should have been safe somewhere in the contentment of a life lived, whatever that had been, not trying to begin again. At the start of my adulthood I already had a life full of memories â they did not, but should have. It seemed unjust that having lived so many years filled with deeds, friends, family, they should lose it all. And at least I knew my own name.
âI will not be handed over to the police like a criminal,â he exclaimed, pounding the windowsill with his fist.
âBut you may be one. I may be one,â she said, in a soft, resigned tone.
âOh donât start that again, woman,â he said.
âI am only being realistic,â she replied, her shoulders drooping. âWe may be.â
With effort, she got up from her chair, walked slowly to his side, and laid her small hand upon his arm. Her nails had been neatly clipped and filed. Without their long talons her hands looked like those of a girl. Her hair was pulled back into a single plait. She looked twenty years younger, her skin smooth and unlined. The effects of exposure from their time in the lifeboat had dissipated quickly, leaving her pale and delicate.
âBut I donât think we are criminals,â she continued, this time in a tone a mother would use to charm the tantrums from a tired child. âTell her what you told me this morning.â
âI donât see that it helps. It is nothing.â
He shook her hand away roughly, but she didnât seem to mind. I noticed, as I grew to know her, that for all her own volatility she showed great patience with the emotions of others.
âMaybe, as my storytelling of Africa seemed silly. However, she was right. It may hold a clue. And it is all we have. Tell her. We have so little, we can afford to be generous.â
She took hold of him with both hands this time, quite unafraid of his bad humour and turned him from the window to face me, shaking his arm gently.
âNothing comes from nothing, woman, didnât you know?â he said, looking down at her.
âAnd from nothing the world was created. Who are we to say? We donât even know our own names.â
âThen I should call you Eve and I shall be Adam.â
âAs you will. Go on, tell her your dream.â
He allowed her to lead him back to his chair. She sat close to him, protective. Some intimacy had grown between the two.
âI dreamt last night. I have not dreamt much before this in my time here, but the dream felt familiar and that disturbed me,â he said, and looked away.
âWhy did that disturb you?â I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
He turned his big face slowly to mine and lifted his eyelids to pin me with a sad stare.
âBecause I dreamt that I was dead.â
We waited for him to continue.
âI am standing in a green, green field, misty, half raining. The day is cold, grey. A chill runs over my body. Iâm looking at my grave, my own grave. I feel nothing but emptiness.â
He looked away again, staring over his right shoulder to the windows and the sea.
âGo on,â she prompted, impatient but gentle. âTell it all as you told me.â
He turned back to us, raising his craggy eyebrows in apology as if certain he was wasting our time.
âI felt pain. I looked down and saw that my leg was bandaged. And my hand hurt. I held it to my face and saw blood seeping through bandages that encased my arm. The blood oozed out from between my fingers and dripped to the ground. My head hurt. There was an explosion, but it came from inside my head, like I was dreaming whilst dreaming â as if as I stood in the dream at my grave I was having another dream. It was strange.
âIn this second dream I saw flames searing through the air and bodies flying on a howling wind like debris tossed in a storm. A man ran towards me, burning, disintegrating in front of my eyes, the flesh melting from his bones like fat melting on a fire. All this was
âI will not be handed over to the police like a criminal,â he exclaimed, pounding the windowsill with his fist.
âBut you may be one. I may be one,â she said, in a soft, resigned tone.
âOh donât start that again, woman,â he said.
âI am only being realistic,â she replied, her shoulders drooping. âWe may be.â
With effort, she got up from her chair, walked slowly to his side, and laid her small hand upon his arm. Her nails had been neatly clipped and filed. Without their long talons her hands looked like those of a girl. Her hair was pulled back into a single plait. She looked twenty years younger, her skin smooth and unlined. The effects of exposure from their time in the lifeboat had dissipated quickly, leaving her pale and delicate.
âBut I donât think we are criminals,â she continued, this time in a tone a mother would use to charm the tantrums from a tired child. âTell her what you told me this morning.â
âI donât see that it helps. It is nothing.â
He shook her hand away roughly, but she didnât seem to mind. I noticed, as I grew to know her, that for all her own volatility she showed great patience with the emotions of others.
âMaybe, as my storytelling of Africa seemed silly. However, she was right. It may hold a clue. And it is all we have. Tell her. We have so little, we can afford to be generous.â
She took hold of him with both hands this time, quite unafraid of his bad humour and turned him from the window to face me, shaking his arm gently.
âNothing comes from nothing, woman, didnât you know?â he said, looking down at her.
âAnd from nothing the world was created. Who are we to say? We donât even know our own names.â
âThen I should call you Eve and I shall be Adam.â
âAs you will. Go on, tell her your dream.â
He allowed her to lead him back to his chair. She sat close to him, protective. Some intimacy had grown between the two.
âI dreamt last night. I have not dreamt much before this in my time here, but the dream felt familiar and that disturbed me,â he said, and looked away.
âWhy did that disturb you?â I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
He turned his big face slowly to mine and lifted his eyelids to pin me with a sad stare.
âBecause I dreamt that I was dead.â
We waited for him to continue.
âI am standing in a green, green field, misty, half raining. The day is cold, grey. A chill runs over my body. Iâm looking at my grave, my own grave. I feel nothing but emptiness.â
He looked away again, staring over his right shoulder to the windows and the sea.
âGo on,â she prompted, impatient but gentle. âTell it all as you told me.â
He turned back to us, raising his craggy eyebrows in apology as if certain he was wasting our time.
âI felt pain. I looked down and saw that my leg was bandaged. And my hand hurt. I held it to my face and saw blood seeping through bandages that encased my arm. The blood oozed out from between my fingers and dripped to the ground. My head hurt. There was an explosion, but it came from inside my head, like I was dreaming whilst dreaming â as if as I stood in the dream at my grave I was having another dream. It was strange.
âIn this second dream I saw flames searing through the air and bodies flying on a howling wind like debris tossed in a storm. A man ran towards me, burning, disintegrating in front of my eyes, the flesh melting from his bones like fat melting on a fire. All this was
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