The Widow's Confession (18 page)

‘Do not worry,’ said Delphine. ‘Martha will be on that tomorrow, scrubbing it until the carpet has no pattern. The sea mist will be almost fully down now. You may wish to make
your way back before your way is lost entirely to it.’

Edmund rose; he could hardly remember ever having felt so self-conscious before. He brushed the ash from his trousers, put his hand to his throat and realized his scarf was still tied there.
Delphine did not rise; she lit another cigarette, acknowledged his bow with the inclination of her head. It was Julia who moved silently ahead of him and opened the door. The sea mist rolled in
upon them, unfurled itself even into the hallway.

‘Can you go out into this?’ she said, and for the first time, his eyes met hers without her veil between them. There was barely half a foot between them.

Was it the spirits he had drunk, he wondered, or the coldness of the mist, but in that moment he wished to touch her, in a way he had not with Delphine. He did not let his eyes rest there, but
he saw the outline of her face, of her neck, and he wished to brush his face against it, to place one, chaste kiss where the pulse beat in that pale skin.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ And he pulled his hat on, and staggered out into the night. He did not hear the door close behind him. Groping in the thick air, he reached for the
gate and pulled it shut.

He was on the roadside. He knew this only because of experience; he was surrounded on all sides by the mist. To his right he saw the faint glow of a streetlamp; ahead of him a step or two of the
road. He knew that the parsonage drive was just across the road, but he suddenly became aware of the silence, broken only by the distant call of the fog-horn. In the mist, any sound could be
muffled or thrown; he was seized by the idea that a horse or carriage could come looming out of it. He recalled the smuggler’s tale told by the locals, and for a moment he thought he heard
the approach of hooves. He wondered how Solomon would make his way home. He hardly knew whether to take a step forwards or not, and felt like a fool, putting his hands forwards, groping in the
mist, its purplish darkness. He took several steps forwards with no guide at all, until his hands met, with a gasp from him, the sharpness of the flint wall across the road from Victory Cottage. He
guessed it was the parsonage’s drive wall; he felt its curve, and then the waxen leaves of the first trees, and ahead of him there was a faint glow, and he knew it was the lantern above the
front door. He walked slowly, steadily, knowing that he was disorientated and that he might trip. When he came to the front door he put his hands on it, and stood for a moment, feeling a surge of
relief.

The door was pulled open. Theo stood, lamp in hand, his face full of amazement and relief. ‘My dear Mr Steele, I was afraid something had happened,’ he said. ‘Come in, come in.
Foolish of me, I know, and yet,’ Edmund saw him smile in the darkness of the passageway, ‘I cannot get used to these sea mists. I know they are glorious, these sudden changes in
weather, but I cannot get used to the mists.’

‘I did not come far,’ said Edmund. He went into the drawing room and sat down. Theo brought him a woollen blanket and wrapped it round him.

‘Your clothes are damp,’ he said. ‘I will fetch you some brandy. It does not take long for the sea mist to soak you through. I was wondering where you were. I had thought about
bringing a lantern out to look for you, but I would have needed a beam as powerful as that of the lighthouse.’

Edmund nodded, huddling into the blanket. He felt, suddenly and powerfully, deeply vulnerable. He watched Theo bring in the brandy and pour out a healthy measure.

‘How would you have looked for me?’ he said.

‘I do not know,’ said Theo, handing him the glass. ‘In truth, it would have been impossible to find you.’

Julia continued to be suspicious of Alba. It was true that sometimes, her exquisite looks attracted impatience or malice, but in every conversation I had with her, I
glimpsed only innocence, and a desire to do good. She was full of high spirits, and often laughed in answer to questions, and although this earned her the censure of her aunt and the accusation of
silliness from others, I felt sure that it stemmed from her nerves in social situations.

Unlike me, Alba wished only to please. Such an inclination leads sometimes to tragedy, and sometimes to triumph. I felt protective of her, and remembered how my life had turned on one poor
decision: to walk with a man one evening on Broadway, alone, without recognizing the danger I was putting myself in. I told you men’s desire was a poor amusement to me, and so was his. Yet I
felt safe with him, for we moved in the same circles, and I had known him since childhood. I thought only to rile my mother – but not of the destructive power of a man’s desire, when
thwarted.

