The Forgotten Letters of Esther Durrant

by Kayte Nunn

  As she riffled through the garments, her hands struck an envelope. Thick cream Basildon Bond. She’d recognize the paper, and the handwriting, anywhere. Her husband’s slanting script. She tore open the seal and unfolded the sheet inside.

  “My dear Esther . . .” it began. “My heartfelt apologies for duping you like this, but I felt I had no choice. I had no idea how you would react if I told you our true purpose in coming to Embers. You have been entirely absent from all of us for the past several months, not without good reason I admit, but I find I am at my wits’ end to know how to help you. Richard is an exceptional doctor and I was—we are—very lucky to secure his services. I have every confidence that he will make you well again, but you must try and cooperate with him.

  “Please know that I do not blame you in any way for what happened, and my only wish is for your recovery and safe return to me, as the woman I married, the woman you truly are. All my love, John.”

  Esther refolded the paper carefully and sank down next to the suitcases. She’d been correct. It was an utter betrayal. He’d presented her with a fait accompli. Frustration, sorrow, and, finally, a kind of blank nothingness that rendered her incapable of moving engulfed her. She had no idea how long she’d been sitting like that, but when she was disturbed by a knock on the door, pins and needles had invaded the leg folded underneath her. “Mrs. Durrant?”

  Him. The doctor.

  “Are you coming for some breakfast? The chaps have saved you some, but I can’t vouch for how long it will last if you don’t turn up soon.”

  How could he sound so bloody cheerful? Didn’t he realize he was running an asylum? “Actually, I don’t think I am particularly hungry,” she replied. “I may stay here awhile.” Cooperating was the last thing she was prepared to do, added to which she could imagine the curious stares that would be inflicted upon her if she did make an appearance at the breakfast table.

  “Right you are then.” The reply was neutral, not judging.

  When she was sure he had gone, she went to her handbag, which was sitting on a chair by the window. As she searched its depths, she held her breath against a dark, spiraling terror that threatened to engulf her.

  Her fingers encountered something soft and she pulled it out. Pale blue and knitted by her mother. A winter cap of Teddy’s. She held it to her nose, remembering the dear smell of him. Her face contorted and her mouth trembled as she fought back the sudden rush of tears, missing him desperately in that moment, swamped by the knowledge that she had let him down. She had let everyone down.

  After a while, she put the cap to one side and collected herself. Her fingers closed around the pillbox in her handbag. Taking a glass and filling it from the ewer on the nightstand, she washed one of the shiny tablets down with a gulp before lying back upon the bed, willing unconsciousness. It was not long in coming. As she drifted off she felt as if she were at the bottom of a deep well, and that, no matter how loud she might shout, no one would hear her. But then no one would come to bother her either, and that was a most welcome thought.

  * * *

  When Esther woke it was nearly dark and it was a few moments before she remembered where she was. She caught sight of the letter, abandoned on the bed, and recalled its message. Barely able to comprehend her husband’s perfidy, she swung wildly between outrage and self-recrimination. Should she take another pill perhaps? Her doctor had instructed that she take no more than one a day, but such circumstances as she now found herself in demanded extreme measures.

  She had just clasped the pillbox when there was a knock on the door and the housekeeper bustled in, carrying a tray covered by a linen cloth. Esther closed her fist tightly around the box, slipping it into her pocket as inconspicuously as possible.

  “I thought you might like some tea, Mrs. Durrant.” She set the tray down on a dressing table and as she removed the cloth, the smell of baking wafted into the room. Despite herself, Esther felt her mouth begin to water. “There’s a couple of my scones there.” Mrs. Biggs looked as if she wanted to add something, but pressed her lips together in a firm line and left as swiftly as she’d arrived.

  Once she was sure the housekeeper was not going to return, Esther roused herself and poured some tea. She was terribly thirsty. After drinking several cups, she carefully sliced a scone in half, gathering up the crumbs into a small pile on the plate and pushing them around with the tip of her finger. She looked at it for a long time before taking a bite.

