by Sarah Lean
I laugh, imagining it, at me hardly big enough to reach the oars properly and Miss Bennett in her crumpled hat watching the sea pass under us.
Miss Bennett’s cheeks ruffle into a smile and before I can say anything more she’s reaching her hand out for me to take her camera and saying, “Come on then, help me in!”
Right then Miss Bennett is as beautiful as the statue on the quay; we are just like those smooth bronze people with no names. I realise now what Mrs Gooch had been talking about. That there are moments in our life, just like a piece of art, that are golden. And whenever we see something similar we’ll be reminded of them, all wrapped up in the smell of varnish and the smoothness of the wood, the taste of the sea and the sizzle of the waves below us. I’ll remember, and Miss Bennett will remember, this day and our memory will be a good one.
With a lot of help, Miss Bennett climbs in slowly, one leg at a time. She huffs and coughs for a bit, but sits down at the stern facing me and thumps her stick on the bottom of the boat.
“Well, I haven’t done that in a while,” she says, still smiling and catching her breath. She holds up her camera and I get ready for her to take a picture.
“No need to smile,” she said, which isn’t what people usually say when they take a photograph. “Pick up the oars, that’s it, arms out in front of you. Look to the left, as if you’re looking over the side of the boat.”
She continues with instructions: lean back a bit, chin down, relax your elbows just a little and so on, until I am just how she wants me and then she is silent.
She only takes one picture of me. I want a copy; I want to see me as she does.
I give her my camera to film me.
“Where are we heading?” Miss Bennett chuckles.
I hesitate, but I think I know what I’m doing.
I pretend to row and tell her a new story. We are children and this is our boat, our new adventure. I tell her we hear the curlew singing, soft and eerie; we see a fawn lying safe, where its skin blends in as if it’s part of the landscape. We have to whisper, but there’s no need to worry because it’s hidden in the dapple of shadows that shelter it. I watch as Miss Bennett believes in our dream, as we make a new memory. I watch the horizon over her shoulder for the whale, until the video camera clicks and runs out of power.
When I leave Miss Bennett, she smiles. It’s the same ancient skin, but her smile looks new. I feel something is changing and I’m nervous.
“My cousin’s great-niece has been writing to me for some time. She has a big house in Yorkshire with a wide view of the moors.”
My heart sinks and Miss Bennett knows.
“It’s been a long time since I could say that I enjoyed someone’s company. I think it’s about time I tried a little harder. Keep an eye on the deer for me,” she says. “Just now and again.”
I don’t want her to go. Not now.
“Sorry,” she says.
“What for?” I ask, my lips trembling.
“That I couldn’t help you find the whale.”
I shrug; it’s all I can do.
She curves her hand round my cheek. “But I don’t doubt you’ll find it.”
31.
WE ARE ON THE FERRY BOAT GOING BACK TO THE quay. I tell Jodie Miss Bennett is leaving.
“I know you miss having Grandad around,” Jodie says, wrapping me against the wind, “but Miss Bennett’s not like him.”
Was that what I’d been trying to do? Find someone to replace Grandad? Never.
“She’s just had a lot of horrible memories. I think she lost a lot of her family in the war and she’s been sad and alone ever since. You’d be the same if something horrible happened to Adam.”
Jodie shrugs.
I sigh and try to blow away what aches inside.
I lean over the railings and rest my chin on my hands. My head is too heavy to hold up. I think of how, even though I love my family and lots of other people, Grandad is the one person I need the most. Maybe because he understands me more than anyone else. Maybe because when we’re together we think bigger, and we are somehow … bigger.
I watch the rushing tide over the side and see the darkening sea is choppy because streams of boats with sails and motors are cutting lines in the water, splitting the waves. They are all going the other way, out of the harbour. I hear people on the ferry boat around us asking each other exactly what I’m thinking – what is happening, where is everyone going?
I hear a voice say, “It’s that humpback whale they’ve been talking about on the news.”
