by Kayte Nunn
She consulted one of the maps that Dr. Wentworth had provided and compared it with the beach in front of her. At one end was a series of rocky shelves. Crab’s Ledge was where she needed to begin.
When she reached it, she shrugged off her daypack and removed the calipers, her notebook, and a pen. The water was calm here. Drawing closer, she could see bright green weeds floating like a mermaid’s tresses in the current. Carefully, she stepped into the water, her waders keeping her feet and legs dry. As she ventured deeper, the water pressed in on the rubber, sucking it against her legs. There were dog whelks, cockles, goose barnacles, sea snails, and limpets all crowded onto the rocks. She concentrated her gaze and was eventually rewarded with her first sighting. The Venus verrucosa in all her ridged glory. She was pleased to see a fair-sized colony, several larger ones and a collection of babies, uncovered by the low tide. She got out her calipers and set to work, measuring and recording. She’d slung her camera around her neck and when she’d taken the measurements she needed, she began to photograph the colony, placing a small plastic ruler next to them for scale.
All of this took more than an hour and as she worked the tide began to turn, submerging the clams once more. When she eventually straightened up, she was sore from bending over and arched backward, stretching out her spine. She glanced up at the sky. While she’d been working she’d been vaguely aware that the sun had gone in, but hadn’t thought anything of it, so absorbed was she in her task. Now, however, she saw that dark gray clouds had begun to roll in from the north. They definitely looked to be carrying rain. The wind had picked up too, flecking the previously glassy water with peaks of foam, as if they were whipped egg whites. She was fast learning that the weather here could change in an instant. She made a mental note to be more circumspect about checking the forecast next time, but wasn’t especially worried; she’d been out in far rougher weather and lived to tell the tale.
She waded back to where she had left her backpack, stowed her gear away, and returned to the Soleil. Her camera still around her neck, she looked up at the sky again, calculating whether she would make it back to Hugh Town before the storm.
She’d always been a gambler.
Dragging the tinny back to the water’s edge, she pushed it clear of the sand and climbed in, lowering the outboard and getting under way.
Unthinking, she turned the boat toward the Eastern Isles, instead of south back to St. Mary’s. Later, she wouldn’t be able to explain why she had done so. A momentary lack of concentration, tiredness from her late night and morning’s work perhaps?
It was to prove a costly mistake.
Chapter Fifteen
Little Embers, Autumn 1951
Richard regarded the woman before him. Her eyes were blazing and her brown hair, which looked as soft as eiderdown, curled riotously about her face. Bright spots burned in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell as her breath came in sharp bursts. He could see that her hands were shaking and she was struggling to hold them still. He needed to do something to soothe her, to ease her agitation.
“Do you like music, Esther?” he asked.
“Do I what?” Despite her distress, her tone was glacial.
“Like music? Classical?” He pointed to the gramophone.
“Actually, as it happens, I do. But I don’t see how that will solve anything.”
“Indulge me if you will.” Richard went over to the gramophone, removed a thick shellac-coated disc from its brown paper wrapper and placed it on the turntable. He wound up the machine and then gently placed the needle on the record. Immediately the delicate strings of Vaughan Williams’s “The Lark Ascending” filled the room. Esther’s eyes widened but she leaned back into the chair, eventually closing her eyes as the music swelled. Her body, until then taut as a violinist’s bow, slackened slightly. She was completely still and he was able to look upon her without fear of being caught staring. Her mouth was wide and generous, her cheekbones prominent, her forehead broad, and her chin determined. He noticed the purple shadows under her eyes, the shell-curve of her ears that were revealed as her hair fell away from her head, the graceful line of her neck, the deep hollow where it met her collarbones. For several minutes there was no sound in the room save for the soaring music and the crackling of the fire. Richard stood utterly still, watching as a single tear escaped her lashes and traced its way down her cheek. He felt like an intruder on her private grief.
The music finished and she didn’t move. Had she fallen asleep?
No. She stirred.
The pooled sorrow and regret in her eyes as she opened them and met his gaze sliced into him like a lancet. Once again he cursed himself for accepting her as a patient.
* * *
Richard had never intended to become a psychotherapist. Before going up to Oxford to study medicine, he’d been set on a surgical career, but then, in the final year of his degree, he returned home after the Hilary term to find that his mother, suddenly and without any apparent cause, had gone mad. Stark, raving mad. His father explained somberly that he’d done his best to keep her safe, but that when he’d returned from work on not one but several occasions and found her wandering the village muttering to herself and bothering the local shopkeepers, he had been forced to act. “Dr. Nancarrow insisted it was for the best. We shall just have to muddle along without her for the time being,” his father explained.
For as long as Richard could remember, Hannah Creswell had dressed differently from other mothers, been louder and more forthright in her opinions, had hugged him fiercely and often. She’d always been what his father described as “highly strung,” but he had put her violent mood swings down to an exuberant, if somewhat tempestuous, personality. He’d never had an inkling that there was anything seriously the matter; she’d simply been his flamboyant, loud, loving mother.
