by Kayte Nunn
“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-story 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 gray 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 postwar 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, apologizing 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 apologized 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 favorite 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 heavyset 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 on to her handbag. The house, although dim, smelled of beeswax and damp wool, and it was at least warmer inside than out.
“Just through here, if you’d be so good as to wait. Dr. Creswell will be with you shortly.” The housekeeper’s vowels were rounded and friendly, mu
ch like her figure. She moved rather more swiftly than might be expected for one so large and fast disappeared, swallowed up by the gloom of the corridor.
They had been shown into the parlor, lit only by the glow of an oil lamp and a small fire burning in the grate. Esther sniffed, smelling wood smoke, a rich aroma that was infinitely preferable to the dusty, acrid coal that generally burned in London hearths. There was a large rug strewn with a faded flowered pattern and three wing-backed chairs upholstered in somber olive green arranged to face the fire. A mahogany escritoire was pushed up against one wall and a large window looked out over the path upon which they had arrived. In a corner, next to a chaise longue, sat a rather impressive-looking gramophone, its fluted brass horn a bright and shiny flower in the shadowy room.
Esther perched on the edge of one of the chairs, set her handbag on the floor but kept her gloves in her hands, twisting them tightly together. John took the chair next to her, saying nothing. The clock in the hall ticked loudly, counting out the seconds as they sat. Time seemed to stretch, but in reality it must have been only a few minutes before the door burst open.
The man who came into the room was tall, with thick wavy brown hair, the shade of which reminded her of a newly shucked conker, unruly eyebrows that matched his hair, and a strong, square jaw. He was wearing a tweed jacket that hung off his spare, lanky frame and his trousers were the baggy corduroys of an off-duty farmer. The bowl of a briar pipe was firmly grasped in one hand. His cheeks were ruddy, as if he’d just that moment come in from a walk and he brought with him the sweet smell of gorse and tobacco. “Ah, there you are. Durrant, old man. How good to see you. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
It was his voice that captured her attention. Low and gentle, with a faint huskiness, like sandpaper. She’d never thought of herself as the kind of woman to be affected by something as simple as the timbre of a voice, but she could have closed her eyes and been lulled to sleep by it.
Esther and John both rose, and the man extended his hand to her husband. They shook hands with hearty familiarity.
“This is my wife, Esther,” said John, a protective arm at her back.
“Indeed. Splendid,” said the man. “A pleasure to meet you.” He studied her as an art critic might examine a painting, his searing gaze quite at odds with his soft voice, and she felt almost flayed at his careful regard of her, as if he could see the blood pulse in her veins, could penetrate the dark, empty heart of her. She looked away, studying the floor.
“Darling, this is my old friend Richard Creswell. We were at Radley together.” John was unusually buoyant. She suspected it was to make up for her poor mood.
“Rather a long time ago now, eh?”
Esther looked up and noticed that the doctor’s eyes—a light shade of blue that reminded her of swimming pools—crinkled at the edges when he smiled and his teeth were white and even.
She briefly touched her fingers to his—the lightest of contacts—and then huddled her arms tight around herself again, though they offered little protection from his unsettling gaze. She hadn’t had an appetite for society nor polite conversation for some time now, and had hardly spoken to a soul save for the daily woman, John and Teddy, and Nanny of course, for the past several months. She didn’t appreciate this situation being foisted upon her.
“Welcome to Embers.”
“Embers?” she said faintly.
“The house. It gets its name from the island. It was built around, oh, seventy years ago now. Apart from a couple of cottages on the westward shore, it’s the only dwelling. Must have been something of an effort to get the materials here and construct it, though it’s likely that some of them were the result of shipwreck bounty. Rumor has it that, in years past, islanders used to attach lanterns to the necks of their cows so that passing ships might mistake them for boats at anchor and be lured onto the rocks.”
“A deadly harvest,” said Esther, noting that he, however, appeared to relish the anecdote.
“I suppose so. Apparently the original owner lived here by himself. A hermit of sorts,” he continued. “Mad old fellow.” Dr. Creswell boomed a rich, deep laugh that was, Esther imagined, honed on schoolboy rugby fields and cavernous dining halls. It bounced off the room’s high ceilings, giving her the impression of boundless bonhomie and a welcome as warm as the fire. She relaxed her grip on her gloves. Perhaps this would not be the ordeal she imagined.
“And is there a Mrs. Creswell?” Esther was shocked at her outspokenness and her curiosity; it seemed that she had lost her ability to make polite conversation, to interest herself in the superficial. She rather thought, however, that he wouldn’t be the kind of man who would mind.
“Not one that would put up with me,” he said with a generous smile that went some way to contradict his comment.
