The Botanist’s Daughter

by Kayte Nunn

  She’d learned where to find the plumpest oysters and when to harvest them; where the shoals were shallowest and likely to ground the tinny. To appreciate the beauty of the pearly light of dawn during the solitary joy of a morning kayak, her paddle pleating the water into ripples that stretched out in her wake. It had been hard to leave and go to university in the city.

  When her dad had retired, he and her mother had returned to Pittwater, to a house built into the side of a hill and surrounded by gum trees and overrun with lantana.

  She planned to squeeze in a week or so with them on her way through Australia, but hadn’t rung. Wanted to surprise them. Her mouth watered at the thought of her mum’s scones, warm and spread thick with homemade jam. They’d be disappointed she wouldn’t stay longer, but she couldn’t help that.

  Rachel shed lives as easily as a snake its skin, starting afresh somewhere new every couple of years, never stopping to look back. The new posting, to a group of islands off the coast of southern England, was an interesting one – to her anyway. She would be studying the unattractively named Venus verrucosa, or warty venus clam. Another bivalve, if rather smaller than her beloved pa’ua. Clams, it seemed, had become her thing.

  She was to survey the islands, estimating the verrucosa population to determine changes and their correlation to ambient and sea temperatures. She would be entirely on her own, not part of a group as she had been previously, and it was this, as much as the actual project, that most appealed to her.

  The irony that she studied sessile sea creatures, ones that barely moved once they fixed themselves to the ocean floor, when she drifted through the world like weed on the current, was not lost on her. Unlike the clams that cemented themselves to the seabed with sticky byssal threads, she never became attached, to anything, anywhere or anyone.

  ‘Safe travels,’ said LeiLei, coming around the counter to engulf her in a plump, sweetly scented hug and handing back her passport. ‘Come and see us again soon.’

  She smiled at her friend, turned and didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  London, Spring 2018

  Rachel arrived in London at the same time as a vicious cold snap. Its effect on her was made worse by the fact that she’d come straight from a sultry southern hemisphere autumn. Before flying north, she had spent a couple of weeks in Pittwater catching up with her parents and siblings. Her parents both looked older than the last time she’d seen them more than three years earlier, although they still appeared to be spry.

  Her father, long retired from the navy now, spent most of his days vigorously attacking the weeds that threatened to engulf their home, attempting to marshal them into the same kind of order that he had once imposed on the sailors under his command. Her mother busied herself with an endless round of yoga, twilight sailing and baking for what seemed like the entire community. They both lived as if in perpetual motion and Rachel sometimes wished she had half their energy.

  She spent most of her time there on the verandah overlooking the water, reading or watching the bright lorikeets flash by. She and her dad kayaked in early morning stillness, holding their breath as the rising sun chased away wisps of fog that hung over the water.

  Her younger brother was on the other side of the country, but one Sunday, her older brother and sister drove up from their homes in the city, bringing with them Rachel’s nieces and nephews, several of whom were now well into their teens but still loved to hear her stories of turtles and stingrays, whale sharks and giant clams, particularly the pa’ua. She showed them photographs of Tridacna gigas and Tridacna derasa. ‘They were introduced from Australia actually,’ she explained, flicking through the pictures on her phone. ‘And no two are the same. A bit like fingerprints.’ They delighted in the vibrant purple and turquoise, jade and scarlet, tiger-striped and cheetah-spotted markings of their mantles. ‘They can live for more than a century and weigh up to two hundred and fifty kilos,’ she added as they jostled to get a better view.

  ‘No way!’ Jasper, her nephew exclaimed. He was still young enough to be impressed by such things.

  Later, as they sat outdoors, toasting the last rays of the sun with glasses of cold white wine and slapping away the mozzies, Rachel let herself imagine what her life might be like if she too lived in Sydney. She wasn’t sure if it was a frightening or appealing prospect. She loved her family, but even they could get too much for her sometimes.

