Ember Island (20 page)

I felt hollow. “Yes, but . . .” I trailed off into tears.

Papa put his hand on my shoulder. “You must remind yourself that you should not cry because that will upset your mother. You will live on and see many more sunrises and sunsets. She will be watching down on us both from Heaven.” On the last word, Papa’s voice wavered a little and it fed that little flame of heat in my heart. Papa never wavered. Never. The world was upside down.

That was July. She has been confined to her bed for five weeks now, and I sit with her every day to read to her and chat with her and embroider while she dozes. But lately her smiles do not come as easily, and today . . . Today was the worst day of all.

I had been reading to her—Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which is my favourite story in the world—and she had fallen asleep just as Lady Bertilak makes her second attempt to undermine Gawain’s courtesy. So I closed the book and leaned over to kiss her cheek, and I accidentally leaned on her elbow under the covers.

And her eyes flew open and she roared at me. “You foolish child! Are you trying to torture me? Am I not already in enough pain without you pushing your whole weight onto my aching joints?”

I leapt back and told her how sorry I was and could feel tears brimming but remembered what Papa had told me and sniffed them back. Then Papa, who had heard her shout, came into the room and roared me out. I ran outside and sat heavily on the steps to put my head on my knees and cry.

Papa came out after a few minutes and sat with me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t know her arm was there.”

“Hush,” Papa said, quietly. “All is well, child. She is in much pain. You cannot even imagine how much pain she is in. It strips her raw.”

“Can I go back in and say sorry again? Has she forgiven me?”

“No, I think it best if you spend less time with her. You should be concentrating on your school work. It may yet be some time before she passes and you are too young to be good company to a dying woman.”

I wanted to cry, but she is my mother! But this was the moment that I realised she is no longer my mother. That woman is already gone. She has been dissolved by illness and pain, and in her stead is left this husk who is impatient and angry with me and I cannot bear it. I cannot bear it.

Mama looking very unwell. Papa allowed me to sit with her for an hour today. I can see her skull under her skin. She barely speaks. Papa says that is because the medicine that takes away her pain also takes away her ability to know what is going on around her. I am frightened of her. She looks like a monster. She is not my mother.

I spent the whole day reading Malory in bed and cuddling Pangur Ban. I could hear Mama in the next room. She breathes strangely now, as though there are razors in her throat. I don’t like the sound. I wish I could go to another room. I want my mama back. I don’t know the creature in the next room. I want my mama back.

Dawn is breaking and I don’t know what’s happening and nobody will come to me and tell me. Very late last night I woke because there were voices and footsteps rushing about and I went to Mama’s room to see. Doctor Groom was there, he’s been staying one or two nights to tend to
Mama, and Papa was kneeling at the bed with Mama’s hand in his and I think he was crying. I have never seen my papa cry! Why was he crying? Doctor Groom pushed me out, he said, “Go away, child, go back to sleep.”

Do they think I am still asleep? Is Mama dead? Surely I would know, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I feel it somehow if my own mother died? Wouldn’t the strings that hold the cosmos together quiver, like a spider web when a fly lands in it? I am afraid to go next door in case she is dead, or in case she isn’t and she’s more horrible to look at than ever, or in case Doctor Groom shouts and says that he told me to go away and why would I bother them all at such a time.

I don’t know what else to say or write.

Two days ago my mother was buried in the graveyard at the southern end of the island. She passed in her sleep late in the night on October the 27, when she was 36 years and 107 days old. She had only four grey hairs on her head and her hands were still smooth. Papa invited me in to see her body and kiss her cold cheek the next morning, and I did it but then wished I hadn’t because I felt as though I had a frost of death on my lips all day and sometimes I still have the feeling and I don’t like it.

The day we buried her was very hot. The chaplain, who is a large, doughy man, was sweating furiously as he read from the Bible. The sky burned blue and the sea sang behind us. Every now and again a breeze would rise off the water and rush past, cooling my flushed cheeks and sticky skin. The whole thing seemed over so quickly, considering how long Mama suffered before she died. I rather suspected the chaplain rushed through it because of the heat.

There are two graveyards on this island. One for staff and family, and
one for prisoners. The one for prisoners has no names on the headstones. The crosses are bare except for a prison letter and number. The headstones in the family graveyard tell sad stories of people like Mama, who were “much beloved” or “missed for always” or “at rest.” Mama’s headstone has not been carved yet; it is coming over from the mainland, but Papa has told me it will say, “treasured wife and mother, now at rest with angels.” I think that is a lovely epitaph, and asked Papa who thought of it. And was surprised to hear that it was him.

Papa has ever been a stranger to me, but I think that is about to change. At the funeral he held me tightly in his arms while I cried. He stroked my hair, and he kissed the top of my head and told me not to be sad because she is no longer in pain and has gone to a better place. He did not shed a single tear, but something in him has softened, I can feel it.

Now she is in the ground, the next room is very quiet. Sometimes I feel sad about that. I remember the times when I would have a bad dream and run next door, only to press myself against her soft chest and have her shush me back to sleep.

But it has been a very long time since I was able to take any comfort from her, so above all things I am relieved. I can get on with remembering her as she was, before that awful illness took its hold on her body, twisting her all out of shape, and erasing all her loveliness and light.

