by Kayte Nunn
Despite his skills, however, he hadn’t managed to get her to reveal anything about the events that had brought her there, for she knew if she uttered the words out loud that she would have to own up to her part in the tragedy.
* * *
About three weeks after she had arrived, on a Friday at noon, the tide was reaching its zenith. She practically scampered down the narrow path to the jetty, leaving Robbie following some way behind her, dragging the cart. They arrived in plenty of time to meet the boat—they could see the wide-beamed vessel as a speck on the horizon—and settled on the jetty’s end to wait. The sun had come out from behind the clouds and Esther tipped her face to its warmth, swinging her legs and feeling a bubble of expectation well up inside her. Surely there would be a message from John by this boat? It had better come soon, for the bright, glossy pills were almost finished. She’d been rationing them, taking one every other night, but they would be gone within a week and she didn’t know how she would cope after that. She didn’t want the doctor to know she was taking them—she couldn’t really explain why—but if John didn’t send for her soon, she might be forced to ask him for some more. She couldn’t manage without them.
“The place has grown on you, hasn’t it?” said Robbie. He’d left the cart where the jetty met the land and come down to sit beside her, the unblemished side of his face closest to hers.
She looked sideways at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You look almost happy. Quite different from when you first arrived.”
“Perhaps I’m well enough to be leaving soon?”
“Perhaps.” He didn’t sound as if he believed her.
“Anyway, I have to go home soon. My son needs me.”
“How old is he?”
“Two and a half. His name’s Teddy.” Her eyes misted over and she blinked to clear them, staring ahead of her. “How long have you been here?” she asked.
He brushed his fair hair out of his eyes. “Nearly six months I reckon. You should see this place in summer—there’s nowhere I’ve ever been that’s quite like it. Hard to believe it’s still England. Gorgeous for swimming.”
“Well, I shall have to take your word for it, for I do not expect to be here come summer.” Her tone was certain but she could tell from the look on his face that Robbie didn’t believe her.
She cast around for a change of topic. “Tell me about your family. If it’s not going to upset you that is,” she added hurriedly.
“Oh no, not at all. My parents died in the Blitz. Now there’s just my sister, a brother-in-law, and a niece with the sweetest smile you ever saw.” The undamaged corner of his mouth turned upward at the memory.
“No wife? Children?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t expect to survive the war, so it hardly seemed fair to leave someone stuck with mouths to feed and no breadwinner.”
“Indeed. But how about since the war ended?”
He laughed bitterly. “I’m not exactly a pretty boy anymore, am I?”
“Do you know,” she admitted, “I was a bit taken aback by your face when I first met you, but now—well now, I hardly notice it. It’ll be the same for the right girl, I know it will. You’ve the kindest, biggest heart, Robbie.”
“Very sweet of you to say so, old girl, but I’m not much good to anyone at the moment. I doubt there’s anyone alive who wants to lie next to me when the nightmares come.”
“But love would change that; the right woman, and I’m sure there is one, someone who will love you.”
“If only it were that simple,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
“But you’re getting better, aren’t you?”
“I suppose. The doc seems to think so anyway.” He got to his feet and began to wave at the boat, which was fast approaching the shore. Esther’s anticipation grew as the skipper threw the engine into reverse and the boat came alongside the jetty. He tossed a line to each of them and they tied her up securely. “Ahoy there!” the skipper said, passing across a crate stamped with the Hugh Town Stores name and then another of mail.
Esther registered the brown paper parcels with excitement but stepped back out of the way as Robbie took the crate from the skipper and deposited it on the jetty next to them. She leaned forward to peer into it, optimistic that it would contain word from John. It was all she could do to stop herself from riffling through it there and then.
“Expecting something?” asked Robbie, noticing her darting eyes.
“Oh I hope so,” she said. “My husband . . .”
She watched as the skipper handed two more crates and a sack to Robbie and then prepared to leave. “Gotta get a move on,” he said in a thick Cornish accent. “Fearful storm brewing from the north.”
“Time and tide wait for no man,” said Robbie with a salute. “See you next week, Captain.”
“God willing.”
Esther helped untie the lines holding the boat fast to the jetty and they waved the captain off.
“Would you like to check before we set off back to the house?” asked Robbie kindly.
She nodded, barely able to speak, and knelt down, not caring that the damp timbers of the jetty soaked the knees of her lisle stockings. “Oh, a parcel for you, Robbie!” she cried, handing him a large rectangular box. “And one for George . . .” She riffled through the remaining packages, coming to a slim envelope with a North London postmark. Her heart leaped as she recognized the writing and she leaned back on her heels and tore the envelope open. As she slid the paper out a sudden gust of wind ripped one of the sheets from her hand and it sailed away, over the jetty and into the water. “Oh no!” she cried, scrambling to her feet and following where it had landed.
Before she could do anything further, Robbie had stripped off his heavy pullover and leaped into the sea, the splash sending a shower of salty water onto the jetty.
He scooped up the errant page, held it clear of the water, and began stroking the few yards to the shore with his other arm.
