Lifeboat (5 page)

He clapped his hands in delight, sounding like an approaching procession. She smiled, sad behind the eyes, our carelessness weighing her down. I remember that look in such detail now, many years later: detachment and polite sadness. I remember it like a snapshot, freeze frame, hinting at things hidden. But few things stay hidden, nature and time moving as they do. Even whilst laughing, I could see her sadness and was praying I could help her.

‘Why did you choose here?' she asked softly.

‘I don't know,' I said, but had only to look around the glorious bay for my answer. ‘This?'

‘It is very beautiful,' she said, following my eyes.

She looked out to the sailboats running lightly across the bay. They reminded me of beautiful insects buzzing through blue-gold grass, moving with intent mysterious. Such freedom, such lightness. I expected any moment to see a sail actually lift from the water and wing its craft away out to sea.

‘They're like butterflies,' she said.

‘Fireflies,' said he.

*

Few things stay hidden forever. The tide drops, the facade cracks, flowers bloom from beneath the dirt and even mountains can be worn away. Sometimes a lost life is found, dug from beneath rubble when all hope has been abandoned. Snow will melt and reveal bodies dead below; or just a misplaced glove. And although one glove is much like the other, lose one of a pair and the other is useless. Who holds on to just one glove? I wondered what had been torn apart by the disappearance of either of my two. Husband, wife, child, friend. Little moments make up our lives, the little moments that pin us to the memories of those around us, like the single cells which together amount to a heart or a lung or a brain, which in turn joins to form a body, which takes up space in the world and in the lives of others. What gaps had their disappearance left? Had it caused movement in the foundations of anybody's life? Was there a hole, like a gap in a smile? Was anyone looking for them?

Her father was a writer, she thought, dreamt, said. Published, possibly well known. They had lived in Africa. So I started there – fact or fantasy, it was all I had. That afternoon I returned them to the security compound and headed for the library. I'd been in there only half a dozen times. I had never spoken to the librarian, but, to my surprise, he knew me.

‘How are you finding the sailing?' he asked.

‘Oh, fine, thank you,' I replied, blushing.

‘My father has a boat at your marina. I've seen you on the water some weekends.'

‘Oh, I see.' I willed my cheeks back to pale.

‘It's a beautiful boat.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Actually, I have something you may be interested in. It came in last week.'

‘Thank you.' I looked up at him, intrigued. He was smiling and I noticed that his teeth were very white and straight.

‘A history of sailing in this country and the islands.'

I assumed he meant the islands to the country's north, about three days sail away. They were renowned for their wild beauty and dangerous waters. Pirates were rumoured to use the many bays as hiding places, sailing out to attack vulnerable boats, then disappearing back into the uncharted channels should anyone give chase. I had always wanted to sail there, but had yet to find the courage.

‘Interested?' he asked. He reached under the counter and pulled out a new hardback. ‘I've been keeping it for you,' he said. ‘Look, you'll be the first stamp.'

Indeed, the card was pristine. I didn't know how to respond. I had no idea that he knew who I was, let alone that he would be interested enough to keep a book for me.

‘Thank you,' I stammered. ‘You are very kind.'

‘Not at all,' he said, pleased with himself.

I smiled back. I waited while he stamped the virgin card and pushed the book across the counter to me, then, for want of something to fill the space between us, asked him for help with the castaways.

‘Africa?' he remarked as he lifted the wooden partition to let himself out from behind the counter. ‘Fiction?'

‘I think so, I don't know.'

The librarian was in his late twenties, I supposed. Up close he stood at least six inches taller than me and I noticed the crisp, clean crease that ran down the arms of his white shirt. The fabric was slightly transparent, as is the way with light cottons, and I could just make out the line where the skin of his shoulders emerged from beneath his white undervest. He had not rolled his cuffs, as most island men did, but wore gold armbands above his elbows to hold the cuffs away from his wrists and prevent them becoming soiled.

He lifted a hand and ran his fingers down his tie, as if smoothing it, while he thought. His fingers moved with a mind of their own, like the fingers of a violinist teasing the melody from within the strings.

‘I don't think we're looking at a big range,' he mused, almost to himself. ‘So let's include both fiction and nonfiction, shall we?'

I nodded my agreement, although he had already started towards the shelves.

While we checked the short biographies usually found in the leading pages, we chatted about authors we enjoyed. I was impressed with his knowledge of literature. He told me he was working in order to earn the money for travel to France, where he planned to study. He quizzed me about university life and I recounted undergraduate experiences with a degree of affection I did not know I felt.

‘Don't you miss it?' he asked.

‘Miss what?'