•

I lay awake for a long time after reading the diary.
These were my ancestors. This was my family history. I would be nobody’s ancestor. That’s what had been too much for Cameron in the end: nobody to carry on his genetic heritage. It had been important to him in a way that I never fully understood, but perhaps it made more sense now, thinking about my link back to Eleanor. Do we honor the past by projecting ourselves forward into the
future? By carrying on genes and traits and family stories? I was mulling over these things when my phone beeped. I was used to it going off at odd times, as the signal flickered and flared depending on the weather and the wind. I reached for it in the dark. It was an SMS from a number I didn’t recognize.

Nina, please contact Elizabeth Parrish urgently about a piece I am writing. I need urgent information from you. Please do not ignore this message.

I switched the phone off and put it in my bedside drawer. My hands were shaking with anger. Urgent. For whom? Not for me. I wasn’t going to talk to her.
Please do not ignore this message
. Why did I find that last part so menacing? It wasn’t a threat. Was it?

I tried to put it out of my mind. I needed to spend the week writing, not thinking about nosy journalists and what they might want from me.

I
sat on the shady verandah enjoying watching the morning sunshine on the long grass that covered the hillock and the blue sea beyond the island. Earlier in the week, I’d dragged the kitchen table out on the verandah. I spent a lot of time out there, laptop flipped open, trying to write. This morning, I packed the laptop away and put a jar of water and wild crocuses in its place. Stacy would be arriving soon, and I had a plan that we’d eat takeaway fish and chips for lunch and wash it down with a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. She’d insisted I didn’t need to meet her off the ferry, so I was keeping an eye out for her.

Eventually I saw a figure in the distance with a wheelie suitcase and a huge floppy hat, and I stood and leaned over the verandah railing to wave madly. She waved back, ran-walked the rest of the distance, and was soon pulling her suitcase up the five front stairs.

“I told you I’d find my way,” she said.

“I didn’t doubt you.”

She whipped off her hat. Her hair was in two tight plaits
underneath. “I’m going to drop my suitcase in my room and then I’ve got business to get out of the way.”

“That sounds ominous. Shall I get the wine?”

“It’s not ominous, but you should get the wine anyway. It’s evening somewhere in the world.”

We met back at the verandah table two minutes later, and I poured us a glass of wine each. Stacy handed me a manila envelope. “Congratulations on your new boat.”

“My new . . . ?”

“I’ve been in touch with George and Kay and made arrangements for them to sign the boat over to you in lieu of the rent they owe. Stamp duty and registration are all paid too.”

I glanced through the paperwork, holding the sheets down as a warm sea breeze went past. “Wow. I have a boat. What am I going to do with it?”

Stacy leaned back, sipping her wine. “Learn to drive it? Or do you say sail it? Does it have a sail?”

I peered at the description in the papers. “I’ve no idea. Joe will know.”

“Joe!” she said. “See if he’ll take us out in the boat. He can drive it.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“There are three hundred people on the island. He won’t be hard to find.” Then she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You
know
where he lives, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why the reluctance?”

“No reason. It’s just . . . you know, he’s my employee.” I’d been avoiding Joe all week after the awkwardness of dinner with his parents. When he arrived for work, I hid in my office and didn’t
come out to chat. He seemed just as happy to get on with stripping plasterboard without having to engage with me.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. I’m only here for the weekend. We can have a picnic.”

“We’ll see,” I said, trying to sound light and noncommittal.

“You like him, don’t you?”

I laughed. “Are we in high school again?”

She sat back in her chair, looking me up and down with a smug smile, swishing her wine around in her glass. “I can always tell when some man takes your fancy. You go all quiet about him.”

I put my palms up reflexively, a stop gesture. “Please. Don’t.”

“Why? What’s wrong? You’ve been single nearly a year . . .”

“It . . . I never really told you what went wrong with Cameron.”

“You didn’t need to. He was vain and he sponged off you.”

“That’s not why we broke up.”

“It should have been.” Stacy smiled to soften the blow of her words. “Sorry. You know I was never fond of him. Why don’t you tell me what really happened then?”

I realized I hadn’t spoken this particular pain out loud to anyone. “He wanted children and I . . . well, as you know I can’t. I let him go. That’s why it hurt so much to see him with Tegan that day.”

“Do you still love him?”

“No.”

Stacy pressed her lips together for a moment, in thought. “What does this have to do with Joe?”

“I can’t put myself in that position again.”

“Wait. You’re worrying about
children
? You haven’t even been on a date with him!”

“He likes kids. He has one. He probably wants more.”

Stacy leaned across the table and patted my hand. “I only want you to ask him to take us out on the boat. I promise I won’t force you to bear his offspring.”

This made me laugh and I finally agreed. We put the wine back in the fridge and made our way down the hill and across the sunny path until we found Joe’s shed.

I knocked. It echoed loudly. The door opened and little Julian was peering out.

“Nina!” he said, nearly knocking me over with an enthusiastic hug.

“Julian, this is my friend Stacy. We’re looking for your dad.” But I’d already seen him, set up with his books at their little round dining table while Julian played a loud game on his PlayStation. “Sorry to disturb you while you’re working,” I said.

Joe was at the door a moment later, shaking Stacy’s hand and brushing away my apology. “It’s fine. My brain is starting to hurt and Julian’s been blowing up cars for long enough. TV off now, mate.” He returned his attention to us. “Can I offer you a cup of something?”

“No, we really didn’t want to trouble you . . .” I started.

“But Nina has a new boat,” Stacy interjected.

“A boat?” he asked.

“
The
boat,” I said. “George and Kay’s.”

“And we were hoping that you weren’t busy tomorrow,” Stacy said, flashing her eyelashes. It always worked on everyone: men, women, children.

“You want me to take you out in the boat?” he asked. “Sure, I’d love to.”