Skein Island

by Aliya Whiteley

  I try to keep up with this monologue. She’s beginning to relax into it, to say things the way she wanted to. We must have hit on how she pictured this meeting – her talking, me hanging on every word, mugs of coffee in hand. ‘Back then, Amelia – Lady Worthington – still lived in the white house. She had built up this collection of rare things, beautiful things, that she loved to show off. I’ll give you the tour, if you’d like. She held drinks twice a week, up at the house. Buying Skein Island from the government, setting it up, that was all her. It was a feminist statement back then, to come to the island. The world’s most intelligent and dynamic women came here to talk to each other, to learn, and to be able to say that they’d been here. She was disappointed with how it ended up. The island became a joke, didn’t it? People laugh about the idea of the place? They poke holes in it. No politics. No reality, I suppose they say.’

  She sips her coffee, seems to remember the thread of her story, and her voice lowers once more. ‘So Amelia asked me if I was enjoying the week, and I said yes, and we talked. Mainly small talk. It had been a hot week, and the other women had tans. She asked me why I didn’t, and I remember I told her that nobody ever discovered the meaning of their existence whilst sitting on a sun-lounger. She thought this was hilarious. She never went out in the sun herself. She asked me about Arnie, and I described him. I told her Arnie would have loved to have been in charge of the world, with all his big ideas, and having to be a gardener in a small town outside Swindon was slowly killing him. And that’s why she offered me the job. To be her Personal Assistant.’

  It’s as if the story has skipped forward, leaving out a vital piece of information. ‘Sorry, why?’

  ‘Because I understood what type of man he was, and what type of man he was never going to be,’ she says. ‘It made the whole process easier for Amelia to explain. As soon as she told me, I knew I had to stay, you see. I gradually took over running the whole operation. The island, the statue, the cubes. Amelia told me there are only four types of men in the world: red, blue, green and yellow.’

  There is another light tap at the door. Carol appears once more. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ she says. ‘The coastguard is on the phone again.’

  ‘No probs, Carol, we’re done here,’ says my mother. She gives me a kind, impersonal smile. ‘Listen, Marianne, I’d love it if you could come to dinner tonight, up at the white house. We can carry on chatting. I really have to take this call, you see.’ My mother stands up, and picks up her coat from the back of her chair.

  ‘They’re looking for someone,’ says Carol, with an excited squeak in her voice. ‘A man was out fishing yesterday and went overboard.’

  ‘He won’t wash up here,’ says my mother, throwing Carol a look. ‘The tide will take him on to the rocks further up the coast, past Allcombe. Shall we say five o’clock, Marianne? I’ve got into the habit of eating early. Yes, okay, Carol,’ she says, as the receptionist flaps her hands at the thought of the coastguard waiting on the phone. The two of them bustle out of the office in a tangle of wet coat, leaving me alone.

  I stand up, leaving the coffee untouched, and put on my sopping coat. As I walk past the reception desk I hear my mother in business mode, saying, ‘I can appreciate that, but the rules here are absolute, and we have a number of influential backers who would be most upset to hear that we were being forced to… Yes, it would be much better if you were able to manage to conduct the search without landing, unless you have female crew members? No, of course not, so in that case we should aim to keep disruption to a minimum—’

  The double doors slide open and the sound of her voice is cut off by the wind and rain. It’s so fierce that I can’t think of anything but the struggle to stand up, to walk forward, to make it back to the stillness of the bungalow so I can try to find the words for this evening, so I can try to understand why my mother left me for the sake of an old lady, a statue, and a scary story.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  David woke up in a soft bed, a pastel blue duvet pulled up to his chin, the thick noise of rain on the roof overhead, and for a moment he thought he’d dreamed the boat, the quay, everything. But then the pain in his head stamped down and told him it was all true. It had happened.