  ‘It’d be nice if you could make it for Christmas one year Noes,’ her brother said. Noes – short for ‘nosey parker’ – had been his childhood nickname for her: she had liked to spy on him, torn between wanting to join in games with him and his friends and standing on the sidelines, an observer. ‘The kids will be gone before we know it and I know it would make Mum happy.’

  ‘What would make me happy?’ her mother asked, stepping out onto the verandah.

  ‘Coming back here more often,’ said Rachel. ‘Especially for Christmas.’

  ‘I can’t deny that,’ said her mum, placing a reassuring hand on Rachel’s shoulder. ‘But you have to live your life as you choose. If nothing else, I’m proud we gave you all the gift of independence.’

  ‘Some of us took it more literally than others.’ Her brother was only half-kidding.

  ‘One year. I promise,’ said Rachel, meaning it. She didn’t think either of them believed her.

  Now, on a freezing grey day and completely underdressed (she was wearing her lucky T-shirt with don’t sweat the detials printed on the front), Rachel caught the tube to South Kensington, arriving exactly on time for her appointment with Dr Charles Wentworth. He was the supervisor of the project she was about to undertake and worked in the Life Sciences department at the Natural History Museum.

  They’d spoken via a pixelated Skype call, the connection sporadically dropping out, while she was in Aitutaki, and he’d followed up by email with confirmation of the job and this appointment.

  She found the research offices and presented herself to the receptionist. The room was warm and she felt herself begin to defrost, curling and uncurling her fingers as the feeling returned to them.

  ‘Ah hello there, you must be Miss Parker.’ She looked up to see the man in front of her holding out a hand in greeting. ‘Dr Wentworth. But call me Charles.’

  ‘Rachel,’ she said, getting to her feet and taking his hand. He had a firm grip and cool, dry skin and she decided she liked the look of him. Heavy tortoiseshell glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose, his shoulders had the slightly hunched look of someone who spent too many hours looking through a microscope and his tie appeared to have some of his breakfast clinging to it. Egg yolk, if she wasn’t mistaken. His smile was warm and genuine and she found herself returning it easily.

  He led her into his office and proceeded to outline the previous study and what it had entailed, handing over several thick manila folders of information. ‘They pertain to the original work and also outline what we expect you will address in your research, but basically you’ll be looking at this one particular clam and determining any indicators of ecosystem change.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rachel. ‘Venus verrucosa.’

  ‘Indeed. I gather from our previous conversation that you are something of a fan of such bivalves, though I confess, this hardly compares to the spectacular species you have been studying on Aitutaki.’

  As he said this, a dreamy look came over him. It often did, Rachel had noticed, when people mentioned the tropical islands of the South Pacific, Tahiti, Bora Bora, the Cooks … Gauguin had a lot to answer for.

  She inclined her head. ‘Nevertheless, this is equally as important.’

  ‘Oh absolutely. It’ll form part of a nationwide study on the effects of climate change on our marine life, and the rate at which the increasing acidification of our waters affects their growth patterns.’ His eyes shone behind his glasses. ‘The Scilly Isles are a favourite of mine. If I didn’t have to put my children through school, I’d be down there like a shot.’r />
  ‘I’ve heard they’re stunning,’ she said politely, noticing that his attention had been diverted elsewhere as he rifled through the paperwork on his desk.

  ‘Ah, yes, here it is.’ He held a sheet aloft and peered at it. ‘There’s just a slight hiccup with the funding, but not to worry, I’m certain it will all sort itself out. Paperwork, details … that’s all.’

  Rachel felt a faint stirring of alarm. She’d quit her previous job for this.

  ‘Haven’t quite got it signed off, but it’ll all be tickety-boo in a week or so,’ he added.

  Tickety-boo. She hoped that meant what she thought it did.

