Rebecca, sitting on my right, nudges me, then says in her loud voice, ‘I think you always have a choice.’
‘Yes,’ says Inger, from across the circle. She is wearing a black dress, which surprises me. It’s a sheath, the kind of glamorous garment that belongs to a formal event, not on this island. Still, there can’t be many opportunities to dress up. ‘I think it’s fine to want revenge. It’s fine to act on it. But you have to know you’ll pay the price for it. Be aware of what it means, yes, and think it through.’
‘And that makes it okay?’ says Rebecca.
‘No, but it makes it methodical,’ I say. I like Inger’s practical solemnity. Sitting a few rows behind her in the screening room, I found myself watching the back of Inger’s head more often than Jodie Foster’s deliberations. There had been, in the way she leaned forward during the emotional moments of the film, a feeling of intense concentration emanating from her. I don’t think I’ve ever managed to concentrate on something in that way. Right now, only half of me is in this group. The other half is wondering how Kay is doing on her mission to find a way into the basement of the white house without being detected.
The meeting peters out into general chatting about lives back home, and I am silent once more as Rebecca categorises everyone’s experiences and attempts to make sense of them. She really can’t help herself. Later, we stand side by side at the sinks in the toilets, and she at least has the grace to look embarrassed.
‘Do you know what?’ She washes her hands, using the pink soap from the dispenser. ‘Other people’s problems are much easier to deal with. But I do wonder if my way is the right way. Who’s to say facing up to it and moving on has to work? Why couldn’t we all just pretend the worst things never happened and refuse to confront them?’
I’m pretty certain by now that Rebecca isn’t a person I would get along with under usual circumstances. ‘When you told that woman with the abusive husband—’
‘Sophie.’
‘When you told Sophie she could leave, you think you could have said something different?’
Reflected in the mirrors are shiny taps, the clean sheets of the walls, and Rebecca’s grim smile as she says, ‘Do you think Sophie will ever leave him? I wonder if it matters what I say to her. Or if he’ll beg, and promise to go to counselling, and next thing you know she’ll be in the casualty department with bruises the shape of his fingers around her neck. Again.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I tell her. I have to believe in the possibility of change, it seems. ‘You never know. This island has a strange effect on people.’
‘Like your mother? You think she hadn’t already decided to leave before she came here?’
‘I don’t know.’ I rip a handful of dark blue paper towels from the dispenser, and hand some to Rebecca.
‘Was your father abusive?’ she asks me.
‘He was a normal dad. Until she didn’t come back. And then he ignored me, that’s all.’ I think of piggybacks, of ice creams, of hands keeping me afloat in the swimming pool, locked under my tummy while I kick, and suddenly I feel ashamed of ever forgetting that side, instead of seeing only the shadow of him, lurking in The Cornerhouse. I throw the paper towels in the bin. ‘Come on. Kay should be waiting for us.’
‘Listen, I’m not sure that this thing with Kay is such a good idea.’
‘Let’s just see what she’s found out,’ I say. ‘Maybe there’s nothing.’ But it doesn’t feel that way. There is excitement buzzing through me. Something is about to happen.
* * *
Standing outside the cinema, under the light from the old-fashioned streetlight placed at a crossroads in the gravel path, Kay hops from one foot to the other in her big, black boots as we walk over to her. ‘That took ages!’ she says. ‘Did you dissect it scene by scene?’
I hear a cough behind me; Inger is approaching in her sheath dress, coatless, with a large bunch of keys in one hand. ‘Thanks for coming along,’ she says.
‘I enjoyed it.’
‘Me too. The pool’s open from ten tomorrow, if you want a swim.’
I watch her go, sure-footed, swinging the keys. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all.
Rebecca leans over and whispers close to my ear, very loudly, ‘I think she suspects something.’
Kay rolls her eyes. ‘Is this whole thing not melodramatic enough for you, then, Rebecca?’
‘I just think it isn’t a good idea to start doing things that are morally wrong because you happen to both think that the ends justify the means. What happens when you get caught?’
