Алия Уайтли - Skein Island

The swimming pool is closed.

Maybe it’s too early. But my watch says ten minutes past ten. And I couldn’t wait around the bungalow any more, sitting at that table surrounded by toast crumbs and cups of cold coffee, watching Rebecca pace and listening to Kay read aloud from the declaration I stole.

Something is wrong on this island. Something that lives in a small room next to the library of declarations, behind a door marked with four squares. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t run; there’s nobody to take me from this island.

Rebecca doesn’t believe it, anyway. ‘They’ll find out that you broke in, and they’ll come for you,’ she said over the noise of the rain. She was applying jam to her third piece of toast with absolute precision, up to each corner. Behind her, Kay stopped pacing and pulled a face.

‘Maybe she’s not dead after all,’ she said. ‘Maybe Amelia faked her own death. For some reason. Maybe she’s crazy.’

‘She was obviously crazy,’ said Rebecca. ‘But that declaration could have been written years ago. Does the handwriting match the signature on the letter you received, Marianne?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

Rebecca raised her eyebrows at me. ‘What are you trying to convince yourself of? There’s no conspiracy. There’s you and Kay, breaking the rules. And they will catch you.’

I thought she was right. But I waited for hours. Where are they, the nameless ‘they’? When are they coming? Eventually I couldn’t wait any more. I came here, to the pool, wanting the empty expanse of the water to hide in. I can’t deny that I’m looking for an ally, and Inger looks like just the kind of person who might step in and save me, if saving is needed. Would she turn her calm, capable face to them, and tell them that they can’t take me?

I’m letting my imagination run away with me. I’ve always loved a good story, and now I seem to be spinning one for myself. There has to be a simple explanation for all this. A confused old lady with Alzheimer’s. A fable, a figment of imagination, someone pretending to write like Amelia would have. There are many alternatives, but none of them work at driving out Amelia’s words. Of dispelling the feeling that crept over me as I stood next to that small door marked with four cubes.

And the swimming pool is still not open.

I knock on the glass door, but nobody comes.

I start a slow walk up to the white reception building. If there’s no swimming today, perhaps there’s an alternative – yoga, or creative writing. The rain is, unbelievably, intensifying, but it doesn’t matter; I’m already soaked through. The drops are smashing into my face like a punishment. By the time I reach the reception I have been hammered into a wet mess, my clothes sopping, my head and hands numb. The automatic doors admit me, and I squelch over to the main desk and look over the laminated timetable that is pinned to the display board.

The receptionist emerges from the door behind the desk and glances at me. She stops walking, and the glance becomes a stare. I can feel her deciding on what she’s about to say. This is it. The moment is here.

‘Marianne Percival?’

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Makepeace is looking for you. She’s just gone over to your bungalow, about ten minutes ago.’

‘Mrs Makepeace?’

‘The director. Of the island.’ There’s a flurry of rain and noise behind me. A woman is standing by the entrance, her long blue raincoat dripping, her hood pulled up, obscuring her face. She’s a few inches shorter than me. Her raincoat skirts the ground, and the sleeves cover her hands. It was made for a much larger woman.

‘Here she is,’ says the receptionist, with acres of relief in her voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say to the woman in the raincoat. ‘Is there a problem?’ Now the moment is upon me, I’m determined to play it cool, to not admit to anything.

She pinches the hood between her thumbs and forefingers and slowly pulls it back before giving me a good look over. She’s older than I expected, with big brown eyes and a blunt, businesslike fringe to her short hair. She has lines on her face, visible even from across the room. They run from the corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth, as if she has spent years doing nothing but smiling. She looks intelligent, and charming, and like she could hold her own in an argument.

‘Hello hello hello,’ she says, staccato-fashion, ‘I’m so delighted you’re here. I was just about to organise a search party, which is ridiculous on an island this size, really, isn’t it? I should be able to just go and stand outside and whistle, and everyone should come running. But, of course, I can’t in this rain, can I?’ She moves closer to me. ‘I tried your bungalow but they said you were at the swimming pool, and then the pool was closed, which it’s really not meant to be today, so that’s something else I’m going to have to look into. But it turns out you’re here! How lucky! You’re soaked through. You really could do with a better coat for this weather. I need a few minutes of your time, Marianne – would that be okay?’

About halfway through her speech, I realise that she’s nervous. I also remember that her name isn’t Mrs Makepeace, whatever she might claim. Her name is Vanessa. Vanessa Spence. Or it was on the day I last saw her.

I’m looking at my mother.

Funny, but even as one part of my brain keeps repeating that fact, the other part manages to respond, in a perfectly normal voice, ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ and my feet are following her around the reception desk, and into the small office behind it. My mother is saying, ‘Oh good, well, let’s not drag ourselves up to the main house right now, not in this weather. Why don’t we just come through here, will this do?’

‘Yes,’ I say. I take off my coat and put it on the back of the seat on the nearside of the desk. She unbuttons her own coat quickly. Underneath she’s wearing a double-breasted jacket with a short skirt in matching blue – another outfit that looks too big on her. She sits down opposite me and clasps her hands, interlacing her fingers on the desktop. Her fingernails are very short and unvarnished.

‘You broke into my house last night,’ she says. ‘What were you looking for?’

I have no idea what to say. She’s suddenly direct, and dynamic. She looks like she wants an answer, and quickly, but I can’t provide it. Eventually, I manage one word. ‘You.’

‘I thought so.’ She nods. She doesn’t speak for a long moment. ‘There’s a lot to explain,’ she tells me, as if I didn’t know. ‘I’ve tried to get it straight. When I heard you’d arrived I wanted everything to be clear, in my mind, so it would be ready for you. It would make sense. But I couldn’t decide what bits I should tell you.’

‘Tell me all of it.’

She smiles. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea.’

I can’t call her mother, but I need to be sure. No – it’s not that I’m unsure. It’s that I need her to acknowledge it too. So I say, ‘Vanessa?’

‘Yes, I know, you want to be told what happened. That’s why you’re here. I never came back because I got a better offer. You’re a wife now, too, aren’t you? That’s what you wrote on your form. You can’t have been married for long so perhaps you won’t understand this yet. Or perhaps you’re just beginning to see how reductive terms like wife and mother can be. Is that why you acted on the letter I sent you?’

‘You sent it?’

‘Well, really, it’s from Amelia, I suppose. The spirit of her. But I wrote it and signed it. It’s difficult to explain. But it’s all very important, so I’m going to have to try harder, aren’t I? I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, and, forgive me for saying so, but you’re not making it any easier.’