I push through and find the man who said it.
“Where is it?” I say. “Where’s the whale?”
“It’s coming this way,” he says. “It’s been just outside the harbour all afternoon.”
32.
“PLEASE!” I BEG DAD. “I KNOW HOW TO ROW, Grandad taught me.”
Dad’s home early, but he won’t let me take Grandad’s boat to see the whale.
“You can come with me. Or I’ll take Linus. Someone can come with me, it’ll be safe.”
“It’s not that,” Dad says. “I trust you. I know you’d be fine.”
There’s a car reversing into our driveway, but I don’t know why the man is getting out and coming over to us.
Dad asks Jodie to take me inside.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
Jodie holds my arms.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t make it more difficult than it is.”
I twist round. “Don’t what? What’s he doing?”
“Just let it go,” Jodie says. “We need the money for Grandad.”
I struggle out of Jodie’s hands, but there’s nothing I can do. Dad helps hitch the boat trailer to the man’s car before it disappears down the road. It’s not just Alzheimer’s that’s stealing all of Grandad from us. My family are letting people take things too.
33.
“CAN WE GO TO SEE GRANDAD NOW?” I SAY. I can’t give up. “We can take him out and see the whale from the cliff across the road from there.”
Dad won’t say no, not now.
East Harbour Care Home smells of apple pie and yesterday. The carers don’t want Grandad going across the road, no matter how much I plead. But they will let him go in the garden outside and sit in a wheelchair as the evening is warm, but he has to wear a coat and a hat and have a blanket over his knees.
I tell Grandad, over and over, that it’s me, Hannah, named after the love of his life. I ask him, over and over, what did he want to tell me about the whale? What does it have to do with the deer? I point, time and time again, at the sea and tell Grandad to watch because the whale is coming. Could it be the same one that Grandad had seen before? Adam told me they could live for up to a hundred years. Did the whale remember that he’d been here before?
I’m so cross with myself that there’s no power in the video camera. And even though I have the binoculars, the sea looks wide and endless from here. I see people waiting, lining the cliff top, lights on the bobbing boats below in the sea. Lifeboats and the coastguard are keeping everyone close to the harbour and near to the shore.
The sun sinks behind a streak of cloud and turns the sky and the water into fire. There’s a wide golden path from here to the horizon. I wonder if Miss Bennett is looking. I wonder what she’s remembering.
“Keep looking, Grandad,” I say. “The whale is coming.”
And it does.
I can hardly speak; my breath is caught at the top of my lungs. The whale’s head rises out of the water, as if it’s looking at everyone. But it’s a long way out to sea, a small dark shape in the golden water. It ducks under the surface and comes up again a minute later, closer to shore. And then it dives. And we wait.
“Did you see it, Grandad? Did you see it before?” I watch the ocean of fire in his eyes.
Even from up here we can hear voices bouncing off the sea, the murmur of everyone wanting to see it again.
We wait for another hour, but the whale has gone.
34.
MUM, DAD AND JODIE TAKE GRANDAD BACK TO his room. It’s getting darker and the gold of the sun has all gone, but I don’t want to go inside. I hear a seagull. It sounds harsh, as if it’s laughing at me. I’ve hardly seen any birds in our garden at home recently. Smokey has won; Smokey is full up. But I’m empty and angry.
“Did you see the whale?” a voice says. It’s Mark. He sits on the bench next to me, crosses his legs and folds his arms.
I nod.
“Oh,” he says. “Don’t you think it was amazing?”
“I do,” I say. “But I was hoping Grandad would see it and remember me.”
“The thing is,” Mark says, shuffling closer, “the thing about having Alzheimer’s is that your grandad doesn’t really have a choice when he remembers things.” I look at Mark. He has a kind face. “Then suddenly he’ll remember something from long ago, even down to the tiniest details. We can give our old folks all sorts of reminders, but that doesn’t guarantee anything. Sometimes a song or a photo or something on the television helps; sometimes it doesn’t. But we keep trying and we’re grateful when they do. But often it seems to have nothing to do with what we want.”
