by Jenni Ogden
Of course I thought of Tom and Pat when I was alone, and wished they could share my pleasure in this ancient landscape. I had no way of talking with them, as there was no Internet connection in the croft. The lack of phones and mobile networks on Turtle Island negated them as communication devices as well. I could have sent an e-mail to Tom from the Baltasound library, but I chickened out. In a sense, I was relieved that I had an excuse to resort to postcards, which I sent from the northernmost post office in the British Isles, with an ornate postal date stamp to prove it.
I hadn’t booked a return ticket to Australia, thinking that if Mum had a bypass operation I might not leave until after October. In that case, it would be better if I went back to Boston. Basil had agreed to collect the campers’ fees, and I had cleaned and closed up Jeff’s cabin as if I would never return, reluctantly obeying the tourist brochures and leaving nothing but footprints in the wet sand. Only Tom and Pat came to wave me goodbye. I didn’t want the others there. Tom knew I might not return, and didn’t say much other than “One day you will.”
Mum was doing well, and there seemed little likelihood that she would need a bypass. I knew I was welcome there for as long as I liked, but their croft was small, and I sometimes felt in the way. Their love for each other was enviable, and I no longer saw the age difference between them. Magnus was playing his fiddle in the annual Shetland Blues Festival at the end of August, and there had been talk that we should all go to Lerwick for it and then spend a few days seeing some of the ancient sites on Mainland. After that might be a good time for me to leave. My heart sped up at the very thought. I could go back to the island.
But before that, Mum had set her heart on a daytrip to the northernmost coast of Unst, to walk along the dramatic cliffs where thousands of gannets and puffins nested at this time of the year. The Muckle Flugga lighthouse on a rocky outcrop near the cliffs was at the very tip of Britain, and the hike was worth it for that reason alone. It would be a good test of Mum’s stents, and our daily walks became part of a carefully graduated fitness plan.
One of our favorite places for lunch was the Northern Lights, a bistro at the far end of the island run by the doctor’s wife. It sold beautiful Shetland art and crafts as well as high-class food. Sitting outside in the sun, waiting for our salads to arrive, I showed Mum the stunning earrings, each a delicate leaf with tiny veins picked out in silver, I had bought for Pat.
“Pat’s very special, isn’t she,” she said, admiring them.
“She’ll love them. It will be good to see her again.” I closed the little jewelry box and zipped it safely into a pocket in my handbag.
“I used to worry about you, never marrying.” Mum sounded hesitant, and I felt a niggle of irritation.
“Most of the marriages I know aren’t exactly blissful—with you and Magnus the exception, of course.” My laugh was forced, and Mum raised her eyebrows. I squirmed, a teenager again. “Anyway, I did have a relationship years ago, when I was a PhD student. It didn’t work out, and after that I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.”
“You never told me.”
“No, it was too painful at the time and you were a long way away.”
“And we didn’t have that sort of relationship,” Mum said, her eyes sad.
“As you say, water under the bridge.”
“I know how lonely it can be, living alone, going to work every day and coming home to a cold, empty house.”
“Well, I was married to my career. I did have a few friends. Francesca, for one.”
“And now Pat.”
Her voice sounded strained and I frowned. “What are you getting at, Mum?”
“I know it’s none of my business. It’s only because I love you.”
“What, for heaven’s sake? Spit it out.”
“Is your relationship with Pat—are you a lesbian?”
I picked up my water glass and drank half of it. “Don’t be daft, Pat’s a widow, she has grown kids and grandchildren.”
“You know that’s not an answer.”
“No, Mum. I’m not gay, I’ve never been gay, I’ve never had a relationship with a woman, and I’ve never had the slightest inclination to have one. Is that sufficient?”
“Don’t be angry, Anna. I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”
“You’re living in the past, Mum. It’s no longer a crime for women to choose to live alone, you know, to choose to have no children.”
“Magnus told me I was barking up the wrong tree.”
