Skein Island

by Aliya Whiteley

  ‘Night’s getting in.’

  So he had been under observation; a young, heavy-set man was watching him from a small, blue fishing boat. A stuffed doll, like a scarecrow, was tied tight by its waist and neck to the prow. The man was heaving up a rope, hand over hand. David watched as an empty, crusted lobster pot, stinking of the bottom of the sea, broke free from the waves and was tossed on to the deck.

  ‘Will you take me out?’ David said. The scarecrow had been dressed in a blue overall and a sou’wester. In contrast, the young fisherman wore black jeans and a grey ski-jacket, modern, stylish. His long curly hair flopped around his ears in the wind.

  ‘I’m just putting her to bed.’ He didn’t have much of a local accent.

  ‘I’ll pay anything you like.’

  ‘Where do you want to go, eh? Night fishing?’

  ‘Skein Island.’

  The fisherman laughed without making a sound. ‘You can’t get on there, mate.’

  ‘Just to look. From the boat. Just to sail round it once and come back again.’

  ‘It’ll be a rough ride.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ David said. He got out his wallet, sensing victory. ‘How much?’

  ‘We’ll do that later. Come over and put on a jacket.’ The man set out a metal walkway from the side of the boat to the quay, and David edged across its slippery surface.

  He had sailed before, at South Cerney, when he was a teenager – a friend’s father had kept a boat moored there – but this grey sea, choppy with intention, was very different from that calm stretch of water. The boat bucked underneath his feet as they hit the mouth of the harbour, and as the rain picked up so did the swell of the waves. David stood next to the fisherman at the wheel in the tiny cabin, undecorated apart from a small ceramic mermaid placed on the sill of the window, her arms stretched up, exposing enormous breasts with red-tipped nipples. The wheel was turned first one way, then the other, apparently without thought, somehow making sense of the ocean.

  ‘Your wife out there, is she?’ The fisherman nodded. ‘We get ’em every now and again. Lovesick types, jealous types. You don’t look like the usual.’

  ‘What do they usually look like?’

  ‘Thick. It’s no good depending on women that way, is it? Either you’re on top or they are. Dog eat dog. Eat bitch.’

  In a fit of pure malice David said, ‘Married, are you?’ already knowing the answer.

  The man gave his silent laugh, shoulders shrugging. ‘You won’t catch me playing that game.’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  ‘You mean that’s what you used to say.’ He was right, of course. During A Levels, sitting around in the common room with their legs slung over the frayed arms of the chairs and a ghetto blaster playing rap or indie as loud as they dared, he and his friends had talked about girls as the enemy. To be overwhelmed, taken, given what for, then left if they became too demanding in some way that was never specified. It had felt expected of them to talk that way, no matter what they felt inside about themselves or their sexuality, which had to remain hidden from view. Women were seen as a mysterious foe back then, lying in wait across a wasteland of years, shrouded in fog. Not quite real.

  ‘There it is,’ said the fisherman.

  Ahead, cliffs rose from the sea, close and dark. David watched the fisherman turn the wheel, and the boat struggled against the surging waves, drawing parallel to the island.

  ‘Once around and we’re heading back.’

  David nodded. ‘I’ll just go out on the deck, get a better look.’

  ‘Hold on to the rail, then.’

  He slid back the cabin door and stepped on to the deck. The rain and wind hit him like an attack; he braced himself, managed to close the door behind him, and gripped the rail, feeling terror of the deep seep into him.

  Marianne was on that island, and he couldn’t get any closer. He had harboured visions of diving in, swimming across clear water with powerful strokes of his arms, to find her on the shore, waiting, with a look in her eyes that unmistakeably meant I love you. But the walls of the cliffs, the black rocks that surrounded them, were a rebuttal of his imaginings. He couldn’t see anything but the rock face.

  He looked at his hands on the rail. The strength of them, holding on.

