by Kayte Nunn
The dong of the grandfather clock in the hall announced it was time for lunch and he reluctantly drew their session to an end. “Let’s chat some more tomorrow, shall we?” he said, as if nothing untoward had happened. “Why don’t you go on to the kitchen and I’ll tidy up a few things here?”
Esther got to her feet, an economy of motion that was graceful and fluid. It pleased him inordinately to watch her: tramping along the seashore, sipping tea at breakfast, the way one side of her mouth curled upward in wry good humor at something Wilkie or Robbie said. It probably wasn’t right to be so affected by her presence, but he found it impossible not to be.
She gave him a brief, questioning glance as she left the room and Richard felt himself color, as if she had been able to read his thoughts. She closed the door and he reminded himself once again of his professional obligations.
He went to his study and sat at the desk there, moving aside a sheaf of papers to reveal his diary. The year, 1951, was stamped in gold on the front and a thin ribbon marked the place. November, the dying month. A scant few weeks until Christmas, he noted without a great deal of enthusiasm. As a boy, the day had been a highlight in an otherwise uneventful existence. There had been presents—a train set, a football, and one memorable year a black bicycle with a shiny bell that he loved to sound loudly as he rounded corners, surprising unsuspecting pedestrians. There had been the tantalizing aroma of turkey roasting, crunchy potatoes, and the taste of sweet oloroso sipped in the drawing room. His mother, full of girlish excitement at the present opening, then claiming exhaustion and retreating to her bedroom long before it was time to retire for the night. His father disappearing behind the Times, leaving Richard to play with his toys by himself.
During the war his taste for ceremony, gifts, and festive food had waned and he generally preferred to work on the days that most wished to relax on. Since arriving at Embers, there had been two Christmases, celebrated quietly, though Mrs. Biggs had on both occasions managed to rustle up a goose and the patients inveigled him in games of charades and hunt the thimble, the thimble in their case being requisitioned from Mrs. Biggs’s sewing case. Both occasions had been surprisingly agreeable and had boosted morale, despite his patients receiving sometimes heart-wrenching messages from their loved ones. The hand-drawn cards from their children were the hardest for all to read.
Richard picked up his fountain pen, opened the diary to that day’s date. “E.D. Session five,” he wrote. “Patient appears in measurably better humor, but refuses to acknowledge the events in her recent past.” He then put the diary aside and inserted a piece of paper into the squat typewriter that also sat on his desk. The keys clacked in a staccato rhythm as he recalled their conversation, Esther’s mood, her physical health, even her body language. Little went unnoticed or unnoted. Eventually, after nearly half an hour and several pages, he pulled the last piece of paper free of the cartridge and placed it in a manila file before securing it in a cabinet.
To an outsider it might have appeared that he was making little progress, but his work had shown him the value of patience and gentle persistence in all things.
Chapter Twenty-One
Little Embers, Spring 2018
Leah had been right. Rachel slept fitfully, kept from deeper slumber by the pain in her arm every time she moved, as well as the sound of the wind swirling around the old house and the scattershot of rain on the windowpane. The fire had long died down and she shivered under the blanket, reliving the panic she’d felt when her hand was stuck. She’d done some pretty foolish things in her thirty-five years, but deciding to swim while towing a tinny behind her in a raging storm had to be right up there among them. She could just imagine the look on her older brother’s face when she told him.
To distract herself she lay on the sofa trying to work out how she was going to get off the island before the supply boat came, and exactly how she would explain the missing tinny to Dr. Wentworth.
Sometime in the early hours, Rachel’s thoughts turned to Jonah. If anyone were to notice that the Soleil had gone missing it would most likely be him. Would he perhaps organize a search party? No one in their right mind would set out in such a storm though. And even if he did, there was a lot of ocean and so many islands; it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
As a dim light began to filter through the curtains, Rachel was struck by the sudden silence. The rain had stopped and the wind no longer howled. As she was lying there, contemplating the peace, she heard a series of creaks as someone came down the stairs and then the metallic clang of pans being placed on a stove. Leah must be awake.