  * * *

  Later that evening, the nurse reappeared and wrapped her in the straitjacket again, her swift and practiced movements catching Esther by surprise before she had a chance to resist or get away. “It is for your own good, Mrs. Durrant,” she said firmly. Esther was more horrified by the fact that she was now rendered incapable of taking her pills than she was by the indignity of being bound. After the nurse had gone, she lay wide-eyed and sleepless, tossing and turning as much as the binding would allow, only dropping off as the birds began to chirrup and chatter.

  * * *

  This continued for three more days. Each morning, the nurse would knock on her door, help her loosen the ties of the straitjacket and invite her to breakfast, and each morning Esther would decline, swallow a pill, and sleep the day away. Finally, on the fifth morning, without really knowing why, she answered differently.

  “Give me a moment,” she said. “I’ll come down.” The nurse simply nodded her head and closed the door. As she dressed, Esther examined the tracks along her forearms. They were beginning to heal. The straitjacket was doing its job it seemed, and she must be scratching less even when she wasn’t bound. It was something at least. Squaring her shoulders, she prepared to leave the room.

  The sight that greeted her upon her arrival in the kitchen took her by surprise. There was the doctor, of course, then three other men also sat around an oval table, one of whom—Robbie she surmised—was cradling the doll she’d stepped over when she arrived. He was pretending to feed it toast and the others were either completely oblivious or feigning ignorance. There was a scraping of chairs on the slate floor as they registered her presence and rose to greet her. “Ah, Mrs. Durrant. So pleased you could join us. Menzies, George Menzies.” A small man with the dark good looks and mournful expression of a gypsy violinist extended his hand to her. She gave him a faint smile and took his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong and belied his slightness.

  “Colonel William Cooper-Jones, ma’am. Wilkie to those who know me well.” The colonel was several decades older than the others, with a shock of white hair. He was wearing a collared shirt and regimental striped tie but Esther noticed that his pullover was worn clean through at the elbows and his trousers bagged at the knees.

  “And this is Robbie,” said Dr. Creswell. “You helped him recover his doll the other day.” The third man put down his toast and gave her a wave. He had a long face, with hair that grew high on his forehead and of a shade that made her automatically think of carrots. Cinnamon-colored freckles dotted the milk-pale skin of his face and hands and his ear, the one she could see at least, for he was standing sideways to her, made her think that he must, at some point, have suffered the nickname “jugs” or “wing nut.”

  It was only as he turned his head toward her that she noticed a mass of scar tissue to the left of his cheek and where his ear should have been was nothing but a small round hole. The left-hand corner of his mouth pulled down like a torn pocket. She’d seen similar sights in London, but never at such close proximity and was instantly ashamed to feel slightly nauseous. She looked at him gravely, trying not to let the pity show on her face. “Pleased to meet you all.” Politeness, drummed into her from girlhood, thankfully came to the fore.

  “Scoot along now, chaps, make some room for Mrs. Durrant.” Richard pulled out a chair next to him, indicating that she should sit.

  “Please, it’s Esther,” she said as they all resumed their seats. “I’d much rather you call me Esther.”

  “Right you are then, Esthe
r,” said Robbie. “Here on a furlough, are you?”

  Esther wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “Go easy on her, old chap,” said Wilkie as he sipped from his cup. “She might not appreciate your sense of humor.”

  Dr. Creswell pushed a crock of yellow butter toward her, and indicated the toast rack in the center of the table. “We’ve one cow on the island—Bella—at the moment it’s George’s job to milk her. Mrs. Biggs churns it.”

  “She’s a beauty, I’ll give her that,” said George. “No disrespect to Mrs. Biggs of course, but our Bella’s got a better set of pins than Betty Grable.” The other men were obviously used to George’s jokes, for no one laughed. Only Robbie grinned, but his eyes were lowered and Esther wasn’t sure if that was at George or the jam that he was slathering generously on his bread.

