Lifeboat (8 page)

I was pleased to hand back to him – he sailed better than I did.

At lunchtime we moored in a sheltered bay; just us and the seabirds. Steep cliffs climbed up from the waterfront, trying to puncture the cloudless sky. The boat rocked gently in the sun while I poured the wine and laid out the luncheon. My preparations of the night before were well rewarded. We drank to our days sailing and to sailors in general.

‘If we continued this way,' I told them, pointing as I spoke, ‘we would eventually sail into the main harbour.'

‘That sounds nice,' she said. ‘Can we?'

‘Not today. It's an exposed journey and there's a storm in the offing somewhere, so I wouldn't risk it. I don't think we'd have time to get back before it hit.'

‘A storm? Really?' she said sceptically, looking around.

‘They can come up pretty quickly, this time of year, with little warning.'

‘So how can you tell?' he asked.

‘I don't know – just can. I have a knack for guessing the weather.'

‘A fisherman's daughter,' he suggested.

‘What's that?' she asked.

‘Something I heard. That fishermen's daughters can tell the weather,' he said, scratching his head. ‘Or was it that they had webbed feet?'

‘Oh, you terrible man,' she cried, laughing and pretending to hurl the contents of her glass at him. ‘And look, you have let my glass go empty. Quick, a refill. You know what they say about old women with empty glasses?'

‘No, ma'am, what?'

‘They get thirsty.'

The taxi awaited us upon our return to the bay. We sat in a contented silence for the quick drive home, topping the hill overlooking the main harbour as the flames of a glorious sunset licked over the waves of the bay below.

‘And we are really allowed to stay at your house tonight?' she asked. I nodded.

‘Thank you so much.'

‘You're welcome. Did today bring anything back to you?' I asked the woman. ‘Even if it's just a shadow of familiarity?'

‘No, it did not, although I had a lovely day.'

She started to say more, but the taxi arrived at my house. Her gratitude embarrassed me. I enjoyed their company for its own sake; I felt connected to something for the first time in years.

We ate a light supper sitting out on the front verandah, overlooking the garden. Big tree ferns swept the railings and lush flowers pushed their way out through the glossy foliage, surprising me with their tenacity – I never did any gardening. Occasionally I would trim back the fern fronds obscuring the view from my favourite deckchair, but that was all. I liked the privacy of the fern-frond barrier, feeling like a hunter watching from the safety of a hide.

She pointed to a birdbath that sprouted like a giant mushroom from my front lawn.

‘Do you ever put out seed?' she asked.

‘No.'

‘You should. You'd get parrots.'

‘You like birds?' I asked.

‘Oh yes, I am sure I do,' she said, as she leant out over the railing holding back a fern branch so as to see better. ‘Oh, look at those tiny birds – aren't they lovely,' she said, pointing at some colourful flutters of feather playing amongst the bushes like children tumbling in the sun, busy about nothing.

She moved over to make room for me beside her.

‘They're finches, aren't they?'

‘I think so.'

‘He'll know. Where is he?' She looked around. He had wandered into the kitchen. I could hear him rummaging around in the drawers.

‘Come out here,' she called.

He emerged from indoors.

‘Look,' she said, moving aside and gesturing for him to squeeze in beside us. ‘They're finches, no?'

‘I think so,' he murmured. He leant forward for a better look.

‘Lovely,' he said. ‘Yes, they're finches.'

‘Finches.' She seemed pleased. He pulled back a fern branch and looked out to the harbour.

‘Do you mind?' he asked, brandishing a big kitchen knife. I shook my head dubiously as he cut off the frond neatly at the trunk. He moved along the verandah and did the same with all the larger fronds, then stepped back to admire his work. It brought the ocean closer. We saw the storm I had predicted gathering. And now that I could see the whole sweep of the harbour, the town looked smaller, friendlier.

‘I could do the whole garden for you if you'd like,' he said, as I sat down.

‘Now?'

‘Maybe next weekend?'

‘Okay. That would be nice.'

‘Will we be here next weekend?' she asked, sounding frail, her body sagging.

I couldn't reply.

‘We'll be fine,' he said firmly. ‘Come sit beside me.'

He drew her to the cane lounge, placing her down and seating himself beside her. He kept hold of her hand as they watched the storm clouds draw closer. Lightning illuminated their faces in the gathering dark. I noticed that they wore the same expression, revealing a similarity in their features I had not seen before. They say couples that spend their lives together begin to look alike. I thought I saw it in these two. In a way, the last few weeks were their whole lives.

I wondered about their relationship before the lifeboat and about what lay hidden inside their heads, hidden below the waterline: a reef full of beauty or something that would scuttle them?

