a long, satisfied drag, and then coughed throatily before taking another. “Chronic bronchitis. Suppose I should give these up, but what can one do?”
Esther pulled her hair back from her face, watching him.
“Had a nervous breakdown, I suppose you’d call it, like some of the other blokes here. I’d been home for nearly five years. Having a marvelous time actually—wine, women, and song. Then out of the blue I couldn’t see the point in going on. Nothing in life held any value anymore. The doctor—the one who referred me here—said it was a delayed reaction. According to him, severe malnutrition can have that effect on the nervous system. I can’t vouch for that, but that camp certainly affected something in me. The dirt, the disease—those bloody Japs let men die through sheer neglect if you can believe that. They had no respect for life. They treated us like animals . . .” He coughed, remembering she was there. “The good thing is that I don’t take anything too seriously anymore—not authority, nor convention, not even death—well, apart from my own perhaps. Nothing is really worth getting that worked up about when you stop to think about it.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted.
“People like us have to find a way to live with our sorrow, for it can never be banished forever, that’s where modern medics—with the possible exception of our esteemed doc—get it wrong, they think they can make it all go away and never come back.”
“And are you successful in this endeavor?”
“Sometimes.” He sounded wistful. “On certain days—and increasingly more of them, I am happy to report. Take today for instance. A beautiful beach, a lovely woman, morning light, and the only shooting that’s going on is with my camera . . . You have to learn to be grateful, Mrs. Durrant. For the small things.”
“I still think it’d be easier if we could take something like nepenthe,” she said.
“What?”
“Nepenthe.” Esther swung the bucket, slopping sand and water over the brim. “The drug in the Odyssey. A drug for forgetting, for banishing grief. Medicine for sorrow.”
“Perhaps the doc does have it?” He arched an eyebrow and looked across her to where the sun had climbed in the sky.
“Perhaps he does,” she said with a smile.
“Come on. Let’s get back. It’s time for rations.”
“Do you reckon Robbie’s burned the toast again?”
“Indubitably.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Little Embers, Spring 2018
Rachel retrieved the catalog from the cupboard and returned to the sofa with it, setting it down next to her. There was a single, arresting image of a child’s face painted in thickly layered oils on the front. The child had the gorgeous fat cheeks of a toddler, full lips, curly copper hair, and a far-off expression in its gray eyes—the same expression she’d seen sometimes on Leah’s face.
Rachel opened the catalog at the first page and came to a short introduction, which she scanned briefly, not knowing how long she would have before Leah herself descended the stairs.
In it, the writer hailed Leah as one of the most promising up-and-coming British portraitists of her generation, comparing her to Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud. Rachel was astonished. It made Leah’s choice to live on this remote island even more perplexing.
She leafed through the thick, glossy pages and studied the plates—reproductions of oils of men and women, often nudes or semi-clothed, their flesh by turns careworn or luminous, but sensual and so real she felt she could almost reach out and feel skin beneath her fingertips. There was one of a woman lying naked, the curve of her back like the body of a violin, her long hair spilling on the floor next to her as if it was ink.
The same child who was on the cover was featured several more times throughout: there was one of him or her sitting, naked and straight-backed, turned slightly away from the artist, with rolls of flesh on dimpled thighs and soft-boned arms.
These paintings in particular were tender, confronting in their intensity, and an inexplicable longing twisted through Rachel. She had never allowed herself the luxury of imagining children of her own, didn’t think she’d ever be settled enough, too selfish for sleepless nights and school runs. She read the caption of one. “Tabitha. The artist’s daughter. 1994.”
Leah had a child. She did a quick calculation. The painting was done almost twenty-five years ago, so the daughter would be a woman now. Where was she? Was she aware that her mother was living as a virtual hermit? Rachel didn’t know