by Kayte Nunn
Leah grunted.
“I’m really sorry, Leah, I had no idea.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Little Embers, Winter 1951
Before Esther had much time to think about it, Christmas Eve was upon them and a howling nor’easter blew across the island, making venturing outside all but impossible. “Gale force, I reckon,” said Wilkie at breakfast. Robbie fretted about his brassicas being flattened and the spinach being ripped to shreds, and Mrs. Biggs dared not peg out the linen for fear of it being blown halfway to Spain. The doctor stayed in the parlor with each of the men entering at intervals for their daily counseling session.
Stuck inside, Esther kept to her room. She found herself counting the minutes until it was her turn for an hour with the doctor, going over their previous conversations in her head, remembering the keen intelligence in his eyes, the fall of hair over his forehead, the almost boyish excitement with which he greeted her. Shortly after lunch he summoned her and she settled herself on her now favorite chair. He sat opposite her, a little way across the room. “I don’t think we should talk of home today,” he said quietly.
In the weeks since she’d told him about Samuel, he hadn’t brought it up again, but she nodded, grateful once more for the reprieve. It would have been too difficult to countenance on such a day, a day when it was all she could do not to spend every moment imagining what Teddy might be doing. What might he be hoping for from Father Christmas—a train set or some toy soldiers perhaps? She wished for him to be caught up in the excitement of the celebration, and not missing her. “What, then?” she asked.
“The book. Tell me what you thought of it.”
The week before he had loaned her his copy of The Kon-Tiki Expedition.
Esther’s eyes lit up. “Astonishing. I can’t begin to imagine how they could be so single-minded, so brave.”
“To set out on the Pacific Ocean on a raft made of little more than balsa wood. For a hundred days. It beggars belief, doesn’t it?”
“How does one even begin to believe that something like that could even be possible I wonder? I know he did his research, but even then . . .”
“One thing’s for sure, they must have been damned sick of the taste of fish by the end of it.”
She laughed at his words, enjoying the lightness that bubbled up from her chest. It felt good to think about someone else’s life for a change. They carried on talking until, before she knew it, the hour was almost up. “It has to be an act of faith, doesn’t it?” she asked, considering the book again.
“What does faith mean to you, Esther?” he said, suddenly serious.
Her thoughts swam before her. “That’s not an easy question to answer. I’m not sure I’ve a great deal of faith in anything anymore. Especially in myself.”
“That’s why you’re here. To learn to have faith again.”
He held her gaze until she could bear it no longer, looked away before he could see the tears begin to form in her eyes. In that moment she almost believed it possible.
* * *
The supply boat had called the day before with a delivery of mail and a shoulder of pork from the Hugh Town butcher. “That’s lovely, that is,” Mrs. Biggs had said when she took charge of it, carrying it as triumphantly as if she’d won first prize in bingo. “It’ll roast up fair with some applesauce on the side,” she said before hefting it onto the kitchen counter with a loud thud.
Esther smiled at the prospect of crackling and gravy.
“A feast,” Jean agreed.
That morning, Wilkie had retrieved a driftwood branch from the beach and Richard had unearthed a box of decorations from the attic. Shiny red and green glass baubles hung on cotton threads from the bleached timber and they had propped it up in a corner of the hallway. By common consent they had all decided to delay the mail opening until Christmas Day itself, placing the parcels and letters that had arrived earlier in the week under the salvaged tree. Esther could see there was one for her from John, but, unlike the days before the letter that had arrived previously, she held out little hope of a summons to London this time.
In the fortnight before Christmas, she had conceived of a way to extend an olive branch to Robbie, for it bothered her that he might have taken offense at her actions that day on the jetty, and they still had not spoken about it.
She’d found Susie, his doll, abandoned in the kitchen one morning and taken swift measurements. A scrap of sprigged muslin from a drawer in the chest in her room was just large enough to fashion a new dress, with a simple sleeveless bodice and a gathered skirt. A flowered remnant stolen from the hem of a summer frock and a short length of ribbon from her suitcase became an accompanying sunbonnet. Mrs. Biggs had supplied a needle and thread to facilitate the endeavor. When she had finished, Esther had folded them as carefully as if they were her own garments and wrapped them up in brown paper. The small parcel sat with the others under the tree.
