At the Water's Edge (25 page)

“No, no, no, don't cry,” I pleaded. “I'm not angry, exactly, but I
am
a little alarmed. How many other people do you think she's told?”

“Possibly Angus, but I doubt it. She swore me to absolute secrecy.”

Angus. My heart lurched at the thought.

“Anyway, I'll tell her tomorrow you've changed your mind, and that will be the end of it. Was it just a rough patch then?”

“No,” I said. “It's definitely permanent.”

“It might come around again. You never know. You must have loved each other at some point.”

I shook my head. “I thought we did. But no, I'm afraid not. His affections have always been elsewhere.”

I
was curled in the chair when the air-raid siren started its wail. There was no warning, and almost no warm-up—it went from silent to deafening in a matter of seconds.

“Oh God, oh God,” I said, jumping to my feet and looking wildly around. Meg's siren suit was stashed under the chair. I grabbed it, then stood helplessly at the foot of her bed. I had no idea how to wrestle her into it. Angus and Conall showed up seconds later, before I had a chance to try.

“Put that on yourself,” said Angus, when he turned the flashlight on me and saw what I was holding. “And grab the gas masks.”

“The two of you go,” Meg cried. “I can't make it.”

“The hell you can't,” said Angus. He thrust the flashlight at me, then scooped Meg up along with all her bedclothes and carried her away.

I pulled on Meg's siren suit, grabbed our gas masks, and clumped downstairs.

A hazy bit of moonlight revealed the shelter's squat outline, and I ran ahead, holding the flap back while Angus climbed in with Meg.
Then Conall slunk in, and I followed, letting the flap fall shut behind me.

I turned the flashlight on and leaned it up against the wall. Angus, stooping because the ceiling was so low, made his way to the bunks at the back and laid Meg on the bottom one. She turned on her side, writhing.

“Give me her gas mask,” he said, crouching beside her. “And get yours on as well.”

He slipped Meg's over her battered face. She whimpered and curled up even tighter.

Angus reached beneath the bunk and pulled out a roll of brown canvas that was labeled
FIELD FIRST AID
. He unfurled it, revealing a variety of surgical instruments and containers strapped to the interior. A moment later, he was injecting something into Meg's arm.

“What was that?” I asked, kneeling beside him. “Was that morphine?”

“Aye, a Syrette. A preloaded syringe. I jostled her something fierce getting her in here, and I see no reason she shouldn't sleep through this.” He glanced back at me. “I said get your mask on.”

I was struggling with the straps when Angus twisted on his heels and did something to the back of my head. I reached up to investigate. He'd secured the place where the straps converged with a safety pin.

Several aircraft screamed overhead, one after another. I shrieked and covered my head. Angus threw his arms around me and I clutched him in a death grip, turning my face and digging the canister of my gas mask into his shoulder.

“Those are Spitfires—just Spitfires. There's nothing to fear,” he said. “Let's get you up top. I've still got to get my gun.”

I gripped the edge of the upper bunk and he gave me a leg up, as if helping me mount a horse. I struggled to find my way under the covers, but the gas mask made it nearly impossible to tell what I was doing.

“I'll be right back,” he said, ducking away. I cried out, even tried
to grab him, but a moment later he was gone. As even more aircraft zoomed overhead, I burst into tears, blubbering inside my gas mask.

The gun must have been in the dugout, because he was back almost immediately.

“It's all right,” he said, crouching by the flap. “It's just more Spitfires.”

The siren was relentless, rising and falling, rising and falling, and after a few hours I grew numb to it, lulled into a stupor.

I lay on my side, watching Angus the entire time. He kept his head slightly down, listening carefully. Each time a plane roared overhead, he shouted over to me, telling me what it was. I didn't know the difference between a Lockheed Lightning and a Bristol Blenheim, but decided that if Angus wasn't outside shooting at it, it probably wasn't going to drop a bomb on us. I grew so inured to the siren's wail I was startled when it finally went steady, shrieking solidly at its highest note.

When it tapered off and fell silent, Angus set his gun down.

“That's that, I guess,” he said, climbing to his feet.

He made his way toward the back of the shelter and dropped out of sight to check on Meg. A few seconds later, he reappeared, folding his forearms on the edge of the bunk and resting his chin on them. His face was right in front of the clear plastic window of my mask, and I realized he'd never put his on. He hadn't even brought it out. His arms had been full.

“You all right then?” he asked.

I started to kick my way free of the covers.

“Stay put,” he said. “Meg's asleep.”

“We're spending the night out here?” I asked, my voice muffled by rubber.

“Aye, what's left of it. It will be easier to navigate by the light of day, and I don't want to manhandle her again.” He tapped the window of my mask. “You can take that off, you know.”

When I removed it, he took it from me and leaned over to put it back in its ridiculous red case.

“Are you warm enough up there?” he asked.

“Yes, but where will you sleep?”

“I'll nip inside and get a quilt.”

“Why don't you take the top bunk, and I'll move down with Meg?”

“No. She's curled up, and it would take some doing to rearrange her. We'll stay as we are.”

“There's enough room up here for both of us,” I said.

