‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not a fucking youth hostel, right? He’s got nothing to do wi’ me. I want nothing to do wi’ him.’
‘You’re—’ She goes to say something and stops, bites her lip.
‘I’m what?’ He can feel himself getting defensive. There is going to be a price to pay for this, he thinks. She’s going to see into him, see all the filth and the shame and the mess of it all.
‘I was going to say, you’re all he’s got.’
He wants to laugh at that, but he can’t even manage a sarcastic grunt.
‘You’ve saved his life,’ she says. ‘In fact, you are his life. No matter how hard you try to push him away.’
‘You make him sound like a wee abused dog,’ he says.
‘Maybe that’s pretty much what he is. All he wants is your forgiveness.’
He can smell the curry starting to catch on the bottom of the pan and gets to his feet, grateful for the chance to look away. All he wants is your forgiveness. The absolute pain of knowing that, and realising for the first time that he should be the one asking for forgiveness. He’s been a complete bastard to Lefty all this time. He’s punished him every single day for something that probably wasn’t even his fault. What sort of a man does that make him? The sort of man who wouldn’t kick a dog, but would shout and swear at a young lad who’s probably never been shown a kindness in his life? And she’s seen all of that mistreatment.
Whatever comes next is no more than he deserves. He stirs the curry and waits for her judgement.
There’s a weird sort of lightness in him, too. He’s carried the weight of it for so long, it’s like inhaling fresh air for the first time in years. He breathes in deeply, and out again, feeling so light-headed that he has to steady himself against the counter.
There are other things he’s missed out, that he’ll tell her if she wants to hear them. How eventually he made the study into a room for Lefty so that he could keep him shut away downstairs. How he used to cook him meals, trying to get him at least a little bit healthier, then eventually got sick of being asked for chips and let him make his own food. How all this time on the island Lefty has asked to look after the chickens, has asked for an Xbox, but has never once asked to go home.
‘Fraser?’
He brings two plates of curry and rice over to the table, his mind elsewhere.
‘Why’s he called Lefty? Did you call him that?’
‘He’s always been Lefty.’
‘But he’s not left-handed.’
‘Aye, I know. It’s just a stupid nickname. Jimmy Wright. Lefty. Made it just a tiny bit easier, to not use his real name.’
12
Redemption
Rachel
‘You know Lefty has to go. It’s the only way things will ever get better for you.’
‘How’d you work that out?’
‘While he’s still here, you can’t move on. He’s just a constant reminder of what happened.’
‘If you say so. I wish I’d just forced him back on that boat when I had the chance. But see, I’m a coward, Rachel. I’m a filthy, stinking, idiotic coward. I’m afraid of what will happen to him if he goes back there. And now there are other things I’m afraid to lose, too, and I’ve only just realised.’
He’s talking about me, she thinks, and then immediately dismisses the thought.
‘I’ll look after him,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Lefty. He can come back to Norwich with me.’
‘Don’t talk daft.’
‘Why not? I’m not saying Norwich doesn’t have drug problems, but it would be like another fresh start for him. I’ll get him access to support, try to help him get a job, a flat.’
She sees his eyes widen. He’s not thought about that as an option.
‘It’s like you’ve only had one possible course of action in your head, which is Lefty back on drugs. It’s like you’ve not even been able to think that, actually, maybe things might work out.’
‘How are they going to work out?’
She’s thought of that.
‘Well … you could come too.’
Fraser
‘I didn’t think you’d want to do this,’ Fraser says, later.
Rachel is curved against him, and he’s pulling her even closer, as much skin to skin as he can manage. She still feels cold, as if some part of her has turned to ice: a snow queen, a northern goddess. ‘I didn’t either,’ she murmurs. ‘But I’m cold.’
‘I’m a lucky man,’ he says.
‘You’re a brave man.’
‘I’m definitely not that.’
In the darkness of his room, she raises herself on to her elbow so she can look at him, her hair falling over her shoulder. He winds a lock of it gently round his finger.
‘What you did for Lefty,’ she says, ‘nobody else would have done that. You got him through withdrawal. You kept him alive. You kept him safe.’
‘Didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter,’ he says.
‘You did. And he knows it, too. He knows what you did for him.’
‘Rachel, you’ve seen what he’s like. He’s fucking terrified of me.’
‘I don’t think it’s quite that bad. If you were actually going to hurt him, you would have done it by now. He knows that. And he’s alive, thanks to you.’
‘He’s stuck himself on this island like a wee limpet thanks to me.’
‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘Rachel?’ he says, his hand moving up the skin of her back.
‘Yes?’ she murmurs, kissing his throat.
He’s going to ask her not to go, but even then the words fail him. Instead he turns his head to kiss her, tasting the salt still on her skin, even after the shower, even after brushing her teeth. It’s as if she’s made of the sea. As if she’s part of the island now, baptised and threaded through it.
‘There’s something else I have to tell you,’ she says, when they come up for air. ‘I’m going to ask Robert to take me back to the mainland on Friday. It’s only a week until Julia gets here, but I can’t wait for that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m going to need emergency contraception. I can’t exactly ask him to buy it for me from the chemist, can I?’
