She sips.
Berries. Vanilla, maybe.
Her home is Lowfield. It is small, cream-walled and south-facing – and it’s a house with no logic, for the kitchen leads into the bedroom and the bath is in a room of its own, far away from the loo. Things creak. Floors slope. She says it has character, as most Parlan houses have – and why would she want a bland home? With paper lampshades and plastic chairs? She has furniture from her childhood here – a linen chest, a grandfather clock. Tabitha touches the clock as she passes it, her wine in her other hand.
There is logic in its name, at least. Lowfield – for it sits in a hollow, a nest of grassy mounds. Three sides of the house look out onto banks of gorse, bramble and grazing sheep; on those three sides, it is fully sheltered from the wind. When Tabitha moved here in her early thirties she had lain in her bed and thought where is the noise? The rumbling? The spray on the windowpanes? For these were the things she was used to. Her childhood had been in the lighthouse-keeper’s quarters and so any inland sleeping place seemed eerie to her, and still. Surely an island home should rattle in the wind? When she came to Lowfield, a storm passed overhead one night and she knew nothing of it. She only learnt of the storm the next morning: as she stood in the garden in her dressing gown and looked at the fallen fence-post – upended, with black earth at the base of it – she told herself this will make a good home. A safe place. It also makes a good place for the tired and sick to come.
That was thirty years ago. Now, her waist has thickened. She has pouches of skin beneath her eyes and when she walks in her slippers she hears herself – the padding on the wooden floors, the slow pace. I walk as if I’m old. It has happened so quickly, or seems to have done. It seems like a day or two ago that she’d worn a red bikini, jumped from the sea wall.
Briefly, Tabitha feels sad. She has her regrets – but Lowfield is not one of them. It is hers; she has spent half of her lifetime here. It feels nurturing, as a home should. Cupped by the Parlan land.
The only room with a view of the sea is what she calls the mending room. She’s always called it this. Surgery feels too grand for it: a white-painted room, linoleum floor, a small cabinet of pills and liquids that islanders have prescriptions for and others which she keeps just in case. A table and chair face the door. Behind them, she has a poster of the musculature of the human body – reddish and gruesome, which the children love. On the table, Tabitha keeps an African violet; she likes its dark, furred leaves.
This room has seen plenty, that’s for sure. It holds its secrets – small ones, and ones that have changed a life and other lives. She, Tabitha, knows all of them. Lorcan, also, must have heard some strange confessions over the years – he walks with the weight of what he’s been told, or so it looks, for he has lumbar pain that she gives him codeine for and a stern telling-off when he carries too many hymn books. They go to him for their souls; for their bodies they come to Lowfield, and so here it is that Tabitha listens to hearts and takes temperatures and tends to the wounds that come from a life of farming, or the sea – a half-severed thumb from the shearing blades, or rope-burn that has broken the skin. She knows who has high blood pressure, who does not sleep, and who is on the contraceptive pill. She knows who drinks too much, whose skin flakes under their clothes, who takes pills to thin their blood, who has athlete’s foot, cold sores, piles. She knows of Sam’s migraines, of her own sister’s painful joints. And Tabitha has brought babies into the world, in her time – all five of the Lovegrove children and three of her own family have slid like eels into her waiting hands.
Tabitha sips. She thinks all those secrets … Once, newly qualified, she’d believed that everything was curable – every human pain. But she was wrong to think it. Guilt, heartbreak – what cures them? Or simply makes them bearable? Nothing on her shelves.
Still – she views this room as safety. She wants each person who steps into it to feel cared for. With the pot-plant and the pressed bed linen, she has always tried for that.
In the far corner, there is an iron-framed single bed. Tabitha goes to it, sits down. She pushes her slippers off with her toes, swings her legs up and nestles back. From here, she can see the finger of land called Litty, the nettle patch which no-one has ever mowed or dug up because of the voles that live there. The tiny, tufty-eared Parlan vole – it is its own species, and rare, and she has seen one or two in her time or at least the nettles swaying where a vole has darted from. Beyond Litty, there is the water. The sea – scattered with light. What view was ever better than this?
