Sea of Memories Read online

  How silly, she thought, to have such dark thoughts on a day like this. A day filled with sunlight and beauty and youth and freedom. The wind whipped a strand from her long ponytail across her mouth and she shook her head, to shake off both the hair and her thoughts. She stretched one arm out over the side of the boat, extending her fingers towards the waves’ lacy caps, the spray cooling her skin until goose pimples, like grains of golden sand, formed over its smooth surface.

  She turned to look back at the frothy white train left by their wake and caught Christophe’s dark gaze fixed upon her. Like the ocean, his eyes seemed to have hidden depths, sparkling with inner light one moment, suddenly stormy the next. She felt her cheeks flush, but met his gaze steadily with her own. In that moment, she sensed something powerful between them, last night’s moment of connection transforming itself into a surge as strong as the pull of the tide. She knew, instinctively, that there could be no point in trying to swim against it. Like a force of nature, it was something far beyond anything she’d experienced before, something she knew she would not have the power to fight even if she’d wanted to. And she discovered she didn’t want to at all.

  With a calmness that belied the turmoil she felt inside, she smiled at him and said, ‘Do you think I really could learn to sail Bijou?’

  For a long moment he made no reply, his eyes still fixed on her as though mesmerised. Finally, he shifted across on his seat, making space for her to slip in and take hold of the tiller. She was acutely conscious of his strong, brown arm behind her, helping to hold a steady course.

  ‘Small movements, nothing sudden. She will respond to whatever you ask her to do. Try pushing it slightly away from you – yes, there, you see how she turns into the wind? And we lose a little speed? You need to play it a little, you will feel it when you catch the right spot. Where the wind catches the sails perfectly. Watch that ribbon against the canvas: you want it to blow straight rather than fluttering or flapping. That’s it, good.’

  An hour later, they sailed into a bay tucked into the sheltering arms of the dunes, and dropped anchor. Apart from an occasional fishing-boat chugging purposefully about its business in the distance, there was no one else in sight. Bijou, her sails loosely furled, bobbed quietly at the end of her anchor. The breeze seemed to have dropped now and the sun was high above them, almost directly atop the mast.

  ‘Let’s swim first and then we’ll eat lunch.’ Caroline was already pulling her top over her head to reveal her bathing-costume underneath. Christophe did likewise and, with a whoop, dived from the side of the boat, the line of his body long and lithe as it sliced into the surface of the water with scarcely a splash. Ella wished she’d had the foresight to put on her own bathing-costume beneath her borrowed clothes. She pulled it from the straw bag and stood awkwardly for a moment.

  ‘You can go down below and change in the cabin.’ Caroline showed her, and Ella clambered down. She changed quickly, and re-emerged moments later, tying the halter-neck of her own costume at the back. It was one of her purchases from Jenner’s, white with yellow daisies, much prettier than the utilitarian navy-blue one that she had worn for her swimming lessons at the Warrender Baths.

  She perched on the side of the boat and then swung her legs round so that they dangled over the water. Little waves rose playfully beneath her feet as if trying to catch her toes and pull her in. Whilst she had been one of the best swimmers in her class at school, she felt apprehensive now. There was a great deal more water both around and beneath her, for one thing. And no solid side within easy reach to cling to for a rest if needed. Where was Miss Campbell, the games mistress, when you needed her?

  She swivelled round, taking firm hold of the side of Bijou, and lowered herself into the sea. Ella gasped as the chill water enveloped her sun-warmed body, but a moment later she felt nothing but a blissful coolness. She pushed off from the boat and tried a few tentative strokes. The salt water made her strangely buoyant and so, her confidence growing, she struck out towards Christophe and Caroline who were floating a little further out, watching her progress.

  ‘It’s heavenly!’ she gasped, as she reached them and turned on to her back to float, as they were, looking back towards the land.

  A slow smile dawned on her face as she realised what she was looking at. ‘Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s the painting, isn’t it? The one above my bed? I recognise the line of those dunes there and the way the beach curves back on itself.’

  Christophe nodded, pleased. ‘It is.’

