by Kayte Nunn
“I had what I suppose you’d call a breakdown. My sister found me outside hiding under a bit of corrugated iron, clutching T. S. Eliot. Wouldn’t come out no matter what she tried.” He shook his head ruefully.
“T. S. Eliot?” She was curious.
“The Hollow Men . . .” He intoned the words. “I was pretty much catatonic apparently. It was coming here or a lobotomy. Thank Christ my sister found this place; it’s made all the difference. The doc, he gets me to talk about it in a way that I can’t to anyone else. Makes it a bit easier to bear somehow; and digging up this—” He poked at the soil again. “Seeing things grow takes away some of the frustration somehow. There’s something, however small, that’s good and right about it.”
Esther murmured in agreement.
“Though I’m still not sure if I’m better off than those who didn’t come back,” he added.
“Especially being in a different kind of prison,” said Esther.
He looked up at her, surprised. “It’s hardly that. Not for me anyway. I want to be here. What scares me most is the thought of leaving.”
* * *
A little after noon, she saw George and Robbie heading off down the path to the jetty, George pushing a rough-hewn cart with old bicycle wheels on either side. Esther hurriedly pulled on her walking shoes and ran after them, her stockings catching on the sharp grass that lined the way, the pungent reek of seaweed pricking her nostrils. “Mind if I come too?” she asked breathlessly when she caught up with them.
“Looking for something to do?” George asked.
“I suppose,” she replied, feigning nonchalance.
“It’s a bit like that at first. Best if you can find yourself something around here, help take your mind off things.” His voice was kind and she knew he meant well, but the only thing on Esther’s mind was escape.
As they neared the jetty, she could see a small boat in the distance. She felt for the letter that she’d hidden in her pocket, her fingers closing around a shilling in the other. She had no stamps and so planned to appeal to the captain to buy one on her behalf when he reached the main island. She hoped there was a post office there—surely there had to be?
The three of them stood at the end of the jetty, listening to the slap of the waves against the timber and watching as the boat hove into view and then came alongside. The captain threw a couple of lines to Robbie and George and they lashed them to posts on the jetty. The boat sat low in the water, with several sacks weighting the stern. The captain killed the engine, and then, with an agility at odds with his tubby stature, made his way toward them. Hefting a sack effortlessly, he passed it to the waiting men.
Esther watched as the boat was unloaded, her heart drumming as she waited for her chance. She couldn’t risk one of the men seeing her; they would surely inform the doctor. As they turned to haul the cart back up the path, she saw her chance. “I’ll help cast off,” she said. “You chaps go on ahead and I’ll catch you up.”
“Sure you can manage?” George asked.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she insisted. “I know what to do.” It couldn’t be that hard, she muttered under her breath.
They set off back up the path with a wave to the captain.
Thanking her good fortune that they had left her on her own without an argument, Esther waited until she was sure they were out of earshot. She began to undo the knots holding the lines fast to the jetty and then waved to the captain, beckoning him to come closer. “Do you think you can post this for me?” she implored, retrieving the envelope and the shilling from her pockets and holding them out to him.
The captain looked uncertain. “Mail usually goes once a month. The doctor, ’e passes it on to me.”
“Oh please, would you mind? I’d really be terribly grateful.” Esther gave him her most winning smile, doing her best to charm him. “It’s a drawing for my little boy, you see.” She crossed her fingers at the lie.
The wind had started to come up and the captain was anxious to be on his way. Giving him no choice, she pressed the paper and the coin into his hand and went to finish untying the lines. The captain shrugged and put them both in the pocket of his sou’wester while she threw the last line aboard.
As the boat pulled away, she felt relief that her plan—so far at least—had worked. The captain had looked reluctant, but he’d taken the letter and she was sure he would do as she’d asked. With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, she sprang up the path to catch the men. She began to calculate how long it might be before John would come back for her . . . a week? Perhaps two. She steeled herself to cope with that.
