by Kayte Nunn
She checked her phone again, still looking for a response that wasn’t there, sent another message and continued to pace. After another five minutes and no reply, she decided to go upstairs and see if Jonah was in his room.
He opened the door at her insistent banging. Hair sticking up all over the place. Shirtless. Sleep in the corner of one eye.
She felt a storm of butterflies drum in her belly.
“Dinner?” she said, swallowing. Her mouth felt like the aftermath of a sandstorm.
“Oh yeah. Dinner,” he said groggily. “Sure. What time is it?”
“Quarter past.”
“Quarter past what?”
“Seven,” she said, mild exasperation cutting through the mesmerizing effect of his broad torso, the lean, sculpted planes of which were only centimeters away from her. She took a step back, trying to gain perspective. “Don’t tell me you’ve been asleep all afternoon.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Guess I have. Give me five minutes and I’ll be right with you.”
* * *
At dinner, Rachel found herself unaccountably shy. Was it merely the effect of seeing him seminaked, vulnerable? Or was it as a result of their almost-argument in the car that afternoon?
They’d opted for the Indian restaurant, and while she struggled to decide what to order she was aware of him watching her.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I hope you’re not going to be disappointed, Rachel.”
She looked up from the menu with a bright smile that felt forced. “I won’t be. However, I can’t decide between the dhal and the dhansak.”
“Always difficult,” he said dryly. “Why don’t we get both?”
“Oh, okay, sure.” She closed the menu and took a sip of the beer that had been placed in front of her, noticing that Jonah looked as though he was steeling himself to say something.
Sure enough, he was.
“I don’t know if this will come as a surprise to you or not, but I like you, Rachel. More than like you actually.” He looked at her, then down at the tablecloth, straightening the cutlery, fidgeting. “I’ve been trying to back off, to get to know you, for you to get to know me . . . to let something happen gradually. But now I’m not sure if I’ve been wrong about you. Seen what I wanted to see and not what was actually there.”
Rachel didn’t know what to say. She tried to speak, but no words came.
“At some point you have to make the choice. Leave the shore and strike out for the unknown,” he continued. “Otherwise you’re only half alive. And believe me, I’ve seen what half alive looks like.” Rachel glanced at him from under her lashes, frightened of what she might encounter if she looked him full in the eye, what might be reflected back at her. He was so earnest, more serious than she’d ever seen him.
“And who wants that, hey?” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere between them.
“Don’t be afraid, Rachel.” Anyone else would have chastised her, or given up. Instead, the way he said her name was more a caress, and it sent a shiver through her.
He wouldn’t accept anything halfhearted. As she raised her eyes to meet his, she felt something shift.
Intimacy. The word was no longer terrifying. Instead it felt as though it might possibly be quite beautiful.
Just as she was about to tell him that maybe she could, that she did feel something for him, their food arrived and he broke his gaze.
As they ate, he changed the subject and the moment was lost.
* * *
“We’ve got a long day tomorrow, I’ll see you in the morning,” Jonah said, as they returned to the bed and breakfast after dinner.
“Yes,” Rachel agreed, unsure how to gauge his mood. “Good night then. Sleep tight.”
He gave her a half smile and opened the door to his room, but then hesitated, stepped backward and turned toward her. Time stood still and she held her breath, not knowing what he was going to say or do.
He obviously thought better of it, as he turned back to the door and disappeared inside before she had the chance to say anything else. She wondered if he was regretting his words in the restaurant, regretting coming on this mad crusade with her. Whether they were both on a fool’s errand.
* * *
Breakfast the next morning was quiet, saved only by the running interjections from their host, who delivered heaping plates of bacon, sausages, eggs, and tomatoes to their table. Even baked beans.
Rachel looked at him questioningly, pointing her fork to the beans. “Really?” she whispered.
“Uh-huh. That’s what you get with the full English.” He grinned at her and she grinned back. His good humor had returned and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“North or south?” she asked as she bit into some toast.
“What?”
“Are we driving to London, or back to the islands this morning?”
He gave her a wide grin. “Have a guess.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Cornwall, Spring 2018
Richard closed the door gently behind the pleasant but hopelessly naive couple and walked slowly to the kitchen. Filling the kettle, he lifted it onto the stove before turning to the cluttered dresser. It would be here somewhere, he knew.
Riffling through a sea of old papers, bills, yellowing newspaper clippings, several teaspoons—so that was where they’d disappeared to—takeout menus, window-cleaning flyers, and psychology journals, he found what he was looking for, tucked inside a dusty copy of his book on trauma therapy.
The photograph.
He wiped away a mote of dust from the surface with his thumb and held it up. A moment frozen in time. There they were: George, poor, poor Robbie, Jean, Mrs. Biggs, himself, and Esther. Wilkie, who had given him the print, behind the camera of course.
It could have been yesterday. Events from half a century ago were more immediate to him than those of a few years back nowadays.
All of them—well, apart from Wilkie—so young. He almost couldn’t believe they’d once looked like that, especially him. He’d grown used to the sight of an old man with thickening eyebrows, a large nose, and a face marked by deep lines, not this clear-skinned chap with wavy hair, a ready smile, and a naive belief that he could change the world, or at least help put an end to some of its suffering.
