Rose shivered and passed the cup of tea to Becky. She sat, holding her own cup in both hands, suddenly feeling cold.
She put her cup down too firmly on the table and stood up, rubbing her hands together.
‘It’s getting colder. Let’s have the fire on. I never feel that the central heating is as good as a fire. Besides, it’ll cheer us up.’
She fetched the bucket of coal from the small utility room and made up a fire. Becky turned the TV on to watch a reality singing show that they both liked, apparently joining Rose in her efforts to change the mood by turning up the sound. It blocked the press of dark silence from outside.
After she lit the fire, Rose rooted around in the still unpacked boxes in the baby’s room until she found a colourful cot blanket. Smiling at Becky, she draped it over the curtain pole and pinned it with two clothes pegs. The thick wool covered the glass and Rose saw her daughter’s shoulders relax slightly. She smiled and started to brew fresh tea.
When the show was over Becky was feeling better, and sleepy. Rose helped her into bed, put more coal on the fire, put the fireguard in place and quietly let herself out into the night.
The wind was slow in coming this year. She wished it would arrive, because it would drive Matt home. Instead, it felt like the whole of nature was holding its breath. She shivered again and turned for home.
Harry looked at the clock again. The pub was busy but he hadn’t been able to miss the night drawing in against the windows. He was full of unease. His insides rumbled as they always did when he was worried. Lia didn’t know the island yet. She shouldn’t be out there after dark. He was sorry now that he let her go.
He was considering putting one of the more sober lads in charge of the bar while he ran to the harbour when she popped her head in from the hallway.
‘I’m back, Harry.’
He just stopped himself from grabbing her into his arms.
‘Lia, you don’t know the island. It’s too dark to be out.’
‘Sorry, I stayed around the village. In the lights.’
He drew and released a breath and forced himself to smile. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it.
‘Good girl.’
‘I’m going to bed now if that’s OK. The travel is catching up on me again.’
‘Great. I mean, of course. See you in the morning.’
He walked quickly back to the bar to finish pulling a pint of Guinness. His heart was pounding in his neck and wrists. He took another deep breath and made himself focus on a story that Dan was telling him, stammering less after a few drinks.
Feeling grateful to shut her own door against the night, Rose called out to Frank. ‘I’m home!’
She locked the door and slid the bolt across for good measure. They used the bolt for when the wind changed direction, which happened seldom, but rattled the door on its hinges when it did. She laughed at herself, feeling silly. Becky had her big husband to lean on, but Rose had her own harbour. Frank might not be as big a man as Matt, but he was always there for her, especially now that he had given up the boat.
She put the kettle on. ‘I’m making tea!’ she called out.
She automatically tidied as she left the kitchen, straightening a pair of boots at the back door, picking up the newspaper from where Frank had dropped it earlier.
He was sitting in his chair in front of the TV.
‘You know, Frank, I think we should bring Becky to stay with us, at least until Matt gets back. She’s too isolated out there in case something happens.’
She touched the buzz-cut remains of his silver hair, feeling a surge of affection for the one age spot on his bald patch. She leaned down to drop a light kiss on it.
‘Rose?’
‘Yes, dear?’
He didn’t answer, causing her stomach to flip. Something was wrong. She hurried around the chair and bent down to him. His eyes, a faded blue, surrounded by the wrinkles of a thousand days at sea, moved to look into her own grey ones.
‘What’s wrong, Frank? Do you have a pain?’
He didn’t answer, just looked at her. She began to fear that he’d had a stroke.
‘Frank? What’s wrong?’
He gripped her hand, grinding her fingers together. His eyes came a little more into focus.
‘No. I’m grand. Grand. Just need to go to bed.’
She went to help him out of the deep chair but he stood abruptly, making her stumble backwards. He grabbed her arm to hold her upright and she again felt his iron grip. He pulled her close, his face almost touching hers.
‘Rose,’ he said.
She nearly fell again when he let her go.
He left the room.
She stared after him, her mind blank. She heard the bed creak upstairs as he climbed in. Not knowing what else to do, she took out Becky’s curtains to finish, no matter how long it took her.
Dan lingered at the bar, hoping someone would buy him a drink. When no one did, he hitched his jeans and headed out. As it had been for the last month, the night was still. It struck him, standing under the robin, that it wasn’t calm exactly. He could hear the sea and there was a light breeze off the water. But it felt like the island itself was holding its breath. He cursed. Now he was getting romantic ideas like that idiot son of his. And like Patty. His Patty. Tears flowed easily from his watery eyes. He wiped his face on his shirtsleeve and a thought occurred to him, as though another voice had spoken.
Go visit Patty in the graveyard.
He looked around to see if there was someone beside him. He was alone, although he could hear voices from the bar.
‘Go see her,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Alright. Alright, I will. Just for a minute.’
He set off. There was enough moonlight to show the silhouette of the Hall against the sky. Another fanciful thought came to him. In the dark, it looked like a winged creature, hunched and ready to drop from its perch onto an unsuspecting victim. The stillness of the island was like that of the mouse which had suddenly become aware that it was being hunted and had frozen in place.
