Lifeboat (10 page)

‘Well, it didn't sound like a pleasant dream, although I recognise some of the images from our conversations over the weekend,' I said. ‘I've always thought that some terrible accident put you in that lifeboat; that some trauma took your memories – it's the only logical solution. Perhaps the explosion is an inkling of reality starting to seep back?'

‘Possibly,' he agreed. ‘How can we find out?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘What do you think of psychiatry?'

She looked away, her face inscrutable.

‘What are you thinking of?' he asked me.

‘Would you consider seeing somebody? If I can arrange it.'

‘You could do that?' he asked. ‘They would provide that service for us?'

‘Oh, I don't know,' I said, knowing that my boss had already vetoed the expense, ‘but I can organise it. I'm thinking particularly of hypnotherapy – it was quite fashionable when I left England – something that can tap into your subconscious.'

He frowned. I thought he was going to reject the idea, but instead he said: ‘You spend a good deal of your own time trying to help us. We appreciate your kindness.'

‘I … I find your situation so unfair,' I stammered.

‘I wouldn't call our situation unfair,' she said. ‘Unfortunate perhaps, even tragic. But unfair implies that there is a constant of fairness in this world and I think to believe that is to ask to be disappointed.'

‘Knowledge of oneself should never be confused with knowledge of one's past,' he said.

‘What do you mean?' I asked.

He spread his hands on the table and examined each finger closely. ‘Well, can you tell me how you'd react if somebody asked you to steal?' he asked.

‘Yes,' I said, a little taken aback, not sure what he was getting at. ‘I think so.'

‘But nobody ever has.'

‘No.'

‘Then how do you know?'

‘Because I know myself,' I answered.

‘How do you know yourself?'

I thought a moment, wanting to say something more erudite than ‘I just know', but before I could answer, he spoke again, pressing home his point.

‘Was your answer based on anything you've done in the past?'

‘No.'

‘So how do you know?'

‘I just know – I feel the answer in me, like an emotion.'

‘Ah ha,' he said, waving his forefinger in a parody of victorious excitement. ‘And so do I.' He leant back in his seat, wine glass in hand. ‘And though I can't recall any external influences that may have contributed to making me the person I am, I know that I am that person.'

‘Do you think your dream is linked to past events?' I asked.

‘Perhaps. You think they're significant?'

‘I don't know, but they're all that's accessible, except the here and now.'

‘What is wrong with the here and now?' he asked.

‘Nothing,' she replied, ‘to someone who knows their past and is secure in their future.' She frowned. ‘How literal are they?' she asked, almost to herself. I wondered if she now harboured doubts about the man, thanks to her recent dream.

‘I don't know,' I replied, rubbing my face, not wanting to make up things I couldn't possibly know. ‘There are lots of islands to the north of us – you could have been there when the accident happened, hence the landscape of your dreams.'

‘But you were in his dream,' she pointed out.

‘Which is just the present mixing with the past. Possibly. I don't know, but a psychiatrist might.'

‘I'm not sure,' she said. ‘I don't like the idea of someone looking into my head.'

‘I don't mind,' said he. ‘If it were my foot that was broken I would see a foot doctor. My memory is broken, so send me to a memory doctor.'

When we finished the meal I called for the bill. It wasn't late, but I had signed them out of the compound on the pretext of a meeting and nobody on the island worked that late. When the bill arrived he took it up immediately and pulled a large roll of cash from his trouser pocket. I could only stare.

‘Do you mind?' he asked, waving the money at me. I shook my head, too surprised to remonstrate, and watched as he pulled out a few notes from the roll and tucked them beneath a wine glass.

‘Where did you get that?' I blurted out. I couldn't help myself. He pulled a wry face and tucked the money back into his pocket. She looked away, intent on watching the sea.

‘I won it,' he said, looking at me with his lips pursed.

‘You won it?'

He nodded.

‘How?'

‘At cards.'

‘But who has that much money? The wardens?'

He did not want to tell me.

‘Tell her, you silly man,' said the woman, turning back to him with a cross look. ‘She's a friend.'

I waited, not taking my eyes off him.

‘I won it. At cards. In a bar. On the waterfront.'

‘You went out? With whom?'

‘I went out. Alone.'

‘But how? You're not allowed.'

‘No. But I could not possibly stay in. I find I do not like to be locked in.'

