Moon Island (11 page)

‘I want that,’ Sidonie demanded. ‘Do it to me.’

Leonie came out on to the porch. There were the babies and mothers and Tom in the background, swishing his racket at the willowherb bordering the path. She stood with one foot on the step, hesitating, feeling that if she obeyed her inner compulsion to turn round and leave she might well march through the house and out the other side, across the rocks and over the headland and never come back again.

The fog was shimmering and turning opalescent as the sun grew hotter.

John was at the other side of the group with Joel. To see him felt to Leonie as if someone had thrown her a rope across treacherous water. Every impulse told her to snatch at it. She nodded at him, a curt, awkward movement, and descended the second step to Marian’s side.

Lucas and Ivy drifted round the side of the house from the direction of the beach. They were wearing faded shorts and windbreakers, so they looked like male and female versions cast from the same perfect androgynous mould.

‘Young love,’ Judith sighed. ‘Just look at it.’

Marty’s head jerked as he handed Justine over to her.

‘They’re welcome to young love,’ he said, so sharply that his wife stared at him in momentary surprise.

No one caught sight of May who had followed Lucas and Ivy from the beach. She found a temporary refuge in the thinning fog.

The Fennymores’ house was out of earshot of the Beams’. Aaron was in his chair with a rug wrapped around his thin legs because even the occasional faint chill of July penetrated his bones and threatened him with the winter to come. Hannah sat opposite, wearing her old-fashioned reading glasses and with the week’s
Pittsharbor Record
folded in her hand. She read the more interesting titbits aloud to him, although she was not sure that he was listening. More and more often Hannah performed small services for Aaron because she had always done so, not because she was convinced that he still required them. He had withdrawn where she couldn’t follow him, into memories and the recesses of the past.

Yet sometimes he startled her with the relevance of his train of thought. ‘What was the girl’s name?’

‘Which girl?’ She wasn’t sure whether he meant Doone Bennison.

‘I found her outside.’

‘Ah, that girl.’ Hannah had been thinking about her too. ‘May Duhane.’

‘She needs something.’

‘Mothering, perhaps.’ Marian Beam, of course, had told them what she knew about the death of Alison Duhane.

For so many years Hannah had watched her husband’s uncompromising features – at first in anxiety, then in bitter resignation, and now, at last, in affectionate acceptance. She knew all the nuances of light and shade in him, and the expression he wore as he looked at her at this moment was the best because of the warmth in it. ‘You would think so.’ He smiled.

‘I know so,’ Hannah answered composedly.

She had been a successful mother, that was one of her compensations. The demands of her children had seemed easy to meet and the easiness had passed itself on to them. All three of them were unremarkably grown up now, moved away and settled with partners and children of their own in Cleveland and Dallas and Burlington, Vermont. She missed them less than she had imagined she would while she was still waiting for them to fly away. Now, as he had been at the beginning, Aaron was her central concern. Her books and papers and investigations of local history and legends were a distraction, a way of not letting him know how important he was.

But he knew in any case. His wordless acceptance of her devotion was a measure of his arrogance. He had been arrogant as a young man, too, with an unshakeable pride in his roots and his place in Pittsharbor, which bound him to his home. He had never been tempted to wander elsewhere and his self-assurance had been overturned only once.

He had allowed Hannah to rescue him then, and she had been glad to do it, but the history of the damage and his debt to her had been buried silently between them.

Aaron nodded, his hands folded on the knob of his stick, apparently satisfied with this brief reference to May Duhane and her possible needs. Hannah refolded the paper and began to read a contributor’s letter about the success of the Pittsharbor Fourth of July parade.

May wasn’t afraid that Ivy and Lucas might have been able to see her spying on them. She knew they wouldn’t look at anything except each other and the thought made a jealous knot twist in her chest, so that she had to suck hard to draw air into her lungs. She stood at the side of the road away from the houses with her arms weightily hanging at her sides, panting with the effort of drawing breath.

May felt that whichever way she tried to direct herself there was a precipice yawning at her feet. If she focused on Lucas – and there was no conscious effort in that, the thought of him filled her head, and she saw the fall of beige-blond hair and the tattooed lovers’ knot in her contorted dreams – there was always the accompanying swell of jealousy and self-dislike, and the hopelessness of wishing that she could be like Ivy.

