Rosie Thomas 3-Book Collection: Moon Island, Sunrise, Follies. Rosie Thomas
agreed that she would do the same.
Elizabeth escorted her guests through the garden to the head of her beach steps, where they met Marty Stiegel climbing towards them. There was a little camera slung on a strap around his neck. He gave them his sociable smile and pushed his hair back with two hands, smoothing his temples. ‘I heard there was a summit meeting. I’ve come to offer my services again.’
Elizabeth said, ‘That’s very good of you, Marty. I should have telephoned to tell you we were going to talk about the bake stall this morning.’
‘Marty, you’re a jewel. Are you certain Judith and Justine can spare you for the afternoon?’
‘Sure thing, Marian. It’s good that we summer complaints can give something back to the town.’
Hannah offered him a nod and made to move past at the top of the steps, but he blocked the way with a sun-tanned arm. ‘Let me take a picture, ladies.’ Without waiting for their answer he lifted the camera and snapped off a couple of shots.
Elizabeth could already see the photograph in her mind’s eye. The three of them ranged in a line, Marian’s floridness and Hannah’s unwinking, suspicious gaze, with herself in the middle, caught, so insubstantial as to be almost permeable to light.
‘That’ll be ten bucks,’ Marian laughed. She was waving to grandchildren on the beach. She kissed Marty flirtatiously on the cheek and swung her red skirts down the steps to the shingle.
After Marty had gone there was a moment when Hannah and Elizabeth stood on their own. Elizabeth could have counted almost on one hand the number of times they had been alone in the past fifty years. ‘How is Aaron?’
‘Not as strong as he was,’ Hannah said. ‘But still himself.’ She thanked Elizabeth formally for her hospitality and descended the steps, straight-backed, without putting her hand on the guard rail. Down on the beach she seemed to melt into the background of the bay, like one of the birds she resembled.
The island lay in its skeins of water and rock. If it were not for the boats and holidaymakers in the foreground, the wide view was the same as it had been when Elizabeth was a girl. How have we grown so old, she wondered. How have we grown so that so little matters any more? She turned her back on the beach and the bay, and bent to tear the dead heads off her flowers.
It was a hot day. Corn-weather, as Aaron and Hannah might have called it. The sea was a restless plate of ripples and the beach stones and sand were baked dry by the sun. At the southern end of the beach there were clusters of sunbathers on spread towels, lying between their encampments of picnic baskets, sand toys and rubber inflatables. Children ran into the waves, kicking up arcs of spray. The families from the five houses were out too. John Duhane was walking the low-water line with a panama hat pushed down on his head. Ivy lounged in her bikini, using Lucas’s bent knees as a backrest. Beam children and friends leapt and shouted on either side of a volleyball net, and Judith Stiegel sat reading in a low chair with Justine in a basket beneath a parasol. A shadow fell across Judith’s book and she looked up at Marty. The camera was at his eye again and she grinned into the lens, a lazy, barefaced smile that made him lower it without clicking the shutter. He bent over and kissed her instead, his hand cupping the rounded mass of her naked shoulder. Her skin was warm and slick with sun cream.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked him.
‘Visiting the three witches.’
‘Mart. Pancakes?’
‘Hole in one. Justine had her feed? Can I get you something? Otherwise I thought I might play volleyball with the kids for half an hour.’
She nodded her agreement, made complacent by the sun and his deference to her.
Leonie was sitting twenty yards away with Tom at her side. He didn’t often sit on the beach doing nothing, but he had already done his run to Pittsharbor and back, and there wasn’t enough wind for sailing. She watched Marty saunter over to the volleyball and saw Judith settle again to her book. The busy details of the beach, the specks of colour against the sea and sky, and the air’s relentless clarity made her feel as if she were in a Victorian picture. One of the minor English pre-Raphaelites perhaps, painstakingly observed but lacking in emotion. It was not a comfortable feeling. She longed to make something happen, some undisciplined smear of brilliance in the centre of the canvas, and at the same time she dreaded the impulse.
Tom folded the Wall Street Journal vertically into three. Leonie realised her arms were wrapped so tightly around her knees that the muscles of her shoulders were burning. She dropped her hands and kneaded fistfuls of warm dry sand instead. ‘I’ve hardly seen you this vacation,’ she said.
He looked up for a second, not quite audibly sighing. ‘You know how it is in the restaurants. This summer more than ever.’
‘Tom, are you seeing someone else?’ The question came out of nowhere. Once it was spilt it was like a drop of acid, smoking, then burning a hole in the sheet of their tolerance.
‘No.’
She saw that it was the truth. Or at least near enough to the truth to allow his face to blaze with indignation. ‘Are you?’ he countered.
Leonie shook her head. It was the same. Technically innocent, but the smooth surface of honesty was so undermined with the burrowings of despair and dissatisfaction that it must soon collapse.
‘That’s okay, then.’
He was going to turn back to his paper, but she wouldn’t let him. Not now there was a blur right in the middle of the day’s pretty canvas. ‘Do you feel like a walk?’ Leonie suggested.
He considered. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Not I’d like to, she noticed. But doing her a favour.
They skirted the edge of the water, walking with a space of solid air between them. Leonie wondered if John Duhane had turned to watch from under the brim of his panama hat. The dull weight of unhappiness made her hunch her shoulders with self-dislike. There was no reason for this misery, she thought. Or only the old reason that couldn’t be discussed any longer and therefore apparently did not exist. The fact that she couldn’t be happy with all she had was turning her life rancid. And Tom’s, too; the blight was not limited to herself.
They were following the route of the walk she had taken with John. Leonie didn’t want to retrace those comfortable steps in ugly silence. When they had rounded the first headland they came to a narrow inlet lined with rock and pungent with steaming rockweed. At the head was a gritty tongue of sand choked with the grey skeletons of dead trees. She sat down suddenly on the sand. With one hand she gathered some stones and pitched them one by one into the slapping water. Tom hovered behind her for a moment, then sat down a few feet away.
When they had first known each other, their earliest summer together, Tom and Leonie had sometimes taken a walk this way to escape from the rest of the family. Once or twice they had slipped deeper into the spruce wood and found a bed of moss to lie on. They had clung to one another, laughing and whispering like conspirators.
Leonie frowned now, trying to recall exactly how love had felt. A state of greedy inclusion.
She looked sideways at Tom. His face was set in the expression she was too familiar with – unyielding, with the corners of his mouth drawing sharp lines down his cheeks. Sadness and sympathy for him suddenly took hold of her and on an impulse she reached out and put her hand on his arm. He didn’t acknowledge her touch. ‘Do you remember we used to make love in the woods?’ she asked.
‘I remember you saying you felt overheard in our bedroom.’
It was true, but it pricked her that he chose to make it a criticism.
Marian had not put them in Tom’s old childhood bedroom. She had told them that his was too shabby, too cramped to be shared with Leonie, but the new room was also much closer to hers. As if it were as near as she could get to insinuating herself between them.
‘Anyway. It was lovely up here,’