  Esther wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, but took a knife and placed a knob of butter on the side of the plate in front of her. She reached for a piece of toast and cut it into triangles. The knife was blunt.

  “There’s jam,” said Robbie, indicating the jar in front of them. “Blackberry. Scrumdiddlyumptious.”

  Even Esther raised a smile at this. She took an unenthusiastic bite of the toast and was surprised to find that it didn’t stick in her throat the way so much food had recently. In fact, it was rather nice. She took another bite.

  “It doesn’t seem like a madhouse, does it?” asked George.

  Esther nearly choked on her mouthful. “Um, er. I suppose not,” she said, swallowing a lump of toast.

  “Quite the holiday camp, in fact. Isn’t that right, old man?” George was being facetious.

  “Well, while I’m not sure that’s exactly sincere, I’m glad to hear you appreciate it, George,” said Dr. Creswell evenly.

  “Oh, don’t mind George,” said Wilkie to Esther. “You’ll get used to him. We’re all queer old coots, one way or another.” He gave a throaty cough and then another and Robbie stood up to thump him on the back.

  “Damned mustard gas,” he spluttered.

  “Wilkie fought in the Great War as well,” George explained, calmly eating his eggs. “Awarded the Victoria Cross. Valor in the face of the enemy. Doesn’t like to talk about it much.”

  “That’s enough,” said Wilkie when he’d finished coughing. “Ancient history now.”

  Esther finished her toast and reached for the teapot, pouring herself a cup. She saw George glance at the scars that weren’t covered by her cardigan and she put the pot down and self-consciously pulled the sleeves over her wrists.

  “How are you getting on setting up the darkroom, Wilkie?” asked the doctor.

  “Rather well actually,” he replied. “It won’t be too long before I can start developing in there.”

  “Wilkie’s a keen photographer,” explained Dr. Creswell to Esther. “But supplies of paper and chemicals have been hard to come by.”

  “I see.” She finished her tea and set down her cup.

  “Now then Mrs. Durrant—sorry, Esther,” the doctor addressed her. “As you’re up and about, why don’t we spend some time in the front parlor after breakfast? There’s a nice fire in there. The men will get everything shipshape here. We all muck in; Mrs. Biggs can’t be expected to do everything.”

  Esther didn’t think there was any point in objecting and rose from her seat. The officers rose too, amid another scraping of chairs.

  “Gentlemen,” said Dr. Creswell.

  “Doc,” they chorused.

  * * *

  The doctor ushered her into the parlor where she and John had been received earlier in the week. If she looked carefully enough, she fancied she could see the indent in the cushions.

  “Please, do take a seat, Esther.” He indicated the chair she’d occupied previously before going over to the fire and prodding the banked embers into life. Sparks rose as he threw on a fresh log and it hissed and spat as it began to catch.

  He sat opposite her, crossed his legs, and folded his hands over one knee, as if he were settling in for a cozy chat. “I expect you’re wondering how this all works.”

  Esther said nothing.

  “Your husband thought I might be able to help you and I’d certainly like to try. My methods, however, are somewhat unconventional. I spent the war as a junior doctor attached to a military psychiatric hospital, in the Midlands. Some of what I experienced there inspired me to establish my practice here. I have a firm belief in the benefits of a simple life, the peace and quiet of nature, group support, activities such as taking care of livestock, gardening, fishing . . . everyone contributes here.”

  “A veritable Utopia.”

  “If you like,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm. “We’ll ease you into it. Everyone is allowed to take their time. I meet with each of my patients every day, individually. Sometimes we talk, but it can be about anything really. Not always about their state of mind or what’s happened to them. Everyone has to take some exercise, unless it’s really pouring out. Fresh air and a tired body work wonders for the spirit, I’ve found. We also hold a brief service on Sundays, but attendance is entirely voluntary.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me on that count,” she said. “I’m having a hard time believing in Him just now.”

