The Silver Dark Sea

by Susan Fletcher

  * * *

  Gone?

  Hester looks at her brother. She can see a few grey hairs at his temple, and two blue shadows beneath his eyes. She can smell beer on him. Rum.

  Yes. Gone.

  Where to?

  The mainland. Staying with friends for a while, and then … I don’t know.

  Are you divorcing?

  No. At least, I don’t think so. Not yet.

  Ah, Nathan …

  He sits on Hester’s sofa – slumped, expressionless as if too tired to feel.

  Do you know why?

  Me, mainly.

  I can’t believe that. How can it be you?

  He swears to himself, under his breath.

  She moves closer. Do you want her back?

  She’s left her slippers. They’re at the end of the bed and I can see where her heels have been. There are these little dents in them …

  You miss her.

  Yes.

  How has this been your fault? Have you –?

  I don’t talk. She said I don’t talk and I just … I never really minded that she lent the tools. I didn’t –

  What tools? Nathe, I don’t understand you.

  He looks so sad. He says I get it wrong. I always get it wrong.

  What have you got wrong? Hester takes his hand. What? Tell me. The smell of rum is strong, and she can sense that he is leaving her – that his talk and mind are drifting, in their drunkenness, elsewhere.

  The stories … I gave him shells, to …

  Stories? What shells? Who?

  Shells … And my front teeth. Remember my front teeth? It wasn’t the quayside. Nope …

  He is too drunk, too tired. He is a middle-aged man, but as Hester brings her arms around him and holds him she feels he is a boy again. They are taller and wider, and Nathan has not shaved for days so that she can feel his stubble catching on her clothes – but also, he is just the same. She is still Hester, who hates her curly hair. There, now … she whispers.

  He had been so fair, at first. She and Ian had been like their parents – dark, wire-haired, but Nathan had stood in the yard with a stick for the dog or a plastic spade and his hair had been yellow – straw-yellow, sun-bright. Not like a Bundy. Or not at first. In time, it darkened. But sometimes she can see still the ghost of his downy, blond hair when he walks by her. She can see it now, behind his ear.

  You’ve never let anyone down, Nathe. That’s silly talk.

  I do. I deserved it …

  You don’t. She’ll come back.

  And he does not smell the same, entirely – there is the rich, animal smell of sweat, the sourer smell of sweat that’s old and there is that half-bottle or more of rum on his breath, and sheep in his hair. But underneath it all, she can still smell her brother – leaf tea, Pears soap, the cream he uses when his hands crack, that soft and indefinable scent which must purely be him, his own gentle skin’s scent.

  * * *

  It wasn’t the quayside.

  She stands in the kitchen, slides the gold cross that hangs about her neck up and down on its chain. Up and down.

  It wasn’t the quayside … Then what?

  Hester shuts her eyes. She tries to see them all as they had been, when all of them had still lived at Wind Rising. Ian is in his early teens; Hester is ten, or maybe more. Tom is toddling, chewing on the end of a rag. And how old was Nathan, when he lost his two front teeth? Six or seven? It happened early. For a long time his smile had two dark gaps.

  She goes back to the sitting room. He is sleeping, now. An unconscious man in his forties but also, somewhere, a gummy-mouthed young boy. One day, Alfie will be a pilot or a vet or a spaceman or whatever he may choose, and he might marry, have children, have a row of sports cars or political beliefs, and she may be stunned that her boy has grown into such a man; but he will still be her baby. Still the tot with dinosaur pyjamas. Still the boy who is difficult about eating potatoes. Still the boy who cried when a snowman melted, leaving only a carrot behind.

  Hester tucks a blanket around her sleeping brother.

  She sits on the floor, at his side.

  It was not the quayside. And then – then – it comes. A fear comes, as she sits there. She stares, struggles for breath and a realisation begins to show itself. It breaks the sea’s surface as a shipwreck might – as the Anne-Rosa rises from the water. This has been buried for so long. It has been buried so deeply but she can see it now and it is dreadful, haunting, black with dripping weed.