His eyes fixed on Esther and his breath caught at her fragile beauty. She faced the camera with a wary look.
He had been unsurprised when he came across an article in one of the Sunday papers a few years back, a profile of her as a female climbing pioneer. Somehow he had known she would go on to achieve great things; he had seen her strength of mind, knew what it had cost her to make the decisions she had. He had briefly considered getting in touch after that; had held on to the article for several months, clipping it carefully, before his cleaner had consigned it to the recycling without asking him.
He had tried so hard to forget her.
The high-pitched whistle of the kettle roused him from his memories and he put the photograph back down on top of the pile. He went to get a mug from the cupboard, noticing that his hands shook even more than usual and that the china rattled as he placed it on the bench top. Taking extra care, he spooned coffee granules from a jar and poured in the boiling water.
He didn’t risk carrying the coffee through to the living room, but sat down at the kitchen table instead and stared out of the window, marshaling his thoughts. The cup sat by his elbow, untouched, growing cold.
It wasn’t until the cat wandered in from the living room and curled herself around his ankles, purring loudly for her supper, that he got up and went in search of the can opener. “So what do you think, hey, Anna?” he asked. “Should I go and see her?”
* * *
When Rachel and Jonah arrived at Richard’s cottage the next morning, he was ready and waiting for them, wearing dark trousers, a crisp pale blue shirt that matched the color of the morning sky, a tweed jacket, and a perfect
Windsor-knotted tie. He’d combed his white hair into neat furrows that were slicked back from his temples and even trimmed his unruly eyebrows. He was clutching a newspaper-wrapped sheaf of narcissi, picked from his garden, in one hand, and wielded a lacquered wooden cane in the other.
“All set?” Jonah asked.
Richard nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
Traffic on the motorway was light and they made good time, stopping for lunch and reaching the outskirts of London in the early afternoon. Rachel chatted to Richard on the way up and he told her about his life as a psychologist and academic, which had helped keep his mind off the purpose of the trip, one that he was still uncertain about the wisdom of undertaking.
“Everything okay?” asked Jonah, after Richard had been silent for some time.
“Oh yes, thank you very much.” Richard did his best to sound chipper, but on the inside he was as nervous as a schoolboy on the first day of term. It felt as if sixty-six years had melted away in the time it took a heart to skip a beat and it was as if he had farewelled her only days ago. Now, though, time seemed to have slowed to a slow crawl, even though they were zooming at terrific speed along the motorway. He was anxious to get there. “How much longer have we got to go?”
Jonah peered at the GPS that had been guiding them. “Not long at all. An hour maybe? Depends on the traffic as we get closer to the city.”
Richard’s pulse began to quicken, his heart to drum in his chest. He hoped he wasn’t about to have a heart attack. One couldn’t be too careful, not at his age.
Chapter Fifty
Little Embers, Spring 1952
I can’t go on like this.” Esther had to wait until the next day to find Richard alone. She was glad to have escaped the oppressive atmosphere of the house, and they contrived to walk together along the seashore in the late afternoon.
“I know,” he said bluntly. His eyes still spoke to her of his feelings. “Neither can I. Jean is watching our every move. Though it pains me greatly, I am thinking of sending everyone home.”
Esther started in surprise. “Because of Robbie?”
“Wilkie was due to leave in a few weeks anyway, and George, well, I think it will be better for George if he returns to his wife.”
“You’re right of course. But what about you? Will you accept more patients?”
“I’m not sure.” He looked at her despairingly. “I fear the news of Robbie may spread beyond these shores. People may not be so keen to send their loved ones here in future.”
“Oh nonsense, that won’t be the case. Your good reputation cannot be shattered by one event.”
“Well, I certainly hope not. In the meantime, however, I may go on hiatus. I have my paper to finish . . .”
“And what of Jean?”
“If there are no patients for her to look after . . .” His voice trailed off. “I can cope here on my own with Mrs. Biggs. In fact, she could probably do with a break as well.”
“So when will you tell everyone?”
“Wilkie already knows. He’ll depart on the next boat with George.”
“And me?” Esther asked, holding her breath. Her mind raced. Would she soon see Teddy? It would mean leaving the island, leaving Richard, and she felt ashamed at herself for wondering now how she might bear it.
“I have sent word to John, as we agreed. Selfishly I would wish you to stay a little longer, but we both know it would be best if you too returned to your family posthaste, my darling. Only you can decide what will happen after that.”
Esther bit her lip. She knew what he was hinting at, but it was a decision already made.
They were out of sight of the house now, two figures on an empty sweep of sand. He reached for her hand. “I’ll write to you,” he promised.
She pulled away. “Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it. I cannot change my situation, Richard, even if I wanted to.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“We weren’t in love, not really,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to see the hurt that was surely written on his face. “We were simply two lonely people who found each other for a while. That’s all.” She turned back toward the house, stifling a sob.
* * *
The mail boat called at the island two days later.
