Two Weeks (Short Fiction)

No one here thinks of me as a passionate woman. They have no imagination, these tired-looking women who routinely change the bed linen and wash the floors. I talk to them — pass the time of day — but it is no use trying to have a proper conversation with any of them. Not about things that matter.
        And what does matter any more? What can possibly make any difference once you’re past a certain age and just living day to day — waiting for death to come. There is nothing to do but pass the time.
        I watch them — the young ones especially — and wonder about their lives — if there is any passion in them. If they have ever dreamed there might be. But somehow I think not. They do not have any hint of it in their eyes, in the way they hold their bodies. They seem without emotion or any capacity for anything so ephemeral as romantic love. I don’t believe it ever crosses their minds. I feel deeply sorry for them, knowing that my two weeks of passion — the most extreme and exhausting experience I have every known — has lasted me all my life. I relive it in my head every day. And it has made it possible to endure the emptiness of the years since. It warms me through as I recall each moment. My memory is the only friend I need. They all assume I miss having any visitors, but they are wrong. Visitors would stay too long and talk about things I have no interest in. Better to be alone and able to enjoy one’s own company. The voice in my head talks to me about the past.

        It was a long flight to the island. The plane was old and I hadn’t expected to be the only passenger. Mainly, they were carrying freight — medical supplies for the small hospital, equipment for the school house, along with mail sacks and some parcels addressed to the hotel. I dozed and sipped at a bottle of water. There was no flight attendant or anyone to chat to. I got a bit bored and stiff from the very basic seat that had little in the way of padding. But I was young — twenty four and fresh out of college — keen to do the research project I had set for myself — and I accepted the discomfort as part of the experience of travel.
        When we landed, I asked about the hotel and, as luck would have it, I got a lift from a man who had come to collect the hotel’s parcels off the plane. He spoke a little English — just enough to get by — and understood that I needed somewhere to stay for two weeks. The truck was even more uncomfortable than the plane, but young bones can take a lot of jolting, and I didn’t complain.
        The room they gave me wouldn’t have got in any of the tourist brochures. It was as basic as can be, but clean enough. There was a wonderful old wash stand with a china bowl and pitcher. The towel beside it looked very ragged so I was glad I’d thought to pack my own. I examined the bed’s hard mattress and thin covering with some misgivings, I admit. But then I had to expect things to be a bit different to home. My lodgings back in Peckham seemed quite luxurious by comparison. Then I considered the weather — the brilliant sky outside to what would almost certainly be a dull drizzly one back in England. It was, after all, an adventure — something to tell my colleagues about when I got back.
        Unpacking took no time at all. There was a single cupboard that took most of what I’d brought. There was no lock on the door of the room — no locks on anything as far as I could see. I didn’t have much of value with me, so there was really nothing to steal except, I reasoned, my passport and the gold cross I always wore — inherited from my Catholic grandmother. It might be wise to put these somewhere safe. Or at least out of sight. I looked around to get some inspiration. In the end I managed to slide the passport between the heavy carved headrest and the wall. I was undecided about the cross. Was it ostentatious to wear something made of precious metal in what appeared to be a poor community? I wore a light scarf round my neck on my first evening to hide the thick chain that just showed above the collar of my dress.
        I had evening dinner with the family who ran the hotel. I say hotel — it really wasn’t much more than a bed and breakfast. They smiled at me a lot and were obviously pleased to have the business — I paid for the whole fortnight in advance and that seemed to go down well. The meal was simple but well prepared. I wasn’t able to ask exactly what was in it — my failure to learn their language and customs — but the main constituent was obviously fish of some variety. That and a highly spiced and mashed vegetable not unlike sweet potato. It was good and extremely filling. When I asked for water they shook their heads at me. The accompanying gestures made it clear that water wasn’t a good idea. I assumed it wasn’t fit to drink and accepted a glass of whatever they were drinking. I sipped at it a bit apprehensively, suspecting it might be alcoholic. They watched me, laughing and nudging each other and enjoying the joke. It turned out to be a mix of fruit juices and very refreshing. They were very hospitable, despite the language barrier, and didn’t seem to want me to retire early. But I made them understand I was exhausted and needed to sleep. Which I did as soon as I laid down. The bed might have been made of pure eiderdown, I slept that soundly.
