I felt a hollowness inside me then. This place stirs it in me, I am sure. It has a wildness being so far north, subject to its own reason, its own remote rhythm. And that is in part due to the sea and its dominance. It is more master here than Cromwell, that is for sure.
I am haunted by what you told me before I left and I am only sorry that I was rough and that I did not speak the words that you longed for and deserved to hear. It pains me to have parted from you in such a way. But I trust now that we will return to England sooner than I had hoped. Then I will see you again and will speak all as I should have done the last time we were together.
Until then
I am your
Edward
AFTER SHE HAD finished reading, Freya took a large mouthful of wine. She still couldn’t quite believe that these letters had survived. And the contents, as MacCallister had suggested, were equally astonishing. A dangerous yet fruitless voyage, into the wind and sea-lashed wilds of the north, in pursuit of a vanished adversary. It was a journey that would have been frustrating at the best of times, but even more so for a soldier battling his own stained soul and an ever-quickening desire for home.
As Freya turned the page to continue, the telephone rang. It was shrill, invasive in the quiet of the night. How appropriate, Freya thought. It wouldn’t be Marta (she had already spoken to her that evening), so that left her mother, Joan. For a moment she thought about ignoring it. But it would be better to get it over with and cut the call short. It was late, after all. Freya sighed, feeling tired at the prospect of the conversation. She grabbed the phone and answered it as she wandered back to bed.
‘Hello darling, how are you?’ Joan always got in the first words of any call, even when she was the one ringing.
‘I’m fine thanks, Mum. Everything’s okay.’
As Freya tried and failed, as always, to reassure her mother, she found herself telling her instead about Edward’s letters in a bottle, their discovery at the Torran Rocks, and their final journey to Edinburgh.
After all, it gave them something else, besides her mental health, to talk about.
9
IT WAS LATE morning two days later.
Freya was still in bed, unable to face the day, when she heard the sound of a horn rising up towards the cottage from the ocean. She closed her eyes, hoping that the boat was not signalling her and would simply pass on. But a few moments later the sound came again. She opened her eyes and waited. When the horn came a third time there was no ignoring it any longer.
She struggled out of bed, her mind as much as her body a dead weight, and dressed as quickly as she could. When she was ready, she left the room, avoiding looking at herself for long in the mirror. Still, she was aware of the dark circles under her eyes.
Outside, the day was cold and blustery, clouds scudding swiftly across the sky. As Freya walked down to the jetty, she felt the rough refreshing blast of the wind in her hair. Turning the corner, she caught a glimpse of Callum’s boat, bobbing on the water, about to dock. As she raised her hand to wave to him, she saw that he was not alone in the cabin. She squinted, trying to see who his passenger was. She caught a glimpse of long dark hair, but that was as much as she could make out. By the time Freya reached them, Callum was roping the boat. Then the passenger jumped onto the jetty and began to move towards her. She caught her breath. It was Marta.
Freya felt the simultaneous sting of tears and anger as she walked towards her sister. She tried and failed to summon a smile.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said, almost resentfully, as they met. Then Marta wrapped her arms around her and she felt an instant sense of intimacy and comfort.
‘Well, that’s nice. Especially after the journey I’ve had. And, for the record, could you live any further away?’
Freya pulled away from her and smiled. ‘It was kind of the point.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Marta scrutinised her sister. ‘Christ alive. You look a sight. Big night?’
‘Something like that.’ And, in spite of herself, Freya laughed. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘You too,’ said Marta, and hugged her again.
Callum came up behind them, and despite the fact that both women were tall, at well over six feet he towered above them. He wasn’t wearing his black-and-white hat today and his dirty blond hair stuck up in tufts from his head giving him a youthful, less serious look than when Freya had seen him last. He smiled, and it lit up his face. ‘Can you believe who I found lurking around the harbour this morning?’
‘Not really. But nothing surprises me with this one.’
Callum nodded. ‘Marta tells me it’s a spontaneous visit.’
