by Kayte Nunn
The tide would be out and clamming was one of the few activities she could think of to occupy herself with, for the garden was as thoroughly weeded as it could ever be. The last time they’d collected clams, Mrs. Biggs had steamed them with some cream and parsley and they had been as delicious as promised. She tiptoed downstairs, pulled on a jacket and boots and took the shovel and bucket from their place just inside the front door. There was enough light to guide her footsteps without mishap and she was down at the beach, watching as the day—destined to be a bright, clear one by the looks of things—began. The sun was barely up, with only a thin orange visible at the horizon and she stood for the best part of an hour, enjoying the expanding, crystalline light, the gentle suck of the sea and the solitude. The dawn held so much promise; a fresh page on which to make a mark, the blots of the previous day washed away. She felt more like herself than she had in months. A growing regard for the doctor hovered on the edges of her consciousness, but she deliberately pushed away the thought of the warmth that bloomed inside her whenever they spent time together. Nevertheless, she found herself thinking of him in idle moments, even now, wondering . . .
“I say! Is that you, Mrs. Durrant?” A voice rang out across the beach and carried toward her. His shout took Esther by surprise and she started, looking up to see Wilkie bearing down on her. He carried a large tripod under one arm, a camera in his other hand, lurching from side to side as he covered the uneven ground.
She straightened and waved at him, pausing in her collecting as he came closer.
“You’re up early,” he said, huffing with the effort of carrying the camera equipment over the uneven ground.
“Getting some clams in before the tide comes up.”
He grunted. “Good idea. Thought the light might be a cracker for some photos. I say, would you mind if I took your picture?”
Self-conscious, she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m hardly presentable,” she protested, crossing her arms and looking down at the trousers that she’d stuffed into a too-large pair of Wellingtons.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Dead ringer for Katharine Hepburn according to Robbie. And he knows his actresses.”
Esther colored, wondering what exactly they’d been saying about her.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” he continued. “Just let me set her up. You keep on digging; I’ll get one of you in action.”
She turned back to face the shore, glad of something to do. Esther had never been one to enjoy posing for photos, even as a girl. Her wedding picture, showing a more carefree young woman framed in silver, rested on the piano at home. It was a rare portrait.
She sliced the edge of the shovel into the sand, placed her foot on its shoulder, and stepped down hard, then leaned back to get her weight underneath it and turn the whole thing upward, hopeful of revealing more buried clams. She soon became reabsorbed in her task, enjoying the feeling of her muscles working and the satisfaction of uncovering the shellfish. She forgot about Wilkie being there and was caught unawares as she straightened up, shielding her eyes from the rising sun and staring directly into the camera.
“Oh brilliant!” he called out. “The light’s just perfect. Say what you like about the Huns, but they make bloody good cameras.” He clicked the shutter and wound the film on before coming closer. “It’s a Leica. Got it when I was in Italy, from an RAF reconnaissance chap. Doesn’t require a great deal of technical know-how, so it suits me to a tee.”
She picked up her bucket, resting the shovel over one shoulder, a worker at the end of a shift. Wilkie refocused, clicked the shutter again and then wound the film on to the next frame. “Much obliged, Mrs. Durrant.” Of all the men, he was the only one who insisted on formally addressing her, despite her insistence that he do otherwise. “It makes a welcome change to have such a pulchritudinous subject. I have to confess I am a little bored with birds and wildflowers. And you catch the light far better than they.”
“You mean those?” She pointed toward the sea campion, the delicate white petals of which dotted the grasses that rolled down toward the beach. “But they are quite pretty are they not?”
“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he said with theatrical flair.
“Oh come now, Wilkie, you do but flatter me beyond the point of reason,” she laughed.
“Madam, I think you mock me,” he replied, getting into the Shakespearean swing. “But seriously.” His voice returned to normal. “It’s all about the light.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’ve noticed. When you think no one’s watching you. I can see that you’re trying to find the light, just as fiercely as you were digging for those clams. But you know the real trick is to contain the darkness.”
She knew he wasn’t talking about photography.
“You have to make it a place that you can return to, but—and this is the key—one that you can leave,” he said. “Make it a shadow room in your mind if you like. Put all the sadness, the anger, the sheer impotence there. Otherwise it’ll take over your life, poison everything.”
“But that’s not what the doc does.”
“No, he walks into the room with us.” There was a long pause and Esther noticed a shadow pass over his face. His eyes took on a far-off gaze and it seemed as if he were somewhere else.
Eventually, he began to speak. “The first war. Nineteen seventeen. Passchendaele. Heavy rain and mud. So much blasted mud. Couldn’t get any of the artillery close to the front, too damned boggy. I was only a second lieutenant. Still wet behind the ears, too young to be scared until it was all over. Captured an enemy pillbox that was giving us some jip. Shot two gunners and forced the rest of the poor buggers to surrender—ten of them. They had to find me a new uniform after that—it was shredded with bullet holes but somehow they all missed me. Still get the nightmares. There’s never been anything as bad as that since.”
