Читать книгу Once, Two Islands - Dawn Garisch - Страница 10

Chapter Four

A storm can set in for days around Ergo Island, but it is also possible for the weather to change six times in twenty-four hours. Later that morning, the clouds above the isle broke open above Frieda as she looked outside. The waterlogged sky divided – just like the Red Sea, she thought. It was an omen.

The doctor had come home for lunch as though nothing had ever happened, sitting at the table eating pumpkin soup and telling Frieda that the chest had opened, the finger was sewn and intact, and that the sugar levels had dropped. She nodded encouragingly, glad to see his appetite, glad to hear him whistling in the bathroom, glad to see him take a peek at his sleeping daughter.

“She looks like me as a baby,” he said, getting out his photo album to illustrate the point. Baby Orion stared with unfocused eyes out of the page, dressed in white, his floppy newborn body held up like a trophy by his proud father. His mother looked on anxiously, her hands ready to catch him if he fell. There was some difficulty between the doctor and his family on the mainland, perhaps because he had married a young pregnant island girl. There had been someone else marked for him, rumour had it, someone appropriate to his station in life. Whatever it was, in the three years he’d been here, the family had never come out to visit. Frieda tried to pick up any sign of hunger or fear in the doctor’s face as he stood looking at the photograph of his parents, who were gazing up at his tiny potential, hopes for his future life blooming in their faces; but he snapped the album closed and turned to his daughter. His hand hovered above her, as though afraid to touch her, in case this gift too might disappear. “She’ll go far,” he decided, before pulling on his coat and striding back to the hospital.

Frieda had been waiting for this, waiting and watching, for she knew what she had to do. She sent word to her daughter, Liesa, via one of the children playing in the street. They were the messengers of the island, the telephone network, the communication system; the children were often the first to know what was going on or who had gone where. Occasionally the system broke down: a child was distracted by a kitten while running a message, or some of the words were forgotten or misremembered, and what started out as “We have run out of milk” arrived as “The cow has got out again” – but then, what telephone system doesn’t have faults?

Liesa came soon enough from the co-op where she carded and spun island wool, and nodded as her mother gave her instruction. She was a young woman of few words, a bowl of a woman who could be trusted to store what needed to be stored and not allow little leaks to develop, running out here and there into other people’s ears. But Frieda was careful not to tell her daughter too much; only that she needed to go out for a short while, that she was going shopping, and would not be long. All of which was true. Frieda was not the kind of woman to tell a lie.

She kissed the baby, who was screeching again, and made her way carefully along the slush and slurry of the gravel road, skirting puddles glinting in diluted sunlight. The children were out, every one fattened up with clothing against the cutting wind. She smiled with pleasure to see them running to the harbour or to the shop, dogs at their heels, or just running from sheer release of the tension that builds up in children’s legs when they are forced to sit inside day after day because of weather or school or some such thing. Raef Peters, Gilbert Tamara, Al Bardelli, Harry Pelani, Kali Mobara, Rayla Schoones, Sasha Peters, Yero Tamara . . . children she had known since they were born, who yelled greetings as they passed: “Hi, Aunty!”; children who played in the nooks and crannies of the island as her own had done, collecting eggs, rounding up stray cows, building rafts and houses out of driftwood that came in with the storms. Wood that had once been rooted in places too far away to imagine, that brought with it, in its weather-beaten grain, ideas of other places, of worlds that existed beyond the horizon. Often she would see these children staring out to sea, holding some object that had washed ashore, setting sail across the globe of their brains to visit places they had only seen in the few books from the school library, or heard about from occasional travellers. Television had not yet come to the island; that would only happen once satellites were employed to flood remote places with images of what people should desire and aspire for, of what their island lives lacked.

Frieda was headed for the potato fields. A side path led up to the edge of the volcanic cliff, where a little cottage stood away from the others in a small thicket of trees. She didn’t want anyone to see where she was going; people would jump to conclusions, probably the correct ones. Word always got round. A few other women were hurrying to the fields, making the most of the dry spell to deal with the grubs that could spoil an entire potato harvest and bring the community to the brink of ruin and starvation. She greeted them and walked with them: Martha Schoones, Rumer Peters, Octavia Pelani, Elaine Peters, Layla Bardelli, Graça Bagonata. At the same time, she wanted to fall behind as though she had forgotten something; but they were naturally full of questions about the father and the funeral, and about the tiny crying one. The women shook their heads and clucked, and Graça suggested peppermint water, which had helped for her own little Phoebe, and Elaine recommended Telement drops, and Martha asked if she could help, take a turn with the baby, and Rumer gave a look which said the thing that none of them could say, and before they knew it they were at the fields.

Frieda helped for a while, then said she had to get back to the baby and hurried off with their good wishes. Through the gate, then quickly right, up the track when she thought no one would notice. No stopping now; she had to hurry to get among the stunted trees and in front of the small stone cottage.