‘Indeed,’ said Freya, turning her attention back to her sister. ‘So when did you get here?’
‘Last night. Too late to persuade anyone to bring me out. So I grabbed a room at a B&B. Callum was lucky enough to bump into me this morning.’ She grinned at him and headed back to the boat to collect her things.
‘It was kind of you to bring her, Callum.’ Freya smiled at him. ‘Will you come up to the cottage? Have a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve a tour to take out soon from Iona. Besides, I’m sure you two have plenty to catch up on.’ Callum paused for a moment. ‘How are you, Freya?’ he asked softly.
‘Oh, I’m okay,’ she replied, suddenly conscious of her hair being battered by the wind. She ran her hands over it and wrestled it into a ponytail. ‘Good days and bad.’ Good nights and bad, she wanted to add, but didn’t. She didn’t want to have to explain.
‘Well, that’s to be expected, I suppose. But just let me know if you ever need the company and I’ll look in on you on my way back from a trip.’
Freya felt the sweetness of his words, their care. ‘Thanks, I will.’
‘Okay I’m all set,’ said Marta, rejoining them, a large bag on each shoulder.
‘All right then, catch you later.’ And Callum turned and headed back down the jetty.
As the sisters made their way up the hill to the cottage, Marta turned a couple of times to wave at the receding form of Callum’s boat. Then she grinned at Freya.
‘What is it?’ Freya asked.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Marta, and winked at her.
10
SITTING OPPOSITE ONE another at the kitchen table, a pot of tea between them, Freya wondered what her sister was thinking. No doubt she had spotted the unwashed pots in the sink, among them several wineglasses, empty but for an incriminating film of red at their base. Perhaps they had gone unnoticed. But it was unlikely. Still, if Marta had seen them, she said nothing, and Freya loved her for it. She looked her sister over. She was as beautiful as ever – long brown hair, dark eyes, full, irreverent red lips. They had been chatting, catching up, nothing deep or contentious. Yet Freya was sure there was something, unspoken, lurking beneath her usual bravado.
‘So how long are you thinking of staying?’ She tried to make the question sound nonchalant.
‘Trying to get rid of me already?’ Marta answered, quick smart.
‘No, no, not at all,’ Freya rushed in. Then she saw Marta smile. ‘I was just wondering.’
‘I don’t know. But I’m flexible. Could be open ended.’
‘Open ended?’ Freya repeated. ‘How does that work with a full-on job as a lawyer in London?’
‘Ah, that.’ Marta paused. ‘It really wasn’t working out with the cock, and that meant that it really wasn’t working out at work. I decided to quit.’
So that was it. ‘Isn’t that a little hasty?’
Marta shook her head. ‘No. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’ She took a breath. ‘He was never going to leave his wife and that made the whole thing pretty untenable. Besides, I can get a job like that anywhere else.’
Freya nodded. ‘I see,’ was all she said.
‘So, as I’m owed holiday, it seemed sensible to take some time off during my notice period and come and see you. Two birds, one stone.’ Marta�
�s tone was light, but beneath it Freya suspected that she was hurting.
‘I see,’ she said again. She was longing to ask if Marta was okay, but she knew that if her sister didn’t bring something up directly she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘And the cock agreed that this was a sensible approach?’
‘I made it clear that, if he knew what was good for him, he really wouldn’t mind how much time I spent up here with you. Personal time, on so many levels.’
Freya snorted and Marta smiled.
‘But don’t panic. I won’t cramp your reclusive style. I thought just for a few weeks perhaps. And then I’ll be off.’ She winked at Freya, but there was something beneath the look.
Freya reached over the table and took Marta’s hand. ‘Darling sis, I’m very glad to see you. Thank you for coming. And you are welcome to stay as long as you like. Are you okay?’
Marta nodded briskly and kissed her sister’s hand. Then she sat back in her chair, looked around and, as Freya had anticipated, changed the subject. ‘It brings back a whole load of memories for me being here, you know. It’s been a while since I’ve been to Ailsa Cleit. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Freya nodded. That was what Jack’s father, Alister, had called it when he bought the island for his wife. And it had stuck. Everyone for miles around knew it as that. The Rock of Ailsa.
