Lifeboat (4 page)

‘I do not want a life built on dreams,' she said.

‘Then I pity you, for that is all anyone has. And think of it,' said he, wiggling his eyebrows comically. ‘You could then have a dream house, a dream job, the man of your dreams.'

‘But that's all they are,' she retorted. ‘Just dreams.'

‘And dreams can be what we become.'

‘What do you mean?' she asked, pulling a face. ‘That is puerile philosophy.'

He brushed his forehead with his two longest fingers, tracing a line across his face, then opened both hands towards her, palms upward.

‘Think of it this way: everyone dreams, daydreams if you like, of the future and how they would like it to be. The lucky ones achieve it.'

‘I did not dream this,' she said, gesturing to the room around her. ‘What fool would?'

‘Then maybe you dreamt to forget who you are?' he replied. ‘Many people would do that if they could.'

‘Yes, if the person was a criminal; or insane.'

He took her sarcasm quite seriously.

‘Perhaps,' he said. ‘But it doesn't have to be that dramatic. Maybe such people are just unhappy. Think of your dream – it didn't sound happy to me.'

‘Or maybe they're just fools,' she said, gesturing at him as if trying to cut the air between them.

‘Anyone who says they have never been a fool is a liar,' he said, mocking her.

‘I do not know you.'

She turned her back to him.

‘I do not know me either.'

‘So you could be a murderer,' she said, unable to let him have the last word.

‘I could be.'

Her face twitching with fury, she turned on me again.

‘You are sitting here with a murderer. Aren't you scared?'

I didn't answer.

‘Is that why he is locked in at night? Is it?'

‘Your door was locked too – maybe the murderer is you?' he said.

‘If I knew you, I would kill you,' she hissed.

‘With what, little woman? Your tongue?'

‘You are a lunatic,' she said. Then she glared at me. ‘I refuse to be questioned alongside this madman.'

‘Please stay calm, madam. I really think you are upsetting yourself over nothing,' said he, laughing.

Her two hands made fists of themselves in front of her closed eyes. ‘No. I am upset because I am nothing, I am no one. Who am I? Where do I come from? To whom do I belong? You are right,' she said, and I could see tears in her eyes as she opened them wide. ‘I could be a murderer; or a madwoman.'

She sobbed, like glass breaking. He looked ashamed and put out a tentative hand to pat her; it spread across her entire shoulder blade.

‘I'm sure you're not,' I said softly, wanting to comfort her.

‘You are sure of nothing,' she whispered, looking at me through her tears, wiping her eyes defiantly.

‘I'm sure I can help you. I'm sure that we'll sort this out,' I replied. ‘That's what I'm here for. That's a good start.'

‘When all I have is dreams?'

‘Then we will start with dreams.'

She looked down at her feet. He sat quietly, no longer laughing, his hands still in his lap. Eventually she turned to him.

‘Please accept my apologies, sir – I do not think you are a murderer.'

As she wiped her eyes she looked old and tired. This is not right, I thought. At her age, after surviving this world she should be at home surrounded by her family enjoying the end of her days in comfort. Maybe she had been.

‘So tell me your dream,' I said.

I picked up my pen and held it poised over the empty pages of their file.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes before she spoke. ‘I am in hospital – or I think it is a hospital. Women, dressed in black, surround me – they flap about me like crows. I am naked and my body hurts all over with a life-questioning pain. Even in my dreams I feel it, coming in waves like landslides. I moan, cry out loud, curse these women and the pain, but no one pays me any attention. There are bright flashes in front of my eyes and the ground shakes.

‘I think the women are letting off fireworks so I scream at them to stop, but they pay me no heed. An explosion rocks my body, but whether it comes from within me or from outside I can't tell.

‘A wailing starts. There is a man at the foot of my bed. He shouldn't be there because I am naked and he is not my husband. I try to cover myself, but can't. The man at the foot of my bed holds a baby out to me.

‘“A beautiful girl,” he says.

