by Kayte Nunn
She saw a sign hanging from a shopfront a little way down the street: Max Erwin Gallery. The same name as in the catalog she’d found at Little Embers. She quickened her steps and reached the gallery seconds later. She stood outside, looking in through the large plate glass window. There was an exhibition of Aboriginal art and, before she knew it, she was pushing the door open and inside the white-walled space.
“May I help you?” A blond-haired woman walking toward her swiveled her eyes the length of Rachel, taking in her jeans, sneakers, backpack, and wrist in a sling. Rachel knew she didn’t exactly fit the image of a prospective customer.
“I was wondering if Mr. Erwin was around?” Rachel felt distinctly out of place in the cool, sterile surroundings, but she stood her ground.
Again the judgmental gaze, the flick of the eyes. “I’m afraid he is otherwise occupied at the moment. May I inquire as to who is asking?”
“Oh, he won’t know me, but you can tell him I’m here about Leah Gill. My name’s Rachel Parker.”
The woman’s eyes widened for a nanosecond, then she turned and disappeared into a back room. Rachel stood, admiring the swirled and dotted paintings in the gallery as minutes ticked by. She was reminded of ocher dirt and azure skies and gulped down the homesick feeling, glancing at her watch. Was the icy blonde even going to bother returning?
Rachel was just about to give up and leave, when a small, balding man in a dark suit scurried through the door, panting, as if he’d just run a mile and wasn’t in the habit of such exertion. “Ms. Parker?” he asked, giving her at least a more welcoming look than the blonde had. He blinked at her and his mouth widened, lips stretching over his teeth and reminding Rachel of a small, amiable frog.
“Yes,” she replied. “Mr. Erwin?”
“Indeed, that is me. Welcome to the gallery.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand you’re here about an artist I represent? Actually, I should say represented. She no longer paints, more’s the pity.”
“Yes, Leah Gill. She saved my life,” Rachel admitted.
A spark of interest lit up his dark eyes. “Do tell me more.”
“I was pretty much shipwrecked near the island where she lives. I got my hand—” Rachel indicated the sling—“stuck in between some rocks during a storm. She pulled me out. I would most likely have drowned had it not been for her.”
“Well, what a tale,” he said. “Good for her—and you of course. But what brings you here?”
Rachel explained about finding the exhibition guide at Leah’s house and that she’d remembered his name from the introduction. “And then here I was outside this gallery. I had to come in.”
He raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“Her work is amazing,” said Rachel. “And she is still painting. She just won’t show anyone.” As she spoke, she noticed a flash of interest spark in the art dealer’s eyes.
“Are you sure? She always insisted to me that she’d given up.”
“See for yourself,” she said, unzipping her bag and getting out her camera. She turned it on and flicked through to the snaps she’d taken of Leah’s land- and seascapes.
He exhaled slowly, a low whistle. “Well, I never. She’s been holding out on me.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s like that,” said Rachel quickly. “She honestly doesn’t think she’s any good anymore. She’s lost all confidence, but have a look at this one . . .” She showed him the half-finished portrait of herself. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Even as a sketch.”
“It is.” Max pressed a finger to his lips. “How do I get ahold of her?” he asked. “Judging by these, it’s about time I talked some sense into her.”
“She doesn’t have a phone, or even an address really. Though if you wanted to write to her, I could take a letter,” Rachel suggested. “I’ll be back there in a few days’ time, and she gets a regular delivery to the island.”
“I’ll do better than that,” he replied. “Tell me again how to find her.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
London, Spring 2018
Eve closed the door on the tall woman with the Australian accent and held the photo up to the light. Even though she’d seen it on the scan that Rachel had sent through, it was fascinating to see the actual print. The faces in the picture looked wary, haunted even, as though they had seen far too much in their young lives.
Now Eve had seen this photograph, taken when Grams was at Little Embers, it made her story so much more real. As she turned to walk down the hallway, still engrossed in the photograph, the book Rachel had given her slipped from her fingers. Eve stared for a moment as it lay splayed on the floor. The pages had come loose and flown off in several directions as the binding split, the old glue cracking. As she scrambled to pick them up, she noticed a number of flimsy pale blue envelopes caught among the pages.