‘What’s emergency contraception?’ he asks, feeling stupid.
‘The morning after pill. You can get it from a chemist.’
‘You can?’
‘As long as it’s within five days.’
‘Right.’
His fingers make their way down her spine. Across her hip, fluttering over the bruise there with the gentlest of touches. He feels her shiver, pulls the duvet up around her shoulders. Her hand meets his, pushes it lower, towards her sex.
Three days. He has three more days with her.
Rachel
Something happened to her in the water. Something entirely unexpected.
It wasn’t an out-of-body experience, nothing like that, but perhaps equally dramatic. She recognised herself, as if she were watching from the shore; saw her faltering steps towards the stricken yacht, saw the pause, saw that she was thinking about what she was doing, making a rational choice. It wasn’t that what she was doing was stupid, foolhardy; it was that something needed to be done, and she was the only person who could do it.
Exactly like the moment when she had said to Lucy, I’ll do it. I’ll be your surrogate.
In the months that followed, she had told herself she’d been stupid, rash, that she’d ruined her life by making that sudden decision; that it was the latest in Rachel’s life of fuck-ups. That she would never recover from having to hand Emily over to Lucy and Rob, knowing she would be a part of her child’s life but not the centre of it. She couldn’t blame Lucy, or Rob, or Emily – there was nobody to blame but herself.
And then the wave had come and hit her, churned her up and thrown her against the rocks as if to say, Wake up! This is your life, this is what you’ve made of it! The sea had
rattled her, drenched her and thrown her back to land again, tossing her on to her hands and knees on the shingle.
She had looked up and seen Fraser grabbing the yachtswoman by her lifejacket, hauling her up, throwing his torch on to the grass and then striding back through the surf to get her. And she’d realised that what she’d done had had a purpose. It had saved someone’s life, most probably.
And what she had done for Lucy was to create life, to give her the child she wanted so desperately. How could she think of that as a mistake, as anything remotely resembling a fuck-up?
The depression that has been enveloping her, that has clouded her every thought for the past five months, probably more, has gone. Just like that, the black cloud is gone. She has created a life, and she has saved a life – what’s the point of being sad? There is the island, freshly washed and scrubbed by the storm, and tomorrow the sun will probably shine, and on the mainland somewhere is Shona Carter, still alive, thanks to her. And here is Fraser, trapped and alone and sad, so desperately sad, living this half-life, this miserable existence because of decisions he has made, and because of the way he has thought himself into a narrow wedge with no way out, like a bird flying into the Heligoland trap.
He’s behind her in bed, his huge arm draped over her waist, his breath soft and even in her ear. She doesn’t think he’s asleep, but when she speaks it’s quietly, just in case.
‘I think it’ll be all right.’
He breathes in, holds it for a second. His voice is like a rumble in his chest.
‘What will be?’
‘Everything. Everything will work out.’
His hand moves up to her breast, cupping it, sliding over the place where her heart’s beating. She’s still alive. He’s still alive. Emily is, and the yachtswoman, and Lefty. Five hearts beating, beating, beating.
‘I don’t want to lose you,’ he murmurs.
She thinks about this for a moment, and twists round to face him. His eyes are closed. She moves her hand over his beard, cups his cheek. ‘You don’t do relationships, Fraser. And I need one. Maybe not now, but eventually. And besides, you’ll be fine.’
‘But you’re leaving,’ he says. ‘It’s not just a trip to the chemist. You’re not coming back.’
‘It’s not just me,’ she says. ‘I’m hoping Lefty will come too.’
There is a long pause. His eyes are closed, as if he doesn’t want her to see.
‘He’ll go with you,’ he says. ‘Of course he will.’
‘And you’ll be fine,’ she says.
A moment later, he answers, ‘Sure,’ and kisses her ear.
Now that she’s out of the dark cloud, now that she’s been washed clean by the sea, she can see it for what it is: that Fraser’s profoundly depressed, just as she has been. If he cared enough about her to want some sort of commitment, then she would find a way to stay somehow, try to help him defeat it. But, since he doesn’t, then she is going to have to leave. At least she can take Lefty with her, away from the island, give Fraser a chance to heal by himself. The rest is really up to him.
Fraser
Later than usual, for he had woken up with Rachel wrapped around him and he couldn’t bear to move, Fraser takes Bess out for a walk.
The sky is blue, cloudless, the sun low in the sky but surprisingly warm, burning off the dampness, leaving a low mist rising from the turf. The birds are out in vast numbers, wheeling overhead as if they’re inspecting the island and surprised to find it still here. Fraser is pleased to see them, although most of them will have weathered worse storms.
He makes his way to the north coast of the island, going via the ruins rather than taking the path along the clifftop, which is the most direct route to the northern tip.
He is still not sure what happened, but he has a need to return.
The ruins are, of course, as they have always been: odd bits of grey stone, tussocky grass looking bright acid green in the sunshine, heather blooming between the rocks. The altar stone, with the space underneath it where he had sheltered, cradling Bess against him. He goes towards it and looks back. Bess is sitting on the perimeter of the site, between two pieces of rock that were once part of the outer wall, watching him steadily. He whistles for her, but she stays resolutely still. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says, placing his hand on the lintel stone. It feels warm, damp, grainy with the lichens that cover it.