‘You know what?’ said Freya. ‘I can still see Jack’s mother, as clearly as if it were yesterday, standing by the shoreline, gazing out to sea, her blonde hair whipped by the wind.’ Freya smiled. Ailsa had the wildness of the Orkneys within her bones and a greater affinity with the water than the land. She had eyes like shimmering rock pools and her skin was so pale it was almost translucent.
‘She was a strange woman, wasn’t she?’ Marta said. ‘I don’t think she said more than ten words to me in total, in all the times I met her.’
‘Me neither. And I saw her a lot more than you.’
Ailsa had been taciturn, unfathomable, and Freya sometimes thought that she had the cold saltwater of the Atlantic, rather than blood, coursing through her veins. But once, perhaps only once, there had been a moment of connection between them. As Freya was leaving, after her very first trip to the island, Ailsa had taken her hand and looked into her eyes. Something had passed between them, but quite what it was, Freya wasn’t sure. Then Ailsa had smiled, let go of her and the moment was gone for ever. When Ailsa died, she left the island to Jack. But Freya always felt that, secretly, it had been a gift to her. A gift given with a smile and a look as deep as the ocean.
‘Do you remember when you finally got round to renovating this cottage? You were pregnant with Sam. It was chaos.’
Freya nodded. She also remembered that she had never been happier.
‘And I seem to recall you standing on the beach and yelling at the ocean?’
Freya smiled. ‘I did.’
‘What was it you kept shouting?’
‘I feel like the Stevensons,’ she replied, laughing.
‘That’s right. And every time you did it, the builders practically shat themselves. They were petrified you were going to go into labour on their watch.’
‘It was a brilliant way of keeping them on schedule.’
Both women laughed. ‘And then you basically lived here, didn’t you, after Sam was born?’
Freya nodded. They’d spent a lot of time on the island then; less with the advent of school and careers that led to greater ties to London. But they always came back, washed in by the tide. And it had been a dream of Freya’s, barely acknowledged, unrealistic after all, that eventually they would settle here and leave London behind. It had been a vain, unlikely hope. Impossible, ironically, until now.
‘When I put my stuff in the spare bedroom I passed Sam’s room.’ Marta’s voice was soft, tentative. ‘Have you been in yet?’
Freya shook her head. She had hovered at the threshold several times, but still hadn’t been quite able to take the plunge.
‘I really think it will help.’
The sisters looked at one another and Freya nodded her head.
‘Yes. Perhaps it’s time,’ she said.
11
FREYA FLICKED THROUGH the worn copy of Treasure Island, its pages close to her face. The smell of the old paper, its notes of grass and vanilla, rose towards her reassuringly, pulling at her memory. She heard Sam’s voice, talking of pirates, maps and the search for gold, of murder and intrigue, friendship and loyalty. It had been his favourite book and he had read it over ten times. In fact, he knew it almost by heart. She flicked through the pages once more, inhaling deeply. Most of all, she remembered, he was fascinated by the black spot. How a dirty stain on a piece of paper had had the power to kill Billy Bones. Maybe he’d died of a heart attack, she’d suggested, or a stroke brought on from all the rum. Perhaps he’d simply died of fright. But Sam had shaken his head defiantly. No, he had said sadly, it was not something that could be explained like that. It was unexplainable. And perhaps that was why it bothered him. She smiled, ran her fingers over the tattered cover and then replaced the book on the shelf.
Marta had gone for a walk around the island. She said it was to get her bearings once more, but Freya knew that it was to give her some space. And, in that space, she had taken Marta’s advice and ventured into Sam’s room for the first time. The curtains had been pulled to, and its smell was different to how she remembered it. Faded, withered, almost like a tomb. She had immediately lain down on the bed and sought out the smell of Sam’s small body on the still-unwashed sheets. Only when she was satisfied that she could detect it did the furious racing of her heart subside. For a long time, she had remained there, prone, her eyes closed, breathing deeply, feeling connected to something that she knew was gone. Eventually she had turned over and opened her eyes.
