would say about Scott.
Archie poured more coffee. While he sipped he unfolded a letter that was already limp with constant re-reading. It was sheer indulgence: he knew its contents by heart, but it gave him inordinate pleasure just to see the words again. That’s why he’d brought the letter with him. It still said exactly the same, and it still thrilled him every time he looked at it. He was just beginning to realise that it was all true: this thing really was going to happen.
Dear Mr Buchanan,
Further to our meeting of the 17th inst, I am gratified to be able to inform you that your application for the post of surveyor to the Scientific Expedition of HMS Beagle has been successful. You are required to report for duty at HMS Beagle, currently stationed at Greenwich, by September 1st, 1831.
Following our illuminating discussion in London, I would highly recommend a perusal of Mr Lyell’s new volume. Some of his arguments are unnecessarily ambiguous, and could even be interpreted as atheistical, but he is a man of sound observation, and, as far as I have yet read, he does allow a man the freedom to draw his own conclusions. You may find the work pertinent to our proposed expedition.
I should remind you that the Beagle is a ninety-foot ten-gun brig, and will be carrying its full complement of sixteen officers. In addition there will be five supernumeraries, including yourself. Space for equipment and personal effects will therefore be severely limited.
May I be the first to congratulate you on this splendid opportu nity? I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.
Yours &c,
Robt. Fitzroy
Commander, HMS Beagle
Four months to go. Only four months. To hell with Scott. To hell with Quirk the Water Bailiff, and to hell with this God-forsaken Island. To hell with … no, never to hell with Robert Stevenson. Archie owed him too much, and liked him too well. It was going to be hard to tell the old man. But, even so, Archie had his letter. He could only begin to imagine how much this was going to change everything.
CHAPTER 3
THE COCK WAS CROWING IN THE YARD, OUT THERE WHERE the heat flattened the parched ground. It was so hot outdoors one could hardly draw a breath. In here it was cool. She could smell the tamarind tree that cast its shadow over the steps in a pattern of leaves that sometimes moved in the breeze. There was no breeze today. Today the tree shadows were as still as if they’d been carved in clay like the jali. Where she was standing, the sunlight made a sharply-etched latticework on the marble floor of the veranda, an exact echo of the intricate patterns of the jali through which it shone. When she shut her eyes the pattern was still there, emblazoned in green and gold. The marble was cool under her feet. Her sandals were on the step. She squatted down to shake them, and an enormous scorpion fell out. She screamed and dropped the sandal. And a voice called from inside the house: she was about to hear the comforting voice from inside the house: she could remember the different sounds, the very words, almost … almost …
The cock crowed again. Diya rolled over, and woke. A shaft of sun pierced the crack in the shutter. It fell right across the pillow where she’d been lying. The sea soughed against the rocks outside; she could hear it through the open window. At home in Grandmother’s house Diya used to look out at the sea from her white bed under the rafters through the small square window of her top-floor room. She’d been able to see the whole of Castletown Bay over the top of the Garrison chapel. But that window, like all the windows in Grandmother’s house, had been kept firmly closed. Here on Ellan Bride Lucy always kept the window open unless the wind was very strong. Diya had been forced to grow used to the unhealthy practice. Jim used to keep the window open too. In the beginning Diya had been frightened by the night air, laden with demons of the deep, smelling of salt and wind, stealing in through the perilous crack.
Diya didn’t want the weather in her dreams, still less the sea. She could hear the sea now, and the sound of it seemed to brush her dream into oblivion. She tried to recapture the receding images, but they were dissolving in the relentless freshness of the island. She could smell salt all too plainly; in the dream it had been tamarind … the warm, spicy smell of the tamarind tree. What was gone, was gone for ever; only faint shadows might fall from the past into the present, and even those were merely an illusion.
Sometimes when Jim had been there he’d left the light burning by itself and come to her, briefly, in their curtained bed in the kitchen recess – his parents had slept in the bedroom then – but Diya knew that Jim was never unaware, even for a moment, of the steady beam of light outside the window. While the light was lit he would not sleep. He would come, on a calm night, and then, just as she was falling asleep, he would go again. She always woke with an empty place beside her. Now Lucy had Jim’s half of the bed, and Jim was gone for ever.
They’d been so helpless. Exposed to all the fury of the elements, this island could – and too often did – turn itself in no time at all into a little hell on earth. That night five years ago had been worse than hell. In hell one despaired, and that was all. Hope was more cruel because it tantalised: it would seem to offer a glimmer of light, and then it would just blow itself away again in a night, leaving only destruction behind it. That was why the wind was the worst of all. Rain, mist, hail, fog, sleet: of all the elements that flung themselves against the island the wind was the real demon. It mocked you as it swept your strength away – you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t balance, you couldn’t even think. Diya hated the wind more than anything else in the world.
The wind that had swept Jim away that night had shaken the house so hard it made the stone walls shudder as if this were a house of cards. It had whined under the door, lifting the rag rug as if it were an animal come alive. When Diya had tried to look out for Jim’s lantern, the shutter had jerked loose from her hand and been wrenched off its hinge. When the shutter banged against the wall, the cat had fled under the dresser, and the baby had woken up screaming.
Billy had screamed too; Diya could remember that: ‘Mam! Mam!’
‘Da!’ Breesha had cried. ‘I want my Da!’
‘I’ll go after him.’ Lucy had jumped up and pulled on her cloak. She’d draped the heavy coil of rope over her shoulder, and lit the storm lantern from the candle.
Diya hadn’t known whether to try to stop her or not. The truth was she’d wanted her to go. She’d wanted Lucy to risk her life, if it would bring back Jim. ‘Take care!’
The door was snatched out of Diya’s hand as soon as she’d raised the latch. The wind howled. Ashes flew up from the hearth, and the coals roared into a blaze. The candle had gone out. Both children had been sobbing as Lucy vanished into the swirling dark. What else could Diya have done but shove the door shut with all the strength she had? The wind groaned against it, protesting. But she’d managed to shut it out.
‘Billy! Breesha!’ She’d hung the nightgowns over the back of the wooden settle, just the same as usual. Why had she even bothered, when all the time …? But all she’d been able to think of was keeping things as ordinary as possible. ‘What foolishness is this!’ – that was more or less what she’d said – ‘Silly children! On land there is nothing to fear. You should pray for the poor sailors, at sea on such a night as this!’
‘I want my Da!’
Diya remembered how her hands had shaken as she’d unbuttoned their clothes, and pulled the warm nightgowns over their heads. She hadn’t tried to make them go to bed. The whole house was shuddering. The roof beams groaned under the strain. The three of them had huddled in one blanket on the hearth while the coals blazed in the wind, and spray spattered down the chimney. Breesha was cuddling the cat tightly. All the time Diya had kept one hand on the cradle; the baby slept through everything.
At last the door had burst open. Jim!
No,