“I thought the filming would help,” I say, but it’s an effort to speak. “My camera ran out of power.” My eyes are still on the ocean. The boats have all gone. There is nothing there. I feel like Grandad.
“Don’t give up,” Mark says. “Sometimes when we’re helping him dress or giving him breakfast your grandad is bright and clear and tells us snippets of his life.”
I’m not sure I want to know what he says to anyone else. I can hardly make myself say it. “Like what?” I ask.
“Let me think. Oh yes, just the other day he was talking about birds … yes, birds, I’m sure it was.”
“Robins?” I ask, but I daren’t hope.
“Yes, robins,” he smiles. “He’s particularly fond of robins. He said he grows sunflowers for the birds. In fact, Jenny who comes here a few times a week to do workshops has got your grandad involved in woodworking. He seems very at home using his hands.”
“He used to build boats,” I say. “He’d like that.”
“I think they’re making a bird table,” he says. “Your grandad said something about keeping the birds safe from cats, but we don’t have any cats around here.”
I smile. I’ve got cold sitting outside, but suddenly I feel the warmth inside. A bird table is what we need at home. It’s only something small, but it’s important.
“Good to see you smile,” Mark says. “Anything you think we can do to help, you just ask.”
He touches my shoulder and goes to leave.
“Mark?” I say. “Grandad likes his toast cooked under the grill so it’s dark with burnt bits around the edge.”
“Sure,” he says.
“And he likes to turn the earth for the robins, let them get at the worms. Can he have a garden fork?”
Mark laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And Mark? I do want to know when he remembers and I don’t mind if it’s you that tells me what he says instead.”
All I hope now is that Grandad finds an island in his memory, somewhere familiar where he can go ashore. A place, now and again, to stop and look back across the ocean of nothing and see what he left behind. Because I’m still here, yelling for Grandad to come and get me.
35.
THE DAYS PASS. I WATCH THE NEWS, BUT THERE’S nothing more to report. The whale has gone. That’s it, it’s over. It feels over. Grandad is not coming home; someone else gets to share breakfast and afternoons with him. I’m upset, but I see now that no matter what I do, the Alzheimer’s is bigger and stronger than me.
I go to Furze Island every day with Jodie, but Miss Bennett’s back gate has been locked and she’s gone too. Adam is in the other group now so I spend the days following Jodie like a shadow. She tells me to forget about Miss Bennett.
“You’ve been so busy swooning around Adam that you forgot about Grandad most of the time.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have. You only think about yourself and Adam.”
“At least I could talk to him. At least he was nice to me.”
“Grandad was always nice to you.”
“But he’s not now!” I can’t believe how hard that hurts, but she’s not finished. “Face facts, Hannah, he’s not going to get better.”
I’m sick of Jodie and the island. I’m starting to hate it here; it feels like I’m trapped. The video camera is charged, but there’s nothing new to see. I’ve run out of time anyway.
I go to the top of the steps and along the cliff top to find the hidden path down to Miss Bennett’s boathouse. The door is still unlocked, from when we were in there the other day.
All I want to do is escape from here. I stare at the boat. I don’t think about where I can go. I just want to leave all the emptiness and frustration behind. Furze Island is like a prison. Miss Bennett was a prisoner here, but she’s escaped. I feel like a prisoner.
It’s not that hard to push the boat on the trailer down the slope to the sea. It rolls smoothly into the waves until it floats free of the trailer. I climb in. The oars are still in their sockets. It’s so easy because Grandad taught me.
I row away from the island, out into the harbour. It’s mild and calm and the pushing back and forward makes me feel better. All I have to do is concentrate. I row and row, pulling, rolling and lifting. The island becomes smaller and smaller. I want it so small I can screw it up like a piece of paper and throw it in the bin. I want it so far away that it’s just a speck on the horizon and I don’t have to be reminded of Alzheimer’s and Miss Bennett and cats any more.
