I bent to kiss her clear brow, and whispered goodbye. Josie waited for me at the door of the room. Holding my hand, she thanked me for being there. I kissed her and told her seeing Hope, knowing Hope, had been a privilege and a gift.
I left the hospital. Adam was waiting for me in the car. He saw my stricken face and squeezed my shoulder, but said nothing. As we drove away I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Would we ever see Joey in death? And would we be able to bear it?
Chapter Forty-Three
Seeing Hope at peace, all her trials over, made me long for a resolution to our own tragedy. I told Adam I wanted to go to the island. I was anxious to drive there straightaway. He was quiet; he clearly didn’t think it was a good idea. He thought I was too emotional after seeing Hope; and of course I was, still weeping for her and Josie. But I yearned for peace. And I knew that to find it I had to face the island. Len had told me that on his deathbed. He said it was my next step, and although I might not understand to begin with, this first visit was essential. He also told me I should see it with Adam. The time, I felt, had come. For better or worse I was going to look upon Lammana today.
Adam saw I was determined, and drove out of Plymouth without a word. He headed towards Looe, rather than Polperro or Talland Bay. The Estuary appeared on our right as we headed closer to the fishing town, the little railway track running along the riverbank, quiet and deserted. We drove past the small medical centre, where Danny and Lola had taken Edie when she was feverish the other evening. At the bridge over the river we turned right, and then immediately left into West Looe and carried on up the road.
As we neared the sea, the road swept round to the right, now running parallel with the waves. I tensed. Although I’d often shopped in Looe, I’d never come so far before. Staring at the ocean I could see nothing except boats; there was no land in sight, no island, nothing but water.
Adam drove up a hill, crested it and came down the other side. He stopped the car in a grassy area where the road came to an end; after this there was only the footpath, leading back along the coast to Talland Bay, and on from there to Polperro. This was the section of the cliff path I’d walked along every day after Joey disappeared; the walk of which I had absolutely no memory, and here the spot at which I stopped each time, where I stood for hours, according to Jamie Torrance and Annie Trelawney. It was a place about which I had no recollection. As far as I was concerned, I’d never been here before.
Adam got out of the car, walked round to my side and opened the passenger door. In a daze I stepped out onto the grass. I raised my eyes, and there it was. The island. This place I’d been mysteriously drawn to, this quiet teardrop of land that so compelled me, my daily goal after I lost Joey.
But why–why had I spent so much time, so much energy walking to this place? I stared at the small green outcrop, watching the waves crashing against its rocky sandy beach, its forbidding cliff face. I could see no one, and no sign of habitation; and I felt nothing. Not a shiver of recognition, not the slightest sense of why it had meant so much to me. Joey, I said silently to myself. Joey? Why here? What is it? What do you want to tell me?
There was no answer. The wind was fresh and strong here, the waves no longer smooth and friendly but vigorous, purposeful, as if they were holding their true force back, scuttled briskly between the shore and the rocky island. I suddenly had a sense of how difficult sailing conditions could be here, how treacherous. I glanced to my right. Joey’s boat had found wrecked just yards up the coast from here, trapped in a small inlet wreathed in sharp jutting spears of rock. I couldn’t even remember seeing what remained of it, although I surely must have been taken there. Adam had talked about the wreck; I would have been with him when the harbourmaster retrieved the small vessel, towing it back to the boatyard to be broken up. I closed my eyes and tried desperately hard to visualise Joey’s boat, lonely and shattered after it had abandoned my son. That’s how I thought of that wretched hired vessel, a rented pleasure-boat to entertain two boys on a jolly Easter holiday; a boat that brought no pleasure, only tragedy. But, although I knew I’d seen photographs, I couldn’t remember what it looked like.
Everything had fled my mind; everything except my beloved child’s face. I could see that in front of me now. I would never forget him. Or would I? Would this creeping memory loss eventually encompass my boy’s face too? Would there come a time when I could no longer conjure up his smile, his voice?
