Island-in-Waiting

by Anthea Fraser

  “Ticket?”

  “For the concert at Port Erin.”

  “Oh yes. Thanks.”

  Talk became more general and I didn’t have a chance to speak to Neil again. On the way home in the car I said casually, “Is Neil Sheppard at St Olaf’s too?”

  “Yes, they all are. I like Neil; he’s been a good friend to us since we came.”

  “When I saw him at the airport yesterday I was sure we’d met before.”

  “It’s unlikely. He’s been here about six years and his people live in Hertfordshire.”

  “Pam seems to be stepping up the attack!” Martha remarked with a giggle.

  “So I noticed, but I doubt if she’ll make much progress. Neil’s not one to be stampeded.” Hugo’s eyes met mine in the driving mirror. “Enjoy your evening after all, Chloe?”

  “Yes, thank you.” With a sense of almost guilty surprise

  I realized that since meeting Neil I had entirely forgotten Ray Kittering. Two hours earlier I should not have believed that possible.

  It had been an eventful day. Perhaps the stimulation of last night’s dream had made me receptive both to the legend of the cross and later to Ray. But what of my ‘recognition’ of Neil? Instead of lessening as might have been expected on closer acquaintance, it had deepened still further and I was no nearer being able to explain it.

  I fell asleep with thoughts of Ray, Neil and St Stephen’s jostling for prominence in my mind – and woke, I don’t know how much later, to find Hugo standing over me shaking my arm.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” I stared up at him uncomprehendingly.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing. You were shouting and screaming fit to waken the dead!”

  “I was?” Behind him in the lighted doorway Martha was hovering anxiously.

  “Yes, a frightful commotion. You must have been dreaming.”

  “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” I said after a moment.

  “It doesn’t matter since you’re all right, but it was quite a performance. Load of foreign-sounding gibberish. Fair gave me the willies!” added my scholastic brother. He looked down at me a moment longer. “Sure you’re all right?”

  “Quite, thank you.”

  “O.K. See you in the morning, then.” With his hand under Martha’s elbow he pulled the door shut behind him.

  And it was then, without warning, that the ‘voice’ slid into my mind, bringing as always a shaft of pure fear. This phenomenon had first happened several years ago at much the same time as the dreams started, but while I’d recounted those until my parents’ obvious lack of interest discouraged me, this other strangeness I’d kept fearfully to myself. Those who heard voices were after all distinctly suspect. Not that it was a voice as such. It filtered directly into my understanding without sound or visual image, compelling, personal and anonymous, and its message was always the same. ‘Come to me! I’m waiting for you.’

  At first I’d tried to signal back: ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ but there was never any reply. It seemed I was equipped to receive but not transmit.

  Yet that night after Hugo had left me there was for the first time a difference. It was nearer and clearer than ever before and excited exultation replaced the usual longing.

  ‘You recognized me! Why did you take so long to come?’

  And as, without hope, I tried once again to establish contact, it switched off and my mind was my own again.

  You recognized me. Tumultuous conjectures went clattering round my head and would not be silenced. Neil? Ray? Or one of the others who had been at the King Orry the previous evening? And was it then to the Isle of Man that the ‘voice’ had been summoning me over the past five years? If so, now that I was here, what would happen?

  On a wave of escalating fear my mind suddenly went blank and, dreamlessly, I slept.

  Three

  Hugo and Martha were at the breakfast table when I reached the kitchen the next morning.

  “Sorry to have started without you, but I have to leave in a few minutes and it seemed a pity to wake you, especially after your disturbed night.” He looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “How are you this morning?”

  “Fine,” I answered firmly, sliding into my chair and accepting a cup of tea from Martha.

  “No after-effects of your nightmare?”

  “None. I don’t remember dreaming at all.” Which was true. Not dreaming –

  “It wasn’t one of your glorious Technicolor extravaganzas, then?”

  I flashed him a quick look and went on stirring my tea. “No.”

