moor alongside her boat. But then she caught sight of the Valkyrie, its rise and fall, and knew it was unlikely. The swell was simply too great.

  She turned to Marta and pointed to her boat. ‘Grab a life ring. Then meet me at the beach.’

  Marta nodded and began to run.

  As she approached the water’s edge, Freya waved her torch, trying to signal her presence to whoever was on board and mark the edge of the beach. She could see the boat listing dangerously in the water, lurching nearer and nearer. Was it a man at the helm? She couldn’t be sure. She tried to call out, but the howling gale swallowed up her voice entirely. Freya was conscious, for the first time in a long while, of her own insignificance in the face of nature.

  She wasn’t sure how much later it was, whether seconds or minutes, before there was a crunching sound, as the underside of the boat collided with something. As Marta joined her on the beach, there was a churning noise, as if air was escaping rapidly into water, and the boat began to overturn. It was now no more than thirty feet from where they stood. Freya frantically aimed her torch at the boat’s captain – a man, she was now sure – and then downwards into the sea. She repeated the movement several times, trying to indicate to him what he should do. After a few moments, she saw a dark figure jump and she followed him with the beam of light.

  Marta threw the ring towards the man and shouted out several times. Her voice was whipped away unheard. But the man seemed alert enough still to know what she had done. Freya illuminated the ring and she saw him try to catch hold of it. But the waves were strong and it eluded him. She took a couple of steps forwards into the water, wondering whether she could make it out to him. But Marta pulled her back, shaking her head. The waves were too forceful. Freya continued to shine the torch back and forth between the man and the life ring. She was just beginning to think that the struggle would prove too much for him when he made a final lunge and grabbed hold of it. She and Marta took up the slack on the rope and began to pull him, slowly and erratically, towards the shore.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Freya yelled when she was finally close enough to be heard. The cold water around her legs was making her breathless.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ the man shouted back, as he moved in and out of the torchlight. She could see his ashen face and blood streaming down over one eye from a deep gash on his forehead.

  The women pulled on the rope again and Freya gauged that he was almost near enough for them to reach him. Then Marta took another step forward and grabbed for him, catching hold of his body. ‘Can you stand?’ she asked.

  The man nodded, getting shakily to his feet.

  ‘Is there anyone else aboard?’

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, his blood dripping into the seawater.

  Marta pulled him closer and both women took hold of him. His body was freezing. Moments later, stumbling, they made it onto the beach.

  ‘Not much further,’ yelled Freya. ‘Put an arm over each of our shoulders. It’s just up that hill. Come on, you can do it.’

  The man looked at her and nodded. But she could see that his eyes were unfocused. He looked exhausted. Somehow they staggered back to the cottage. When they got inside and finally let go of him, he collapsed on the sofa and passed out.

  For a second both women stared at him, bewildered. Then they sprang into action.

  ‘You get towels and blankets from the bathroom cupboard,’ Freya said to Marta. ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit.’

  For several minutes there was a frenzy of movement and activity. Freya took the man’s temperature. He was over 95 degrees Fahrenheit, so not hypothermic yet. But he needed to be warmed up. Marta returned and they stripped him of his sodden clothes. His body was icy and wet so they towelled him dry. Then they covered him tightly with blankets. While Marta boiled the kettle, Freya cleaned the wound on his head, bandaged it and then pulled a woollen hat on over the top. When Marta had prepared hot-water bottles, they placed them along his body – to avoid the shock of heating his extremities first. Then, finally, the women stood back.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Marta, a small quiver in her voice.

  ‘Yeah. Well done.’ Freya hugged her sister and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Now let’s get out of these wet clothes.’

  Outside the storm showed no sign of abating. Rain thrashed the cottage and lightning ruptured the sky. Freya took the man’s temperature again. Higher this time. Exhausted, the sisters sat beside him, watching his breathing, still shallow, but not dangerous now. They looked at the man’s f
ace, watched the blue tinge of his lips slowly fade. Only when they were sure he was out of danger did they go to bed.

  The following morning the weather had changed dramatic-ally. The storm had blown itself out, the air was crisp and still and the sun was shining. Freya had risen early and had already been down to the beach to survey the damage by the time the man began to stir.