I clasped Adam’s arm; this visit was a terrible disappointment. I had expected so much, but there was nothing for me here; there was no sense of terror, no strange fearsome apparition like the scarecrow in the allotments that could explain my forgotten obsession with this place. And I remembered what Len had told me: that I wouldn’t understand at first, but this trip here with Adam was a necessary first step to discovering what had happened to my son.
I looked at Adam. He was staring at me, his face pensive. ‘Do you remember anything, Molly?’ he asked gently. ‘Do you want me to see if I can get someone to take us out there?’ I shook my head and turned back towards the car. Adam followed me; we strapped ourselves in, he did a three-point turn and we drove back into Looe. I had no idea what to do next. I stared at the road ahead. I no longer looked at Adam, but it seemed to me he was both relieved and disappointed by my lack of reaction. I was simply baffled. No, not just that. I felt empty, hollow, like a wandering soul trapped in a wasteland.
Chapter Forty-Four
We drove back to Coombe, stopping on the way to pick up fish and chips for lunch. We ate them sitting at the picnic table in the farmhouse garden. Danny, Lola and Edie were out, for which I was grateful. The conversation Adam and I had to have was going to be sombre.
I asked Adam why he hadn’t stopped me from wandering trance-like down the cliff path every day five years ago. He sighed. ‘Dear God, Molly, don’t you think I tried? I came with you at first, of course I did, but you fought me off. You screamed at me, you actually hit me, telling me to leave you alone, that what you were doing was solitary, a journey for you and Joey alone. You said I had no place beside you, that Joey’s disappearance was all my fault anyway.’
I winced. It was as I had thought, but hearing from my husband about the sheer cruelty of my behaviour towards him, the way I had used him as a scapegoat for my agony was still a shock.
‘I followed you,’ Adam continued. ‘I wanted to make sure you were safe. Jamie Torrance came with me; we watched you staring at Looe Island, day after day. There was no point asking you why you did it. You behaved as if I didn’t exist; you wouldn’t speak to me. Eventually Torrance advised me to leave you to it. He said you were obviously not going to harm yourself; you were just in shock. You’d come round in your own time, he said, and I shouldn’t make you more anxious by questioning you all the time. Well, I had my doubts about that, but he was the doctor, so I took his advice. But you didn’t stop walking the cliff path until the day we left Cornwall. Then, when we got back home to Manchester, you were very vague and drowsy. I rang Geoff at the surgery. He came and gave you some sleeping pills. After that you slept for a couple of days, and then you seemed back to normal. Except you weren’t, of course,’ he said, looking at me meaningfully.
He meant I started to function again. I went shopping, cooked. I arranged a meeting with the new Head at my school and explained why I would have to miss a few weeks, because I intended to spend quite a lot of time in Cornwall to keep in touch with the investigation. I was very cool and collected. I could tell she was astonished at how ‘normal’ I seemed. She asked me if I was absolutely sure I was OK, if I didn’t think I should have some counselling. God, that word ‘counselling’. Geoff and Jamie Torrance, my doctors in Manchester and Cornwall, had kept asking me the same thing. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about Joey. He was locked in my heart, and I was not going to let him out. Ever. No one else was going to see him, or know just what he meant to me. He was mine. He wasn’t even Adam’s, or Danny’s. Just mine.
So the months and years crept on, and nothing changed. Now, all this time later, eating fish and chips at the holiday home we’d spent so much time in with the boys, we were both aware that something had happened, something significant had added to our knowledge of Joey’s last day. And that something was Ben.
I began. ‘How did you find out Ben lives down here in Polperro?’ I asked.
‘I traced his mother. She told me. She’s a pitiful soul really; she’s got mental health problems and she lives in sheltered accommodation now. Very lonely, I think, but she told me, quite proudly, that Ben is doing very well now as a freelance film director, mostly working on commercials. He sends her money. Good of him when you think how badly she treated him, kicking him out when he was only sixteen.’