She turned to me. ‘How old would you say I am?'

‘I couldn't say.'

‘Fifty? Sixty? Seventy?'

‘Maybe sixty, at the most,' I said. She had looked so much older when they arrived – they both had – but the years had washed from their faces like sand left clean by the retreating tide.

‘Old enough to be your grandmother, but with nothing to show for it. What are my achievements?'

‘They could be substantial,' I answered.

‘But if I cannot recount them, they are as nothing, they never happened.'

‘Yes they did; they still exist. You were not born on that lifeboat.'

‘Maybe I was. But sometimes I do feel like I'm about to discover myself, like I were on board a ship sailing through islands hidden in mist. They loom up and just as I'm making something out they slip by, back into obscurity. It's a bit like permanent deja vu. Or maybe I did something terribly evil and this is my punishment.'

‘Worse to know what you did,' he said.

‘I don't think so. What could be worse than being about to die without knowing what your life was?'

‘About to die?' I asked.

‘At the end of my life,' she explained.

I nodded.

‘So what do you think we should do?' he asked.

‘Wait patiently,' I said. ‘I expect an answer soon from the publisher. If this man is your father we have your identity. And then I expect yours to follow shortly after. Even if there is no prior relationship between you, you were on the same lifeboat, so logically one would assume you evacuated the same ship.'

‘I've been thinking about that,' he said. ‘The lifeboat had no markings, although it was, judging by its size and features, from a substantially sized vessel. The water and supplies on board suggest that it was either well provisioned or packed with enough time before that vessel sank. A commercial vessel would have an identifiable lifeboat, so I think our ship may have been private. I have seen a few such vessels harbouring here until the storm season passes. They are all privately owned, with full-time crews.'

I wondered why I had not explored this path.

‘You could easily have crewed such a boat,' she said. ‘But what about me?'

‘I have decided that you are a wealthy woman,' he said. ‘The yacht was yours.'

‘And you were my skipper.'

‘But no vessels have been reported lost, commercial or private,' I said.

‘To report something lost one needs to know where it was supposed to be to begin with. What if we hadn't told anyone where or when we were going?'

‘I'll look in to that tomorrow,' I promised.

We sat talking until she fell asleep, leaning against his side. I did most of the talking, explaining the journeys I planned, taking the opportunity to show off my maps.

‘You plan to sail here?' he asked, pointing north from the island.

‘Yes. It's only a few days away.'

‘And will this all be solo sailing?' he asked.

I'd never thought that far.

‘I suppose,' I replied, ‘I could take a crew.'

‘It's not safe for you to go alone. Promise me you will not do that.'

‘What do you know of these places?' I asked, without thinking.

He faltered as he replied: ‘Nothing. I just don't think it is safe for a girl to sail alone. I have heard stories, like everyone.'

I felt touched by his concern. For a moment I was taken by the idea of asking him to come with me. But I didn't ask. It would have been an empty request; my plans were just dreams and I could make no promises to him as to his future.

‘Now I think it is time for bed,' he said. ‘I will sleep out here, if that's all right? I do miss the night sky.'

He stooped and gently picked up the woman; she looked tiny in his arms.

‘Where would you like me to put madame?'

Reluctantly I rose from the comfort of my chair and led the way to the bedrooms.

He laid her down and drew the sheet over her. She didn't stir, but she looked comfortable, curled up with one bare foot tucked under the other and her hands crossed beneath her chin. Her face appeared softer than when she was awake.

‘Not quite so formidable when unconscious,' he said.

‘Yes.'

‘Almost lovable.'

We both smiled. He picked up a folded blanket from the other bed and went back to the lounge on the verandah. I wondered why I had never slept there myself – it did make the most beautiful bedroom in the house.

‘You have everything you need?' I asked.

‘Yes, thank you. And thank you for today. I cannot remember a day I have enjoyed so much.'

I laughed. He kissed me on the forehead.

‘Goodnight, child,' he said.

‘Goodnight.'

Curled up in my own bed, I heard the lounge creak as the man made himself comfortable. It was good to be sharing my home. The house felt like a cat with a full belly, the breeze purring through the open windows. I lay there for some time, listening to the rain and free-falling back through the pleasures of the day.

Later, I was disturbed from my slumber. Through sleep-filled eyes I saw a tall figure standing in my doorway. I turned in the bed to sit up and the figure was gone. I listened for the noise of footsteps, floorboards creaking, but everything was silent. Perhaps I had dreamt it. I went back to sleep.