  This: something happened to him.

  She brings her face near Nathan’s. Oh … He’d been so quiet when he’d found two coins by his bed the next day – one for each tooth. He’d thumbed them, sniffed. A sad little face, as if two coins were not enough.

  Oh Lord. Be with my brother.

  Be with all of us. Each one.

  He sleeps on his back with his right hand open, as if asking to have that hand held.

  * * *

  Six days till the moon is full. It looks down on the island with a sad, kind expression.

  Leah sends a message: have you seen the moon?

  Yes, Sam has seen it. He is walking beneath it.

  He treads down the steps that are cut into rock. He unpicks Pigeon’s tarpaulin, slides a container of diesel under it. She will sigh, and tell him not to as she has done before – but she is Tom’s, or was. Tom would want me to.

  At Tavey we are lying under blankets, side by side. The windows are open. We have the night breeze on the parts of us that are not covered – arms, toes.

  I had always been the one to ask for stories. In my childhood I would gather them, keep them safe. For they filled my spaces, or seemed to; they coloured a world that was, for so long, black and white. It was me, always, who’d whisper will you tell me about …?

  But tonight, he says it. He traces my bare shoulder. How did you meet? You and Tom?

  I am surprised. I twist, look up. You want to know?

  Of course I do. It’s part of you. I want to know everything.

  The Blonde and the Bounty Inn

  Once there was a girl who had no parents. Or she did have parents but they could not care for her – due to young age, or poor health, or no wish to. She would never know why, and she stopped wanting to. She sealed herself up, watertight.

  Others cared for her, as she grew. There was the wide-hipped woman, the woman with hair as black as a crow, the couple who had paintings of saints in every room. There was a house that tinkled with laughter and she – the girl – had liked that house, and had hoped to stay there; she stayed in that house for two years, in the end. But the laughter stopped, in time. The house grew cold, tired. She was passed on, bag-like. She was not too trusting of care.

  Through woods and cities, by hills and seas – she moved, and she moved.

  And she grew older. She became tall, long-haired and she wore a ruby-red stud in her nose for a while. She smoked rolling tobacco – but she stopped when the toothpaste she spat in the sink was brownish, thick. She had friends but none too close to her; she had lovers but none that she wished to settle with. Her favourite flowers were gardenias, for their scent, and her favourite sounds were rain on a roof, a cat’s purr and autumn leaves against her boots. She loved to hear good stories. Our wandering, sealed-up soul.

  She took a job in a pub by the sea when she was thirty-four.

  It was called The Bounty Inn, near the harbour. Its beer garden was right on the edge, so that at high tide the spray might splatter on the tables and drinkers hurried indoors. Maggie would haul on brass handles, wipe sticky tables, carry plates up her arm, smile at every face that came towards her and she’d wear a black apron with TBI stitched on it. The apron was longer than the skirt she wore.

  Can you see it? This woman?

  At night, she could see Parla’s lighthouse. As she drew the pub’s curtains, she’d see it turn and turn.

  Margaret Bell. A serious name.

  Days passed, and weeks did. Months.

 
One day in June. It was a June day as June days tend to be – warm, clean-aired with gulls strutting on railings. The pub’s hanging baskets trailed their green. And Maggie was there, beneath them. She was collecting empty glasses – stacking pint glasses into each other so that a tower was formed. It began near her hip, and rose up to her jaw and she held one arm about it.

  Then she looked up. Saw him.

  A dark-haired man, a red and black shirt. He was standing on the quayside, hands by his side.

  She wondered if she’d seen him before and then thought, no. I have not.

  Later, much later, he will tell her that he knew she would mean something to him – how she held the pint glasses, how she moved her fringe from her eyes with one toss of her head. How she eyed the far islands. How great she looked in that black skirt. I knew you were going to be …

  Special, was the first word. Then there were other words. Unique. Loved.

  The one I’ve been hoping for.