“You’ve been discussing this with Magnus?”
“He’s known for years that I wondered about it, and the other night he told me you were as straight as him.”
“He did, did he. And how did he come to that startling conclusion?” My face was hot.
“That’s what I asked him. He said men just know these things.”
“Huh. I doubt that very much. Just a lucky guess, I’d say.” We sat in awkward silence, almost snatching the plates of salad from the waitress when they arrived. I concentrated on eating, tasting nothing, my annoyance barely abating. Pushing my empty plate to the side, I glowered at Mum’s bent head. “How would you have felt if I had been gay?”
Mum looked up, her face soft. “I’d have understood. If that’s what made you happy, I would have been happy too.”
“Truly? And here’s me thinking you were straightlaced.” I grinned at her to make it clear I was joking, although I wasn’t, entirely.
Mum reached over and touched my hand. “I didn’t intend to tell you this, unless you told me you were gay. When you left for the States I was so lonely. I know we never got on when you were at home, but I still wanted you there. Jane hauled me along to her feminist group; it was still a big thing in London in the seventies. To cut a long story short, I began a relationship with one of the women in the group. We never lived together but we spent weekends together. Apart from Jane, no one in my family or outside the group ever knew.”
My mouth was open. I stared at her, speechless.
“You look horrified. Is it so hard to believe?” Mum asked, and I saw her hand was shaking as she picked up her glass.
“Is that why you and Dad broke up? What about Magnus?”
“I don’t think I was ever a true lesbian. I was just so very lonely. I was only thirty-one when Harry left, and apart from a couple of dates with men I had no interest in, I had no one. It wasn’t even the sex. It was the touching, the holding and stroking, that I yearned for. Babies aren’t the only ones who shrivel up if they’re not held.” She scrabbled in her handbag for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “Even when you were a teenager, I used to pay a masseur when I could ill afford it, just to be stroked. My relationship with Marion gave me that more than anything, and we shared a love of books and music, as well as a passion for women’s rights.”
“Why did you break up?”
“We drifted apart after a few years. Marion enjoyed the sex more than me, and in the end she found someone who was a better fit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We stayed friends. We’re still friends. By the time we broke up, I was in my late forties.”
“Did you have other relationships?”
“Not lesbian ones, but I’d learned how to have meaningful friendships, and I didn’t hesitate to ask for hugs when I needed them, or to give them back. And then, at fifty-eight, I came here on holiday with Jane and met Magnus.”
“Does he know?”
Mum laughed. “Of course he knows. He thinks it probably made me a more adventurous lover.”
“Too much information.” I grinned at her, although my stomach was still in knots.
On the drive home I was lost in my own thoughts, and perhaps she was too; she was very quiet. So I jumped when she did speak.
“Jane is of the true faith. Did you know that?”
I glanced at her, sitting there next to me as demure as a seventy-three-year-old English lady. “The true faith. Is this another of your bombshells?”
<
br /> I heard her giggle as a car sped past us, and I kept my eyes on the road.
“She was always a lesbian, even as a teenager.”
“I don’t believe you. She was always so fussy about her makeup and fancy suits and high heels.”
“I think it’s time you got rid of all those stereotypes. You’ve been cloistered too long in that lab of yours.”
“Was that why you thought I might be gay? A genetic quirk?”
“It crossed my mind, but I also worried that you were so traumatized by your father’s death that you might have been psychologically damaged, somehow, and scared to let a man get close to you.”
“Perhaps that did make me cautious, but it definitely didn’t make me gay.”
That evening when Mum yawned and said goodnight, I hugged her frail body, and as she held me and stroked my back, she seemed to expand, her arms becoming a cocoon, protecting me from myself.
