Skein Island

by Aliya Whiteley

  ‘You must be Marianne Spence? You’re lucky to get a place at the last minute. Usually our ladies don’t just turn up at the dock.’

  ‘It’s Marianne Percival, actually. Spence is my maiden name.’

  She makes a note on the computer screen. ‘Well, we’re having a slow week, so you’ve got good timing. Here’s your itinerary. The compulsory activities are highlighted. There aren’t many, so don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for you to do your own thing. The yellow pieces of paper are for your declaration. There’s a compulsory meeting on Monday morning about how to complete it, only half an hour and there’s tea and biscuits. The pink sheet is a map of the island. You can see I’ve put a cross in red on your shared accommodation. You’re in bungalow three. There are no locks or keys on the island. It’s necessary for you to place your mobile phone, laptop and communication devices in the safe keeping area, which is marked with a green cross. I’m afraid there are absolutely no exceptions to that.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘That’s fine. I have a question, actually.’

  ‘Okay, but the meeting on Monday should cover everything.’

  ‘No, about why I – how I came to get a place here.’

  ‘We really can’t go into selection criteria.’

  ‘No, but… I received a letter. From Amelia Worthington. It said it was a personal invitation.’

  She purses her lips. ‘We only send out standard letters of acceptance.’

  ‘This is different. It’s signed by her. Lady Worthington.’

  ‘Do you have it with you?’

  ‘No, I… I’m sorry.’ It’s still in my bag, on the back of the door to the library office. A place I couldn’t bear to go. ‘Is there any way to check what you sent out to me? From here?’

  She taps away on the keyboard, and I wait, patiently, like a good and quiet customer. ‘It says here you applied in the summer.’

  ‘No.’ It makes no sense.

  ‘You sure?’

  I attempt to suppress my irritation, but I know it’s on my face, in the lines around my mouth.

  ‘Of course. I’ve never applied. My mother applied, seventeen years ago. That would have been under Spence. Maybe there’s been a mix-up. Do daughters get invited back?’

  ‘No, that’s not… That shouldn’t make any difference. Leave it with me. I’ll look into it.’

  Did I think it was going to be resolved so easily? What exactly am I doing here? I dare to voice the idea that’s been lurking in my head since this morning. ‘Can I ask, would it be possible to see my mother’s declaration? Since I’m here?’

  The receptionist makes her sympathetic face. ‘I’m really sorry, but we don’t do that. All declarations are strictly confidential.’

  ‘As a family member, I must have some sort of right to view it?’

  She’s getting frustrated with me; her eyes slide away to the door. ‘No, I’m sorry, but not at all.’

  I pick up my bag and papers, wearied by the polite argument, and turn away. I was expecting to find out nothing, and therefore it is no discouragement. I already have plans in place. I’m glad the mystery remains unsolved.

  Over the double doors to the reception, carved into a wooden plaque in tiny letters, is a familiar quote. I approach it, and squint up at it. My eyes haven’t lied to me. Homer lurks here too.

  EACH MAN DELIGHTS IN THE WORK THAT SUITS HIM BEST.

  At the bottom of the plaque, four squares have been painted in a row, equidistant: red, blue, yellow and green.

  * * *

  Once I step off the main path I soon find myself in fields of harsh, hillocked grasses that catch at my boots. The winter sun is surprisingly strong and there are no trees, not an inch of cover in sight. Even so, the skin on my face tingles with cold.

  Skein Island is half a mile across at its largest point, shaped like a lozenge, long and thin, with ragged cliffs that erode a little more every year. The buildings stand thirty metres above sea level and there is only one accessible beach, at which the boat docks for thirty minutes every Saturday. It is the definition of isolation. I know all about it. There was a book released in the seventies, black and white pictures of women with stark faces in front of small, shabby buildings; I kept it under my bed for years, then deliberately destroyed it with a pair of kitchen scissors before marrying David. To symbolise something, I suppose.

