The Silver Dark Sea

She appears. She steps out of an outbuilding, into the light. She holds a tin of yellow paint which is dripping down its side. Yellow paint on her arms and hands. Maggie looks up.

She smiles: hey.

Nathan shuts the car door. He comes so close that he can see she has yellow paint everywhere – on her cheeks, her nose, her collarbone. Her hair is tied back but one strand is loose and is blowing across her face so that it makes her blink, and the tip of it is yellow. There is the smell of sheep and fresh paint and Maggie’s washing powder and as a cloud’s shadow passes over them he thinks, briefly, how beautiful it is – to be standing here.

Nathan?

He doesn’t want to tell her. Just passing.

She eyes him. Liar, she says.

Maggie feels afraid. No-one is ever just passing – and not Nathan, of all people. Nathan, who tends to leave her be.

A strand of hair is fluttering, but she does not reach for it. Tell me.

A man’s been found. Washed up.

Washed up? From the sea?

He nods.

Alive?

Yes. He’s at Tabitha’s.

Is it –?

No. No, it’s not.

She tries to put the paint tin down, but it tilts, and spills, and he comes forward saying careful. I’ve got it. Here – give it to me.

* * *

Nathan leads her inside. He knows her house, and he knows to duck slightly as he steps into the kitchen, under the doorframe and the hanging copper pans. She walks with her hands held in front of her, as if walking in the dark.

Sit down.

It’s not Tom?

No.

Maggie hears the small hesitation, looks up.

For one small moment, I … Nathan shrugs. He looks a bit like him.

Dark?

Yes. And the beard. And he’s big – tall, broad …

But not Tom?

Not Tom.

You’re sure? Her eyes are round. They are like the stones that come ashore, the stones that have been rolled and rolled through the years, thrown against other stones. They are grey, with a navy edge.

Mags, I promise. This man is not him.

They sit side by side, at the table that used to be Coralee. Maggie runs her fingers over her lips. Who is he, then?

We don’t know yet. He’s still sleeping.

Where was he found?

Sye. He was lying on the stones. Sam found him. He came to Wind Rising for help and we carried him.

To –?

Lowfield.

She considers this. She takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. OK. Well … Tom never liked it – Sye. Said it was dank, hard to walk on. If he was going to wash up, he wouldn’t wash up there.

It is a half-joke; they are nervous words.

Is he hurt?

No. Doesn’t seem it.

Does Emmeline know?

Yes.

He watches Maggie. She says nothing for a while. There is a single crumb on the table, and Nathan watches her as she places her forefinger on it, rolls the crumb from side to side. Left and right. You came here because you knew people would talk. It is not a question.

You know how it is here.

She says yes I know.

He cannot think of anything to say. There is nothing to say to her that he has not said before, or tried to say, and so he sits, scans the room that they are sitting in – the spotted oven gloves, the chopping board with an apple core on it, the ferry times on the noticeboard. There are shells everywhere – cockles, whelks, a purple-tipped sea urchin on the windowsill. Beside it there is a vase of feathers with sand still on them, feathers whose blades have torn or split. Maggie the forager. She is always looking – but aren’t they all? His eyes settle on a photograph. It is held to the fridge with magnets and it is of Nathan’s younger brother and Maggie; they are wearing anoraks, with their faces pressed together, cheek to cheek. Tom’s arm is in the foreground, leading to the camera – he was taking the photo himself. A bright, blustery day.

Where was that taken?

She follows his gaze. Bundy Head. Then she lifts her finger off the table, brushes the crumb away with the thumb of the same hand – a short, rough sound. Nathan, are you still hopeful?

Maggie is like no-one else. Tom had said so, too. Nathan remembers the moment when Tom stepped down from the Morning Star six years ago, walked up to his brother and said, I’ve found her. Just three words, but Nathan knew what he’d meant. He himself had found Kitty not too long before, or she had found him, and he and Tom had gone back to Wind Rising that night and opened the rum, toasted these women who weren’t like the rest. Tom described Maggie to him – a wary, slender, blonde-haired woman collecting pint glasses outside The Bounty Inn, a tea-towel stuck through her apron which was longer than her black skirt.

Hopeful? He thinks the years … The years which have been split into months and the months which have been split into weeks and the weeks into days and the days into hours and hours have been split into a breath in and a breath out, and Tom has been missing from all of them. Hope becomes tired. It fades, regardless of how much you wish it not to.

That he’s still alive somewhere? Didn’t drown?