  She was sitting in the armchair beside him when he opened his eyes and pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked around him, perplexed, without recognition, but when he caught sight of Freya, he seemed to remember and the tension went out of his body. ‘Good morning,’ he said, manoeuvring himself upright on the sofa. The blanket that Freya had covered him with the night before slid down, exposing his bare chest.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said and smiled.

  ‘Good morning,’ Marta called from the kitchen where she was making breakfast.

  The man turned towards her but then winced and his hand moved to his head. He pulled off the woollen hat and touched the bandage on his forehead.

  ‘Nasty wound. I dressed it,’ Freya said. ‘Other than that you’re in pretty good shape. No hypothermia, you’ll be glad to know. Just a few bumps and bruises. We had to take a look. I hope you don’t mind.’ She indicated his clothes on a chair next to the sofa.

  The man seemed to notice his shirtless torso for the first time, but made no effort to pull the blanket up over himself. ‘No, I don’t mind,’ he said. His clear blue eyes, as they flicked towards her, were flat, unreadable, but there seemed an absence of gratitude to his tone that made Freya wonder whether in fact he did. She felt a sudden flash of annoyance. Perhaps he would have preferred to be unexamined and die of internal bleeding or some other cause.

  She assessed him for a moment: the dark, almost black, tousled hair, the pale skin, with stubble now sticking to the chin, the haunting eyes. He looked like he had been through the mill. But still.

  ‘Yep – you had a lucky escape.’ Marta made her way towards them with a pot of coffee. She paused on the threshold and smiled.

  The man looked at her and nodded. In the movement, Freya thought again that she detected a hint of impatience, of resentment, perhaps, that he had to be thankful to them. He paused, and let out a quiet sigh. ‘I might not have been so lucky but for you two.’ And then, eventually, as if an afterthought, ‘Thank you.’ He paused again. ‘I’m Daniel by the way. Sorry, I should have said that earlier. I’m not thinking straight and things are coming out in the wrong order.’

  ‘I’m Freya.’

  ‘And I’m Marta. Her sister. I’d offer you my hand but I feel we’re beyond that somewhat.’ She laughed. ‘Strange to meet you.’

  Daniel looked at her and smiled faintly. ‘Yeah, you too.’

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Marta put down the cafetiere and went back to the kitchen. Daniel’s eyes followed her for a moment and then moved around the cottage.

  ‘So do you two live out here?’

  ‘I do. My sister’s just visiting.’

  Marta returned with mugs, milk and sugar. Then she poured them all a cup of coffee and moved back, leaning against the sitting-room wall. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’ As Daniel reached to pick up the milk jug, Freya noticed his hand was shaking slightly.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He looked at her properly then for the first time, and in that moment there seemed to be a familiarity about him. At first Freya thought it was the eyes, their icy blueness, their hardness, so similar to Jack’s. But it wasn’t that. It was something else.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what you were doing out in a storm like that? You don’t look like a novice.’

  Daniel smiled, but still it didn’t touch his eyes. ‘Thanks … I think. To be honest, I don’t really know what happened. I’d been out in the boat all day and it kind of caught me unawares. I know that sounds ridiculous. I’ve been sailing here for years so I should have known better.’

  ‘It came out of nowhere, I’ll give you that. But didn’t you follow the weather updates?’

  He shrugged his shoulders but didn’t answer.

  ‘Or radio the coastguard?’

  Again Daniel shrugged. Then he smiled almost apologetically. ‘I thought I’d be okay.’

  ‘I see,’ Freya said. ‘So what do you do around here when you’re not being shipwrecked?’ she asked. Her eyes flicked over to Marta, still leaning against the wall watching Daniel, and she wondered what her sister thought of him.

  ‘I’m an archaeologist. I’ve lived on Barra on and off for the last ten years or so. But I’m not from there. I’ve been working with Sheffield University – finding and protecting sites, that sort of thing.’

  Freya nodded. ‘So where are you from originally?’

  ‘Yorkshire,’ Marta interjected. ‘You still have the accent.’

  Daniel smiled at her and for the first time his eyes smiled too. ‘That I do. And what about you?’

  ‘London,’ Marta said.