  If I had a telescope, I reckon I could see Allcombe pier jutting out from the green mass of land that lies over the water. Maybe, by now, a few out-of-season holidaymakers are out, eating fish and chips, wrapped up warm against the chill of the wind over the Bristol Channel. But there is no way to tell what is happening on that far shore, except that the Sea Princess is about to return to it; that is the one recognisable, straight-lined shape I can spot, moving away, swaying on the waves.

  I keep walking, leaving the white walls of the reception building behind. The Sea Princess soon falls out of sight. Now there are sheep, not white clouds of sheep, but watchful eyes in tangled stringy masses of burred wool, their shiny, crusted droppings lying all around, and the cloying, earthy smell of them filling up my nostrils. They are simply loose, free to go where they like without fences or hedges to hold them back. Something about that thought triggers the memory of the man walking into the library and saying to me, Get in the back. Take off your clothes and lie down.

  I push it away.

  Seventeen years ago my mother came here, to the island. Then, when her week was up, she had decided not to come home. I received birthday cards with a Bedfordshire postmark, but in all other ways she had gone. My father and I were consigned to her past.

  And now, to suit some unknown purpose, I am here.

  The lip of the island becomes visible. I stomp onwards. I walk up to the edge and stand as close to the drop as I dare. I examine the chalky angles of the cliff, the jagged points of the rocks upon which the sea flicks itself into foamy exclamations. My hatred of heights presses strongly around me, insisting that I take a step away. On holiday, skiing in La Grave, high in the toothbrush-clean mountains of the Alps, I lost my nerve at the ski lift and shuffled back to the hotel while David laughed from the slopes. But there was no embarrassment, just a mutual understanding of who we both were, why I was the weaker one. David is good at skiing and Marianne is good at reading E. M. Forster novels in front of open fires. I know my limitations. Except that I thought this trip was beyond me; I always stipulated that I didn’t want to come here, to follow in my mother’s footsteps.

  I walk along the cliff edge, keeping to its undulations, watching the sun dip lower. A small blue bench comes into view up ahead. Upon it sits a woman, still and stretched out, palms down on the wood, legs long, crossed at the ankles.

  I consider turning back, but then the woman moves her head in my direction, and there is something welcoming in the way she cocks it to one side. She has a square face with smallish eyes, lost in a nest of energetic crow’s feet.

  ‘Lovely sunset,’ she says, when I get close enough to hear.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What number are you in? I’m in three.’

  It takes me a moment to realise she’s talking about the bungalows. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Takes some getting used to,’ says the woman. I nod, and stand beside the bench, keeping my eyes on the sea. ‘Can’t take too long to settle in, though. We’ve only got a week. I’m Kay, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Marianne.’

  ‘I’ve already got half my declaration done in my head. As soon as I found out I had a place, I was thinking it over. You?’

  I haven’t considered this – the writing of my own declaration. ‘I don’t know. I think it might come easily to me, though. I love reading.’ How smug that must sound. The breeze picks up. The sun is completing its inexorable trajectory into the sea.

  ‘I wonder what the food will be like,’ says Kay. She pats the square of bench beside her, and I perch on the end.

  ‘I think we have to cook it ourselves.’
r />   ‘Really? Crap. I live on microwave meals back home.’

  ‘I’ll cook, if you like. For us. Or anyone.’

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ says Kay. ‘It’s not the kind of thing I’d usually tell a stranger. I know we’re meant to be getting used to the seclusion, saving up all the private stuff for the declaration.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t have been a nun. This place is already too quiet for me. Have you handed in your phone yet? I did that first. I thought – if I don’t do it now, I never will.’

  ‘No, I haven’t done mine yet.’

  ‘Really? Can I check my email?’ She holds up one hand; she has bitten fingernails, painted purple. ‘Actually, no. Scrap that. I bet you don’t get reception out here anyway.’

  We sit in silence. Oddly, I’m relieved that I don’t have to give her my phone. Eventually, I say, ‘You wanted to tell me something?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s only that when I get back home I’m going to buy a motorbike.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I suppose that doesn’t sound like a lot to you. Let’s just say there are reasons why everyone is going to have a meltdown about it.’ She wriggles, and stands up. She’s very thin; her combat trousers hang low on her hips. ‘I’m going to go check out the bungalow. You coming?’