‘I can't wait to hold her, but first I must cover myself. I turn away, trying to pull the sheet over my nakedness, but each time I do, it slips from my grasp. I so want to hold my child, I am panicked by this simple action. Eventually I succeed in covering myself and turn back, but the man and the baby are gone; I am bereft.

‘The dream changes. I'm still in the hospital, but I'm alone. I run through endless corridors, searching, looking for my child. I find a room where a nurse sits waiting for me. She gestures to the hundreds of babies filling the room – I am to choose mine. But I can't. They all look the same; I cannot recognise my own child. But I know I must choose. I'm confused. I pick one, any one, from the mass. Then I see that I have picked a boy. I try to hide this from the nurse because I know that I should have picked a girl. The nurse wants me to bathe the baby. I put the child into the water, leaving its nappy on to hide my mistake. To my horror, as I bathe it, the baby seems to melt from between my hands, disappearing down the drain hole. I think that I have killed it, so I back from the room, hoping no one will notice.

‘Then I am back in the corridors, this time running away. The corridors are like a maze; each doorway looks the same. I am running from the nurse, but I don't want to be running. My legs are tired and I am panting so hard my chest hurts. I want to stop, but I can't because I killed the baby.

‘I lie down, trying to curl into a corner of the corridor where I won't be seen, but as I do I know that I am in full view and I will be caught. I am still naked, but I am so tired I cannot move to cover myself. All I want to do is sleep. Then I wake up.'

The woman wiped her hands across her eyes, exhaling quickly. ‘That is my dream. How does it help?'

She turned to the man, who was sitting impassively beside her.

‘So many thoughts,' she said. ‘So many thoughts and images, floating in my brain like islands lost in mist. Do you feel it too?'

He said nothing. She dropped her gaze to where her left hand, white knuckled, clutched the seam of her old trousers. She looked at the hand with curiosity, as if it were the hand of a stranger, then gently pried her fingers free and smoothed them out like a glove, turning them over to examine her palm.

‘I met a man once,' she said. ‘In India, I think. He was an interpreter with the British army – he read my palm.'

‘What did it say?' asked the man softly.

‘I don't remember,' she said and laughed despite herself, a short cackle. ‘But he saw my life laid out there, like a book. He saw who I was, where I'd been and where I was going, as clearly as if it was written on a page. Where is that man now? Where is he now to help?'

She smiled, glancing around the room as if hoping the palm reader might be sitting unnoticed in the corner, then dropped her head again.

‘Logic tells me that I am somebody with a name and a past and a place,' she said softly. ‘I get pieces, flashes – a familiar word or smell … a colour. I think I remember the fortune-teller in India, so I reach out for it and it disappears. It is like trying to remember a dream after you have awoken; the harder you try, the more it evades you, until it simply evaporates and I'm left with the feeling that once I knew, but now all I have is something missing. And now …' she turned to me. ‘You ask me to remember and I find myself feeling too frightened to, in case I find that there is nothing to remember.'

‘But there must be,' I said. ‘Everybody has a past, whether they like it or not.'

She looked at me, blankly, plucked herself from the chair and started towards the door.

‘It's a beautiful day – why don't we go outside?' she called, and without waiting or looking back, she left.

I followed quickly, worried about security, asking him to come too.

As we stepped outside, both he and I stopped and took deep draughts of the ocean air, the sun on the sea-splashed wooden jetties smelling like perfume. Someone was brewing coffee nearby; a couple of painters worked, whitewashing the pier railings and singing along to a song on their radio; a passenger ferry blew its last whistle before casting off. I smiled, feeling like a five-year-old with new sandals, from the life I always wish I'd had.

We caught up with her at the waterfront and spent the rest of the morning there, sitting on the grass in the municipal park, in the lee of a large azalea bush. A few gulls sauntered up looking for scraps only to leave disappointed. A breeze tangled with the caps of the waves across the harbour, filling the sails of the few pleasure craft out on this working day.

