Beyond the Sea (16 page)

A FEW DAYS
later, Freya was sitting in the window of Ena Maclean's tea shop in Craignure, a pot of tea growing cold on the table in front of her. Outside the sky was overcast and the day was frigid, like winter. From time to time, Freya looked at the smattering of windswept customers inside the shop then bent her head back down to the book resting on her lap. But her show of reading was pretence. She simply didn't want to talk to anybody.

She heard the sound of the shop door opening and the tinkle of the bell. A moment later she felt the presence of someone beside her and heard a male voice speak her name.

She raised her eyes to see Daniel standing beside her. ‘Hi,' she said, surprised. She closed her book and laid it on the table. ‘What brings you here?'

‘Visiting friends. And now taking the ferry to Oban. I'm on my way to Glasgow.' He looked around, at the dim interior of the tea shop, the plastic covers on the small round tables, the gaggle of middle-aged women bunched around Ena at the till, catching up on the day's gossip. ‘Can't say I expected to find you here.'

Freya smiled. ‘I needed to pick up some supplies. And Ena's Victoria sponge is the best on the island,' she added, pushing out the chair in front of her to indicate he should join her.

He nodded, sitting down. His face looked a little strained.

‘How are you?' Freya tried to keep her tone light but couldn't help thinking of the recent conversation she had had with Callum.

His response was sure, automatic, as always. ‘I'm fine, thanks.'

Freya studied him, the cold blue of his eyes, the hard set of his mouth, and wondered whether in fact he was.

‘And you?' he asked her.

She smiled and looked down into her lap. ‘Oh. I guess I'm all right.' As the lie slid easily out of her mouth, she knew it wasn't strange at all that Daniel hadn't talked about his wife. She could see how he was still so affected by his loss and that he had perhaps simply wanted to keep it to himself.

Ena silently set a fresh pot of tea down on the table.

‘Thanks,' Freya said, smiling at her.

‘Nay bother,' Ena replied, giving Freya a quick smile before doing an about turn and leaving them to it.

Freya watched her return to the till to a flurry of raised eyebrows and hushed voices. No doubt she and Daniel were the subject of the conversation. Turning her attention back to him, she caught him looking at her.

‘You're a little … pale, Freya.'

She smiled at the euphemism. She knew she didn't look well. But she didn't want to talk about her dreams or her anxiety, the pills she was taking and the wine she knew she shouldn't be drinking on top of them. Somehow, it was easier not to mention any of it. ‘Marta's gone back to London and I just haven't been sleeping all that well,' she said.

‘Nightmares?' His tone was hushed, empathetic.

‘Yeah. New but unimproved.' She had had the dream again – Sam, Jack and their warnings, only this time she had been wearing the necklace in it. ‘They just seem to get worse not better,' she continued. ‘And I'm not sure why that is.'

Daniel nodded, knowingly. Or perhaps Freya was just imagining that, given what she now knew. She poured them both a cup of tea and then sat back in her chair. She had determined that she wouldn't ask him about his wife. She knew how intrusive it could be from the wrong person. ‘So you're going to Glasgow?' she said at last, into the quiet that had fallen between them. ‘What's happening there?'

‘Oh, it's just work. A meeting of some of our funders. We need to talk about strategy, allocation of money, that kind of stuff.' For a few minutes Daniel expanded on it and then they fell silent once again.

‘So, Freya. I'm glad I ran into you …' he began and then halted. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then ran a hand through his hair. He looked awkward. ‘I wanted to tell you something,' he managed to get out at last.

‘Okay,' Freya said.

‘Last time I saw you, when you told me about Jack and Sam, there was something I wanted to tell you too. I wanted to but I couldn't.'

‘Okay,' Freya said again.

‘I said that I didn't have a wife. I did once though. But she died.'

Even though she was expecting it, Freya still felt the shock of his words. Her reaction was heartfelt. ‘Oh, Daniel. I'm so sorry.'

He gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement. ‘I just couldn't explain.'

Freya waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘It's fine. You don't have to justify yourself. Least of all to me.'

‘Thanks.' Daniel gave her a quick smile.

‘And you don't have to talk about it now if you don't want to.'

