The Forgotten Letters of Esther Durrant - Kayte Nunn Page 0,3
let loose, and she gripped a nearby handhold until her fingers lost all feeling. She no longer had any confidence that they would reach their destination. She had ceased caring about anything very much months ago, so it hardly mattered either way.
Eventually, however, an island hove into view, and then another, gray smudges on the choppy seascape. Almost as soon as they had appeared they disappeared again into the mist, leaving nothing but the gray chop of the water. The captain’s expression changed from sunny to serious as he concentrated on steering them clear of hidden shoals and shelves. “They’d hole a boat if you don’t pay attention. Splinter it like balsa,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the horizon.
All at once the wind and rain eased a fraction, the fog lifted, and they puttered alongside a small wooden jetty that stuck out from a sickle curve of bleached-sand beach. Like an arrow lodged in the side of a corpse, Esther imagined.
The bloated carcass of a seabird, larger than a gull, but smaller than an albatross, snagged her attention. Death had followed her to the beach. Her thoughts were so dark these days; she couldn’t seem to chase them away. There was, however, some slight relief at having arrived, that the particular nightmare of the journey might soon be ended. For now that would have to be enough. “Small mercies,” she whispered. She tried to be grateful for that.
The captain made the boat fast, then helped them and their luggage ashore, even as the boat bobbed dangerously up and down next to the jetty, its hull grinding, wood on wood, leaving behind flecks of paint. An ill-judged transfer and they would end up in the water. Esther stepped carefully onto the slippery boards, willing her shaky legs to hold her up.
Once they were both safely on land, the captain slung several large brown-paper-wrapped parcels after them. “Pop them under the shelter and when you get there, let the doc know that these are for him—he can send someone down for them before they get too wet. The house is up thataway. A bit of a walk, mind, and none too pleasant in this weather. There’s not many that care to come this far.”
The pelting rain had begun to fall again, blown sideways at them by the wind, and Esther silently agreed with him; she couldn’t see the point of this wearisome journey, but John hefted their suitcases, looking at her with anticipation. “Think you can manage it, darling?”
Some small part of her didn’t want to disappoint him and she nodded faintly, still no clearer as to exactly where they were.
The walk wasn’t long, but the wind buffeted them this way and that and Esther was obliged to hold on to her hat, a small-brimmed, dull felt affair that did little to keep off the rain. She faltered as she almost tripped on an object on the path and stopped to see what it was.
The doll lay on its back. Naked. China limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Eyes open, staring vacantly at the sky. A tangled mat of dirty yellow hair strewn with leaves and feathers. Esther stepped over it, feeling as she did, a tingling in her breasts and a spreading warmth at odds with the blustery, chilled air. It was a moment before she realized what it was, bewildered that her body still had the ability to nurture, in spite of everything.
John strode ahead, his steps unfaltering. He didn’t appear to have noticed the abandoned toy, or if he had, had paid it no heed. Angling her chin down, Esther drew her coat in closer, its astrakhan collar soft against her cheeks, her grip tight on the handbag at her elbow.
As if sensing she’d stopped, John turned to look back at her. “Not far now.” His expression coaxed her forward.
She gave him a curt nod and continued on, leaving the doll where it lay. The path ahead wound steeply upward and was pockmarked with shallow pools the color of dishwater. Esther had to watch her step to avoid them. Her shoes were new, barely worn in, not that she cared particularly about getting them wet. The avoidance of the puddles was an automatic action, a force of long habit, like so many were for her now.
A few steps farther on she glanced up, seeing the grasses on either side of them rippling and swaying, pummeled by the unrelenting gusts blowing off the ocean. Westward, cliffs like fresh scars