The Restless Sea, page 21
‘And from there?’
‘Wherever the waves take me.’ He grabs hold of her arm and pulls her close. ‘So let’s make the most of what we’ve got.’ She pushes him away, as if pushing away the pain that is separation, but his arms are strong and solid and he does not let her go.
He follows her into the kitchen and watches her making tea. She has got used to his eyes on her, drinking her in. The hunger in them makes her feel like something precious.
The sweet, hot liquid revives her. She feels hope trickle back into her bones. ‘We could run away,’ she says.
He shakes his head. ‘No. Running away’s no good.’
‘Is that what you did?’
‘Yes.’ He frowns.
She sits next to him, their arms and thighs touching. It’s as if they are part of the same person. ‘Will you tell me about it?’
‘If you promise to cheer up.’
She smiles and pushes gently at his shoulder. So Jack tells her about Betsy and about his mother, about leaving them at the station, about the ruin of his home. ‘See? If you run, you might never get the chance to say sorry,’ he says when he gets to the end.
‘I don’t want to say sorry to them. They’re pigs.’
‘They’re just trying to look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘I want to look after you.’
‘That’s different …’
They sit quietly for a bit, listening to the wind rattling in the Scots pines, and the occasional muffled cry of a bird, or a man from the loch.
Then Jack says, ‘There’s something else I need to tell you.’
Olivia says nothing.
‘They’re right,’ he says. ‘I was a low-life. I used to nick things and sell them on. I tried to stop, but it was good money and things were hard …’
‘I understand,’ says Olivia. ‘I do.’
‘But it wasn’t just little things. And it wasn’t just from people who could afford it. I …’
Olivia holds her finger to his lips. ‘Shh,’ she says. ‘It’s in the past. You’re not like that now …’
He shakes his head. ‘It was still wrong,’ he says.
‘We all do silly things when we’re desperate.’
‘I can’t imagine you stealing …’
‘Or running off with complete strangers …?’
She smiles at him, and he reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ears. ‘They only want to protect you. And I can understand that. So should you. I am different to what I was, but you’re still too good for me.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I want you to know everything. Even my past. I want you to like all of me. Not just who I’m trying to be now.’
Olivia takes hold of his hand and presses her lips to it. Usually men do not seek her approbation. They assume it. ‘I’m so spoilt,’ she says. ‘I’ve never had to go without anything.’
Jack takes her back into the circle of his arms. ‘You’re not spoilt,’ he says, ‘just lucky.’
The next two days are the most thrilling she has ever spent. The fact that people are trying to keep them apart pushes them even closer, and the excitement of avoiding everyone makes their time together all the more intoxicating. They vacate the bothy and, taking a few essentials with them, set up base near the pool by the rowan tree. Olivia loves the way the burn shifts and changes on its journey down the hillside: fast and frothy rapids here, shady limpid pools there, a trickle, a torrent, white and foamy, dark and peaty. From here they can look back down across the loch, to where the ships sit on the water, to the island and beyond, to where the sun glimmers on the open sea, and then to the Hebrides, shrouded in a hazy mist like a far-off land from a fairy tale. They are far removed from everyone – the soldiers, Wrens, officers, ratings, her aunt, Gladys and Maggie, Charlie – the whole damn lot of them.
Because they cannot row out on to the loch without being caught, they raid the walled garden at night, pulling up carrots and sneaking plump tomatoes from the greenhouse, enjoying them all the more in their shared furtiveness. They go to where Olivia knows that the best mussels hang in thick clusters on the rocks between succulent branches of seaweed. They collect the largest ones, smoking them against burning embers until they open to show the fleshy orange bivalve inside. They savour the smoky, salty flavour, spitting the tiny gritty pearls into their palms when they find them. They roam the beach at Gairloch, looking for the telltale signs of cockles buried in the sand and hoping to glimpse the dark fin of a porpoise rising out of the water. And they follow the sheep into the hills, to where plump brown grouse cackle like ducks and whirr up into the air in front of them.
