Rosie Thomas 3-Book Collection: Moon Island, Sunrise, Follies. Rosie Thomas
tub. He wrenched off the blindfold and looked up through the froth as he sank to see the grinning faces of his shipmates encircling the tub. He was choking and retching as he rose to the surface, and no more than two floundering strokes carried him to the side. Rough hands seized and hoisted him out, and a mocking attempt was made to strip him of his soaking shirt and trousers.
But the threat of having his tender naked flesh revealed was much greater to William than the fear of death by drowning. His fright was seemingly forgotten as he rounded on his tormentors and spat at them like a wildcat. ‘You have done enough. Take your hands off me at once.’
One or two of them were jeeringly ready to take the matter further, but Captain Gunnell called out from his place at the front of the little crowd, ‘Leave the lad alone now. He has shown spirit enough and there are more of them waiting below.’
At once, attention turned to the next youngster who was hustled up the forecastle ladder. William saw that those who had preceded him in the cruel ritual were awaiting the show as eagerly as any of the other hands, but he did not choose to take his place alongside them as Neptune began his roaring again. Instead he turned his back on the fun and leaned over the taffrail to gaze out over the wide black sea. Not one of the men saw that his face was wet with tears as well as tub-water.
May frowned. She could hear the endless sea beyond her window and wished that she could shut out the sound. The whaling story seemed to bring it closer and to amplify the threat in its lazy whisper. She opened the diary yet again.
Doone always wrote the date in full at the beginning of each entry. The last one was for 15 August but it ran to only a handful of numbers, scrawled with such heat that an impression of the digits clearly showed on the blank page beneath. Almost all the later entries were in code, except for the dates and a tantalising handful of words and phrases – mirror, photograph, dinghy – out of which May could piece together nothing significant. She was tired of staring at the code as if the intensity of her concentration alone could dissolve the mystery.
The plain-written page that held her attention was dated 13 June, not long before the Bennisons left Chicago for their summer vacation. The curve of Doone’s mounting excitement about the impending departure for Maine had been almost unbroken, but now it dipped into a chasm of despair.
Talked with Mom, back from the clinic early for once. Says she and Dad have been thinking about maybe going up to the coast a bit later, say a week, because Dad has some work to finish off and she ‘could always use a bit more time’.
What did I think?
Think. As if it’s anything to do with thinking, like whether to have relish or extra fries. It’s like I’ve made a little tower of stones balanced on top of each other, dragging them to their place and building up hopes and dreams all the year, then my parents knock it down and scatter the stones with a flick of their feet and don’t even see what they’re doing.
I need so much to be there in the places where I remember him, even if he won’t be there yet himself. I have got everything fixed on this, it’s what I’ve kept going on all these months and it’s so fragile that Mom can just change it, going hmmm? over the pasta as if nothing matters except her work and Dad’s.
There’s no defence and no control anywhere in my life.
I’m so scared.
I’ve got to be there, on the beach and the bay, closer to the memories and the promise of him arriving. A week longer to wait is longer than I can bear to imagine. There isn’t anything else I care about.
And as soon as I write that I think, God, what kind of a person am I?
And I know the answer to it is that I’m dumb, and a kid, and an ugly, fat-bottomed one at that – and perhaps it’s actually because nothing matters or means anything at all to me that I’ve fixed on this thing as a meaningful structure in my life. Probably that’s what Dad would say about it, only with a whole lot more jargon.
How pathetic of me, and how pathetic to hope for anything more, that he might want me for any reason at all, even though I love him so much I’d be glad to die for him.
And yet, and yet. I remember what I remember.
I didn’t say anything to Mom. I ran out of the kitchen and went to my room and lay under the covers, and in the end she came to look for me. She saw my face and I saw the dawn of fright in hers. And that made me feel really strong for a minute.
She asked me, ‘Are you okay?’
It’s a funny question, as meaningless as just about everything else. If your parents are a paediatrician and a shrink, what room is there for you not to be okay?
Then she said, ‘Honey, we’ll go up to the beach as planned if it means so much to you. Is there some reason why you so badly want to get away from here? Do you want to talk to me about something?’
I told her there was nothing. Nothing nothing nothing, like it’s my signature.
Nothing except him.
Who is he? May asked herself for the hundredth time when she finished reading.
It must have been someone up here at the beach; someone who had been here the year before as well as last year. A regular summer visitor, not a year-rounder, because Doone wrote about waiting for him to arrive. Was he from one of the five houses, or Pittsharbor, or further afield? Doone had written about the beach and the bay as if that was where he belonged, so surely that indicated here, the beach itself?
It was clear to May that he could only be Lucas, even though Doone never wrote his name. There were no other possibilities except Joel and Kevin, and how could either of them inspire such intensity of feeling?
The year before last something had happened between Lucas and Doone – I remember what I remember – and it had been enough for Doone to make it the structure of her life. Pathetic, Doone had judged her attachment to be and the judgement had extended to herself as well, but she had still acknowledged it to be the centre of her life. She had believed her love to be strong enough to die for and it was true that it had brought her moments of ecstasy as well as despair.
And she did die.
Was that because of Lucas or had something else intervened?
The Beach is particularly resistant to rational explanation. Aaron Fennymore’s dry words again, somehow more alarming for their very lack of colour.
May studied her bitten fingernails and the ragged cushions of flesh surrounding them. They looked like a stranger’s hands.
Was it possible, might she have to love Lucas just because Doone had done so before her? Was this helpless longing for a tattooed arm and dirty beige-blond hair inherited from a drowned girl? Is it me or her? Which of us is which? And the one on the island – who is she?
Suddenly May hurled the diary away from her. It landed face down with the pages splayed. Her hands flew up to cover her ears and she rocked in the old armchair.
There was a difference, a big one – Doone had had her mother to confide in, even though she was angry with her for her absences. Doone’s mother had come up to her room, hadn’t she, and put her arms round her troubled daughter and tried to make her talk?
An angry sob cranked itself out of May’s chest.
She knew how people could just die, like they could just go shopping or on vacation.
When she thought about her own mother in the earlier times the memories were dressed in colours: the clothes Alison wore, brilliant slabs of saffron or mint or cerise like exuberant abstracts out of one of her art books, and spiked with the scent that clung to her, and the sound of talk and laughter.
Then there came the reversal of all that, the dissolving of Alison into silence and darkness. She had gone so suddenly there had been no chance for anyone to make ready for the loss of her. There had been no packing, no goodbyes and all the tears had to be spent uselessly afterwards.