Алия Уайтли: Skein Island

A tall woman with loose brown hair, very straight, emerges from the doorway on the other side of the reception desk. She ignores the queue until she has switched on her computer screen and arranged herself in her seat; then she looks up, and a smile appears, as if she is surprised to find somebody waiting for her attention. I watch the others being dealt with: given multicoloured paperwork, talked to, dismissed in turn. Eventually there is nobody left to be processed except myself.

I approach the desk.

‘You must be Marianne Spence? You’re lucky to get a place at the last minute. Usually our ladies don’t just turn up at the dock.’

‘It’s Marianne Percival, actually. Spence is my maiden name.’

She makes a note on the computer screen. ‘Well, we’re having a slow week, so you’ve got good timing. Here’s your itinerary. The compulsory activities are highlighted. There aren’t many, so don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for you to do your own thing. The yellow pieces of paper are for your declaration. There’s a compulsory meeting on Monday morning about how to complete it, only half an hour and there’s tea and biscuits. The pink sheet is a map of the island. You can see I’ve put a cross in red on your shared accommodation. You’re in bungalow three. There are no locks or keys on the island. It’s necessary for you to place your mobile phone, laptop and communication devices in the safe keeping area, which is marked with a green cross. I’m afraid there are absolutely no exceptions to that.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘That’s fine. I have a question, actually.’

‘Okay, but the meeting on Monday should cover everything.’

‘No, about why I – how I came to get a place here.’

‘We really can’t go into selection criteria.’

‘No, but… I received a letter. From Amelia Worthington. It said it was a personal invitation.’

She purses her lips. ‘We only send out standard letters of acceptance.’

‘This is different. It’s signed by her. Lady Worthington.’

‘Do you have it with you?’

‘No, I… I’m sorry.’ It’s still in my bag, on the back of the door to the library office. A place I couldn’t bear to go. ‘Is there any way to check what you sent out to me? From here?’

She taps away on the keyboard, and I wait, patiently, like a good and quiet customer. ‘It says here you applied in the summer.’

‘No.’ It makes no sense.

‘You sure?’

I attempt to suppress my irritation, but I know it’s on my face, in the lines around my mouth.

‘Of course. I’ve never applied. My mother applied, seventeen years ago. That would have been under Spence. Maybe there’s been a mix-up. Do daughters get invited back?’

‘No, that’s not… That shouldn’t make any difference. Leave it with me. I’ll look into it.’

Did I think it was going to be resolved so easily? What exactly am I doing here? I dare to voice the idea that’s been lurking in my head since this morning. ‘Can I ask, would it be possible to see my mother’s declaration? Since I’m here?’

The receptionist makes her sympathetic face. ‘I’m really sorry, but we don’t do that. All declarations are strictly confidential.’

‘As a family member, I must have some sort of right to view it?’

She’s getting frustrated with me; her eyes slide away to the door. ‘No, I’m sorry, but not at all.’

I pick up my bag and papers, wearied by the polite argument, and turn away. I was expecting to find out nothing, and therefore it is no discouragement. I already have plans in place. I’m glad the mystery remains unsolved.

Over the double doors to the reception, carved into a wooden plaque in tiny letters, is a familiar quote. I approach it, and squint up at it. My eyes haven’t lied to me. Homer lurks here too.

At the bottom of the plaque, four squares have been painted in a row, equidistant: red, blue, yellow and green.

Once I step off the main path I soon find myself in fields of harsh, hillocked grasses that catch at my boots. The winter sun is surprisingly strong and there are no trees, not an inch of cover in sight. Even so, the skin on my face tingles with cold.

Skein Island is half a mile across at its largest point, shaped like a lozenge, long and thin, with ragged cliffs that erode a little more every year. The buildings stand thirty metres above sea level and there is only one accessible beach, at which the boat docks for thirty minutes every Saturday. It is the definition of isolation. I know all about it. There was a book released in the seventies, black and white pictures of women with stark faces in front of small, shabby buildings; I kept it under my bed for years, then deliberately destroyed it with a pair of kitchen scissors before marrying David. To symbolise something, I suppose.

If I had a telescope, I reckon I could see Allcombe pier jutting out from the green mass of land that lies over the water. Maybe, by now, a few out-of-season holidaymakers are out, eating fish and chips, wrapped up warm against the chill of the wind over the Bristol Channel. But there is no way to tell what is happening on that far shore, except that the Sea Princess is about to return to it; that is the one recognisable, straight-lined shape I can spot, moving away, swaying on the waves.

I keep walking, leaving the white walls of the reception building behind. The Sea Princess soon falls out of sight. Now there are sheep, not white clouds of sheep, but watchful eyes in tangled stringy masses of burred wool, their shiny, crusted droppings lying all around, and the cloying, earthy smell of them filling up my nostrils. They are simply loose, free to go where they like without fences or hedges to hold them back. Something about that thought triggers the memory of the man walking into the library and saying to me, Get in the back. Take off your clothes and lie down .

I push it away.

Seventeen years ago my mother came here, to the island. Then, when her week was up, she had decided not to come home. I received birthday cards with a Bedfordshire postmark, but in all other ways she had gone. My father and I were consigned to her past.

And now, to suit some unknown purpose, I am here.

The lip of the island becomes visible. I stomp onwards. I walk up to the edge and stand as close to the drop as I dare. I examine the chalky angles of the cliff, the jagged points of the rocks upon which the sea flicks itself into foamy exclamations. My hatred of heights presses strongly around me, insisting that I take a step away. On holiday, skiing in La Grave, high in the toothbrush-clean mountains of the Alps, I lost my nerve at the ski lift and shuffled back to the hotel while David laughed from the slopes. But there was no embarrassment, just a mutual understanding of who we both were, why I was the weaker one. David is good at skiing and Marianne is good at reading E. M. Forster novels in front of open fires . I know my limitations. Except that I thought this trip was beyond me; I always stipulated that I didn’t want to come here, to follow in my mother’s footsteps.

I walk along the cliff edge, keeping to its undulations, watching the sun dip lower. A small blue bench comes into view up ahead. Upon it sits a woman, still and stretched out, palms down on the wood, legs long, crossed at the ankles.

I consider turning back, but then the woman moves her head in my direction, and there is something welcoming in the way she cocks it to one side. She has a square face with smallish eyes, lost in a nest of energetic crow’s feet.

‘Lovely sunset,’ she says, when I get close enough to hear.

‘Yes.’