“Are you quite mad?” she called as she ran down the jetty to meet him, realizing as she said it that her choice of words might have been better. “It’s freezing in there.” But she couldn’t help but be thankful that he’d saved it for her.
He emerged, spluttering, holding the paper triumphantly. “Your letter, madam,” he said with a bow as water streamed off him, pooling on the sand. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself.
Esther laughed at the absurdity of it all, but then covered her mouth with her hands: his teeth were chattering with cold. “Oh, Robbie, you really shouldn’t have. But thank you.” She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on his good cheek then turned to look at the letter. She still held the second, dry page, in her hands and the writing was bold and clear. Unfortunately, despite Robbie’s efforts, the ink had run so as to make the message on the first, sodden page almost indecipherable. She peered at it, trying to make sense of the waterlogged words.
“My darling Esther—” she read. The rest of the page was a washout, and the ink swam before her eyes. She blinked and turned to the page in her other hand. A single paragraph. “I hope you have by now settled in and are feeling better. Richard is a wonderful doctor and I have every confidence that, in time, you will make a full recovery and return to us. Teddy sends a kiss. Your loving husband, John.” Esther let out a low moan, the mention of her son lancing her with fresh agony. Her husband hadn’t paid any heed to her pleas to return home—if indeed he had received her letter at all.
“Bad news, old chum?” Robbie asked.
“I suppose so,” she said, unable to quell the tremor in her voice. “It seems I shall not be returning home as soon as I had hoped.” She screwed the pages into a tight ball and hurled them into the sea. “I’m sorry you had to get wet. It appears that the letter wasn’t worth rescuing after all.”
“Come on now, it can’t be that bad.”
“Can’t it?” she rounded on him. She had to take her anger out on something, someone. “Do
you know what it’s like to be away from your child? A small child who needs his mother? What it’s like to lie awake every night wondering if he’s eaten his supper, if he’s warm enough, if he’s sleeping peacefully? To be hundreds of miles away from him, hoping he isn’t missing you, isn’t crying out for you?”
Robbie said nothing but stepped forward and took her in his arms. Caught off guard, Esther submitted to his embrace, not caring that he was soaking wet. He smelled of tobacco, earth, and salt, a comforting mix that enveloped her, made her feel unaccountably safe. She found herself clinging to him, reveling in the strong feel of his shoulders beneath her hands. It had been months since John had touched her, and even longer since she had felt desire for anything or anyone. Its sudden flare, sending heat coursing through her and causing her to turn her lips toward his, took her by surprise. As their lips met, she came to her senses, jerking herself away violently and turning to run back up to the house before her wayward body could betray her any further, before Robbie had a chance to say anything.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Little Embers, Spring 2018
Leah handed Rachel a rolled-up ball of socks. “There are a few pairs of boots by the front door. They’ll likely be too big, and some of them have been here since before I arrived, so the rubber might have perished, but it’s the best I can offer I’m afraid. Not that you should be going out today though.”
Rachel bit her lip and allowed herself to be told what to do. She was a guest of Leah’s, she reminded herself.
Leah watched her struggle, one-handed, with a sock and then knelt down in front of her. “Here, let me.”
Rachel felt momentarily embarrassed that an almost-complete stranger was putting socks on her bare feet, something even her mother hadn’t done since she was little, but she relinquished them and let Leah slide each one on. They were huge, and sagged around her ankles, but they would keep her feet warm.
“Breakfast is ready. Porridge. I usually eat in the kitchen, but it’s warmer in here so I’ll fetch yours for you.”
Rachel didn’t even have time to mutter a thank you before Leah left the room. She eyed the suitcase again. She was itching to see what the letters contained but didn’t know how long Leah would be gone.
“Like I said, I’m all out of sugar until Tom comes again,” Leah said when she returned after only a few minutes, setting a tray on Rachel’s lap. Rachel looked at the steaming bowl of oats and milk and took a tentative spoonful.
“It’s delicious,” she said, and to her surprise it was. Rich and creamy and just a hint of salt. She wolfed it down and looked up to find Leah watching her with the barest twitch of her lips.
“More?”
She nodded. “Yes please.”
* * *
After breakfast, Leah disappeared, the back door that led from the kitchen slamming shut behind her. Rachel reckoned on her being gone for a fair while: she remembered Leah had mentioned a number of chores to be done every morning about the place, so as soon as she’d left, Rachel shuffled forward on the sofa and reached into the suitcase again. Her fingers closed on the book and she pulled it out from under the clothes, placing it beside her on the sofa. She rested her elbow on one of the envelopes and used her good hand to pull out the pages it contained. They had been folded in half, and she carefully smoothed them flat. “My darling E. . . .” it began. She glanced at the top of the sheet. “August 1952,” she said aloud. Hoo-eee. The letter had been written more than sixty years ago. After the Second World War. Before the Vietnam War. Before man landed on the moon. Before the fall of the Berlin Wall. Before mobile phones. Before the internet.
