nodded her head and closed the door. As she dressed, Esther examined the tracks along her forearms. They were beginning to heal. The straitjacket was doing its job it seemed, and she must be scratching less even when she wasn’t bound. It was something at least. Squaring her shoulders, she prepared to leave the room.
The sight that greeted her upon her arrival in the kitchen took her by surprise. There was the doctor, of course, then three other men also sat around an oval table, one of whom—Robbie she surmised—was cradling the doll she’d stepped over when she arrived. He was pretending to feed it toast and the others were either completely oblivious or feigning ignorance. There was a scraping of chairs on the slate floor as they registered her presence and rose to greet her. “Ah, Mrs. Durrant. So pleased you could join us. Menzies, George Menzies.” A small man with the dark good looks and mournful expression of a gypsy violinist extended his hand to her. She gave him a faint smile and took his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong and belied his slightness.
“Colonel William Cooper-Jones, ma’am. Wilkie to those who know me well.” The colonel was several decades older than the others, with a shock of white hair. He was wearing a collared shirt and regimental striped tie but Esther noticed that his pullover was worn clean through at the elbows and his trousers bagged at the knees.
“And this is Robbie,” said Dr. Creswell. “You helped him recover his doll the other day.” The third man put down his toast and gave her a wave. He had a long face, with hair that grew high on his forehead and of a shade that made her automatically think of carrots. Cinnamon-colored freckles dotted the milk-pale skin of his face and hands and his ear, the one she could see at least, for he was standing sideways to her, made her think that he must, at some point, have suffered the nickname “jugs” or “wing nut.”
It was only as he turned his head toward her that she noticed a mass of scar tissue to the left of his cheek and where his ear should have been was nothing but a small round hole. The left-hand corner of his mouth pulled down like a torn pocket. She’d seen similar sights in London, but never at such close proximity and was instantly ashamed to feel slightly nauseous. She looked at him gravely, trying not to let the pity show on her face. “Pleased to meet you all.” Politeness, drummed into her from girlhood, thankfully came to the fore.
“Scoot along now, chaps, make some room for Mrs. Durrant.” Richard pulled out a chair next to him, indicating that she should sit.
“Please, it’s Esther,” she said as they all resumed their seats. “I’d much rather you call me Esther.”
“Right you are then, Esther,” said Robbie. “Here on a furlough, are you?”
Esther wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Go easy on her, old chap,” said Wilkie as he sipped from his cup. “She might not appreciate your sense of humor.”
Dr. Creswell pushed a crock of yellow butter toward her, and indicated the toast rack in the center of the table. “We’ve one cow on the island—Bella—at the moment it’s George’s job to milk her. Mrs. Biggs churns it.”
“She’s a beauty, I’ll give her that,” said George. “No disrespect to Mrs. Biggs of course, but our Bella’s got a better set of pins than Betty Grable.” The other men were obviously used to George’s jokes, for no one laughed. Only Robbie grinned, but his eyes were lowered and Esther wasn’t sure if that was at George or the jam that he was slathering generously on his bread.
Esther wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, but took a knife and placed a knob of butter on the side of the plate in front of her. She reached for a piece of toast and cut it into triangles. The knife was blunt.
“There’s jam,” said Robbie, indicating the jar in front of them. “Blackberry. Scrumdiddlyumptious.”
Even Esther raised a smile at this. She took an unenthusiastic bite of the toast and was surprised to find that it didn’t stick in her throat the way so much food had recently. In fact, it was rather nice. She took another bite.
“It doesn’t seem like a madhouse, does it?” asked George.
Esther nearly choked on her mouthful. “Um, er. I suppose not,” she said, swallowing a lump of toast.
“Quite the holiday camp, in fact. Isn’t that