  ‘Hmm. They must love you here even more than they do me.’

  Freya laughed. ‘Some of them, perhaps.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘Even though I’ve done eight winters in Castlebay, I’m not truly accepted.’

  ‘Of course not. You won’t ever really belong, no matter how long you stay. So you took the boat from Barra yesterday?’

  He nodded. ‘I had some time off and it was a beautiful day. To start off with, at least. I sailed down to Vatersay, spent ages there, and then I got to thinking that I could make it over past Tiree to Mull and see some friends. But by the afternoon, when I was over halfway there, things on the sea were changing. By then it seemed as bad to turn back as to keep going, but I got blown seriously off course. Thank God for your little island.’

  As Freya looked at him, she found herself wondering how old Daniel was. Perhaps thirty-five. He was younger than her by a few years – more Marta’s age, she guessed. Again she had the feeling that there was something familiar about him. But she still couldn’t put her finger on what it was. ‘You’ll have to get someone out here to take a look at your boat. It’s damaged but reparable. Why don’t we have some breakfast and then I can take you to Mull or Barra if you like?’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Freya. Thanks.’ And, for the first time, she thought he meant it. That perhaps a little of his guard had come down.

  ‘Yeah, she’s all heart,’ said Marta, winking at her sister. ‘And fortunately for you, a much better sailor than you are.’

  Daniel laughed.

  ‘Why don’t you get dressed and then come into the kitchen when you’re ready,’ Freya said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Daniel said. ‘You’ve both been great.’

  As the sisters left the sitting room, Marta turned to Freya and frowned slightly. Freya knew exactly what she meant. He was reserved, that was for sure, but he seemed to be opening up. She smiled. But then he had just spent the night on their sofa naked after battling through a pretty big storm. That was enough, perhaps, to throw quite a few men.

  18

  TWO DAYS HAD passed since the storm.

  Freya stood on the lighthouse gallery looking west. The sky was bright and cloudless, and she thought that she could just make out the shadow of Dubh Artach in the distance. The lighthouse was a pale streak of pewter rising from the horizon, an insubstantial smudge that looked as if, in the blink of an eye, it could vanish beneath the waves. Besides that, there was nothing. The sea was empty.

  She turned her attention northwards away from the distant lighthouse. Looking out over the ocean landscape she could see Coll and Tiree; beyond them, she knew, even though it was obscured, was Barra. It made her think of Daniel. The day before, someone had come out to the island to take his boat away for repair, but he had not come with them. No matter.

  ‘He was a bit odd anyway,’ was Marta’s concise take on events. ‘Dishy but somewhat aloof. I g
uess that might have had something to do with the near concussion and hypothermia. But whatever …’

  Freya smiled and, releasing her grip on the iron railings, made her way back inside. As she closed the door behind her, she looked at the lamp, properly, perhaps for the first time. It was huge, with intersecting sections of glass which, she knew from Pol, were dust traps. She ran her fingers over one of them and surveyed the thick layer of grey dirt on her fingertips. Perhaps the coming and going in the tower, opening and closing the gallery door, was dirtying the lamp faster than usual. She couldn’t bear the thought of that and, knowing that Pol would not be visiting for at least a couple more weeks, began to look around for the cleaning materials he used. She opened the cupboard doors below the lamp but there was nothing besides a few filthy old rags – no doubt abandoned by Pol at some point – which would dirty the lamp further.

  She hunted around, on the shelves and floor nearby, but there was nothing. She was about to head down the stairs to the kitchen, when she spotted a tiny cupboard in a corner of the room. Looking inside, she could see nothing there but an old cardboard box. She opened the lid briefly but it looked to be filled with clutter, and there weren’t any cloths, dusters or anything else useful nearby. Perhaps Pol brought all of that with him when he did his inspection. Freya let the lid fall shut once more and took a step back, about to close the cupboard door. Then, for the first time, she saw the faint scrawl on the side of the box. KEEP OUT. PRIVATE. Her heart leapt. It was Sam’s writing. She knelt down and with shaking hands pulled the box out of the cupboard. Then she ran her fingers over the letters, written in faded red felt-tip pen. Yes, it had been written by Sam.