by Sophia Tobin
‘Do not worry,’ said Delphine. ‘Martha will be on that tomorrow, scrubbing it until the carpet has no pattern. The sea mist will be almost fully down now. You may wish to make your way back before your way is lost entirely to it.’
Edmund rose; he could hardly remember ever having felt so self-conscious before. He brushed the ash from his trousers, put his hand to his throat and realized his scarf was still tied there. Delphine did not rise; she lit another cigarette, acknowledged his bow with the inclination of her head. It was Julia who moved silently ahead of him and opened the door. The sea mist rolled in upon them, unfurled itself even into the hallway.
‘Can you go out into this?’ she said, and for the first time, his eyes met hers without her veil between them. There was barely half a foot between them.
Was it the spirits he had drunk, he wondered, or the coldness of the mist, but in that moment he wished to touch her, in a way he had not with Delphine. He did not let his eyes rest there, but he saw the outline of her face, of her neck, and he wished to brush his face against it, to place one, chaste kiss where the pulse beat in that pale skin.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ And he pulled his hat on, and staggered out into the night. He did not hear the door close behind him. Groping in the thick air, he reached for the gate and pulled it shut.
He was on the roadside. He knew this only because of experience; he was surrounded on all sides by the mist. To his right he saw the faint glow of a streetlamp; ahead of him a step or two of the road. He knew that the parsonage drive was just across the road, but he suddenly became aware of the silence, broken only by the distant call of the fog-horn. In the mist, any sound could be muffled or thrown; he was seized by the idea that a horse or carriage could come looming out of it. He recalled the smuggler’s tale told by the locals, and for a moment he thought he heard the approach of hooves. He wondered how Solomon would make his way home. He hardly knew whether to take a step forwards or not, and felt like a fool, putting his hands forwards, groping in the mist, its purplish darkness. He took several steps forwards with no guide at all, until his hands met, with a gasp from him, the sharpness of the flint wall across the road from Victory Cottage. He guessed it was the parsonage’s drive wall; he felt its curve, and then the waxen leaves of the first trees, and ahead of him there was a faint glow, and he knew it was the lantern above the front door. He walked slowly, steadily, knowing that he was disorientated and that he might trip. When he came to the front door he put his hands on it, and stood for a moment, feeling a surge of relief.
The door was pulled open. Theo stood, lamp in hand, his face full of amazement and relief. ‘My dear Mr Steele, I was afraid something had happened,’ he said. ‘Come in, come in. Foolish of me, I know, and yet,’ Edmund saw him smile in the darkness of the passageway, ‘I cannot get used to these sea mists. I know they are glorious, these sudden changes in weather, but I cannot get used to the mists.’
‘I did not come far,’ said Edmund. He went into the drawing room and sat down. Theo brought him a woollen blanket and wrapped it round him.
‘Your clothes are damp,’ he said. ‘I will fetch you some brandy. It does not take long for the sea mist to soak you through. I was wondering where you were. I had thought about bringing a lantern out to look for you, but I would have needed a beam as powerful as that of the lighthouse.’
Edmund nodded, huddling into the blanket. He felt, suddenly and powerfully, deeply vulnerable. He watched Theo bring in the brandy and pour out a healthy measure.
‘How would you have looked for me?’ he said.
‘I do not know,’ said Theo, handing him the glass. ‘In truth, it would have been impossible to find you.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Julia continued to be suspicious of Alba. It was true that sometimes, her exquisite looks attracted impatience or malice, but in every conversation I had with her, I glimpsed only innocence, and a desire to do good. She was full of high spirits, and often laughed in answer to questions, and although this earned her the censure of her aunt and the accusation of silliness from others, I felt sure that it stemmed from her nerves in social situations.
Unlike me, Alba wished only to please. Such an inclination leads sometimes to tragedy, and sometimes to triumph. I felt protective of her, and remembered how my life had turned on one poor decision: to walk with a man one evening on Broadway, alone, without recognizing the danger I was putting myself in. I told you men’s desire was a poor amusement to me, and so was his. Yet I felt safe with him, for we moved in the same circles, and I had known him since childhood. I thought only to rile my mother – but not of the destructive power of a man’s desire, when thwarted.