She flipped one over. It was addressed to Grams, at her old house, Frogmore. How peculiar. Grams hadn’t lived there for more than twenty years, not since Gramps died. Eve noticed that the envelopes weren’t sealed; though they had stamps on them, old ones too by the look of things, for they bore a price of 2½d, whatever that amounted to. Did she dare to take a look? She was tempted, but then decided that her grams should probably be allowed to read them first. They were addressed to her, after all.
She hesitated outside the door to her grandmother’s bedroom, before gently turning the handle and creeping in.
The curtains had been drawn and the room was dim. Grams was lying in bed, the covers pulled up around her chin so that only her head was visible. Her eyes were closed, but fluttered open as Eve came closer.
“How are you feeling?” Eve asked, smoothing her grandmother’s hair back from her forehead.
“Better I think. Who was that at the door?”
“You heard? Sorry if it woke you.”
Her grandmother blinked. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It was the woman who emailed the photograph. She dropped it off, and this as well.” Eve showed her the book in her hands.
Grams’s eyes widened. “I remember that,” she said, pleasure lighting up her face.
“Grams, there were some letters in the book. Addressed to you.”
“Oh?” Her grandmother blinked in surprise.
“Would you like to have a look at them now? Are you up to it?”
“Well, help me to sit up, darling, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Her grandmother sat up as Eve rearranged the pillows until she was more comfortable, before going over to the window to open the curtains and let the daylight in.
“My spectacles?”
“Right here.” Eve handed her the reading glasses and the slim bundle of letters. Her grandmother’s hands shook as she took them from her and peered at the writing on the first envelope.
“Who are they from, Grams?”
Her grandmother hesitated and when she spoke there was no mistaking the tremulous excitement in her voice. “I can manage from here, thank you, Eve.” Her lips set, unyielding as the seam of a clam.
It was a dismissal. Fair enough. Let her read them in peace; there wasn’t much privacy left to her these days. “How about I go and make some tea?” Eve asked.
Esther didn’t answer; she had already begun to read.
* * *
When Eve returned to the room, her grandmother was sitting very still, staring straight ahead, and Eve worried at first that something dreadful had happened. As she came closer, she saw that tears had tracked down the old lady’s sunken cheeks, leaving damp splotches on the front of her nightgown. She looked worn out, every one of her eighty-nine years showing in her expression, her defeated posture. “Are you okay, Grams?” Eve asked gently, perching on the bed next to her and taking her hand. It felt warm and birdlike in hers, thin skin covering fragile bone.
“I’m not entirely sure.” She held out the letters with her other hand. “But you might as well know the whole story. My unforgivable act.”
“Unforgivable? Really?” asked Eve softly, taking the pages from her, but keeping her eyes on her grandmother.
“I had another child. Two years after Teddy and before your mother. Samuel. He was a beautiful baby, but I’m afraid I was a terrible mother. I couldn’t seem to love him as I did Teddy. I thought there must be something dreadfully wrong with me, that I’d failed. Some days it was impossible to even rock him in my arms; I couldn’t bring myself to be near him, to touch him.”
“What happened to him?” Eve couldn’t help interrupting.
“One morning. The fifteenth of September. The leaves on the trees were turning . . . I remember, there was an orange and yellow carpet of them on the lawn in the back garden. I went into the nursery. Teddy was standing by Samuel’s cot; he’d been trying to wake his baby brother. It wasn’t until I got there and went to pick Samuel up that I realized he was cold. Stone cold.”
“Oh, Grams,” Eve’s hands flew to her mouth. “But that wasn’t your fault. It was SIDS, right, or something like that?”
Esther nodded. “But I was convinced that it was my fault, that I didn’t love him enough, that was why he died. After that, well, nothing else seemed terribly worthwhile anymore. I could hardly look after Teddy. Your grandfather was so worried about me, though it was a long time before I realized that.”