‘How do you get out?'

‘I don't think I should tell you.'

‘But if they find out you'll be in so much trouble … they'll … well I don't know what they'll do, but they might put you in jail and then I can't help you. They'll just assume you're a criminal.'

‘I may be.'

‘Please, sir, don't be flippant,' I said, upset.

‘I'm sorry.'

I was worried. I couldn't control this situation.

‘He has only been out a few times,' she said, seeing my distress. ‘He finds locks easy to manipulate and there is only one lock on one of the back doors. It exits from a storeroom. The wall is nothing for a man of his height and strength. He means no harm,' she said. ‘He is very careful. Please don't worry. I do not go out; I stay behind, in case he is missed. I find I am very tired at night and prefer to sleep.'

‘But what if he is missed?'

They were both quiet.

‘Would you get into trouble?' he asked, finally.

I shook my head.

‘Then it's alright.'

He paused again, searching for the words.

‘I can't be locked in. I don't know why, but the idea that there is no way out drives me to distraction. I start to feel so …' He made a ball with one fist and ground it into his stomach by way of explanation.

‘I want to punch walls and roar and I think that would upset people more. So I go out. I have a few drinks, play some cards, chat to people. I don't make a fuss and I leave before I've won too much. I make sure I lose a bit too.'

She smiled at this.

‘I won't get caught, I am very careful. But if you want me to stop I will, after all your care for us, I cannot upset you.'

I found I did not have it in me to deny him this small freedom.

‘Please be careful,' was all I said.

On my return home after dinner, I found a note pinned to my front door. It was from the castaways, inviting me to dine with them that night. I smiled as I read it, glad I hadn't disappointed them and pleased that we'd been thinking of the same thing. I folded the note carefully and tucked it away. It made me so happy to think that they'd sought out my company, that I forgot to worry about how they came to be at my door, unsupervised.

DAY NINE

The office telephone sat on an empty desk, in a room inhabited by three secretaries and a typist.

Technology was not advanced in that country. People rarely used the telephone; overseas calls were only made on Christmas Day or if someone died. In such a small place everyone knew everybody else and word of mouth travelled far faster than a telephone.

I looked in the telephone book under ‘p' for psychiatrist, just to be thorough, although I knew I'd find nothing. I was right. From there I went to ‘doctors', a section of no more than twenty entries. There were no psychiatrists listed there either. I placed a call to the doctor who had originally examined my pair. He was not aware of any practising psychiatrists in residence on the island but suggested I try the nurses' college, in case some form of psychological study was taught there. I wondered what happened to the mentally unbalanced. He said they were usually cared for by their families, the unluckier ones put into jail or hospitalised.

Tertiary study on the island was restricted to trade apprenticeships, the nearest university being some hundreds of miles away, in another country. Although the university attracted the brightest students, most returned home to work and raise families.

The secretary at the nurses' college couldn't help me either. She suggested I try the public library.

‘We have quite a good section of psychological reference books,' the librarian said, walking me towards it. ‘My aunty got them in.'

‘Does she know about psychology?' I asked hopefully, conscious of his hand on my elbow, steering me towards the shelves.

‘Oh no,' he replied, with a laugh, ‘but she was friendly with a psychiatrist who retired here some years ago. He advised her what to get. We've had a few people borrow from this section – seems to be becoming quite fashionable.'

I scanned the shelves without really looking.

‘Retired here?' I repeated, my interest caught.

‘Yes, he lives over the other side somewhere. Or lived. I haven't seen him for over a year, but he used to pop in quite a bit when I was a trainee – just to see my aunty. I think they may be cousins of some sort, although he's not an island man.' He pulled two books from the shelf and passed them to me.

‘Would your aunt know how to contact him?'

‘I can ask her if you'd like; I'll be seeing her this weekend.'

But that was too late.

‘I'm so sorry,' I said, my voice pitching high. ‘I have a deadline. I really need to see someone this week. Tomorrow really.'

‘Oh, I see,' he said. He fiddled with his tie, dark blue and grey striped today. ‘I'll tell you what, she doesn't live that far from here, so why don't I pop in tonight?'

‘That is such a help,' I said. On impulse I reached out and put my hand on his arm. ‘I can't tell you how grateful I am. Thank you.'

‘Don't mention it,' he said. ‘It's a pleasure to help you.'

