Freya listened to see if she could make out the tone of disapproval in his voice that usually became so obvious by this turn in the conversation. But she couldn’t detect it. Perhaps Pol had decided, after all these years, to finally forgive them for now living there. Perhaps he had also decided to forgive her for the automation of lighthouses in general for which she felt, acutely sometimes, that he also blamed her. Still, it was too early to tell.
As they climbed higher, Freya began to feel claustrophobic. The stairs clung to the sides of the lighthouse wall, ascending in a clockwise direction, and the internal space was narrow, becoming increasingly so as they rose higher. It was also much darker than she had imagined. But then the windows in the tower were small, allowing in only a little light. They spiralled upwards, this unlikely threesome, to the omnipresent mutterings of Pol.
‘This room, see, the last one before the lamp room, once contained the air-pressure tanks for the oil. Me and the other keepers – when it was their turn to light the lamp – would pump the paraffin up to here by hand from the tanks down below; then it was vaporised and the vapour went up to the burners above.’ Pol practically ran up the last flight of stairs into the lamp room, unable to repress the thrill of his remembrance, with Sam still at his heels. ‘And here, at the light itself, we’d light the paraffin vapour.’ And Pol would strike an imaginary match with his hands. ‘But what really gave the light its power were the lenses that revolved around it and magnified it into the beam.’ For a moment both Pol and Sam were silent, mouths open slightly as they marvelled at the sheer magnificence of it all.
‘Anyway,’ Pol continued at last, finally focusing on the real lamp in front of him rather than the older imaginary one he still carried in his mind, ‘the oil lamp was eventually replaced with this electric one.’ Pol pursed his lips and Freya braced herself for the tirade against modernisation that usually followed. But when it finally came, Pol’s damning finale lacked both lustre and length. ‘Then automation came shortly after.’
Fortunately, perhaps, Sam was as obsessed with the long-vanished days of lighthouse keeping as Pol. ‘Pol,’ he said, with that inimitably inquisitive look on his face that always made a small part of Freya’s insides melt, ‘did you have to sit up all night and tend the lamp? To check that it didn’t go out.’
‘Aye, that I did. When I was stationed here as a principal keeper, there was me and two others. We kept watch in turns, but when I had the night watch – from twelve to four o’clock in the morning – I would always sit up here in the lamp room. I mean you had to keep your eye on the lamp throughout the night – check the paraffin pressure was keeping up and that the burners weren’t clogged. That sort of thing. But it wasn’t really necessary to sit up here the whole time. But I always did, see.’ And he turned to gaze at Sam, looked at him properly for the first time, scrutinised him intently to see if he understood the sacred piece of knowledge that was being shared with him. ‘I would sometimes write my log, in that quiet time. It was crucial, you see, Sam, for a lighthouse keeper to maintain his log, to keep it bang up to date. But more often than not I would simply watch the flash of the light.’ He paused, pensive. ‘A man can have strange thoughts, alone at night, sitting at the top of a tower, in the middle of the ocean, miles from family and friends. He can begin to imagine that he is the only man left in the world, stranded and alone, or that the world that he knows has vanished entirely and is gone from him for ever.’ Pol was nodding and Sam was watching him, mesmerised. ‘Yes, it can do odd things to a man’s head to be in a lighthouse alone at night, especially at night, looking out over the sea.’
Once more Pol descended into deep thought; to change the subject, Freya spoke for the first time. ‘Perhaps Pol would let you go outside onto the gallery, Sam, and see how far you can see.’
‘Aye,’ said Pol. And without looking at Sam, he moved silently to the gallery door, unlocked it and pushed it open.
As the crashing sound of the sea came rushing in on the air, Freya felt the mood of existential melancholy that had been building disperse.
‘Thanks Pol,’ yelled Sam, already on the gallery, looking up at the seagulls, which were squawking as they orbited the tower. ‘Come on, Mum, come and see with me.’
