Bay of Secrets (5 page)

Her room was small and whitewashed. It had a wooden cupboard for her few clothes and a narrow bed; she needed only one thin blanket, for it did not get cold here on the island. There was no mirror. Why would she need a mirror? God could see inside her to her deepest thoughts – that was all that mattered. She had a writing table, though, on which she kept her Bible and psalm book, and the arched window behind it looked out on to the courtyard. In the writing desk was a drawer, which she always kept locked. In this, Sister Julia had secreted a few precious artefacts, mostly from her previous life before she had taken vows, but also from her time here on the island. There was her mother’s wedding ring, some photographs of her family, an embroidered sampler she had made as a girl and a few items given to her by those she had helped over the years.

Here – as at Santa Ana – the sisters sometimes gave advice to those who came seeking guidance. Sister Julia had never
sought the role of spiritual counsellor; it had come to her. She listened as people talked of family quarrels, of love that was lost, of sons and daughters who had disappeared. There were men who gambled or drank (always there were men who gambled or drank) and women who had lost sight of their virtue. And other things. Darker things.

She fingered the delicate white tablecloth of lace – like gossamer to the touch – given to her by a woman in the village. Sister Julia could still remember the look in the woman’s dark eyes as she had told her story, could still feel her despair. Sister Julia had often prayed for her. She was another one who had been hurt, who did not know where to turn. It had been a story of disillusion and disappointment. But Sister Julia sensed there was more that the woman was not saying. She felt it. It rested there behind the sad eyes. And Sister Julia wondered. Was there another reason why her husband had behaved as he had? Was there more to the woman’s story that she could not tell?

‘Be still, my daughter,’ she had told the woman, placing her palm gently on her head. ‘Trust in God. He will show you the way.’

God had helped her give advice to others. He still did. Sister Julia prayed and He sent her answers so that when people came to her for guidance, the words – the right words – would emerge from her lips. Sister Julia was merely a vessel. God’s vessel. What greater gift could she ask for? She knew, though, the answer to this question. What she longed for, more even than this, was the gift of peace.

Nestling deep in the drawer of her writing desk was the book. The book of names. Sister Julia touched the cover, which was plain and gave no clue as to what was inside. And let out a deep sigh which seemed to hold all the pain, all the emotion she had witnessed over so many long years. It didn’t release it though. Even reading what was inside the book would give no clue of what had been. Unless … Names and dates. It was all here. Sister Julia had the evidence. She had written it down.

Every day she asked God for guidance. Every day she yearned to tell her story. Every day she ached for the ability to seek atonement; to do something that – while it might not make it right; nothing could make it right – could, in some measure, help one of these people. Because they needed help. Sister Julia knew this. Such things could not be covered up for ever. Secrets … Like a boil under the skin they would grow and fester until they must be lanced. It was the way of the world.

Sister Julia opened the book, read the first few names. ‘May God forgive us,’ she murmured. So many names. So many tears. So many secrets. Slowly, she closed the book again and put it back in the drawer.
One day
 …

She thought back to the end of the Civil War – for that was when it had begun. They had all believed it was a new start, a time of hope and the end to poverty and violence. Not so. For Sister Julia it was just the beginning.

The following day, Ruby spent all morning sorting out the contents of the house. Like a woman possessed, she thought. But at least it would stop her thinking.

In the afternoon, Mel called round. ‘Just passing, darling,’ she said. ‘Thought you might fancy a walk?’

Just checking up on her, more likely. Mel sounded casual enough but Ruby kept catching her scrutinising her with narrowed eyes when she thought Ruby wasn’t looking. ‘I’m fine, Mel,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t you be working?’

Mel shrugged. ‘I’m the boss. I can give myself a half day.’

Fair enough. And a walk sounded good.

Ruby grabbed a jacket, glanced in the mirror and ran her fingers through her short hair. She would do. They walked down the lane arm in arm. At last it was truly summer. The breeze was milder and there was a real warmth in the sun when it poked out from behind the clouds. Ruby and Mel headed for the sea.