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, Leah opened the door and appeared with two mugs in one hand and the packet of painkillers in the other.
“Get any sleep?”
Rachel gave her a weak smile. “Not a lot.”
“Thought you might want a cuppa. I hope you don’t mind it unsweetened. Used up the last of the sugar yesterday. There’s milk though. I keep a cow on the island. Margaret. Named after one of your countrywomen in fact.” Leah handed her the mug and Rachel took it with her good hand.
“Margaret?” Rachel was puzzled.
“Olley.”
“Oh, the painter. I love her work.” Rachel smiled, pleased at the fact that they might have something, however tenuous, in common.
“Bingo.”
“And do you paint?” she asked, remembering the multi-colored stains on Leah’s clothes.
“I used to. Wasn’t too bad once. But now . . . now I just dabble and try not to mind that somewhere along the way my talent deserted me.” Her tone was light, but Rachel sensed an undertone to the throwaway comment.
She took a sip of tea. It was hot and comforting. “I see.”
“I doubt you do, but never mind that. I won’t have anyone feeling sorry for me.”
“I’ll do my best not to,” she said firmly.
“Good. As we’re going to be stuck with each other for the next five days . . .”
Rachel gave a loud, involuntary sigh as she thought again of the time she would lose.
“May I continue?” Leah fixed her with a glare and she nodded mutely.
“I’ve not had a houseguest before, but there will be certain rules if we are to get along—I am probably rather too used to my own company. I suggest you stay right here for the day.” Leah held up a hand as Rachel started to protest. “That’s a nasty sprain and you look like you could do with more rest. Then, you’re welcome anywhere in the house, with the exception of my studio upstairs. That’s strictly no entry. I’ll be in there most afternoons, but in the mornings I milk Margaret, see to the vegetables, and generally try and do a bit of maintenance about the place. If you do decide to go for a walk, just let me know, as I don’t fancy scouring the island for you if I can’t find you.”
Rachel was about to say that she rarely got lost, but then remembered how in fact she’d ended up on the island and thought better of it.
“I’d welcome some help in the kitchen, if you think you can manage it, as the one thing I do get sick of is my own cooking,” Leah continued.
“How do you like tuna pasta?” Rachel asked with a grin.
“I like it just fine. You’ll find the ingredients you need in the pantry. I’d also better give you the guided tour at some point today.” Leah had shown her the bathroom the night before, but the rest of the house remained a mystery. “I’ll dig out some clothes for you, but I’ll get the fire lit first. Can’t have you getting cold again.”
Once the fire was going, Leah disappeared and Rachel heard the scrape of something being drawn across the ceiling, followed by a thump and a loud bang. “Everything okay?” she called out uncertainly.
“It will be,” came a muffled reply from somewhere above her.
More banging, another thump, and then Leah reappeared. In her arms was an old-fashioned suitcase, dark brown leather, with rusted brass locks. Her forearm flexed under its weight and Rachel could see that her musc
les were well-defined. Leah might be slight, but she was strong. Just as well, thought Rachel, or she probably wouldn’t be sitting there.
Leah placed the suitcase on the floor next to her with a heavy clunk. “There’s a few things in here. They might not be your style, but beggars . . .”
“Where did it come from?”
“The attic. Before that, buggered if I know. It’s been here since I’ve lived at Embers. I had a quick look a while ago, but when I saw the clothes would drown me, I left it where it was. You’re welcome to anything you like.”
“Who lived in the house before you?”
“No one permanently, well, not for about fifty years anyway—the place was almost a ruin. I got it on the condition I did a bit of fixing up. Which is a never-ending job.”
Leah bent down and popped the latches, which gave way with a rusty click.
