by Kayte Nunn
Robbie Danvers, former Wing Commander of 149 Squadron, who had piloted Wellington bombers over German-occupied France on too many missions to count, was standing outside in his pajamas. He had lost his doll again. It wasn’t strictly speaking Robbie’s. In actual fact it was Robbie’s niece’s—she’d given it to him before he came to Embers, telling him the doll would watch over him, but Robbie was often so distracted he kept putting it down and forgetting it and then causing a stink when he couldn’t find the wretched thing. The doll was also filthy from being left outside in all weather and somewhere along the way had lost its dress and sunbonnet. Despite Robbie’s neglect, it was nevertheless obvious that he derived much comfort in having something, even an inanimate object, that was his and his alone. Just as a young child might be unable to sleep without their favorite teddy bear, Robbie was inconsolable when he lost the doll, and so Richard continued to indulge him in this. The poor man had suffered so greatly that he wasn’t about to take anything that soothed him, however unlikely, away from him.
“Wait here a minute,” Richard said. “I’m afraid that’s another of our patients. He’s lost Susie again.”
“Susie?”
He shrugged apologetically. “His doll.”
“A doll?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“We saw one as we arrived. Not far from the jetty.”
He noticed that she appeared annoyed at the admission, as if she were cursing herself for speaking. “Oh, excellent. That could only be her. Thank you.” Richard raised the window sash and called out. “Robbie. Try down by the jetty.”
There was a pause in the wailing.
“Yes . . . the jetty. But put some clothes on first, old chap, or you’ll catch your death.” Richard withdrew his head from the window and turned to face Esther. “Come on then, let’s unwrap you.” She stood, unmoving, as he undid the buttons at the back of the gown and his fingers fumbled slightly as he noticed the curls of hair at the nape of her neck. There was something vulnerable about the way she bent her head to give him better access and he was reminded of undressing another woman in very different circumstances.
Marianne: a nursing sister at Northfield with whom he’d had a brief romance during the war. They’d had six months together, stealing time whenever their shifts allowed it, before she had been posted to Hong Kong. They wrote, of course, and he’d even considered proposing though they were probably both too young, but then a day had come when a small envelope, addressed to him in an unfamiliar hand, arrived. Her sister, who wrote with news of a bomb hitting the hospital. Marianne had been at the center of the impact. A new influx of patients at Northfield the same week meant that there had been little time to mourn her.
He caught the scent of Esther’s perfume, something delicate and floral, and cleared his throat, retrieving his focus. “There you are. Jean can give you some ointment for those scrapes later. Best if you come with me now and I’ll introduce you to the chaps. There are three of them at the moment. Robbie lives in one of the cottages. He’s been with us for nearly six months. Then Wilkie—Colonel William Cooper-Jones—he’s a relatively new arrival. And finally, Captain George Menzies. They should all be at breakfast, that is if Robbie has found Susie.”
“And did you bind them when they first arrived?” Esther asked, her expression grim.
“It has sometimes been necessary, yes,” Richard admitted. “But I’ve found that it’s seldom for long. Most of our guests quickly adjust to the regimen here. In any case, I’ll give you a full briefing after we’ve eaten.” He had finished unbuttoning her and loosened the fabric that bound her arms, reaching for her wrist. “I’ll take your pulse while we’re here.”
He felt her blood throb in her veins where he pressed.
“Hmm. Sluggish,” he said to himself before abruptly releasing her arm. “There’s some water in the ewer on the table over there—cold, I’m afraid—and soap and a towel next to it. Jean will show you everything else. Come downstairs when you’ve changed and into the kitchen—it’s at the back of the house, just follow the smell of toast—you’ll find we don’t stand on formality.”
Richard left the room, though he found himself unable to shake the aroma of the woman’s perfume, which seemed to follow him along the corridor, and could not erase the image of the scowl that had twisted her face but failed to mar its beauty.