“Richard has been here, what . . . nearly three years, didn’t you say, old chap?” John interjected.
“About that,” he replied, not explaining what had brought him there, nor what kept him on this bleak, windblown isle. “Now how about some tea? I expect you worked up something of a thirst on your walk up here, not to mention a chill. It’ll warm you right up.” He clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. “There’s no sugar to spare, I’m afraid, though we do have Darjeeling—a gift from a grateful patient,” he explained. As he was speaking, the door to the drawing room opened, and the housekeeper bustled in with a tray. “Ah, thank you, Mrs. Biggs,” he said as she set it on the table before them.
Esther wondered idly what kind of patients would come all this way to see him. Or perhaps he had a practice on one of the larger islands they had passed on their journey here?
“Shall I be mother?” His voice interrupted her musings and Esther flinched.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” The doctor looked mortified and Esther felt almost sorry for him. “Slip of the tongue.”
She smiled thinly and felt a pang of longing for Teddy again, for the satin feel of his skin, and the way his thick blond hair lay flat to his scalp after a bath. He’d become quite a chatterbox in recent months, and spoke with a delightful lisp that charmed everyone who came across him. She still couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been able to bring him with them. It would be a very long week without him.
Dr. Creswell busied himself pouring tea and then handing yellow-and-white flowered cups and saucers to John and herself. There was a matching plate on which three plain biscuits rested, but she had no desire for one. Her hand shook as she raised the china cup to her lips and she had to concentrate to avoid spilling it.
Dr. Creswell and John began to reminisce about their school days and Esther was free to let her gaze wander about the room. It was spare, no extraneous decorative touches that the lady of the house might perhaps have brought, but scrupulously clean: not a mote of dust had been allowed to rest on the polished escritoire nor on the windowsills. Stacked next to the gramophone were a number of vinyl records. She recognized Prokofiev, Schumann, Delius, Satie. She had enjoyed concerts at the Royal Albert Hall, the London Symphony Orchestra, the summer Proms series, but there had been no such outings in the summer last gone by. Once, music had been a pleasure, filling the rooms of Frogmore, accompanying her afternoons, the background to quiet evenings at home after Teddy was in bed, but that had been many months ago, before . . . before . . .
She was wrenched back to the present by the realization that Dr. Creswell had asked her a question, had repeated it several times judging by the furrow between his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon,” she said, the barest hint of apology in her voice. “My attention was elsewhere.”
She noticed John and the doctor exchange a look of understanding. Their complicity rankled, but good manners meant that she let it go unremarked.
“No matter, Mrs. Durrant. I was merely asking if you had a pleasant journey.”
“Oh, oh, yes, I suppose.” She glanced at her husband for confirmation. “The sleeper was more than adequate, though the boat journey left something to be desired,”
she said dryly. She put her cup down on the table and stood up. “A little air, if I may. I’m sorry, I feel rather dizzy all of a sudden.” She walked toward the window and raised the sash. A gust of wind blew toward her and she leaned into its chilly embrace, taking several deep breaths. After a moment she lowered the frame and turned back to them both, seeing Dr. Creswell crumpling up a small piece of paper in his hand and depositing it in the pocket of his jacket. John didn’t seem to have noticed; he was looking at her with a mix of sorrow, regret, and what seemed like relief. Even in her numb state, she was attuned to the way her husband treated her differently now. He said he didn’t blame her for what had happened, that it wasn’t her fault. Over and over he had said it, but she knew better than to believe him. After all, she blamed herself, so why shouldn’t he?
“Finish your tea, darling. Before it gets cold.”
Esther nodded, but as she was about to return to her chair an old map, framed and hung on the wall, caught her eye. It showed a scatter of islands and at the bottom left a small boat being rowed by a serpent, and the words There Be Dragons in flowing script.
“Oh, take no notice of that,” Richard laughed. “The dragons here became extinct a long time ago.”
Esther raised an eyebrow but sat down again, taking a deep draft of the now lukewarm tea. The dregs felt chalky on her tongue but that was nothing unusual—kettles coughed up limescale unless they were regularly cleaned. Perhaps the housekeeper wasn’t as efficient as she looked.
Dr. Creswell and John moved on to the topic of the increasing London fogs and she sat back in the chair, letting the conversation swirl around her once more. Unaccountably sleepy, she leaned her head back against the antimacassar and her eyelids fluttered closed. She felt almost as if she were in a fog herself.
As she drifted toward unconsciousness, her mind flickered back to the doll, muddy and abandoned, that she’d seen on the path. Should she have picked it up? Was there a child crying somewhere because they had lost their favorite toy? How could that be, on such a wild and remote island where no one save for the doctor and his housekeeper appeared to live? It was very curious indeed. She must remember to ask John about it.