Daniel nodded, but there was obviously something he wanted to say. ‘Strangely she died at sea too. I've been thinking about it a lot since I last saw you. It's a strange coincidence, don't you think?'

Perhaps. Freya wasn't sure. But she nodded anyway.

‘Her name was Annalise. She was Norwegian. Long blonde hair, honeyed skin. She was beautiful. We met in Barra when she was travelling and we fell in love. And out here, with the landscape, the mountains and the water, she always felt this place was like home. So she stayed and we got married.' Daniel took a sip of his tea. ‘She was an amazing swimmer. Used to take part in loads of competitions. She was really fast and strong. She'd swim all the time, good weather and bad. I used to call her my mermaid. The sea seemed so much more her home than the land. Anyway, one day she went out and never came back. Spring tides, they said afterwards. The strength and unpredictability at the turn of the season. They never found her body, though, so I don't know how they could say this. Truth is, they have no idea what really happened.'

Daniel paused and looked away for a moment. Then he turned back to Freya. ‘So I know a little of what you're feeling.'

Freya nodded. ‘When did it happen?'

‘Three years ago. But it feels like yesterday. I still get confused. Forget sometimes. I don't think my mind can accept it, even now. And sometimes, I still think she's going to come back. Come walking through the door.' Daniel looked away again, down at his hands on the table, interlocked and squeezing each other tightly. Then he spoke so quietly that Freya wasn't sure she even heard correctly. ‘I struggle sometimes. I really struggle.'

Freya put her hand over his and let it rest there. She heard the room grow instantly quieter and, even though she didn't see it, she felt the women's eyes upon her. After a moment she removed her hand. ‘You didn't have any children?'

‘No. A blessing perhaps.'

Perhaps, thought Freya. She wasn't sure.

‘Do you want to see a photograph of Annalise?'

‘Of course,' Freya said, smiling.

Daniel reached into his pocket for his wallet, pulled a picture from it and passed it to her. It was crumpled and well thumbed around the edges, the colour faded. But Freya could still see the young woman at its centre. The image was shot closely, only the head visible, long hair, straight and white blonde, framing an oval face. Annalise had bright blue eyes like Daniel's, but they had a warmth and depth to them that his had perhaps once had but had now lost. Her lips were full and a deep pink, pouting into the camera, emphasising her cheekbones. She was beautiful, the mood of the photo light and vivacious. Full of life. Freya felt her stomach contract.

‘She's lovely, isn't she?' Daniel said.

‘Yes, she is,' said Freya, looking closely over the image. Annalise was also wearing a silver necklace that curled around the neck in much the same way as the one Sam had recovered from the beach. Freya looked again. It could almost have been the same one, except that this had an extra section beyond the serpent's tail. She suddenly remembered Torin's words that a piece of her necklace might have broken off. She reached for her teacup, her throat parched.

‘Are you looking at the necklace?' Daniel asked. His eyes seemed to bore into hers.

She nodded, unable to reply.

‘Beautiful, isn't it? It's Viking. I think she must have been wearing it that last time she went swimming. I've hunted everywhere in the house and can't find it. And she was pretty inseparable from it.'

Freya blanched and felt her stomach twist. Could it be the same necklace, the upper section ripped off by the tide? No, surely, it was too unlikely.

‘Are you okay?' said Daniel, taking the photo from her and putting it back into his wallet.

She nodded and took another large gulp of tea. But it didn't warm her. ‘Next time you're near the island, drop in and see me. I have something I'd like to give you.'

‘Yeah? What is it?'

For a moment Freya hesitated. She wanted, more than anything, to do the right thing. But then she thought of Sam and his first thoughts on finding the necklace. ‘Well,' she coughed, her throat dry and itchy. ‘It looks like some kind of ancient knife or dagger blade. But I have it on good authority that it belonged to a mermaid.'

‘Get out of here.' But Daniel smiled broadly. ‘Who told you that?'

‘A friend.' She saw him raise his eyebrows. ‘I know, I know. However, these blades have apparently been found in the bodies of fish out in the deep open ocean.'

‘That can't be true, can it?'

Freya shrugged. ‘Perhaps you can tell me when you see it. You're the archaeologist after all. But it makes for a nice story. I just thought you might like it. Given what you just told me about your nickname for your wife.'