  ‘You have a good eye, Ella,’ Caroline said, treading water. ‘Have you studied art?’

  ‘Only at school. But I enjoy visiting the galleries and exhibitions in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Maybe you should think of pursuing it as a career, as I am going to do in Paris. I’m applying to several galleries and museums for a stage next year to learn about picture conservation.’

  ‘I didn’t know such a thing existed. I wish I had though, it sounds a lot more fun than the course at secretarial college that I’m going to be starting in the autumn. Mother thought it the most suitable qualification. With my French, I might even be able to get a position in the Diplomatic Service. I don’t think I’m good enough at drawing to do anything in the art world though. I’m not sure what my parents would say if I told them I was contemplating a change of tack and a career in picture conservation! And you, Christophe, what will you do? Apart from becoming a famous artist, of course,’ she teased. ‘Are you going to work in a museum like Caroline?’

  His eyes darkened, becoming unfathomable. ‘Non,’ his answer was terse, a bitterness that she’d not heard before creeping into his voice. ‘Papa has decreed that art is something for girls to dabble in whilst they are waiting to be snapped up by some eligible man. I have to follow in his footsteps at the bank. It’s already arranged. But anyway,’ he continued, ‘let’s not spoil the day with such thoughts. Back to the boat for lunch. Allons-y!’ and he set off in a fast crawl that made the girls squeal as he splashed them thoroughly, drenching their hair and dispelling the gravity of the moment.

  They climbed back into Bijou over her stern, Christophe hauling himself effortlessly out of the water and then reaching back to extend a hand to each of them in turn. As Ella towel-dried her hair, Caroline and Christophe set out a picnic on the fore-deck from the wicker hamper. Suddenly, she discovered she was absolutely ravenous.

  The three of them sat in contented silence in the shade of a makeshift awning that Christophe had rigged up over the boom, devouring golden-crusted bread spread thick with soft, pungent cheese and topped off with slices of the reddest, juiciest tomatoes she’d ever seen. Nothing had ever tasted so good, Ella thought.

  They washed it all down with cool water from a stoppered earthenware bottle and then Caroline handed them each a sun-warmed peach, with sweet, white flesh so ripe that the juice trickled over Ella’s chin and fingers.

  Afterwards, they lay, sated, in the shade, drowsy with sunshine, sea air, the warmth of the afternoon and so much good food. Ella gazed up into the impossible blue of the sky, one arm shielding her eyes against the light, listening to the sound of the waves murmuring quietly against Bijou’s hull. She felt the little boat rocking gently beneath her and closed her eyes for just a moment . . .

  She had no idea how long she’d slept, but the sun’s angle had changed and Bijou had swung a little at the end of her anchor so that a ray of light was creeping in beneath the awning, illuminating the strands of hair – still just a little damp from their swim – that fell across one shoulder and twined themselves across the daisies on her costume. She licked her lips, tasting the tang of salt, and turned her head to find the others. Caroline was sleeping too, curled on her side, breathing softly. Christophe sat with his knees bent up, intent upon the sketch-book that he rested against them. His pencil moved rapidly, whispering across the rough paper, drawing lines that were swift and sure. He glanced up and his dark eyes met hers again. He looked startled, as if he had been lost elsewhere
while the girls slept, and her awakening had brought him back to the real world with a jerk. Wordlessly, she smiled, bringing one finger to her lips with a glance towards Caroline, and he nodded, smiling back. She held out one hand, silently asking him to pass her the sketch-book. He flushed and shook his head, closing the book’s board cover, but she insisted, her hand still extended, her eyes refusing to leave his. Reluctantly, he handed it over and she held the little book above her face as she began to turn the pages.

  The first sketches were of scenes from the island: a sea-scape with dunes and sea-grasses in the foreground; a row of fishermen’s cottages with hollyhocks clustered against the white walls; the orchard at the back of the house, with Anaïs cropping the grass beneath the trees; Christophe’s sister and mother sitting on the terrace, Caroline deep in a book, his mother intent on a piece of sewing in her lap. But then she turned a page and found a sketch of a young girl, standing on a jetty, with one hand holding her wide-brimmed hat on her head, her skirts blown by a sea-breeze. And on each page that followed was another sketch of Ella. Some were just a few simple pencil lines which caught a gesture or expression that she recognised as her own. Others were more detailed where he had evidently spent time working on them.