  He couldn’t imagine how he was alive. But he was, and so he tried to be thankful for the headache. Even so, he wanted strong paracetamol, and some answers. He threw back the duvet and found his boxer shorts and trousers, freshly washed and dried, on the end of the bed. The room was another one of those feminine sanctuaries, with cushions and mirrors and an embroidered throw arranged over a small chair. The wooden roof sloped, and a skylight overhead gave him a view of dark, fast-moving clouds. He dressed as quickly as he could, heard a sound at the door, and realised a blonde woman was standing there, watching him. She was very attractive in a serious kind of way, with a straight line for a mouth, and frosted pink lipstick. Her white T-shirt and navy blue tracksuit bottoms looked like a uniform.

  She held out a glass of effervescing water and said, ‘Soluble aspirin.’

  He took the glass and pressed it to his forehead. The icy touch of it made him gasp.

  ‘It works better if you drink it,’ she said, with her perfectly straight lips. So he drank it, the whole glass, in a few gulps, and then handed it back to her.

  She nodded, and said, ‘You shouldn’t be alive.’

  The phrasing was odd. Did she mean he was lucky to be alive? He said, ‘Yes. Where am I?’

  ‘Do you remember any of it? You were confused when I found you.’

  ‘On the rocks?’ he ventured.

  ‘Yes. You were on the rocks. I swam out to you, helped you to the beach. I saved you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again.

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m a lifeguard. Here on the island. My name is Inger.’

  He noticed she had an accent, and put it together with her height and her white-blonde hair. He didn’t understand what was happening, but at least he felt he had the measure of her. ‘I’m on Skein Island, then?’

  ‘Of course. You must be the first man to stand on this island for years. Although you shouldn’t be standing at all. After what happened to you. You look very… healthy.’

  ‘I don’t feel it,’ he said.

  She touched his head with the back of her hand, like a nurse. ‘I’m certain you shouldn’t be walking around. I thought you had a concussion.’

  ‘I’ve got a tough head. Actually, I’m starving.’

  She assessed him with her gaze, then nodded. ‘Come to the kitchen, then.’

  He followed her out of the bedroom into an open-plan space, wooden and echoing. At the far end was a fitted kitchen and a rough oak table with two low benches. He sat on one of them, and watched her retrieve eggs from the fridge, and a saucepan from an overhead cupboard. Her capability, her economy of movement, was very calming. He could have watched her for hours.

  ‘How did you – you couldn’t have carried me?’ he asked her, once the eggs were cooking.

  ‘No, no, you were conscious when I found you. Just a little confused. You called me Sam.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I was—’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was fine.’

  He didn’t want to think about what it meant to have said Sam’s name. He hated that he could remember nothing about it.

  Inger had somehow managed to deal with him, get him here, take off his clothes, put him to bed. ‘Did you call a doctor? There’s a doctor on the island, right?’

  She slid his omelette onto a blue-rimmed plate, then took cutlery from a drawer and handed it to him. ‘Yes, there’s a doctor, but I—Men aren’t allowed on the island.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But… yeah, okay.’

  ‘I could get into trouble. For helping you. There are strict rules. I shouldn’t have touched you. But I had to help you.’

  ‘You’re saying you should have left me?’

  ‘I’m saying I know I
couldn’t leave you.’ She enunciated each word precisely. ‘And you’re fine. Because I didn’t.’ She turned away and washed up the frying pan: the hot water tap, a squeeze of fairy liquid, the dishtowel rubbed around the pan in smooth, circular motions. He recognised her compartmentalisation – what she could handle, what kind of conversation she was prepared to have.

  ‘So what now?’ he said.

  ‘It’s getting late. Stay here tonight. Think about it in the morning.’ She dried her hands on the dishtowel. ‘But I think I might be able to get you on board the ferry on Saturday. There’s a half-hour window after the boat docks before the guests are taken down to board. I can probably sneak you on, if the Captain is amenable. I think he will be.’