  So I stand up too, and fall into a fast walk beside her, keeping pace, negotiating the dishevelled, uninterested sheep and their turds.

  ‘I bet you’re good at everything,’ says Kay. ‘You look the type.’

  There is no reply that can be made to that. I think of how difficult I once found sex. David is the only man I’ve ever really relaxed with. It was difficult to switch off my brain, to stop worrying that I was taking too long, trying my partner’s patience. But he had endless persistence. He ordered some erotic books on the internet, and a door opened for me. I could become the heroine of the book, and do and say the things that I wanted for the first time. Technically, it was pretending to be somebody else, but that had never seemed to bother David.

  ‘I wasn’t very good at school,’ says Kay. ‘Not great as a mother, either, if I’m honest. My three kids will tell you that, right out. I tried really hard when they were little, but as they get older they stop wanting you to know stuff about their lives, and I never had the patience to whittle away at them. And then, before you know it, it’s all your fault because you didn’t spend three hours a day interrogating them. Besides, when you have three, they form their own gang. You got any kids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘I’m good at motorbikes,’ says Kay. It’s as if she’s been starved of the freedom to talk; she unburdens herself, at speed, with relief scored through every word. ‘I’ve got good reflexes, and stuff. I feel free on a bike, free to be good at it. But on a bike it’s not always enough to be good. All it takes is some idiot in a car, not looking at a junction, and you’re dead. Or out of action for a while. I got hit by a car. Old lady who just didn’t see me, and I went right over the top of her sky blue Nissan Micra and ended up in hospital for eight weeks. I promised my mum and the kids – no more.’ She is walking faster; I have to break into a trot to keep up with her. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to be alive just to make them happy. Nothing else does it for me.’

  ‘Was it a very bad accident?’

  She slows down again as she describes, lovingly, the broken bones, the removed spleen, the physical cracks that lead to emotional ones, her kids, her mother, and the men who never stuck around. It is easy to admire her stubborn belief that only a motorcycle makes her free.

  The main building comes into view once more, a white bulge on the landscape. The lights are off; the island is beginning to look done for the day. I follow Kay back on to the gravel path, through the rose garden, past the glass doors of reception and down the side path that leads to the bungalows. We don’t speak again, but it’s a pleasant silence; the kind that falls when the curtains go up and the show is about to start.

  * * *

  The bungalow is one of many placed in crocodile formation, on either side of the path. The interior space is divided by stand-alone partitions, on one side, the basic kitchen with a long wooden table at its centre and two benches; on the other side, eight single beds with duvets with faded green cases. Strings of electric lights hang from the exposed rafters. It isn’t homely, but the simplicity is appealing. It’s impossible to think of the place as anything other than a temporary stopping point.

  The kitchen is already occupied, the aroma of tomatoes, garlic and onion, keeping each other company.

  ‘You’ve got in there quick,’ says Kay to the woman standing in front of the oven, stirring a pan. ‘Marianne was going to cook for all of us.’

  ‘I thought I’d make puttanesca,’ says the woman, with a beautiful roll of the tongue to her Italian. She has darker skin, and long, hennaed hair, falling in corkscrews. ‘There’s enough for everyone. Are you hungry? I’ll put some pasta on.’

  ‘Great!’ Kay sits down on the bench as if she has the right to be served. ‘Is there any wine?’

  ‘Some cheap red. I used a little for the sauce.’ She gestures towards the bottle. I come forward and take it, then open the coarse pine doors of the kitchen cabinets, hung at head height on the outer wall, until I find three glasses, then bowls and mismatched cutlery. I bring them all to the table, and pour the wine. Kay takes the first glass.

  ‘I’ve put my case on one of the beds already. I hope you don’t mind. I’m Rebecca,’ says the woman. She is wearing a loose green dress that falls back from her arms as she reaches up to turn on the extractor fan. The sound of it echoes around the kitchen. I realise she’s older than I first took her to be.