She wiggles her toes in their polka-dot socks.
Tabitha drinks her pink wine.
* * *
You knock.
No, you. I can’t take my hand away, it’s under his head – see?
Ian curses. He is aching. He has carried a thousand sheep in his life, slung round his neck like a collar and he’s carried boat engines and tractor wheels and his own kids when they were young – but not this weight, and not so far. I’m too old for this, he thinks.
He kicks at Tabitha’s door. Three kicks, low down near the doorframe – all too hard.
The men shift. They are steaming like horses, sweat on their top lips and brows. The man they carry groans overhead so that Ian says, hurry up …
The kicking must have startled her for when Tabitha unlocks the door, she peers around it as if unsure of what she might find. But then she sees Ian. She sees all of them, widens her eyes. Looks like you’d better come in, she says.
She leans against the wall to let them pass.
The room smells of disinfectant and a false, lavender scent which comes from a bottle plugged into the wall. Put him on the bed.
He goes down heavily.
All four men exhale. Then they stretch, step away. Nathan straightens and his back clicks. Jonny rotates his right shoulder and says Jesus. What do you think he weighs?
Tabitha is by the bed. Foremost, she is the nurse – not the aunt, not the great-aunt or the friend – and she busies herself with what a nurse must do, lifting the man’s head and arranging the pillow beneath it. She takes his wrist, watches the wall clock as she does so. With her eyes still on the clock she asks who is he? Do we know him?
Ian says no.
What happened?
Sam found him.
Where?
At Sye.
On the stones?
Just lying there, says Sam. I thought he was dead.
She nods; the man’s pulse is good. Tabitha can feel the warm bloom of his breath against her arm. She feels the edge of the vest he wears, finds it is cold and hardening with salt – so she opens a nearby drawer, lifts scissors out. When had she last used them? For what? On whom?
She cuts away his clothing. The chest that appears is dark with hair. Has he spoken?
Jonny shrugs. He’s muttered a bit –
He tried to say something, Nathan tells her.
So he’s been conscious?
Yes.
He didn’t lose it at any point?
Not since we’ve been with him.
Any wounds?
His hands – Ian points.
She looks. Ian’s right – the fingernails are torn, and three of his knuckles are bruised. When she turns the hands over, she finds his palms are dirtied, rough and red-coloured. Pinheads of blood. Grains of sand. Grazes.
From what?
Rope, maybe? Hard to say. And here …
There is more, too. On his left hand, in the soft web of flesh between the thumb and forefinger, there is a very different wound. It is neither fresh nor old. It is reddish-brown. Perfectly round, like an eye.
Tabitha cannot know what caused such marks. But hands mend and mend quickly; hands do not worry her too much. It is his head that Tabitha turns to now: the head, which she always thought of as a world in its own right – with its seas and land and weather, its mysteries that, in fact, no human brain can fathom. She snaps on latex gloves. Slowly, she starts to feel through his hair. She searches
for cuts, or swellings, or a tender part that will make him wince. His hair is so thick she must move it aside, in sections. Where there is scalp, she presses it; like this she makes her way round his head – from ear to ear, from brow to nape. His eyes half-open. His lips move, as if he dreams.
No sign of swelling, she says.
That’s good. Right? Sam is anxious.
Yes, Sam – it’s good.
She peels off the gloves. There is a woollen blanket at the foot of the bed and she pulls it up over her patient, over his long, muscular legs. It does not reach beyond his chest so she tucks it round him, brings his arms to his sides. There is, Tabitha thinks, a strong smell in the room – of sweat, from the men, and cigarette smoke, but also fish and brine and an earthiness. Sheep.
She turns to them. You needn’t stay. It’s late.
He’s OK? He’s not dying?