Esther murmured her sympathy. “How do you keep on going?”
“Beauty.”
“Beauty?” she echoed.
“Even when it seems there is none to be had, you must seek it out. Find a way to dream again, to believe, believe in the beauty of life, however fleeting.”
Esther wasn’t sure she could ever achieve this. “Is that what brought you here?”
“Not really. I spent over three years as a prisoner of war. Changi. They reckoned if you were there for more than three years you went around the bend. I guess ending up here is proof of that.” A short bark of a laugh escaped him. “It’s easier for those with actual physical wounds. People think we should just snap out of it, or that we are two wafers short of a communion, or malingerers, or even worse . . . cowards.” The word hung in the air between them.
Wilkie drew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one. She shook her head. He tapped one out, lit up, took a long, satisfied drag, and then coughed throatily before taking another. “Chronic bronchitis. Suppose I should give these up, but what can one do?”
Esther pulled her hair back from her face, watching him.
“Had a nervous breakdown, I suppose you’d call it, like some of the other blokes here. I’d been home for nearly five years. Having a marvelous time actually—wine, women, and song. Then out of the blue I couldn’t see the point in going on. Nothing in life held any value anymore. The doctor—the one who referred me here—said it was a delayed reaction. According to him, severe malnutrition can have that effect on the nervous system. I can’t vouch for that, but that camp certainly affected something in me. The dirt, the disease—those bloody Japs let men die through sheer neglect if you can believe that. They had no respect for life. They treated us like animals . . .” He coughed, remembering she was there. “The good thing is that I don’t take anything too seriously anymore—not authority, nor convention, not even death—well, apart from my own perhaps. Nothing is really worth getting that worked up about when you stop to think about it.”
“I suppose you’re
right,” she admitted.
“People like us have to find a way to live with our sorrow, for it can never be banished forever, that’s where modern medics—with the possible exception of our esteemed doc—get it wrong, they think they can make it all go away and never come back.”
“And are you successful in this endeavor?”
“Sometimes.” He sounded wistful. “On certain days—and increasingly more of them, I am happy to report. Take today for instance. A beautiful beach, a lovely woman, morning light, and the only shooting that’s going on is with my camera . . . You have to learn to be grateful, Mrs. Durrant. For the small things.”
“I still think it’d be easier if we could take something like nepenthe,” she said.
“What?”
“Nepenthe.” Esther swung the bucket, slopping sand and water over the brim. “The drug in the Odyssey. A drug for forgetting, for banishing grief. Medicine for sorrow.”
“Perhaps the doc does have it?” He arched an eyebrow and looked across her to where the sun had climbed in the sky.
“Perhaps he does,” she said with a smile.
“Come on. Let’s get back. It’s time for rations.”
“Do you reckon Robbie’s burned the toast again?”
“Indubitably.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Little Embers, Spring 2018
Rachel retrieved the catalog from the cupboard and returned to the sofa with it, setting it down next to her. There was a single, arresting image of a child’s face painted in thickly layered oils on the front. The child had the gorgeous fat cheeks of a toddler, full lips, curly copper hair, and a far-off expression in its gray eyes—the same expression she’d seen sometimes on Leah’s face.
Rachel opened the catalog at the first page and came to a short introduction, which she scanned briefly, not knowing how long she would have before Leah herself descended the stairs.
In it, the writer hailed Leah as one of the most promising up-and-coming British portraitists of her generation, comparing her to Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud. Rachel was astonished. It made Leah’s choice to live on this remote island even more perplexing.
She leafed through the thick, glossy pages and studied the plates—reproductions of oils of men and women, often nudes or semi-clothed, their flesh by turns careworn or luminous, but sensual and so real she felt she could almost reach out and feel skin beneath her fingertips. There was one of a woman lying naked, the curve of her back like the body of a violin, her long hair spilling on the floor next to her as if it was ink.
The same child who was on the cover was featured several more times throughout: there was one of him or her sitting, naked and straight-backed, turned slightly away from the artist, with rolls of flesh on dimpled thighs and soft-boned arms.
These paintings in particular were tender, confronting in their intensity, and an inexplicable longing twisted through Rachel. She had never allowed herself the luxury of imagining children of her own, didn’t think she’d ever be settled enough, too selfish for sleepless nights and school runs. She read the caption of one. “Tabitha. The artist’s daughter. 1994.”
Leah had a child. She did a quick calculation. The painting was done almost twenty-five years ago, so the daughter would be a woman now. Where was she? Was she aware that her mother was living as a virtual hermit? Rachel didn’t know much about art, but even to her untrained eye the pictures were revelatory. Their intimacy seemed to lay bare the relationship between the painter and the subject. She turned back to the introduction. It had been written by a Max Erwin, of the Erwin Gallery, Cork Street, London.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, so Rachel quickly closed the catalog. She had just replaced it and shut the cupboard door when Leah called out, “Cuppa?”
“Yes, thanks,” she answered, feeling slightly shaky at her subterfuge.
There was a clank and then the rush of water. A kettle being filled. Then, something Rachel hadn’t heard since being stranded on the island: the sound of singing, a bluesy, soulful melody.