He went downstairs, where Wilkie was sitting at the kitchen table forking up scrambled eggs and George spreading blackberry jam on a hunk of homemade bread. He bade them a warm good morning and then took a seat himself. “Now then, chaps, we have a new guest staying with us. You may have seen her arrive yesterday. Mrs. Durrant is here at the behest of her husband. I trust you will treat her with respect and kindness.”
“A female of the species?” asked George as he bit into his toast. “I say, things are looking up.”
“Steady on there, Captain. Mrs. Durrant has suffered a great tragedy, no less than you fellows. You will do well to leave her be.”
Robbie, who had just entered the kitchen, the missing doll under his arm, caught the tail end of the conversation. “Roger that, Doc,” he said with a salute.
Chapter Twelve
St. Mary’s, Spring 2018
Rachel left the pub after her lunch with Jonah and made her way back to Shearwater Cottage. He had extracted a promise from her that she would meet him later in the week to go to a party that was being held by friends of his. She might enjoy her own company but that didn’t mean she turned down all invitations to socialize, especially when she was new in town.
She stopped along the way at the small supermarket and loaded a basket with breakfast cereal, milk, teabags, chicken, assorted vegetables, and a net of oranges. She popped a packet of chocolate biscuits on the counter just as she was about to pay.
“That’ll be thirty pounds and twenty-five pence, thanks, love,” said the woman behind the till as she rang up the items.
Rachel passed the woman her bank card without flinching. She was used to the higher prices of almost everything on islands. Her salary for this job was adequate, and in any case, her general living expenses were never great. The cottage came with the job. She didn’t buy expensive clothing or eat out at fancy restaurants, and living on islands generally meant that entertainment, when it was available, was never extortionate. It was a simple life, but she never once felt as if she lacked anything. She had, however, been happy to hear from Janice that the island had a library, which was a definite improvement over Aitutaki.
It was the middle of the afternoon by the time she returned to the cottage and she left the groceries on the kitchen table as she went about lighting the fire. Janice had told her that there was plenty of wood in the store at the back of the house and, when she checked, she was also pleased to see kindling, newspaper, and fire lighters.
It had been several years since she’d had to get a fire going—on Aitutaki it rarely got cold enough to need long sleeves, let alone any form of heating—but she’d learned as a teenager while living in Pittwater. Nights there in winter could be chilly, and their house had been heated solely by a wood-burning stove in the living room.
The timber was dry and it caught within a few minutes and she knelt by its warmth, holding out her hands to the flames. Eventually, when it was blazing and kicking out a fair bit of heat, she brewed a cup of tea and snaffled a couple of the biscuits from the packet she’d left on the table.
She retrieved the folder containing the original report from her daypack and sat back on the small couch opposite the fire to reread it.
The fire crackled as Rachel turned the pages, absorbed in the summary of its findings. She hadn’t had time to give it more than a cursory glance when her supervisor handed it over, and she intended to spend several days familiarizing herself with it before mapping out her own plan of action. Rachel loved to read, even screeds of dry data, for they too told a story of their own if you looked carefully enough. She paused in her efforts only to throw
another log on the fire and it was several hours before she finally put the report down.
* * *
For the rest of the week, the weather was fine and Rachel spent her mornings out on the water, piloting Soleil around the islands. She got to know the currents and tides, where the clear channels were, and where to avoid submerged rock ledges. In the afternoons, she continued to read through the folders that Dr. Wentworth had given her, jotting down notes and thoughts as she went.
She didn’t run into Jonah again, and welcomed the lack of distractions. She was emailing a brief report of her activities to Dr. Wentworth late on Friday afternoon when her phone beeped. She’d swapped numbers with Jonah and it was a message from him reminding her about the party he’d promised to take her to that evening. He’d call by at 7 p.m. Dress casual.
Just as well. Rachel didn’t own a skirt or dress.
She washed her hair, combing it out and letting it fall down her back, before pulling on a pair of clean jeans and a turquoise cashmere sweater that she’d splurged on in Selfridges before she left London. It made her think of the lagoon in Aitutaki and brought out an aqua color in her eyes.