  “Her what?” Martha demanded.

  “She went through a phase some years ago of extraordinarily vivid dreams. Do you still have them, Chloe?”

  There was no point in denial. Dreams, after all, were acceptable, something that happened to everyone. “From time to time.”

  “How do they differ from ordinary dreams?” Martha asked with interest.

  “They’re so real. When I think about them afterwards, it’s like remembering things I’ve actually done. Sometimes I’m not even sure whether they happened or not.”

  “Have you always had dreams like that?”

  “No, only the last few years.”

  “Which is odd,” Hugo commented, folding his table napkin. “Something must have triggered them off. When exactly did they start – can you pinpoint it?”

  That was something I’d carefully tried to avoid. “Four or five years ago, I suppose,” I answered evasively.

  He looked up sharply. “Since that business with the hypnotist?”

  “Probably, yes.”

  “What hypnotist? Hugo, what is all this?”

  He bent to kiss her. “I’ll have to leave Chloe to tell you or I’ll be late for prayers. See you in the staff-room about three.” He flashed me a smile. “Have a good day, little sister.”

  Martha didn’t even turn her head. “Chloe? Do explain!”

  My skin was tingling, as though the suspicion – almost the certainty – which I had been suppressing for so long was bubbling to the surface in a series of small electric explosions.

  I said tonelessly, “I had rather an unpleasant experience when I was sixteen. A crowd of us went to a variety show where there was one of those mind-reader-cum-hypnotist acts and I volunteered to go up on the stage.”

  “More than I’d have done! Was he able to put you under?”

  “Oh yes,” I answered grimly, “there was no problem about that. What he couldn’t do was bring me round again.”

  Martha’s eyes were like saucers behind her glasses. “Whatever happened?”

  “They rushed me to hospital and I was out for about three days.”

  “And you don’t remember anything about it?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “How ghastly! It ought to be illegal, doing that kind of thing for entertainment.”

  “It isn’t, though. The parents tried to file a claim for personal injuries, but it wouldn’t hold up because I’d volunteered to take part.”

  “And you reckon the dreams might date from then? I shouldn’t be at all surprised! What are they actually about?”

  “They vary. Some seem to be set in the past – you know, swords and things, while others are obviously modern.”

  “And I suppose since they seem so real the background and everything must be appropriate to the occasion, not way-out as in ordinary dreams.”

  I looked across at her. “You know, that’s strange; it hadn’t struck me before, but now that you mention it the backgrounds are always much the same, hills and moorland and the sea. Which is also strange, because I’ve never spent any time near the sea in my life. Even in the south of France I was up in the mountains.”

  “Well, you’re certainly surrounded by it now.”

  “Yes.” I buttered my toast thoughtfully. “Sometimes I seem to be searching for someone. I’ve dreamed that several times.”

  “It sounds fascinating. I wish I had interesting drea
ms. Mine are all the usual jumble like finding I’m walking into college in my nightdress. Hugo says it shows a basic lack of confidence.”

  “I have my share of that kind, too.”

  “Talking of walking into college, this is one of my afternoons there. Would you like to come? You could even model for us if you wouldn’t mind – circumspectly clothed, of course! The boys get so tired of drawing each other and they never keep still anyway. We could meet Hugo for a cup of tea in the staff-room afterwards.”

  “I don’t promise to sit for you, but I’d like to see the college. How many boys are there?”

  “Two hundred, most of them boarders and nearly all from the mainland. It’s smaller than King William’s and hasn’t been going as long, but it’s notching up quite a tradition of its own.” She pushed back her chair. “Any plans for this morning? I’m afraid I’ll have to stay in and see to the washing, but if you’d like to take the car you could drive round a bit and get your bearings.”

  I glanced out of the window. Yesterday’s sunshine had gone. The morning was clear and grey and a scarf of mist trailed nonchalantly over the hill. “I’m sure to get lost!”