Two days after the night of sea mist, Theo Hallam rose early and left his sleeping house, having instructed Martha the night before to only make breakfast for Mr Steele.

There had been a high tide again. Passing the Tartar Frigate, he glanced at the scattered sand on the road, where the water had come almost up to the door of the inn. He had already noted, from
way off, the familiar comforting silhouette of Solomon on the end of the pier, smoking his pipe and watching the weather as Tarney, Martha’s brother, moved around him. Tarney was a man who
had to be constantly doing things, even if it was only sweeping sand from the pier boards. In contrast, Solomon conveyed immense stillness, the stillness of a tree or a mountain. Theo could never
imagine such a man being lost to the sea, this certain figure beneath the sun – for he was as weather beaten and bleached as a piece of driftwood. The sea had smoothed out all wrinkles in his
character, had sanded him clean, and surely if he was ever cast into it, she would recognize him as one of her own, and bob him home on her surface.

Of course, Theo knew never to utter such notions out loud. The hovellers and fishermen would joke about many things, but never about their fate in the sea. She was to be respected, above all
things – for, as Solomon had once told him, one sharp wave could wash you free of all your thoughts of mirth, and lick the soul right out of you.

As Theo walked along the pier towards Solomon and Tarney, he looked out at the perfect curve of the bay, at the handful of luggers as they gently swayed in their docks. It was how he had
imagined Broadstairs would always be, when he had come here, seeking gentleness, retirement, purity of thought and good health. Every wave, soft and neat, had the gentility of the turning of a page
in a book. But he had seen the other side to the place too, for it had its moods and its seasons, its sudden changes in weather, and this lack of certainty both excited and troubled him. He thought
of mentioning it to Solomon, but he had no idea if the hoveller would agree and utter something sage, or look at him as if he had lost his mind.

As he walked, Theo saw, in the very breast of the bay – dead centre, as though it was measured – a figure standing. He thought of Delphine immediately, and put his hand up to shield
his eyes as he looked. If it is her, he thought, I will go back and abandon my purpose for today. Every sight of her seemed to weaken him more, seemed to awaken some unshakeable shame in him. He no
longer wanted to be seen by her; he wanted no questions in her eyes. But he could not see the swell of a lady’s skirts beneath the cloak, nor was the figure wearing a hat that might identify
them, but a hood. As he peered at the figure, Theo was annoyed by his short-sightedness, and wondered if it was worsening.

‘Morning, Mr Hallam,’ called Solomon, with easy respect. Tarney jiggled and muttered something also, and Theo took the tone of his voice as a sign of awkwardness and anxious respect.
He wished them both a good morning.

‘Wasn’t sure if you’d come,’ said Solomon, blowing out the smoke from his pipe.

‘I am grateful to you for doing this,’ said Theo.

‘I don’t like it,’ said Solomon, ‘but you have seen us through many a time, through loss, and grief – so if you wish to go, you’re the only man I’d
take.’

‘I’m obliged to you. We didn’t speak of payment,’ said Theo.

‘We’ll worry about that later,’ said Solomon, as though money were the last thing he thought of on such a morning.

The journey in the
Susan
was easier than Theo thought it would be. He felt strangely secure in the lugger, comforted by the solid presence of the boatmen in their
black oilskins. Even the occasional high wave or roll of the boat did not disturb him. But as the bay receded from him, and the air grew fresher, he wrapped his cloak tight around him. Tarney had
turned quiet; Theo wondered whether he felt more at peace in his natural habitat. Solomon was the same as ever, his steady gaze fixed on the horizon, now and then sweeping the surroundings with the
detached serenity of a lighthouse beam.

The water grew choppy; then the Sands came into view. Before long Theo felt the drag of the boat against the bottom.

‘We’re here, sir,’ said Solomon, as Tarney hooked the ladder over the side. ‘You’ll have to climb down and wade a step or two – you won’t mind a little
seawater?’

‘No,’ said Theo, swallowing hard.