        My first morning introduced me to the languid pace of island life. There was no sense of urgency — the hurry and scurry I had been part of back in England was totally absent. No alarm clocks, no rush hour, no apparent timetable. And yet everything got done. Breakfast was bread and fruit, which I took with me down to the beach. There were only a few people about. No sunbathers or obvious tourists, only fishermen and their families tending to boats and mending nets. I walked along the shoreline and round the cove, exploring as I went. It didn’t occur to me that a guide might have been a good idea, seeing as I had absolutely no knowledge of the area. The sea was so bright and blue — relentlessly benign and inviting — I never thought there could be dangers. It was naive of me.
        Compared to English shoreline, where the variety of objects thrown up by the tide provides endless treasure for beachcombers, there was surprisingly little here. The sand was smooth and untroubled by trash tossed overboard or left by day-tripping holidaymakers. There was also little by way of natural cast-offs. I was looking for shells and sharks teeth — anything old, fossilized and potentially interesting. But after a couple of hours my collecting bucket was still disappointingly empty and I was getting unbearably hot under my wide-brimmed straw hat. I was, I reasoned, possibly looking in the wrong place. I knew nothing of the tidal currents in the area. I needed to find out some information. If I could find a local who spoke enough English, that is.
        I found myself some shade and sat in it for a while, cooling down and deciding where to try next. There were boats far out on the glittering expanse of ocean, I could just see the bright triangles of their sails. I ate my breakfast and daydreamed. Time drifted and seemed to have little meaning here. I watched some lizards chasing insects on a log. The rest of the world — England — seemed so very far away.
        I met Raoul on the second day. I’d left the hotel very early and taken a different direction from the previous day. This route took me to a more rocky area and it looked more promising. There was also more shade, for which I was grateful. There were some rock pools, too, which looked very inviting. I found a very fine fossil of a fish in one of the shallow ones and this success made me feel bold. I slipped off my sandals and waded into one of the deeper pools. It was waist deep and very clear. I moved carefully so as not to stir up the fine sand at the bottom. I peered down through the water, saw something gleaming near my feet and reached down to retrieve it. It turned out to be a small skull, half-buried and looking very much like a human infant’s. I was horrified and fascinated. I carefully sifted the surrounding sand and found more tiny bones. Ribs and limb bones, shoulder and hips — practically an entire skeleton. I put them all in my bucket.
        I was so engrossed in my task that I didn’t see or hear anyone approaching. It wasn’t until he was within a few feet that I noticed someone was watching me. I started guiltily, not knowing what to say or how to react. He smiled at me and said something. I shook my head and indicated I didn’t understand. He nodded, still smiling. He was young, possibly a year or two younger than me, and very striking. He was wearing a very raggy pair of shorts and had a net bundle under his arm. Clearly, he was a fisherman, I thought. His skin was a rich dark treacle, glistening with a film of sweat. I was in awe. Self-consciously, I went on with what I’d been doing.
        After watching me for a while longer, he joined in my searching and handed me a small rock with a near-perfect fossil of a spider crab. I smiled and thanked him, hoping he would stay around a little longer, which he did. Although the silence wasn’t particularly awkward, after a while I found myself talking to him even though I knew he couldn’t actually understand what I was saying. I showed him what I had already found — the small bones that seemed so poignant as I arranged them roughly on the ground. He nodded, regarding me seriously, his eyes fixed on mine. I mimed my concerns by folding my arms and moving them as though rocking a baby. Immediately, he shook his head and pointed upwards to the nearby trees. I frowned, not getting what he meant. He laughed and made monkey noises, scratching his underarms and curling his lips. It was a monkey skeleton. Relieved, I laughed, too.
        We walked for several miles, or so it seemed, keeping to the shade as much as possible and only making brief trips into the strong sunlight to look into the occasional pool. We made all sorts of interesting discoveries. At least, they were interesting for me. I had no idea how he regarded the excursion. I believe, looking back, he was possibly merely trying to impress me. He did that all right. I was entranced. I didn’t want the day to end. I was full of a dizzy sense of expectation mixed with fear that nothing would happen at all. He would go away — back to wherever he came from and the opportunity would be lost. I wasn’t sure how he was interpreting my expression — the way I was looking at him. Was I being obvious, or not obvious enough? I had no idea how much flirting might vary from culture to culture. Or did such things have a universal language of their own? I sort of assumed the latter. In the end I think my body did all the talking for me.