  “The roads are reasonably well sign-posted, but I’ll lend you my ordinance survey.”

  “All right, I’ll risk it! What time is your class?”

  “Two o’clock. If we eat at one there’ll be plenty of time.”

  I found that motoring on the island was a thoroughly agreeable experience, with none of the traffic jams of home. In fact all I saw was an occasional farm tractor. I turned off the main road and drove slowly along winding lanes, regretting that the high-banked hedges obscured some of the loveliest views. There seemed to be a thriving reafforestation programme, with plantations of trees spreading a rich cloak over the hillsides. Every now and again the road ran alongside a river which over the centuries had eaten its way through the underlying rock to form deep gorges displaying slabs of shining Manx slate and gradually as I drove the peaceful surroundings soothed away the stresses left by my nightly communication and I relaxed into contented acceptance. Perhaps this lovely little island, unknown to me but half-remembered, was where I was supposed to be. And here at last, spread out before me, lay the sea.

  It was a jagged stretch of coastline, with the water whipped into short choppy wavelets continually breaking and creaming against the rocks. I stopped the car at the side of the road and wound down the window. The air was alive with wheeling gulls and the haunting lament of their cries filled the vast spaces of sea and sky. I sat motionless for long minutes, letting the familiarity of it all sink into me. Could any forgotten childhood memory produce such total recognition?

  An old man was coming down the road towards me, a sheep-dog at his heels, but even as I watched him approach I was suddenly, inexplicably down on the sand far below surrounded by a throng of people laughing and jostling each other. Dotted along the shore were the remains of driftwood fires and round each one young people were clustering, darting their fingers into the warm grey ashes to retrieve round cakes of barley bread.

  Panic sluiced over me. What was happening? Was it a dream? Even the most vivid of them had never been like this. The sand was cold and ridged under my bare feet – bare? – and my nostrils were filled with the smell of charred wood mixed with a strong pungent odour of seaweed. Beside me a broad-shouldered young man was cracking open the shell of a baked limpet in his teeth.

  Barley bread? Limpet? No-one was taking any notice of me and now people were stamping out the last sparks in the dying fires and a few couples began to form into a chain, winding over the sand in a curious kind of dance. I turned to the young man beside me, wondering if I was expected to join in – and became jokingly aware of the steering-wheel biting into my clutching fingers. The old man and his dog were just coming abreast of the car. His face creased into a smile and he touched his cap. Somehow I managed to smile and nod in return. Then he had passed and I was alone again.

  Fearfully my eyes went to the seashore far below, but all I could see were the waves breaking endlessly over the pointed rocks. What had happened to the strong young man with his bare feet and coarsely textured jacket? Had he and his companions existed only in my imagination, or in some time other than my own? My rapid heartbeats made breathing difficult. It was a dream, I told myself urgently. That was the only possible explanation. I even knew from the old man’s approach the exact duration of it. But was it possible to fall so instantly and totally asleep and to waken again all in the space of two or three minutes? Before, my dreams had decently confined themselves to my sleeping hours. The prospect of their emergence into daily existence filled me with unease. And it had been so very real –

  Determinedly pushing all the speculations away I leant forward and switched on the ignition.

  It was only as I drew up outside the cottage, still dazed and bewildered by my experience, that I remembered my promise to see to the meals during my stay. It was obviously too late. Fiercely bubbling baked beans were sticking to the pan on the stove and a smell of burned toast filled the kitchen.

  Martha appeared from the hall, magnificently unperturbed. “Hello! Where did you get to?”

  Over our less than perfect lunch I told her the route I had taken, though I didn’t mention the ‘dream’. That, like my knowledge of the Sigurd legend, I intended to keep to myself for the moment. “If I were an artist I’d go mad with frustration!” I remarked lightly. “Absolutely everything cries out to be painted!”

  “It is lovely, specially now the bracken’s turned that gorgeous golden brown. Actually, Ray–” She bit her lip and glanced at me guiltily.