Rachel peered inside. It was lined in emerald-green moiré silk, faded in places, and her nose wrinkled at the pungent smell of mothballs that wafted toward her. Neither moths nor silverfish would have stood a chance. She could make out a dark wool jacket—or possibly a coat—with a curled black collar and a rather crushed mousy-brown felt hat.
“I’ll leave you to have a look if you like. Got to see to Margaret. She’s in the cow shed, but the roof’s not the best and the storm last night could have spooked her.”
Rachel eased herself forward on the sofa, nursing her sore wrist, and began to explore the contents of the suitcase with her good hand. She lifted the hat and coat off the top of the pile and placed them in the lid. Below them was a layer of tissue paper, browning at the edges and crumbling at her touch, and then a neatly folded pistachio-colored twinset: a short-sleeved sweater and matching cardigan adorned with pearl buttons. She spread the cardigan out and reckoned it would probably fit. Below these were some pleat-fronted, cuffed tweed trousers and a pair of sturdy flat shoes. Then, folded into more tissue paper, several pairs of silk underpants that looked a bit like shorts, a camisole, and a strange lacy contraption with strips of elastic hanging from it that she vaguely recognized as a garter belt. It was confirmed when she uncovered a pair of pale silk stockings. The clothes were in almost mint condition, but it was clear they came from a much earlier time.
She discarded the T-shirt she had slept in and gingerly eased the camisole and the sweater over her injured wrist, doing her best not to twist it and cause more pain. Then, the trousers. She managed the metal zipper with one hand, but the top button was beyond her and she left it undone. Eventually she stood up, smoothing the sweater down. The trousers crumpled slightly at her ankles, but apart from that, they fit fairly well. She could tell just from looking that the shoes would be far too narrow for her broad Aussie feet so didn’t bother with those.
She knelt down again and rummaged through the rest of the things, finding a thin brown leather belt, another sweater, and a sheer, short-sleeved blouse in sunny yellow. Who had these clothes belonged to? How old had she been? What must her life have been like? Maybe she came here on a holiday? The fabrics were good quality, the sweater almost certainly cashmere and the clothes well made, but beyond that there were few clues.
Just as she thought she’d seen everything the suitcase contained, Rachel felt the hard corner of something in a side pocket. A book? She pulled it out. Yes. An old copy of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. She’d read it once, years ago, for school. The pages of this copy were well worn and as she flicked through them several pale blue envelopes, the flimsy airmail type, fell out from among the pages.
She read the address on the front of one of them. E. Durrant, Frogmore, Well Walk, Hampstead, London NW3.
Was this a letter, written by the owner of the clothes? To her mother, a sister, or a friend perhaps? First, however, she looked at the other envelopes. Six of them. All addressed to E. Durrant. Stamped, but unsent. How odd.
The envelopes hadn’t been sealed, the flaps simply tucked inside and she was about to open one when she heard Leah coming along the corridor. She felt unaccountably guilty, as if she’d been caught peeking at something she shouldn’t have, and thrust the letters and the book back in the suitcase, hiding them under the blouse.
“Oh good, you did find something to fit,” Leah said as she came into the room.
Chapter Twenty-Two
London, Spring 2018
Who was Robbie?” Eve asked her grandmother. She had gone into her room an hour or so later and found her grandmother sitting up in bed.
“Robbie?”
“You were talking in your sleep . . . something about an orchard?”
Esther sighed. “Really? Talking in my sleep?”
Eve nodded. “Do you have dreams like that very often?”
“Not anymore, not for years actually.” She paused. Sighed deeply. “I don’t suppose there’s any shame in you knowing, darling.”
“Knowing what, Grams?” Eve asked.
“Once, a long time ago, when Teddy was quite little actually, I wasn’t very well. John—your gramps—took me away, to a place where he thought I would get better.”
Eve’s eyes widened. She’d never heard about this before. “Go on.”
“It was an island. Quite, quite remote. I don’t even think it’s inhabited today.”
