Lifeboat (7 page)

As her roommate I was extended an invitation and went to the first few, but not being privy to the social shorthand used within a group of old friends, soon became bored and took myself to the library instead. I wondered why she took such pride in playing hostess when drinks at the pub would have been so much easier.

I thought of her as I walked home that evening; I could now understand her excitement. At the end of the main street I turned away from my hill and headed back towards the waterfront – Friday was market day.

The farmers' market was a social occasion. Fishing families from the shores met with farming families from inland. Teenagers met for dates, old women sold beautiful knitwear and embroidery and gossiped unashamedly, keen eyes on the young ones, and the old men drank wine and smoked and watched everyone else. There were children running all about. You could find dinner, a drink, or just the week's groceries.

It was dark as I approached the waterfront park where the market was held. The graceful trunks of the palm trees around the perimeter were decorated with streamers, and coloured bulbs clung to wires strung between the trees, like brightly clad circus clowns swinging on the slack wire.

The smell of barbequing meat enveloped me well before I reached the stalls, mixed with the sweet smells of sugarcane, fruit and perfume. Stallholders cried out to shoppers: goods, bargains, offers, jokes. Carrying my briefcase, wearing my work clothes, I felt like an undertaker at a carnival. I undid the top button of my white blouse and slipped off my cardigan, draping it over my shoulders like I had seen the girls do as they left the office for Friday night drinks.

My vision softened in the dark honey tones of the evening; faces seemed kinder. I browsed as much as I bought, taking my time to select the things I needed, allowing myself to taste and smell each item. Grapes, figs, goats' cheese, all local to the island. Tomatoes, the size of plums and almost as sweet, lettuce and an avocado, a fruit I had seen but not tried before now. I bought olives and dried apricots, jam and honey, bread, pastries.

I bought two cushions, suitable for pillows, and two lovely handmade quilts, knitted by the stallholder, who was knitting as she made the sale. She smiled when I held out my money without bargaining, and indicated I should drop the notes into her lap. Her needles didn't pause once during the whole transaction.

I soon had everything I needed and a few things I didn't. I bought myself an old lacquered box. The inlaid flower pattern caught my eye, but it was the sweet, wistful smell of its interior that made me buy it; it smelt of someone's past. I imagined the box being meant for photographs or letters, however, I was sure I could find something just as suitable. That box was the first ornament I had ever bought and I still own it. Now it does hold photographs, and the smell is still the same.

Once home, I set about making up beds and arranging furniture. I cleaned the already spotless bathroom and lavatory and threw away the half bar of soap I had been using, replacing it with a soft cream bar I'd purchased. The new soap smelt of well-dressed women who didn't do their own ironing; it came wrapped in white tissue. Small, crumbling fragments of soap were left behind, powdering the inside of the paper; I lifted it to my face and inhaled, then carefully folded it back over the crumbs to capture them. The scented tissue would be ideal to add fragrance to my underwear drawer; in those days we were taught to waste nothing.

At the foot of each bed I folded blue towels, with matching flannels. In a neat pile on the coffee table I placed interesting books they might enjoy. I filled the lacquered box with my collection of maps and charts and placed it on the sideboard.

I made salads and sliced small goods, wrapped bread and cheese and butter. By eleven I could think of nothing more to prepare. I went out onto the verandah to check the night sky.

Even with the light from the dockside for competition, the dark sky hung like a bejewelled blanket wrapping the earth. Balloons of sound floated up from the streets below. I had no ill feelings in my stomach – the next day would be fine. I was confident of a good morning breeze.

I went to bed, feeling like a child on Christmas Eve, trying to hasten tomorrow with sleep.

DAY SIX

My weather prediction was right: the sun shone and the wind blew big fluffy clouds across the sky, just as it should.

The man and woman were released to me without delay and we proceeded to my mooring. I didn't keep the yacht at the main marina, it was too costly and, anyway, I preferred the other side of the island, where a smaller harbour lead straight out to sea with little fuss. It felt more private too, being without the cafes, shops and beaches that entice day-trippers. It was a five-mile trip from my house to the mooring, directly up the hill and down the other side. I usually caught a bus.

Half a mile before the bay the trees cleared to reveal the harbour below in panorama.

I waited for that view every trip to send a pleasant shiver tingling over my skin. Then my mood, no matter what it had been before, would be happy.

That day we caught a taxi, loaded as we were with provisions. To my satisfaction, when we reached the vantage point she turned to me, smiling.

‘Beautiful,' she said. I was glad she saw it as I did.

I kept a dinghy at the jetty to ferry me to my mooring, the ignition key onboard. There was not much crime in the town: a few petty thieves, well known to the police, and the occasional drunken brawl or domestic dispute. In such a maritime community boat theft was considered the worst of all crimes and was a rare occurrence.

He admired the dinghy as we stepped aboard. ‘This is a sturdy little vessel.'