After supper that night—a thick barley and vegetable soup that had simmered tantalizingly all day on the stove—George had produced a penny whistle and piped the opening notes of “In the Bleak Midwinter.” Jean sang along, her voice a surprising clear and sweet soprano. Esther glanced around the table at the faces lit by candles and united by misfortune and sorrow. They were a motley band, but despite this, she felt a growing kinship with them: Wilkie, stoic and observant, his camera never far from reach; Robbie with his ruined face and kind heart; George with his beanpole figure and haunted eyes; Mrs. Biggs, a woman in perpetual motion, cooking, cleaning, and washing for them all. And of course the doctor, who never tired of listening, talking, and who fiercely loved his music and his books. It was only Jean who she could not warm to, could find no common ground with. Indeed, the woman seemed to resent her, not that she had ever said anything exactly, but it was just a feeling that radiated from her, especially since she’d refused Esther the tablets when she asked for them. She suspected that Jean did not approve of her being there, taking a valuable place away from a far more deserving serviceman, someone who really needed their help.
Despite Jean’s unspoken reproof and missing Teddy desperately, Esther went to her bed that night warmed by Christmas spirit and thinking that the world was not such a harsh place as she had once believed it to be, that there might be a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Surely she would be home soon.
* * *
When Esther woke on Christmas Day, however, the heaviness that had followed her around for months returned. The storm had not abated. Noisy rain lashed the windowpanes, making them rattle, and water pooled on the sill, leaking in from the gaps between the frame and the mortar. The fire had gone out in her room and she shivered as she dressed herself in as many layers as she could find. Even several cups of Mrs. Biggs’s strongest tea failed to warm her more than a couple of degrees. Wilkie, though, was uncharacteristically chipper, whistling as he and Robbie cleared away the breakfast dishes.
Robbie, however, was much more subdued than usual, and he seemed to be somewhere else. Esther caught a distant look in his eyes as he wiped the dish towel over the plates. Who or what was he missing? She didn’t feel she could press him for the information. She’d overstepped the mark and there was now an unspoken tension between them that she wasn’t able to dispel.
Before breakfast, Wilkie had presented Esther, Jean, and Mrs. Biggs with a sprig of sea holly. “Close as we’ll get to the real thing,” he said as he bent over and carefully pinned the spiky leaves to Esther’s cardigan. “Mind you don’t prick yourself now.”
Mrs. Biggs, who was rubbing the pork rind with mustard powder, turned to George, who had at that moment been almost blown in the back door. “Did you manage to find some scurvy grass for me?” she asked.
He held up a bunch of glossy dark green, spear-shaped leaves, triumphant.
“Oh wonderful. Pop them in the sink, will you, there’s a love.”
Esther looked at them, curious. “Scurvy grass?”
“Full of vitamin C,”
said Mrs. Biggs. “I’ll fry it up with a bit of butter. Now, do you think you might lend a hand with those spuds?” She indicated the bowl of muddy potatoes at the far end of the kitchen. “There’s a peeler here somewhere. An apron too, if you need one.”
Esther rose from the table and located the peeler in a drawer. With the weather as miserable as it was, there was no chance of venturing outside, so she was glad of a task to keep her busy and stop her thinking too much of Teddy, who must surely be up and unwrapping presents in the drawing room at Frogmore, or perhaps running home after the service at St. John’s in Church Row, skipping along the Hampstead pavements in anticipation of gifts to come. She worried that he would be wrapped warmly enough, that he should not catch a chill.
“Lunch will be at one sharp,” Mrs. Biggs said as Esther finished the potatoes and rinsed her hands. “Mind you’re not late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Esther, drying her hands.