Chapter Nineteen
Little Embers, Spring 2018
The crackle and snap of twigs as they caught alight . . . the stutter of rain on a windowpane . . . and somewhere a low whistle. For a moment Rachel believed she was back at Shearwater Cottage, having fallen asleep over her folders.
Her eyes fluttered open and she saw peeling wallpaper with an indeterminate, mottled effect that could have been water damage as much as an intentional pattern. Beneath her was a scratchy sofa. Moss green, with the roughness of coarse wool.
“So you’re awake.” The voice was croaky, rusty almost, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.
Rachel swiveled her eyes in its direction and focused on the slight woman standing in the doorway. The light was dim; a single oil lamp cast shadows over her face but she could make out a snarl of thick, curling auburn hair loose to the woman’s shoulders. She was wearing baggy corduroy trousers in a murky shade of mustard that were held up by a ratty leather belt and a darned, knitted sweater spattered with shades of green, brown, and gray, as if she’d been using it as an artist’s palette. She looked older than Rachel, but younger than her mother—mid to late forties if she’d had to hazard a guess. Her gray eyes fastened on Rachel’s with an unflinching gaze.
“Saw you out there as the storm came in and wondered what you were up to. No idea why you decided to swim for it though. You’re not from the islands, are you?” she said, as if that offered some sort of explanation.
Rachel shook her head imperceptibly and swallowed. Her throat was raw, most likely the aftereffect of swallowing a bucketload of saltwater.
“Good job I got to you in time, or you’d have been feeding the fish. You were a lovely shade of Prussian when I pulled you out.”
“I . . .” Rachel didn’t know where to begin. A memory of being stuck in the rocks surfaced. “My hand. It was caught. I would have made it otherwise.” She was defiant.
“As I said, lucky I was there, eh?”
“Where am I?”
“Little Embers.”
“My tinny . . .” Rachel went to sit up but slumped down again as a wave of dizziness and pain washed over her. Her right arm throbbed.
“Lost at sea, I’m afraid.”
“Oh Christ.” How was she going to explain that to Dr. Wentworth?
“Not sure he had much to do with it. I’m Leah, by the way.”
“Rachel,” she said weakly.
The woman grunted. “I’ll go and put the kettle on; a cuppa will help warm you up.”
Leah disappeared into the recesses of the hallway and Rachel took the opportunity to assess her surroundings. The room was chaotic, with books and papers strewn across every surface, in untidy piles on the flowered rug and propping open the door. Ragged curtains were drawn across two long, rectangular windows and she was lying facing the fire, a thick blanket covering her and several hot water bottles packed against her torso, legs, and feet. From somewhere came the smell of cooking—something rich and savory.
She raised her left hand to her hair and found it was still damp. Then she remembered that she’d only been wearing her underwear when she jumped overboard and looked down, seeing that she was now clad in a loose, paint-daubed T-shirt that might once have been white. Leah must have put it on her.
She was attempting to sit up again when Leah reappeared with two mugs.
“Ah. I wouldn’t try
to move too much. Your hand is somewhat the worse for wear.”
“What do you mean?”
“I reckon you’ve broken a finger or two and I may have sprained your wrist in trying to wrench it loose from the rock.” Leah said this matter-of-factly. “It’s a bit swollen but I’m sure it’ll be right as rain in a day or two.” She put down the mug she was carrying and lifted a corner of the blanket. Rachel craned her neck and could see that her right forearm, lying across her chest, was twice the size of the other, the wrist thick and puffy. Two of her fingers were also swollen and had turned a fetching shade of purple. As she looked at her hand and gingerly tried to move her fingers, pain flooded through her once more and even though she was still freezing, sweat beaded on her forehead. “Ow! Fuck, it hurts.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend that.” Leah opened a blister packet of tablets and held two out to her. “These’ll take the edge off.”