A night bird called from the direction of the graveyard and Dan tore his gaze from the Hall and turned down the lane to where the islanders were laid to their rest. The tiny church, once part of the Hall’s estate, had fallen into disrepair. A priest had to come over from the mainland now when the weather was good, to say Mass in the community hall, or to bury the dead. In the winter, the old women gathered to pray instead, reading the Gospel and doing what they could without a priest to say Mass.
Many of the gravestones were leaning, and some had fallen. Dan picked his way through them, using their shoulders to keep himself upright. He gave up trying to walk around graves and walked across them until he found her.
The stone was plain and simply said Patricia Wray and her date of birth and death. He hadn’t had the money for more words. He stumbled forward and sat with his back to the stone.
He frowned and pulled at his lip, but he couldn’t think of what to say to her.
‘You can’t hear me anyway, can you, girl? Stupid.’
He picked a fistful of the limestone pebbles that covered the grave and threw them at the back of the next headstone. They made an unpleasant noise clattering against the marble. It seemed to echo behind him. He felt an uneasy shiver work its way up his spine and suddenly wondered what was behind him in the dark.
Graves. Behind Patty was old Mrs. Talbot, with Bert and Mary Fitzgerald beside her. Behind them was the grave of the last priest that had lived on the island, Father Rossiter. His grave had a tall Celtic cross on it. Tall enough for someone to stand behind without being seen. Behind that was a low wall that separated the graveyard from the cliff and the rocks below.
Sitting still, Dan became aware again of the sound of the sea behind and below. There were caverns and blowholes in many places along the ragged coast and now he could hear the low boom of the sea, always moving, however calm the surface looked, filling the caves and moving back out, only to always and ever return. Using Patty�
��s stone as support, he stood up and faced in the direction of the hidden water.
He found his way across a few graves until he reached the wall, casting a wide-eyed look at the back of the priest’s cross as he passed. He leaned on the wall and looked out, trying to see. When he couldn’t, he closed his eyes and listened. He had often heard his father say that the sea had a voice, if you knew how to keep your ears open. Dan swayed a little with the rhythm of the waves and, after a while, it did seem as though the water was speaking in low, deep tones.
It was calling him. He knew it was. He opened his eyes, not sure if he had been asleep. The thought that the waves were calling him made him shake. All he had to do was climb the wall and take two, maybe three steps before he would be wrapped in those waves and carried out to sea, forever moving, helpless flotsam, with no farm, no confusing son, no tears of guilt and loneliness. He took the first step on the springy grass that clung to clifftop before realising that he had climbed the wall after all. He flung himself backward and scrambled over it, stumbling into Father Rossiter’s cross. He clung to it like it was a long-lost brother. His heart was thundering, the blood rushing in the same rhythm as the pull and thrust of the sea below.
When he had caught his breath, he stumbled back through the graveyard and up the lane. With the scrubby bushes leaning away from the sea wind, it looked like there was a stream of men walking alongside him. By the time he reached the road, he was in a shuffling run. He stopped, almost falling. He was drunk and it was dark and he had been in a graveyard. Plenty of reason to get the willies. Except he knew only too well that it would be better to get home out of the night and lock the door behind him. He turned towards home and felt a powerful gust of wind pass over his head. His heart stuttered and he broke into a run, this time fear making him run in earnest.
When he reached his own door, he was making little whimpering sounds, but he couldn’t stop. He was fumbling with the key when the door opened and Ed reached out, grabbing his collar and pulling him in.
The sound of the door slamming behind him, locking out the night, was music sweet enough to make him feel a surge of love for the boy. He couldn’t express such a thing, so he coughed and nodded and went up the narrow stairs.
He closed the curtains before he got under the covers.
Four
I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.
Bram Stoker, Dracula, 1897
Lia pulled on a jacket, feeling her stomach fizz.
‘Go on, you two, enjoy yourselves,’ Rose said.
‘You sure, Rose? Frank won’t mind giving you up for a few hours?’
Rose’s brows, black shot through with silver, drew together.
‘He’s in a bad mood anyway. Go on, off with you before I change my mind and go across shopping.’
The islanders referred to crossing to the mainland as ‘going across’. Lia liked it. It was casual but she knew there were times when it wasn’t – when ‘going across’ was impossible.
Harry grinned and ushered her out the door.
The sun had made its way through yesterday’s grey shroud and the sea was sprinkled with glitter. The boat was little, with a small cabin and a big outboard engine. She put on a life jacket and tried to take everything in at once. Harry cast off and the little boat puttered out of the harbour.
Once clear of the dock, Harry let the boat’s speed build. Soon, Lia’s hair was flying behind her and she let out a yell of joy at the sensation. Harry laughed and they sped out to sea. Looking back, the island seemed tiny. The mainland was still covered in fog and it looked like the island was the only piece of land in a world of water.
They went far enough out to see a big freighter travelling to France, leaving a white wake behind it. Harry turned the boat into the oncoming waves created by the ship’s passage and they rode the swell. It felt like they were passing over the back of a large animal, rising and falling with the undulations of its body.