No, he’s not dying. A childish question from Sam. He stands there – awkward, thin, with sunburn and his unbrushed hair. Tabitha had delivered this boy. That day feels like yesterday. She remembers his mother in this room, refusing to lie down or to sit – she’d paced the room as an animal might. And then Samuel came out as she’d crouched on the floor, gripping the table legs, with Tabitha saying one more! That’s it! How long ago was that? Two decades and more. She feels sorry for him, suddenly. He is both so old and so young.
He’s dehydrated, and he’s exhausted. And I’ll give him a tetanus jab for the sake of it. But other than that, he seems alright. She shrugs. We’ll see what happens when he wakes. It’s sleep he needs, now.
They look at each other, briefly.
Ian moves first. He slaps his thighs once, rises up from the chair saying right. That’ll do me. Come on, Jonny.
Jonny follows his father, walking in the low, rhythmic way that young men seem to – nonchalant, easy. He says see you, Uncle Nathan. He does not speak to Sam as he passes him. He brushes the leaves of the African violet; his draught moves the unpinned corner of a poster on mental health.
The two men walk out into the garden and are gone.
Sam waits for a moment further. Then, will you be alright?
Alright?
I mean, here – on your own. With this man who …
Tabitha smiles. I’ll be fine, Sam. I’ve dealt with far worse than a sleeping man, I can promise you that. Will you tell your father what happened? I’ll call him in the morning. When he was born, Sam Lovegrove had been jaundiced. His skin had the hue of iodine, or old tea, and he had been so small. Now he is – what? Six foot?
Are you sure?
Honestly. Go.
So he, too, goes. He steps into the fading light.
It means that Nathan is left. He stands against the wall by the door, hands in his pockets, one ankle crossed over the other. His head is down as if looking at the floor, but his eyes are looking through his hair at the stranger who lies asleep on the bed beneath a blue blanket. It is a gaze of intent – a hunter’s look, or a detective’s.
I thought you’d linger, the nurse says.
* * *
He can smell the latex gloves and the glass of pink wine, and Nathan can smell fish in this room. The tang of it.
His aunt moves carefully. Plump Aunt Tab, with her pearl earrings and cotton-pale hair. She clicks her tongue, as she works – half-humming – and this is a sound that is hers, entirely. She seems to half-hum all the time. When he was a boy, Nathan would hear his aunt before he saw her because of this sound or her bicycle bell. She still has that bicycle. It has a wicker basket, a slight squeak, and he feels like a boy when he sees his aunt on it – leaning forwards with the effort. Tabitha, who warms a room by entering it with her cheery only me!
What do you think? he asks her.
She has her back to him. She is standing on her tiptoes, reaching up to the top shelf of a cabinet. With her fingertips she coaxes down a plastic tub that has envelopes in. These envelopes have transparent windows through which he can see needles.
What do I think? Well … She considers it. It’s strange, that’s for sure. Where has he come from?
A swimmer, maybe. Got tired.
Maybe. I’ll call Rona – see if a guest is missing.
Tabitha places a needle in a metal dish. It chimes like a bell. Then Nathan watches as she moves to a second cabinet, takes a small key from her pocket and unlocks it. Inside, there are vials.
Tab? Don’t you think …? But he can’t say it. Nathan isn’t even sure what he is trying to say except that he is shaken, confused, and that he does not like what’s happened and does not want to be here but nor can he take his eyes off the iron-framed bed in the corner of the room, or leave. His aunt tilts her head. She is waiting for more words from him, and he has seen his mother stand like this. He has looked for his mother in a crowd and found her because of the way she has tilted her head, as a bird might listen for worms. They have the same nose, too. They aren’t close and never have been. But they are sisters in how they speak, and move.
Don’t I think … what?
Doesn’t matter.
But it does – it does. And Tabitha knows this for she puts the vial down and comes towards him. She puts her hand on the back of his hand and says I know what you’re thinking. I thought it too. When I opened the door and saw the four of you holding this man in the air, I saw his hair and his beard, and I thought … She pauses, smiles. But –
He nods.
We’ll find out who he is. When he wakes up, we’ll ask him.