  ‘I’m Kay. She’s Marianne. I’m usually not that keen on Italian food,’ says Kay, ‘but I’m starving tonight. It smells great. You’re cooking for us too, right?’

  ‘You don’t like Italian? That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ says Rebecca. ‘I thought everyone liked it.’

  ‘And Marianne will cook us something amazing tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t have to,’ I say, even though my input does not seem to be needed. ‘If you like cooking.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ says Rebecca. She kneels down and retrieves a large saucepan, then takes it to the sink and fills it with water. I watch her complete these homely actions, and wonder who Rebecca would usually be doing them for, and why she feels it necessary to do it for strangers.

  Kay carries on talking away, making conversation without needing input. She pours herself a second glass of wine, and I continue to sip on my first until the pasta arrives. It’s tasty; the chopped anchovies and olives warm my throat and then soothe my empty stomach. The act of eating is both painful and satisfying.

  Kay talks of a holiday she once took to Siena. I try to listen, but my thoughts are on the holiday David and I once took to Lake Garda. I can’t remember much of it except the very cold water, transparent to a frightening depth, and the time I had refused to get on a pedalo with David because the idea of being together in the centre of that body of water had been unbearable.

  ‘I’ll make coffee,’ says Rebecca.

  I get up and find cups. At the back of one of the cupboards is an old board game with a ripped lid. I bring it down and put it in the centre of the table, along with milk and sugar.

  ‘Game of Life!’ says Kay. She opens the box and takes out the board, then examines the pieces. ‘There aren’t many pegs left but I reckon we could play a game. It’s better than listening to me all night, right?’ She rolls her eyes, and starts setting out the little plastic cars. ‘So what made you apply, then? For the island?’ She doesn’t aim the question at anyone in particular; Rebecca is busy spooning coffee into a filter jug, so I reply.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Let me guess – your husband did it for you so he could have a week alone with his mates and his widescreen telly.’

  ‘No, nothing
like that. I received the offer of a place without applying. My mother came here years ago. I think maybe it’s to do with that.’

  Kay nods. ‘Did you ask her? Maybe she applied for you. To follow in her footsteps?’

  ‘No, I…’ I swallow, hating the nervous feeling in my throat. ‘I haven’t seen her since she came here, actually, seventeen years ago.’

  ‘She disappeared while she was here?’ Rebecca says, bringing the filter jug to the table, along with a packet of digestives.

  ‘No. No, she’s in Bedfordshire now.’ The ridiculousness of it makes them both laugh. Hearing that sound, I feel comfortable for the first time since that man walked into the library. Time makes the worst things laughable, I suppose. ‘She sends cards every now and again and the postmark says Bedfordshire, but she’s never given me an address, so I always assumed she didn’t want to meet up. She just didn’t want to be with my father any more. Or me, I suppose. Something here – something she realised – persuaded her to leave us.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ says Rebecca. She presses down the plunger on the jug, taking her time, leaning into it. ‘Shouldn’t you be in Bedfordshire somewhere, asking her why? Or do you want to be persuaded to leave everyone behind too?’

  ‘I want to know why I received a letter inviting me here,’ I say. ‘I’ve got no interest in my mother.’ It sounds ridiculously untrue. ‘The letter was signed by Lady Amelia Worthington.’

  ‘Who?’ says Kay.

  Rebecca rolls her eyes. ‘The founder of the island. The dead founder of this island.’

  ‘That’s quite a trick.’ Kay takes the green plastic car between her thumb and forefinger and speeds it around the board. ‘So how are you going to get your answers? Hunt around in between swimming and yoga? Check the graveyard for signs of recent disturbance?’

  ‘Strikes me as an administrative error,’ says Rebecca, pouring the coffee. ‘And there is no graveyard here.’

  The conversation is running away. I say, ‘While I’m here I thought I’d try to find out a little bit about my mother as well. I thought maybe I was invited because she did something interesting when she was here, or wrote a great declaration, or… I don’t know. If I could get her declaration, maybe that would tell me something.’