  ‘To bribery, do you mean?’ He thought of his backpack, his wallet, lost to him. ‘I don’t have any money. Anything.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry. I have.’

  ‘Why? I don’t understand why.’

  ‘Because I save people,’ she said, as if that made everything clear.

  The greyness of the day had thickened into early evening. Before long it would be dark. It was difficult to see Inger’s expression clearly as he said, ‘I need to get to my wife.’

  She turned to him. ‘Is that why you were out on the boat?’

  ‘She’s called Marianne. She’s here.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Marianne.’ She smiled. ‘So you both like the water, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She comes to the swimming pool. Where I work. You’ll see her on Saturday.’

  ‘I need to see her now.’

  ‘That’s really not possible.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. He couldn’t take her objections seriously. ‘Please, if it could have waited until Saturday don’t you think I would have taken a rain check on jumping into the sea and getting smacked in the head by an enormous rock?’

  ‘That would have been the sensible course.’

  Despite her resistance, David found he liked her – her calm way of handling things, thinking them through. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m begging you.’

  ‘Perhaps I can persuade her to come here. In the morning. But only if she wants to see you. Now I think you should go back to bed and rest.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said. He got up, fought a moment of dizziness, then went back to the bedroom and climbed under the duvet without removing his clothes. He felt the need to be ready, ready for something. Sleep seemed like an impossibility. It was an unwelcome surprise to feel his body relax into the mattress so willingly.

  * * *

  He was woken, in the dark, by the sound of a shutting door, and wondered if Inger was on her way to find Marianne.

  David turned on his side, felt the tender muscles contract, but even as he winced the pain lessened, faded away to nothing. What would Inger say to Marianne? Would she tell her that he had thrown himself into the water? He couldn’t imagine what words she would use.

  His body was filled with energy, crackling, fizzing. He got up, stretched, walked around the bed, walked back. He had to do something. The thought that Marianne might refuse to come to him was unbearable; he had never even considered it until Inger had put the idea into his head. But now, for the first time, he wondered if he had really committed an act of intrusion, of violation. It was agonising to think she might consider this to be another example of the male need to dominate, to control, just like the attacker at the library. All he wanted was to hold her, to take her home. It was impossible to change his desire for her, and he couldn’t escape the thought that to come this far and not see her would damage him permanently. Making sense of everything depended on her – surely she would see that? And yet, Inger’s calm face would not stress the urgency of it. It would be easy for Marianne to dismiss Inger, to decide that real life could wait.

  He found himself jogging out of the door, into the night. The cold and the rain did not change his mind. He shrugged them off, ran faster. He felt stronger, more powerful, for moving, making his lungs and legs work. The gleam of Inger’s torch was his beacon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Amelia’s collection of Egyptian artefacts is really stunning, and it’s amazing how few women choose to come and visit it, really. I mean, the details are in reception and it’s open at all times, just upstairs. I’d be happy to take you around the upper floors later. It’s a museum dedicated to her and there’s so much to learn, there really is…’

  Finally, Vanessa takes a breath. I’m so grateful for that pause; my ears were beginning to hurt. She talks too loud on this, apparently her favourite subject. She’s been talking about it ever since Rebecca brought it up, which was the second we got here.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Vanessa says to me. ‘Don’t you like Greek food?’ She’s put together a spread of Greek meze: dolmades, stuffed olives, hummus, souvlaki, rice salad. It covers every inch of the enormous, rectangular glass table. I’ve no idea how she managed to get the ingredients, but the food is abundant and the four of us will never make a dent in it. When I think of the fact that Vanessa was not actually expecting Rebecca and Kay to turn up as well, this banquet becomes inexplicable. Is it meant to be a sign of wealth? Of her ability to spoil herself? Or perhaps she’s like a nervous mother who has overprepared for her child’s birthday party, laying on far too much food and too many games, determined to do too much rather than not enough.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I say, not able to think of anything else that begins to cover it. Kay, sitting on the opposite side of the table, has adopted a bemused, entertained expression, barely on this side of polite. I wish I could do the same.