In the darkness of the room, the ceiling had glittered, tiny dots of silver spattered across its surface. For a moment Freya simply gazed at them. And then she remembered. They were stars that she and her son had painstakingly arranged into constellations. She could make out the Plough and Orion, Cassiopeia and Ursa Major. Yes, they had spent the best part of a week creating this universe in his room. She smiled as tears slid down onto the pillow. The universe wasn’t quite the same any more.
For a long time Freya lay on the bed, surveying the room. She looked at the elaborate map of Treasure Island that Jack had created on Sam’s wall, the train set in the corner that he had constructed with his son. She looked at the ship in a bottle that Sam’s grandfather had made for him and that had always sat in pride of place on his chest of drawers. Alongside it lay an old wooden pipe that Sam had found beachcombing. It had once belonged to a pirate, of this he was convinced.
Finally, she rose and looked under the bed for the boxes she knew Sam kept there. His most treasured possessions. She pulled one out, sat down on the floor beside it and removed the lid. Almost instantly she came across the fossilised remains of some sea creatures that resembled highly elaborate necklaces. Freya loved these, and something about their ornate beauty, so delicately preserved, had always made her want to cry. But today when she looked over them her eyes remained dry.
She placed the fossils back into the box and rummaged through the books and drawings it also contained. Robert Louis Stevenson, Kidnapped, Prince Otto, The Master of Ballantrae and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde – a book that, after much discussion, it had been decided Sam wasn’t quite old enough to read just yet. The fact that it was nonetheless here was, for once, not down to her. It must have come from Jack’s father. Freya frowned and continued. She found a tattered picture of the Pharos lighthouse – an old favourite of Sam’s – marking the entrance to the shallow harbour of Alexandria. There were other pictures of lighthouses, Eddystone Rock, Bell Rock, Skerryvore and the Isle of May, and a well-thumbed picture of Lucy Anderson. Freya stopped when she came to this last item. It was a story that had fascinated Sam and one that he could recite by heart.
‘It happe
ned in 1791.’
Freya could hear his small voice, still incredulous despite the number of retellings.
‘The keeper was George Anderson, who, with his wife and five of his children, was suffocated by fumes from the lighthouse beacon. Only the youngest child at the lighthouse, Lucy, survived. She married the man who rescued her and moved with him to America.’
Freya had always thought Lucy’s story strange and miraculous, but never before had she felt so acutely its arbitrariness; the thin pale line that separated those who lived from those who died. She placed the picture back in the box and began shuffling its contents around once more. As she did so, her eye caught upon something metallic in a bottom corner. She reached forwards, grasped it and pulled it out. It was an old copper key, long and slightly greening with age, with three teeth, two thick and one thin, and intertwining loops of metal at its end. Freya ran her fingers slowly over its length and wondered whether this was also an object discovered beachcombing. She doubted it, as Sam didn’t hide things from her and she had never seen it before. She would have remembered. Then she caught a glimpse of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde and frowned again. Perhaps it was another secret gift that someone had given to Sam. She weighed the key in her hands and tried to imagine what it might open. A trunk or a case, perhaps. But the key seemed too large for that. She looked it over one last time and then threw it into the box which she slid back under the bed. That was enough for today.
12
THAT EVENING, MARTA was standing at the hob cooking risotto while Freya chopped salad sitting at the kitchen table. Rain lashed the windows and a hard wind juddered the panes. But inside the wood burner crackled, spilling out heat, and the lamps filled the kitchen with a homely glow. Freya had to admit that it was nice to have the company. Especially now. Eating alone made her feel a peculiar form of sadness. She took a mouthful of red wine – which Marta had poured for her, unquestioningly and without remark – and continued to slice cucumber.
Beyond the Sea Page 5