“Like the Scottish Highlands or something?”
“South, darling. Off the coast of Cornwall. The Scilly Isles.”
Eve had certainly heard of them—Scilly was one of the names on the shipping forecast. “Isn’t that where daffodils come from, the early ones, I mean?”
“Yes, darling, it is. It’s beautiful there too. Though at the time it was the last place I wanted to be.”
“So what happened? Why did Gramps take you there? How long were you there for?”
Her grandmother held up her hand. “Slow down, Eve. Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes—but should we put it in the book? Should I get the recorder?” Though Grams had begun their notes for the book with her first experience of climbing, Eve hoped that whatever her grandmother was about to reveal might help the reader understand what drove her to scale mountains, to endure the cold and the altitude when she could have been comfortably at home looking after her two small children like any normal housewife would have been doing in the 1950s and ’60s.
“I’ll tell you what happened and you can decide, for it will affect you too.”
Eve didn’t know what to make of that comment, but kept quiet, letting her grandmother speak.
“A long time ago, when I was a young woman, I did something unforgivable. A crime in many people’s eyes. Certainly a sin.”
Eve could scarcely imagine it. Her grandmother had always been the embodiment of respectability and honor. A woman who was as steadfast as the mountains she loved to climb. She found it impossible to believe that her grams was capable of a criminal act, let alone one that had remained a secret for decades, and how could it have consequences for her? She wasn’t even born then. Were her grandmother’s memories becoming muddled again? However unlikely such a statement, Eve did her the courtesy of not dismissing it out of hand. “Sins can always be forgiven, Grams,” she said gently.
Her grandmother gave Eve a wan smile, then continued. “I didn’t know it then, but I was suffering from what they call postnatal depression. John—your gramps—knew something was wrong. Of course there were pills, but they only did so much.”
Eve’s eyes widened even further.
“Your grandfather tried everything to help me, believe me, he did. Then he took me away. To Little Embers. And left me there.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Little Embers, Autumn 1951
Two weeks had passed since Esther had first woken at Embers, bound and confused, and she found herself surprised by the return of her old energy, the energy she’d had before the exhaustion of motherhood overcame everything. She spent her days largely unbothered by the cloud of dread that had hovered over her in London, her eyes were brighter, and her ap
petite had recovered itself, with the result that her skirts no longer swung loosely about her hips. It would likely be a couple of weeks more before she heard from John, but she comforted herself with the thought that her letter must surely have found its way to him by now and he must be planning her return at that very moment. She tried not to miss Teddy too much, but still slept with his woolen cap under her cheek. She had nightmares that he was calling to her, but when she went to hold him her hands would not stretch to meet his; he was always out of reach. It was only first thing in the mornings, the moment before her eyes snapped open, that she felt dragged down by loss again, when she remembered why John had brought her to Embers in the first place.
One morning, waking earlier than normal, she had gone outside for some air and in the fog she almost convinced herself that she heard something—a half-strangled, bleating cry. A shadowy form loomed out of the mist and her breath caught in her throat. It looked like the figure of a young boy. Teddy? As she raced closer, a shrub emerged and her heart slowed its thunderous beat. She was seeing him everywhere, her mind playing tricks.
She’d fallen into a routine, breakfasting with the men and then helping Robbie in the kitchen garden when the weather was fine. The repetitive act of weeding and digging and the sheer physical exhaustion was working a subtle magic, keeping her focus in the present and with little opportunity to rake over the past, during daylight hours at least. The grimness of the previous months faded from her memory, as if the dawn was finally breaking after a long, dark night.
She had even come to trust the doctor, disarmed by his charm and steady good humor. She was surprised to find herself laughing, more than once, in their sessions together. She enjoyed sparring with him about the future of the Catholic Church in England, discussing postwar Europe, the Korean War, and public education. She never knew quite where their conversations would take them. He certainly gave her opinions far more weight than John had ever done, was prepared to listen and debate with her at length.