“Some women don’t always feel that rush of love for their child, even I know that, and it certainly doesn’t make you responsible.”
“But at the time I believed it was, you see. Part of me always has. I didn’t love him; I neglected him. And I was his mother.”
Eve reached across to hug her. “Hasn’t anyone told you that’s just not true?”
“Someone did, once.”
Eve thought awhile. “So that’s why Gramps took you to Little Embers?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s where the woman—Rachel—found the letters and the photo.”
“Yes.”
“But I still don’t understand why he did that. It seems so . . . I don’t know, so extreme I suppose.”
“I think he thought I’d gone completely mad. Barmy. It seems harsh now, especially to separate me from Teddy, but I imagine he was at his wits’ end. He was doing the only thing he could for me. And I did eventually get better. After a fashion.”
“How?”
“There was a doctor. That’s him in the photo. Dr. Richard Creswell.” Esther pointed to the tall, dark-haired man at the back of the group. “And some lovely chaps—all damaged by the war. They’d been through far worse than I had.”
“Are they the other people in the photo?” Rachel asked, picking it up from where it lay on the bed.
“There’s George, and Wilkie, and that was Robbie,” Esther’s voice cracked and she pointed to the fair-haired one of the bunch. Eve saw her gaze linger on him. “And Jean—Nurse Bardcombe, miserable so-and-so. She didn’t approve of me. One way or another we’d all suffered. Too much.”
“It was an asylum?” Eve asked.
“Not exactly.”
“You were locked up?”
“Not exactly.”
Eve looked at her disbelievingly. “Oh, Grams. How long were you there for?”
“Four months, three weeks, and two days.”
Eve was silent, considering the fact that her grams remembered to the day how long she’d stayed somewhere more than sixty-odd years ago.
“How could Gramps have done such a thing? Locked you away as if you were a madwoman?”
“Darling, in those days it was perfectly acceptable behavior by a husband. He was the head of the family. He only did what he thought was best.” She sighed.
Eve couldn’t begin to imagine it.
“It wasn’t all bad,” Esther continued. “But it changed everything. A few years after that I started climbing. It was the only way I could escape. When I was on a mountain, I forgot. It took everything I had in order to keep going. There was no energy left over for anything else.”
“Being depressed isn’t being weak, Grams. Surely you know that now?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Esther lay back against her pillows.
“Well, it’s a testament that you didn’t let it define you,” said Eve.
“Didn’t I?” her grams asked tiredly, closing her eyes. “I think it defined everything about me forever afterward actually.”
“Do you want to include this in the book?” Eve asked after a while.
Esther waited a long time before opening her eyes and answering. “That will mean telling the whole story.”
“There’s more?” Eve asked, incredulous.
“I’m afraid there is, but I’m not sure I can do that unless I know if he’s still alive or not.”
“If who is alive?” Eve asked.
“The man who wrote me those letters.”
Chapter Forty
Little Embers, Spring 1952
Richard stood on the foredeck of the sloop, feeling the wind in his hair and the spray on his face. It had been a strained and claustrophobic week in the company of his father and aunt and he was glad to be returning to the island. His mother’s funeral had been brief, attended only by a handful of mourners from the village who remembered her in better days, his father, aunt, and himself. He laid a bunch of narcissi on the heaped earth and whispered a few lines from a favorite poem.
His aunt had left a few days after the service and Richard spent the remaining time quietly, venturing into Truro for a few much-needed supplies—notebooks, ink and paper most urgently—and accompanying his father to the village pub for dinner and a pint or two in the evenings. Their conversation was stilted, and when they did speak it was of inconsequential things, trivia. There was little to reminisce over.