When her mind had stopped boggling she read on. “I count the days since you left, and wonder how it can be that the sun still rises and falls, that your heart beats so far away from mine. I am filled with despair when I wake and know that I will not see your secret smile, the one I like to imagine that you reserve only for me, that I will not hear your laugh, walk with you to the jetty or the beach, never wrap my arm around your waist again. Your absence tears at me until I can no longer breathe and I scarcely have the strength to get up every morning. It is only by writing that I feel you anywhere nearby, even though I know you are far away from here. I am bound by the (mis)fortune of loving you until the end of my days. My only solace is in writing these letters to you, for they bring me closer, as if you were here beside me once more, if only for the time I spend writing them.”
Rachel had never been a great believer in romance, but something in these words moved her. How wonderful—and heartbreaking—to be so loved and so lost. She read on.
“I tell myself that you cannot be missing me half as much as I do you, and I am happy that you do not feel the same agony as I do, for I would not wish that for you in all the world, my dearest. My fervent hope is that you therefore think of me only occasionally, but always fondly, and that your life will be a joyful one.”
Rachel’s heart twisted.
“It is the season of shooting stars here, and I had so hoped to watch them with you. Great showers of light are spread across the night sky and I imagine them as a spangled bouquet in tribute to your beauty. I wonder if you can see them from where you are?”
Rachel liked the idea of watching meteor showers with someone you loved. She’d seen them when she was living on Aitutaki, and had indeed been entwined in the arms of her then lover, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever been in love. Certainly not in the desperate, all-consuming way this writer was.
She carried on reading. The letter told of daily walks, collecting clams, of the way the sun caught the water and reminded him of the light in E’s eyes. At the bottom, the letter “R” as a sign-off, the curve of it finished with a flourish.
She was taken aback. Who could have written such a heartfelt, soul-baring missive, licked the stamps on the envelope even, and then not bothered to send it?
She’d never imagined the kind of love that the writer of this letter felt, had never wanted to be so beholden, so dependent on another for happiness. What would it be like to be the object of someone’s unwavering adoration: would she feel cherished or claustrophobic?
She opened the next envelope. This letter was dated July 1952. “My dearest E. . . .” it began again. “Another month has passed since you left and though I do my best to keep my spirits up, I must confess that your absence haunts me still. There is a hole where my heart once was, as if a cannon had been shot clean through me. It is a terrible irony that I fear missing you will send me mad.”
Rachel read on, wondering if the intended recipient was a man or a woman, deciding that it must have been a woman as she read: “I dream of your tender lips and creamy skin but every morning awake to find my heart cut out once more. I enter empty rooms and imagine the smell of your perfume in their quiet corners. I breathe it in from the clothes you left behind—please don’t think me strange for that, for it is all I have. They taunt me with your absence. The memories of our days together, and these, for now, sustain me. Know that I hold you in the highest regard, and will do so always, no matter what fate may have in store for us.”
She read through the next three letters, one dated May, then June and September. May, the first letter, told of the writer’s shock at the departure of E, of their desolation at being without her, and how after only a few short months of knowing E, the writer could no longer comprehend a world without her in it.
One remained. October. It began in the same manner as the previous five, addressed to “Dearest E,” but consisted of only a single sheet of flimsy paper.
“I cannot continue,” the bald typed words said. “I am the bearer of too great a grief and there is only one way I can release myself of this burden.”
Rachel found herself caught up in the story now. What did the writer mean to do? As she was pondering the letter writer’s fate, the door slammed. Leah was back. She hastily gathered the letters and tucked them between the pages of the book, lying back and pretending to read the novel just in
case she came in.
She held her breath. A second slam of the door meant that Leah must have found what she’d come in for and gone out again. She sat up, reached for the final letter, and continued reading. “I shall write no more. I must put you out of my mind, for it is the only way. Of course, you came to this sensible conclusion far sooner than I. We can never be. Our lives must—and do—go on, but separately, and I must make the best of it, not wallow in grief. Know that not a day will go by that I will not think of you. My darling, my heart will be forever yours. I like to think that someday you might read these words and understand. R.”
Who was this E. Durrant of Hampstead, and who, here on this island, had been writing to her? And why had the letters never been sent, but were instead tucked away in a suitcase full of clothes? Rachel let the paper rest against the blanket and pondered the possibilities. She felt suddenly melancholy, infected by the lost hope of the last letter.
Seized by a sudden urge to get off the sofa and away from the cloying sadness, she stood up, folding the final letter between the pages of the book with the others, returning them to the suitcase and closing the lid. It was time to explore the rest of the house. Perhaps it might yield further clues?
Rachel tiptoed along a narrow flagstoned hallway, past the bathroom and the stairs—the upper floor was where Leah’s studio was and where, presumably, she also slept—and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. This was as chaotic as the sitting room. A large dresser was heaped with what looked to be mostly junk: fishing reels, an old flowerpot, scissors, a couple of hardback books, jam jars filled with an assortment of nails, an array of mismatched china stacked in teetering piles . . . Their breakfast things sat in the sink, the porridge pan soaking in water. Rachel spied a kettle to one side of a wood-burning range and other cooking utensils hung from a pole suspended from the ceiling. There was no sign of a fridge, or toaster, or any other of the usual modern conveniences, but then that was hardly surprising as the island wasn’t connected to the electricity grid. She was struck again by how isolated it was.