Deborah had asked Narissa how one actually got onto the island if, indeed, it sat in the middle of the Thames. Narissa’s answer of “You’ll see. Don’t worry about it,” didn’t inspire confidence, but Deborah decided to trust her. Putting a note on the kitchen chopping block table, she’d left everyone still asleep and made the journey to Twickenham, where she saw exactly what Narissa had meant. An arched footbridge led to the island, its railings hung with colourful miniature petunias that draped red and white blooms along the way.
From the footbridge, where a slight early-morning breeze on the river made a false promise of an end to the heatwave, Deborah saw that Eel Pie Island wasn’t large. There were cottages along its edge built with direct access to the river from their back gardens, and in the breaking dawn, she could see small jetties as well as simple bollards where motorboats bobbed along with kayaks, rowboats, and canoes. The island was thickly treed. Enormous willows grew close to the water. Poplars, chestnuts, and limes threw shadows along a paved path that curved and seemed to disappear round a bend. No one was about. Birds were stirring and doves were cooing, though. In another hour Eel Pie Island would doubtless be fully alive for the day.
The cottage with the blue-tiled roof, Deborah found, wasn’t far along the hard-surfaced path. Narissa had described it well. She’d left out the empty window boxes and a trellis upon which nothing grew, but otherwise it was as she’d indicated it would be. It was also, however, completely dark. The surgeon had either already left for the day or she wasn’t yet out of bed, or she was in the back of the building from which no lights could be seen from the path. Deborah decided that, having come this far, she would try her luck. She went through the gate, which hung lopsided from only one of the two hinges that held it to the fence.
There was no porch: just a single-step landing and the front door. She looked for a bell. She saw that knocking would have to do the job, so she forcefully applied knuckles to wood. The only response she received, though, was that of a slender orange tabby. The cat slinked round the side of the cottage and began to weave around her legs. A few plaintive meows accompanied this. Then a light came on above the door, although the growing daylight made it likely that Deborah was completely visible from inside. The door swung open. The cat took the opportunity and dashed into the cottage.
“Who the devil are you? And what the devil are you doing knocking me up at this hour?”
It wasn’t an auspicious way to begin.
“Dr. Weatherall?” Deborah said.
“What d’you want? Who are you?” The surgeon stepped forward. She wasn’t tall—Deborah reckoned five foot four, no more—and she wore black, tight-fitting neoprene clothing. She carried in her hand a thin windcheater of the sort meant to be seen in the dark when struck by lights. She had nothing on her feet. “Wait.” The word was sharp, a command. “Did that bloody filmmaker send you? That Marissa Someone.”
“Narissa Cameron. Actually, I’m—”
“No means no, and you can tell her that from me. Full stop. Nothing to be added.”
“This isn’t about her documentary,” Deborah said. “I’m a photographer. Will you talk to me? This will take five minutes. I promise you it has nothing to do with Narissa’s film.”
“I don’t care what it has to do with. And I haven’t got five minutes. I’m already late to the river.” She turned quickly from the door and for a moment Deborah thought this meant she was going to have it shut in her face. But, just as quickly, the surgeon turned back, having picked up the cat. She tossed it outside. It gave an outraged yowl and darted back in. “Damn it! That bloody cat.”
In the light from the porch, Deborah saw that on one side of the step upon which she was standing were two empty bowls, both of them shaped like cats’ heads. She said, “It seems to be out of food and water?”
“It’s not even my bloody cat!” Dr. Weatherall snapped. Then she added, “Oh damn it.” And from inside and just to the left of the door, she brought out a water jug and a bag of dry cat food. She said, “Get out here if you want something, Darius,” as she filled both bowls.
Darius? Deborah thought as the cat reappeared, looking quite smug.
“I can’t abide cats,” Philippa Weatherall said.
“Then if I can ask: why do you feed this one?”
“It’s obvious. I’m a fool.” Dr. Weatherall returned the food and the jug to the interior of the cottage, took up a pair of trainers, stepped outside, and shut the door. She bent straight from the waist—no flexing of knees or squatting for her, Deborah noted—and put on the shoes. Head to toe, she was in excellent physical condition.