Daniel looked at Freya and for the first time that day his eyes were animated. ‘Thank you. I'll come round and pick it up as soon as I'm back from Glasgow.'

‘Good.' Freya held his gaze for a moment while guilt bloomed in her stomach. Then she looked out of the window. She could see the Oban ferry about to dock, the terminal busy now with cars, lorries and coaches, people milling around. ‘I guess you have to get going. They'll be boarding soon.'

Daniel nodded, finished the tea in his cup and reached for his wallet.

Freya raised a hand. ‘Don't worry about it. I've got this.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Positive.'

‘Okay then.' Daniel stood up and touched her hand lightly. ‘I'll see you soon.'

Freya nodded. ‘Have a safe journey.'

The next moment he was walking away, hand raised in goodbye. Freya watched him go, moving across the car park to the ticket office, head down, shoulders slumped, pace slow. It might just be mistaken for his body's defence against the weather. It was a miserable grey day, after all. But Freya knew that it was something more than that – like Duncan's doomed sailors with their shrouds, the afflictions of his life hung about him like a pall. She felt a stab of remorse. She had let him go and failed to mention that she may have found his lost treasure. But, she rationalised, even if it was the same necklace, it would make little difference. As Freya watched him depart she became more convinced than ever that on the night of the storm, when his boat tumbled upon the waves and washed up on her shore, it had been no accident that had found him in that predicament. He had surrendered to the overwhelming melancholy he felt.

And, perhaps to his dismay, death had spared him.

FREYA FELT THE
wind in her hair. It tugged softly at her but it was growing in strength. She stood steadily on the lighthouse gallery, her body at some distance from the railing. But her hands around it were nervous, slick with sweat.

Over the ocean, she could make out Iona, small and flat, and just beyond it Mull, the dark brown of the burgh jutting into the sky. It made her think of Daniel, their recent encounter, and her despondency intensified. She shifted her gaze. But the islands lying further afield had already disappeared from view. The forecast was for rain, and dense, low cloud was already moving in.

She sighed. Before long she would have to retreat inside. Or that is what the small voice inside her said. The other, louder voice told her to stay where she was, even if the wind grew strong and dangerous and threatened to blow her off the gallery. She heard that voice more insistently now, even though she tried to suppress it, to sedate it into nonexistence. But it would not be silenced. From time to time, she thought she felt the tower shift, move sideways in the wind. The voice told her body to follow the movement, to surrender to the urge to fall.

Gulls soared overhead, shrieking mercilessly, and gannets dropped from great heights down into the sea. As Freya watched, the still of the ocean dissolved, transformed into something harder. The waves, whipped by the wind, grew larger. Edges of white foam appeared above the grey, sea horses chomping at the bit, racing towards the land and oblivion. Freya felt the push of wind, more insistent now, and the enticing tilt of the tower. Her feet moved closer to the railing. She looked down, saw the waves crashing against the rocks below and for some reason thought of the Flannan Islands' keepers. It would not, after all, be such a great leap to take, to become one of the disappeared. She focused on the rocks, the brittle sound of the waves crashing against them. The smell of the sea enclosed her, wrapping her in a salty embrace. She closed her eyes and stepped forwards again.

Then she heard it – the sound of a horn, loud, with a familiar melody. She opened her eyes and looked out over the growing tumult of the sea. It took a moment for her to find it – the small boat, still at some distance, but heading in the direction of the island. She gripped the railing harder as she watched its solitary progress. It was Pol. He always announced his return in this way. She felt the instant rise of resentment. He was supposed to give her notice of his visits, check that it was convenient. But then he had never done that before, never taken notice of whether his timings suited or not. So why should he do it now?

Jolted into action, Freya moved back from the railing. She wondered if Pol had seen her. It was likely. He took pride in watching the lighthouse as it grew ever nearer on his approach. She stepped into the lamp room and bolted the gallery door. Then she moved quickly down the staircase. At the bottom of the tower, she locked the door, then looked at the tarnished key, given to her son by the old keeper, and wondered what, if anything, he would say to her about it.

