The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Page B

sputtered to spitting silence.
    “No worries. Black will be fine. No sugar.”
    Walter smiled faintly at the Australianism as he dunked tea bags. “Watching your weight? Never can understand why half of you go through life starving and the others, well . . .” He handed a mug to Freya, full to slopping over, and sat down heavily. He swallowed a mouthful of tea. “Dan’s not a bad lad.”
    Freya might have smiled—the lad was certainly past thirty—but Walter was struggling. “I’m sure he’s not; people don’t like being interrupted.”
    “It’s not that . . .” Walter’s voice trailed away.
    Freya sipped the scalding liquid.
    Walter tried again. “I walked you into this, lass, and I am sorry for it. But I thought speaking with you about the night your father died”—he stumbled, getting that word out—“might help him. Dan’s proud, you see, and he will not talk to me about it.”
    Freya said, softly, “Go on.”
    “He tried, he really tried to save your dad, and me as well, but the sea beat us all. He’s the one left with the damage of it and not just what is physical. And now here you are.” Walter shrugged, helpless. “You have a right to know what happened.Sally, now . . .” A sad shadow passed across his face. “She was my wife, Dan’s mum. Sally would know what to say to you and to him. She got on well with Dan—better than I do—but she died three years ago.”
    Freya murmured, “I’m sorry to hear it.” She was; Walter’s face had softened when he said his wife’s name.
    Walter turned the mug in his hand. “We say the wrong things to each other, you see. I try too hard; he thinks of it as prying.” His smile was pained. “Fathers and sons.”
    Freya might have replied Mothers and daughters, but she didn’t.
    Walter stared out into the silent workshop. “He’s been locked away since then, if you can understand.”
    “I know what you mean.” It was true, she understood being emotionally locked away.
    “And, after it happened . . .” Walter paused unhappily. “We were out there that night in The Holy Isle, as the paper said. Late, very late, coming back, but when the fish run in these times, you chase them even on New Year’s Eve.” He stared into the tea as if it could tell him what next to say. “I would have said I knew these waters, but that night the strait turned against us. The seas were high as this shed, and when the engine swamped, we were driven toward Findnar, toward the rock shoals at the end of your cove.” Walter closed his eyes. Mayday, Mayday. This is Holy Isle . . .
    “But we could not raise the lifeboat service, and Dan begged me to let her go, take our chances with the inflatable, but I would not do it. I thought she would come through.” He exhaled. “Michael heard us from the house, the signal got that far. He saw our lights too—red and green—so he knew we were straight ahead for the rocks. He tried to put out to help us. A foolish thing but brave.” He shook his head. “It was my fault, all of it.”
    Freya was numb. This was why the letter had not been finished. “Go on. I want to know.”
    Walter grasped Freya’s hands. “Be proud of your father, child, he did what few other men would or could have done that night.He found us, and slung a line though the sea was wild. Daniel caught the rope right enough, and I thought—just for a moment—it would work, that Michael would pull us away from the rocks. But The Holy Isle took a broadside—you have to understand how huge that sea was—then she rolled.” Walter was staring out into that night as the roar of the sea filled his head. “I was thrown free and came up, but hit my head. I blacked out. Daniel found me. He tried to get us to your father.” He swallowed painfully. “The boy had Michael’s rope still, and hand over hand he hauled us both. They got me onboard between them, and Michael tried to ride the surf back into the cove, Australian to the last.” He smiled faintly.