The Island

by Mary Grand

  The Island

  Mary Grand

  To my sisters and brother, Anne, Janet, and Gerald, with much love. Thank you for being the best family and friends I could wish for.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Six months later

  Acknowledgments

  More from Mary Grand

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  Prologue

  Saturday 20 August 2016

  Adrenaline numbs the pain of the car keys digging into the palm of my hand. No breeze comes off the sea. Remnants of a scorching day hang in the air.

  Hiding in the darkness, I peer at the church door, lit by the feeble night light in the porch, waiting.

  Unexpectedly, the church door opens. Stop. It’s the wrong person. What the hell are they doing here?

  I step back as they come towards me, hold my breath; they are so close now. I can imagine the warmth of their breath on my cheek. Oblivious to my presence, they move on, down the path towards the main road, and I return to my position, staring at the church door.

  The church clock strikes one, the sound bouncing off the gravestones, and I see the lights in the church being switched off; the door opens again. He’s coming out. This is it.

  I get in the car and push the keys into the ignition. I hear the clink as the stone-heart key ring knocks gently against the other keys. I wait, timing is everything. No headlights, no engine… yet.

  He’s coming this way. That’s it. Now he’s walking down the path.

  Quickly: engine on, accelerator hard down. Thud. It’s over so quickly. I screech to a halt, get out of the car. Something catches a slither of light. I check – he’s dead.

  Job done.

  1

  Two weeks earlier – Friday 5 August 2016

  The tunnel was stifling apart from the occasional slither of sea breeze squeezing its way through the cracks around the windows. Two lanes: one for people leaving the island, one for those arriving. Juliet, in the latter, was aware of people behind her getting frustrated, but she was weighed down with her backpack and pulling a large suitcase: she couldn’t go any faster. She wanted to tell them that she wasn’t some tourist, she was the real thing: an islander returning home. Despite the sickening dread that had gripped her from the moment she received the phone call, she still felt a childlike flutter of excitement at finally coming home to her family, her island.

  Juliet emerged from the tunnel and hit a wall of brilliant sunshine, crowds of overconfident ‘yachty’ types, shouting, their voices clashing with strains of live music and gulls screeching above. The masts of sailing boats jangled, their furled sails white against the blue sky, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and ‘street food’. It was Cowes week.

  Juliet was forced to make a diversion around a large group of youngsters who were far too busy impressing their friends to make way for her.

  ‘Hi. Over here, Juliet.’

  She waved to the taxi driver. Although she’d not seen him since leaving school years ago, she recognised him. Juliet grinned, grateful to see a familiar face.

  The taxi driver was Mike, who used to live in her village. She had suffered him messing about on the school bus for years. However, she was impressed to see him open the boot, come towards her and take her bags. She held onto the large brown leather handbag.

  ‘At your service,’ Mike said, smiling as he opened the passenger door. Her heart sank – she had wanted the protection of the back seat.

  ‘My God, its chaos,’ she commented.

  ‘Bloody Cowes week, eh. Still, good for business. It’s the hospital, then?’

  ‘You know about Dad?’

  ‘It was in the paper this morning.’

  Juliet breathed deeply, of course it was, and if it had been in the weekly island paper, then everyone knew.

  They soon left the crowds behind and were on the main roads that led out of Cowes to the main town of Newport. Juliet was struck by how quickly her last two years were disappearing, and the feeling of ‘never left’ returning.

  ‘I’ve always said that road your dad was on was dangerous; there should be more passing places. People speed something awful along there,’ Mike commented.

  Juliet wondered how much the paper had said about her father’s accident. Mike soon answered that.

  ‘Still, I don’t think your dad was feeling, well, quite himself.’

  Juliet cringed. So, they’d mentioned the drinking; that would get the island talking. She could hear them all: ‘I never knew he was a drinker. He always seemed such a decent sort of man.’ She clenched her fists in frustration, wanting to shout at Mike, ‘He isn’t like that,’ but she couldn’t bear the pitying look she would get in reply.

  Fortunately, Mike changed the subject. ‘So, have you been on holiday?’

  ‘No, I’ve been away for two years, teaching abroad in China.’

  Juliet turned and looked out of the window. She wasn’t in the mood to chat and Mike took the hint.

  It didn’t take long to drive to the hospital, and Juliet’s sense of dread grew as they parked outside.

  ‘Here’s my card,’ Mike said. ‘We’re the hospital’s nominated taxi service. If you or your mum need a lift any time, night or day, give us a call.’ He gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I know Mum would want me to send her love to you and your family.’

  She knew he meant it, that is exactly what his mother would have wanted him to do, and that, she knew, was the flipside of the closeness of the island.

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’

  Mike handed her the bags. ‘Hope your dad’s all right,’ he said, but the serious tone in his voice indicated he knew how ill he was.