I slept quickly and deeply, and after waking at six, slipped out of the croft and down to the sea. As I perched on the small bank above the narrow, stony beach, I caught, out of the corner of my eye, a movement below me. Holding my breath, I sat motionless as a sharp little head retreated into the bank then came out again. Her whiskers twitching, she tested the air, then her sleek body appeared, followed by one, two, three, miniature versions. Time stood still as I watched my first otter nudge her kits into the shallow water, circling them, diving and surfacing, keeping her babies safe while they frolicked, not a care in the world, and learned how to survive.
I’D BEEN AWAY THREE WEEKS AND AT LAST I HAD MAIL. Two letters, one from Tom and one from Pat. They must have sent them with Jack on the very next boat from the island, two weeks after I left. I felt like shouting for joy, singing, dancing. I looked at Tom’s writing on the first envelope, and then opened Pat’s. Her letter was just like her, warm, newsy, full of delightful little morsels about life on the island—the birds she’d seen, her first snorkel over the edge of the reef since her operation, the latest hijinks Violet’s kids had got up to, the joy of seeing the first noddy terns returning to construct their untidy nests.
“Braw news, lassie?” said Magnus. It was too wet and windy to take the boat out and he was making bread, another of his many talents.
I nodded. “My friend Pat, my friend who had cancer”—I hesitated—“the one who is not my lover. She sounds wonderful, she’s even been snorkeling again.”
Magnus’s roar brought Mum in from the laundry, her hands covered in soapsuds.
“What’s so funny?”
“Naething lass, dinna fash yer thoum.” He winked at me, and I caught Mum’s smile.
I took Tom’s letter down to the beach, and, my heart thumping, slit it open and extracted one small sheet, torn from his notepad. It was the only letter I’d ever received from him, but his small, neat writing was as familiar as my own from the many turtle data sheets I had summarized, his often littered with notes.
Dear Anna,
It’s strange not to be able to talk to you, and to know you won’t get this for weeks, unless another boat comes by and it leaves the island before Jack’s next visit. I hope your mum is okay and that her operation is safely over. I’m sure you would have found a way to e-mail if anything had gone wrong. I’ve always wanted to visit Shetland. Write and tell me all about it. Take lots of photos in case that’s as close as I ever get.
It felt awkward saying goodbye and not knowing if I’d ever see you again. If you can, please come back, even if it is after October. You know you can stay with me, or if you don’t want to, Pat will have you any time. You haven’t really left the island until we have the proper island farewell to make absolutely sure that you’ll return someday.
There’s not much to tell you, as you only left a few days ago. I think I’ll go over to Lost Cay for a couple of nights, and think about you.
Love, Tom.
TWENTY - FOUR
I wanted to give Mum a present. Unst had beautiful crafts—jewelry, intricately patterned Shetland jerseys and hats, beautiful photographic books of the islands, fascinating history and archaeology books. I was already loaded up with gifts for Fran, and for everyone on the island. Then I found a beautiful photograph album with handmade blue and green paper interleaved with transparent sheets, its leather cover tooled with Shetlandic designs. On my laptop I had hundreds of photos of Turtle Island, and quite a few of Boston. In my compulsive way I had, years ago, scanned in the few photos I kept from my childhood and university days. So late into the twilight Unst nights I sifted through them, finally coming up with a selection that began with the only photo I had of me as a tiny baby, the day Mum left hospital with me in her arms, Dad grinning proudly. I selected the most amusing school photos, with me looking sullen between shiny smiling girls, and a few from my holidays with Dad. Then there was one of Fran and me dressed in pristine new lab coats, standing with arms around each other in the grounds of Harvard; some nice shots of Boston, in the snow, in the fall, and in the summer; my official PhD photo, me gowned and capped; and photos of me with Rachel in the lab, and with various incarnations of research assistants, usually taken at our end-of-year lunch.