  The man at the library had tried to make Marianne obey, bend to his will, and she had told him no. How had she done that? All the power in his body was nothing compared to her – her ability to change the situation, take life and shake it out, make it work out differently. His hands couldn’t hold her; the cubes had shown him that. A woman’s power to control men – Marianne, Mags, the damsel from the back room of The Cornerhouse – beat back the strength of his grip every time.

  He let go of the rail.

  At first he kept his balance, tilting his body to keep upright, riding the motion of the boat. Then it bucked, so hard and fast, like a bull underneath him, and his thighs hit the rail and his body went over, turning a full somersault into the rain. The liquid ice of the water encased him and froze him, instantly, leaving no way to move, no way to think. When he surfaced, sucking up a breath as huge as the sky, he realised his lifejacket was the only thing that had saved him, bringing him up to the surface.

  What are you doing? said Marianne, quite clearly, in his ear. He couldn’t reply. The waves slapped his face, ripped at his hair and throat. The boat wasn’t close; he couldn’t see it anywhere. He tried to swim in a circle to catch sight of it, and couldn’t even manage that. The sea kept dragging him onwards, insistent, and suddenly a black rock loomed up at his face. He threw out his hands, caught it, felt the slam and the scrape of his body against it, couldn’t hold on, and was tossed back. Stinging ribbons of pain twined around his palms and wrists, and then he was thrown at the rock again. This time he didn’t get his arms out; his head connected with the rock, and there was no pain, no sea, no island. Just the sense that something had to be done, didn’t it have to be done? And Marianne saying, David, David, what are you doing? over and over in his left ear, her voice so sad, so sorry, that all he wanted was to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be—

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The swimming pool is closed.

  Maybe it’s too early. But my watch says ten minutes past ten. And I couldn’t wait around the bungalow any more, sitting at that table surrounded by toast crumbs and cups of cold coffee, watching Rebecca pace and listening to Kay read aloud from the declaration I stole.

  Something is wrong on this island. Something that lives in a small room next to the library of declarations, behind a door marked with four squares. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t run; there’s nobody to take me from this island.

  Rebecca doesn’t believe it, anyway. ‘They’ll find out that you broke in, and they’ll come for you,’ she said over the noise of the rain. She was applying jam to her third piece of toast with absolute precision, up to each corner. Behind her, Kay stopped pacing and pulled a face.

  ‘Maybe she’s not dead after all,’ she said. ‘Maybe Amelia faked her own death. For some reason. Maybe she’s crazy.’

  ‘She was obviously crazy,’ said Rebecca. ‘But that declaration could have been written years ago. Does the handwriting match the signature on the letter you received, Marianne?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  Rebecca raised her eyebrows at me. ‘What are you trying to convince yourself of? There’s no conspiracy. There’s you and Kay, breaking the rules. And they will catch you.’

  I thought she was right. But I waited for hours. Where are they, the nameless ‘they’? When are they coming? Eventually I couldn’t wait any more. I came here, to the pool, wanting the empty expanse of the water to hide in. I can’t deny that I’m looking for an ally, and Inger looks like just the kind of person who might step in and save me, if saving is needed. Would she turn her calm, capable face to them, and tell them that they can’t take me?
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  I’m letting my imagination run away with me. I’ve always loved a good story, and now I seem to be spinning one for myself. There has to be a simple explanation for all this. A confused old lady with Alzheimer’s. A fable, a figment of imagination, someone pretending to write like Amelia would have. There are many alternatives, but none of them work at driving out Amelia’s words. Of dispelling the feeling that crept over me as I stood next to that small door marked with four cubes.

  And the swimming pool is still not open.

  I knock on the glass door, but nobody comes.

  I start a slow walk up to the white reception building. If there’s no swimming today, perhaps there’s an alternative – yoga, or creative writing. The rain is, unbelievably, intensifying, but it doesn’t matter; I’m already soaked through. The drops are smashing into my face like a punishment. By the time I reach the reception I have been hammered into a wet mess, my clothes sopping, my head and hands numb. The automatic doors admit me, and I squelch over to the main desk and look over the laminated timetable that is pinned to the display board.