  The final drawing in the book was of her asleep just now, the crook of one arm covering her eyes, her fingers curling open in a gesture of abandonment, innocent and trusting, and so tenderly drawn that it made her catch her breath.

  Caroline stirred, waking, and Ella quickly closed the book and handed it back to Christophe. He stood, stretching the cramp out of his legs, and then prodded his sister with his bare toes. ‘Come on, you two sleepy-heads. It’s time we headed for home.’ And with that he busied himself, unfurling the sails and making ready the boat, his movements followed with thoughtful distraction by Ella’s wide-eyed gaze, as she absorbed the truth and the beauty of what she’d just seen.

  2014, Edinburgh

  ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough, Granny?’ I arrange the fine woollen shawl around Ella’s shoulders before sitting down on the bench beside her.

  ‘I’m fine. Stop fussing, Kendra! This is just lovely, what a good idea.’

  On this autumn afternoon there’s still a little gentle warmth in the air and the sky is a surprising deep blue. The yellow-brown leaves that remain on the trees are perfectly still on this rare, wind-free day. I was the one to suggest we venture out into the nursing home’s garden for once, rather than staying inside in the stifling cocoon of Ella’s room, a suggestion which evinced a surprised smile from the receptionist as she dug in a drawer for the key to unlock the back door, but one which Ella accepted with alacrity. We sit with our backs to the grey stone wall that encloses the patch of neatly trimmed lawn and the angular rose beds where one or two late blooms cling on doggedly and raise our faces to the low-angled sunlight.

  Ella sighs with pleasure. ‘What a treat. Somehow it seems all the more precious when one knows it won’t last much longer.’

  I’m not sure whether she’s referring to the fact that winter’s just around the corner or whether it’s something more final that’s on her mind. I take her hand in mine, meaning to comfort her, but finding that the touch of her gnarled, age-worn fingers gives me reassurance instead. There’s a lump in my throat, all of a sudden, and I’m not sure whether it has more to do with the thought of losing my grandmother or the kindness of her touch. Now I come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time Dan and I held hands or touched each other with anything more than a perfunctory peck on the cheek in passing. Her touch reminds me, too, of how I long to be able to hold Finn’s hand in mine; what it would mean to be able to give him that reassurance of love and support. I swallow hard and squeeze Ella’s hand gently in return.

  She smiles, looking down at our clasped fingers. ‘Look at your lovely smooth skin, so unlike mine. These awful age-spots. All that sunshine takes its toll over a lifetime. But, oh, it is so wonderful to feel it again!’

  She closes her eyes, and I wonder whether the sensation of the sun’s warmth on her face transports her back to those heady days of her first summer on the Île de Ré.

  As if she can read my mind, she says, ‘How is the writing coming along?’

  ‘Well, I think. Would you like me to bring it with me next time and read you what I’ve written so far?’

  She releases my hand with a soft pat and rearranges a fold of the shawl. ‘No, I trust you. And I want you to write the story your way. You can read the whole thing to me once it’s finished. But feel free to ask me any questions. Some of my memories are a bit sketchy these days so I may have missed things out when I’ve been rambling into that machine.’

  I shake my head. Her recordings are coherent and fluent, making it easy to weave the threads of her story; and the photos help me to picture it all just as it must have been. In fact, her words on the tapes come across as stronger and more confident than her usual speaking voice, making her memories seem more real, more firmly rooted in her mind, than her life today.

  Closing her eyes again, Ella speaks softly now. ‘Sometimes it takes time to get to know people – and some we can never really know. But others you can know in a heartbeat. That’s how it was with Christophe and Caroline. I suppose innocence helps . . . childhood friends, first loves. Life gets a lot more complicated as it goes along. But it was life itself that I fell in love with that summer, Kendra, not just the island and the Martet family, but all the possibilities and the hope that that awakening brought with it. It opened my eyes to what life could be.’ She glances at me, a look that is penetrating, as if she can see beneath the surface and into my soul. ‘Have you ever felt that way?’