        When he cut his hand on a sharp piece of rock, I seized the chance. Making concerned noises, I wrapped my handkerchief tightly around his palm to stem the bleeding . He knelt as I did it, his knees pressing against mine, watching as I tied the knot to secure the bandage. Then he looked up and we gazed at each other. I believe what we exchanged in that moment — a wordless understanding — is something rare and unlikely to be experienced more than once in any lifetime. So much has been written about love that there are no new words to describe it. For me, it was everything that has ever been put on record, plus a whole lot more. Put simply, it was the most potent drug imaginable — producing the most extraordinary surge of undiluted, raw energy, plus an almost unbearable degree of tenderness. It had the inevitability of emotional suicide. I knew I would never feel quite that intensely about anyone else.
        We found a very secluded spot where lush undergrowth gave us all the privacy we needed. We stretched out, our bodies touching, still gazing at each other. He stroked my face and arms, his fingers light on my skin, and I felt myself relaxing, opening to him. Then he used his mouth — his lips tracing the same route, still very gentle and undemanding. I could hardly breathe, my need for him grew until I wanted to tear my clothes off. But I knew I had to control my impulses and let him dictate the pace. And that pace reflected what I already knew of these islanders and their lives. There was no hurry.
        I don’t know how long we were there. I lost all sense of time and place. It wasn’t the sex that affected me that way. I had had sex before — probably more times than was considered average for a girl of my middle class upbringing — but it had never been like this. This was so much more than mere gratification or what might be expected after a night in the local pub with college boys following weeks of exams. I had never experienced bliss before. That euphoria which lingers and glows, infusing the whole body with a glorious ache beyond all explaining.
        Even though we were both young and fit, desire was still limited by physical energy. We exhausted ourselves, allowed ourselves recovery time, then exhausted ourselves all over again. Maybe we were both trying to pack a complete realtionship into those two weeks — condense it down into such pure and potent bursts that it would have time to run its entire course. It seems a fanciful concept — impossible, even. But I knew our time together was limited and he seemed to know it, too. He whispered things to me in his low, melodic language. They were sounds that had meaning for me, despite not understanding the actual words.
        The first day wore on, the light changed and I thought about the hotel. If I didn’t make an appearance they might get worried and come looking for me. But I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to stay where I was — spend every available minute with him. But at last he got up and gestured that we should start making our way back. He led and I followed a few paces behind him, admiring his strong back and well-shaped legs as he moved, his stride regular and rhythmic — a wonderfully fluid motion that seemed totally effortless — and how his feet revealed for a moment the pinkness of each sole. I was reminded of the white scutts shown by rabbits as they run for cover.
        Our parting was brief. He said something, touched my shoulder and was gone. Shocked, I watched him walk off, wanting him to turn and wave — give further acknowledgement — but he didn’t. I crept into the hotel and up to my room. I was too tired to feel hungry. Too exhausted to feel anything more. I fell asleep in my clothes.
        The next day I was in two minds as to what to do. I was still aching and feeling shell shocked. That moment after waking when reality suddenly comes into focus had me questioning my sanity. What had I been thinking? Such erotic scenarios only existed in books. They were romantic fantasies for middle-aged virgins — frustrated spinster territory. Yet an odd feeling of triumph persisted. I kept wondering if he was thinking about me. Would he come looking for me? Or had he done this sort of thing before — seduced the lonely and naive white woman with his deep brown eyes and rippling biceps. Then I felt ashamed of thinking about him so sceptically. He had been too tender to be a gigolo. There had been nothing that could be interpreted as rehearsed or practised in his manner. I was confusing our cultures. I had met a simple fisherman on the beach, not some randy estate agent checking out the talent at a disco.
        I went to the same place on the beach. I waded through rock pools, trying to concentrate on my original purpose — the project that I had all but abandoned in pursuit of — what, exactly? Novelty, perhaps? Having spent so much time studying and absorbing what were essentially other people’s ideas, trying to analyse my own was something I wasn’t that used to. I had, I reflected, simply followed my instincts. Very base, human instincts. What Nature intended, in fact. Good job, then, that I was on the pill. Or was it? The thought of an adorable brown baby was suddenly appealing. It had to be the heat — the change of air — the oddness of finding myself in a foreign land. It changed the brain’s chemistry somehow. I wasn’t thinking straight.