He popped back up. Our eyes met, and this time there was no separation at all, no plastic windows, green canisters, black rubber, or anything else that might have disguised my words. I had no idea how they'd come out of my mouth.

He smiled, and the skin beside his eyes crinkled.

“I'm sorry,” I said, aware that my cheeks were blazing.

He held two fingers to my lips, then slid his hand around until he was cupping my cheek.

I gasped and turned into his hand, pressing my face against it and closing my eyes. When I opened them again, he was staring right through me. His eyes were as penetrating and startling as the first time I'd seen him.

“Hush,
m'eudail
,” he said. “Everything's all right.”

He pulled his hand free.

“Where are you going?” I cried.

“Back in a jiffy,” he said, slipping out of the shelter.

He'd left the flashlight on. Conall was sitting by the entrance, his head bowed like a gargoyle.

Angus returned with a quilt, which he wrapped around himself. He crouched against the wall by the entrance and turned off the light.

“Good night,
m'eudail
.”

I reached up and traced the area of my face where he'd touched me.

O
n the ninth day, I began to wonder if something had happened to Ellis and Hank, and if so, would anyone know how to find me. On the eleventh day, it dawned on me that they might not be planning to return.

It started out as magical thinking, but I soon convinced myself it wasn't that outlandish: Ellis had no home or money to return to, whereas Hank had all the money in the world, and would continue to have it wherever he was. They could change their identities, go somewhere exotic, find an opium den by the sea, leave the whole mess behind. I knew I was part of that mess, but if they really had run off together, never to return, why would they care what happened to me? Maybe they'd found some fondness for me after all, and had decided to set me free.

Of course, I wouldn't really be free until I managed to make it legal, but the idea shone as brightly as a sliver of light beneath a prison door. I was sure Angus would let me stay on until the end of the war—I worked as hard as anyone—but it was more than that. I felt at home at the inn, even welcome.

I couldn't bring myself to think beyond the war, when the proprietor came back. My dearest hope, my deepest desire, was the one thing I couldn't let myself think about at all, in case I started to believe it was possible, because I knew it wasn't.

On the twelfth night of my husband's absence, I moved back into my room.

It was mid-afternoon, and Anna and I were up in Meg's room. We were making ourselves scarce because Rhona was concocting yet another soup, this one with a base of mutton shanks and barley. Between them, Rhona and Mhàthair appeared to have laid out an exact plan for Meg's recovery based on soup and tea. There were now four big pots simmering on the range, and they filled the entire building with an irresistible aroma.

Apparently it was not irresistible to Meg.

The three of us were sprawled on her bed playing Hearts when she wrinkled her nose and asked what the stink was. I told her about the new soup.

“Not Scotch broth!” she wailed. “I haven't had real food in two weeks!”

Anna and I glanced at each other. This was the first time Meg had shown an interest in
any
food since her injury—real or otherwise.

“I'll be right back,” said Anna, leaping into action.

She returned shortly with a bowl of porridge and a coddled egg, both of them swimming in butter.

“I hope you enjoy it,” she said, handing the egg to Meg and putting the other bowl on the table. “Because when Rhona tells Mhàthair, I'm done for.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because their prescription of the day is cock-a-leekie, and no doubt I've undone all their good work.”

“This is marvelous,” said Meg, her mouth full of egg. “I don't suppose there's another?”

“I'm afraid not, but I'll bring an egg a day from now on.”

“And if the hens don't cooperate?” I asked.

“I'll pick them up and squeeze until an egg pops out,” Anna said, making strangulation gestures with her hands. “And if that doesn't work, I'll remind them what happened to Jenny.”

“Who's Jenny?” I said.

“The hen in the soup. She stopped laying. Do you want to know the name of the sheep in t'other?”

“No! I most certainly do not!” I said.

“Elsie,” said Anna. “She was a fine ewe. She'll also show up in potted hough, mutton hot pot, and haggis. Oh, we'll be seeing Elsie for quite some time.”

“Stop!” I said, holding my hands over my ears. “I'll never be able to eat again!”

“City folks,” Anna said, shaking her head. “You never even met Elsie…I can see your cards, you know, when you tip them like that.”

“Behave yourselves, the both of you!” Meg said, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “My ribs—remember?”

“Sorry,” Anna said in a singsong voice. “It's not my fault if some people can't—”

There was a knocking on the door downstairs, a solemn, familiar rhythm.

The three of us froze.

My mind began to race. Meg had already lost everyone, Angus had already lost everyone—

“Robbie,” Anna gasped, leaping from the bed. I scrambled after her, and had just caught up when she yanked the front door open.

Willie the Postie was on the doorstep, holding his hat along with a telegram.

Anna slid silently to the floor. I dropped down beside her, wrapping my arms around her.

“Anna!” Willie said quickly. “It's not for you.”

“What?” she said, looking up at him with shocked eyes.

“It's not Robbie,” said Willie. “The telegram is not for you.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Mrs. Hyde,” said Willie, “I'm afraid it's for you.”

I climbed to my feet, confused.

“My deepest condolences,” said Willie, handing me the telegram.

Anna got up and closed the door, even though Willie was still standing there. I walked to the couch and sat down. Anna sat next to me.