‘How’s it going?’ Mel asked as they walked towards Pride Bay. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘Thanks, Mel.’ But she was. Last night she’d hardly slept. And when she eventually did get off she’d woken at dawn, sat
bolt upright in a cold sweat. She’d been reliving the accident. Heard the clash of metal on metal, the screech of tyres, the scream … It had been pointless trying to sleep afterwards. She’d got up, made tea, watched the day begin and wondered. Was there something going on here that she should know about? Or was she being hopelessly paranoid?

She had tried to remember everything her parents had ever told her about her family. There had been the usual stories. Both Mum and Dad had been only children so there were no uncles and aunts and cousins. Mum had an aunt – who had died when Ruby was small – and three cousins living in Wales who she never saw. Dad had almost no one. There were her mother’s parents, living on some island off the west coast of Scotland. But Ruby hardly knew them. They’d come down for the funeral, of course. Ruby had thought they might be a comfort, but they had both seemed so old and confused.

‘She’s our daughter,’ her grandmother kept saying. ‘How can she go before we do?’

Ruby hadn’t known what to say to her. Her mother had hardly seen them in the last thirty-five years, she knew that much. It happened in families, she supposed. People lost touch, families became fragmented, before you knew what had happened you were practically estranged from your nearest and dearest. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She murmured this to her grandmother several times, as if it might make a difference.

‘Bolt from the blue.’ Her grandmother looked straight at her. ‘Bolt from the blue.’

It had given Ruby a bit of a strange feeling, to tell the truth. As if her grandmother wasn’t acknowledging her somehow. But they’d hugged, and she’d kissed her grandmother’s papery cheek. Still, the old lady hardly seemed aware of her. She just looked at her sightlessly and murmured, ‘Vivien, Vivien,’ until at last Ruby’s gentle and white-haired grandfather led her away, stroking her hand. ‘There, my love. There, there, my love.’

It was hard to imagine her parents having dark secrets. But perhaps everyone had secrets. And some chose never to tell.

‘Have you been in touch with James?’ Mel asked.

Ah, James. Ruby looked towards the cliffs. The house martins were back. She watched them swooping and gliding and flapping, all directions; their special dance. ‘He’s phoned a couple of times.’ Though Ruby didn’t really know what to say to him. It was beginning to feel as if he belonged to a different life, one that had nothing to do with her any more. ‘It’s difficult. We haven’t really talked.’ At least not about the things that mattered. They’d talked about the weather (it was warmer in London) about the flat (he’d got someone in to clean) and about what he had done at work that day (two new clients and an appraisal coming up). But that was about it. Both times he’d ended the conversation by asking her when she was coming back and both times she’d said she didn’t know. Was he relieved? Did he miss her? She had no idea.

They walked past the harbour and the old chapel. ‘And are you going back?’ Mel asked.

The million-dollar question. They scrunched their way
over the stones. The cliffs on the far side of the bay were high and steep, the foam of the incoming waves stretching like a ribbon along Chesil Beach towards the Fleet and Portland Bill, the waves stamping their imprints for just a few moments into the tiny pebbles before they were absorbed and gone. ‘Not yet,’ Ruby said.

They were approaching the row of fishermen’s cottages right on the beach. The end one was the coastguard’s cottage, and there was a sign outside.
To be Sold by Auction.
Ruby stopped walking. She looked at Mel and Mel looked back at her. ‘Not yet?’ said Mel.

‘Well … ’ Ruby had always liked this cottage. It was small and simple, built of yellow local stone with shy square windows at the front – all overlooking the sea. It must bear the brunt of the wind; the stone was pockmarked with years of salt and sea air. So it was strong in the face of adversity. ‘It’s a really sweet cottage – don’t you think?’

‘Why don’t you give the agent a call?’ Mel suggested.

Ruby hesitated, listened. The drag and pull of the waves on to the shore was so powerful, it seemed to thrum into the very centre of her. In front of the cottage and to the side, Chesil Beach rose – a ginger hill of small pebbles. Beyond, the path to Clearwater Beach wound up the tufted green cliff, sandy and ragged, like the promise of a fairy tale, the cliff bricked like the proverbial blocks of gold. It was her fairy tale, she realised; her childhood. Was that what she was trying to recapture?

‘I found a letter, Mel,’ she said.

‘A letter?’ Mel blinked at her. ‘What sort of a letter?’