Leah had placed the tea on a small table next to her uninjured side and Rachel sat up awkwardly, biting her tongue as she jostled her swollen arm in reaching for the mug. The tea was sweet and strong and as she sipped it, she started to feel her natural optimism reassert itself. She hadn’t drowned. She was in one piece—well, sort of. She thought briefly of her camera, her phone, and the day’s observations. She was sorry to lose the camera, but the phone she could claim on insurance, and at least the obs were only a day’s worth. The boat, however, was a bigger problem. How was she going to explain that to Dr. Wentworth? He would, without doubt, think her the biggest idiot on the planet.
He wouldn’t be too far off the mark.
Leah reappeared, a rusty tin box in her hands. She set it down on the coffee table and pulled open the lid, which came away with a screech of complaint. “I thought I’d wait until you woke up before strapping your hand,” she said, rooting around inside the box.
“Oh, thanks.” Rachel wasn’t sure that had been the best idea.
“I’m not much of a nurse.” Leah pulled out a grayish bandage. “This stuff’s been here for years, but it should do the trick.”
As Leah sat down next to her on the sofa, Rachel smelled wood smoke and the slightly sour odor of old clothes rarely washed. Leah’s hands were small, square, and strong: capable hands. The nails were rimmed with a murky khaki color, but apart from that they looked fairly clean.
“Hold out your arm.”
Rachel did as she was asked, moving it carefully toward her.
“So, Rachel, why don’t you tell me exactly what brought you all the way to the Eastern Isles in such atrocious weather?” Leah began to wind the bandage along the lower part of her arm. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Not really,” she replied, a defensive note in her voice. “I’m living on St. Mary’s. I’m a research scientist. Ow!”
“Sorry. It might hurt just a little. No, I meant Australia. That’s where you’re from, aren’t you?” Leah’s hands moved quickly and efficiently as they unrolled the bandage.
“Originally. But I’ve lived all over. Cooks, Maldives, Guam . . . Southern Hemisphere or equatorial islands mainly.”
Thunder rumbled outside the window. “We don’t often get storms as bad as this so late in the season,” Leah said, glancing up. “But when we do, it’s not safe for man or dog out there.”
“I wouldn’t have set out if I’d realized,” she said, Leah’s words making her feel foolish. “I don’t make a habit of such stupid mistakes.”
“You don’t say,” she said, fastening the bandage by tucking it neatly in on itself. “That should help.”
It did, though the ache was still there.
“Dinner’s on. Hope you like mutton.”
Leah disappeared again and Rachel was left wondering who exactly she was. Jonah had said that she was a hermit, but there had to be more to it than that. Who in their right mind would choose to live such a lonely existence?
She was on the point of dozing off again when Leah reappeared carrying tin plates and two forks. “You might be more comfortable on the sofa tonight—it’s warmer in here than anywhere else in the house. I’ll pull out some spare linen for you tomorrow, but it’s all in the attic and I’m not going up there until it’s light again.”
“Surely I’ll be able to get back to St. Mary’s by tomorrow?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t be too certain of that. This storm looks set to hang around for a day or two,” Leah said, handing her a plate. As if to back her up, a clap of thunder sounded, making the windows rattle in their frames.
Rachel balanced the plate on her lap and then took the fork Leah held out. “But you’ll be able to take me back then?”
“Well, I would if I had a boat.”
“What?”
“I said I would if I had a boat.”
“Yes, I heard that, but what do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said,” Leah said with exaggerated patience. “I don’t have a boat.”
“You’re kidding. How do you get around? Get supplies? Food?”
“I rarely need to leave the island, and Tom from the co-op on St. Mary’s sends out a delivery once a week.”
Rachel was astonished. She knew a fair bit about living remotely, but this was on another level.
“When’s the next delivery due?” she mumbled through a mouthful of stew.
“Let’s see . . .” She thought for a while. “The last one was two days ago. Yes, that was it.”
“So next Thursday,” said Rachel.