She was going out of her way to be pleasant, admiring the colourful skirts of the island women and enquiring about the buildings around us. Her hands embroidered her words, fluttering around each sentence with the intricacy of fine lacework. I noticed how charming she could be when she wanted. She charmed him, I could tell, because he smiled that slow smile. And as she smiled in return the years dropped away and I saw someone who was once a very beautiful woman. So in the aftermath of the morning's sadness and upset I let business drop while we sat in the sunshine together, chatting about the inconsequential things we saw.

I took them to lunch at a waterfront café, lingering after the food to watch the people. I thought of the lives each one of those passers-by carried in their heads, taken completely for granted, and wanted to shout to each person: ‘Remember. Remember the little things, the precious things. Take care of your lives – take nothing for granted.'

As we talked I realised how much time is taken up discussing what one has done or what one plans to do – and these two could do neither. So we spoke of what we saw, immediate ideas and observations. Then, like so many people who can't or won't talk about themselves, they ended up discussing me.

‘How long have you been in this country?' he asked.

‘You have a good ear – my accent is considered excellent by the locals.'

‘Maybe my ears are fresh from so little talk at sea,' he replied, smiling at me. ‘Or maybe it's just something about you – you don't seem to fit in exactly.'

‘I fit here as well as anywhere.'

‘Are your family here?' she asked.

‘No.'

‘You came alone? But you are so young.'

‘No.'

‘No what?'

‘I mean yes … I came alone. But I'm twenty-one.' They both laughed.

‘Where is your family?' she asked.

‘I don't know.'

‘How is that? How can you not know where your family are?' she asked, as if the idea were unthinkable. He guffawed at that and reached out a big hand to pat my shoulder, but it took her a moment to realise the irony of her question.

‘Of course, of course … but why don't you know? Unless you arrived in a lifeboat too? Hah! So this is why they give us this babe to find us out,' she said, looking round the table as if addressing a forum. ‘She is one of us.'

She laughed, but kept her eyes upon me, waiting for my answer. Despite my reserve I found the empathy irresistible.

‘No, well, a little like you, maybe – I have no family, that I know of.'

‘I am sorry,' she said.

It wasn't her fault.

‘You were adopted?' he asked.

‘No. I grew up in a convent.'

‘That is odd,' she said.

‘What is?'

‘That you weren't placed with a family.'

‘There was the war, everything was confused. Maybe they didn't think it was worth the paperwork – so many people died. My father was killed in the war.'

‘And your mother?'

‘I don't know. She is alive. Or was. At least, I've never been told that she's dead.'

‘But you don't know her?' he asked.

‘No I don't.'

‘Why not?'

‘She chose to have me, then to not have me, so to speak.'

‘I cannot believe that,' he said, sounding shocked. ‘How could any woman give away such a beautiful child?'

I smiled self-consciously and felt myself blushing at his sweet compliment. She covered my hand with hers, giving him a stern look.

‘You have embarrassed the girl now,' she chided. She turned to me. ‘But he's right. Perhaps she was not sane – to give you away would be madness itself.'

‘Do you ever hear from her?' he asked.

‘No, but I could get in contact. There are people who'll search for you. But …' I waved my hand seaward. ‘There's so much else in the world to worry about. And things of such great beauty. Once I'm settled … a family of my own or something, then, maybe I'll want to know.'

We sat silently. She seemed to have forgotten that she held my hand. Hers was a cool hand, smooth and dry. I thought, how odd to tell these intimate things to strangers. But these two were from nowhere with nothing, an empty shelf in a forgotten cupboard and my secrets would be safe from prying eyes in their room.

‘You must do that,' he announced, breaking our reverie as if something was decided.

‘What?' I asked, using the moment to withdraw my hand from her grasp.

‘Find your mother. A person must know from whence they came. It is important.'

I laughed at his certainty.

‘What's funny? Is that funny?' he demanded, turning to her for reassurance. ‘Why is she laughing?'

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' I said. ‘Perhaps you're right, but let's start with you first. I think your case is a little more urgent than mine, if you don't mind.'