‘So we’re definitely going to get caught, are we?’
‘Yes, actually. Because that’s what happens to criminals.’
‘Like the Nazis, you mean? Like Klaus Barbie, living out his life in South America, soaking up the sunshine?’
Rebecca flicks back her hair and turns up the collar on her coat. ‘There is no point trying to have a rational discussion if you’re going to bring up Nazi Germany. That’s totally uncalled for. As a comparison. And didn’t he get caught eventually?’
‘Listen,’ I say, before it can get any worse, ‘I don’t want to upset anyone. I’m not going to torture people or run away to Bolivia. I just want to see one declaration. Just one. I won’t look at anyone else’s, I promise, Rebecca. And besides, it’s probably locked up too tight for me to even get near.’
‘Heh,’ says Kay. ‘That’s what you think. Come on. I’ve had a quick look round the grounds of the white house, and I think I’ve found a way in. Maybe we’ll even uncover the mummy of Amelia Worthington, still signing acceptance letters, with a fountain pen in her bandaged hand.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not doing anything of the sort. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk about it around me, either.’ Rebecca sticks her hands into her pockets. ‘I’m going back to the bungalow now. I think you should come back and play a board game and forget all about this, Marianne. There are other ways to find your answers. You don’t have to become your mother to understand her, I promise you.’
It is so polished, such a slick thing to say, that it is impossible to take it seriously. I tell her, carefully, ‘We’ll be back really soon, okay? We’re just going to take a look. That’s all.’
Rebecca stares at me, and I return the gaze. She is not my mother, and she doesn’t get to tell me what to do. I’m now absolutely certain that I don’t like her. Eventually Rebecca drops her eyes and walks away.
‘Right,’ says Kay. ‘It’s this way. It gets really dark but I’ve got a pocket torch.’
‘You brought a torch with you?’
‘And a penknife. I’m that kind of woman.’
I’m not sure exactly what kind of woman brings a survival kit on holiday but I’m grateful to have that small circle of yellow light from the torch as I stumble along the paths, following, hoping Kay isn’t leading us over a cliff. The sea makes boisterous crashing noises below, even though the night is still, and the clumps of wild grass catch at my feet; the thought occurs to me that the island is trying to stop us from reaching the house. I push it away and keep moving towards that bobbing pool of torchlight.
The light splits into segments, fractured by the rungs of a wrought iron gate. Kay moves the torch to the left, along the line of the hedge, to reveal a small hole, maybe made by one of the sheep, only a few yards away. ‘Come on,’ she says. We squeeze through the privet, and I emerge with the feeling of having been scraped into a new world. The rough grass has become a lawn, and the torchlight reveals the white cube of the house up ahead, with circular black windows, like shark eyes in the deep.
I catch a flicker of light in one of the windows. ‘Turn off the torch!’
Kay snaps off the beam. There is no further movement from the upper window. Eventually my eyes adjust to the point where it is possible to move forwards, small steps. I’m grateful for the flat, straight lawn underfoot. The house takes on an iridescent quality, glowing, reflecting the moonlight. We reach th
e nearest wall and I find myself taking Kay’s hand and finding warmth in the corresponding squeeze.
‘This way,’ Kay whispers. She leads me along the wall, around the corner, to a flight of stone steps that lead down below the line of the lawn to a small door, wooden, with a brass ring for a handle, and a large keyhole set above it. Gathered around the foot of the door are unused terracotta plant pots, arranged in order of height, and a trowel.
I reach for the brass ring and Kay shakes her head. She points instead to a sash window further down, half-open, easy to climb through. She turns the torch back on and shines it through; I see an undecorated room, stone walls and floor, and a washing machine standing in the corner next to a mop and a bucket. There’s an archway that leads to what looks like a corridor, and a high shelf, upon which wait bottles of bleach and loo cleaner, and four small tins of paint.
‘What do you think?’ whispers Kay.