  “Ray what?”

  “I was just going to say he’s done some marvellous paintings of the island, in all the different seasons.”

  “Then why did you break off?”

  She flushed. “Hugo thinks it would be better if we played Ray down a bit, after yesterday. I suppose I really shouldn’t be taking you to college. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I said tightly, “My dear Martha, I don’t need a wet-nurse. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself without you and Hugo flapping round like distracted hens!”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” She smiled at me rather uncertainly and changed the subject.

  My first view of St Olaf’s was across a stretch of playing-fields, a collection of grey stone buildings round a central square, set in extensive grounds.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Martha slowed down to enable me to take in the panorama. “This is the back view but the road follows the boundaries so you’ll see it from three sides before we get there. The building jutting out on the right there is the new gym and swimming-pool, and that long low building along the back of the quad is the hall, with the library above it.”

  We turned right at the corner, and on this shorter side of the rectangle the grounds were partially hidden by five large stone houses facing on to the road like a row of sentinels.

  “These are the boarding-houses – Godred, Sigurd, Lagman and Magnus, and this last one on the corner,” as we again turned right to drive along the front boundary wall, “is Staff House. Hugo and I were there for a while before we found the cottage. This is the most imposing view of college – the one on the prospectus! There’s the chapel just inside the gates. We’ll come on Sunday so you can see it properly.”

  The driveway led between smoothly stretching lawns to a towering grey stone archway giving on to the quadrangle. Here Martha turned to the left, following a smaller drive round the corner of the buildings to the staff car-park.

  “The art and music wing is this side of the quad so we haven’t far to walk.” She reached over to the back seat and retrieved the pile of folios Ray had left the day before. “Right, off we go.”

  The magnificent proportions of the buildings, the marble floors, dignified archways and highly polished staircases reminded me strongly of the Oxford colleges. A group of boys came through the door behind us, speaking in low voi
ces.

  “They’re on their way back from lunch,” Martha explained. “There’s no dining-hall so they have all their meals in their own houses.”

  “Where does Hugo eat?”

  “Staff lunch is served in the common room. You have to sign a book if you’ll be in for it.”

  We had walked together up one of the sweeping staircases and Martha opened a door into a wide, light studio. There was a scrape of chairs as the boys rose to their feet and I was overtaken by a rush of embarrassment as the battery of respectful but definitely assessing eyes switched from Martha to myself.

  “This is my sister-in-law,” she told them, moving to the dais at the far end of the room. “I’m hoping she’ll agree to sit for us.” Which in effect neatly ruled out any opportunity for my refusing.

  Aided by willing hands Martha arranged a small chair on the platform, draped it artistically with a swathe of rust-coloured velvet, and settled me in position. Then, with an encouraging smile, she handed me a copy of Manx Life and moved away to supervise the class. For the next forty minutes I sat like a rock, only my fingers moving from time to time to turn the pages of the magazine but my thoughts, unanchored, roamed free and they were not reassuring. There was the frightening lapse that morning, for which I still couldn’t accept any reasonable explanation, and the ‘voice’ of the night before, with its talk of recognition. And at the end of this lesson we should go to the staff-room and doubtless see both Neil and Ray. Would one of them come forward and identify himself?

  “Right, Chloe, that’s it, thank you. Come and see yourself as others see you!”

  Easing my aching back I stepped down from the dais and followed Martha as she moved along the rows of easels. It was daunting to see so many different versions of my own face, but the artwork was of an impressively high standard and I listened with fascination to Martha’s lucid and constructive criticisms. Occasionally by a line or two of her pencil she was able to bring a portrait instantly to life. The bell rang as we reached the last row and she dismissed the class.

  “Thank you, Chloe, that was great. I’m sure they appreciated a new model, even if their efforts to portray you weren’t entirely complimentary! Now you’ve earned yourself a cup of tea.”