Awethology Light

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  She was like the island — a wild, stark beauty shaped by the weather, always at her best after a storm. She has lived on in my memory for forty years exactly as she was on the day I last saw her. Sometimes, even now, when I close my eyes at night, I see her standing bolt upright, solid and unmoving, the fishing boat pitching and tossing, the other passengers tipping unceremoniously port to starboard. Even on the stillest night, the fierce wind sweeps her hair, tugging it and flinging it about her face. Her obsidian eyes fix on mine, unblinking. That picture of her has never left me.

  Her eyes were always the same, even on the day she left. There were no tears, just the thin wisp of a melancholy smile curled on her cold, pale face. I cried enough for both of us. Trembling, I remembered the freedom of that first parting grief and longed to cry like that again. My cold cheeks were dry, aching to be warmed and blotched by tears. Perhaps I had lost the innocence that had allowed me to cry so freely then, the childish petulance that does not understand why things do not last forever. I could not even manage a single, chilly, self-indulgent tear. My heart was too heavy, too full of panic over a hastily made decision. The hollow sting I had felt for so long when I thought of her had become a gaping chasm; forty years had not been long enough to let me forget. I doubt any longer would be enough.

  The morning light was grey as it had been many mornings of late. It was hard to distinguish between dawn and daylight. The gulls did not care. They continued to circle the house, their cacophonous call and response starting before first light. Spring comes late to the island, and while the mainland enjoyed a flock of daffodils, we had yet to see any signs of life. I was late to work on the harbour and was just opening the shutters on the café when the early boat arrived at the jetty. Enoch was wearing a red hat, and my eyes were drawn to him as he hefted the day’s papers on to the boards.

  That was when I saw her. In a bizarre mirroring echo, she was standing there, bolt upright and solid. The raven hair was now shining silver and cropped close around her ears, but it didn’t matter. I knew it was her. Only islanders and birdwatchers ever come on the early boat.

  Nonsense, I thought as I walked down to take the bundle from Enoch, but my guts knew it was not. There it was, that echoing pang I felt whenever I thought of her. As I got closer, I was less sure. The woman moved with an uncomfortable inelegance, shuffling to the edge of the boat and scrambling on to the jetty. She had been deft and athletic, sure-footed, never pausing in her stride. This woman stood still for a moment on the quay, her arms folded in front of her, hands pushed up opposite sleeves of her anorak to keep them warm. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply. It was as though she was immersing herself in the island air. I reconsidered her for a moment, still uncertain.

  I was barely ten feet from her now, a bail of newspapers at my feet. It is difficult to see through the veil of time, only the eyes would tell me. I could not keep staring. Enoch had not noticed; he was talking to himself and was already half way to the café and his morning tea. I paused for a moment longer, desperate for the woman to open her eyes. In an instant, the deep obsidian fell on me, but there was no recognition there. She greeted me with a faint, questioning smile, probably curious as to why a complete stranger was staring at her. I picked up the papers and staggered back to shore.

  I was distracted, gazing out at the harbour where she had been standing, when the tea urn boiled. I had not seen her leave, but by the time I had got back to the café, she had moved from her spot and there was no sign of her on the harbour at all. Enoch slammed his hand on the counter to bring me back, and gestured roughly with his thumb towards the bubbling urn. It was barely seven in the morning, and I knew already the whole day would be about this woman — this smartly dressed, silver-haired woman with eyes from forty years ago. I took the doughnuts from the pantry, and Enoch helped himself before I had finished taking the cling film off.

  It was a slow morning. An unfriendly squall had kept the pensioners indoors; in the off season, very few others ventured into the café midweek. I was reading the previous day’s paper when she came in. I looked up from the trite headlines at the sound of the door hinges creaking. I was half expecting Enoch, back early and demanding his lunch. She was gazing out of the picture window by the time I looked up, but I recognised the jacket. There was a fluttering in the pit of my stomach when I realised it was the woman from the jetty and I felt silly. It was just another customer.

  “Can I help you?” I said, sliding off my stool and flipping the switch on the urn. She turned slowly, smiling.

  “Lesley?” she asked in a whisper. I nodded, disbelieving. Her smile twinkled in her eyes, and at once I saw through the years to the beauty I remembered. I could see now, in the light of her smile, that it was still there, varnished by time.

  “I knew by your voice,” she said bashfully, hovering by the door. I was surprised. Had the years trodden such a path over me that I could only be recognised by my voice? Time does not really pass on the island. Changes are gentle and few; that has always been its appeal to me. It seemed that I had not seen the differences in myself. I just kept looking at her, unable to find words.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she murmured, her embarrassment growing with my expression of incredulity.

  “Yes, I do,” I said, almost too forcefully. “I know exactly who you are.” There were no words to say next. My head rushed with all the things I wished I had said before she left. None of them seemed appropriate; they were ending words, the last phrases of a dying conversation. They were not opening words, welcoming her. My eyes were drawn to her left hand. A plain white gold band on her fourth finger told me part of a tale I had not expected. She followed my gaze to her hand with a soft, measured glance, realising almost instantly what had caught my attention.

  “Widowed,” she said quietly by way of explanation, the same melancholy wisp of a smile that she had left me forty years ago curled again across her face. “Six months ago.” I nodded again. I had never imagined she would continue living once she left me, that she might have had a whole other life with someone else. For all I knew, she might be a mother or a grandmother. This thought drove a stake into me. I didn’t know where to start. It was all I could think of:

  “Tea?” I said.