It stood slightly skew on its base, white smoke snaking out of the chimney to fade against the grey sky. Over the front door hung a sculpture made out of a length of driftwood that Elijah Mobara had carved for his cousin Sophia, with a hand at either end that seemed grown out of the grain: one open, receptive, the other closed into a fist. Frieda had always liked it, for it showed the balance of things, how God both gives and takes away. But today her heart felt fisted over Angelique, and she had a sudden urge to break the sculpture, or to burn it. Another watched her as she wiped at her eyes: beside the door stood a large figurehead washed ashore from some wreck, the carved figure of a woman with partially furled wings. She would have been an angel, except the sculptor had given her a beak instead of a mouth; a birdwoman she was, holding to her naked breasts something crusted in dried barnacles. Frieda rapped on the door, not wanting to stand on the step any longer; there was something about the figurehead’s eyes that saw straight through her. The lace curtain lifted a moment, the door opened and Astrid Tamara, her distant relative, stood in front of her in a purple coat, her green eyes wild, her toothy mouth smiling widely, her red hair shocked about her head.

“Afternoon, Astrid.”

“Hi, Aunty.” The large young woman glanced over her shoulder, shifted her weight on her slippered feet, her every movement unsettled, unsettling.

“I’ve come to . . .”

“She says bring the baby.”

“Bring . . .! I couldn’t! She knows . . .”

“Tonight.”

“But . . .”

Astrid laughed and closed the door.

Too proud she was, thought Frieda, too powerful for her years, too mad and wild. Astrid had set fire to her father’s boat when she still lived with him a year back, burning their very livelihood, running naked down the road in winter, shrieking that her father was the Antichrist. The doctor had put an end to that with his needle and six men holding her down – six men! Then she’d spent nine months sitting quietly in the corner of her father’s cottage, or shuffling round, her mouth hanging open, her brain chained to safety by bottles of pills.

There was talk of sending her to an institution on the mainland, but her father had a stroke and did not have the wherewithal to sign for it, and the mother wouldn’t have it. Instead she had brought her to Sophia, who took her in and vouched for her, and said she was special. Special! laughed some of the menfolk drily down at the tavern. Sure she’s special! Suppose we’re all devils and it’s our boats next! They approached the council to try to force her off the island, but this could not be done without her mother’s consent.

And so the tide began to turn against Sophia – because of that, and also because of the distrust people had of a woman living alone when she could have had a husband (for there were many she had turned away, including the mayor himself, some said), and also because of the disagreements between her and the doctor. Now people rarely consulted Sophia, for fear of her or of what the doctor and the mayor or others might think, or for fear of Astrid, sitting on the roof, laughing at the women walking to the fields. They carried charms and made the sign to ward off evil and hurried on, and wished for Sophia, midwife, healer and undertaker, to live somewhere else. It was affecting the crops.

Frieda walked back to the doctor’s house, leaning into the freshening wind. Sophia never made things easy. Annoyance twitched in her. Now what was she to do. But she knew, she knew. She had to take the baby.

Still, that night, after the doctor had finished his dinner of fish and potatoes and had gone back to the hospital to assist Danny Schoones through his withdrawal from alcohol, Frieda sat in the sitting room at the fire, and felt her stomach knot at the thought of it. Tired she was, so tired; she had hardly slept since she took over the care of the baby six days back, poor little thing; and there she started up again, the endless crying, the yelping for help, the mewling of a lost kitten. She picked up the baby, jigged her, felt their helplessness, alone in the night.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said out loud to herself, to the child, to God. And outside, as if in reply, the wind dropped. The whining, winding howl outside quietened, and along with it the child; then a hush like waiting, like listening: what next, what next?

How could she take her out into the cold dark, and only ten days old? Sophia knew better, it was against the old ways. But then, so much was happening that defied how things should be, and here in her arms, a scrap baby wailing again with such desperation crumpled into her face. But if she went and the doctor came back before her? Would he notice they were gone, or assume they were asleep? Cross each bridge as you come to it. Do the next right thing, the rest will sort itself out.

Frieda wrapped her niece up and strapped her against her bosom, pulled on her cumbersome all-weather gear – the waterproof and padded jacket with hood, the stiff, resistant trousers – and stepped outside. At the Point, to the east, the lighthouse blinked, holding its light up into a sky full of stars. They were like a million eyes pinned to her secret errand. It was late, all was quiet except for the music from the tavern at the end of the road and the generator going at the police station. Most people went to bed early, tired after the buffeted round of their island lives – except the readers, whose windows glowed as they read into the night: old favourites from the small library housed in Martha Schoones’s study or from the school library, books that were coming apart at the spine.

Frieda turned away from the houses, skirting the main section of the village, and made her way to Sophia’s cottage. It was done. There would be consequences, but that was the way of life.