Freya smiled at Pol as she moved towards the door to the gallery, but he didn’t return her smile, simply turning towards the light to carry out the checks that were required of him. Perhaps she had offended him. But then she always thought that she’d offended him by the end of his visit, one way or another. Sometimes she thought she offended him simply by being there.
Outside on the gallery the air was fresh and they could see for miles. The views from the island were magnificent on a clear day, but towering one hundred and fifty feet in the air they were staggering. There was a panorama over the western islands. To the north they could see Coll and Tiree and Skerryvore lighthouse, a mere dot on the horizon. To the southeast was Colonsay, and beyond it Islay, then Jura stretching north and eastwards towards Scarba.
‘If you look closely,’ she had said to Sam, ‘perhaps you can see the whirlpool of Corryvreckan.’
‘It’s too far away, Mum. We can’t see that. Silly.’
Then he had turned and smiled at her. Such a beautiful smile.
5
‘WHAT THE FUCK are you doing there?’ Marta’s voice, approaching a shriek, competed with the crackle and fizz on the line.
Freya removed the receiver from her ear for a second before speaking. ‘I thought it would be good for me.’
There was a momentary pause. ‘And why did you think that?’
In spite of having to defend herself, Freya couldn’t help smiling. Marta was always like this – direct, foul-mouthed, uncompromising – and the familiarity of it was reassuring. ‘Because wherever I’ve been in the last year, wherever I’ve gone, simply to avoid being here, it hasn’t helped. So I thought I might as well come back. Grasp the nettle, you know. I thought it would be good for me,’ she said again.
There was another, longer, pause on the line. ‘But it doesn’t feel right for you to be there – so … close to everything that happened.’
‘Perhaps that’s what I need.’
‘But to be alone there?’
‘I think I need that too.’
‘You sound very certain of yourself all of a sudden,’ said Marta tartly, and they both started to laugh. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come up and keep you company?’
‘Really, I’m OK,’ said Freya, hoping to imbue the words with more certainty than she felt.
‘Suit yourself. There was a time, you know, when you couldn’t get enough of me.’
Her tone was light, mocking. But Freya was silent, thinking of the seemingly endless dark nights not so long ago when Marta had stayed up with her, through the tears, the despair, the agony. Without Marta, she was sure, she wouldn’t have made it.
‘Are you still there, Frey?’
‘Yes, I’m here. Just thinking. You know …’ She stopped. ‘I never thanked you properly … not really …’
‘Forget it. We’re not going there. Not with you so far away and me on my own here. You’ll have me weeping into my Chablis.’
Freya smiled again as the line renewed its fizzing, and for a moment the sisters were silent.
‘But, how is it to be back, really?’
Freya took a breath. ‘Memories everywhere, of course. But there were memories everywhere even when I wasn’t here.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I haven’t been able to go into Sam’s room yet. But I will. Soon.’
Marta was quiet but Freya could imagine her nodding at the other end of the line. After a moment she asked, ‘And are you dreaming there?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Freya paused. Going to bed was like reliving her life with her family. A steady replay of all her memories. Everything she and her family did together. Was it a blessing? Perhaps. And then there was the other thing.
Marta read her mind. ‘You haven’t had the nightmare, have you?’
‘No, not yet.’ But Freya knew that sooner or later it would come.
‘The doc said that would fade, become more and more infrequent, the longer it is.’
Freya nodded. ‘As everything works itself through.’
‘And you’re still taking the pills?’
‘Yep.’
‘And avoiding the booze?’
‘Of course.’ Freya looked at the glass of red wine standing on the table beside the sofa. It was just the odd glass now and then to calm her nerves, make her sleep. And God knew she needed help with those things. But it wasn’t worth telling Marta about. It would only worry her.
‘Have you been for a swim yet?’
Freya had always loved the water; just after the news of Jack and Sam, it had become a lifebuoy to her sanity. She had swum almost every day, mile after mile, until she was so exhausted she couldn’t think any more, couldn’t feel anything. It had become a salvation, a dulling oblivion. ‘No, I haven’t been able to. The water’s too cold. But before long I’ll get out into it. Still, Marta, I’m OK. I think the really bad days are behind me.’
