Lifeboat (13 page)

He stopped for a moment, looking at me seriously.

‘But there's no other way to come.'

I didn't know what to say, not sure if he was serious.

‘But you're an immigrant yourself,' he continued, smiling so benignly I still couldn't tell if he'd been joking. We walked up the hill after the goats.

‘English?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Your accent is excellent.'

‘Thank you.'

‘We are fellow countrymen. How did you find me?'

‘Through the library.'

‘Ah yes, of course. Why did you find me?' he stopped again and looked me up and down. ‘No, don't say. You've come this far, let's wait until we get to the house and then you can tell me all about it.'

We came upon the goats again, milling about a shady yard, nibbling the remains of scattered hay. The dog waited at the yard gate, wagging its tail.

‘Good girl,' he said, dropping a pat onto the animal's back and, to my relief, closing the gate on the goats.

The dog shook her head with satisfaction and sauntered off ahead of us, through a lush garden towards a house fifty yards away. There was an orchard to the left of the house, disappearing down the hillside to the bay; I could hear the soft sounds of the sea. To our right was a vegetable patch, well ordered, but decorated with a profusion of colourful mobiles, swinging from tree branches and swirling atop totem-style posts. Light ricocheted off dangling mirror pieces and metal sculptures, giving the garden a watery feel. One tree was completely festooned with blue ribbons fluttering like exotic plumage. The colours and the dancing light reminded me of a coral reef.

‘Welcome,' he announced, holding open a gate in the fence that encircled the house and garden. I was pleased that it looked quite goat-proof.

‘And again, welcome,' he said, ushering me through the front door of the house.

He lead me down a hallway, decorated on every surface with wooden masks, featuring bared teeth, bones and staring eyes. The images were at odds with the comfortable smell of baking that sweetened the air, and I found myself weaving through the passageway, loathe to touch any of the pieces.

‘Through here,' he said, leading me to double doors, ‘we should be comfortable.'

Glad to be out of the hallway I entered the room quickly. Before me was the ocean, so close it was as if the room had been built upon a towering jetty, hung between sea and sky, commanding a 180-degree view of a horseshoeshaped bay.

I walked slowly to the windows, which ran from floor to ceiling, and looked down. The room jutted out like a verandah perched over the boulders of a cliff that dropped to a deep, clear bay. Even from this height I could see the rocks on the ocean floor.

‘Do you like sailing?' the doctor asked, standing beside me. It was not such an unusual question – half the population of the island were sailors of some description.

‘I do.'

‘I do not. However, I admire what I don't understand. This bay is very sheltered, but one has a marvellous view of storms passing beyond the headlands.'

The knots in my stomach had intensified.

‘There's a storm coming,' I said. He reached out to tap at the glass of a wall barometer. The needle didn't move.

‘It won't register yet,' I said. ‘Probably tomorrow afternoon. It will be a big one.'

He looked interested, but did not comment, instead gesturing to a couple of comfortable-looking leather armchairs.

‘Please, take a seat,' he said. I chose the nearest chair and sat.

‘Now, how can I help you? I can't imagine you came to buy a goat – but you know I don't practise anymore?'

‘Yes. Your housekeeper told me.'

‘And you came anyway; an official request?'

‘No,' I said.

He sat back, clasping his hands about one knee. There was a great energy about him, even in repose. I wished he were wearing tweed.

‘I am an interpreter. For the government. Mostly I handle lost fishermen, seamen with incorrect papers, that sort of thing,' I paused. ‘But at the moment I have a case which is different. A couple were found adrift in a lifeboat, in our waters, just over a week ago.'

‘Shipwrecked?'

‘We don't know. They have no memory of how they got there. Or of who they are.'

His face registered his interest and surprise.

‘But they dream. Quite powerful, narrative dreams, which has lead me to believe, hope, that their memories are not irretrievably lost.'

I took a deep breath. ‘I need you to help me.'