Jonah arrived just as she was taking a bottle of red wine that she had bought earlier that day from the small rack in the kitchen. She handed it to him and turned around to put on her coat, beanie, and a thick scarf. Even though the party was only a few streets away, it was cold out as far as Rachel was concerned—though Jonah seemed perfectly comfortable in a light sweater.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a large map that Rachel had pinned up on a wall next to the kitchen table.
She raised her eyebrows at him.
“Yes, I know it’s a map of the world, but what are all those dots?”
The map was scattered with a series of red spots like a rash, most of which appeared to be floating in the middle of various oceans.
“Everywhere I’ve been. Right from when I was a kid.”
“Wow. I’d only have about five or six to put on my map. A couple for here, and Cornwall, the odd one in Greece and France, and that’d be it. Kind of makes me feel unadventurous.”
“It’s there for the taking,” she said.
* * *
As they approached the house, Rachel could see light streaming out from an open door and hear the beat of music floating toward them.
“Hallo!” A voice called out as they approached. “Come in, come in.” A bearded young man, his long hair drawn back, ushered them into the hallway. Rachel clocked a tight-fitting T-shirt that emphasized broad shoulders and a pair of long, muscular legs encased in a pair of jeans. “You must be Rachel. Jonah mentioned he’d invited you. I’m Luke,” he said. He took her coat and led them toward the back of the house, a large open kitchen and dining area that was filled with people chatting and drinking. The muffled thump of a drumbeat added to the background hum. “I’d introduce you, but I’m not sure they’d hear me,” he apologized. “Would you like some of this?” He indicated the wine, which Jonah had handed over together with a six-pack of beer that he’d brought.
Rachel nodded. “That’d be nice, thanks.”
“Jonah?”
He pointed to the beers and Luke passed one back to him. “I’ll just grab a glass, won’t be a sec.”
“I’ll lay bets that he won’t return anytime soon,” said Jonah once Luke had left.
Sure enough, Rachel saw that he had been waylaid by a tall, fair-haired girl as he ventured farther into the room.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and grab one ourselves. This”—he held up the beer bottle—“needs an opener, in any case.”
They pushed their way through the throng of people and reached a kitchen table laden with bottles, glasses, and a few half-empty bowls of chips and nuts. “Here,” Jonah held up a glass, triumphant. A few seconds later and he had located a bottle opener as well. He led her toward Luke, where he relieved him of the wine, opened it, and poured some for Rachel.
She took a grateful sip.
“So who would you like to meet?”
“Who do you suggest?” said Rachel, thinking she wouldn’t mind getting to know Luke a little better, although he seemed to be caught up in an intense conversation with the blonde.
“Well, selfishly I’d like to keep you to myself all evening, but . . .”
Jonah was flirting with her. Without a doubt.
“. . . you should meet a few of the locals. Andrew! Emily!” He called across to a couple standing near the window and beckoned them over.
“Come and meet Rachel. She’s new to the islands. Andrew’s a chef at the Star Castle, and Emily teaches at the primary school here,” he explained as he introduced them.
Rachel shook hands with Andrew, but Emily embraced her in a hug. “Welcome,” she said, with a broad smile. “You must have come from somewhere exotic, look how healthy you look compared to our pasty faces.” Emily, in fact, was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed and, although pale, didn’t look at all pasty.
Rachel explained what had brought her to St. Mary’s.
“You’re an Aussie, yes?”
Rachel nodded. Changing schools every few years when she was younger and then moving jobs so often meant that she was well-practiced at fitting in to new situations. An Australian accent generally worked wonders too and she was soon caught up in a conversation about Sydney with the couple, who’d visited on their honeymoon.
Jonah drifted away to chat to a few other people, but she was aware of him looking back at her every so often, checking she was okay. The last time she caught him doing so, she raised her glass at him and smiled, silently reassuring him she was doing just fine. She had lost sight of Luke in the crowd.
An hour or so passed, and Emily introduced her to a few more people before she found herself back by Jonah’s side. “Another drink?” He raised the bottle he was holding.
She shook her head. “I think I’ve had enough thanks. Too much booze doesn’t suit me—I get shocking hangovers.”