That summer changed his life. She was locked up in Foster Hall, at the Cornwall Mental Hospital, on the edge of Bodmin Moor. Visiting was allowed on Sunday afternoons between the hours of two and four. Richard made the two-hour meandering bus journey from their small village every week without fail, only to find her drugged, glazed and unresponsive, completely unaware of his presence. On each return journey, he stared out unseeingly at the ripening wheat fields, frustrated at his inability to help her and vowing not to return, but the next week found him making the trip again. His father rarely joined him. “I don’t think it makes any difference, us visiting her.” He wasn’t sure if it was his father’s unyielding resolve or his own helplessness that broke his heart, but either way Richard wouldn’t let his father see his distress. He was ashamed of the relief he felt when it was time to return to his studies.
Esther reminded him too much of his mother, before she became ill. The intelligent light in her eyes, the depths of fierce passion lurking beneath the surface, the barely concealed anger. He had no idea if he was going to be able to help her. Unlike the war-traumatized men he treated, making Esther Durrant well again, figuring her out, would be a very different task.
“Well. Aren’t you going to play me some more?” Esther had wiped away the tear from her cheek and was staring up at him with clear eyes.
“Did you like that?” he asked.
“For a moment I felt as if I were sitting in a meadow on a warm summer’s day.” She sounded surprised at herself.
“Indeed,” he said with a smile. “It does rather transport one, doesn’t it?”
There was a pause as they both recalled the dying strains of the music.
“Let me tell you a story instead,” he said. “Of a man called Darius, the king of all of Asia. He was utterly bereft at the death of his beloved wife. Nothing could console him. He went to Demokritos, a god, for help. He said that if Darius could find the names of three men untouched by grief and inscribe them on his wife’s tomb, then he would return her from the dead.” He had her full attention.
“Darius had his men search the length and breadth of his kingdom but couldn’t find anyone. He had been mourni
ng as if he was the only person to have experienced so great a loss. None of us has lived without sorrow, Esther. You are not alone.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?” Esther was blunt, declining to comment on his story.
“Fire away.” Her curiosity could only be a good sign, he told himself. John had reported that she had simply stopped taking an interest in anything, could scarcely be persuaded to rise from her bed in the morning, so this was promising.
“Why here?”
He considered the question. “My aunt is a friend of the wife of the current leaseholder. He’s a London insurance broker who’s never ventured farther west than Reading and the place had been empty for a while. She knew I was looking for somewhere to set up a facility.”
“A facility?”
“To treat ex-servicemen. After the war I wanted to continue to help them, to create a therapeutic community of sorts. To try and even up the balance sheet in however small a way for the injustices they had suffered.” He gave her a small smile. “I suppose I am drawn to broken things. As a boy I loved to fix, to repair and restore. The same goes for me now, except it is people not toys.”
“But why here?” she asked again.
“There’s peace and quiet and we lead a simple life: shared daily tasks and physical labor, with plenty of time to talk. We’re cut off from the mainland and I do believe the isolation helps.”
“I see. Does it work?”
He inclined his head modestly. “I like to think it does. My first patient, a captain, late of the Coldstream Guards, arrived clutching a wooden replica of a Lee Enfield rifle and would not release his grip, even at mealtimes, even when asleep. But one day, a few weeks after his arrival, I came across him in the henhouse, holding Bess, one of our Black Orpingtons. He was crooning to the bird, stroking its feathers, and the replica gun was lying, discarded, several feet away. It was nearly a month before I could get more than a few words from him, but he went on to make enough of a recovery to leave the island nearly six months later. There have been more since.”
“Impressive. And have you ever treated women here?”
“I confess I have not.” He didn’t add that he had doubts as to the wisdom of doing so, but that he owed a debt to her husband and had been unable to refuse him.
As a schoolboy, Richard’s unfortunate nickname had been Shrimpy. With the mixed blessing of a thin, high-pitched voice that choirmasters loved and no amount of studied effort could deepen, he was, of course, mercilessly teased for it. It wasn’t until he turned seventeen when he suddenly shot up by more than a foot and his voice dropped by an octave that the taunting had ceased. John had been one of the few to be kind and had shielded him from the worst of the older bullies.
Richard also foresaw a time when the stream of war-traumatized patients would eventually dry up and he would need to look to other patients—and that would include women—if he were to continue to practice at Embers. Besides which, her story intrigued him.
“I see. And how do you stand it here?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere—don’t you ever feel trapped? Marooned?”
“I can’t say I do,” he said, surprised. “I like knowing every inch of the island: where the terns nest, where the foxgloves bloom in late summer, all freckled and pink, the sound of the wind in the reed banks, the purple of the heather, and the green of the sea kelp that washes up on the beach.” He paused, thinking of the beauty that island life brought him. “The best place to find clams, what time of year the mackerel bite . . . the seasons bring change to the island, and the summers especially are something to behold.”
“Are you from the islands?”
He shook his head. “No. The mainland—a small village near Lostwithiel.”
