This belonged to your grandfather, and then to your father, who wore it every day until he died. It was one of his most treasured possessions. I think he’d like you to have it now. X
I put the note back and close the box, the watch still in my hands. I’m not mystical enough to believe in messages from beyond, but there is something undeniably prescient about my mother’s gift. As I fasten the age-softened leather around my wrist, I let myself believe that my father is giving me a ‘come on now, love’ nudge. I reckon he’d have sat alongside me here on the sand and handed me the watch, and then he’d have told me he was proud of me every day of my life and to always keep my eyes on the horizon. So I do. I look out as far as my eyes can see, and I lift my hand and wave farewell as the Pioneer turns slowly and sets sail in a new direction.
Mack
24 October
Salvation Island
SPRINGSTEEN, A BEAUTIFUL GIRL AND A LOW, GOLD MOON
Cleo should be back any time now. I raced to be in place to capture shots of her return across the beach, and to make sure everything’s perfect for her makeshift reception. I know she said not to bother, but it’s a special day for her. I can’t claim to absolutely understand the whole marriage for one thing, but watching her down there on the shore today was an experience I wasn’t prepared for. She looked self-contained and complete, strong and radiant. I hope the camera caught something of the mood, the shimmer of anticipation displacing the air around her. I found myself deeply impressed, a lump in my throat when she stood at the water’s edge.
I sit on the porch steps with a beer and my camera to watch dusk descend. Three days. I have just three more days until I have to leave. On the one hand, I’m counting the seconds until I see the boys, but on the other, I’m hoarding every minute I still have on Salvation Island. At Otter Lodge. With Cleo. If I’m lucky, I might see the island and the lodge again in years to come, bring the kids here even, but Cleo … I know I won’t see her again. We are not meant to exist beyond this place. I can’t shake the feeling that it was selfish of me to take her up on her ‘holiday romance’ offer, to allow myself to find solace in her laughter, to find oblivion in her body and joy in her easy company. I’ve wrapped her around me like a shield, letting the arrows bounce off her so they don’t pierce my heart. I truly hope they haven’t hurt her in the process. My life will be waiting for me when I get home and there will be no shield. No Cleo. I’ve spent this last year alone, but always with the hope and expectation that it was a passing measure, that if I could just be patient enough and unobtrusive enough, I’d get to go home again at the end of it. And I was patient. And, truly, I was unobtrusive. And it was hellish, the daily battle with myself not to drive over and see the kids, see Susie, to beg to be allowed to stay for dinner. To be included. It makes my skin crawl and my heart palpitate when I think back to my lowest ebbs, to the long days and dark nights when it just felt too much. I roll my shoulders and knock back a good slug of beer, washing the bitter thoughts away so I can concentrate on the good things, on my here and now.
It’s been a spectacular day weather-wise, Cleo couldn’t have wished for brighter. I’m glad; this whole ceremony obviously means a lot to her. It sounded like a crazy idea when she first told me, but the more I’ve gotten to understand her, the more I’ve come to see that her time here isn’t really about her work. She seems disenchanted with her life in London, almost as if she was running away from the chaos towards anything that resembled calm. I know her just well enough now to find it out of character for her to shy away from something, and having been on the receiving end of her stubbornness, I know she’s got an iron seam running through her core. I’m not sure she’s even aware of it.
A white flash appears in my peripheral vision – Cleo. White dress whipping around her knees, pennant of dark hair streaming out behind her, the basket she’s carrying swinging in the breeze. She looks like freedom striding back across the beach, framed by a golden-streaked sunset. A photographer’s dream. I raise my beer in greeting and she speeds up, laughing in wonder when she’s a few feet from the lodge steps. She pauses, her head on one side, taking in the coloured glow of the bulbs I’ve hung around the lodge’s porch.
‘You came back at just the right moment to appreciate them.’ I smile, reaching for her hand as I stand up.
‘How?’ she says. ‘I mean …’
‘Raff loaned them to me.’ I headed up to the village yesterday to scout out party supplies and hid them beneath the porch. ‘They’re the pub’s Christmas lights.’