The Silver Dark Sea

Just lying there, says Sam. I thought he was dead.

She nods; the man’s pulse is good. Tabitha can feel the warm bloom of his breath against her arm. She feels the edge of the vest he wears, finds it is cold and hardening with salt – so she opens a nearby drawer, lifts scissors out. When had she last used them? For what? On whom?

She cuts away his clothing. The chest that appears is dark with hair. Has he spoken?

Jonny shrugs. He’s muttered a bit –

He tried to say something, Nathan tells her.

So he’s been conscious?

Yes.

He didn’t lose it at any point?

Not since we’ve been with him.

Any wounds?

His hands – Ian points.

She looks. Ian’s right – the fingernails are torn, and three of his knuckles are bruised. When she turns the hands over, she finds his palms are dirtied, rough and red-coloured. Pinheads of blood. Grains of sand. Grazes.

From what?

Rope, maybe? Hard to say. And here …

There is more, too. On his left hand, in the soft web of flesh between the thumb and forefinger, there is a very different wound. It is neither fresh nor old. It is reddish-brown. Perfectly round, like an eye.

Tabitha cannot know what caused such marks. But hands mend and mend quickly; hands do not worry her too much. It is his head that Tabitha turns to now: the head, which she always thought of as a world in its own right – with its seas and land and weather, its mysteries that, in fact, no human brain can fathom. She snaps on latex gloves. Slowly, she starts to feel through his hair. She searches for cuts, or swellings, or a tender part that will make him wince. His hair is so thick she must move it aside, in sections. Where there is scalp, she presses it; like this she makes her way round his head – from ear to ear, from brow to nape. His eyes half-open. His lips move, as if he dreams.

No sign of swelling, she says.

That’s good. Right? Sam is anxious.

Yes, Sam – it’s good.

She peels off the gloves. There is a woollen blanket at the foot of the bed and she pulls it up over her patient, over his long, muscular legs. It does not reach beyond his chest so she tucks it round him, brings his arms to his sides. There is, Tabitha thinks, a strong smell in the room – of sweat, from the men, and cigarette smoke, but also fish and brine and an earthiness. Sheep.

She turns to them. You needn’t stay. It’s late.

He’s OK? He’s not dying?

No, he’s not dying. A childish question from Sam. He stands there – awkward, thin, with sunburn and his unbrushed hair. Tabitha had delivered this boy. That day feels like yesterday. She remembers his mother in this room, refusing to lie down or to sit – she’d paced the room as an animal might. And then Samuel came out as she’d crouched on the floor, gripping the table legs, with Tabitha saying one more! That’s it! How long ago was that? Two decades and more. She feels sorry for him, suddenly. He is both so old and so young.

He’s dehydrated, and he’s exhausted. And I’ll give him a tetanus jab for the sake of it. But other than that, he seems alright. She shrugs. We’ll see what happens when he wakes. It’s sleep he needs, now.

They look at each other, briefly.

Ian moves first. He slaps his thighs once, rises up from the chair saying right. That’ll do me. Come on, Jonny.

Jonny follows his father, walking in the low, rhythmic way that young men seem to – nonchalant, easy. He says see you, Uncle Nathan. He does not speak to Sam as he passes him. He brushes the leaves of the African violet; his draught moves the unpinned corner of a poster on mental health.

The two men walk out into the garden and are gone.

Sam waits for a moment further. Then, will you be alright?

Alright?

I mean, here – on your own. With this man who …

Tabitha smiles. I’ll be fine, Sam. I’ve dealt with far worse than a sleeping man, I can promise you that. Will you tell your father what happened? I’ll call him in the morning. When he was born, Sam Lovegrove had been jaundiced. His skin had the hue of iodine, or old tea, and he had been so small. Now he is – what? Six foot?

Are you sure?

Honestly. Go.

So he, too, goes. He steps into the fading light.

It means that Nathan is left. He stands against the wall by the door, hands in his pockets, one ankle crossed over the other. His head is down as if looking at the floor, but his eyes are looking through his hair at the stranger who lies asleep on the bed beneath a blue blanket. It is a gaze of intent – a hunter’s look, or a detective’s.

I thought you’d linger, the nurse says.

* * *

He can smell the latex gloves and the glass of pink wine, and Nathan can smell fish in this room. The tang of it.

His aunt moves carefully. Plump Aunt Tab, with her pearl earrings and cotton-pale hair. She clicks her tongue, as she works – half-humming – and this is a sound that is hers, entirely. She seems to half-hum all the time. When he was a boy, Nathan would hear his aunt before he saw her because of this sound or her bicycle bell. She still has that bicycle. It has a wicker basket, a slight squeak, and he feels like a boy when he sees his aunt on it – leaning forwards with the effort. Tabitha, who warms a room by entering it with her cheery only me!

What do you think? he asks her.

She has her back to him. She is standing on her tiptoes, reaching up to the top shelf of a cabinet. With her fingertips she coaxes down a plastic tub that has envelopes in. These envelopes have transparent windows through which he can see needles.

What do I think? Well … She considers it. It’s strange, that’s for sure. Where has he come from?

A swimmer, maybe. Got tired.

Maybe. I’ll call Rona – see if a guest is missing.

Tabitha places a needle in a metal dish. It chimes like a bell. Then Nathan watches as she moves to a second cabinet, takes a small key from her pocket and unlocks it. Inside, there are vials.

Tab? Don’t you think …? But he can’t say it. Nathan isn’t even sure what he is trying to say except that he is shaken, confused, and that he does not like what’s happened and does not want to be here but nor can he take his eyes off the iron-framed bed in the corner of the room, or leave. His aunt tilts her head. She is waiting for more words from him, and he has seen his mother stand like this. He has looked for his mother in a crowd and found her because of the way she has tilted her head, as a bird might listen for worms. They have the same nose, too. They aren’t close and never have been. But they are sisters in how they speak, and move.

Don’t I think … what?

Doesn’t matter.

But it does – it does. And Tabitha knows this for she puts the vial down and comes towards him. She puts her hand on the back of his hand and says I know what you’re thinking. I thought it too. When I opened the door and saw the four of you holding this man in the air, I saw his hair and his beard, and I thought … She pauses, smiles. But –