by Kayte Nunn
“They were addressed to an E. Durrant, in London, Hampstead, and who I am pretty sure was a woman, from someone with the initial ‘R.’ But for some reason they were never sent—the stamps weren’t postmarked.”
“Well, that is odd.”
“Do you know anything about the house on Little Embers? Who used to live there before Leah?”
Jonah shook his head slowly. “Can’t say I do. But Janice is probably the best person to talk to about that.”
“Janice?”
“She works part-time as a curator at the Isles of Scilly Museum. It’s just up the street from here. If anyone knows anything about Little Embers in—when did you say? The 1950s?—it’ll be her. I think she’ll be there tomorrow in fact.”
Rachel brightened. If she wasn’t going to be able to work for a few weeks, she might as well have something to keep herself occupied. Finding out more about who had once lived on Little Embers and what had happened there years before would be interesting. She drained her glass and Jonah stood up to pour her a refill, checking the pan on the stove as he did so.
“I reckon it’s ready,” he said, lifting the lid and breathing in the garlicky steam that billowed out.
Rachel found a couple of bowls and he carefully ladled the broth and shellfish into them before slicing a loaf that he had brought. She took her first mouthful and the taste of garlic and tomato flooded her senses. The thought that she could fall for a man who cooked as well as this flitted through her mind, but she pushed it away and took another hungry bite. As they ate and chatted, her mood improved, and the threat of losing her job began to fade into the background. Jonah was easy company, and they found plenty to talk about, moving from what island life had been like on Aitutaki, to who was going to be taking part in the gig races that summer, then from her experiences with giant clams to some of the best hikes on the islands.
When they had finished, he cleared away the dishes, insisting that she stay where she was. When the kitchen was clean, he folded the tea towel neatly by the sink. “I’d best be off.”
She was surprised. “But it’s early.”
He glanced at his watch. “I know. Sorry. It’s trivia night at the pub. I can’t let the team down.”
“Oh, I see,” she said flatly.
He shrugged. “Boys’ night.”
“No, that’s okay.” She hid her disappointment that he was leaving so soon—she’d been enjoying his company. As a friend of course, nothing more, she told herself firmly. She had also been going to show him the letters, but he’d announced he was leaving before she had the chance to get them out. “It was really nice of you to make the time to come and cook for me.”
“You’re welcome. I don’t like eating alone, in any case.”
As they reached the front door, he leaned in and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “See ya,” he said, and left with a wave.
She lingered there for a moment before closing the door. When she went back into the kitchen she noticed Jonah had left his sweater on the back of a chair. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the house felt suddenly empty without him there.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Little Embers, Winter 1951
Mind if I join you?” Richard asked Esther as she sat on the stairs the next morning, lacing up her new boots. They’d all been cooped up in the house for two days because of the bad weather, and since arriving on the island, Esther had come to depend on her regular tramps across the dunes as if they were medicine; in fact, they most probably were. Initially, she had been escorted by either Robbie or George, but now she generally wandered unsupervised, sometimes spending hours out on her own, often circumnavigating the entire island several times. This was the first time Richard had asked to accompany her.
Esther had been fighting her growing attraction to him for some weeks, telling herself that it was the result of being in forced proximity, in an unnatural situation, that it was a friendship and should never be anything more. She had a husband; she had made vows of fidelity and constancy in front of God, and despite everything she did not cast such promises idly aside, even if He’d fallen out of her favor recently.
But it was the first time in her life that she’d known anything like this, this overriding desire to be with someone, to never want to leave his side, to feel thrillingly alive merely by being in his presence, and, she finally admitted to herself, to long for his touch. Her hours with Richard were some of the happiest of her life, and she found herself recalling the deft movement of his hands when describing the construction of a boat, the suddenness of his smile when she teased him, the wistful look on his face when he let his guard down, when he thought she wasn’t watching. Time seemed to both speed up and slow down whenever she was with him, as if touched by a wonderful kind of magic, as if they existed outside time itself.
It had never been that way with John.
“Of course not. I was thinking of going up and over the other side,” she said as she finished tying the laces and got to her feet. Her voice sounded unnaturally calm, belying the tumult inside her. “Usually takes a couple of hours, if you’ve the time to spare?”
“I do indeed. Sessions are canceled anyway—even a doctor needs a few days off,” he said with a lopsided grin.
“Especially the doctor.”
“Do they fit all right?” he asked, indicating his gift.
“As if they were made for me.”
“Excellent. Shall we be off then?”
* * *
After about half an hour or so of walking, they reached the highest point on Little Embers, a rocky bluff some fifty or so feet above sea level. From there, Esther could see the far-off slim white pencil of the lighthouse she’d spied on her voyage to the island. The tranche of shifting gray-blue sea lay like a hammered metal sheet between them, pockmarked with islets and swarming with seabirds hovering on currents of warmer air. She had sometimes wondered if she could swim to one of the nearer islands, but sensibly decided that even if hypothermia didn’t get her, they were by all obvious appearances uninhabited.