  Her shift had ended at nine o’clock. He – Tom Bundy – bought them both fish and chips which they ate on the harbour wall, swinging their legs. She made him laugh. He, in turn, made her say really? That’s true? He knew so much.

  Will you come and live with me?

  She had never thought a man would ask her this. And she certainly had never thought she’d ever answer as she did – calmly, looking at him. Yes.

  * * *

  You have no family of your own? None? The Fishman looks sad, as he asks this. He strokes her arm – up and down.

  No. No family.

  Maggie sees the past across the ceiling. She sees the front door of every home. She can feel the different beds beneath her – too uneven, too hard or a frame that creaked when she turned over. All the different landing lights, shining under doors.

  I’m sorry.

  Don’t be. Not for that. I met kind people. It makes you self-reliant, and grateful for what is good. It also makes you wary, I think. I didn’t trust enough to stay and so I never really settled down … But then –

  Him?

  The lighthouse beam moves through the room, and out. Perhaps I should have known. That it wouldn’t last – that he would leave me.

  He hasn’t left you. I don’t believe they go.

  Maggie looks at him. She lifts her own hand and touches his beard, presses his chin with a single fingertip. Who have you lost? Tell me.

  But of course, he cannot speak of it. Not yet.

  It’s OK … She nods. I know.

  Outside, the sheep are settling. They lower themselves into the grass for the night, or against the stone walls.

  The lighthouse turns, as it’s always done, and as it will always do long after these people are gone.

  Thirteen

  Nathan dreams of the night he met Katherine Snow. He dreams of the fire that they danced by, the taste of apples when they kissed. But there are changes also in this dream. When she dances, the fire grows too strong and bright to see her, so that all he can see is flames and no dancing Kitty – where has she gone? He can’t find her. Only a little flattened grass where she had danced round and round.

  And suddenly, a new dream. The old one slides into the other, and Kitty has returned to him but they are not in a field any more. There is no fire and she’s not in red. Kitty is holding a finger to her lips. Ssh … she says, coquettishly. She wears a black corset and a jaunty top hat. Then she moves her hand to a curtain that’s by her side, says ready? And there is a drum-roll, and she winks, and then Kitty pulls the curtain aside so that a stage is revealed and on that stage there is Nathan’s younger brother. Tom stands, soaking wet. He shakes weed from his hair and pulls fish-bones from his mouth. He wipes his nose on his forearm, and then looks out at the crowd as if surprised to see it. Nathan is shouting Tom! Tom! But he cannot be heard – his voice is too quiet. Tom!

  The man steps forwards, scans the crowd. He sees nothing that interests him, turns and walks offstage.

  Nathan wakes on his front. His arms are braced, pushing him up off the sofa. Where his face has been, there is saliva. His head aches and his back does.

  Hester’s. I’m at Hester’s. He sits up slowly.

  Another day of sunshine as he steps outside, and goes home.

  At High Haven, he boils the kettle. And as it sings, he sees his mobile phone is flashing next to the fridge. He forgot it, left it here last night and he grapples for it, presses read and holds his breath.

  WHERE ARE YOU??

  Sent last night, at ten thirty.

  Nathan sits. He’d wanted it to be Kitty. He’d wanted it to be his wife saying we are going to be just fine.

  * * *

  Hester hears him go, close the door. After this she dresses, makes her way to Wind Rising.

  Hello? She stands in the kitchen, calls out. There is no answer: if Ian is not in the house he will be in the barn; and if he’s not in the barn he will be out in the fields. Hester knows about farms.

  She finds him sharpening shears. He sits on a low stool, and he runs a sharpening stone along the open blades. It is rhythmic, and musical. It is a sound of our childhood, Hester thinks – of Parla, and this building. She can see his bald patch. It is like looking at their father, maybe – for he also had this pink hand-span of skin on the top of his head that would burn in hot summers.

  Hey.

  He looks up. Hey. OK?

  Hester steps into the barn. Have you spoken to Nathan? You know Kitty’s gone.

  Gone where?

  Gone. The mainland.

  For her work?

  No, Ian.