There was a short silence on the line, during which Freya knew Marta would be assessing whether her older sister really was okay or just placating her. Not for the first time in their recent history, she wanted everything to be different. She settled for changing the subject.
‘So how’s work?’
‘Same as. Depending on the mood of that cock of a partner I work for.’ Marta sighed and then started to laugh. ‘Fortunately he’s quite a cock in other departments.’
‘Oh no. Tell me that isn’t still going on?’
‘’Fraid so. Try not to judge me. At least I’m single, so it’s not double adultery.’
As Freya laughed, she felt a lightness she only rarely experienced these days. As if, for a split second, the events of the past year had never happened and she was her old self again. But then Marta, suddenly serious, went on. ‘Claude’s been asking about you, you know. She’s phoned me a couple of times lately.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Freya, the heaviness pressing around her once again. It had been her boss, Claude, who had suggested that Freya accompany her on that trip to the south of France over Easter. She hadn’t wanted to go, especially over the holidays, but then she had changed her mind. After all, it would be good to play such a prominent role in the marketing campaign for their new client’s perfume. So she had departed for two weeks with Claude, reluctant but smiling. It was the day before she was due to come home that she got the news from Scotland. A boating accident. They had found the boat but not the bodies. She had left immediately, the scent of night jasmine still thick in her nostrils. Now she always associated that smell with death. And sometimes she could sense it, she thought, heavy, on the air of her dreams. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and reached for the glass of wine.
‘Anyway, I think she’d like to talk to you. When you’re up to it.’ Marta’s tone was breezy, the way it became when she knew she’d strayed into dangerous territory.
Freya said nothing. She had now, more or less, stopped blaming Claude for the theft of those last weeks with her family. She knew it was irrational. But it didn’t mean she wanted to speak to her. For the second time in the conversation, Freya changed the subject. ‘You know I’m thinking of selling the flat.’
‘Mmm. Mum told me.’
Freya groaned. ‘Oh God. Did she ask you to try and talk me out of it?’
‘Of course.’ Marta laughed. ‘But I hope you know me better than that.’
‘I hope so too.’ Freya took a sip of wine. ‘I just didn’t want to be there any more. And I don’t have a job in London now, so I don’t need it.’ Freya thought of the life insurance money sitting in a bank account, as yet untouched. Perhaps if she ignored it for long enough it would disappear, cease to have ever existed. She would do anything to have it gone, to have her family back in its place. She closed her eyes and tried to banish the thought. ‘Anyway, I know I’ve only just got here, but I already feel better, more right. Or less not right, at least. Does that make sense?’
‘I guess. Just think it over for a while. Don’t make any hasty decisions.’
‘I won’t.’ Pause. ‘How is Mum?’
‘Fraught. Nothing new there, eh? But I sense she’s really trying. She’s worried about you, Frey, that’s all. And she doesn’t know how not to be a cold fish. So it just comes across as criticism rather than concern. Go on, make her day. Give her a call and try not to get mad at her.’
Freya smiled. Marta was always the one who could manage their mother best. ‘And Dad?’
‘Worried sick. But he’d never say it.’
‘Yeah. I know. Don’t worry, I’ll call. I promise.’
For a few moments the static crackled down the line as the two women sat in silence. Freya stretched out her long legs on the sofa and scrutinised her bare feet sticking out of the end of her jeans. The red nail varnish on her left big toe was chipped, a sudden absent chunk of colour. Something about it struck her as intensely sad. Then she felt her insides twist.
‘You know, it’s funny,’ she said at last. ‘Sometimes when I wake up, for the first few moments, maybe a minute sometimes, I don’t remember what’s happened. And in those moments, I’m floating, blissful, without memories.’ She paused. ‘I just don’t remember that they’re gone,’ she said, incredulity in her tone. ‘And then it crashes in on me all over again, new and fresh and devastating every time. It’s like torture, the morning ritual of feeling like my body is free-falling from a great height, my heart ripping out.’