“You and me both,” he said, putting the bottle down on a nearby table. “I’m on call tomorrow too. There’s nothing worse than being out on a boat when you’re feeling a bit shabby.”
Rachel suddenly remembered what she’d been going to ask him. “I went over to the Eastern Isles earlier this week.”
“Oh yes?”
“From what I’d read, they’re all supposed to be uninhabited. But I could have sworn I saw smoke rising from a house on Little Embers Island.”
“That’d be Leah.”
“Leah?”
“Strange lady. Bit of a hermit really. One of the local boats drops supplies to her once a week and she almost never leaves the island. We check in on her from time to time, but she doesn’t much care for visitors. Swore at me last time we came ashore actually. I think she might be a bit mad, to be honest.”
“I’d better keep my distance then.”
“Only from her,” said Jonah, “You’ll find that the rest of us are pretty friendly.”
The meaning of his words was obvious but she shied away from the invitation in his eyes. He wasn’t her type at all—she preferred them young, sweet, and very sexy—and he was merely sweet. Okay, maybe a little bit sexy, but not enough for her to break her self-imposed rules. “So it seems,” she said, laughing off the comment. The party had thinned out as they’d been talking and Rachel was ready to leave. “I’m going to head out now,” she said.
“Of course, it’s getting late. Let me get your coat.”
“Don’t worry, I can see myself out,” she insisted. “It’s just down the road.”
To his credit, Jonah hid his disappointment well, though she could tell that he would have been more than happy to go home with her given the slightest encouragement.
“If you’re sure?”
“It’s hardly far, and unless I’m mistaken these aren’t exactly mean streets.” She gave him a smile and he took the hint.
“Good point. All right then, well thanks for comin
g and I’m sure I’ll catch you around.” He gave her a mock salute.
“Thanks for inviting me; it was nice to meet a few new people. I really appreciate it.” She looked around but couldn’t see their host. “Can you thank Luke for me?” She stepped forward and gave Jonah a hug, breathing in his warm, male scent. Salt, sandalwood, and liniment. It was oddly comforting.
Chapter Thirteen
Little Embers, Autumn 1951
Esther flung the wretched straitjacket onto the bed, wincing as the edge of it caught a particularly savage scrape that hadn’t quite healed. She’d soon be out of this dreadful place, all she needed was some time to plan her escape. What did John think he was doing, banishing her like this? How dare he? No matter what he thought she’d done, this was the last place on earth she ought to be. She should be in London, in Well Walk, Hampstead. In her bedroom at Frogmore. If she’d been there now and the weather had been better, why she might even have felt up to a walk on the Heath. She conveniently ignored the fact that she hadn’t left the confines of her home for several months. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, she told herself; it was that she hadn’t wanted to. In any case, she couldn’t bear the concerned looks of her neighbors, the prying glances. Some of them had actually—Mrs. Campbell-Jones from number 51 was one—crossed the road to avoid her, as if she might lay a witch’s curse on their own babies.
She spied her suitcase—and, strangely, John’s as well—in a corner of the room. Picking it up, she hauled it onto the bed and pushed aside the buttons keeping the locks closed. The metal flaps flew open and she raised the lid. There, neatly packed between layers of tissue paper were her clothes. Blouses—viyella, cotton, and chiffon—tweed skirts, a couple of cardigans, lisle and silk stockings, and another pair of shoes. She shook out a blouse and threaded her arms through the sleeves, automatically doing up the pearl buttons down its front. When she had tucked it into her skirt and pulled on a cardigan, she went over to retrieve John’s suitcase, curious to see what was inside. She opened it and gasped. Yet more clothes. But they weren’t John’s—they were hers. “Heavens, really?” she said aloud. For inside that case was a good deal of her summer wardrobe—lightweight Liberty lawn shirtwaisters, knee-length cotton skirts, two pairs of sandals, even a shirred and boned bathing suit. She was as horrified to realize that her husband clearly expected her to be at Embers well into next year as she was shocked that he imagined she might contemplate something as frivolous as swimming.