Two days after the night of sea mist, Theo Hallam rose early and left his sleeping house, having instructed Martha the night before to only make breakfast for Mr Steele.
There had been a high tide again. Passing the Tartar Frigate, he glanced at the scattered sand on the road, where the water had come almost up to the door of the inn. He had already noted, from way off, the familiar comforting silhouette of Solomon on the end of the pier, smoking his pipe and watching the weather as Tarney, Martha’s brother, moved around him. Tarney was a man who had to be constantly doing things, even if it was only sweeping sand from the pier boards. In contrast, Solomon conveyed immense stillness, the stillness of a tree or a mountain. Theo could never imagine such a man being lost to the sea, this certain figure beneath the sun – for he was as weather beaten and bleached as a piece of driftwood. The sea had smoothed out all wrinkles in his character, had sanded him clean, and surely if he was ever cast into it, she would recognize him as one of her own, and bob him home on her surface.
Of course, Theo knew never to utter such notions out loud. The hovellers and fishermen would joke about many things, but never about their fate in the sea. She was to be respected, above all things – for, as Solomon had once told him, one sharp wave could wash you free of all your thoughts of mirth, and lick the soul right out of you.
As Theo walked along the pier towards Solomon and Tarney, he looked out at the perfect curve of the bay, at the handful of luggers as they gently swayed in their docks. It was how he had imagined Broadstairs would always be, when he had come here, seeking gentleness, retirement, purity of thought and good health. Every wave, soft and neat, had the gentility of the turning of a page in a book. But he had seen the other side to the place too, for it had its moods and its seasons, its sudden changes in weather, and this lack of certainty both excited and troubled him. He thought of mentioning it to Solomon, but he had no idea if the hoveller would agree and utter something sage, or look at him as if he had lost his mind.
As he walked, Theo saw, in the very breast of the bay – dead centre, as though it was measured – a figure standing. He thought of Delphine immediately, and put his hand up to shield his eyes as he looked. If it is her, he thought, I will go back and abandon my purpose for today. Every sight of her seemed to weaken him more, seemed to awaken some unshakeable shame in him. He no longer wanted to be seen by her; he wanted no questions in her eyes. But he could not see the swell of a lady’s skirts beneath the cloak, nor was the figure wearing a hat that might identify them, but a hood. As he peered at the figure, Theo was annoyed by his short-sightedness, and wondered if it was worsening.
‘Morning, Mr Hallam,’ called Solomon, with easy respect. Tarney jiggled and muttered something also, and Theo took the tone of his voice as a sign of awkwardness and anxious respect. He wished them both a good morning.
‘Wasn’t sure if you’d come,’ said Solomon, blowing out the smoke from his pipe.
‘I am grateful to you for doing this,’ said Theo.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Solomon, ‘but you have seen us through many a time, through loss, and grief – so if you wish to go, you’re the only man I’d take.’
‘I’m obliged to you. We didn’t speak of payment,’ said Theo.
‘We’ll worry about that later,’ said Solomon, as though mo
ney were the last thing he thought of on such a morning.
The journey in the Susan was easier than Theo thought it would be. He felt strangely secure in the lugger, comforted by the solid presence of the boatmen in their black oilskins. Even the occasional high wave or roll of the boat did not disturb him. But as the bay receded from him, and the air grew fresher, he wrapped his cloak tight around him. Tarney had turned quiet; Theo wondered whether he felt more at peace in his natural habitat. Solomon was the same as ever, his steady gaze fixed on the horizon, now and then sweeping the surroundings with the detached serenity of a lighthouse beam.
The water grew choppy; then the Sands came into view. Before long Theo felt the drag of the boat against the bottom.
‘We’re here, sir,’ said Solomon, as Tarney hooked the ladder over the side. ‘You’ll have to climb down and wade a step or two – you won’t mind a little seawater?’
‘No,’ said Theo, swallowing hard.