  ‘No need for you to be concerned, dear girl …’

  Rachel ground her teeth. She was a thirty-five-year-old woman, not someone’s ‘dear girl’. She held herself in check. Charles Wentworth was her supervisor and she was depending on him for this job.

  ‘Should I delay my journey?’ she asked, hoping his answer would be a negative one. She had no desire to cool her heels in London any longer than necessary. Big cities were an anathema to her: they were dirty, crowded and exhausting. They sapped her spirit and she found herself becoming irritable and anxious the more time she spent in them. London, with its kamikaze cyclists threatening to wipe her out every time she tried to cross the road, and the press of people on buses and the Tube in rush hour, made her especially claustrophobic.

  ‘Oh I don’t think that will be necessary,’ he said breezily. ‘It’s a mere formality. I must say,’ he added, sifting through some more papers, ‘your references are excellent.’

  Rachel had got on well with her previous supervisor, and although he had been sad to see her leave, he’d promised to sing her praises. She smiled and sent a mental note of thanks to him.

  ‘Now, why don’t we talk about what you will be expected to produce. Since you will be unsupervised down there, I – and the higher-ups – will need a weekly report emailed to us outlining your activities and progress.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘Of course. That won’t be a problem at all.’

  ‘As I mentioned when we last spoke, there’s a cottage: two-up two-down.’ He caught her puzzled look. ‘Two rooms upstairs, and two downstairs,’ he explained.

  ‘It sounds more salubrious than my last accommodation,’ she reassured him, thinking of the one-room thatched-roof bungalow that she had shared with an ever-changing insect population.

  ‘Jolly good then. I think that about covers it. Did you have any questions?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, then good luck and I expect you’ll be in touch if anything does come up. Nice T-shirt by the way.’

  Rachel smiled again. After her meeting, her next pressing task was to kit herself out with a new wardrobe suitable for the northern hemisphere winter.

  He stood up and Rachel did the same, shaking hands once more before stowing the folders in her daypack and retracing her path to the entrance. She needed to find an outdoor gear store for waterproofs, hiking boots and thermal layers. A cold wind bit through the thin cotton of her top and she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as she hurried in the direction of the nearest Tube station.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Little Embers, Autumn 1951

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ said John. Esther followed his gaze. The path had come to an abrupt end in front of a low wall, over which she could see a large, two-storey house made from the same stone standing on its own on a small rise. There were patches of yellowing lichen on the walls, flaking, white-painted window frames, a deep lintel and a steeply pitched, gabled roof. Thin grey smoke emanated from a row of chimney pots at either end but was quickly snatched away by the wind. A dark green creeper had almost engulfed one end of the house, as if a creature were in the process of swallowing it whole.

  ‘This is a most odd kind of place for a holiday,’ she said, turning to her husband, who was wrestling with a gate, remembering as she did that she had promised before God to obey him. Apparently that now included coming to the ends of the earth with him on what she could only determine was little more than a whim.

  Theirs had been a marriage while not exactly of convenience then certainly of expedience, the product of post-war euphoria, a sense of possibility in the world again, but that the day should be seized lest it be lost forever. Her father of course had said that she was too young, but her mother – always the pragmatist – hadn’t objected. Young men were thin on the ground, too many of them had perished on foreign soil, and Mother had warned that even beautiful, clever girls – especially clever girls – would find themselves without a beau if they weren’t careful.

  They met at a church social; his parish being only a couple of miles from hers. Esther was down from university for the holidays, and despite her preference to stay in and study The Poetics, a friend had persuaded her to tag along. She’d spotted John across the hall, his height and direct gaze in her direction marking him out among a homogeneous sea of heads. He had brought her a cup of punch, she remembered, apologising for the lack of ice, as if it were somehow his fault. She was charmed, as much by his two left feet when they danced the jive (he apologised for that too) as by his ready smile and quiet manner, so different from the loud, brash men she had previously encountered. He asked to see her again the next day, taking her for a stroll in a nearby woodland and doing nothing more than holding her hand. ‘If we went to the pictures we wouldn’t be able to talk to each other,’ he said. ‘And that would be a terrible shame.’ She experienced a small thrill at those words. Perhaps here was a man who wanted intelligent conversation from a woman, not merely a decorative accessory to hang on his arm and his every word.