He feels as if he should offer some sort of thanks. Fraser has never had a faith, and has felt little curiosity, certainly none since Maggie’s death. He has come close to losing his life a handful of times. Once, working on a rig, he was nearly struck by some moving machinery that would have taken his head off if he hadn’t ducked at the right moment. Since then he has seriously contemplated suicide five times, the most recent being yesterday morning. But now he looks inside himself for that feeling and it’s just not there.
He will not think about that again. Whatever happens, he believes that he will not feel that same yearning. He thinks whatever it is, that urge, has gone.
He turns his face to the sun and allows it to warm the skin on his cheeks, his forehead, breathing in the smell of the rain and the grass and the ever-present fishy undertone of guano, the sage, the salty air, the rich, peaty soil. Then he turns away, whistles for Bess. She joins him on the far side of the ruins, having apparently made her own decision never to set paw on the hallowed turf again.
They head north for a further quarter of a mile and eventually the land slopes down to the rocky shoreline.
The small beach is a mess of dead birds, and the carcass of a grey seal, rising and falling as the waves break, making it look as if it might be still alive. But it definitely isn’t. He picks up the dead birds and makes a pile on the grass. Some of them are ringed. They will all be counted and logged. There are a whole load of eider ducklings and those alone make him want to weep. The loss of life is not unusual for a storm this size, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel it.
He has felt death very close in the last few days. It has spared him, and Rachel, and the yachtswoman. He feels for the birds, the grey seal, the other casualties that will be littering the harbour and probably the many more that will wash up in the next few days; but he is still here, he is still alive. Rachel is still alive.
That makes him feel unbelievably lucky.
Pieces of the yacht are wedged in the rocks, the mast twisted and broken, rising and falling on the high tide like a drifting limb. He had known there would be little chance of salvaging the boat and now he is only concerned about what’s on board and what can be retrieved before it becomes a hazard to the wildlife: ropes, rigging, fuel, plastics. Everything else will be washed away the next time there’s a storm, the larger pieces of the hull pulled away to join all the other wrecks at the bottom of the sea.
At low tide he will go out there, take Lefty and Rachel if they’re willing, form a human chain and carry as much stuff as they can back to shore. There are likely to be personal items on board, too – things Shona Carter would want them to save. If they can.
Lefty and Rachel, he thinks, trying to imagine the pair of them on the mainland together. Trying to imagine Lefty south of the border, finding a job in Norwich of all places. How’s he going to get a job, anyway? But he won’t want to go. Or maybe he will, and then he’ll change his mind and want to come back. Maybe Rachel will come back, too, although unless Julia doesn’t turn up there’s no way for that to happen.
In a rare moment of clarity, Fraser thinks that Lefty and Rachel are now the closest thing he has to family.
Rachel
Low tide is at two p.m., and Fraser has summoned both of them to the north of the island to help retrieve items from the wreck of the yacht.
Rachel is eager to see what’s left of it, but when she gets there she feels nauseous, despite the bright sunshine and the glowing, jewel-like colours of the grass and the flowers and the sky. There is something unbearably sad about the sight of the yacht, broken into pieces and helpless, a
s if some giant has taken an axe to it, splintered the wood and severed the mast, leaving the carcass for the birds and fish to pick at.
Fraser orders Rachel to stay on dry land, possibly because he can see that she is feeling uncertain, but more likely because he doesn’t trust her to keep her balance on the wet rocks. Meanwhile he is the one up to his knees in the surf, passing items to Lefty, who ferries them up the rocks to her. She collects everything and loads it into the trailer; later everything will be driven down to the jetty to go back on the supplies boat for recycling or landfill. It’s Rachel’s job to spot anything that might have a value – like the radio, clearly waterlogged but potentially salvageable – and keep it to one side.
She watches Fraser cutting away rigging and heaving things free, watches the muscles in his arms and back, and quite suddenly she cannot imagine being away from the island, cannot imagine what it will feel like to not see him every day. It would be the easiest thing in the world right now, to reverse her rational, logical decision; just the thought of it makes her heart leap in her chest.
But even if she could stay here, if it were possible, somehow, if there were no Julia, no Marion, no Lefty, then she would just fall for him even harder than she has already. And he doesn’t want that. He’s said it, very clearly, and she has to respect that decision, even if it’s not what she wants.
More to the point, whatever she feels, it won’t change a thing. Julia is coming. She has no job here any more. Yet again her life is lurching in another direction, beyond her control.
Later, waiting in the kitchen while Fraser makes shepherd’s pie, she emails Marion to say she’s going to be leaving sooner than planned. A second, longer email goes to Julia, apologising that she’s not going to be here for the handover after all. It takes her an hour or two to list all the things she thinks Julia might like to know, everything from the passwords for the island’s social media to the list of meals she’s batch-cooked and stashed in the freezer.
You, Me & the Sea Page 37