        When he appeared, I was beside myself with joy and relief. He approached slowly, smiling his hello. I waited, holding back the shout— the sheer exhilaration of the moment that threatened to burst from me. I said it all with eye contact.
        We began walking, I let him lead as he seemed to have some purpose in mind. He had a bag over his shoulder today and I tried to guess to myself what might be in it. If he was here, with me, he wasn’t working. Maybe he wasn’t needed. It was possible he had a large family and they took it in turns to man the boats. Or perhaps he had no family. Did he have a wife? — the thought bothered me as I couldn’t see how anyone so attractive could be without a partner. But then theirs could be a culture that was free of the restrictions of monogamy. Could he be thinking of me as a potential second or third wife? That was the downside of the language barrier between us — I couldn’t ask any of the questions that were arriving uninvited in my head.
        We passed the spot where we had dallied so long the day before. He turned and smiled at me, as though remembering the interlude. I nodded and felt myself flush slightly. Not that I was embarrassed exactly, but I felt it would have been inappropriate to have been too brazen about it.
        A mile or so on, the shoreline broadened right out to a wide expanse of empty sand. It was like standing on the edge of the world as the horizon stretched into a soft blurred infinity on three sides. He headed down towards the water, which was so calm there was hardly any foam at its edge. The sea, too, had this nonchalant and easy going-ness that almost forbade any sense of urgency. The tide meandered in and out like no one would notice whether it was late or not.
        The water was warm but refreshing. He had put down his bag and pulled off his shorts, then he grinned at me, gesturing that I should undress. I barely hesitated, dropping my sandals and dress in a heap beside his belongings. After all, I reasoned, there was no one about — no one to see me cavorting naked in such an uninhibited way. We rolled in the shallows, laughing and splashing each other. Then we made love half in and half out of the water.
        Afterwards, we wandered on, still naked, and casually looking for specimens for me to examine and make notes on for my research. Although that really was too grand a word. I felt more like a child idly collecting things for the school nature table. I was doing it because I felt I ought to, not because I had any real interest any more. My focus was all on him — on us — and there was nothing of me left over for anything else.
        The sun didn’t seem so strong that day, the bit of sea breeze kept the temperature bearable, but as the salt dried on me I realized my skin was liable to burn fairly quickly unless we found some shade. I mimed my concerns. We headed back up the beach, carrying our clothes.
        The small hut was furnished with only the basics. It didn’t seem very substantial and leaned slightly, its walls out of true. But it was charming in its way and I tried to tell him so by the enthusiastic tone of my voice, and some rather stagey gestures. I think he understood.
        He began taking an assortment of things out of his bag. These included a small net on a wire loop and a jar of worm-like creatures. At first I was worried that these might be some sort of local delicacy and the thought made me pull a face. I think he probably guessed what I was thinking and it obviously amused him. Once he’d stopped laughing, he made it clear that I should stay in the hut
while he went outside.
        While he was gone, I laid down on the woven mat in one corner and took a nap. When he came back, the small net was wriggling with about a dozen small blue-black fish the size of sardines. Then he set about making a fire with pieces of wood from a pile stacked against one of the outer walls of the hut. I noticed that some of it appeared to be drift wood. It had writing on it — arabic lettering — like it had come from packing crates or something similar. The fire caught quickly, burning the wood fiercely until there was a lot of ash. He added more wood, then damped it down to keep the flames subdued. He parted the hot ash and made a space near the heart of the fire, then wrapped the small fish in fresh leaves taken from his bag, and carefully lowered each small green parcel into position, covering them over with the still-glowing wood ash.
        Slowly, the hut filled with the aromatic scent from the baking leaves, this then mingled with the smell of cooked fish. I took deep breaths and made appreciate sounds. They tasted as good as they smelled and I was very hungry. Picking out the small bones was tedious — I was reminded of kippers — but it was worth the effort. Afterwards, we dozed, comfortable and carefree.