‘Ah, she’s a proper island at the moment, on account of the Spring Tide,’ said Solomon. ‘Have no fear, sir, you’ve a while before we’ll float again. But the weather can turn quick, and though the Spring Tide means the Sands are well-exposed . . . well, it makes the current stronger too. If we need you back here, then we’ll give you this sign.’ He put his hands to his mouth and gave out a shrill, uncompromising call, half-whistle, half-owl’s hoot, which shivered through Theo. He nodded, and climbed unsteadily down the ladder, descending into a few feet of water. It seemed to drag at him; he moved quickly, and in a moment was out of the water. With a wave at the men, he wrapped his cloak around him, and set off along the uneven banks of the Goodwin Sands.
He walked quickly, without looking back, drawing away from the men as the boat had drawn away from Broadstairs. He wanted to be solitary here. He had meditated on this moment, and the chill which even now was invading his flesh and bone seemed apposite.
He walked for some time, climbing then descending two sandbanks. He thought only of his privacy; the fear with which he had set out had almost evaporated. The distant lightships looked as innocuous as pleasure crafts, as though they should be populated with sightseers.
When he had walked a good way, he stopped and looked around.
Solomon was right, it did feel like an island: solid, and safe from the waves, though the idea was ridiculous considering the place of dread it held in the minds of all who knew it. There were all kinds of tales about the Goodwins; there was even an innkeeper in Broadstairs who claimed to have a table made of the last tree from the island it had once been. But the one most ingrained in Theo was that of the ship-swallower, and as the phrase rose in his mind he swayed a little, as though the Sands moved beneath his feet. What would one poor clergyman be, to this monster, this deep, swelling graveyard?
He had meant to come here, many times over the years; a thought it had been easy to put away, neatly. Until these last weeks when, surrounded by death, he had felt the desire to live waken in him. It had made each moment, each sensation, more precious – and yet this sudden resurgence of the life-force had puzzled and tortured him.
He looked around at the innocuous Sands, pleated from their last contact with the sea. The breeze against his face was not foul, but as clean and health-giving as it ever was. He looked desperately at the distant line of the cliffs on the horizon – at his home. Despite the air, the sea, everything was desolate on these Sands. A tomb. To his right, he caught sight of something in his peripheral vision. He narrowed his eyes. It was a piece of mast, the end of a structure; only God knew how much lay beneath. Theo turned sharply away. To his left, he stared into a huge gully, filled with clear water.
He had imagined he would hear the voices of people screaming. But there was nothing, only the lapping of water and the cry of the gulls.
He unbuttoned a pocket in his coat and took out a small bottle. He fumbled in opening it: how fussy the container seemed now in this mortal place, its silver surface enamelled with green and blue gothic motifs, a pretty, ornate thing, from another world. Still, he opened it with reverence and scattered the holy water, saying, in a voice so low it was drowned out by the gulls: ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’
He screwed the lid back on the bottle, and put it back in his pocket. Then, from another pocket, he took out the thick piece of parchment he had put there this morning, on rising.
He remembered the small white Scottish church in Colombo, long ago. He had stood in the shade of its porch as she walked away from him – the woman he would come to know as Georgina – her ragged skirts fluttering, so that her ankles and calves were clearly visible. With every step she took away from him, a small wisp of sand would rise, so that every step had a ghost, and his beating heart had an echo. It was that image which was responsible for his persistence – he, so quiet, so timid, walking through the alleys of Colombo, searching for converts, for one particular convert, speaking to her parents, suggesting an English name. Driven on by holy fire, by conviction underlined with every prayer.
Even now, with the breeze cold against his face, he felt the heat of that distant day, and the sweat broke out on his face.
He had come out here, because in the past weeks that vision of the lost woman had returned to him again. But when she turned to look back over her shoulder, she had the face of Delphine Beck.
He hardly knew how it had come to life, this desire, but the death of those poor girls had done something to all of them – the presence of death seeping into them, making them want to live all the more. He saw it in Alba’s frantic gaiety; in Edmund’s gentle pursuit of Julia, and in his own, angry desire for Delphine. There were days when he hated her for it, her effortless dismantling of the serenity he had worked so hard, for so long, to build.