‘The excitement, the people, knowledge, opportunities … things,' he said, gesturing in the air with ever-increasing circles.

‘No, not really. I wanted to do something different. To me here is an opportunity. And this country seems like paradise after the cold and rain back there. I don't know,' I said, the idea only occurring to me as I spoke. ‘Maybe I am more suited to this climate, this way of life. I feel comfortable here.'

‘Well, I am glad,' he said, and finished gallantly. ‘We are very pleased you chose us.'

The search took an hour. I could not assume that the language the castaways and I spoke between us was her father's tongue, so I put no restriction on nationality. We found a few authors who were possibilities, but none that conformed to every criterion. I took their details anyway, wanting to feel I was doing something more than talk.

‘Don't be disheartened,' the librarian said. ‘I really think you're on the right path. Let me think about it overnight and do some more research tomorrow.'

‘Thank you – it's very good of you to help.'

He waved his hand dismissively.

‘Please, don't mention it – you're doing me a favour really.' He spoke in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Do you know how many people come in here looking for knitting patterns?'

I laughed at the face he was pulling.

‘Well, maybe I'm exaggerating,' he said, ‘but it's good to talk to someone as interesting as you.'

I didn't know how to reply to that, so I simply grinned foolishly. It was closing time anyway.

I left the library feeling happy, despite our lack of success, and walked home through the caramel light of dusk as it melted into darkness. The streets had filled with couples and families out strolling; the cafes and bars were all open and the waterfront was busy.

I stopped at the last café before the hill to my house and ordered a glass of dry sherry. The nuns had been fond of this drink and I had developed a taste for it myself, sneaking a sip from the bottle behind their backs when taking my turn to wait on their dinner table – all the girls did it. I enjoyed the sweetness and the buzz it brought to my cheeks. Now I could sit in the open and enjoy the drink at my leisure, ordered as an adult, and that novelty had not yet worn off.

I took my time, the evening stretching before me like a holiday weekend, and even ordered a second glass. My mind wandered into the future: I imagined finding the castaways' families and their joy at being reunited with the people who loved them. The warmth of the liquor washed any doubt away. I saw the look of realisation on their faces as their memories returned. It would be easy. I was sure that we would find the answers – the alternative was unimaginable.

When I got home I took a hot shower, despite the warmth of the evening. It made me feel lush, like a ripe mango. I dressed myself in my favourite nightgown and brushed my hair with one hundred strokes as I walked about the house in the evening light.

I didn't feel like eating that evening, so I cleaned my teeth carefully and drank some glasses of water. I selected my clothes for the next day and laid them out on the chair in my bedroom. I filed my nails and trimmed my toenails, then filed them too. There was nothing left to do, so I climbed into bed and turned out the light without opening a book for my usual bedtime reading. I felt excited about the days ahead and wanted no distraction from the feeling. I lay in the dark, listening to the night sounds: a dog bark, a door slam, the occasional car passing by – the usual noises, that could place me anywhere in the world, but I knew I was here in my own bed, in my own home.

DAY FOUR

I spent the morning at my desk in the main office, writing to each of the publishers we'd found the day before. I pleaded the urgency of the case, but knew that answers would still take time. While I worked, the castaways sat quietly at the waterfront outside the window, chatting. I asked them to stay within the office forecourt, where I could see them. On such a clear, sunny day I was loath to send them back behind locked doors. It made a peaceful scene. My boss emerged from her office about half an hour into my work and watched me watching them.

‘How's it going?' she asked, indicating to the castaways with a nod of her head. She didn't seem concerned by a lack of security.

‘Fine – we have a lead,' I replied, despite my own doubts.

‘Good. You know it can't take forever.'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘You mustn't let it drag on.'

‘Of course not. How long do I have?'

‘We'll see,' was all she replied.

‘Then what? What will happen to them if I don't succeed?'

‘They'll be handed over to the police, deported, whatever.'

My hands faltered over the typewriter.

‘Deported to where?'

‘You sound concerned,' she said, looking at me with a smile. ‘But don't worry – they're sure to have family somewhere looking for them. Now we've cleaned them up a bit they look like quite a nice old couple.'

‘They're not a couple.'

‘Really? They certainly look like they are. Well, who knows? Not them.' She gave a dry laugh.

‘I have a lead.'

‘So you said. I hope it's a good one.' She paused, and then spoke as if ordering nothing more than food in a restaurant: ‘I've allowed two weeks all up. After that I'll hand them over to the police.'

She left, not knowing she had just dropped a time bomb in my lap.