‘That's all?' he asked. I nodded. He eased himself forward in his chair.

‘How am I to help you? I don't practise anymore.'

‘But if you did, could you help them?'

‘Possibly,' he said, clasping his hands together in front of him. ‘Dissociative amnesia. Not common in such an extreme form, but not unheard of. You say they both have it?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you say a couple? A man and a woman, I assume? Husband and wife? They know each other?'

‘They don't know each other. Or they don't remember each other, but we surmise that they must have known each other to end up in the same predicament.'

‘Indeed. But that they both suffer the same condition is rare, and I would venture, almost unbelievable.'

He stood and walked to the window, hands clasped in front of him. Although his garments had not changed, in this stance I could imagine him as the learned professional I required.

He turned to me. ‘You've come out of your way to see me and all I can say is what I would have told you on the telephone: I don't practise anymore.'

I felt myself becoming angry, just a small flame licking around the edges of a damp log.

‘But you are the only person in this country who can,' I said, keeping my voice even.

‘Am I? How so?'

‘You are the only psychiatrist, sir.'

‘An honour indeed; but why a psychiatrist?'

I had the feeling that the doctor was testing me. I shifted forward in my seat as I searched for the words to respond. He waited quietly; I could hear the sound of the surf below and the birds in the garden. Somewhere in the house a door closed with a distant clunk.

‘Because who they are is still in their brains somewhere – it has to be. People's sense of “self” can't just evaporate.

‘And that's what you do, isn't it? You fix what's in people's heads.'

He smiled at my description.

‘Did – that's what I did. And psychiatrists don't “fix”. We treat and hope that what we do has a positive effect. It's all anyone can do. And I don't do either anymore.'

‘But we need you – they need you. There is no one else,' I said.

‘My dear, there is always someone else.'

‘Not here, not on this island.'

‘Then I'm sure you will find someone elsewhere – it is not unheard of. Look at you for instance; they imported you.'

I closed my eyes to cover the surge of desperation that threatened to burst my composure.

‘No,' I said, looking up. ‘They won't.'

I groaned softly and looked down at my hands, limp in my lap.

‘Why won't they?' asked the doctor gently, sitting down.

I looked up. ‘Because they've arrested them. They think that they're criminals, pirates, and they've arrested them. There was a fight, he was injured, they're both in hospital unconscious. I think they've done nothing but they can't defend themselves because they don't know who they are.

‘But I think they're not criminals, and only someone who can get into their brains can help me, I need you to help me, please,' I finished. A tear trickled slowly down my cheek.

The doctor was silent.

‘I'm sorry,' I said, ‘this is very silly.'

‘Not at all,' he said.

For want of a hanky I wiped my eyes on my hand. I looked up through the windows, following the flight of a seabird across the bay. The doctor rose and, for a moment, I thought he was coming to embrace me, but instead he moved to the door, calling to someone I couldn't see.

‘We're ready for coffee now, please.'

He resumed his seat and sat waiting quietly. A woman, presumably the housekeeper, arrived carrying a tray, which she placed on the side table nearest the doctor.

‘Thank you,' he said. She nodded and left the room without glancing at me.

‘Cake?'

Two large slices of chocolate cake sat with a jug of coffee.

‘Thank you.'

The coffee was hot, warming me all the way down on my first gulp. I began to feel better.

‘No memories at all?' he asked, continuing as if nothing had happened in between. ‘Quite a mystery, it would seem.'

I waited for him to continue, afraid of saying the wrong thing. He took a sip of his coffee.

‘How old are they?'

‘Very old. About sixty, I would say, maybe a little younger,' I replied, not understanding why it was relevant.

He gave a short laugh. ‘Ancient, indeed.'

‘Not an age to be lost at sea,' I said tersely, resenting his amusement.

‘No, no, of course not. What language do they speak?'

‘A few. I think she is originally English. He is harder to place, maybe Spanish, which he speaks fluently.'