I don’t want to think. I want to be done with this, and I want my answers, so I ignore my instincts and climb through the gap in the window, sliding on my belly, feeling the buttons on my coat snag on the ledge, then pull free. I stand up and breathe in washing powder, a chemical brand that irritates my nostrils. I have to suppress a sneeze.
All is silent. I cross to the archway and look down the corridor, which ends in an abrupt flight of stairs upwards. There is a grunt, and then Kay comes up behind me and shines the torch down it, revealing faded 1950s wallpaper, a pattern of huge white orchids against what must once have been a vibrant yellow background. There are three doors: two on the left and one on the right. I walk to the first door on the left and put my hand on the cold brass knob. I decide against it. I don’t know why. I’m picturing the library of declarations: a huge space, rows of shelves, alphabetically filed, although I’m probably being old-fashioned and there will only be a broom cupboard with a computer and a hard drive for these many thousands of words. Still, for some reason I turn to the door on the right. I walk up to it, and wait for Kay.
The beam of the torch reveals four squares painted on the wood a little below eye-level – one red, one blue, one yellow, one green – in a row, the lines exact, the paint vibrant under torchlight. I run my fingers over them, feeling the slickness of the paint. They feel familiar to me, these four squares. A logo for some product I have forgotten.
Kay puts her head close to mine. ‘What is it?’ Her voice contains a tremor of fear that strokes my spine and grabs me for the first time. I manage to say, ‘I don’t know.’ I put out my hand and turn the doorknob. It opens easily, swinging back, and I find myself looking into the large space I had imagined, with tall metal shelves forming aisles, ceiling-high, filled with black lever arch files.
Kay puts her hand around the door and I hear a click; the overhead strip light flickers, then gives out a steady, yellow glow. She switches off her torch.
The room is spotless. I walk down the first row of shelves and see no dust, no disorder. Kay starts down the aisle next to me.
‘What’s your surname?’ she calls, softly.
‘Percival. No, wait, that’s my married name. Spence. My mother’s name was Vanessa Spence.’
‘I’ve found “S”,’ says Kay.
The surnames are printed on the sides of the files. It occurs to me that she might have made the declaration under her own maiden name. ‘Wait – it might be under March as well.’
‘You check “M”, then.’
I walk down the row, turn the corner, start down another. The ‘MA’ section is high up; I have to stretch up to read along the row. There is only one March, so I take it down and hold it in my hands. The folder is just like the type I once used at school. I try to slow my breathing, to think about what I want to find out, but it’s too difficult to be rational. I give up the battle to control it and open the folder.
A clear plastic pocket is attached to the rings of the spine, and inside the pocket is a sheet of yellow, A4-sized paper.
At the top, like a letterhead for an expensive hotel, are the words
SKEIN ISLAND
And underneath
I was born in Padstow in 1953. My father was a butcher. Everyone came to him for their pork chops and ox tongue, and at the same time they’d ask for his advice, about anything, about houses and jobs and their love lives. He gave great advice. To my sisters and to me, too. He’d say, when I came to him and told him what had gone wrong with my latest boyfriend, ‘Listen, Jo-Jo, life’s all chop and change. Just make sure you’re getting enough chop for your change.’ I loved him dearly, and when he died, the whole town turned out for the funeral. I’ve never met another man like him. I don’t suppose I ever will, now.
It’s not her. This is someone else, some other March. It’s the story of a woman who is nothing to do with me.
I slide the sheet back into the pocket and replace the file on the shelf. I walk around to where Kay is standing, and find her sliding folder after folder from the shelf, reading maybe the first line from the paper within before replacing them.
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘These are more boring than I thought they would be, actually. Did you find your mum’s?’
‘It’s not here.’
‘But everyone who comes here writes one. Maybe she used a pseudonym.’
‘Or maybe she never came here at all,’ I say. If not, where did she go? How can I possibly find out anything, when the one fact I’ve been holding on to is a lie? I walk through the rows until I find the final files – ‘Z’. There are only a few folders there, and then an empty space. Beyond that, there is a brick wall and, set into that, a small cupboard door, perhaps half the size of a normal door. Painted upon it are the four squares: red, blue, yellow, green.