“I don’t exactly keep track of days, but if you say so.”
“Do you at least have a phone?”
Leah looked at her as if she’d asked for a direct line to the moon. “Nope.”
That meant it would be another five days before anyone came. Five days. She was due to contact Dr. Wentworth on Monday. He would be unimpressed if she missed her first check-in. Mind you, he was hardly likely to be happy about the news she had to give him. She put it to the back of her mind: there was nothing to be done about it right now.
“Don’t you get lonely here?” Rachel had never been good at subtlety. “I mean, only seeing someone once a week at best? Not being able to contact anyone?”
Leah looked at her with a mix of irritation and resignation. “I’ve been lonelier in big cities, even in small towns. No, this suits me just fine.”
Without thinking, Rachel moved her injured wrist and winced again.
“Those painkillers doing any good?” Leah asked.
“A little,” she replied, not wanting to complain.
“You might not have the best night’s sleep tonight.”
“I’m tougher than I look.”
“I’m sure you are.” Leah reached for the plate, which Rachel had scraped clean as they spoke. “We don’t run to dessert in these parts I’m afraid.”
“That was delicious, thank you. And thank you for taking me in, for rescuing me.”
“I was hardly going to leave you out there to drown, now was I?”
Chapter Twenty
Little Embers, Autumn 1951
Richard often started his therapy sessions with a piece of music, taking care to select something soothing that might suit his patient. It helped to achieve a calm state of mind so that he could begin to probe deeper into the events that brought them to Embers in the first place. For Esther, he chose the Vaughan Williams again, having seen how it affected her the first time he played it. It didn’t hurt that it was also one of his favorite pieces.
Nearly ten days had passed since her arrival and the presence of a woman on the island hadn’t been as disruptive as he had initially feared, at least as far as the other patients were concerned.
Robbie in particular had taken a shine to her. He had seen them both in the garden, Robbie leaning on his shovel, seemingly engaged in earnest conversation, and Esther holding her hair off her face as the wind tried to grasp it. He had noticed how the fresh air brought pinkness to her pale complexion and that she had begun to eat a little more at each meal.
He was aware that she had a small supply of Seconal—John had given him details of the medication she’d been prescribed—but he had preferred to let her finish them rather than distress her further by taking them away. He would not be prescribing any more, however. His aim was to wean his patients off all sedatives and stimulants as their condition improved. A small dose of valerian, if they were plagued by nightmares, was the most he would allow.
In their daily meetings he could see that she had slowly begun to trust him, telling him small details of her life in London, how she loved to walk on the Heath in spring, her favorite place to swim in summer. True, they had only talked generally, and he had not broached the subject of her recent past yet. It would take time before she would be able to unburden herself. One morning, they had been talking of the bathing ponds when he dared to ask the question.
“Tell me about your children, Esther.”
She blanched, but recovered herself quickly. “Well, Teddy is nearly two and a half and a bit of a handful—John likes to call him Teddy the Terror in fact. He’s mischievous, but such a happy little chap, and so loving . . . I’m afraid I’m not always a terribly good mother to him.” She lapsed into silence.
“What makes you say that?” he asked gently.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? I should be at home, looking after him, like a proper mother would be.”
“Now don’t blame yourself for that; it can’t be helped. And you’re here to get well again, so that you can be a good mother again.”
“But I’m perfectly well. I’ve just been a little out of sorts, that’s all.” She brushed imaginary crumbs from her skirt and shifted in her seat. “A bit blue, that is if I was forced to admit to anything.”
He smiled inwardly at the understatement. “Are you sure about that, Esther? What about your other child?”
“My other child?”
He deliberately left a long silence. It was one of the oldest tricks in a psychologist’s book. You had to leave space for the patient to go inside themselves, to let the silence stretch until they filled it with what had often been buried deep. Esther was stubborn though, self-contained, and the silence stretched and stretched, all while she remained perfectly still.