DAY SEVEN

I was awoken by her scream, just before dawn when the night is at its darkest. The storm outside had passed. It took me a few moments to place the sound, whereupon I threw back the covers and ran to her. He was there already, sitting on her bed holding her to his chest, her arms pinned in a bear hug. I stopped at the doorway, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I watched as her struggles subsided, then stepped forward quietly and clicked on the bedside lamp. The soft light illuminated her face, which glistened with tears. He was stroking her hair and rocking her slowly, making soft shushing sounds. I went to a cabinet and found a handkerchief, which I handed to him. As he let her go she breathed in deeply and covered her face with her hands, then slowly released the breath and looked up.

‘Thank you,' she said to him.

He gave her the handkerchief and sat away. She blew her nose.

‘And thank you,' she said to me, holding up the handkerchief.

‘A nightmare?' he asked. She nodded.

‘What happened?' I asked.

She shook her head, as if to clear it.

‘The same,' she said. ‘The same one. But then it changed and I was running away. Someone was after me, trying to kill me. There was mist and water, I had to escape, but I kept falling into the water, being swept away. Hands were reaching for me, trying to pull me under. It was horrible. Then I woke up. I'm sorry I disturbed you,' she said, looking ashamed.

‘No, no,' I said. ‘Don't apologise. This is beyond your control. I'll make some tea.'

I clanked about the kitchen in the almost dark. The overhead fluorescent seemed like an assault when I turned it on, so I snapped it off quickly and worked by the creeping light of dawn. I found the morning very peaceful. The air carried a cool crispness that was fresh and optimistic. A breeze rattled the kitchen blind and I sniffed the air like a dog, scenting more rain on its way, mingled with the scent of earth and grass.

The kettle steamed out its song, breaking into the silence of my thoughts. I made a pot of tea, carefully preparing the pot and warming the mugs, as I had been taught. I put the milk into a small jug that had come as part of the tea set. I'd never used the jug, always pouring my milk straight from the bottle, but I placed it upon the tray with some satisfaction.

The house was quiet as I carried the tea through. At the door to her room I stopped. The two of them lay fast asleep, her lying curled beneath his protective arm as they shared the single bed. I backed slowly from the room and took my tray to the verandah.

In the cool of the dawn the sensation of the tea felt like having a warm bath slide inside me. The world lay quietly, waiting to see what the sun was doing that day. Even the docklands were still.

The noise of a screen door slapping shut broke the silence. It was my neighbour, watering the hanging pots on her verandah. Now the ferns were trimmed I could see her house clearly; she saw me looking over and waved. I had never met her, was hardly even conscious of having seen her before, but I waved back and smiled.

‘Fresh this morning,' she called.

‘Yes. Beautiful,' I replied. She came closer, leaning over her rail to water some plants below. I got the impression that she had been awake for hours. She lived alone. I think she was retired.

‘He did a good job with the trimming. It looks very nice,' she said, nodding towards my house. ‘Are your parents staying long?'

It took me a moment to work out whom she meant.

‘Oh. No. Not long.'

While I debated correcting her assumption, she finished her watering. A kettle started to whistle in the background.

‘I'd better get that. Enjoy the day,' she said and disappeared indoors with a little wave. I resumed my examination of the harbourscape below.

There was still no sign of stirring from the guest room. I was bemused at their embrace, but not surprised. I didn't imagine romance, just solidarity.

I watched a trail of ants busy across the verandah, carrying away grains of spilt sugar.

‘Good morning,' he said from the doorway. He had arrived silently.

‘Good morning. Would you like some tea?' I asked, starting to rise.

‘No. Please, stay where you are. I thought perhaps you would allow me to prepare breakfast?'

He didn't wait for me to agree, but disappeared again. I heard him moving about in the kitchen. The woman joined me a few minutes later, wrapped in a blanket, her hair falling loosely to her shoulders.

‘Are you happy here?' she asked.

‘I think so.'

‘I think we could be too. Or I could be. Do you think they will let us stay?'

I couldn't answer that. ‘Don't you want to return to your families?'

She frowned at me.

‘I can't assume that there is a family. I think I would feel it if there were; if I had left someone precious and important to me.'

‘What about the child in your dreams?'

‘But I lose the child.'

‘You think the child dies?'

‘Don't wish that upon me … the death of a child … who could recover from the death of their child?'

‘I don't know.' I tried not to think of my own mother.

‘Anyway, that was only a dream from which I awoke,' she said. She pulled the blanket about her. ‘Could a doctor tell if I have given birth?' she asked, hugging herself, pulling her legs up to her chest. ‘Even at my age?'

‘I don't know. Shall I find out for you?'

‘No, I don't know – I think I just want proof that I exist.'

I looked at her, puzzled.