Next to the door, on the ground, is a red plastic tray with three of the black A4 lever arch files in it. I squat, and open the top one. The clear plastic folder within holds a sheet of aged cream, expensive writing paper with no letterhead, and on it, in delicate, looping handwriting, is written:
My name is Lady Amelia Henrietta Elizabeth Worthington and I am eighty-seven years old. I am a collector of unique objects. I am the owner of Skein Island.
I close the file.
I stand up, and open the cupboard door.
Inside is a dark space, a wall of black, and I feel the depth of it, stretching back and back. There is a waft of warm air, musty, over my face. From deep inside, something shifts. It is moving. It moves towards me.
I slam the door.
Kay is standing a little way behind me. She says, ‘What?’
‘It’s a cupboard,’ I say. I can’t think of any other words to explain it.
‘We should get going,’ says Kay. ‘Guess what I’ve just noticed?’ She points above the cupboard door; in the corner of the ceiling there is, suspended, a small, black camera, with one blinking red light. ‘We’d never make professional burglars, would we?’
Rebecca was right. Nothing has been gained, and I have been caught in the act: the act of breaking yet another promise.
‘Ah, never mind, we’ll just say we were curious. No harm done.’ Kay takes my hand. ‘Besides, I bet they don’t even check it. If they were monitoring it, some security guard would have turned up by now, right? And it’s not even pointing the right way. At that angle all it’s picking up is this little bit of the room. Come on.’
I hold on to the folder, keep it safe against my chest, as Kay pulls me from the room, through the basement, and pushes me out of the half-open window. All is still.
This kind of darkness, I can cope with. It is not absolute, or consuming, like the black of the cupboard. Something about that cupboard has sparked my imagination, I tell myself, as Kay takes my hand once more and we begin to retrace our steps across the island. Imagination can do the strangest things to a person. It can crawl into a small space and make it grow. I’ve discovered something that should not have been found. I feel it.
We don’t speak, all the way back. We reach our bungalow. The lights are off; I’m sure
Rebecca is lying awake in the dark, waiting for us to turn on the bedroom light so she can claim we woke her up and scold us like children. Instead Kay turns on her torch once more and shines the beam at the folder, still in my arms. ‘Is that one of the declarations?’ she whispers. ‘I thought we didn’t find one for your mother.’
‘This is someone else’s.’
‘So you’re just stealing random ones now? Weirdo.’
‘I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’
‘Aren’t you coming to bed too?’
‘Not yet,’ I tell her. She shrugs, hands me the torch, and wanders over to the bedroom.
I sit at the kitchen table and angle the torch on its surface so I can read in its light. I put the folder in front of me and run my hands over it. Skein Island library has stolen my mother from me, put her firmly out of my reach once more. But I have stolen something from it. Something important. The first declaration.
I open the folder, and I begin to read.
My name is Lady Amelia Henrietta Elizabeth Worthington and I am eighty-seven years old. I am a collector of unique objects. I am the owner of Skein Island.
In 1942 I was the most well-connected socialite in London, and I was in love with a man. He was German, and very rich – a Junker, as they were called back then; a Prince of Prussia. His name was Friedrich. Our wealth allowed us the privilege of not having to choose any side in that war but our own, and so we were following our mutual passion for antiquities through the Mediterranean, with plans to spend a few months in Northern Africa, digging over Carthage. I do not remember giving serious thought to the future. Friedrich was a member of the Nazi party, of course, as everyone was back then, but it meant nothing to him, or to me. You may think that we were selfish, and I wouldn’t deny it. But I believed then that every person, rich or poor, should be allowed the right to turn their back on the responsibilities that others mete out to them so easily. It always bemused me that my wealth alone incited others to demand certain behaviours: marriage, children, moral obligations that disgusted me. Some of our ideas change as we age. Only when we are old can we see that this change is not the weakness of humanity, but its strength.
Skein Island Page 5