On the second night they hide in Hans’s old place in Thistle’s stable. It is a wild night, and they are glad of the warmth of the straw and the roof over their heads. In the morning, all of the barrage balloons that were set up by the recently arrived regiment have been damaged in the high winds, floating flaccidly to the ground. Mac has managed to purloin one – the material is perfect for covering his haystack. He is coming back into the yard when he spots the two of them, dipping a mug into one of his milk churns, savouring the sweet, warm liquid as it drips down their chins.
‘Hey,’ he shouts, ‘Lady McPherson’s looking for you.’
Olivia and Jack drop the mug and run – back up to the rowan pool, their legs weak with effort and laughter as they stagger up the burn.
It is warm for late September. Almost as hot as a summer’s day. Olivia is aware of the heat radiating from their bodies, but the water in the pool is sparkling and fresh. ‘Shall we?’ says Jack, and before she can answer, he is unbuttoning his shirt. She can see most of his chest already. His dark eyes are locked on hers. She starts to unbutton her shirt too. His is off now. His muscles contract as he moves his arms, and she sees the tattoo of the star on his forearm. She longs to reach out and touch his chest. He undoes his belt, his trousers. She pulls off her shirt, starts on her trousers too. Her heart is pounding. They stand opposite each other in their underwear. He is already stripping off his pants. She undoes her bra. Lets it fall to the stony ground. He yells and starts to run towards the water. She steps out of her pants too and runs after him. The skin of his bottom is as white as the moon that hung in the sky earlier that morning. He reaches the water and keeps on going, straight in, yelping and laughing and splashing. She is right behind him. She gasps as the icy water hits her warm skin. He splashes water over her. It soaks her hair, her face. She does the same to him. The sunlight catches in the drops of water, and it’s as if they are standing beneath thousands of jewels that reflect and catch the sun’s rays and the green of the moss and the brown of the peat and the blue of the sky and the pink of their skin.
Later, they lie on the heather under the rowan tree, a blanket half draped across them both. Jack takes Olivia’s knife and starts to dig into the trunk. He carves their initials – JS and OB – and Olivia laughs and takes the knife from him, trying to add a heart that looks more like a V. Jack kisses her arm and they lie back again and watch the small wisps of cloud float across the sky between the feathery fronds of the leaves, and marvel at the soft warmth of each other’s skin.
They have been lying there for a while when Olivia sits up. ‘Did you hear that?’ she says. There is a sound – not natural – a misplaced rock knocking against another one. Jack sits up too. There is definitely someone coming. They struggle to grab their clothes and pull them on. Olivia is grappling with her trousers, trying to do them up, the colour flooding her cheeks when a short, wiry man and a taller, stocky one come into view.
Jack relaxes, smiling at the newcomers, placing a confident arm around Olivia.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
But Mart isn’t laughing. ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ he says.
Jack’s arm drops, leaving Olivia feeling exposed, despite the fact that she has managed to dress.
‘You need to come now,’ says Carl.
‘What’s happened?’
‘You haven’t got time to question, boy,’ says Mart.
Jack snorts. ‘But I haven’t done anything …’
‘That’s not the way they see it.’
‘Who sees it?’
‘Lady Wotsit here’s family.’
Olivia steps closer to Jack, finding confidence in being near him. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong …’
‘That may well be the story as you see it, but there’s all sorts of accusations flying around, and I’ve got to get this boy out of here or he’ll be for it. Your people are threatening to involve the law, and I’ve got no sway over that.’
‘My people? They’re not my people …’
‘Them’s more your people than ours. Now if you want to help your boy, you’d best let me deal with it in my way. Jack, your stuff.’
Jack looks from Mart to Carl, and then to Olivia.
‘The Bose is right,’ says Carl. ‘This is serious. I was there when they came looking for you.’