        I must have been asleep when one of the boys from the hotel arrived. I woke up to find him in the doorway of the hut and he was grinning and talking to Raoul. The boy’s eyes kept flicking to where I was sitting and back again to Raoul’s face. He seemed to be asking rather a lot of questions. I leaned forward and touched Raoul’s arm to get his attention. He looked at me briefly but without pausing in his conversation. Suddenly the language barrier was much more of a concern for me. I felt anxious, not knowing what was being said and pretty sure most of the exchange was about me.
        At last the boy left. Raoul waved sociably as he walked away. If there had been any tension — and it is possible that I might have imagined some — then it had now gone. But the fact remained that someone now knew about us. Our affair would be talked about. Gossip, being a part of human nature, crossed all cultural boundaries. I wondered about my reputation. Did it matter, seeing as I was only going to be here for another eleven days?
        I didn’t go back to the hotel that night. We stayed in the hut, the door wide open so we could look at the sea and the sky, and watched the dusk fall very softly and the stars come out. The huge, pink-tinged moon dominated the horizon, its face closer and more pocked than it had ever looked back in England.
        The dusks and dawns of the following days are all noted in my diary as extraordinary. They were all beautiful and memorable. I was constantly surprised by the changing light and the scents and sounds that came with the different times of day. I drank everything in, knowing it had to last me. All my time was spent with him and we made the most of the time given to us. Sometimes we just sat close, our bodies touching. Talking wasn’t necessary, even if we could have understood each other. We simply shared what we had — the few days given to us.
        The last night was exquisite torture. Our lovemaking became suddenly fierce — frantic — and in complete contrast to the way it had been at the beginning. It hurt and I didn’t care. It was as though I wanted scars to prove to myself that it had all been real. I wanted him to leave me with a something more than just a memory.
        He walked me back to the hotel. It was very late, he wouldn’t come in and we stood on the porch just holding each other. I was crying silently. I kept my body still but couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. He must have felt them fall on his neck and shoulder, then run down his back. We kissed, and that kiss went on and on, the agony inside me making me feel dizzy. I wanted to stay with him — forget all about England — give up my past for a future here, on this island. He broke away, touched my wet cheek and murmured something. Then, just like on the first day, he was gone.
        I must have packed my few things and got ready for the early morning flight home, but I don’t remember much about it. I hardly recall the trip to the airstrip or the flight itself. But I do remember the shock of stepping off the plane and looking at a grey sky, the wind chill through my thin jacket, and the ache of loss that hit me as I looked across the dull tarmac. At that moment, I hated England.
        Eventually, I reacclimatized, buckled down and did my project, and wrote my paper. Not that the few specimens I brought back with me featured all that much. I did most of my research in the Britsh Museum and the British Library. I submitted the paper and got it rejected. I read the notes that came back with it — the suggestions for revisions and expansion on some aspects I’d glossed over. I rewrote and resubmitted. It was accepted and published, but I felt little joy in the success. All my plans seemed hollow.
        I went to parties, I socialized and flirted, but I couldn’t do it with any genuine enthusiasm. I lost weight and had trouble sleeping. My doctor put me on tranquilizers. I existed in a vacuum. At one point I got so desperate that I considered selling everything I owned and going back to the island to find Raoul. But something told me that it would never work out — our relationship was never meant to be a permanent one. Those two weeks was all we were ever meant to have.
        My job bored me, so I left and found another one. I changed my address, too. With a new job came a new set of colleagues and a different social group. But I couldn’t find another man that interested me. They all talked too much.
        A year later, I had a pretty serious car accident. I have no real recollection of the incident — it was at night and in heavy rain. I saw headlights, heard the crunch and grind of impact before being knocked unconscious. I suffered amnesia afterwards and it was several weeks before I got any recall. Then it was of the island. I imagined I was in a hospital on the island. But they spoke English, which confused me.
        They sent me to a convalescent home — a lovely old house in the Hampshire countryside — and it was there that I met Jeff. He had been invalided out of the army after being accidentally shot during a training exercise. He had lost a lung but was amazingly cheerful about everything. His good humour was infectious and we spent a lot of time together. I had no idea that he was getting serious about me. I liked him very much but I didn’t have any romantic feelings for him. Quite out of the blue, he proposed to me and I made a mess of things. I was so unprepared that I said the wrong thing. Or probably several wrong things. He overdosed on valium that night and it was touch and go if he would survive. He did pull through but he never came back to Willacombe House. I felt desperately sad and my future seemed very bleak at that time. I considered becoming a nun — which was ridiculous, as I had no faith to speak of. But it was the reclusiveness that attracted me. I wanted to be away from all the pressure of the world. I knew that I wasn’t going to met anyone else — there would never be anyone else in my life. I would remain a spinster. Which was okay, but not in an environment where everyone was busy trying to ‘fix me up’ because they couldn’t accept I wasn’t interested in getting married or having kids.