I stared at my hands and noticed a cuticle standing proud from the nail. Two weeks, that was all, with three days already gone. I raised my finger to my mouth without thinking and bit the cuticle clean with a dull snap. It stung and a little blood welled up at the side where the skin had torn. I had just two weeks.

‘There must be some marker on the lifeboat,' he said, clutching desperately for clues despite knowing the boat was unmarked. I didn't want to tell them, but decided that I had no right not to. Although I wanted to protect them, it was the professional thing to do. At the news she seemed to sag a little. He jumped from his seat and strode to the window, an habitual movement, I observed, in times of stress.

‘There has to be a marker on the lifeboat,' he repeated, louder this time, as if all that was at fault was our hearing.

‘Not according to the harbourmaster. Nor did the compass or supplies reveal anything. And I examined them all myself.'

‘I would like to double-check.'

‘Sir, they have been over the boat countless times. It was completely unmarked. Believe me, these men are professionals.'

‘But they do not care – it is just another job to them.'

‘Maybe so. But I care. I went there and checked myself.'

He turned and stared at me.

‘And what would you know?'

That made me burn – I felt frustrated enough as it was.

‘I beg your pardon?' I said, my voice icy. ‘I've studied maritime regulations and I sail every weekend. Except, when on my own time, I go to the harbour and double-check my colleagues work on behalf of two complete strangers.'

I know he didn't mean to hurt me. He didn't know how I felt, that I found myself caring. I felt sorry for them. At their age they should have been safe somewhere in the contentment of a life lived, whatever that had been, not trying to begin again. At the start of my adulthood I already had a life full of memories – they did not, but should have. It seemed unjust that having lived so many years filled with deeds, friends, family, they should lose it all. And at least I knew my own name.

‘I will not be handed over to the police like a criminal,' he exclaimed, pounding the windowsill with his fist.

‘But you may be one. I may be one,' she said, in a soft, resigned tone.

‘Oh don't start that again, woman,' he said.

‘I am only being realistic,' she replied, her shoulders drooping. ‘We may be.'

With effort, she got up from her chair, walked slowly to his side, and laid her small hand upon his arm. Her nails had been neatly clipped and filed. Without their long talons her hands looked like those of a girl. Her hair was pulled back into a single plait. She looked twenty years younger, her skin smooth and unlined. The effects of exposure from their time in the lifeboat had dissipated quickly, leaving her pale and delicate.

‘But I don't think we are criminals,' she continued, this time in a tone a mother would use to charm the tantrums from a tired child. ‘Tell her what you told me this morning.'

‘I don't see that it helps. It is nothing.'

He shook her hand away roughly, but she didn't seem to mind. I noticed, as I grew to know her, that for all her own volatility she showed great patience with the emotions of others.

‘Maybe, as my storytelling of Africa seemed silly. However, she was right. It may hold a clue. And it is all we have. Tell her. We have so little, we can afford to be generous.'

She took hold of him with both hands this time, quite unafraid of his bad humour and turned him from the window to face me, shaking his arm gently.

‘Nothing comes from nothing, woman, didn't you know?' he said, looking down at her.

‘And from nothing the world was created. Who are we to say? We don't even know our own names.'

‘Then I should call you Eve and I shall be Adam.'

‘As you will. Go on, tell her your dream.'

He allowed her to lead him back to his chair. She sat close to him, protective. Some intimacy had grown between the two.

‘I dreamt last night. I have not dreamt much before this in my time here, but the dream felt familiar and that disturbed me,' he said, and looked away.

‘Why did that disturb you?' I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

He turned his big face slowly to mine and lifted his eyelids to pin me with a sad stare.

‘Because I dreamt that I was dead.'

We waited for him to continue.

‘I am standing in a green, green field, misty, half raining. The day is cold, grey. A chill runs over my body. I'm looking at my grave, my own grave. I feel nothing but emptiness.'

He looked away again, staring over his right shoulder to the windows and the sea.

‘Go on,' she prompted, impatient but gentle. ‘Tell it all as you told me.'

He turned back to us, raising his craggy eyebrows in apology as if certain he was wasting our time.

‘I felt pain. I looked down and saw that my leg was bandaged. And my hand hurt. I held it to my face and saw blood seeping through bandages that encased my arm. The blood oozed out from between my fingers and dripped to the ground. My head hurt. There was an explosion, but it came from inside my head, like I was dreaming whilst dreaming – as if as I stood in the dream at my grave I was having another dream. It was strange.

‘In this second dream I saw flames searing through the air and bodies flying on a howling wind like debris tossed in a storm. A man ran towards me, burning, disintegrating in front of my eyes, the flesh melting from his bones like fat melting on a fire. All this was happening in my head as I stood in a wet green field, staring at my own grave. The man reached me and enclosed me in his burning arms, dragging me down. I fell onto my grave, screaming out at the pain, fighting off the man who was only there in my head.