The telegram was from a lawyer. My father had choked to death on a piece of steak fourteen days earlier. The lawyer was sorry the notification was so late, but my whereabouts had been somewhat difficult to discern. I was to confirm whether this was indeed my current location, and if this was where I wished details to be sent.

I set the piece of paper in my lap and looked blankly across the room.

My father had died on the night Ellis tried to beat down my door, the night Rory nearly killed Meg—

It was also the anniversary of Màiri receiving the telegram that turned out to be the end of her.

“Maddie?” Anna said in a hushed voice.

I handed it to her.

“Oh, Maddie,” she said after reading it. “I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. I'm so very, very sorry. Is there anything at all I can do?”

“I think I need to be alone for a while.”

“Of course. Whatever you want.”

As I stood, she laid her hand on my arm.

“That was Valentine's Day,” she said, her eyes opening wide.

“I know,” I said. “It must be cursed.”

I walked slowly along the A82, stepping aside to wait as an impossibly long line of moss-colored military vehicles rolled past. They were lumbering and square-faced, the first dozen or so with tarps tied over their loads, and the rest transporting soldiers. Men from every vehicle leaned out the open backs, hanging by one arm, to whistle and make
catcalls. More than a few made vulgar comments, but there was no way I could escape their attentions. I was trapped at the side of the road.

I turned to face the oncoming vehicles, because then I didn't have to see the men's leering expressions. The drivers also looked at me, but they were behind glass, so I couldn't hear what they said. Finally, I saw the end of the line.

In all, twenty-eight vehicles had driven past. I wondered how many of the young men would come back alive from wherever it was they were being sent.

I kept walking.

The clouds were an intense gray, surging and changing, and appearing in some places to roll out of crevices in the hills themselves. It was astonishing how little it took for the same landscape to take on a completely different cast. The hills, with their fields and forests, were alternately bleak, looming, rugged, or majestic, depending on what the sky above them was doing. At that moment, they looked aptly funereal.

It must have seemed strange to Anna that I did not cry. Perhaps she thought I was having a delayed reaction. I considered the possibility, but dismissed it almost immediately.

I wondered if he'd been eating in his study when the meat lodged in his windpipe, or if he'd gone back to taking his meals in the dining room. Had he made any noise, or was he completely silent? Perhaps he'd turned purple and staggered around, trying to summon help. Perhaps he'd simply fallen facedown into a spinach soufflé. I pictured these scenarios with morbid curiosity, but not sorrow, and definitely not grief.

Although his letter to me had removed all doubt, I think I'd always known that he didn't love me, and apparently his lack of affection had engendered the same in me. There'd been a dearth of affection all around.

My mother certainly hadn't loved me, despite her extravagant claims. Her affections, such as they were, vaporized entirely during
the seven weeks she was on the run with Arthur and returned, redoubled, only when she was forced to go back to my father.

Ellis had also never loved me. At least, not as a husband should love his wife, and recently, not at all.

I reached the castle. Although I hadn't consciously chosen it as a destination, I climbed up and through the dry moat and across the interior grounds without hesitation. I found myself standing at the opening to the Water Gate.

I picked my way down the hill, which was steep enough that toward the bottom I ended up in a graceless gallop to keep from losing my balance.

In the scrub to the side of the landing, there were dozens upon dozens of cigarette butts. I was heartsick at the thought of Hank and Ellis setting up on the very spot from which Màiri had stepped to her death—drinking, smoking, and swearing, oblivious to everyone but themselves and their future fame.

I stepped forward, as Màiri once had, until my feet were at the water's edge. I took another step, just a little one, so that the soles of my shoes were submerged. I watched the water swirl around them, then looked up at the loch itself, black and rolling, endlessly deep.

What had Màiri's thoughts been as she walked in? When it was too late to turn back, when the water closed over her, had she regretted it or felt relief, believing that she was about to be reunited with her husband and child? I opened my mind, trying to channel her. I wanted to know what it was like to experience a love so deep you couldn't bear to exist without it.

I felt her then—I felt Màiri and the cavernous depths of her grief, and had an overwhelming urge to keep going, to walk into the loch. Her anguish was boundless, her sorrow without end. I was drowning in it.
We
were drowning in it.

I closed my eyes, lifted my arms, and let myself fall.

A deep rumbling started in the water, like something was rising, followed by a great
whoosh
as it broke the surface. I opened my eyes, still falling—no way to stop then—and saw two blades of water curling
from the edges of a channel that was being cut, but by what? Something was obviously racing across the surface of the water, but it looked like nothing was there. Before I could make any sense of it, the thing struck me in the abdomen, folding me around it and knocking me backward.

I landed away from the water's edge, banging my head so hard my peripheral vision filled with tiny, sparkling stars. Although the wind had been knocked out of me, I staggered to my feet.

The surface of the loch was smooth, the stones on the landing dry. There was no sign even of a dissipating wake.

I scrambled up the hill, grabbing tufts of grass to speed my ascent. Only when I reached the top did I pause to catch my breath. I leaned against the inside of the ancient arch, periodically looking back at the loch, and trying unsuccessfully to calm myself.