* * *
They gathered in the front parlor a little after noon. The doctor had produced a bottle of dry sherry and poured a small glass for each of them. Esther was surprised that the mood was jolly and found herself unexpectedly buoyed up by it. “A toast,” Richard said, when everyone had a glass. “I know you are all far from your families and loved ones, and I pray that you will be returned to them before long. In the meantime, let us celebrate what we have. Merry Christmas.” They drank—Robbie and George a deep draft, draining their glasses, Esther and the doctor a more temperate sip—and then attention turned to the parcels under the tree. Esther was astonished to see the small pile had grown exponentially overnight, with a number of large, inexpertly wrapped boxes augmenting those already under the tree. She was wondering exactly where they had come from, when the doctor handed her an oddly shaped, bulky package. She couldn’t begin to guess what it might be. “Secondhand I’m afraid,” he said, “but they should fit.”
“Oh. Golly. Thank you.” She was flustered. “I’m afraid I did not think to contrive a gift for you.”
“And I had no expectation of one. Anyway, as I said, it is nothing new.”
“Come on then. Open it and put us out of our misery, Mrs. Durrant,” Wilkie urged.
Esther placed her sherry glass on a side table and pulled at the wrapping. A pair of brown leather walking boots with jaunty scarlet laces emerged.
“You have feet nearly as large as mine,” Richard explained. “And these were a little small for me. They’re Austrian—the best—and hardly worn. I thought they might be suitable.”
“Oh, but I am sure they will be. I must confess, my shoes are not exactly up to the terrain here, so these will be most welcome,” said Esther gratefully.
“Indeed. I have seen that you are often in danger of slipping.”
She blinked, touched that he had noticed. “Thank you. That is most thoughtful.” She looked across the room to see that Robbie had retrieved the small parcel she had left for him and was reading the label she had attached.
“For Susie!” he cried as he opened it, beaming with delight.
“About time she was decent,” laughed Wilkie, who snapped a photograph of Robbie holding up the bonnet.
“Thank you,” Robbie said to Esther, looking her in the eyes, at last.
“It was nothing. My needlework skills aren’t exactly those of Monsieur Balmain or Madame Chanel, but hopefully the dress will fit.”
“She will be the best-dressed baby on the island,” he said, coming over to embrace her. She squeezed him tight as he held her, feeling the bones beneath his sweater. He’d lost weight in recent weeks, she was sure of it.
More presents were handed out and gifts exclaimed over. Between them, the doctor and Mrs. Biggs had managed to find something useful for each of the patients—for George a pair of binoculars. “T’were my late husband’s,” she said as George unwrapped them. “But I’ve no need of them.”
“You are a woman of infinite kindness,” said George with a gallant smile.
For Wilkie, a book on photography, for Robbie a new spade and several packets of seeds—“Cucumbers!” he exclaimed—and for Jean a pretty box of soap. Esther opened a slim envelope to reveal a print of one of the photos Wilkie had taken down at the beach a few weeks earlier. In it, she was staring straight at the camera, her hand shielding her eyes, her hair blown by the breeze. “I look rather fierce,” she said as she took it in.
“You are a warrior, Mrs. Durrant,” Wilkie replied.
“Hardly,” Esther retorted. “But that is most kind, thank you, Wilkie.”
He had made another print for each of them, showing the six of them standing in formation outside the front of the house. It was a picture he’d cajoled them into a week previously. The doctor and George were standing behind the others and George’s hand rested lightly on Robbie’s shoulder, with Esther and Jean flanking him and Mrs. Biggs standing slightly off to one side. Robbie held his doll in the crook of his elbow, and all of them had managed a semblance of a smile, though they didn’t exactly look like carefree holidaymakers. “I shall treasure it,” said Richard with sincerity as he looked at the print.