He thought the past was possessing him again, and turning his mind; making his thoughts swarm with heat and possibility, and the American widow was at the heart of it. He had believed himself strong, but he could not divert his thoughts away from Delphine, as they turned back to her, again and again in the long evenings: her dark, adamantine gaze, her coiled, ash-coloured hair, the way she always wore lace gloves, so that when she removed one it made him catch his breath at the intimacy of seeing her hands, so smooth and pale as though they had never seen the sun. Only once before had he been so obsessed with a woman, and he knew now that these thoughts were not to be encouraged. He felt lust; the same lust that had steered the first woman here – here. The ship bringing her to him, at his request, wrecked on this site.
How would Georgina walk in this sand? There would be no small sand-ghosts here; with every step her feet would be suckered at by the sand, as though it sought to absorb the life-force from her.
But she was here. It had already taken her.
He unfolded the letter. He knew it off by heart. In it was wrapped the string of polished stones she had given him. For counting prayers. Of course, he had never used it. It had been banished to a drawer, together with the letter, signed Your Georgie.
‘God bless you, in your innocence,’ he said. ‘He takes the blessed early, so that they may never know suffering.’
He thought he could hear the screaming. Hear the tearing of wood, the roar of the sea. See, as if he stood on deck, the distant, gazing beam of the North Foreland, as it sought to warn. I told you, it said. I warned you. It is all as I said.
He threw the letter and the beads into the clear water of the gully beside him. He wanted to say a prayer over them, but the words had gone from his head.
Then across the Sands, he heard Solomon’s call, and it sounded desolate. The beads had already been swallowed up by the Sands; he still saw the white glow of the letter below as it floated down. He turned and began to walk, and as he topped the bank, he saw Solomon waiting for him.
Then, Theo stopped. The thought had come suddenly, but with a right-feeling intensity, as though ev
erything had fallen into place; it was stronger than the voice of God which counselled him in his prayers. I must stay. I must be with her. It is my duty. The thought had come as a surprise; for buried deep, he had had the idea that coming here might finally close up the wound within him. But he could feel no healing; his desire for Delphine had not been extinguished as he hoped. If I go back, he thought, it will continue: and we will both be driven on to the rocks by it, and destroyed. The sudden pull to stay surprised him with its strength. It was not an urge, but a duty, and the hidden desire he had always had for martyrdom suddenly opened up in him.
‘Go without me,’ he called, and he had no idea whether they heard him, or if his voice had been lost in the breeze. He saw Solomon start to walk, coming towards him, and he waved his arms, then placed them in a cross: do not come here. ‘Go without me,’ he shouted, louder.
He turned his back to the men, and heard a cry: his name. He began to walk away from them, saying to himself: leave me, leave me, leave me. I will save myself from the flames. He hoped they would understand. The sea was already growing louder; or was that in his mind?
He considered himself alone with the gulls and the sky, ready for the Sands to take him as they had taken her, when he heard the sodden thump of Solomon’s feet behind him, and two strong hands grabbed his shoulders. As Solomon pulled him round, Theo saw the other man’s face: saw his disbelief, and displeasure, and also with a sudden ache, the knowledge that the man would not let him go. He read the question that the mariner posed with his eyes: will you let the Sands take me, too? It was with that sudden humanity before his eyes that Theo felt fear silver his heart, like the edge of a sickle moon, and when Solomon grasped his hand and pulled him, bawling, ‘It’s flooding! Come on!’ his feet responded, and he began to run.
He had not imagined the sound. The sea was rushing in on them fast, and this incoming tide was not like the gentle lapping at the bay in Broadstairs. His body responded: the strong thud of his heart, the sensation of the muscles in his legs stretching as he ran and jumped, all the time the Sands seeming to dissolve beneath his feet. And they were dissolving, brought alive by the sea, changing themselves, transmuting from solid to liquid, ready to reveal more wrecks, more secrets. He imagined the yawning of the sand beneath his feet, a pit of lost souls beneath, reaching for him. A kind of ecstatic panic overcame him as he neared the boat, which was already floating completely with the turn of the tide, and they waded through the water, waist-deep, Tarney leaning out to them as they reached for the ladder.