Her father was even less of a resort because of Leonie Beam, who seemed always to be around him, friendly and smiling like a shark in lipstick. To see them, even to think of them together, reminded her of how it had been with Suzanne.

Disliking Suzanne, steadily hating her, had made a guilty cloud that still hung around May. But feeling regret for driving her away didn’t make any difference to her mistrust and resentment of Leonie – who was
married
, who shouldn’t look at her father in just that way, which only May seemed to notice.

Ivy shrugged it off, if she was aware of it at all. ‘Don’t use your imagination so much,’ she told her sharply when May tried to share her anxiety.

And if she concentrated on this place, on the vacation itself, she only became miserably aware of her inability to fit in. The tennis and the barbecuing and beach volleyball jollity generated by the Beams made her shrivel up. She was too fat, too awkward and too used to being unhappy. But May didn’t recognise her unhappiness for what it was, merely having a sense that there was something the matter with her – for which she could only blame herself.

There were the old people, she grudgingly acknowledged, Elizabeth and the Fennymores, who had tried to be kind to her. But May didn’t welcome kindness because of the accompanying suspicion that people felt sorry for her. If only she
could
be like Ivy, who was slick and thoughtless, and dismissed what she didn’t care for with a shrug and a single sarcastic lift of her plucked eyebrows.

May sat down heavily on the grass bank, shuffling her back up against a convenient wooden post. She drew up her knees and rested her forehead on them, staring down at the blades of grass between her feet. The enormity of everything, all the countless profusion of grass stalks, and beads of moisture and minute insects, was suddenly terrifying. May rocked her head on her bent knees and screwed up her eyes to ease the burning behind them.

More and more often she found herself thinking about Doone. The sense of collusion, the feeling that she was following Doone’s footprints clearly printed in the sand or the grass, grew steadily stronger in her mind.

The first time she had read the diary she had gone straight through it, devouring every page, unable to disentangle herself from the fascination it exerted. Even though she now knew some of the passages almost by heart she still found it hard to extricate herself from Doone’s wild scribblings. The night before, she had gone through every entry yet again – those she could decipher, at least – sitting up late on the French bed and staring at the now-familiar handwriting. The scrambled numbers still danced in front of her eyes, maddening her with what she could not interpret. If Doone had left these messages for her, why was it that she couldn’t read them?

There was also the woman on the island. The image of her returned to May as often as the thought of Doone, so that the two of them became connected and inseparable in her mind. The picture came back now, superimposing itself on the canvas of grass and moss. A pale woman in loose, colourless clothes. Standing still, watching and waiting.

Sometimes May convinced herself that she had been just a picnicker, someone who had landed a boat on the seaward side and walked over the hump of wooded land to the bay beach. Perhaps she had been resting in the shade of the trees before making the scramble back to her friends or her husband, her children even, waiting by their sailing dinghy for her to come back from her explorations.

At other times, when she lay awake in Doone’s bed following with her eyes the cracks in the ceiling, she knew that the woman was different, nothing to do with the bright and wholesome holiday place that was dominated by the Beams. The white oval of the woman’s face and her very stillness had been too alien. She was part of the water and the fog, and the low, brooding hump of the island itself. In some way she belonged with Doone, or Doone belonged to her.

Aaron Fennymore had said that the Beach was resistant to rational explanation. The words stuck in May’s head, scratching her with an insistent point of fear.

Someone was coming across the road. May looked up and saw Elizabeth.

‘Good morning, May. Are you busy or would you like some company?’

She was wearing a straw hat, although the sun still hadn’t burnt away the last layers of mist, and a waisted dress printed with little flowers. May liked the way she looked and her old-fashioned politeness that managed to be quaint without being weird. ‘It’s okay. I don’t look busy, do I?’ She scrambled up and scrubbed at the wet seat of her shorts.

‘Perhaps we should take a walk together.’