  He is like their father in more than just his baldness – he is like Jack Bundy in his thick brows, in how he frowns at everything, in the way he puts his hands on his thighs as he lifts himself from the stool and winces and Hester sees their father’s hands in Ian’s hands, too. Short thumbs and lined palms. She thinks he is like him and also nothing like him – both. Ian says for good? Really?

  He doesn’t know. But it sounds like it.

  Shit. He scratches the back of his head. I knew they weren’t in great shape, but …

  I know.

  They walk outside. Brother and sister – both dark, both stout. The sun is a wall of light that makes them blink, look to the ground and Hester says he came round last night. He’s in trouble.

  Yeah, well. He drinks too much.

  He does, I know. But Ian – I’m worried …

  About his drinking? He can sort that out himself.

  Not drinking.

  The rooster is having a dust bath. They can both hear his claws against the earth and when he shakes his head there is a clap of wattle, which Hester thinks, too, is a sound she knows.

  Does he ever talk about Dad?

  What? No. Why?

  Hester rubs her face, unsure. Stupid question. We never talk about Dad … I’m worried because he said things. Nathan. Last night.

  Things?

  Do you remember when he lost his teeth? His front milk teeth? He came back with a bloody mouth – remember?

  Ian’s shrug is scornful, dismissive. He fell over. On the quayside. Was it the quayside? Somewhere.

  I don’t think he fell.

  She wonders how they came to be grown-ups, like this – with marriages, and children, and shadows they feel they cannot discuss, even now. It hangs there, this shadow. She can feel it between them. None of them talk about Jack Junior, or only in passing. There are ghosts that press up against the glass of this house and their lives and peer in, and Kitty knew it. Kitty couldn’t stand it. It’s surely why Kitty has gone.

  He said it was the quayside. But he ran back to the house from the north of the island. I remember seeing him. He was coming back from Bundy Head.

  So maybe he …

  What? Knocked his teeth out at the harbour, and then decided to run the length of the island before coming home? She shakes her head. I don’t think so.

  So –?

  I don’t think he’d been to the harbour at all. Hes
ter puts her hand to her neck, feels the gold pendant. I have this feeling …

  The rooster stretches its wings. They are side by side and silent, and yet Hester is sure they are thinking the same thoughts – that the same image and fear is in both of their heads at this moment.

  Will you see him? Talk to him?

  Kitty will come back, Hest. I’m sure –

  Not about that! Don’t talk to him about that! You know what I’m thinking, Ian. What if – she leans closer and lowers her voice – what if it wasn’t just Mum? Who got –?

  We’d know.

  Would we? Why would we know? Talk to him. Go.

  Now?

  Yes. Go.

  The shears …

  The shears can wait! Go and talk to him. Ask him to tell you about his milk teeth.

  * * *

  Ian finds his brother in the garden of High Haven. There is a rusted iron bench that Nathan sits upon, a bottle of beer hanging from his hand.

  The bench shifts as Ian sits down.

  I heard about Kitty.

  Yeah.

  Think she’ll come back?

  Who knows? Beer?

  No. Thanks.

  The house creaks in the heat – the men hear it.

  I deserve this, Ian. And she deserves to be happy. I’ve been a bastard to her.

  We’re all bastards sometimes. It is Ian’s form of comfort.

  Nathan gives a brief, bunched smile. Yeah, well …

  They are two brothers whose language to each other is mostly the farm, and the weather, or sport, but it is rarely a language that talks of the past or of what they think and feel. They sit, like stones. Nathan drinks, and when he lowers the bottle he says, sure? There’s more in the fridge.

  No, you’re alright. His eyes are on the bottle’s label but he does not see it. He sees, instead, how Nathan looked, as a small boy. How did you lose your milk teeth?

  What?

  The front ones.

  His brother flinches at the question, as if it is a fly. My teeth?

  Was it the quayside?

  What do you want to know about my teeth for?

  Was it?

  Jesus. I can’t remember. Yes. I tripped.

  Hester doesn’t think so.