  That he was a banker held little interest for her but pleased both her parents no end. ‘A steady income,’ her mother had said. ‘A respectable job,’ chimed her father.

  Esther had hesitated only briefly in accepting John’s proposal after a few months of walking out together. They had both determinedly ignored the tiny chip – a mere splinter really – on his shoulder that while she was studying at Cambridge, he had gone straight from school into the city.

  They were married the week after her final examinations in a simple ceremony at her parish church. Her father escorted her down the aisle and handed her to John like a parcel being transferred from one man to another. She went from being Esther Parkes to Esther Durrant in the blink of an eye.

  She didn’t attend her graduation ceremony, held in the autumn of that year: by then she was three months’ pregnant and even being upright made her retch uncontrollably.

  Esther found herself in a partnership that was, if not exactly exciting, at least solid and dependable. She’d sometimes wondered if there might not be more to a marriage than the gentle affection that existed between them, but the fact of an honest, good man who loved her was not to be taken lightly. John was never going to surprise her (to delight her was more than one could reasonably hope for), but she knew others fared worse. All things considered, she counted herself a fortunate woman.

  Teddy had come along before they had even been married a year and there had been no question, even on her part, of her taking up employment, nor of continuing her studies past her undergraduate degree. In the first year after his birth, she had thrown herself into motherhood with all of the zeal she had once reserved for her studies, determined to be the perfect mother, the good wife. Teddy, and John, wanted for nothing from her.

  She refused to countenance an unspoken fear that her brain felt as if it was turning into the mush she spooned so tenderly into Teddy’s perfect waiting mouth. She found herself numbed by the routine of feeding and changing, and the daily outing with him in the large Silver Cross pram, pushing it around the hilly Hampstead streets. At the end of the day, when Teddy eventually went down to sleep, she was too exhausted to concentrate on anything very much. The words of even her favourite books swam in front of her.

  Until today, she had only been apart from him once since his birth, and that was when
his little brother arrived. Her breath caught as she was pierced by a memory and she swallowed, tasting ashes.

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing, my dear. We’re here to meet an old friend of mine.’ John interrupted her thoughts, giving her a look that was meant to reassure, but instead only served to mildly irritate her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before we set out? I am not sure that I am disposed to call on people, especially strangers,’ she objected.

  ‘But, I said, he is not a stranger,’ he explained in a patient tone. ‘And I think you will find him most agreeable company. He’s been very generous to invite us to stay.’

  As they were quibbling over John’s decision to bring them to such a place, the front door of the house opened. In the gloom, Esther couldn’t make out much, but John strode forward confidently, leaving her no choice but to follow.

  As she came closer, a heavy-set woman, white hair pulled back from her face and a bright-patterned apron straining against her ample bosom, loomed into focus. ‘Ah, hallo there,’ her husband called. ‘Dr Creswell is expecting us. John Durrant, and this is my wife, Esther.’ He glanced at Esther who was looking mulishly at him, her arms wrapped around her waist, huddled against the wind. She was cold and tired and didn’t appreciate being dragged to the end of the country to meet complete strangers. The minute she was alone with John she would tell him so. It was the first flare of real feeling she’d had in months.

  The woman – the housekeeper she supposed – ushered them into the hallway, furnished with a tall grandfather clock that chose that moment to sound the half-hour, its solemn brassy tone causing Esther to start in surprise. Recovering herself, she shrugged off her coat and eased off her gloves, noticing as she did that her fingers emerged bloodless and pale. She allowed the woman to take her coat and hat but held onto her handbag. The house, although dim, smelled of beeswax and damp wool, and it was at least warmer inside than out.