Esther came up here often, never failing to be uplifted by the view. It felt boundless, especially after having been hemmed in by buildings when she’d been in London. Only on the Heath, on Parliament Hill, had she felt anything approaching this freedom and space, and even that was in a far more limited way than here. “Isn’t it glorious?” she said, reaching her arms wide, a smile splitting her face. As she turned to face him she caught his expression, a tenderness that cut her resolve to ribbons. She could not look away.
“Esther, I do believe you are restored to the person you once were, before you became ill.”
So that was why he had accompanied her up here. She felt a tiny stab of disappointment. A question formed on her lips. “Are you certain?” she asked eventually.
He nodded.
Esther, finally hearing what she had wished for, found herself confused by a mix of elation and sudden despondency. She stood, buffeted by the wind, feeling weightless. The shrieks of the birds, the roar of the ocean faded into the background. All she could hear was the insistent thrum of her heartbeat. She wanted to run, to burn off the adrenaline that surged through her, but she couldn’t move, held fast by his gaze.
“I have to confess that I am torn,” he said, and she saw his eyes darken, desire replacing tenderness.
He stepped forward and reached for her hand. “Esther—” he hesitated, searching for the right words.
She put a finger to her lips, a futile attempt to silence him. If she let him continue to speak everything would change forever.
“Esther, look at me,” Richard entreated, as if he could sense her confusion. “Tell me. Do you feel as I do?”
It was the simplest of questions, but it flayed her open. She raised her eyes to his and in that moment felt beyond reproach, beyond judgment, all other cares as remote as the distant lighthouse. “I fear I do.” She saw relief flood through him and felt it in herself, a syncopated beat of acknowledgment.
He smoothed back her hair with infinite gentleness. Their breath mingled, vapor misting in the cold air. She smelled the scents of a forest, tobacco, and salt and her blood sang with the truth of him. She knew in that moment that she loved him, would always love him.
They stayed like that for a long time, then sat, side by side, perched on the slope, the sea in front of them. “I wish we could stay here forever,” Richard said, taking her hand in his and turning it over. He traced the lines on her palm with an inquiring finger. “Is your future written therein?” he asked, a sad smile on his face.
“Past, present, and future perhaps,” she replied. “Though I believe we make our own destiny. There are forks in the road wherever you look.”
“Is this one?” he asked.
“I fear it is.” Esther gripped his hand in hers. “Can’t this moment last forever?” she asked.
“If I had but one wish to grant you . . .”, he replied.
Eventually, though, the wind strengthened and Esther began to shiver. “You’re cold,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “It’s time to return in any case. Mrs. Biggs will wonder what has become of us if we’re not back for lunch.”
Esther got reluctantly to her feet and together they retraced their steps. Everything was different now, her world had tilted on its axis and her head was in such a spin that she could make no sense of it. The war and its aftereffects had turned so many moral compasses away from true north, why should she not follow the pull of her own? For, as she had discovered, it might all end tomorrow. “No one must know,” she blurted out as they approached the house.
Richard stopped and looked back at her. “We must be circumspect. Act as if nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed. I cannot believe this.”
“Neither can I. But I cannot imagine it could have ever been another way. If it helps, look at it as a sincere friendship, a communion of souls that were destined for each other. Can there really be anything wrong in that?” There was such an earnest expression on his face that Esther felt her regard for him grow even larger, her heart a balloon pressing against her ribs.
“Do you really believe that?”
“I have to. There can be no other explanation for my impulses. I risk everything in inviting such a . . . such a close friendship, but to be without that . . . well, I should be bereft.”
Esther waited a minute before replying. “I fear I too would be lost.”
They were nearly back at the house. As they came around to the back door, Esther saw the twitch of a curtain at an upstairs window. The shadow of a cloud passed over the glass, revealing the face of a woman behind the curtain, a white cap. Jean. They would have to be careful.
* * *
A few days later, Esther stood at the sink, peeling the skin of the cooking apples into long thick strips. It was a Saturday afternoon and sometimes Mrs. Biggs made a pudding or a crumble for their supper. Esther had wanted to make herself useful and offered to prepare it. Earlier she had measured out flour and butter and the precious sugar, rubbing the ingredients to form a pleasing rubble. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her and jumped as she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, the blade of the peeler jabbing into the fruit.
“Esther,” he whispered.
“Richard,” she scolded, concerned and thrilled all at once. “Anyone might see us.”
“Hush,” he soothed. “The men are all on the beach and Mrs. Biggs is out collecting eggs. We are safe. For a while in any case.”
She put down the apple midpeel and turned to face him. “Well, you had better hold me, for I can hardly stand up when you do that.”
He smiled and wiped away a smudge of flour from her cheek. “You grow more dear to me by the day.”
Esther had never been especially vain, but even she had noticed that since coming to the island she had lost her London pallor and the dullness in her eyes was a thing of the past. She saw herself now, reflected in his eyes, in his tender regard, as beautiful.
Neither of them heard the creak of a door handle.
Jean Bardcombe stood in the doorway. A gasp escaped her, jaw slackened.
Esther leaped away from Richard as if scalded.
