“I’m going to light a fire—get you warmed up a bit.” He was crouching in front of a potbellied iron stove, tossing in kindling and logs from a willow basket. “Can you get out of that wet undershirt? I’ll fetch you a blanket.”
I glanced across at him as he went back to the stove, afraid that he would turn around and see even more than he’d already seen. But he was pouring water from a big metal canister into a kettle, which he set on top of the stove. It was hard to wriggle out of the chemise. The sea had molded it to my body like a second skin. He kept his back to me until I’d covered myself up.
“Take a drop of this while the kettle boils.” He handed me a silver flask.
I hesitated as I brought it up to my mouth. The shiny metal reflected the lamp, throwing a glimmer of gold across his bare chest.
“It’s brandy,” he said.
I shuddered as it went down. It sent fire into my stomach, like the wine they give you at Mass. But I didn’t like the taste of it as much. I passed the flask back to him.
I suppose I should have been afraid, sitting there naked and crippled under a blanket. But he was looking at me the way you’d look at a rare insect in a glass jar. I could almost hear him sizing me up: the shorn hair, the scars, the number, the foreign language. Prisoner of war? Escaped convict? Spy?
“The only other thing I have down here is tea,” he said. “Will you take it black? There’s no milk or sugar—but I think there might be some honey.”
The hot, sweet tea revived me. But as warmth spread through my body, my feet began to throb. He saw me wince as I shifted them off the coil of rope. The dog raised his head and licked my chin.
“I’m going to telephone the doctor,” he said. “And I’ll bring you some clothes.”
“Thank you—you’re . . .” I faltered, unable to look at him. His eyes unnerved me. “You’re very kind. But I don’t need a doctor. I can dress the cuts—if you have bandages and iodine.” I was still looking at my feet. “I’m a nurse,” I said. Not a lie. But not the whole truth.
“An Irish nurse—who speaks French.” He said it softly, almost to himself.
“I was working in Africa—the Belgian Congo,” I said. “Everyone at the hospital spoke in French. I was on my way back to Ireland. The ship was hit.”
His eyes narrowed. “What ship?”
“The Brabantia.”
“Where were you?”
I closed my eyes. “I’m not sure. Somewhere in the English Channel. It was the middle of the night.” A jumble of images surged out of the darkness, like the seawater that had come gushing from my mouth and nose. All those people.
“Was it a mine or a torpedo?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” All I remembered was standing on the deck, looking at the stars, thinking how impossible it seemed that a war was going on. And then the rail I’d been holding on to was blown clean away. I could recall the shock of the icy water, the muffled shouts and screams as I fought my way to the surface. The smell of the smoke drifting across the water. And then the awful silence as I drifted away, clinging to a splintered raft that had once been a dining table.
“Who were you traveling with?”
“No one.” That was the truth. The woman who was sharing my cabin had left the ship at Marseille, thank God. But if I’d told him that, he might have asked who she was. And the temptation had already taken hold of me. The dawning realization that, to this man, I could be anyone; I could shed my old identity like the clothes that had gone down with the ship.
He stopped to pick up my chemise, which was lying in a damp heap on the floor. “I’ll get this washed and mended for you.” It was inside out—the number clearly visible. I thought he was going to ask me what it signified, but he didn’t.
“I won’t be long. I’ll bring you some clothes and something to eat. Come here, Brock!” The dog jumped off me.
“Thank you, Mr. . . .”
“Trewella. Jack Trewella. Forgive me—what’s your name?”
I opened my mouth but all that emerged was air. I coughed and put out my hand, pretending that the seawater had brought on a choking fit.
“It’s all right—you can tell me later.” He disappeared. I heard the key turn in the lock.
Chapter 2
I wondered why my rescuer had bothered to lock the door when he knew that I couldn’t walk. I hoped he’d done it as an act of protection—not because he thought I was a spy pretending to be disabled by a few cuts. Perhaps he would come back with a gang of policemen. I told myself that if he really thought I was a threat, he wouldn’t have shown me such gentle kindness. Na?ve of me, I suppose. But for all my adult life I’d been living in a bubble where there was little room for pretense.