I watch as Lorna squeezes her eyes tightly shut for a moment, clearly fighting her own tears.
‘No, sweetheart. I’m sorry, but no.’
Ella’s shoulders slump now, all the energy and anger draining from her, replaced by sadness and a look of defeat. She and Molly still cling to one another, holding so tightly and sitting so close that it is hard to tell where one girl ends and the other begins. Looking at them, Lorna’s face softens.
‘One more night. We can stay one more night. If that’s OK with you, Alice?’
It catches me off guard to see her looking at me now, Molly and Ella turned in my direction too. I haven’t had time to arrange my face, and suddenly can’t find the energy for the smile I’d usually force. All I can do is nod.
Lorna and I leave the girls in Molly’s room, closing the door behind us. In the corridor we stand awkwardly in front of one another, the friendship I felt we’d started to build over the past few days feeling suddenly fragile. She runs her hands through her hair.
‘I really am sorry, Alice, I’ve tried, but I just can’t get through to him. I think it’s just too late for us.’
Her eyes are red. I don’t tell her that I think I know something of how she feels – that despite how strong I thought our marriage was and how much I love him, I feel like I can’t get through to my husband either. I don’t tell her that I feel like a failure. I’m failing at connecting with my husband, I’ve failed at building the big family I dreamed of, I’ve failed at helping Jack reconnect with his sister. And I’m failing the island too.
‘I should go out and find him,’ I say, and she nods. Gently, she places a hand on my arm and then turns to the spare room, shutting the door behind her. I don’t go outside though. Instead I shut myself in my own room and climb into bed with my clothes on.
Chapter 21
Lorna
I’m back in the house where I grew up, leaning against the kitchen sink, a kettle held aloft in my hand as I make myself a cup of tea. The sun is setting outside, golden light etched around the pine trees at the bottom of the garden. But there’s another glow too and as I look closer I make out orange flames dancing at the point where the garden ends and the forest begins. It’s beautiful, in a way, the fire. And then the mug slips from my hand, splashing my bare feet with scalding liquid. But I barely notice as I push the door open and run outside. Because somehow, I just know. I know that something is very wrong.
Damp grass between my toes and the soft give of the earth as I run through the garden towards the glow. My skin grows steadily hotter, the air thick with smoke that scratches at my throat.
The first thing I see is my easel, smouldering on the top of a crackling, hissing bonfire. The bonfire is made from a burning mound of paper, canvas and wood. Oil paints slide like tears down canvases that then catch alight and burst into flame. Paintbrushes burn and drawings crinkle at the edges and disintegrate into nothing. The air smells of ash and paint and petrol. I slide to my knees in the grass, the heat of the bonfire smarting my cheeks. Perhaps I should run for the garden hose? But I know it’s already too late. There’s no chance of saving anything. And besides, I am pinned to the spot, tears streaming down my ash-flecked face, a heaving sob escaping my lips. Everything I worked towards, everything I dreamed of … I watch, helpless, as it burns to nothing.
And then I see them, two figures in the shadows by the trees. I spot my father first, arms crossed over his chest. My mother is beside him but lingering slightly behind, her fingers rubbing the gold cross that hangs around her neck. She doesn’t meet my eye. As I look at my father again I notice a petrol can resting in the grass at his feet.
‘Well,’ he says, his voice steady. ‘It looks like you won’t be going to London after all.’
For a moment I can’t find my voice; it’s lost beneath tears and the smoke that fills my throat.
‘How could you?’
My voice comes out as a croak. My father says nothing, his arms still crossed over his chest. I look at my mother now, willing her to look at me back.
‘How could you let him do it, Mum? Mum!’ But she won’t look at me. I sink to my knees in the grass and sob.
*
I wake suddenly, hands gripping the sheets. In the darkness I can just make out the shape of my suitcase by the door and a jar of heather on my bedside. I went to bed early, unable to face the heartbroken faces of Ella and Molly. Telling them my decision felt awful; it was nearly impossible to hold it together. I felt like a monster as I watched Ella’s tears fall. My darling Ella, my world. But after that conversation with Jack I just knew that coming here was a mistake.
My heart pounds like it always does when I have this dream that is not really a dream. I lie in the darkness, remembering.
The fire happened the week after that picnic in the woods, when my father confronted me and for once I shouted back.‘I’m going to have a better life than yours. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’How I came to regret those words I said that day.
After the fire had burnt down to its last embers, I headed silently upstairs to my room to check whether my father had missed anything. Maybe there was something left, just something? But the walls were decorated only with empty strings and pegs where just that morning my drawings had hung. A bare space by the window where my easel should have stood. Standing there in my empty room felt suddenly too much, so despite the darkness sweeping in and the breeze that was becoming a strong wind I ran out of the house and up to the old lighthouse. I ran and ran until my legs ached, until my lungs felt clear of the smell of smoke and in its place was damp salty air. I remember the feeling of the sea wind hitting against me as I stood on the cliff edge in the growing darkness and listened to the sound of the waves crashing below.
I lost everything in the fire. Every painting, every drawing. All my equipment. My father told Jack that I’d started the fire. That I was emotionally unstable and had got into a frenzy, not thinking my work was good enough. I told Sarah the truth of what had happened but made her promise not to tell anyone. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else knowing what had happened.
That night I stood closer to the edge than I ever had before, imagining how easy it would be to take a step forward. I pictured what it might feel like for my stomach to drop, to experience that sensation of falling.
Of everything that happened when I was young, this is the memory that has haunted me for years. And my brother doesn’t believe it happened.
Coming here has surprised me in so many ways. It has been an unexpected joy to meet Molly and Alice. I never thought I’d be given the second chance to reconnect with Sarah again, or to see my old teacher or the shopkeeper who was so kind to me. Alice and her friends have all been so welcoming and have shown me some of what I missed out on when I left and have continued to miss by never trying to build a group of friends in London. Then there’s Mallachy, the happy afternoon we spent in his studio, the way my heart thumped when we stood close together and the sweet scent of the heather he gave me that comes through the darkness now at my bedside.
But I don’t belong here. Seeing Jack again as an adult has filled me with happiness but also a deep sense of sadness and regret. For a while I thought that perhaps there might be hope for us to repair our relationship. But I was wrong. How can we step closer to one another if we don’t believe and understand one another? This is why when Ella suggested this trip I was so hesitant. Because in the end, it is just too painful. Sometimes it is easier to stay away than to try to build bridges and fail. To let silences stretch over years rather than reaching a hand out across the vast and lonely emptiness.