“Ah, Jean, there you are,” Richard said, pretending that nothing was amiss. “Esther was just showing me how she gets this perfect peel.” He held up the curling strip that was on the chopping board. “Quite a skill, don’t you think?” His voice sounded entirely normal, as if this were a regular conversation.
Jean pursed her lips as if she’d tasted lemons and bristled past them. “Don’t let me interrupt, Doctor. I was on my way to my room in any case.”
“That’s torn it,” said Esther, looking in horror at Richard after Jean had left. “What are we going to do now?”
“Don’t worry too much about her,” he said.
Esther couldn’t believe how unconcerned he sounded.
“There was nothing to see,” he insisted.
“Will you say something to her?” Esther couldn’t shake a nagging doubt that no good would come of Jean knowing of their . . . their what? Was it a romance? A love affair? Could she really have fallen for a man she had never even kissed? It wasn’t as if they’d done anything strictly wrong.
But even as she thought this, she knew that she was lying to herself.
Chapter Thirty-Four
St. Mary’s, Spring 2018
Setting her glass of wine next to her laptop and pulling out the letters again, Rachel decided to use the rest of the evening to see if she could track down Esther Durrant of Frogmore, Hampstead. If she was still alive that is.
First, she found the suburb on a map, and was then able to zoom in on the street, and then on a photograph of the house itself. It was an imposing brick building, with a white portico and white-painted windows. A black wrought-iron fence separated it from its neighbors and a large tree took up one side of the front garden.
Then she googled Esther Durrant. As soon as the search results came up, she figured out what had been nagging at her. She remembered reading a book about female mountaineers a few years earlier. Esther Durrant had been one of them. The first woman to summit a handful of Himalayan peaks in the late 1960s and ’70s. There was even a Wikipedia page, which Rachel combed through. No mention of a husband, or children, though she was referred to as the “housewife who climbed the Himalayas” in one article. No mention of her death either as far as Rachel could tell. So there was a good chance she was still alive. Was it even the same woman though? She did a quick calculation of the dates. They fit. Even so, there might have been more than one Esther Durrant living in Hampstead at that time. She tried not to get her hopes too high.
Rachel was about to shut her laptop down and head upstairs to bed when she had one final thought, a hunch really. There had to be a telephone directory online. There was even the possibility—rather remote though, she admitted to herself—that Esther Durrant still lived at the house, Frogmore.
She typed “Durrant” and the initial “E” into the search function of the online phone directory and waited. A stream of names came up. There were dozens of E. Durrants in North London alone. Gradually she narrowed it down to those in NW3. There were four. One of whom was in Hampstead.
She opened a maps page and searched for the address. It was only two streets away from Well Walk, where Frogmore was. It was a long shot, but nevertheless Rachel felt hopeful. She made a note of the phone number and checked the time on her computer. After ten. Probably not the best time to call out of the blue. She would have to wait until morning.
* * *
When she woke up, Rachel saw the pale green cardigan that she’d left folded on the chair at the end of her bed, and her first thought was of Esther Durrant and the number she’d written down the night before. It was still too early to call though, and so she padded downstairs to make herself breakfast. Jonah had put the rest of the bread back into a paper bag, thoughtfully slicing it for her before he left, and so
she grabbed two pieces and shoved them in the toaster.
After she’d eaten and dressed, it was still early, so she decided to go for a walk and check what time the museum opened. Jonah had said it was on Church Street, on the way back to Hugh Town, and she remembered passing it on her way to the quay.
It was a bright, sunny morning and the streets were empty. As she walked, the smell of frying bacon drifted toward her from an open window, the sound of a radio burbled from another, and a trio of speckled-wing butterflies danced in the breeze.
Rachel found the museum easily and was checking the opening time when Janice materialized beside her. “Rachel, my love, I heard you were shipwrecked,” she cried, her bracelets jangling and the bright purple and orange tunic she was wearing billowing as she waved her arms. She looked almost like a butterfly herself. “We were all so worried. Jonah had half the town looking for you.”
He hadn’t mentioned that.
“We were so relieved to hear that you’d washed up on Little Embers.”
“Thanks, Janice,” said Rachel when she could get a word in edgewise. “I’m sorry to have caused so much concern.”
“And the boat? Soleil? Any sign of it? Jonah said you’d sunk.”
Rachel shook her head. “Not exactly sunk, but it’s definitely gone. I’m not sure how I’m going to go about getting another one—or if anyone will trust me with a boat again. I’ll certainly be checking the weather forecast before going out next time.” She gave Janice a wry grin.
“Oh, never mind that,” Janice replied, reassuring her. “You’ll be fine, something will turn up. I’ll ask around, see if you can’t rent something until the insurance is sorted. You’ve reported it to the police, yes?”
Rachel nodded. “And thanks, I’d appreciate that. In any case, I’m out of action for a few weeks.” She indicated her wrist.
“Oh you poor love. I guess that means you won’t be able to make yoga tonight either?”
“I guess not.” Rachel smiled apologetically.
“Now, what brings you here so early in the morning?”