  ‘Did you recognise the quote on the letter? And in reception? Homer. Quite significant.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The male sex.’

  ‘So, Vanessa,’ says Rebecca, ‘I think it’s so great that you’re really happy to open up about the statue monster thing. When did you first meet it?’

  ‘I can tell that you don’t believe in it, and really, I can understand that,’ Vanessa says to her, meeting her eyes directly, ‘because you aren’t important, are you? I don’t mean that in a cruel way. It’s just very obvious to me that you’re a bit player in this story, trying to elevate yourself to centre stage, hopping up and down in your desperation to control everything and failing quite dismally. But really, you’re too old for this shit, aren’t you? If I can be forgiven for that cliché.’

  Kay makes a coughing sound through a mouthful of dolmades.

  Vanessa turns to me. I get a sense of her frustration and annoyance in the way she leans over the table, her hands clenched. I recognise myself in her body language. ‘I don’t know why you found it necessary to invite your new friends.’

  I’m not sure either. I don’t think that I did, exactly. When I got back to the chalet they were waiting for me, the two of them, desperate to tell me that the manager of the island was looking for me, that I was in serious trouble, and what was I going to do? Their excitement, their tension, was the reason I told them about meeting my mother, and that act seemed to have established an inviolable group, whether I liked it or not. It was taken as read that they would accompany me to dinner. I can’t say I don’t want them here, exactly. They are muddying things, perhaps, but it’s beyond me to judge it. I had no idea what to expect from tonight. The Greek food alone has thrown me completely.

  ‘As you say, it’s not about anybody but Marianne, is it?’ says Rebecca. ‘Marianne asked us to be here. So here we are. For her.’

  My mother looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Lovely meal,’ says Kay. She’s the only one left eating. ‘Did you have all this stuff delivered?’

  ‘The Sea Princess brings over the supplies every Saturday. I sometimes put a few bits and pieces on the list. Perhaps I went a little overboard when I found out Marianne was coming.’

  ‘You wanted to impress her?’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Is that so strange?’ Vanessa snaps back.

  ‘After
eighteen years, some would say so.’

  Vanessa falls into a thwarted silence. Does Rebecca see herself as my champion? I can’t stand the thought of it.

  ‘It worked,’ I say. ‘I am impressed. It’s very tasty.’ This awful repetitive circle we’re following: the food, the food, the food. Suddenly I hate myself for playing by the rules. ‘If you wanted me to think of you as a good cook rather than as a good mother, then yes, it worked.’

  She says, without any hesitation – I suppose this is more like the kind of conversation she prepared for in front of the mirror – ‘Well, at least I’m a good something.’ And I find myself liking her, just a little, in the way that I might like a stranger who has said something witty and cool back to a rude acquaintance.

  But then I remember her choice to stay here, and I’m wary of her all over again.

  Kay has finally stopped eating. She looks around the dining room as if seeing it properly for the first time: the long purple curtains, the table, the chandelier and the obediently burning fire in the fireplace. There is, unbelievably, a stuffed white cat on a tasselled red rug before the fire. It is curled into a ball, but also elongated and flattened, as if it has been sat on a few too many times.

  ‘This place is bizarre,’ says Kay. ‘I love it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have felt comfortable changing things,’ says Vanessa. ‘I didn’t feel it was my business. Everything is just how Amelia left it. It really reflects her personality, you know, precisely. The… rich, illusory bravado of it.’

  ‘What an interesting description,’ Rebecca says to the stuffed cat. ‘Illusory.’

  ‘Old women living alone like to pretend they’re still young.’ Vanessa sighs. ‘I find the photographs the most interesting part – pictures taken of her with so many rich and famous people. She knew everyone.’

  ‘Sounds like you should open this place up properly. To the public, not just the women here on holiday. You’d make a fortune.’