  Juliet tried to swallow the deep sense of apprehension as she walked towards the hospital entrance. ‘Intensive care,’ her mum had said. The words filled her with alarm; they were always preceded with something awful. ‘They’re not sure if he’ll make it…’ She used the hand gel, rubbing her hands hard together, headed for the lift, glanced down the list and found it: ICU.

  Walking along the corridor, she passed visitors and medical staff milling around, and then turned a sharp right. It was quieter here, a short passageway leading to a row of plastic chairs outside the main entrance to the ward and on these sat her three sisters. Her internet connection in China had made video calls impossible and most of her communications with the family had been by email or text, with only the occasional telephone call. Seeing them now, they looked older, rawer than the pictures she had stored in her mind. They weren’t huddled together; they each sat slightly apart, each an individual.

  Mira appeared to be staring unseeing into the distance, but she immediately spotted Juliet, leapt up and raced towards her. Their hug was clumsy but warm.

  ‘You’ve cut your hair,’ Mira signed and spoke simultaneously, her eyes bright, smilin
g.

  ‘Yours is the same,’ replied Juliet and reached out, touched the long brown untidy curls. Juliet glanced around. ‘How are things?’

  Mira shook her head, with both of her hands she made a wringing gesture over her heart, the sign for heartbreak, and, as so often, Juliet felt the sign said so much more than the words.

  The whole family had been using British Sign Language since Mira had been diagnosed Profoundly Deaf at the age of three, they spoke and signed at the same time. Mira’s speech and lip-reading were extremely good, but British Sign Language was her first language.

  Juliet glanced at her eldest sister, Cassie, sat very upright, her hair scraped back into a tight ponytail, arms crossed, legs wound around each other, one foot tapping rhythmically on the floor.

  Cassie glanced at Juliet; her mouth flickered in recognition.

  ‘Thank God you’re finally here,’ wailed Rosalind, who, even at nearly twenty-one, held out her arms in the familiar gesture of the ‘baby sister’ waiting to be hugged and catered for. However, she appeared even more glamorous than when Juliet had left her, with expertly tanned legs and tinted blonde hair.

  Juliet put her bag down and went to Rosalind. ‘I’m so sorry, I came as quickly as I could.’ She leant forward and signed to Cassie, ‘How is Dad?’

  Cassie glanced over in her direction. ‘Critical. He’s been like it since the accident on Monday evening, four days now,’ Cassie signed in the same way she spoke, clipped and sharp. Today, there was an extra edge and nothing passive about the aggression in her words. She clearly meant that Juliet should have come sooner, cared more.

  ‘We know it’s a long way to travel,’ interjected Mira, as always trying to smooth things over.

  ‘I took the first flight I could get from China. What was Dad doing driving at that time of night anyway?’ Juliet signed to Cassie.

  ‘He’d gone up to the Downs, looking for owls or something. If he’d not been drinking—’

  ‘Mum said he crashed into a barn?’

  Cassie nodded and then stood up. ‘I have to make a phone call; I’ll be back soon.’ She stalked off down the corridor.

  ‘Can I see Dad?’ Juliet signed to Mira.

  ‘Of course.’

  Juliet gently unpeeled Rosalind and handed her to Mira. She moved to the doors of the ward.

  ‘Mum is in there now. He might not open his eyes or speak,’ Mira said.

  Juliet felt a sickening dread, a knot in her stomach. She felt guilty that part of her wanted to run away, but this was her father. Of course, she must see him.

  She pushed open the door. There were six beds, but they were spread out. Unlike so many wards where the nurses seemed invisible, here they were everywhere, quietly, efficiently, going about their work. The sound of machines, purposeful steps, no shouting, no unruly children or groups of families: this was serious.

  A nurse came straight to her.

  ‘I’m Juliet. I’ve come to see my dad.’ Juliet instinctively lowered her voice as if she were in a library or a church.

  The nurse nodded, indicating where Juliet’s mother was sitting. ‘Your mum said you were on your way.’

  As Juliet walked towards her mother, she tried to avert her eyes from the other patients and yet, at the same time, found it impossible not to glance at them.

  Her mother was sitting like Cassie had, very upright, very still. She was wearing a sensible blouse and skirt.

  Juliet touched her shoulder. ‘Mum?’ She felt a shudder of shock.

  Her mother turned to face her. She never wore make-up. Her face was lined but soft, and today her light brown eyes were screwed up in pain. Juliet felt a wave of despair, closer to panic than grief, as, for the first time, she fully understood how ill her father was.

  Her father, a quiet gentle man, lay, eyes closed, lost among the machines. There were superficial grazes on his face; his grey hair, still thick, stuck to his head.

  Her mother stood up and gave Juliet a desperate hug. ‘They’ve just given him his pain relief. He might be able to chat a bit, but he had a long talk with Rhys first thing, and then Cassie. I’ve just been sitting here while he rests. I’m so glad you made it.’

  Juliet flinched. The words ‘made it’ were like a punch to her stomach, reminding her how close to that invisible edge between life and death her father was.

  Her mother leant forward and touched his hand.