‘How's the cake?'

‘Oh, lovely.'

‘My own recipe – I'll give you a copy before you go. I like to bake. It's one of the things I do well. Psychiatry was one of the things I did not do well.'

‘Is that why you retired?'

‘Oh, I haven't retired.'

‘But your housekeeper said you were retired.'

‘I just don't practise psychiatry.'

‘Why not?' I asked, knowing it was none of my business, but wanting him to give me a good reason why he wouldn't help. I expected a short, polite rebuff.

Instead, he took a mouthful of cake and chewed slowly, staring at the remains of the slice in his hand as if reading his reply within its crumbs.

‘Escape,' he said, ‘and disillusionment. A young man's ideals shattered, that sort of thing. I was once young too, you know? Hard to believe I am sure.'

I blushed, although I knew he was only making fun.

‘Unlike many of my peers, I survived the war. Out of gratitude I thought I should help remedy some of the ills left in its aftermath – psychologically speaking. But I found that very little I did helped, so I came to the conclusion that I was not a good psychiatrist.

‘I had no stomach for electro-therapy or lysergic-acid treatment or insulin-induced sleep therapy – all the new treatments embraced by my peers. To me, it seemed to do more harm than good – not very modern of me.'

‘And you came here?'

‘No. I took a position in an old-fashioned clinic for the rich and traumatised, where I made a great deal of money. And then I came here.'

He looked at my downcast face. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.'

I swallowed the last of my cake and said: ‘You can't have been that bad.'

‘Maybe not, but I felt I was.'

‘What did your patients think?'

‘I didn't ask them. More coffee?'

‘No thank you.'

He put his mug and plate back on the tray.

‘So I don't know if I can help you.'

‘Do you think they can be helped?'

‘Oh, yes, undoubtedly.'

He stood, holding out his hand for my crockery, which he stacked neatly with his own.

‘Let us assume,' he said, as he stacked, ‘that something has happened. Something bad, which one can safely assume, as they were found in a lifeboat. Probably the sinking of their own vessel, because few people set out to sea in a lifeboat without a very good reason.

‘This bad thing was traumatic – bad things usually are. But let's say that it was so traumatic that they have both blocked the memory. This is not uncommon; it happening to both people, however, is. But the memory is only blocked, not removed. It can be – could be recovered with therapy. It takes some time though.'

‘Could you do it?'

‘I was trained to.'

‘Would you?'

‘I haven't practised for almost ten years. I could do more harm than good.'

‘They have nothing to lose.'

‘Wrong,' he said, frowning, ‘they have everything to lose. Can you imagine something so terrible that it makes you want to forget who you are?

‘Imagine what might be the result if I attempt to retrieve this experience for them and I mishandle it. It could send them further from help, irretrievably.'

‘You are my only chance.'

‘You're very direct. And who are you to take this risk for them? You are not their family,' he said.

‘No. But I'm all they have.

‘What are they to you? You have a family of your own – leave these people in peace.'

‘I have no family – my father was killed in the war and my mother gave me away. And these castaways are not in peace. They are handcuffed to their beds, under arrest in a strange land. It was entrusted to me to find out who they are, and I mean to do it, properly.'

He sat down, like he was deflating. ‘I see; another casualty,' he said, as he smiled at me with sad eyes.

‘But I'm lucky compared with these two. I know my name. I know where I come from and I'm confident that there is no one looking for me; no one whose life has been devastated by my disappearance. But if I thought for one moment that my father was alive, or that my mother was looking for me, I would do anything to find them. So I think it's a risk I'm qualified to take.

‘Will you help me?' I asked.

He stared out at his beautiful view and continued as if I had not spoken.

‘I saw so many cases like yours, after the war, people I couldn't help, who'd lost loved ones I couldn't bring back from the dead.'

‘Will you help me?'

‘You don't give up easily, do you?' he said, smiling. ‘Yes, I'll help you.'