While he was in Truro one morning his attention was caught by a local jewelry shop. Esther had been very much on his mind. On a whim, he entered the shop and glanced around. Trays of rings, small stones glittering, fine-link necklaces, charm bracelets, watches all arrayed for him to inspect. There was nothing that fit exactly what he had in mind and before he knew it, he found himself inquiring whether it might be possible to fashion a bespoke piece. It was perfectly possible, the jeweler replied once Richard had explained what he had in mind, but would take a little time. He checked as the jeweler wrote out the inscription that was to be engraved on the back of the piece. “If you can send it to Little Embers posthaste, I should be most grateful,” he said as he settled the bill and gave the address. He hoped it would be beautiful, that she would like it.
Now, as the boat approached the jetty, his heart swelled. He had come to love this island and the patients he treated there, and, of course, there was Esther. He could scarcely see beyond the fact of holding her in his arms once more.
* * *
Jean met him at the dock and as they walked to the house, she reported that nothing untoward had occurred in his absence. Once he had fortified himself with a cup of tea, he saw each of his patients in turn. All the while he was checking up on them, another part of his mind was wondering where Esther was, what she might be doing, and how sweet it would be to see her smile spread across her face again. Time seemed to crawl along and though he did his best to concentrate on Wilkie, Robbie, and George, he couldn’t wait to be done. He had deliberately saved his meeting with Esther until last, wanting to savor the moments they would share.
He noticed the worried expression on her face as soon as she entered the parlor. “Something’s changed, what is it?” Rising to meet her, he stopped himself from pulling her into his arms and settled for holding her hands in his.
“It’s Jean. She knows.” Though the door was shut, Esther spoke in a whisper.
“Really?” He was surprised. “She gave no indication of it to me.”
“Oh, believe me, she does. She took the opportunity of your departure to confront me.”
Richard paused, considering the implications. “I don’t think we should be too concerned,” he said eventually.
&n
bsp; “Underestimate her at your peril,” Esther warned.
“Come now, my darling, I fear you worry too much. But let us not talk of such unpleasant matters.”
Esther would not look him in the eye and a thread of apprehension snaked its way through him. “Is there something else?”
She nodded, finally raising her eyes to meet his. “I have had some time to think and I believe this to be a mistake. You . . . me . . . us. It cannot end well, we both know that.”
He went to interrupt her but she raised a hand.
“Please. Let me finish or I shall be unable to say what I have to say.” She released her hands from his and went over to stand by the window, gazing at the landscape. “It is time for me to return home. As you have admitted, I am much recovered, and my son needs me.”
She turned back to the room, facing him, tears welling in her eyes. He could see that it had cost her greatly to make the decision, to utter the words that would bring an end to everything. His buoyant mood at returning to Embers was dashed, but he knew she spoke the truth. He could not argue against it, could not distress her further.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall send word immediately.”
“Thank you. And for not trying to dissuade me, for I could not have borne that.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long time before Richard asked, “It wasn’t our time, was it?”
“On the contrary, my darling, it was our time.”
* * *
Before long Richard became aware that there were other lovers on the island in addition to Esther and himself. Late on the day after his return to the island, he was sitting on a chair at the back of the house, feeling impossibly low as he scraped the scales from a large wrasse. It was the bounty of that afternoon’s fishing expedition and destined for the dinner table, but it gave him none of his usual pleasure. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a movement in the orchard. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the light was dim, but the wind had dropped and so the disturbance and rustle of the trees was a sudden, out of the ordinary sound.
Curious, he put down his knife and rested the fish on top of a nearby stone wall, straightening up to get a better look. He had taken only a few steps toward the orchard when he saw the couple. The figures were in shadow, with their backs to him, but he recognized George’s distinctive fisherman’s cap right away. They were locked in a tortuous embrace, George pressed up against the bark of a tree, Robbie behind him. The force of their movement was causing the tree to shake and groan as if it were about to splinter. The few remaining fruit on its branches thudded to the ground to join other windfalls. Richard looked on at the inexplicable scene, too shocked to say anything; the two men were oblivious to his presence, caught up in their own urgent desire. He slowly retreated, returning to the wall where he’d left his catch. With a grim expression on his face, he picked up the knife and began to gut the fish, making a clean cut from cloaca to gills and letting the guts spill out onto the grass.