‘It's good. Used to be a lifeboat; the previous owner fitted the engine. I did quite a bit of exploring in it before I found my yacht, and I use it on still days. It's too big to tow as a tender, though.'

‘You've done a very thorough job,' he said, lifting one of the hatches in the seat to reveal lifejackets and fishing tackle.

‘Thank you. It's kind of you to notice; I think you'll like the yacht even better.'

I pointed to where she lay, graceful even when moored. From the way the lines in his face softened, I could tell that he saw the same beauty I did.

We motored slowly to the mooring, the sound of our engine breaking through the remains of the early morning mist that loitered in the shadows of overhanging trees. The lush tropical foliage that covered the island grew down to the water on this side of the island, and leant over the edges of the nearby cliffs that peered down at us from their blue heights.

I boarded first and helped the woman on board. By the time she was safely seated he had the dinghy tied off to the buoy and had started unloading our provisions.

‘Permission to come aboard, captain,' he called from on board the dinghy.

‘Permission granted,' I replied. He gave me a mock salute and stepped aboard, with a grace that belied his size, barely rocking the little boat as he left it.

‘You've done this before,' I said, checking the neat hitches he'd dropped over the buoy.

There was a small galley below decks: just a kerosene stove, icebox and sink, but I was proud of its neatness; cutlery and crockery fitting snugly into drawers, and tea towels with the yacht's name embroidered on them – a gift to myself last birthday.

The woman sat peacefully, eyes closed and head turned to the sun. He was on the foredeck. I came up to find him unfurling the mainsail, having already rigged the jib. It bellowed slightly in the light breeze, like a tethered horse wanting to go.

‘I've rigged the smaller jib,' he said. ‘The wind may pick up once we're out of the lee of that headland.'

‘It does. Thanks.'

He gave a small smile of satisfaction and continued with the mainsail. I took my place at the helm – it would seem I had a crew.

The mainsail rose smoothly and he tied it off with an expert twist. I turned the boat into the wind and called to him to untie us from the mooring, which he managed quickly and efficiently. I pulled the tiller towards me to pick up the breeze, gathering in the mainsheet, and felt the boat respond, tipping in deference to the wind as the mainsail swelled. I felt for the delicate balance between keel and sail, the tiller in my hand thrumming like a pulse, a direct line to the heart of my vessel.

He moved down into the cockpit and stood by at the jib sheet, awaiting my signal. I nodded again and the jib tightened to his pull, on a starboard tack, drum-tight. The stays hummed as we picked up speed and the bow wave made that creamy noise which is a delight to all sailors. He cleated the jib sheet and coiled the ropes, then came aft to sit beside me.

‘I think you've done that before,' I said, with mock nonchalance.

‘I hope so,' he replied. ‘It felt good.'

‘Faultless. Would you like to take the helm once we're outside?'

‘That would be very nice,' he said.

I handed over to him once we were in open sea. The woman watched in silence. I had been sailing for only a year, and I prided myself on having an aptitude for it, but I had to acknowledge that as soon as this man took the helm he looked like he belonged. He and the boat seemed as one, his hand firm on the tiller like the two were carved from the same timber. This was the first real thing I could say about this strange man: he could sail.

I realised I had only narrowed the ocean of possible identities to a small sea, so many sailors were there in the world.

‘What's wrong?' she asked me, sitting close, her hands brushing away a stray lock of hair caught by the breeze.

I grimaced, not wanting to spoil the moment. ‘Nothing.'

Her attention returned to our companion. ‘He is very good at this, don't you think?'

‘Yes, very good.'

‘So, perhaps it is something he knows … that he has done before?'

‘Undoubtedly.'

‘And this is good, no?'

‘Possibly.'

‘It is good,' she insisted. ‘For him, for us. We now know our friend here must have done much sailing before.'

‘Yes,' I said, not wanting to say more.

‘So what is wrong?'

‘So he is a sailor,' I said. ‘And that is good. But there are so many sailors in the world, millions. And he is just another one and I am no closer to knowing who he is.'

It didn't seem to dishearten her.

‘Yes, that's true. And I think we are lucky to have someone like you who takes our plight so personally. But,' she briefly covered my hand with hers, ‘this is not simply about a name. There is so much more to someone than that. This discovery means he knows something more about who he was, what he loved,' she cast about for the words, ‘what described him.'

I waited for her to continue.

‘What he loved. And it is so obvious, looking at him, that this is something about which he felt passionate. It seems to me, dear, from my point of view,' and she smiled at me kindly, ‘that there are so many more important things to a person than just their name.'

I had never thought of it like that; I saw their problem like so many blank spaces on an exam paper to be filled in correctly.

‘Don't you want to know where you have come from? Especially now?' I asked.

‘Now? Why – has something changed?'