  The receptionist emerges from the door behind the desk and glances at me. She stops walking, and the glance becomes a stare. I can feel her deciding on what she’s about to say. This is it. The moment is here.

  ‘Marianne Percival?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Makepeace is looking for you. She’s just gone over to your bungalow, about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Mrs Makepeace?’

  ‘The director. Of the island.’ There’s a flurry of rain and noise behind me. A woman is standing by the entrance, her long blue raincoat dripping, her hood pulled up, obscuring her face. She’s a few inches shorter than me. Her raincoat skirts the ground, and the sleeves cover her hands. It was made for a much larger woman.

  ‘Here she is,’ says the receptionist, with acres of relief in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to the woman in the raincoat. ‘Is there a problem?’ Now the moment is upon me, I’m determined to play it cool, to not admit to anything.

  She pinches the hood between her thumbs and forefingers and slowly pulls it back before giving me a good look over. She’s older than I expected, with big brown eyes and a blunt, businesslike fringe to her short hair. She has lines on her face, visible even from across the room. They run from the corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth, as if she has spent years doing nothing but smiling. She looks intelligent, and charming, and like she could hold her own in an argument.

  ‘Hello hello hello,’ she says, staccato-fashion, ‘I’m so delighted you’re here. I was just about to organise a search party, which is ridiculous on an island this size, really, isn’t it? I should be able to just go and stand outside and whistle, and everyone should come running. But, of course, I can’t in this rain, can I?’ She moves closer to me. ‘I tried your bungalow but they said you were at the swimming pool, and then the pool was closed, which it’s really not meant to be today, so that’s something else I’m going to have to look into. But it turns out you’re here! How lucky! You’re soaked through. You really could do with a better coat for this weather. I need a few minutes of your time, Marianne – would that be okay?’

  About halfway through her speech, I realise that she’s nervous. I also remember that her name isn’t Mrs Makepeace, whatever she might claim. Her name is Vanessa. Vanessa Spence. Or it was on the day I last saw her.

  I’m looking at my mother.

  Funny, but even as one part of my brain keeps repeating that fact, the other part manages to respond, in a perfectly normal voice, ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ and my feet are following her around the reception desk, and into the small office behind it. My mother is saying, ‘Oh good, well, let’s not drag ourselves up to the main house right now, not in this weather. Why don’t we just come through here, will this do?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I take off my coat and put it on the back of the seat on the nearside of the desk. She unbuttons her own coat quickly. Underneath she’s wearing a double-breasted jacket with a short skirt in matching blue – another outfit that looks too big on her. She sits down opposite me and clasps her hands, interlacing her fingers on the desktop. Her fingernails are very short and unvarnished.

  ‘You broke into my house last night,’ she says. ‘What were you looking for?’

  I have no idea what to say. She’s suddenly direct, and dynamic. She looks like she wants an answer, and quickly, but I can’t provide it. Eventually, I manage one word. ‘You.’

  ‘I thought so.’ She nods. She doesn’t speak for a long moment. ‘There’s a lot to explain,’ she tells me, as if I didn’t know. ‘I’ve tried to get it straight. When I heard you’d arrived I wanted everything to be clear, in my mind, so it would be ready for you. It would make sense. But I couldn’t decide what bits I should tell you.’

  ‘Tell me all of it.’

  She smiles. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea.’

  I can’t call her mother, but I need to be sure. No – it’s not that I’m unsure. It’s that I need her to acknowledge it too. So I say, ‘Vanessa?’

  ‘Yes, I know, you want to be told what happened. That’s why you’re here. I never came back because I got a better offer. You’re a wife now, too, aren’t you? That’s what you wrote on your form. You can’t have been married for long so perhaps you won’t understand this yet. Or perhaps you’re just beginning to see how reductive terms like wife and mother can be. Is that why you acted on the letter I sent you?’

  ‘You sent it?’