        At some point I actually stopped feeling so sorry for myself. I accepted my life the way it was and things got easier. I let myself think about Raoul, rather than trying to avoid thinking about what I had lost. Those two weeks of blissful memories became my escape route back. I went over and over every detail. He became as clear in my mind’s eye as if he had been standing in front of me. It was perfect. More importantly, no one could take him away from me. I could shut my eyes and smell him, my fingertips recalled the feel of his skin under them. My tongue remembered how he tasted. I never went to bed alone — he was always beside me. I lay in the dark and saw the stars and the light on the sea through the open door of the beach hut. A hot wild fever lived in my blood. It is still there — fierce in the way it grips me, keeps me true to the one love.
        There are moments I believe we connect — our thoughts make contact — and, wherever he is, I come into his mind and I feel the strength of what we shared surge along the link between us. I know that I will know if he dies. He will know it if I die. Meanwhile, we both grow older, frailer, but not our minds. I call him Raoul — but that isn’t his name. I never knew his name, and I don’t think he knew mine. I called him Raoul after a boy I knew in infant’s school — he was from one of the former French colonies. He was very shy and quiet, and I had a huge crush on him. He had such beautiful skin — almost purple-black — and big soulful brown eyes. I found him crying in the cloakroom one day. One of the bigger boys had called him monkey-boy. I sat with him and said he mustn’t mind what they said — they were stupid and best ignored. I offered to be his friend and he cheered up and gave me a big smile. I held his hand and didn’t care if the others saw us. I went to tea and his house, too. It was very old fashioned inside and I was over-awed by the grandness of everything. His father was a Jesuit minister. I had no idea what that was at the time but it seemed to go with the exoticness of everything. His family moved away after only two terms, and I was heartboken when I found out that he wasn’t coming back after the Easter holidays.
        As the years passed me by, it seemed that the two personalities became less distinct in my memory. It was as though they gradually blurred around the edges, came slowly together and merged into one. My two loves — the second being the grown up version of the first. The more I thought about that, the more likely it seemed. The Raoul I had known so briefly at school had moved to the island, where he’d grown up and we had been reunited for those two weeks. Whether true or not, it satisfied my sense of destiny. Both episodes had been so perfect, and both had ended far too soon. And yet maybe that was what made each time so special. We never quarrelled, never had long enough to find the flaws in the relationship, never had any regrets. Love stays strong when it has a limited span and there is no opportunity for disillusionment.

        One of the cleaners is obviously pregnant. She is young — early twenties, I would say. She looks tired and drawn, too. I was listening to their conversation this morning, pretending to be asleep. They hardly bother to keep their voices down and apparently assume that anyone over seventy has to be stone deaf.
        She was moaning about the way her ‘fella’, as she calls him, hasn’t changed his habits, despite impending fatherhood. Not that she put it quite like that, but that’s the gist. He still spends all his time in the pub with his mates and leaves her at home. She’s given up drinking and smoking. Which is probably hard for a girl brought up on it. She stays in and watches TV on her own. He won’t go to antenatal classes with her, either. She sounded really sad. Not much passion in her life, then. I felt really sorry for her and wondered about giving her a bit of advice. Like break free while she’s still young and find herself a man that does more than fill her with babies. But I didn’t think she would appreciate me voicing my opinion. So I kept my mouth shut.
        The other woman, older and more worldly-wise, just confirmed that the fella in question was typical. So, from that, I gather that most young males these days are insensitive, beer-guzzling slobs. So much for Romance. Bye bye Passion. I’m glad I was born when I was. Being young now must be a grim affair.
        I thought about joining in their conversation — telling them how wonderful love can be with the right person. But they had moved on to other topics, and it became clear that their priorities were oddly banal and to do with things like new flooring and being able to afford a new leather three piece suite from the Argos catalogue. I thought of the beach hut and its contents. I felt suddenly very smug.