  In the clear autumn sunlight, her eyes are a vivid green flecked with gold. Just like Finn’s, I think, and I know that she glimpses the sadness that flickers across my own face before I can disguise it beneath another smile.

  ‘When I first met Dan, yes. I’d had a few boyfriends before him, but no one special. But when I met him I knew. In a heartbeat, like you said. And we were both full of the confidence and hope of youth then too. But, like you say, life happens. The hope gets buried under all the other stuff that comes along. And the confidence gets eaten away . . .’ I tail off, my throat constricting again suddenly. I don’t often admit to anyone – least of all myself – just how difficult things are at the moment.

  We sit in silence for a moment. And then Ella takes my hand again, giving it a squeeze. ‘Never lose hope, Kendra. Even when everything else is gone. Life without hope is a living death. Hope is what makes us human. Without it, we are in danger of losing touch with what it is to be alive.’

  I nod. ‘But sometimes it’s just easier not to. Hope hurts.’

  She glances at me again, with that deep green gaze of hers. ‘I know it can do. But in my experience, when you’ve lost so much, feeling that pain just might be better than feeling nothing at all.’

  Her words – and her look of profound sadness as she utters them – make me think again of her estrangement from my mother. Does Ella still hope for a reconciliation? Before it’s too late? Writing her story seems to be linked to that somehow, although I still don’t know how or why. But maybe the act of sharing it with me and of knowing it will be there on paper after she’s gone gives her hope of some sort too. At the very least, perhaps it gives her a sense of purpose – or is she simply doing this as a way of trying to encourage me to heave myself out of the rut I’ve found myself in? I thought I was supporting her in coming to visit, but I have the distinct impression that I am gaining far more than I’m giving . . .

  The last rays of sunlight slip down behind the wall and the shadow that has been creeping across the grass towards us veils Ella’s face. She shivers slightly. ‘Come on, that was nice while it lasted, but it’s time we went in now.’

  I help her to her feet and offer her an arm as we walk back towards the door. ‘I’ll see you back to your room. It’s nearly supper time anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, Ken
dra. For the fresh air as well as for coming to see me. I have another tape for you. Oh, and I found some more of Caroline’s letters that you might like as well.’ As we reach the back door, she pauses and turns to look back at the deepening shadows where one or two white roses glimmer. ‘Do you think Finn would like this garden?’ she asks. ‘You could bring him with you sometime perhaps?’

  ‘If the weather is good he might. He loves going to the allotment with his dad. But he needs to be introduced to new places gently . . . Anything unfamiliar makes him panic. We’ll have to see.’ I know he’d hate the nursing home, with its strange smells and narrow corridors and unknown people, all of which he’d find terrifying.

  Ella doesn’t push it. But she smiles as she says, gently, ‘Well, I hope I’ll see him again sometime.’

  1938, Île de Ré

  Day after day, Ella settled into the easy rhythm of summer on the Île de Ré. When they weren’t sailing off the island’s sand-soft beaches, they were criss-crossing its dusty roads on bikes, until the landscape of salt-pans and sand-dunes felt more familiar to her than her home and her life in Edinburgh.

  The steeple of the church in Sainte Marie beckoned them homewards from their outings on land and sea, pointing skywards amongst lush green vineyards and golden cornfields inlaid with swathes of scarlet poppies. The watercolour wash of sea and sky imprinted itself on her very being, honing and refining her eye for beauty. She loved it all, from the white fisherman’s cottages to the vast citadel by the beachfront in St Martin; from the spires of hollyhocks that spilled into the narrow cobbled lanes in the villages to the tapestry of wildflowers – scabious and cornflowers, Queen Anne’s lace and sea-holly – which lined the lanes; from the oyster beds to the salt-marshes, where the precious white drifts of finest fleur de sel were raked into heaps to bleach in the sunshine and where the little shaggy donkeys, Anaïs’s kin, that worked the salt-pans wore curious striped leggings to protect them from the scouring salt and the biting flies, giving them a sweet, clown-like air.