‘Ah, she’s a proper island at the moment, on account of the Spring Tide,’ said Solomon. ‘Have no fear, sir, you’ve a while before we’ll float again. But the
weather can turn quick, and though the Spring Tide means the Sands are well-exposed . . . well, it makes the current stronger too. If we need you back here, then we’ll give you this
sign.’ He put his hands to his mouth and gave out a shrill, uncompromising call, half-whistle, half-owl’s hoot, which shivered through Theo. He nodded, and climbed unsteadily down the
ladder, descending into a few feet of water. It seemed to drag at him; he moved quickly, and in a moment was out of the water. With a wave at the men, he wrapped his cloak around him, and set off
along the uneven banks of the Goodwin Sands.

He walked quickly, without looking back, drawing away from the men as the boat had drawn away from Broadstairs. He wanted to be solitary here. He had meditated on this moment, and the chill
which even now was invading his flesh and bone seemed apposite.

He walked for some time, climbing then descending two sandbanks. He thought only of his privacy; the fear with which he had set out had almost evaporated. The distant lightships looked as
innocuous as pleasure crafts, as though they should be populated with sightseers.

When he had walked a good way, he stopped and looked around.

Solomon was right, it did feel like an island: solid, and safe from the waves, though the idea was ridiculous considering the place of dread it held in the minds of all who knew it. There were
all kinds of tales about the Goodwins; there was even an innkeeper in Broadstairs who claimed to have a table made of the last tree from the island it had once been. But the one most ingrained in
Theo was that of the ship-swallower, and as the phrase rose in his mind he swayed a little, as though the Sands moved beneath his feet. What would one poor clergyman be, to this monster, this deep,
swelling graveyard?

He had meant to come here, many times over the years; a thought it had been easy to put away, neatly. Until these last weeks when, surrounded by death, he had felt the desire to live waken in
him. It had made each moment, each sensation, more precious – and yet this sudden resurgence of the life-force had puzzled and tortured him.

He looked around at the innocuous Sands, pleated from their last contact with the sea. The breeze against his face was not foul, but as clean and health-giving as it ever was. He looked
desperately at the distant line of the cliffs on the horizon – at his home. Despite the air, the sea, everything was desolate on these Sands. A tomb. To his right, he caught sight of
something in his peripheral vision. He narrowed his eyes. It was a piece of mast, the end of a structure; only God knew how much lay beneath. Theo turned sharply away. To his left, he stared into a
huge gully, filled with clear water.

He had imagined he would hear the voices of people screaming. But there was nothing, only the lapping of water and the cry of the gulls.

He unbuttoned a pocket in his coat and took out a small bottle. He fumbled in opening it: how fussy the container seemed now in this mortal place, its silver surface enamelled with green and
blue gothic motifs, a pretty, ornate thing, from another world. Still, he opened it with reverence and scattered the holy water, saying, in a voice so low it was drowned out by the gulls: ‘I
am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’

He screwed the lid back on the bottle, and put it back in his pocket. Then, from another pocket, he took out the thick piece of parchment he had put there this morning, on rising.

He remembered the small white Scottish church in Colombo, long ago. He had stood in the shade of its porch as she walked away from him – the woman he would come to know as Georgina –
her ragged skirts fluttering, so that her ankles and calves were clearly visible. With every step she took away from him, a small wisp of sand would rise, so that every step had a ghost, and his
beating heart had an echo. It was that image which was responsible for his persistence – he, so quiet, so timid, walking through the alleys of Colombo, searching for converts, for one
particular convert, speaking to her parents, suggesting an English name. Driven on by holy fire, by conviction underlined with every prayer.

Even now, with the breeze cold against his face, he felt the heat of that distant day, and the sweat broke out on his face.

He had come out here, because in the past weeks that vision of the lost woman had returned to him again. But when she turned to look back over her shoulder, she had the face of Delphine
Beck.

He hardly knew how it had come to life, this desire, but the death of those poor girls had done something to all of them – the presence of death seeping into them, making them want to live
all the more. He saw it in Alba’s frantic gaiety; in Edmund’s gentle pursuit of Julia, and in his own, angry desire for Delphine. There were days when he hated her for it, her
effortless dismantling of the serenity he had worked so hard, for so long, to build.