Jack is caught between the men who are his family and the girl he has fallen for. He looks from one to the other. ‘It’s not a choice,’ says Mart.
‘But it’s not fair …’ says Olivia. She can tell he is torn.
‘If you want to know about fair, you should try being on an unarmed merchant ship at sea, missy.’ Mart spits on the ground.
‘But let me explain to them …’
‘It’s too late for that. Now show me a way down this bloody great mountain before I change my mind and leave you to it.’
Mart and Carl have brought the launch to the bothy to avoid the crowds on the jetty, where Charlie and Munro are looking out for them. Mart hisses at Jack to hurry, manhandling him towards the water. Olivia runs to the bothy first and then down the lawn and into the water after them, the water splashing up and soaking her trousers, slowing her down. She grabs hold of Jack, feeling the warmth of his body so different to the cold of the water around her legs, crushing him tightly against her as if she can imprint herself there. She doesn’t care that Mart is staring.
Jack stops and holds her there in his arms. He looks into her eyes, frowning. ‘I’ll find you,’ he says. ‘When things have calmed down.’
She presses into Jack’s hand the piece of paper that seems so flimsy compared to the tearing of her insides. ‘Write to me. Tell me where you are.’
He takes the paper carefully, frowning at the letters. ‘I’m not much cop at writing,’ he says.
‘I don’t care. Just send me a time and a place, and I’ll be there,’ she says.
Mart pulls Jack away, his pinched face serious. Carl half smiles goodbye, his eyes apologetic. Jack does not take his eyes from her as he sits in the bows of the boat. She watches as they motor out to the ship, and when the launch is a dot and she cannot make out his face any more, she runs up to the cottage as fast as she can, her breath coming in ragged bursts.
She starts to pack, dragging her dusty cases out from beneath the bed, throwing her clothes into them. Her old shoes lie in the corner of her bedroom. She tries them on. They are far too small for her now. She can barely remember fitting into something so small and dainty. They are part of her old life, like Jasper, and her travelling clothes, and the felt hat and the gloves. They are remnants of the past, tight and constricting, like the feeling in her chest. They are dead to her, like the flowers on the table in the kitchen.
She is startled from her anger by the sound of knocking on the open door. Charlie’s shadow falls across the corridor.
She shoots him a look of fury. ‘I’m surprised you can show your face around here,’ she says, folding her arms.
‘I was worried about you,’ he says. Olivia laughs dismissively and turns back to her packing. ‘What was I to think?’ he says, following her inside. ‘You disappeared. He could have hurt you.’
‘He would never hurt me.’
He places a hand on her shoulder and she shakes him off, turning to face his disappointment.
‘Look. I’m not blaming you,’ he says. ‘It’s not your fault that you’ve been misguided.’
‘Misguided. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean that you haven’t met many people like him …’
‘Like what?’
‘He’s different.’
‘Why? Because his parents aren’t titled?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘Because he’s got a history. You can’t trust someone like that.’
‘You mean because he’s a commoner?’
Charlie’s laugh is short and brittle. ‘You don’t know anything about him.’
‘I do. He’s told me about his past.’
‘And left out the juicier bits, I imagine.’
‘He didn’t actually. He told me warts and all, and I understand he’s not perfect.’
‘Not perfect? I don’t know what he’s said to you, but you just can’t trust a man like that.’
‘He might have had a hard time when he was younger, but he’s fought to make things good.’
‘So good that now he just steals milk and vegetables. Mac saw you …’
‘That was my idea …’
‘God, you’re still so naïve. People like that don’t change. It’s in their blood.’
‘And you’re so rigid. Haven’t you ever done something you regret?’
Charlie pauses for a moment. ‘No. I haven’t,’ he says.
Olivia rolls her eyes and slams the top of one of the cases shut, struggling with the buckle in her anger. ‘Let’s hope you never do, then …’
Charlie pauses for a moment, sighing. ‘Regardless of what he has or hasn’t done,’ he says, ‘what about your parents? What do you think they would say?’