Freya watched Pol as he talked, seated at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating digestives. They were his favourite biscuit and he was lucky, she thought somewhat irritably, that she had found a packet at the back of a kitchen cupboard. God knew how long they had been there – a year at least. They were doubtless a little stale but he didn't seem to mind. He munched away uncomplainingly as he talked.

Freya found his manner markedly different to the previous times he had been there. Perhaps it was simply that he found her so much changed that the shock of it forced a change in him. But it seemed more than that. Unless she was mistaken, he had lost his hostility towards her.

He offered heartfelt condolences. A grand little chap. A fine man. That was it. He didn't linger. He then moved on to talk of other things. Other lighthouses he had visited, tales from the NLB, fears of further contraction of the workforce and other small bits of news. News that he had always shared with her before, but which, she had always thought, contained an undertone of blame. That had gone, vanished along with her husband and son. Perhaps she had imagined it before and only now, when she was beyond caring, had the clarity to hear what was really there. But she didn't think she was wrong. And so far he hadn't mentioned spotting her on the gallery. As a result she had held her tongue and refrained from asking why he had given her son access to the lighthouse. What did it matter now, after all?

She drifted in and out of the conversation, paying only scant attention, thinking about Sam and the key. How many times, she wondered, had he ventured up the tower, when she, close by or far away, was oblivious to his comings and goings? Why hadn't he told her about it? But that of course was obvious. She would have stopped his visits, alone at least. She liked to think that she would not; that her heart, now eaten up with pain and regret, would have been bountiful and allowed it. But she knew that she wouldn't have. She looked at Pol again and realised what a gift he had given her son. And she felt something unprecedented towards him. Gratitude.

She made an effort to pay attention and follow the thread of his words. He was back on his favourite subject: lighthouses.

‘Keepers. They always tended to fall into two camps. Those that loved the life and those that didn't.' He took a loud slurp of his tea. ‘Some keepers I know started out the first way and grew to resent it only later on – the isolation, the separation from family and friends. And then it seemed so close to retirement that they didn't want to sacrifice their pension. So they kept at it. Others who became keepers you always thought were running away from something: the booze, the law, hotfooting it to an isolated life they thought might be better, that might heal them. And for some that worked, for others it didn't. Others just made a mistake – thought the life would suit them. And it's a lonely life for sure. You're kidding yourself if you don't see that. Here you are, miles from anywhere, alone. It isn't for everyone. Drive you mad, you know.'

Pol paused and stared at Freya. It was another new thing she had noticed: before he had largely avoided eye contact with her.

‘I've known keepers wanted to throw themselves into the sea and swim home so unhappy they was. Out at Dubh Artach, for instance. Others wanted to throw themselves clear off the gallery.'

Pol gave Freya another look at this point, but she couldn't decipher its meaning. She wondered again if he had seen her at the top of the tower. More than likely. She would never actually have done it, she wanted to say out loud. Instead she broke his gaze and shifted in her seat.

‘And what about you, Pol? You always loved the life of a keeper, didn't you?'

‘Mostly,' he said. ‘Not always.'

Freya was surprised by the admission. She reached for a digestive and bit into it. It was soft with a slightly mouldering taste. She took a large gulp of tea to wash it down.

‘Sometimes there were moments when even I wished I was elsewhere.' Pol paused, a reminiscent look in his eye. ‘Aye, it had never really occurred to me at the start that there would be times I would be afraid.' He nodded sombrely. ‘And it wasn't the wind that I was scared of, even though that could be bad enough. No. Not a gale or even a bunch of them back to back.' Pol nodded.

Freya remembered the first time she had gone up the tower and felt the power of the wind against it, shaking its foundations.

‘It was what followed after, the heavy ground sea they call it – thousands of miles of ocean all stirred up, moving great boulders along the sea bed as if they were pebbles. Towers were the worst of course, perched out on a tiny bit of rock in the middle of the ocean. Aye, those boulders would be flung against the base of the lighthouse making the whole place shake and sound with the boom boom boom of the collision. But any lighthouse in such a storm was bad enough. You'd sit in the lamp room of a night, lit up in that terrifying darkness, wondering if the tower was strong enough to take it – or whether the whole thing would come crashing down with you in it.' Pol was silent for a moment, pale faced, as he remembered. ‘Aye, face to face with the strength of the sea, unable to escape it, it can rock a man to the core. But I overcame the fear. Or perhaps a better way of putting it is that I got used to being afraid. Aye, the sea can be beautiful but it can also be frightening.'