‘I’ll show you.’ Ruby dug the letter from the doctor about her parents’ infertility out of her bag and handed it over.

Mel frowned. When she’d finished reading she looked up. ‘So, what are you thinking, Ruby?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’

Mel handed the letter back to her. ‘I can’t see what you’re worrying about, to be honest,’ she said.

It seemed pretty obvious to Ruby. ‘Remember all those things in the shoebox?’ she said. ‘Those photos? The baby’s bonnet?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Well … ’ Did she have to spell it out? Could there be a connection between the letter and the contents of the shoebox in the wardrobe? She didn’t want to think so. It seemed impossible. But … She kept thinking of that photograph of the young woman with long blonde hair. And the baby in her arms.

‘Oh, Ruby, you’re tired and you’re letting everything get to you.’ Mel put an arm around her. ‘Come on now. That letter doesn’t mean a thing. How can it?’

‘I don’t know.’
Unexplained infertility.
It didn’t sound very technical. But those would have been the days before many technological advances in IVF treatment, she supposed. So her parents had found it difficult to conceive – very difficult to conceive. What was she then? Some kind of miracle baby? How come they hadn’t told her?

‘Look.’ Mel’s voice was firm. ‘It’s perfectly possible that
since visiting the doctor, since doing those tests – whatever they were … ’ Dismissively, she waved long, manicured nails towards the letter Ruby still held. ‘You were conceived. By the time the surgery sent this letter out, your mother was already pregnant. Simple.’

‘Yes, of course. You’re right.’ Ruby felt the tension ease out of her. She smiled. Of course it was possible, probable even. ‘Thanks, Mel.’

Mel shrugged. ‘Your mum never went back for that fertility treatment because she didn’t need it.’

‘And the photos?’ Ruby murmured almost to herself.

‘Are nothing to do with you.’ Mel held her by the shoulders. ‘Trust me. They belong to someone else. They must do.’

‘OK.’

‘And are you going to call the agent? It’s a nice place – as long as it’s not about to fall into the sea.’

Ruby moved closer to the low stone wall that surrounded the cottage. So far it had survived against all odds. The hill of pebbles provided a protective sea wall, but who could tell for how long? She placed her hands on the top of the wooden gate. But although it was a nice place, it wasn’t so much the cottage that drew her. It was the view. The view of her childhood that she wanted to snatch back again so desperately. Ruby felt heady just looking at it.

‘Why not?’ She had to live somewhere. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket. Tapped in the numbers. ‘I’d like to look round Coastguard’s Cottage in Pride Bay,’ she told the
girl who answered the call. ‘Now, if possible. I’m standing right outside.’

*

The cottage turned out to be an upside-down affair. The sitting room was on the first floor.

‘For the views,’ said the agent unnecessarily. She looked young and bored in her high heels, black tailored jacket and pencil skirt, and sounded as if she might have said the same thing many times these past few weeks.

Ruby moved to the window. ‘Of course.’ From here she could see beyond the pebbles, to the calm shimmering English Channel and the wavy line of a pale and distant mauve horizon. The grass on the cliff top was freckled with yellow buttercups and purple thrift. Pride Bay and her parents … Was she trying to get them back somehow? Was that it? She had always loved the mixed-up kid that was Pride Bay – it didn’t know whether it was seedy or upmarket, elegant or scruffy, arty or bohemian. It was her past – but could it also be her future?

The kitchen was exhausted. The oven was probably circa 1940, dark with grime and grease; the lino was torn, the sink chipped enamel. Mel looked at Ruby and pulled an expressive face. Ruby ignored her.

‘Obviously it needs updating,’ the agent said.

‘Obviously,’ echoed Mel.

And OK, it didn’t seem too much like a fairy tale. But doing it up wouldn’t be too much of a problem; it couldn’t be hard to find a good builder. And financially … She could
put her parents’ house up for sale, if necessary move into rented accommodation until it was ready. It would work. ‘When’s the auction?’ she asked.

The agent consulted her file. ‘A week on Wednesday. Three p.m.’

‘Right.’ Dorset should have seemed impossible without her parents here. Impossible. And yet here she was. Without her parents there was no pathway. Ruby was wobbling along without stabilisers. She had to focus on something or she’d fall.