  ‘Well, really, it’s from Amelia, I suppose. The spirit of her. But I wrote it and signed it. It’s difficult to explain. But it’s all very important, so I’m going to have to try harder, aren’t I? I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, and, forgive me for saying so, but you’re not making it any easier.’

  I don’t remember hating her, before, but it would be very easy to start hating her now. She doesn’t even pretend to care. She uses a slightly disappointed tone of voice on me, as if she deserves to. ‘You waited for this? While you were in Bedford?’

  ‘Bedford? Why on earth would I be in Bedford?’

  ‘You wrote and said—’

  ‘Ah.’ She holds up a hand. ‘Arnie. I’m guessing Arnie set that up. I should have realised he’d feed you some lies rather than let you find out what happened for yourself. Always attempting to control the situation, that was Arnie. Too clever for his own good.’

  I bite back the instinct to remind her that he’s not dead yet. I dare say she doesn’t actually care. ‘You never wrote any letters to me from Bedford? None?’

  ‘I couldn’t explain it in a letter. Not then, not now. It’s the kind of thing that has to be done face to face.’

  ‘So here I am. Better late than never. Perhaps you’d like to get on with it.’

  She takes in a breath, as if I’ve shocked her. I’m glad. It makes me feel like her equal. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘It’s like this. Last night you took a declaration made by the founder of this island. So you know she was an amazing woman. I’m here because she asked me to take over the task of caring for this island, and reading aloud to the statue in the basement. I wouldn’t choose to start there, but you saw the door with the four painted squares. You even opened it, didn’t you? So it seems ridiculous to start anywhere else.’

  I should feel something, but I can’t conjure an emotion. Too many shocks in one morning, perhaps. ‘You keep the… statue down there?’

  ‘I go down to it with a pile of newly completed declarations from the week before, and I read the words out loud. Amelia always believed it prefers fresh stories.’

  ‘So Amelia is dead? And you read to a statue because she asked you to?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Well done. You’ve got the basics.’

  I look around the office: the white walls with one framed picture, a Vettriano print of a dancer in a flame-red dress; a traditional grey filing cabinet in the corner next to the window, where
the venetian blind has been pulled, leaving the room in grainy semi-darkness.

  Would it be better to simply walk away? I wish I had less self-control. Then I wouldn’t have to rein in this instinct. I would leave the room and never talk to her again. But first I would say, no, shout—You let a statue take priority over your child? Over me?

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she says, ‘and I certainly wouldn’t have picked that as the first piece of information I’d give to you. Not if you hadn’t read it for yourself. But you did, didn’t you?’ She sits back in her chair.

  There’s a light tapping at the door, and the receptionist pokes her head around. ‘I just wanted to check if everything’s okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks Carol.’ My mother’s pleasant face is back in place. ‘We won’t be much longer.’

  ‘There’s tea and coffee making things in the top drawer of the filing cabinet, if you want drinks.’

  ‘Lovely, that will warm us up. You get on now, I’m fine to make it.’

  Carol closes the door, and we’re alone again.

  ‘She’s wondering what’s going on. It’s a strange day,’ says my mother. She stands up, opens the drawer and brings out a small travel kettle. She checks it for water, then puts it on the carpet next to the skirting board and plugs it in. While it boils she fetches two mugs from the drawer, and shakes instant coffee from a jar into both. I watch her perform these actions as if we sit together this way every day, knowing each other, perhaps working together in this office, comfortable in this sudden silence.

  The kettle boils. She pours water into the mugs and hands one to me, not even asking how I take it. She takes a sip of her own and sits backs down, leaving the kettle on the carpet. ‘I came here for a week off,’ she says. ‘To sit around, do nothing, meet other women in unhappy marriages and have a good moan about it. Moaning is therapeutic, did you know that? I’ve seen it work here. A week of dedicated moaning about the sheer awfulness of their husbands, fathers, sons, and they’re quite happy to take the ferry back to it all. I would have been too. I could have gone back to your father and stuck it out for decades. I might still be there now. I really mean that.’