“What a charming name. Lostwithiel,” she repeated, stressing the “Lost.” “I’ve no idea where that is, I’m afraid. I’ve rarely left London.”
“Well, that will explain why you’re unused to country life,” he said. “I suppose I could as equally ask you if you do not feel hemmed in by so many buildings, crowded by so many people and assaulted by noise . . .”
Esther inclined her head. “Point taken. But how do you survive? What do you live on?”
“It wasn’t easy at first—before we were able to milk Bella and we had dug the vegetable garden. I’m a better fisherman now than I once was. We catch a fair amount of bass, mackerel, sometimes garfish. I’m hopeful for our new lobster pots. Then there are always limpets, though that’s only when we’re desperate,” he grimaced. “Our needs are simple, and you can grow almost anything here. We have strawberries and gooseberries in summer, cabbages, rutabagas, turnips, onions, and potatoes in winter, apples and plums from the orchard. What little meat and dry goods we need come from St. Mary’s.”
“Water, electricity?”
“There’s a freshwater spring, and as you’ve seen we manage with oil lamps and candles.”
“But books, newspapers, company, conversation?”
“Oh, we make do,” he laughed. “And the news is seldom good, so not having the papers is a luxury as far as I can see.”
“And what am I supposed to do while I am incarcerated here?”
“Please, it is not an incarceration—”
“So I am free to leave then?”
“Not exactly,” he said, sitting back. “But don’t dwell on that. While you are here you are welcome to do as you please—at least initially. If you are tired, you may sleep, although I do recommend at least an hour’s walking a day. In summer we swim . . .”
“Oh, I shall certainly not be here come summer,” she said with conviction.
“Very well then.” There was no sense in debating that point with her. “Some of the men have taken up hobbies—Wilkie has his photography, George his birdwatching. Perhaps you might like to help out in the garden?”
Esther appeared to consider this. “We had to turn ours over to an allotment during the war. Mother insists that the roses will never recover,” she said with a wry twist of her lips.
“We will also spend at least an hour a day together, beginning now.” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “How about you tell me why you think your husband wanted you to be here? What has been ailing you?”
“There’s nothing so very wrong with me, I’m certain,” Esther replied.
Despite her assertion, Richard noticed her shoulders rise up toward her ears, her hands grasp her elbows, her eyes harden.
“Had some rotten luck, that’s all,” she continued. “No more or no less than anyone else has had to put up with. Only trouble is, I can’t seem to dig myself out of it. Must try harder, soldier on, stiff upper lip, you know.” She compressed her mouth as if trying to contain her emotions. “Exactly what nonsense did my husband fill your head with?”
Richard was unconvinced, saw how she had folded in on herself. “Come on now, Esther,” he said gently. “You don’t have to put on a brave face for me.”
She gazed out of the window, her expression opaque. “It’s really not necessary for you to be kind. In fact, I would much rather you weren’t. I’m not sure I can stand any more kindness.”
“Duly noted.”
“When we are finished here, I think I should like to go for a walk,” she said, changing the subject.
Richard had no intention of pushing her too hard, at least not to begin with. “Of course. We have covered enough for our first session anyhow. It is rather blustery out there, so do be sure to wrap up warmly. There’s little chance of you getting lost, but perhaps you might allow me to do the honor of showing you the sights, so to speak.”
“Oh, I am sure I am perfectly capable of finding my own way around.”
“I insist.” His tone brooked no argument. Until he was certain she wouldn’t go and do something stupid, he, or one of the others, would accompany her whenever she left the house.
She lifted her chin, but didn’t argue further. “I
might go and see if my husband packed suitable footwear. It appears he thought of everything else.”
The bleak look on her face was back, but he remembered her instructions not to be kind. “Excellent,” he said. “It seems we understand each other perfectly.”
Several minutes later, he met her at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a tightly belted trench coat and a pair of sturdy, flat-soled brogues. Her hair had been tucked into the rather unfortunate hat she had been wearing on her arrival several days before and she carried a pair of leather gloves. Richard wasn’t sure why it gave him such pleasure to see that she hadn’t applied lipstick, but it did. He had always hated painted faces, and had never much cared for the slippery feeling of kissing Marianne, who had favored a particularly garish shade of red.
He chastized himself for thinking of Esther Durrant and kissing in almost the same breath. It would not do at all. “Come on then, let’s be off.” Annoyance with himself made him more abrupt than he would have liked, but she didn’t appear to notice. He unhooked a bucket and a shovel that hung by the front door and set off.
They took the path that led down to the jetty, but before reaching it, he indicated that they should follow a narrow track, barely a foot wide, that wound its way through the seagrass, following the shoreline west. He soon noticed that Esther was struggling to keep up with him and so he adjusted his pace accordingly. “Look, out there!” he cried, stopping so suddenly that she almost bumped into him.
“What? Where? There’s nothing but endless sea.”
He pointed in the direction that he had been looking, toward a group of rocks that stuck up out of the frothing water like obsidian. Some of the rocks appeared to be moving, cleaving and launching into the sea. “Seals.”