‘No. I mean now you aren't as young as … Now you are—'

‘Old?' she laughed. ‘Yes, of course, that would be nice. But right now, here in this beautiful place, amongst friends, it does not seem so important. I feel happy, content. And I have a future. It is almost liberating. Yes, it is liberating. Who knows what I was tied to in my former life? I could have had a husband who beat me, children who didn't care, no friends, lived in a dungeon, being nibbled at by goats as daily torture!'

We both laughed.

‘But now, I have a clean slate. I can make my life any way I want it. The world seems like a place full of new discoveries. How many people at my age, whatever that is, get to rediscover that they love the flavour of good white wine?'

‘Or eat dark chocolate for the first time, again,' I said, joining in her enthusiasm.

‘Or smell jasmine.'

‘Tea roses.'

‘Coffee.'

‘Whisky,' he called from the helm.

I gave him a disapproving look. ‘Where have you been drinking whisky? The café doesn't sell it.'

‘Do you really want to know?'

‘No,' I replied, shaking my head. ‘Just don't get caught, please.'

‘Yes,' she said, laughing as she moved over to sit beside him, ‘because you are such a dangerous old man. Just think of what he could get up to out alone at night.'

‘Oh I know it seems silly,' I acknowledged, smiling. ‘It's just the rules and regulations I worry about.'

‘I am not that old,' he said, with mock offence.

‘How do you know?' she rejoined.

‘Very cruel, ma'am. Because I feel it in my bones.'

‘But I see grey hair in the mirror and so do you.'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘Yes,' she admitted, ‘I do. If I could not see myself, I would say I was about thirty-one. Is that strange?' she asked, turning to me.

‘I don't know.' I moved closer to them, better to hear their voices above the thrumming of the boat as it moved through the water.

‘No, I don't suppose you would.'

‘No, I don't mean that. I mean I don't know if it's strange not to feel the age one is. I suspect that many people feel that way. I think maybe we reach a peak, or a sticking point for our personality and stop there. I know I still have an image of myself in my head, stuck at seven years old. Even now I am three times that age I still see myself as seven and am often surprised by my own reflection.'

‘You too? I thought I was the only one. I do not like looking in mirrors and seeing some old woman staring back at me.'

‘I wonder if it's even more disconcerting for you, in that you have lost your conscious memory of your age, so you've lost continuity?'

‘Do you think that the age at which I see myself in my mind's eye is important?' she asked.

‘As a clue to your memory loss?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thirty-one to now is a long time for you to have been amnesic.'

She shook her head and said: ‘I mean that it may have been an important period in my life.'

Our conversation paused while I put the boat about, turning to tack back towards the land.

‘So why seven years old for you?' he asked when we had all resumed our seats.

‘I don't know. I've never really questioned it.'

‘Where were you then?' he asked.

‘The convent – the one I grew up in.'

‘And what happened that particular year?' she asked.

‘Aren't I supposed to be asking you these sort of questions?'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘but our answers are always so predictable …' He turned to her, smiling.

‘I can't remember!' they chanted in unison. She put her arm around him and gave him a squeeze. It was a casual, familiar move and once again I saw them as a couple, lovers even. Was that so far-fetched?

‘You haven't answered yet,' he said. She took her arm away, but they remained seated closely together.

‘My best friend left.'

‘Well that's something,' she said. ‘Why did she leave?'

‘Her parents came and got her.'

‘She had parents?' he asked. ‘I thought it was an orphanage.'

‘It was a convent that took in war strays, many of whom were orphans, but most just sheltering in the country for the period of the conflict.'

‘Did you miss her?' she asked.

‘Yes. A lot,' I realised for the first time just how much I had missed her. ‘I remember crying for weeks.'

I also remembered wetting the bed again and the trouble that caused me.

‘Did you hear from her much?'

‘No, never again.' And now I wondered why.

‘That's awful. You poor little thing.'

It was my turn for a hug.

‘Never mind. I am sure you made other friends,' she said.

I let that one go unanswered, because I hadn't.

‘It's hard to make a new best friend,' he observed. I looked up and met his eyes, and thought that they were the kindest eyes I had ever seen.

Squaring my shoulders, I said: ‘I think the worst thing was that somewhere in the back of my head I dreamt that my parents would come one day and claim me, just as hers had. I told you that my mother was not dead. So when they never did, I assumed it was my fault, as children do. I was only seven, a silly child.'

‘No, not silly,' he said softly. ‘A completely beautiful, understandable child who just wanted to be loved. That's all children ever want. I am sorry.'

‘It's okay,' I said quickly, attempting to laugh.

‘But it's not right,' he said.

‘I'll get over it.'

She turned to him. ‘Come now, sir, with our captain's permission I would like to test your sailing skills again. May he have the …' She indicated the tiller. ‘Steering thingy.'

‘Tiller,' he said.

‘Of course.'