Nathan knows there are many words that were never said, and must be said one day – but he cannot say them now. Not late in the evening and not in this room.
He feels tired, suddenly – bone-tired, heavy.
Go, says Tabitha. She squeezes his upper arm.
* * *
Nathan walks back through the fields. It is past nine. The sky is eerie – not light, not dark. At the north of the island the lighthouse is awake and it finds him – five half-seconds every minute of being dazzled, white. He climbs over fences, ducks under wires.
Last night there had been a northerly wind and last night he had not slept. All night, he had lain awake. I should have known, he thinks.
He thinks, too, how sore his back is from the man’s weight. He thinks of the words he’d been trying to say, as they carried him – sea? It had sounded like sea, which isn’t so odd since he must have been in it for a long time, at least. Whoever he is, he has swum – lungfuls of salt, salty-eyed. And as Nathan walks up the driveway to his home he thinks, suddenly, of the time when he and his younger brother had caught a crab off Litty’s pier with a piece of string and a chicken bone – the biggest crab they’d ever seen. It was huge, orange-mottled. They’d wanted to keep it as a pet – and so they’d charged home, put it in the bathroom sink and hidden side by side in the airing cupboard, waiting for Hester to come to clean her teeth. Two screams from their sister – one at the crab, and one as they burst out at her with a shouted boo! He hears it now – her screaming. And he can hear his brother’s laughter – bright, like piano scales. He can see that crab.
He sniffs. Nathan looks up at the house in the distance. There is a light on at Crest. It is the kitchen light, he can tell, and he pictures Maggie at that moment – cracking an egg against a glass bowl or rinsing vegetables. She holds her hair back with a pencil, sometimes. Perhaps she is doing that now.
And Nathan thinks, too, of his wife.
When was the last time a person was washed ashore? A living person? It’s not happened in his lifetime. The sea takes lives; it doesn’t give them. There are no stories of a sea-given life.
I will wake up tomorrow. I will have dreamt this.
As Nathan reaches High Haven, he slows. The wind-chimes stir. Its lights are on and the windows are open and the curtains drift in and out, in and out, like ghosts.
* * *
By the harbour wall, Sam vomits. He has both hands against the stones, his legs apart. Afterwards, he spits. He wipes his mouth with his sl
eeve, steps away from it. Above him, a waning moon.
At Wind Rising, Ian goes to the fridge. He finds a bottle of beer and pulls it out by the neck. He shuts the fridge with his foot, twists the cap and drinks with his eyes closed.
When it is nearly midnight, Tabitha leaves the mending room. She has given a tetanus injection, and she’s rubbed antiseptic cream on his hands. She’s filled a glass of water and in his half-sleep, the man has drunk it – spilling some so that Tabitha had to wipe his chin, mother-like. She leaves him sleeping on his side.
In her bedroom, she takes off her wristwatch and lays it on the chest of drawers. She unpins her earrings, one at a time. When she goes to draw the curtains, she sees the grass blowing and she narrows her eyes when she sees it – is the wind northerly? It seems to be. She will know by morning.
By morning everyone will know. Within hours, there will be talking. The whole island will be whispering – have you heard …? A bearded man was found at Sye. Yes, there was; he sleeps in her mending room.
Once she is in her dressing gown, Tabitha goes back there. His breathing is steady, and deep. Parla, she thinks, is known for its lighthouse. It’s known for the puffins which nest on its north coast, its tea room and its tender lamb. It’s known for the wreck of the Anne-Rosa which divers come for, or used to. And it’s known for the accident nearly four years ago which no-one has recovered from, as far as she can tell – certainly not Nathan, and not Ian and not Sam.
She settles next to the wrought-iron bed.
Her own life changed nearly four years ago. Everyone’s life changed three years, ten months, three weeks and four days ago, and we do not speak of it – we never speak of what we lost. As if the loss would be greater if it was named and talked over. But it could not be greater.
The Silver Dark Sea Page 3