‘Then I awoke. It was not a pleasant dream. I left my room and walked the corridors for a while. A wisp of dawn skimmed the horizon and the bay, through the window, was tranquil. If I could have wished myself back out there, floating peacefully …

‘I saw a light on in her room, so I knocked and went in. We talked. It calmed me down. Now I tell you, I see it all clearly in front of me again, but the hurt has gone.'

He returned to staring into space.

‘What does it mean?' she asked, turning to me.

I had no idea, but did not want to disappoint her.

‘Which leg was damaged?' I asked.

He patted his right leg.

‘And your arms? They were burnt?'

‘No. The man was burnt, not me. It was only a dream.'

I agreed, but anything would do at this stage.

‘Maybe so. But I'll have the doctor check your leg anyway.'

He looked away. ‘He has checked it already.'

‘And?' I asked. The doctor's report was in my file but he had noted only the effects of exposure. ‘Did he find anything?'

‘Yes.'

‘What did he find?' I asked, reaching for my file to double-check. I looked through the folder, found the report and started to read it again.

But my attention was reclaimed by the sound of her gasping.

He had rolled his trouser to just above the knee. The leg was white, obviously it rarely saw sun, but all round the calf were the proud red lines of scar tissue, patterned like someone had used his leg as a maypole, with razor wire instead of ribbons.

He looked unconcerned, but she reached out to touch it, then snatched her hand away quickly.

‘What did he …? How old are the scars?' I asked.

‘I do not know. The doctor thinks it is an old injury.'

‘What can have caused that?' asked she, shaking her head in disbelief at what she saw. The scars were thick, the skin raised and marbled, puckered in odd places, like they were repaired with the uneven stitches of a child's first sampler.

‘A war injury possibly,' he said. ‘An explosion, a bomb of some sort. But more likely multiple knife wounds, badly stitched.' He rolled the trouser down.

The idea of someone attacking a body with such indiscriminate frenzy made me shiver.

‘A war injury,' I echoed. ‘That could explain your dream. And it might show that these dreams you are having are tied to what actually happened. Many men your age went through the war. Only now are we beginning to understand the effects on their minds as well as their bodies. You've already told us about your desert memory – this could be a link.' I paused. ‘The grave dream, well, I don't know, but I would think that in a war fear of death is a constant waking nightmare. For it to continue after the event might not be unusual.'

They sat together, those two, quiet and strange. She had pulled her chair close to his and still held his arm.

‘I'm sorry to make you sad,' he said to her.

‘I'm sad for myself,' she replied, pushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. ‘I don't know what to do. I wish we were on board the lifeboat again – at least there the only question was life or death. Here I feel lost within myself; I have no idea what to do.'

‘Wait,' I answered, although I had not been asked. ‘Wait and we will get news of you, I'm sure. Although you can't remember, there will be people looking for you, people to whom you belong. Everyone has someone.'

‘Who do you have?' he asked.

*

I escorted them to their rooms in the early afternoon and returned to my office. I was met at the door by my boss's secretary, smiling at me like I had done something wrong.

‘There's a man here,' she whispered. ‘A young man, he's nice too,' she added with a giggle.

I looked at her, weighing my briefcase in my hand as I waited for information as to why I should be interested in a young man at the office.

‘He's asking for you and no one else can help him,' she added, enlightening me and mystifying me all at the same time. She lead me back to my desk like I didn't know the way and pointed to the person sitting in my seat. It was the librarian. I felt a tinkle of excitement sparkle through me. He leapt up, dropping the pencil that he had been doodling with.

‘Hello,' he said, sounding guilty, of what I could not say.

‘Hello,' I replied, putting down my briefcase. I waited for him to explain; the secretary waited too.

‘I have this for you,' he said, picking up the piece of paper he had been doodling on. ‘It's a writer, he's perfect.'

The secretary wandered off; I took the piece of paper.

‘I've ordered his biography,' he said. ‘I hope that's all right?'

‘Thank you, that's fantastic. How did you find him?'

‘I asked my aunty. She used to run the library before she retired. She said try him, so I did and he seems perfect. He's English, was in Africa for about eight years. He died there. My aunty likes his work – she has one of his novels.'

Away from the environment of the library he seemed younger; or maybe it was because of the excitement with which he recounted his information. He wore cream cotton trousers, a striped knitted shirt with a collar, and white canvas boat shoes. I became distracted by the stripes, which were of non-uniform widths, in muted green tones. I thought it a very attractive shirt.