‘Who cares? It’s not their life. It’s mine.’
‘But they want what’s best for you. Can you imagine what your father would think? What would they talk about when you all had dinner together?’
‘I don’t know. Ships. Don’t be so bloody stuck-up.’
‘I’m not. I’m being practical … It’s your future.’
‘And I can choose to spend it with whoever I want …’
‘You can’t. It doesn’t work like that …’
They are silent. In the hush, Olivia can hear the rush of wind in the leaves outside and the whistle of the oystercatchers echoing across the loch.
‘Things are different now,’ she says finally. ‘I’m different.’
‘What about when this is all over?’
‘You think it will go back to the way it was?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Well it won’t. I won’t …’
She stands there, defiant. She knows what is expected of her, but she knows something has changed, too.
‘I’d better get on with my packing,’ she says.
‘I’m truly sorry that you’re going,’ he says.
‘You should have thought of that before you went running off to tell Aunt Nancy.’
‘I really thought I was doing the right thing.’
He looks so wretched that she cannot hold his gaze. ‘Goodbye, Charlie,’ she says.
His green eyes scan her face, but find nothing to hold on to there. He steps towards her and kisses her on the cheek. She remains immobile, her cheekbones hard, her lips cold. He walks to the door.
As Olivia watches his straight, proud back, she suddenly feels exhausted. It is so much easier to be angry at him. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ she says, her voice a whisper. He doesn’t turn. Just keeps on walking. The sky has turned a luminous peach colour and the grass on the hills around the loch takes on a soft tone. It is the start of the rutting season. The hills echo with grunts and roars. Somewhere two stags are fighting, their antlers clashing and clacking as the shadows begin to lengthen.
CHAPTER 14
Charlie
Charlie’s disappointment hurts more than his injury ever did. He couldn’t have been more pleased when his CO told him he was being posted to HMS Helicon, and he couldn’t be more upset by how it has turned out. He cannot understand the madness that seems to have taken hold of Olivia. To become so involved with someone so unsuitable. He feels a stab of shame at how he has behaved, but also a genuine lack of understanding at how she could possibly see that she has a future with a man like that. He tries to push the situation from his mind and convince himself that it is simply that – a moment of hysteria that will pass once she is back among her family and has time to think rationally.
He is now billeted with Aunt Nancy, who agrees with him, partly blaming herself for letting Olivia forget who she is. Although the house is full, he has never felt lonelier, no matter how hard his godmother tries. Sometimes he wanders down to the bothy, but only shadows and the faint whisper of laughter linger in its dark corners. He spends more and more time at the Navy base, taking his meals there while the Naafi girls give him extra portions of food in the café, fussing over his shoulder which has had to be strapped again since the fight. But it is not their attention he craves. Once again his thoughts turn to his squadron. He needs to get back to them, to where he fits and knows what is expected of him, to feel the power and confidence of his plane, where the world is black and white and there is no grey.
Four long months pass, and he’s still not fit to fly. Christmas has been and gone. Today is a crisp winter morning. The sky is the palest blue. The hills are clear and solid outlines, the leaves on the ground perfectly painted in frost. They sparkle, as if someone has painted them with sugar: every tiny crystal carefully placed overnight. The silhouettes of the leafless trees are lacy patterns, the thicker branches dissolve into thinner branches until they are a mass of wispy twigs. A fat pale moon sits in the perfect blue sky, a ghostly porthole to the heavens.
Charlie is on his way to the Navy base. Two hooded crows caw into the sky, their wings long black claws. He shows his pass to the guards and makes his way to the main office.
‘Charlie!’ An austere man with a kind voice greets him. ‘How’s the battle wound?’
Charlie laughs. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Just the odd twinge when rain’s on its way, but Mole will be pleased we’ve got our own personal meteorology office when we fly again.’