Freya had never heard Pol talk like this. She imagined the terror of such a sea, whipped up by a powerful storm, and her son and husband lost within it. She closed her eyes and tried to put it out of her mind.

‘Even when it isn't at its worst we must always be wary, always on guard. Aye, there was this one keeper. He was brought in to replace an assistant keeper who was ill. Anyway, one calm day when the sea was flat, he decides he wants to do a spot of fishing. Now, on a tower lighthouse, there's only one place you can fish from – the entrance doorway. This doorway is pretty high above the sea – about thirty feet – and, as I said, there was not much swell on the water. So the principal keeper lets him go ahead and they all go about their business as usual. Trouble is that, a little while later, when the other assistant keeper goes to see if he wants a cup of tea, he's not there. He searches the whole lighthouse from the top down and still can't find him. So he tells the principal and they both search again from top to bottom and then back up to the top again. No sign of him.'

The sea took him, Freya thought. But she remained silent.

‘The principal radioed out a message that a keeper was overboard. And local ships came to help search. But by the time they all arrived it was getting dark, and the sea was getting up. His body was never found.'

They were both silent for a few minutes. Freya thought of the Flannan Islands' keepers again.

‘What do you think happened to him, Pol?'

‘Hard to say. There was no water on the floor of the doorway, so the sea hadn't come up suddenly and washed him out. But the iron bar that should have been across the entrance wasn't there. So maybe he'd fallen out or …' Pol paused and shook his head.

‘Did you know him?'

‘No. But I almost feel like I did. It's the same sort of stories all over the place. Most keepers have had a near miss.' Pol chewed on his digestive meditatively. ‘Anyway, my point, if there was one to this story,' and he paused and looked at Freya, ‘was that you have to move beyond the fear and the loneliness and the other hardships that anyone inhabiting a lighthouse has to face. Or you'll never survive. And there are those who can move beyond those things. For whom this will be a symbol of light, a marker.'

A form of redemption, Freya thought.

‘One keeper I know built a house for himself on the top of a cliff. From his sitting-room window he had a view over the sweeping ocean and he could see the rock light upon which he had worked for much of his life.' Pol looked at her and winked. ‘He could check every morning and every evening that she was lit and be satisfied that however hard the wind blasted or how wild the sea grew she was still there, a beacon in the darkness.'

‘Oh Pol, really?'

Pol nodded, and then did a peculiar thing that Freya had never seen him do before. He smiled at her. A warm, open smile. ‘Aye, my girl. A lighthouse, like the sea itself perhaps, can be life and it can be death. Perhaps for a time it can feel like both. But in the end you have to choose. I hope that one day, my dear, this lighthouse will come to mean to you what it has meant to me.'

And suddenly Freya saw, as if laid out before her, the years of hardship Pol had suffered, alone, moving from lighthouse to lighthouse, his own burdens moving with him. She knew that he had had a wife but that she had died a long time ago and that he had never remarried. In some sense she knew that this lighthouse had been his salvation in a simple, spartan life of trials. And then automation had come and stripped him once more of everything he loved. For the first time she felt ashamed that she had not felt as much sympathy for Pol as perhaps she should have.

He picked up another biscuit from the plate and Freya was filled with a sudden rush of affection for him. ‘Don't eat that, Pol. I was going to bake some fresh ones,' she lied. ‘They'll be waiting for you when you've finished your tests on the light.'

He looked at her a moment, confused. ‘Only if you're sure. There's really nothing wrong with these.'

‘I'm sure,' she said.

‘Well, I'll get to it then. See how the old girl's doing.' Pol nodded at Freya, then rose from the table, picked up the box of cleaning materials he had brought with him, and made his way towards the tower door. After a moment he turned back to her. ‘Thought for a second that I'd forgotten my key,' he said, taking it from his pocket, waving it at her and smiling broadly.

She smiled back, knowingly, then watched him turn and walk away. She wasn't sure but she thought she detected a new lightness in his step.