I withdrew my hand and stepped aside, then dropped the books I held with a double bang that sounded explosive in the quiet of the library. The three other people in the room looked over at the noise. The librarian smiled and gave them a cheery wave.

‘A bit of a real-life detective story, isn't it? What's happening to them next week?' he asked, as he picked up the books for me.

‘I don't know.'

‘That must be worrying.'

‘Yes, very.'

‘Look,' he said, speaking slowly as if the idea had just occurred to him, ‘why don't you come with me? Tonight? Then you'll have the information immediately. No delays.'

I felt a happy bubbling in my stomach. A moment later it was burst by the ever-vigilant bird of doubt swooping down from my brain, beak sharp with worries.

‘She won't mind, a stranger?'

‘Oh no, she loves new friends. I've told her all about you and she can't wait to meet you. It'll be fine.'

I pretended that this didn't surprise me.

‘But I'm sure it's an imposition on you – you must have had plans for tonight?'

‘Nothing that can't be changed.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘You'd be doing me a favour, really – my aunt says I don't visit her enough. And she loves to show off her knowledge of the library. And if you don't mind me as I am,' he opened his arms wide to indicate his apparel, ‘then I would really enjoy your company for the evening.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Will you still need these books?'

I shook my head.

‘Look, it's almost closing time. I think I'll give myself an early mark, if you can wait, we'll get going straightaway.'

*

A man with a cart full of flowers had set up on a street corner. The librarian stopped and bought two bunches of lilies, one white, the other a festival bunch of hot colours.

‘My aunty loves flowers,' he commented. ‘Here, smell these.'

He held the white lilies to my nose; I inhaled slowly. It smelt of plenty, of richness and indulgence; I shivered lightly, enjoying the sensation.

‘That's beautiful,' I murmured.

‘Good,' he said, ‘because they're for you.'

He handed them to me with a smile.

‘I've never been given flowers before,' I finally said.

‘Really?'

He beamed down at me. We stood there as I smelt the flowers. I was twenty-one and had been given my first flowers by a man. I didn't know how to react other than to thank him, but this seemed enough. We continued on our way, but after a few steps I stopped again.

‘Wait here a moment,' I said, and turned back to the flower vendor, feeling for my purse in my jacket pocket. I chose a small, round bunch of gardenias, and a bunch of lilac and rosemary tied with purple ribbon. The gardenia flower is delicate, easily bruised, but its scent has a confidence that is almost overpowering. The rosemary, too, belies its physical aspect; it is austere to look at, but generous with flavour and calming to the spirits.

The librarian looked at my little bouquets.

‘For the castaways,' I explained. ‘Their rooms are so bare, and I know she would love gardenias; and he likes to cook, so these herbs are for him.'

I carried my bouquets proudly, ducking my head to sample each of their fragrances in turn. I thought of my garden and his promise to come and work in it. He would still be here on the weekend, I promised myself. We'd make a herb garden and then he'd cook us dinner with herbs from our garden.

We arrived at the aunty's house. The lights were on and the door open, but before we could knock she was in the doorway, warmly inviting us in.

‘Hello, welcome,' she said, with arms held wide, stepping aside to let us in. She gave her nephew a kiss on either cheek in greeting, and shook my hand. The house smelt of warm food. A radio played somewhere in another room.

‘For you, Aunty,' he said, and gave her the bunch of coloured lilies.

‘You good boy,' she replied, smiling a closed-lip smile that made her cheeks bulge out like a happy rabbit.

‘Now,' she said to me, after she'd shooed us in to seats in a comfortable sitting room, ‘I think I have something you'll be interested in.'

I smiled back, not sure what she was talking about. But it didn't matter; she'd turned away and was busy at the bookshelves behind her.

‘Here,' she said, turning back with a slim, dark blue book in her hand. ‘The biography's in the front,' she continued, opening the book for me as I held it. She pointed to a short paragraph. Then I realised what I was looking at: a biography of the castaway's father. An Englishman, writing in Africa, whose death was by suicide.

This was his novel, the book that contained the words my castaway had thought written just for her. Would they have the power to recall what was lost within her head? I held the volume flat between my hands, like a prayer book for a missing friend.

‘Take that, dear, and see if it helps with your two,' the aunty said, with her big cheek-curling smile. ‘Now, who'd like a drink?'