When the ship was gone, they turned back and the island gradually grew larger until it filled Lia’s gaze. Her uncle took the boat slowly along the coastline, staying out far enough to avoid hidden rocks. She wished she had a camera.
This made her think of Ed, but she tried to put him out of her mind quickly. She still didn’t know why he had dumped her home without ceremony after they had almost kissed on the bench. Whatever he had seen had either spooked him or made him angry, because he barely spoke to her after that, except to say goodnight gruffly as he left. She had watched him through the window before he disappeared into the darkness beyond the pub’s lights.
She made a face and concentrated on the cliffs again.
‘This is the worst part,’ Harry was saying. ‘It’s a ship’s graveyard. Even now there’s at least one wreck every year. The pub is up there, though you can’t see it.’
He slowed almost to a stop and she looked into the water where he pointed. The water was clear enough to see the tops of what looked like towering mountain peaks just beneath the surface. The jagged stone looked like the teeth of some creature waiting for prey.
As though he had heard her thoughts, Harry spoke quietly.
‘We call them the Devil’s Teeth. When the tide is low, you can just about see the tops poking out.’
‘Do people survive the wrecks?’
He glanced at her.
‘Now, I mean,’ she said. ‘Not in the olden days.’
‘If a boat founders in weather on a high sea, especially at this point, there’s no way to reach it or any survivors. Even if the lifeboat can get here in time, they can’t risk coming in here in rough seas. And the proximity to the cliffs makes it just as dangerous for the helicopter.’
Lia shuddered. ‘So lots of people have died here?’
He nodded, his face tight and tense. ‘Not all of them are found either. The sea doesn’t often give up her dead around the island.’
‘Harry, that’s horrible.’
He looked at her, his face suddenly sad. ‘Sorry, Lia.’
‘Isn’t there something you could do? Shouldn’t there be a lighthouse or something?’
‘There’s been talk of it this long while but nothing much happens.’ He pointed to the farthest visible outcrop of the island. ‘They laid a foundation over there in recent years, but it didn’t get any further than that. It was a bad summer and they had a lot of problems. They talked around and around about funding and regulations and such, but I think they just gave up. They’ll probably get around to doing it – one of these years. In the meantime, people continue to die. While the big vessels steer well clear, the pleasure boats and sailboats still come to grief.’
She shivered at the thought.
Harry gave her a long look. ‘Look, Lia, I’m sorry. We islanders are accustomed to the harsh realities of life here. It’s a tough place to live and people have bad luck around here. I shouldn’t have shown you that. Bad enough what happened to your dad.’
Lia put her hand on his. ‘It’s a part of me though, right?’
‘Aren’t you a city girl then?’
‘Maybe I’m a city girl and an islander. I can be both, can’t I?’
He didn’t answer straight away. In the end he said, ‘Just, please, make sure you keep yourself safe. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.’
‘I’ll be fine. Honestly,’ she said.
He nodded, still looking worried, rubbing his palms against his legs in a gesture she had often seen him repeat, perhaps without realising that he was doing it.
‘C’mon then, Ms. Islander, I want to show you the caves.’
She stayed close to him as he opened up the engine again, taking them away from the Devil’s Teeth.
Lia gasped when she saw the network of caves cut into the rock by thousands of years of waves crashing against the limestone.
‘When the wind is up, the water crashes into the caves and shoots up through them. There are “blowholes�
�� at the top where the water and foam flies out. It’s dangerous because the holes are hidden in the grass. You could step into one and disappear into the cave and leave no trace above. At least when it’s stormy you can make out where they are if you go slowly.’
Lia heard a low moan like an animal in pain.
‘It’s the sound of wind moving through the cave. Like a trombone. When the wind is up but not in full storm, you can hear the sound rise until it’s like a scream.’
‘That’s pretty creepy,’ she said with a shudder. ‘But cool,’ she added. She didn’t want him to think she was afraid. And she wasn’t. Mostly. She swallowed and braced herself to ask one of the questions she had come to the island to find an answer to.
‘Where did it happen, Harry?’
‘I didn’t bring you out here for that. I just wanted to give you an idea of the place.’
‘I need to see it.’
‘Not today, Lia. I can’t …’ He made a choking sound and cleared his throat, looking out to sea.
Lia stared at the dark mouths of the caves. Her parents had been on a temporary separation. He had then taken off somewhere -- they didn't know where. The first news they heard of him was when a stranger rang to say that he was dead.
A wave of guilt swept over her. She hadn’t deeply considered what her mother would feel when she disappeared, only to turn up on the island too. She needed to apologise but she wasn’t ready yet. She supposed she understood why Harry might not be ready to talk about his brother yet either.
But even though she had gone the wrong way about everything, she knew it was right for her to be here, to say goodbye. Her father couldn’t tell her why he had done it, but all her research on the topic told her that it was impossible for those left behind to feel what their lost loved one had felt, to take that final, terrible step.
Having rounded the entire island, they approached the harbour from the opposite side, passing between the sea stacks and the island itself.
Daughter of the Storm Page 5