Rachel was still sifting through the implications of Leah being a famous and very talented painter, when she strode in, two mugs in her hand, and placed one on the table next to her. “How are you doing?” she asked, fixing her with a piercing gaze, almost as if she were studying her.
“Erm, fine thank you. Just . . . er . . . just reading,” she indicated the copy of Rebecca which lay beside her. That was odd. It was the first time Leah had asked how she was, and she appeared to be in a rather strange mood. If she’d had to hazard a guess, Rachel would have said she was actually cheerful.
“Glad you’re not getting bored here.”
“Oh, I’m pretty good at amusing myself.”
“How’s the wrist holding up?”
She looked down at the sling. “Much better now I don’t keep jarring it.”
“Just as well, ’cause there aren’t any more painkillers I’m afraid.”
Rachel nodded. “That’s fine. I don’t really like taking them unless I have to.”
“Sensible girl. Right, I’d better get back to it,” she said, turning to leave.
“May I look at your work sometime?” she asked, emboldened by Leah’s good mood.
“Oh, I just dabble. It’s nothing much—amateur stuff really.” Her tone was dismissive.
Having seen the catalog, Rachel knew Leah was lying to her. But why?
* * *
Rachel could hardly concentrate for the rest of the afternoon as the two mysteries—Esther’s and Leah’s—chased themselves around in her head, giving her no peace. Leah had clearly once been a highly regarded artist, her star on the rise, so what had happened? Had there been a husband as well as a child? Was it something as mundane as divorce that had driven her here? Was it because of her drinking or did that come after? Something dreadful must have happened to cause her to hide herself away, shun the world.
Unable to quell her restlessness, Rachel shrugged the thick coat from the suitcase around her shoulders and took herself back to the beach. She nursed a vain hope that she might see a passing boat or yacht and be able to attract the attention of those onboard. Even if she saw nothing, it was better than staring at the four walls in front of her. The wind had come up again and, as she stood on the end of the jetty where Leah had been fishing that morning, she scanned the choppy waves, becoming mesmerized by their ever-changing pattern. Not a vessel in sight. For the first time since her arrival on St. Mary’s, she began to doubt the wisdom of her decision to come to the Scilly Isles. The problem was, she wasn’t sure where she belonged anymore; she’d been on the move for too much of her life. It had never much bothered her until then, but all of a sudden she felt very much alone and a long way from those who loved her.
After a while, the light began to fade and Rachel returned to the house. “Thought you’d gotten lost,” said Leah as Rachel entered the kitchen.
“I went down to the jetty, wanted to see if there might be anyone passing,” admitted Rachel.
Leah scoffed. “Fat chance of that.”
“I know, but I couldn’t help looking anyway.”
“The time will pass soon enough; it always does,” said Leah, sounding resigned.
“Who is Tabitha?” asked Rachel, the book she’d found still very much on her mind.
“Who told you about her?” Leah’s voice was sharp.
“No one. I found a book, a catalog actually,” Rachel admitted.
“You had no business rummaging through my personal things.” Leah glared at her, gripping a tea towel between her hands as if she intended to use it as a weapon.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I was bored . . . I shouldn’t have opened the cabinet, but I found the key, and then, well, I couldn’t help it. But you . . . you are an incredible artist.”
“You know so little.” Leah’s voice was withering.
“I’m really sorry,” said Rachel, trying to convince Leah of her sincerity. “If I’d known it was going to upset y
ou, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Humph.” Leah was not easily mollified.
“Your work . . .”, Rachel began.
“I was pretty good once, wasn’t I?” said Leah, her mouth curving upward.
“More than just ‘pretty good’ I’d say.”
“Not so much anymore though.”
“Really?” Rachel found that hard to believe.
“I only paint for myself these days, and only because I can’t seem to stay away from it. Sometimes I think it’s only paint that holds me together,” she said with a wry laugh. “But stop digging, Rachel; leave well enough alone. I’m not interested in talking about my work.”
Rachel let the silence between them grow as Leah began scrubbing the sink with determined vigor.
“If you must know, we’ve lost touch,” Leah said, not pausing in her buffing. “Tabitha and I . . . ,” she added, prepared to answer Rachel’s original question if nothing else, it would seem. “Things weren’t exactly easy when she was a teenager. Got caught up in a bad crowd. Drugs. Fights. Police involved. Being a mother isn’t always a picnic, you know, even when you think you’re doing your best. I haven’t seen her for years. I’ve no idea where she is now, to be honest.” She said this quickly, baldly, as if she’d not told anyone, at least not for a long time. Her face twisted in anger, or was it pain? Rachel couldn’t tell. Then before she could say anything, Leah threw down the scourer, opened the back door, and stomped out.
Oh Christ. After a moment, Rachel went after her, worried that she might have stormed off, upset by her questioning.
She found her bringing in laundry off a makeshift washing line.
“Here,” Rachel said, unpegging a threadbare towel and starting to fold it with difficulty. “Let me help you.”