  ‘Ian, Juliet is here.’ Her mother spoke gently but firmly.

  His eyes slowly opened. Deep grey-blue, vital, and alive; at odds with such a destroyed body.

  After giving his hand a reassuring squeeze her mother hugged Juliet again, then quietly left the ward.

  Juliet sat down and pulled the chair a little closer to her father’s bed.

  ‘Dad.’ She reached out, touched his hand. It was too cold.

  Slowly he turned towards her; their eyes met. Each soaked in the sight of the other.

  ‘Juliet,’ he spoke, the words soft, slightly slurred by the medication, a whisper of a smile on his lips. ‘My sunshine.’

  She felt the tears burning her eyes. Shards of glass in her throat made it hard to swallow. ‘I’m home now, Dad,’ she said, her voice shaking.

  But then the smile melted away, his eyes screwed up in pain. ‘I’ve made such a mess of everything, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, you are a great Dad.’

  ‘I wanted everything to be perfect for the four of you. You were happy, weren’t you?’

  ‘Of course, we had a wonderful childhood. Remember all the times we’ve walked on the Downs, watched the kestrels hovering, waited for them to swoop down. And the larks, way above us singing. Remember you said to me, one day you will draw as beautifully as they sing. They were the best times, Dad – and we will go again, soon.’

  His eyes for a moment let in the light. ‘They were. I have been lucky; my life has been rich.’

  Juliet hated that her father was slipping into the past tense. ‘And we’re going to have lots more good times, Dad. Autumn will be here soon. We’ll see the swallows gathering up on the Downs ready to fly away for the winter, hear the tawny owls fighting for territory. Dad, there is so much we can do together. And it’s Rosalind’s birthday, she’ll be twenty-one, imagine that.’

  She saw the muscles in his face tighten, the light faded from his eyes. ‘I wanted to tell you all everything on her birthday, put everything right.’

  Juliet was confused. ‘What do you mean? Put what right?’

  ‘The past, I would have, but then…’ He screwed his eyes up in concentration. ‘When was my accident?’

  ‘Monday, the day of your birthday.’

  ‘Yes, it was Monday when I realised I would never be able to tell any of you the truth. It broke my heart.’ Juliet saw a tear weave its way down the side of his face and onto the pillow. She had no idea what he was talking about but was desperate to comfort him.

  ‘Whatever it was, Dad, you are not to worry about it now, we need you to get better.’

  ‘He should have had a life. I am sorry now; he was too young to die.’

  Juliet blinked at the sudden turn of the conversation. ‘Sorry, Dad, who died?’

  ‘Harry.’

  ‘Harry?’ she questioned, wondering who her father could mean.

  ‘Maddie’s son.’

  ‘Oh, that Harry,’ said Juliet in surprise. ‘He died years ago Dad.’

  ‘The island never forgets; the past never goes away.’

  Juliet frowned, upset that her father seemed so ill at ease. She glanced over at a streak of blue sky she could see through the window at the end of the ward. ‘It’s really sunny today, a good day for an early-morning swim. When I was little, we’d go down first thing, wouldn’t we, before all the holidaymakers; we’d have the beach to ourselves. Who knows, maybe Mira and Rhys will have a little one soon, your first grandchild? You’ll be able to take them down with you.’

  Her father’s eyes opened wide. ‘I spoke to Rhys earlier. I needed
to tell someone. I am so tired of carrying everything; it’s so lonely being forced to keep secrets.’

  Again, Juliet, disturbed by her father’s agitation, attempted to reassure him. ‘I can’t imagine you had much to confess, Dad, but I hope it helped. Rhys is a good listener; it comes with the job of being a vicar, I think.’

  ‘But it didn’t help; it was a mistake,’ he replied, despair and anxiety coating his words.

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure—’

  ‘You didn’t see his face. He panicked, he was scared, and now I don’t know what he will do.’

  Juliet’s lips trembled as she tried to force a reassuring smile. ‘Dad, nothing you could say would have upset him that much.’

  His voice cracked with pain as he spoke. ‘And it’s a lot for him to take on. I should have thought about that. I don’t want anyone else to know. Don’t let him tell Mira; he can’t tell anyone.’

  Juliet sat forward, laid her hand on his. ‘You are not to worry about anything. Rhys won’t tell anyone what you said, Dad. He may be married to Mira, but as a vicar he understands about keeping things private.’

  Her father strained to lift his head off the pillow; his eyes were burning. ‘Tell him to try to let it go, bury it at sea.’

  ‘Okay, Dad, it’s all right,’ she said anxiously. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’ll take care of everything.’

  He gave her a sad smile. ‘You always do. Watch Mira, she needs to look after herself now. Rosalind is unhappy, and Cassie…’ He paused. ‘Like I said, it’s so lonely keeping secrets, she needs you more than you think. And then your mum,’ his face softened, ‘you are everything to her, forgive her.’ He laid back and seemed to relax. ‘Have you been drawing?’