  “Of course.”

  “And are all your guests mad?” she asked.

  “It’s not a term I like to use. Combat fatigue is generally the best way to describe it.”

  “And exactly how is this meant to be suitable for my situation? I mean, I can see why men who’ve faced the horrors of war might need this, but me? I am hardly in requirement of your services.”

  “Your husband . . .”

  Esther flinched at the mention of John. She was still furious with him, couldn’t believe he’d tricked her so blatantly, had such little regard for her. In the days she had spent in the room upstairs she had come to view him in a very different light. He wasn’t perhaps the kind, diffident man she believed him to be. “I’m afraid there has been a terrible mistake,” she insisted once more.

  “Let me be the judge of that. John has given me the authority to treat you, initially for three months, with the possibility of extending it to six, if required.”

  “Six months?” This was worse than she had even imagined. Her mouth hung open in shock.

  The doctor held up his hand. “Now then, please don’t distress yourself. As I said, initially it will be three months. Let’s work with that for now. You know, you might even come to enjoy your time here.”

  “But this isn’t my home. I belong in London, not on this ridiculous speck of land in the middle of the bloody sea! Don’t I get any say in it at all?” Her throat constricted and she gulped in air. “And what about Teddy? My son? I cannot be away from him for that long. A child needs his mother.” Esther felt rage course through her like lightning, swiftly chased by a sickly tide of remorse. She hadn’t exactly been the best of mothers recently. She wanted to run to the jetty as fast as she could, to get back to Teddy. But that would be futile—there wasn’t a boat for another two days.

  “Esther, I think you know as well as I that you are not, how would we say it, not quite yourself,” he said. “Don’t fret about the time away. John assured me that your son will be well looked after—you have a nanny, I understand?”

  But there’s no substitute for a mother, she wanted to rail at him. Instead she bit her tongue, recognizing that it was pointless to argue. She would save her outrage for future battles.

  Chapter Fourteen

  St. Mary’s, Spring 2018

  Rachel woke early. The night before, she’d walked the short distance home underneath a night sky awash with stars, and as the noise of the party receded, she had become aware of an absolute stillness, the quiet that she had never been able to find in cities or towns and had come to crave like a drug.

  This morning, however, the raucous cries of gulls shredded the air, calling her to get up and get moving, for the tide waited for no one. She stretched and looked out of the
window, spying blue skies. Even though it was a Saturday, she rarely observed weekends. She worked when she could and took time off when she felt she needed to and it all seemed to even out.

  She was also conscious that the run of good weather she’d experienced since arriving on St. Mary’s could change at any moment and wanted to embark on her study without delay. Her first official report was due to Dr. Wentworth in a few days and, as yet, she had little to account for her time.

  She sprang out of bed, pulled on her jeans from the previous night and a warm sweater and hurriedly brushed her hair. There hadn’t been much in the way of food at the party, so she set about making herself a large omelet. She intended to be out on the boat for most of the day and didn’t want hunger to distract her from her observations, so a good breakfast was in order.

  She grabbed her waders and a clam gauge: a pair of calipers designed especially for measuring the length and width of the shells. She had also brought her camera with her, encased in waterproof housing, intending to photograph some of the clams up close in order to compare them with those taken five years earlier and she planned to take samples at one or more of the sites previously identified. Such was her rush to get out on the water that she forgot to check the forecast before leaving.

  Her first destination was the curving sweep of Great Rock Beach on Tresco and she reached it easily, shooting across the water in the light little boat, the breeze ruffling her hair. Either the air temperature had warmed by a few degrees or she was acclimatizing to the weather, but for the first time since arriving, she wasn’t bothered by the cold. She cut the engine and coasted in on water as clear and aquamarine as a gemstone. Reaching the beach, she hopped into the shallows, pulling the Soleil up onto the white-sugar sand. The tide was ebbing, but she dragged it above the high-water mark just to be sure.