‘They were a really dysfunctional family,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t just her, his dad was a swine. He was such a selfish sod, marrying a younger woman who didn’t want Ben around. I heard he’s had a couple of other kids with her now. I hope to God he treats them better than he treated Ben. He was an awful father; he abandoned his own son because he found a new woman.’
Adam sighed. ‘Yes, you’re right, but let’s not forget Ben was no picnic either. He was incredibly difficult, into drugs even then.’
‘OK,’ I agreed, ‘but can you really blame him? He was only a kid and his home life was beyond terrible. He needed guidance and love, and he got neither.’ As we talked about Ben, I decided to phone him. I went inside to the landline.
When it was answered, by the same girlish voice I’d heard when I first rang Ben, the young woman told me he was away from home. I asked her when he would be back.
‘I’m not sure. Possibly tomorrow, or maybe the day after.’
‘It’s Molly Gabriel here,’ I said. ‘I spoke to Ben a few days ago.’
There was a slight hesitance in her tone. ‘Oh… yes, of course. Well, as I said, Ben’s away working. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Shall I tell him you called?’
‘Yes, please. Tell him we’re still in Cornwall and we need to speak to him. I think he’s got my number.’
The girl said she’d pass on the message, and then rang off. I went back outside to report to Adam.
Later, I got Adam to drive me back to Hope Cottage. I had half intended to stay at Coombe. Now Hope had died, her little house would soon be filled with sadness. And I thought Josie and Tony would want it back; they would want to sit in it together, thinking of her, the life they had given her, even though, much as they loved her, they had not been able to save her from her fate. There was a lesson there for me, I thought. Something I needed to think about.
But although I longed to see the baby, I had to finish my quest to find Joey. The thought of Edie filled my stomach with love and hope. The idea that she was new, untainted, that she was the future, comforted me even though I felt wretched.
Adam was a bit put out with me wanting to go back. When we got to Polperro he dropped me off, gruffly saying that he would stay in Cornwall until Ben came back. He was determined to have it out with him. I nodded. It was the obvious next step. Then he drove away, back to the family life I had to leave right now because of my determination to find Joey.
I walked down to the Blue Peter, hoping to find Queenie there. Clouds were gathering as I walked. It looked like we were in for rain, which suited my mood. As I reached the pub, heavy, slow drops began to fall, dimpling the water in the harbour, and cooling my head with soft damp insistence. I welcomed it. I needed the weather to change, to underline my broken dreams, the dreariness of the future that awaited me.
I pushed open the heavy blue door. It was only four in the afternoon, but the place was more than half full. Queenie saw me immediately. I gave her a disconsolate wave and found a comfortable seat by a window. I saw her whisper to a lanky youth lounging against the bar. She gave him a drink and nodded in my direction. He came over and put a gin and tonic in front of me, grinning. ‘Cheer up. It may never happen,’ he said. I felt seriously cross for a minute, but then I looked up at him, and his tanned lively face, bursting with health and good humour, made me unable to resist smiling back. He laughed.
‘That’s better,’ he said, in a strong Cornish accent. ‘The G and T’s from Queenie. She’ll be over in a minute.’ I looked over at my friend behind the bar. She was busy taking food orders from a man with a wife and three children in tow. She looked, for Queenie, a tad harassed.
My tall new friend plonked himself down next to me and said, ‘Go on. Get it down you.’
I took a sip, feeling amused but faintly annoyed at his cheek. When I looked at him, his smile had disappeared. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you. Queenie told me you’ve been up at Derriford to see little Hope. You look sad, but then we all are. She was a gorgeous girl; her dad used to bring her in here sometimes. She was a treasure, that kid, the happiest girl I knew. It’s a terrible shame.’