She let out a hard little bark of a laugh, and the line, suddenly free of static, was quiet, as if embarrassed by her outburst. Marta said nothing, but Freya could hear her breath, heavy at the other end. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, she wanted to cry out. What had happened to them? While she was away, Jack had told her that he and Sam had been out a lot on the boat. But she remembered only fragments of conversations, interrupted snippets told as the phone was passed excitedly between her husband and son. What she didn’t know is where they had been heading on that last day. What had they been doing when they disappeared? Why hadn’t they radioed for help when they got into trouble? Had they been too far from land? Where were they now? These were questions she had asked a hundred times a day. But no one knew. And now she mostly asked the questions only to herself. It drove her mad, the not knowing, pricked hotly at her brain; sent her into a downward spiral of imagining. Now, thinking of it in this moment, she wanted to let out loud, racking sobs of grief, uncontrolled and unabashed. But, for once with Marta, she held it in. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she said, her voice muffled with emotion. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. You can say whatever you like to me.’
‘I love you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Sure I do. I love you too.’
They both lapsed into silence once more. Freya waited but she could no longer feel the tight black clutch of grief around her heart. She had ridden the tide of her emotion and not been entirely swallowed by its darkness. Perhaps she was making progress. She looked at her watch. It was still early but she didn’t want to talk any more. ‘So. Much as I’d like to stay on the phone all night to you, I must go to bed. And, after all, you’ve got a cock to serve in the morning.’
Marta laughed out loud. ‘Don’t remind me.’ She hesitated, as if there was something else she wanted to say. But when her voice came again it was final and light. ‘Sleep tight and call me often. Okay?’
‘Okay. Good night.’ And Freya hung up.
6
IT BEGAN AS always.
‘Dark Queen Beira, the mother of all the deities of Scotland, was old and wild and fierce. When she was angry she was as biting as the wind and as terrifying as a storm-filled sea.’
Freya paused, resting the book in her lap for a moment, and looked down at Sam, who was half sitting, half lying under the bedcovers. It was night
-time and they were leaning against each other on Sam’s bed, both propped up by pillows. The lamp gave off a warm yellow light and, through the open window, Freya could hear the soft sound of waves breaking upon the shore. It was her favourite part of the day – a time of late summer sunsets, wishes and possibilities. She raised the book and continued reading.
‘Beira had lived for hundreds of years. But she never died of old age because, at the onset of every spring, she drank the magic waters of the Well of Youth on the Green Island of the West, a place where it was always summer and where the trees were always full of fruit. The island drifted on the Atlantic, and sometimes, it is said, appeared close to the Hebrides. Many sailors have searched the ocean looking for it in vain – for often it was just beyond their vision, hidden by mist or having sunk beneath the waves.’
‘Is that true, Mum?’ Sam craned his head to look at her. He was wide-eyed, puzzled – his literal father’s literal son.
‘Perhaps,’ said Freya, gazing back at him. ‘But more likely it’s just a myth.’
‘What’s a myth?’
‘A story, a legend. Something that might not be fact, that can’t be proved.’ She paused. ‘But it still might be something we choose to believe in.’
‘So the Green Island might not actually exist?’
‘No, perhaps not. But then again, perhaps it’s just that no one ever finds it.’
‘Maybe you and Dad and I will find it when we’re out in the boat sometime.’
‘Yes, maybe.’
Sam was silent for a few moments, perhaps thinking of a voyage over the waves. ‘But Beira always knew how to find the Green Island, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, she did.’ Freya smiled and kissed the top of his head. ‘And what happened when she got there and tasted the magic water of the Well of Youth?’
‘She grew young again. Then she came back to Scotland, where she was a beautiful girl once more with long, flowing hair.’
Freya nodded. ‘That’s right. But with each passing month, Beira aged fast. And by the time winter returned, she was an old woman again, beginning her reign as fierce Queen Beira.’
Beyond the Sea Page 3