I row and row and row. The sea is gentle and lets me pass through it. And then I suddenly notice how quiet it is.
I stop rowing. I’m past where the chain ferry crosses. I’m out of the harbour, at sea.
It’s peaceful, like I’ve rowed all my frustration away, like the sea has given me its calmness, and everything that was bothering me is out of my sight. But I see the water all around me and I feel smaller than ever. I’m alone. And then what I think of is Grandad, as if he might be in a boat somewhere out here.
But there are no other boats. I could stand and yell for Grandad, but he’s not going to come and get me, is he?
My heart swells and my eyes fill. I weep on my arms. I don’t want to think about the past. I don’t want to know about the future.
And then I hear a soft puff. There is a smell, like mackerel fish. I hear a gulp in the water beside me. Then quiet. The soft puff comes again and gentle rain falls over me. The fishy smell is strong now.
I turn to the side. I see an eye, gentle and wrinkled. I see deep grooves and the circles of white barnacles as the whale comes alongside the boat. His huge body is lying just under the water. I jump back and fall off the seat, knocking one of the oars into the sea. I am breathing hard, lying on the bottom of the boat, hiding, and then all I think is, what am I doing? I crawl over and pick up the video camera and switch it on. I take a deep breath and kneel up and peer through the lens over the side. I can’t move; my eyes are wide open and my heart is bursting. The whale is looking at me.
I see his spout close and feel a gentle lap as a wave rocks the boat. He puffs again. The whale seems to be waiting.
I don’t even know if the whale has ears, but I keep the camera switched on and talk to him anyway.
I laugh because somehow I’m not scared to talk to this giant. “I know he’s not in the sea,” I say, “but I’m looking for my grandad here anyway. But instead I found you.”
I laugh again because the whale stays. “Do you know my grandad?”
The whale ducks, but comes up again, making a soft fountain over me. He is looking right at me.
I reach my hand and the whale stays steady beside me. I touch his skin. It’s like rubber.
“Grandad’s not as big as you.” I think about that. It’s not a
lways the size of something that makes it have a big effect. “But he’s still the biggest thing I know.”
The whale waits for a moment and it’s the longest moment I’ve ever known. Looking into that whale’s eye.
“My grandad’s name is Arthur Jenkins. Did you ever see him? Did he ever see you?”
The whale blinks.
I swivel round and point the camera at the mainland coast, to the east.
“He’s up there.” I point to the cliff top on the mainland. “We watched you.” Then I remember that Grandad didn’t seem to see, not really. “But you were too far away.” I turn the camera back to the whale. “I’ve got you on film now, close up, and I’ll show him and maybe sometime he’ll remember what he wanted to tell me.”
The whale dips gently under the water, so he doesn’t make waves or suck the boat under. His vast shadow disappears into the deep green. I scrabble about the boat, looking over the sides, but I can’t see him any more. Then just ahead of me I see the surface break, just where my oar has floated away. The whale has the oar and nudges it, closer and closer, until I can reach out … and then everything seems to stop. My heart is wide open as I reach for the oar, just as Grandad had reached out that time in the care home, just like the statue on the quay.
I see the whale’s knowing eye before he silently dips below the sea.
36.
I ROW BACK TO THE ISLAND AND PUT THE BOAT away. My arms and back are tired, but inside I’m buzzing with energy, with what I’ve got to show Grandad.
I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s an envelope just inside the door of the boathouse with my name on it. I guess it’s from Miss Bennett, saying goodbye. There are also two photographs. One is of me in Miss Bennett’s boat. The other is of two children in a boat, on a misty morning. A girl has her arms wrapped round a young deer on her lap, a boy is rowing. I can’t see their faces; the girl’s is turned down and the boy has his back to us, his wide shoulders pulling on the oars.
