The House at Mermaid's Cove(3)
From the age of eighteen I had been kept away from all this. For three years I’d lived behind high walls, deprived of all the pleasures I’d taken for granted as a girl. But on board the ship the world I had left behind was there—just yards away. I was permitted to walk around the decks during daylight hours, but not to join in the games of tennis and quoits the other passengers were enjoying. I could go to the library for the service of worship that was held there, but I couldn’t take any of the books from the shelves. I remember stopping in front of a billboard advertising films that were being shown on the voyage. I’d stared at the faces of Clark Gable and Jean Harlow, longing to see Saratoga. It had been easier when I was shut in not to miss such things.
Lying awake in my cabin I would hear the clink of ice as waiters pushed buckets of champagne along the corridor; waves of laughter as the doors to the saloon opened and closed; and later, when the band had stopped playing, I saw shadowy profiles outside my window—lovers kissing in the dark.
One night, when sleep refused to come, I crept out of the cabin sometime after midnight with a shawl draped over my head and shoulders. Even though it was dark, I was afraid of being recognized. On my daytime walks I had sometimes caught male passengers following me with their eyes. It seemed that for some men, a woman like me presented a peculiar attraction. A special challenge. To be seen prowling the decks in the early hours of the morning would, I feared, encourage that sort of man.
I’d settled myself into a deck chair, gazing at a vast starlit sky, watching a banana moon slip out of the waves. I must have fallen into a sort of trance as I imagined myself suspended between its yellow horns as if I were lying in a hammock. As it climbed higher, I was looking down at the houses of the people on the coasts bordering the sea. But they were dream houses and had no roofs. I could see couples side by side in bed, children cuddling toys as they slept. It had felt like a glimpse of the life I could have had.
The sound of something rattling overhead brought me out of that deep sleep—that dream of a dream. I sat up, startled, wondering where on earth I was. My brain took a while to make sense of the shadowy shapes of the boathouse, to work out that the noise I could hear was a gull hopping about on the roof.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised that on my first day of freedom—in this place whose name I didn’t yet know—I’d dreamed about dancing and marriage and children. For all the years of trying, I’d never really managed to bury the yearnings that had surfaced on that voyage to Africa. Nine years on, I was as far from suppressing that side of my nature as I’d been at twenty-one. Further, perhaps—because heading back to Europe on the Brabantia, I had prayed for a way out. And three days later the ship had been hit.
All those people.
Your fault. You willed it.
Better if you had died, too.
The damning voice inside my head was silenced by the creak of the door opening.
“I’ve brought the first aid kit you asked for. And something for you to wear.”
His voice was muffled by the pile of things he was carrying in his arms. I could see only the top half of his face. There was no sound of Brock, the dog. He must have left him at home—wherever that was.
“There’s bread and some eggs, too. Sorry I can’t offer you bacon—our pigs are feeding half the county these days.”
A farmer, then, I thought, not a priest. I wondered if I had imagined that otherworldly singing.
He laid the bundle down beside me.
“Thank you, Mr. Trewella.”
“Please—call me Jack.” He pulled a metal skillet from a bag slung across his shoulders. While he busied himself at the stove, I examined the clothes he’d brought me. On top of the pile was a shamrock-green scarf of the softest wool. I thought it might be cashmere. I wasn’t certain, as I’d never owned anything like that. There was a cream silk blouse, still wrapped in tissue paper as if it had never been worn. Underwear of the same fabric slid out from another swathe of tissue paper. I felt blood surge into my cheeks as I held up a lace-trimmed camisole. Whose clothes were these? What woman would lend garments like this to a total stranger?
“I hope they’ll fit you.” He was breaking an egg into the pan.
“I think they will.” I had the camisole on now. It felt wrong, wearing something so luxurious next to my skin. I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the blouse and began fastening the tiny pearl buttons. “They’re lovely—whose are they?”
Fat sizzled in the pan, drowning out the first words of his reply. “Left them behind before the war. They’re not too old fashioned, are they?”
“Not at all.” I wondered what he would say if I told him what kind of clothes I usually wore. I spotted a label inside the heather-colored woolen skirt he’d brought for me. Lanvin of Paris. That sounded as expensive as the silk underwear. It wasn’t easy wriggling into it while lying down, but I managed somehow. There was a cardigan—mauve, like the skirt. I felt much warmer when I put it on. Finally, I knotted the scarf around my neck. My legs would have to remain bare until the wounds had healed. I undid the handkerchief and shirt Jack had bound round them. The white cotton was covered in bloodstains.
“I’m sorry I’ve made such a mess of your things,” I said.
“Don’t be,” he called over his shoulder. “Your need was greater than mine.”