After I thanked her for the book, her nephew explained the real purpose of our visit. She confirmed that the psychiatrist still lived on the island, on a secluded bay in the east, about two hours' ferry ride away. She gave me his telephone number and address.

We stayed about an hour, although I had the feeling we would have been welcome to stay longer.

The librarian walked me to the street.

‘I'll be fine from here,' I said, when it looked like he intended to walk me all the way home.

‘You can't get home alone,' he protested.

‘Yes I can – it's quite safe.'

He could not argue with that.

‘Then at least let me find you a taxi,' he said. ‘You have a lot to carry.'

‘I'll be fine,' I said, laughing, but not wanting to hurt his feelings. ‘You've done so much already, and my house is just up the hill. Anyway, your aunt expects you to stay for dinner and dinner's ready.'

He looked back towards the house, regretfully.

‘Well, if you're sure you'll be alright?'

‘Quite sure.'

‘Alright then. Best of luck with everything then. Let me know what happens, won't you?'

‘Of course. Thanks for the book … and the flowers.'

‘If it's not inconvenient, I would enjoy meeting your castaways.'

I liked the idea. ‘I could bring them to the library. I'm sure that would be allowed.'

‘If you come at the end of the day we can take them out for a drink maybe?'

‘That would be nice,' I said, and held out my hand. ‘Goodnight, and thanks again.'

He took my hand and held it in his own, leaning towards me.

‘Good night. I hope to see you soon.'

He let go of my hand, smiling as I turned and walked away. I had thought for a moment that he was going to kiss me. I was relieved when he didn't. Was he just being kind and polite and wanted no more than to help? Was it vain of me to assume he had any other intentions? I wished I were going home to my old roommate, who would certainly know. Perhaps I would talk to the secretary again.

I looked down at the beautiful flowers I carried and inhaled their perfume. The night was comfortably cool, my walking brisk enough to keep me warm. I enjoyed the journey home, listening to the sounds of supper time emanating from the houses, nodding my greetings to the people sharing drinks on their verandahs as I stepped in and out of their light.

Tomorrow I would show her the book and maybe that would unlock her mind. But if it failed, I would ring the doctor and enlist his help. At last I was doing something.

THE DOCTOR

There were no white walls or bars or locks. She found pictures on the walls and comfortable chairs, gardens and books. Her room overlooked a field, dotted with black-faced sheep, coated or overcoated as the seasons dictated. Chickens clucked about the garden, scratching at peonies with no regard for the beauty of the blooms; patients were encouraged to collect the eggs. Patients were also encouraged to paint, dance and sing, take strenuous walks across the fields and help with the weeding. No one would guess there was a war going on.

In the first months she either thrashed or sank, finding herself out of her depth in life. When she thrashed they prescribed blue pills, when she sank they prescribed pink pills. They wanted her to talk, so she screamed; they wanted her to be quiet, so she stopped making any noise at all. But neither silence nor screaming helped dull the pain in her bones, in her blood, in her chest where her heart used to be.

She wondered if they realised her heart had stopped beating long ago, that she was no longer alive in the same way as them. She bared her chest, demanding that they listen to the silence. At first they humoured her, going through the motions of listening. They made her listen too, but she knew that the sound she heard through their stethoscope was a fantasy – it was not her heart. After a while they stopped placating her with the charade and gave her a blue pill. She lay still, willing her mind to go the way of her heart.

She preferred the silence. She would curl up around herself as if to contain the hurt. But it always grew too big, and so the screaming started.

A new doctor arrived, fresh from the fields of France. He had been patching and stitching broken bodies with little time to nurse their minds. He specialised in war wounds.

She arrived at her session expecting nothing – it was a pink pill day. He fed her tea and chocolate cake that he had baked himself, or so he said, and talked to her about his travels. She found herself looking forward to her next session, like anticipating afternoon tea with an old friend. She would go, if only to snub the nurses who tsk-tsked about unconventional methods and wasted rations.

This time he showed her watercolours of an island and something in the blue of the sky reminded her of Africa. She imagined a new world that she could inhabit and felt her heart beat again.

Many years later, as she struggled to keep his chin above the sucking sands of old wounds, she thought of the doctor. They needed a new world of their own where the pain of the past could not hunt them. The doctor would show him that it could be done.