I felt grateful to him for normalising my bad mood. Yes, of course I was desperately sad for Hope, or more truthfully, for Josie. Hope, I thought, was peaceful. No more spells in hospital, no more operations. For Josie everything was different. She’d stopped being a mother. She couldn’t help her baby now.
But, to be absolutely honest, my wretched sadness was for Joey, and for myself. I was glad this young man had mistaken the real reason for my unhappiness.
Queenie materialised at my side. ‘Thanks, Wren,’ she said to the boy sitting at my side. ‘Off you go now.’
He grinned and got up. ‘Ever polite, Queenie. I thought you promised me a drink?’
‘It’s on the bar. Make sure your friends don’t pinch it.’
With a huge smile on his face, he moved back to the bar, joining a small coterie of friends who clapped him on the back and immediately enveloped him in warmth.
‘Wren?’ I asked Queenie, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
‘It’s an old Cornish name. Especially here in Looe and Polperro. Didn’t you ever read that book by the Atkins sisters, We Bought an Island?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, Babs and Evelyn Atkins were two sisters who bought Looe Island and lived virtually alone on it for years. They needed a lot of practical help from people who lived on the mainland, because it was so difficult to get across to the place. When the spring tides were running, it was cut off for weeks. Wren is the grandson of the Looe boatman who helped them most. Wren’s named after him. As I said, it’s an old Cornish name.’
‘Are the Atkins sisters still there?’ I asked.
‘No. They’re both dead now, although Babs is buried on the island.’
‘Looe Island? We’re talking about St Michael of Lammana?’
‘The very same,’ said Queenie. ‘It’s had a lot of names.’
I sighed. My mind was full of Hope’s death, and my row with Adam about Ben. The island, which I’d contemplated in reality for the first time that morning, seemed completely irrelevant. I simply could not understand why it had fixated me for so long.
‘Queenie. Can you tell me about Ben?’ I asked the question suddenly, unsure where it had come from, except that I remembered Queenie’s reservations about him the first time I’d been to the Blue Peter, when I told her I was going to meet Ben there.
She looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Molly. What is it that you want to know?’
‘Was he taking drugs?’ I blurted it out. ‘When he and Joey were down here that Easter? Tell me, Queenie. I have to know.’
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘I’m not sure I can tell you much, Molly. All I know is that there was a lot of bad stuff going on down here around that time.’
‘What, here at the Blue Peter?’
‘And in Polperro generally. It wasn’t a time most of us want to remember. There were people… strangers; men we’d never seen before. They were rough. We knew they were up to no good.’
‘And did they know Joey and Ben?’
‘Ben, certainly. Not Joey, I think. There was something wro
ng between Ben and Joey; I noticed it. But we didn’t know what the problem was.’
‘And… was Joey taking drugs?’
‘No, Molly. I’m sure he wasn’t. I’ve known that boy since he was a toddler. He wasn’t part of that crowd that used to meet up here. I hated them, so did Pete, the landlord. But it was hard to bar them when we had no proof. I mean, we suspected they were dealing, they were so rough, but we never caught them doing anything here.’
‘And Ben?’
‘I don’t know. But he was certainly thick with them; in here every night, drinking, laughing. It was all, well, they were all, quite aggressive. Not violent, but very standoffish. Kept themselves to themselves. They were a tight circle, and Ben was certainly part of it.’
‘Joey, too?’
‘No. Not Joey. Although he did turn up here a couple of times, very late, looking for Ben. They’d have a bit of a row; I think Joey wanted Ben to leave, and Ben would be pissed off, but eventually he always gave in, and Joey took him home.’
Queenie raised her hand, and waved at Wren, who was now sitting down with his mates, drinking a half of bitter. She beckoned him across. ‘Molly,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m going to ask Wren to talk to you; he’ll remember much more about that time because of his age–he was eighteen when Ben and Joey were on that holiday. He often used to have a drink with them here. I remember he particularly looked up to Joey.’
I Do Not Sleep Page 20