May gave a nod and a shrug, and fell into step beside Elizabeth. They turned along the road in the direction of Pittsharbor. May found it a relief not to be looking towards the crazy peaks of the Beams’ roof and the dark timbers of the Captain’s House, which seemed to suck in the light. Further on in this direction there were cottages in the woods, with towels drying on rails and couples putting cool-boxes in their cars, and ordinary families with little kids and babies in strollers. It was nice, with a friendly feeling. She felt suddenly that she shouldn’t walk on beside Elizabeth without saying something appropriately companionable. She racked her brains, then asked, ‘Do you like having your son up here to stay with you?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Elizabeth adjusted her hat and May saw the inside of her arm, the loose white skin seamed with thin spreading veins. ‘But he has to go back to Boston unexpectedly this afternoon. Some business he must see to at his picture gallery.’

The way she glanced away and settled her face again, levelling her chin with determination, made it clear to May even in the depths of her own self-absorption that Elizabeth was lonely. ‘That’s a shame.’

May wondered what she was doing on her own up here if it made her lonely and the speculation led her to reflect that the adults she knew mostly didn’t seem to suffer from loneliness. They had partners and friends, and complicated lives filled with choices, as her father and Ivy did. Being lonely had seemed an immature problem, most specifically her own. ‘Do you stay here all summer?’

‘I do, nowadays. I like to look after the garden, because my mother loved it so much. I told you that, didn’t I? When my husband was still alive we came only seldom, because he liked to go to Europe and to visit his sister in Virginia, and there was only so much time. He was a lawyer, you know. A busy man. Then, very soon after he retired, he was taken ill. He died six months after that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ May mumbled. She was thinking how horrible it must be to be old, a widow like Elizabeth or Marian Beam, or frail like the Fennymores. Once you had grown out of the horribleness of being a child, which must surely happen some day, how long did you have before it closed in again as old age? The seeming pointlessness of it all weighed down on her, so that her feet dragged beside Elizabeth’s brisk steps. Doone had written something like this in the diary, she remembered. It was one of the crazy despairing bits, when her exhilaration had evidently deserted her. She would read it again when she was back in her room.

They walked on to a point where they could see the whole of the bay. The sun was stronger now and the island shimmered in nothing more than a faint haze. It would be a warm afternoon, perhaps even hot. Looking back over her shoulder from the top of the steps May could see a rowboat beached on the island sand. Perhaps Lucas and Ivy had gone out to their hollow together. Imagining them, May felt a contraction in her stomach and a shiver of nausea.

‘Let’s go on this way, shall we?’ Elizabeth pointed down the road and May could only nod, silenced by misery. As they walked, she listened to Elizabeth talking about what it had been like to spend summers here when she was a girl.

Half a mile further on, set back under the shade of some crooked spruce trees, stood a little saltbox shack that had been turned into a restaurant named the Flying Fish. There was a blackboard at the roadside with the day’s dishes chalked on it, and a couple of tables crammed on the narrow front porch.

‘I used to play with the kids who lived here,’ Elizabeth said. ‘They’ve all moved away now. It’s been the Flying Fish for about ten years. Shall we stop for a drink?’

‘Okay. Please let me buy you one.’ For once, May had some dollar bills folded in her pocket. Enough, she calculated.

‘Why, thank you,’ Elizabeth said.

They sat at one of the porch tables. Bright sunlight suddenly made the shadows inky dark. Until this minute neither of them had noticed that the moan of the foghorn had stopped.

‘Iced tea for me, please. They have good jelly doughnuts,’ Elizabeth advised.

‘Just a Coke.
Diet
Coke.’

‘You’ll fade away.’

‘I don’t think so.’

When the waitress had put their drinks in front of them Elizabeth asked gently, ‘Is something wrong?’

May was exhausted. Even if she had wanted to, how could she specify one thing when it was everything? ‘No, Nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’

The concern in the old woman’s face affected her, all the pursed lines around her ladylike mouth and the wattly flesh of her throat pulling with the effort to be kind but not intrusive. May was afraid she might, embarrassingly, cry again. It was unthinkable to mention even John or Ivy and Lucas, let alone the feeling she was always trying to hide and duck away from, that the insides of herself were wrong and guilty, and less adequate than everyone else’s.