The Silver Dark Sea

I imagine it, Nathan says. Sometimes.

She nods. Yes. I imagine it. I still imagine him walking up the drive. But is that the same as being hopeful? I don’t think so.

This man isn’t Tom.

I know.

No, she’s like no-one else. She’s smart, and hard, and vulnerable, and she still uses Tom’s boat, still lifts and lowers his lobster pots when most other widows would have left the island entirely perhaps or at least left the sea well alone. She wears his oilskins even though they’re too big. Only once has Nathan seen her cry. Can I do anything? He knows there is nothing that anyone can do.

And for a moment Maggie is silent. She looks at the table as if she has not heard him, as if there is something on the table that Nathan cannot see. Then she flinches, turns to him. Help me with the doorframe? I’ve got more paint on myself than … She turns her wrists over, showing him. A small, sad smile.

She was Tom’s. He will always help her if he can.

* * *

The red car skids on gravel. Its door is thrown open. Emmeline appears, hurries to the front door of Lowfield and she bangs – twice, bang-bang – on its glass. Tabitha!

She waits, briefly. Bangs again.

Her sister’s face appears behind the glass and then the door opens. She glares, her forefinger raised to her lips. Hush! He’s sleeping!

So it’s true? There’s a man?

Keep your voice down.

Is there?

She nods. Ian told you?

Nathan. Weren’t you going to?

Tabitha flinches. Don’t be snapping at me, Emmeline.

They study each other, shifting their jaws.

I suppose you’d better come in.

Tabitha leads her sister into the kitchen, shuts the door. She sees her cereal bowl in the sink, waiting to be washed; a used tea bag sits on the draining board with the teaspoon still attached to it. The floor needs mopping – Tabitha can hear the soles of her slippers sticking to it as she walks and she hopes Emmeline can’t hear that. She notices these things, when Emmeline’s here.

He came ashore at Sye. Sam found him.

I heard that.

He went to Wind Rising, got your boys. Jonny, too.

Is it Tom?

The nurse expected this – but not so soon, or so bluntly. No, it’s not. Did Nathan say he was?

He said he looks like him.

He does – a little. Same colouring.

So it could be. And he came out of the water, so –

I know he did. And yes, he has dark hair, and a beard, and there’s a likeness of sorts. But Em, it’s not him. Do you hear?

How do you know?

Because there are differences! Big ones! He’s too tall to be Tom. Too broad. The nose isn’t right and the teeth aren’t the same, and those aren’t his hands, and …

Teeth change! He could have changed them. He could have grown …

Em …

I want to see him. A statement, of course.

He’s sleeping. No.

I won’t leave till I see him.

That stubborn streak. Tabitha narrows her eyes, thinks that’s Emmeline. The petulant child who grew into a fierce, resolute grown-up who rarely laughs or takes no for an answer. But then, so much has happened. And Emmeline’s had to be tough, she supposes: Jack as a husband, that farm and four children. Four to begin with.

The grandfather clock ticks.

Fine, Tabitha says. You can see him. But – she holds up a finger – no waking him, Em – whoever he is, he needs to rest. And she leads her sister down the hallway to a door with frosted glass.

* * *

He sleeps, this sea creature. This man from the waves. This tired Poseidon.

Firstly, Emmeline sees his size. He is as broad as a boat, and as long as one. Then she sees the long lashes, the tiny lines by his eyes. His nose is perfectly straight. The beard is black – not a deep brown with a reddish hue, and with no grey flecked in it: it is as black as night is. His eyebrows are of the same blackness. The tip of his left ear is creased. The backs of his hands are veined and sore-looking – huge, capable hands.

Has he spoken?

Not much.

The man breathes like the sea.

Emmeline is in the mending room for a minute, no longer. It is enough.

She walks out into the sunlight. She cannot name it, or describe it – what she is feeling now. Disappointment is not enough of a word – not nearly. She had known, deep down, it wasn’t him. In her heart she’d known that he could not be Tom – it can’t be, it can’t be, not after so long – but she had hoped, all the same; she had snatched at the faintest of chances because she is his mother, and she must, and so she had stumbled and demanded and banged on her sister’s door and now Emmeline feels unsteady, foolish. Unspeakably sad.

Tom had a scar on his nose from a childhood fall; his lips were thinner, equal-sized. She’d know her boy in the dark, even now. She’d know him in a crowded room or by smell alone or handwriting.

Tabitha comes by her. I’m sorry.

Oh, I’m sure you are.