George had shyly presented Robbie with a slim volume of poems and Esther noticed a wave of color rise up from his collar as he read the inscription on the flyleaf. Before she could begin to wonder at what it might say, a parcel with a London postmark was thrust into her hands. Her fingers fumbled with the paper as she began to open it. She turned away from the group toward the window, desiring privacy. A box of barley sugar, its amber twists catching the light, and a new book, a novel. There was also a letter. “My darling Esther . . .” it began. “I hope by now you have begun to forgive me and that you are much improved in spirits. I received a report just this week from Richard, who says you are making splendid progress, of which I am so glad to hear.” Her eyes scanned further down the page. “. . . Teddy misses you but he is looking forward to the pantomime, Jack and the Beanstalk, which his aunt Clementine will take him to in the company of his cousins. The arrival of Father Christmas is anticipated with much excitement, as I believe he has begun to understand what it all means—plenty of presents for him.” Esther stared at the drizzle that was snaking its way down the windowpane. She could not believe that she was missing her son’s third Christmas.
“Everything okay?” The doctor was beside her.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“It’s a difficult time of year, especially hearing from home like this. Try not to dwell on it.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said bravely. “After all, I won’t be here for too much longer, will I?” Esther looked at her forearms, where no evidence of her former scourging could now be seen.
A beat of silence and the doctor cleared his throat. “It’s possible you will be well enough to return home before too much longer. We shall see how you progress in the coming weeks.”
Esther felt a small, but unexpected balloon of optimism well up within her; his words were perhaps the best gift she could have wished for. “You are so kind to give me hope, Richard.” She addressed him by his first name, worrying as she did so that she might be overstepping the boundary of doctor and patient. She was immediately abashed. “Come. Let’s rejoin the others and put our best foot forward, shall we,” she said, her tone sharper than normal.
Chapter Thirty
Little Embers, Spring 2018
Rachel crept up the stairs. It was the third day since she had been shipwrecked on Little Embers, and, as with every other day, Leah had gone out early to see to Margaret and tend her vegetable patch. Rachel was running out of things to keep herself busy, and walking on the island gave her an eerie feeling, making her realize the extent of her isolation. She preferred, now, to keep to the house, planning to only venture once or twice to the jetty to scan for passing boats.
She hadn’t believed Leah when she had said her work was no longer any good and, curiosity getting the better of judgment, wanted to see for herself. She conveniently ignored t
he fact that Leah had specifically forbidden her from entering the studio.
As she reached the landing at the top of the house, she was faced with a narrow corridor, along which five doors were spaced. She turned the handle of the nearest, feeling a twinge of misgiving as the latch lifted, but nevertheless peered around the door. A dusty room, the curtains faded and drawn against the light. A single bed, a dresser, and a small rag rug on the wooden floor. She ran her finger along the top of the dresser, seeing the line it made in the dust. It clearly had not been occupied for some time. She retreated, closed the door gently, and approached the next door.
This room was large and light, with windows that looked out over the front of the house, offering a view to the sea. It must have once been the main bedroom, though it contained little furniture now. Unlike the rest of the house, it was neat and orderly, with a large easel set up in front of one of the two rectangular windows.
Canvases were stacked in a corner, and along one wall a long cabinet housed tubes of paint, trowels, and brushes.
She walked over to the canvases. “Oh!” Rachel let out an involuntary gasp as she saw the first of them. It was a landscape, all clouds and water and light. Completely unlike the paintings in the catalog in terms of subject and composition, but Rachel could see there was a similar style in the way the paint had been applied.
She looked through the others—there were at least thirty of them in varying sizes and all eloquently captured the milky light of a wintry islandscape. Melancholy and lucid, they spoke to Rachel of loneliness, a solitary existence that she recognized immediately. She knew without a doubt that Leah had been wrong about her talent having deserted her.
She didn’t linger. Instead she hurried back downstairs, for a thought had occurred to her. She found her camera where she had left it in the living room and hastened up the stairs, back to Leah’s studio. She was interfering, but ignored the voice of reason, snapping a few shots of the larger canvases. Art this good deserved an audience, one way or another. As she was about to leave, she went over to the window to see what Leah was currently working on. Her mouth fell open when she saw what it was.