        By the time Dr. Banks arrived for his daily rounds, I had made up my mind that it was time to take a holiday. I wanted one last look at the island. A sentimental journey to refresh my memory.
        He is a very kind man — understanding in a way that doesn’t suggest condescension. When I suggested the idea, he gave me a long searching look before answering. He said he really didn’t think I would be up to the rigours of such a long trip — it would be too much at my age. I argued, but he was quite firm about the dangers. I said I didn’t care — it was something I needed to do. He nodded, as though considering this. I was already planning what to pack.
        After he’d gone, and failing to give me either a definite yes or no, I bided my time.
        I don’t know if Dr. Banks got in contact with her or if it was sheer coincidence that Marge decided to visit me this afternoon. She only appears once in a blue moon, so I suspect she was summoned. I wasn’t pleased to see her, but she’s used to that. She only comes out of duty — the elder sister looking in to make sure that everything’s all right. More than once, I’ve actually told her not to bother. Came straight out and said I really would prefer it if she stayed away. But she takes no notice and assumes I don’t know what I’m saying. I hate the way she bends over me indulgently and nods. Does she imagine I don’t read her body language? It’s not as if we ever had anything in common. Not even when we were sharing a bedroom back in our old house. But we don’t talk about the past much. It’s very difficult to have any sport of conversation, really. So many topics are off limits. Like Ralph — her ex-husband. But then what is there to say about a philanderer like him? She is so well-rid. As for her two sons — my nephews that I haven’t even so much as clapped eyes on in thirty years — one’s in jail for embezzlement and the other one emigrated to Canada almost as soon as he left university. He runs some sort of low budget film company that Marge always looks embarrassed about. Probably porn, or at least a bit on the sleazy side. Anyway, she has nothing to boast about. As far as I can tell, her life has been utterly devoid of passion.
        She was looking anxious today. I asked her if anything was the matter, and she said no. But she kept staring at me, as though she was expecting to see a sign or indication of something. In the end I stared straight back. At last she broke eye contact and I smiled, content to have won. Then she asked me about the island.
        I made it clear that I didn’t want to talk about it, explaining that I had never felt close enough to her in the past to confide such things to her, and I certainly wasn’t going to start at this late juncture. She sighed at this and appeared lost for words.
        I changed the subject — told her about the cleaner that was pregnant and the conversation I had overheard. She was only half listening, I could tell. So I just prattled on about anything that came into my head, hoping that she would get bored, make some excuse and leave. Then I could get on with my packing.
        Suddenly, she broke in, talked about an incident that had happened when I was ten and she was sixteen. A boyfriend of hers — Peter Frencham — had come to tea — our mother’s idea — and we had had our sandwiches and cake out in the garden. Afterwards, Peter had been pushing me on the swing. I encouraged him to push harder, so that I went higher. The wooden framework — two poles and a crossbar — had started to rock to and fro with the motion of the swing and mother had warned me to slow down. Seconds later, one of the ropes snapped and I was hurtled from the seat. I have some recollection of that — the brief sensation of flying before slamming into the ground. I hit my head and was unconscious for several minutes.
        Marge went on with the story. She asked me if I remembered the blackouts that followed. I shrugged and shook my head. Very carefully, she went on to describe a series of incidents where I had apparently got extremely aggitated for no good reason. These ‘turns’ got more and more frequent until Mother took me to a specialist. This specialist had me sent here.
        I told Marge she had it wrong. There was a big, big chunk of my life that she knew nothing about — would never know anything about. She hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. Then she did that infuriating thing — the nodding and agreeing — not daring to argue with me like I’m a normal person. So I picked up a magazine and started to read. Ignoring her was easy. It took a while, but at last she left. I expect she went to report to Dr. Banks.

        I feel very calm now. Later, once everything has quietened down and they’re all asleep, Raoul will be here. No one knows about us — the two weeks we spent together on that island all those years ago. And I would so like to go back there — just to see it again. But they’re bound to prevent me leaving here. Besides, it’s certain to have changed. The chances are that it’s been spoilt by commercialism. Maybe it’s best if I just close my eyes and think of it all the way it was — while I relive every moment of my passion.