Other than my baby photo, Mum appeared in only two others. I had a copy of her wedding photo, black and white, a registry office affair, Dad in a suit and Mum looking very beautiful in a cartwheel hat and pale dress that wrapped softly around her perfect figure. In her arms she held an enormous bouquet, perhaps hiding the bump that was me. The other photo was taken, I dimly recalled, by Aunt Jane. We were on holiday at Brighton, perhaps two years after Dad died. I naturally hated every minute of it. But Jane had managed to capture us in an unguarded moment. We were both, Mum and I, eating monstrously large ice creams, Brighton Pier behind us, the sun shining off our hair, Mum’s so blond and mine so dark, and we were laughing.
I scrunched up a damp tissue and fired it into the wicker basket by the door. Nostalgia was so pleasurable. Not something I was accustomed to allowing myself.
Sorting out the best photos from Turtle Island was more of a mission. One of the island from Jack’s boat to signal my arrival; my cabin, with huddles of plump shearwaters on the path by the deck; a laying turtle caught in my flash, Tom crouching beside it with his headlight on; the campground when it was full of summer students; my first photo of Kirsty and Hamish when he was one day old; Hamish and me a few days after that terrifying night when I thought he might die, Hamish looking as yummy as a clam in chowder and me looking exhausted; Pat in her wetsuit, a broad grin on her brown face; the gang at Violet and Bill’s for one of their barbecues; turtle tracks meandering up the idyllic beach; the turquoise lagoon; the whole gang again with our newly shaved heads. So many to choose from. I added a photo of Mary and George, and one of the gate with the sign “Dry Acres Artists’ Community.” I found a few of me, long hair, short hair, no hair, pale skin, brown skin, taken with my camera by Pat or Tom, and I included these. It was, after all, for Mum. And finally, because it was for Mum, I added one taken by Pat, of Tom and me.
I had discovered a printing place in a shed at the airfield near Baltasound, and with my precious collection safely transferred to a memory stick, I delivered it there one day after doing the grocery shopping, while Mum had her morning liein. When I collected the photos two hours later, the printer grinned at me and asked if we could swap islands.
Early on, Magnus had suggested I spend a day on his boat, but time was rapidly running out and I had yet to take up his offer. In truth, I was nervous. My fear of the sea was long gone, but the North Atlantic was another matter.
“Go, Anna,” Mum said. “It’s an experience. Pick a lovely day and you’ll be fine.”
An experience it was. I knew Magnus was a fisherman, of course, and I’d seen plenty of documentaries about fishing boats and wild seas and nets and massive catches of fish, but the real thing was mind-blowing. Tom would have loved it; it was like an exaggerated turtle rodeo. Even on this still day it was choppy, but to my relief I didn’t
get sick. Simply watching Magnus and the other three fisherman hauling in the nets full of slithering herrings and stashing them in giant containers of ice, and then doing it all over again, was exhausting, but exhilarating too. The smell of the salt and fish, the wind through my hair, the burn of the sun on my face, the doorstop sandwiches and buckets of hot flask tea we consumed for lunch, the burr of the men’s conversation, most of it like a foreign language to my ears—I could see why Mum missed it so. Magnus told me he was determined to get her back on the boat before the end of the season.
The day before our trip to Muckle Flugga, Mum and I stayed at home, hoping that a rest day would conserve her energy for her longest walk since her heart attack. She was in good spirits and insisted on making me a special lunch, a lamb salad and oatcakes fresh from the oven. It was the perfect time to give her my present. I hadn’t looked at it since I placed the photos in sequence on the pretty blue and green pages, each photo with an inscription carefully written in my neatest writing on the transparent overlays. Here and there I had inserted a line of poetry, or a remembered line from a favorite song. On the first page I had placed her and Dad’s wedding photo, and my baby picture. Mum turned the pages, looking for long moments at every photo, sometimes wiping away a tear when it landed shining on the paper, until she came to the final page. There I had placed a photo of her and Magnus, sitting in the evening light outside the croft, and another of the two of us, with the sea behind us. Then she turned back one page, and looked again at the only picture I had of Tom and me. Tom was looking at me and I at him. We were holding hands. That’s all I had written, Tom and me.
