The House at Mermaid's Cove(2)

“Take a drop of this while the kettle boils.” He handed me a silver flask.

I hesitated as I brought it up to my mouth. The shiny metal reflected the lamp, throwing a glimmer of gold across his bare chest.

“It’s brandy,” he said.

I shuddered as it went down. It sent fire into my stomach, like the wine they give you at Mass. But I didn’t like the taste of it as much. I passed the flask back to him.

I suppose I should have been afraid, sitting there naked and crippled under a blanket. But he was looking at me the way you’d look at a rare insect in a glass jar. I could almost hear him sizing me up: the shorn hair, the scars, the number, the foreign language. Prisoner of war? Escaped convict? Spy?

“The only other thing I have down here is tea,” he said. “Will you take it black? There’s no milk or sugar—but I think there might be some honey.”

The hot, sweet tea revived me. But as warmth spread through my body, my feet began to throb. He saw me wince as I shifted them off the coil of rope. The dog raised his head and licked my chin.

“I’m going to telephone the doctor,” he said. “And I’ll bring you some clothes.”

“Thank you—you’re . . .” I faltered, unable to look at him. His eyes unnerved me. “You’re very kind. But I don’t need a doctor. I can dress the cuts—if you have bandages and iodine.” I was still looking at my feet. “I’m a nurse,” I said. Not a lie. But not the whole truth.

“An Irish nurse—who speaks French.” He said it softly, almost to himself.

“I was working in Africa—the Belgian Congo,” I said. “Everyone at the hospital spoke in French. I was on my way back to Ireland. The ship was hit.”

His eyes narrowed. “What ship?”

“The Brabantia.”

“Where were you?”

I closed my eyes. “I’m not sure. Somewhere in the English Channel. It was the middle of the night.” A jumble of images surged out of the darkness, like the seawater that had come gushing from my mouth and nose. All those people.

“Was it a mine or a torpedo?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” All I remembered was standing on the deck, looking at the stars, thinking how impossible it seemed that a war was going on. And then the rail I’d been holding on to was blown clean away. I could recall the shock of the icy water, the muffled shouts and screams as I fought my way to the surface. The smell of the smoke drifting across the water. And then the awful silence as I drifted away, clinging to a splintered raft that had once been a dining table.

“Who were you traveling with?”

“No one.” That was the truth. The woman who was sharing my cabin had left the ship at Marseille, thank God. But if I’d told him that, he might have asked who she was. And the temptation had already taken hold of me. The dawning realization that, to this man, I could be anyone; I could shed my old identity like the clothes that had gone down with the ship.

He stopped to pick up my chemise, which was lying in a damp heap on the floor. “I’ll get this washed and mended for you.” It was inside out—the number clearly visible. I thought he was going to ask me what it signified, but he didn’t.

“I won’t be long. I’ll bring you some clothes and something to eat. Come here, Brock!” The dog jumped off me.

“Thank you, Mr. . . .”

“Trewella. Jack Trewella. Forgive me—what’s your name?”

I opened my mouth but all that emerged was air. I coughed and put out my hand, pretending that the seawater had brought on a choking fit.

“It’s all right—you can tell me later.” He disappeared. I heard the key turn in the lock.





Chapter 2

I wondered why my rescuer had bothered to lock the door when he knew that I couldn’t walk. I hoped he’d done it as an act of protection—not because he thought I was a spy pretending to be disabled by a few cuts. Perhaps he would come back with a gang of policemen. I told myself that if he really thought I was a threat, he wouldn’t have shown me such gentle kindness. Na?ve of me, I suppose. But for all my adult life I’d been living in a bubble where there was little room for pretense.

I pictured him climbing a path through the trees with my torn underwear tucked under his arm. He’d said he was going to get it washed and mended. Something in the way he’d spoken suggested servants, not a wife. I asked myself what kind of Englishman would be singing in Latin while walking his dog. Could he be a priest? If he was, he would probably try to make me go back. And that was something I had already decided I couldn’t do.

I must have fallen asleep while I waited for him to return. I dreamed that I was on board a ship. Not the Brabantia, but the liner that had taken me out to Africa in ’34. In the dream it was our first night out of port, and I was dancing. It was an odd thing to dream about because for me that floating ballroom was out-of-bounds. We had to be in our cabin by eight thirty, with lights-out at nine. My roommate would always be snoring gently a few minutes later. But not me. The life of the ship was just starting at that time of the evening. I would catch drifts of music: the notes of melodies I remembered from my teens. It brought back the faces of boys who had waltzed me round the dance halls of Dublin. Boys whose lips had hovered dangerously close to mine, smelling of cigarettes and ginger ale.