‘I know the obvious, that I'm here, that this is real. But where do I fit in? Have you ever thought about how much we define ourselves by those around us? By who we know or associate with?'

I thought of myself.

‘Well, it's sad,' she said.

‘But temporary,' I replied.

‘I hope so, but each time I try to bend my brain to this problem, which is so huge, I come up with nothing, not a thing.'

‘Give yourself some time.'

‘That is the one thing neither of us have. Not in life and not here.'

‘I'm tracking down that African writer.'

‘And what if there is no writer, no father? Or, maybe even worse, if having tracked him down, I still don't remember. Something that means nothing to me, no matter how true it is, still means nothing. What if, even if we find out exactly who I am, I still cannot remember? What will I do then? I can't start again, not now when I should be getting ready to finish. I feel like I have been robbed and it scares me.'

She spoke calmly, but I had an inkling of the chasm she faced.

The man returned, bearing three plates, laden with food, which he laid down with a flourish. He carried a tea towel over his forearm, like a waiter.

‘Pancakes,' he announced. ‘And eggs, scrambled. Grilled tomatoes. Ham, left over from yesterday – waste not want not. And mushrooms. I hope this is suitable.'

We savoured the beautiful smells rising in steamy wafts from the plates.

‘Wonderful,' she exclaimed.

‘I hope it's not too much for you.'

‘No no,' I said. ‘It's perfect.'

‘Do start,' he said. He took up his own plate to lead the way. ‘While it's hot.'

The food was delicious, seasoned with thyme, he told me, which he had found growing in my back garden. I didn't even know it was there.

‘Where did you learn to cook?' I asked, without thinking.

‘Hah!' he laughed. ‘Let me think … you know, I don't know. However, I would be willing to bet it was not in the army.'

After breakfast she wandered about the house, touching things, looking into drawers. It didn't bother me, there was nothing to hide: no love letters, diaries, photographs, none of those private things people like to squirrel away. She found a book in English and settled down on the verandah to read. He took himself to the garden. They both seemed content – only I was at a loose end.

I'd brought some papers home with me but had no desire to work. I sat at the desk in my sunroom, looking over the bay with the folders unopened in front of me, pondering the problem of the castaways. With only one week to go I felt out of my depth, but still adamant that I was the only person who could help them. It was a contradiction I could not reconcile.

Around midday we walked down to the waterfront, making a slow return to the compound.

‘My dear,' she said, a small frown scuttling across her face. ‘That dream I had this morning, the nightmare …'

‘Yes?'

‘How real do you think my dreams are?'

‘I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. Why?'

‘I saw the man chasing me, trying to kill me …'

‘Did you recognise him?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘The person who was trying to kill me was him.'

I looked ahead to where he walked. He felt my eyes upon him and waved, smiling. I squeezed her arm and said a silent prayer to green grass, blue sky and all that is good in the world.

When we got to the gate I turned to say goodbye. She was crying. Small, silent tears ran down her cheeks and it was as much as I could do not to cry myself as I hugged her goodbye.

THE RETURN

She should have recognised him, treetop-tall, as he

approached across thefield – but he was dead. She should have recognised the timbre of his voice, which whispered to her in dreams – but he was dead.

She knew his hands were just a haunting, his smell a mirage blown across the worldfrom the desert where he died.

‘I mourned you'

‘But I am not dead'

‘I died with you.'

‘But I am not dead'

‘I prayed for your soul'

‘But I am not dead'

‘Then pray for mine – I died with you. I cut out my heart. I burnt it upon a pyre'

‘And the ashes?'

‘I drink of them daily'

‘And our child?'

‘She is gone'

‘Then what did I fight for? I may as well be dead'

She took his hands between her own. ‘We have always thought the same.'

He looked around, scared that if he stayed he would stay forever. So he walked away from her, slow strides across the field. Then he ran, gulping air like a drowning man.

But behind him trailed a line, fine catgut, unbreakable, invisible, attached by a hook to his heart. It vibrated as he ran, thrumming like the wind in the trees as the world turns, increasing with distance, making him thrash and fight and run harder.

At night when he lay down to sleep he felt the tug, the barb. Upon waking to a new, clear day he waited, willing it gone, but there it was, replying to his every move with a jag, a pull. The more he fought, the more it fought back, the further he ran, the tighter the line stretched.

To escape this hook, he thought, I must cut out my heart. Or give in. Follow the invisible line to the hands of the fisherman and hope that this time she will not throw me back.

Then his running became a pilgrimage to each of the places that had brought them happiness. I am a Tendai monk, my sutra is her name. Down this tight stretched line I will call to her, drawing the fisherman to the fish.