“We’ve got a couple of passengers for you,” Richard shouted to the captain as he made fast to the jetty.
“Oh aye? Reckoned there was a bit of a crowd here this morning.”
They had all gathered to wait for the boat and stood surrounded by suitcases, several boxes, and a sack of cabbages and potatoes that the captain would take to the Hugh Town Stores and which would be returned, filled with an order for dry goods—wheat flour, rye, and oats—on the next boat.
The weather was almost warm enough for shirtsleeves and everywhere she looked, Esther could see swaths of pale yellow flowers, their intoxicating scent borne on the breeze. She had abandoned her winter coat in favor of a cashmere twinset and the feel of the warm sun on her face was a small comfort on such a sad day. Her heart broke once again, for the beauty of the island and for the men who were leaving. Both had become so terribly dear to her.
“Chin up,” said Wilkie, catching the look of anguish on her face.
She gave him a wobbly smile. “You too.”
“You’ve got my address,” he said. “We’d love to see you in Dorset, once you get settled back home, that is. I know Helen would love to meet you. And you too, Richard. You’ll always be welcome.”
“Haven’t you had enough of my ugly mug, old chap?” Richard’s voice was stoic but Esther could see that he too was struggling to keep his feelings in check. She had successfully avoided him since their walk on the beach earlier in the week, but now, standing near him on the jetty, she felt the fresh agony of her words to him. She knew she had been cruel, her words wounding her as much as they doubtless had him. She had uttered them in the hope that he would be able to let her go. That one day he would find love with someone else, someone who was free to be with him, for she never could be.
“Right then, let’s get you loaded,” said the captain. “Tide waits for no one.”
It was the one certainty Esther had learned from her time on the island.
Boxes and bags and sacks were handed across and stowed in the hold, before a flurry of handshakes and hugs from the departing men to those remaining. Good-byes said, first George then Wilkie hopped aboard.
Esther stood with Richard, Jean, and Mrs. Biggs, feeling suddenly bereft as the boat puttered out into the channel.
Jean had stayed out of her way since the news of everyone’s departure had become known and Esther felt sure she must be secretly delighted by the fact that Esther and Richard’s relationship would shortly be ended.
According to Richard, Jean was planning a holiday with her aunt in Brighton. “Such a lovely time of year there,” she had said to Esther one evening as they all sat at supper. Esther detected a sharp edge to her voice. “You and your husband should try it. I’m sure your little boy would love it; the pier is quite impressive. I believe it even rivals that of Bournemouth.” Jean never missed an opportunity to remind Esther of her family responsibilities, but Esther didn’t rise to the bait.
* * *
“There’s a letter here for you,” Richard said, his voice terse. He thrust a creamy envelope at her. Esther immediately recognized the handwriting. John.
“Thank you.” She barely noticed him take custody of a small brown-paper-wrapped parcel, was too caught up with what her letter might say. Would he come for her? Was she ready? Despite her earlier assertions to Richard, she wavered now. Would everything still remind her of Samuel when she returned? She dreaded falling back into the deep trough she’d been in when she left, didn’t think she could bear the return of the dark thoughts. But there would be the living too—especially Teddy. Esther clung to that. She could hardly wait to see him, to hold him close and inhale his sweet little-boy sc
ent, to watch him play in the park, laugh, skip, and sing with him. To kiss him before he went to sleep each night. She didn’t think she would ever want to leave his side again.
And what of John? Of him she was far less certain. She had no idea how she was going to live the rest of her life with him, not when she loved another, would always love another. Perhaps there might come a time in the future when she wouldn’t mind so terribly much.
She waited until she had reached her room before opening the letter. In it John had enclosed a small photograph of a boy. It took her a few moments before she recognized who it was. Teddy had had a haircut. His toddler curls were no longer, in their place was a much more grown-up style. New clothes too, ones she had not chosen. It had been taken in their small back garden; she recognized the tricycle, which lay on its side in the background. The flowerbeds looked overgrown. He was taller, thinner, as if he had been stretched. Life had gone on apace without her. She scrutinized the photograph, wishing it might reveal more. It was some time before she turned her attention to the letter.
“My dearest E. I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you are quite yourself again. I was right: Embers was just the place for you to recuperate. Teddy sends kisses—and I thought you would like this photo. We took it a couple of weeks ago, just after his first haircut. He is so proud to be a ‘big boy’ now, you will hardly recognize him. We have all missed you terribly and are overjoyed to hear that you will soon return home. Unfortunately, I cannot be spared, the reasons for which I will not bore you with, so I have arranged a ticket for you on the sleeper to London on the second of April and a driver will meet you at the station when you arrive. We cannot wait to see you and have you home with us again. Much love always, John.”
The second of April. A little over a week away. The days would go too slowly and yet too fast.
Chapter Fifty-One
London, Spring 2018
Eve brushed her grandmother’s long hair, sweeping it back off her face and letting it fall in soft waves around her shoulders. “You look lovely, Grams,” she said, handing her a mirror and a pot of Pond’s Cold Cream. She’d never known her to use anything else and Grams had certainly never been one for makeup.