The Island Girls: A heartbreaking historical novel

  The Island Girls

  A heartbreaking historical novel

  Noelle Harrison

  Books by Noelle Harrison

  The Island Girls

  The Gravity of Love

  The Adulteress

  The Secret Loves of Julia Caesar

  I Remember

  A Small Part Of Me

  Beatrice

  Contents

  1. Emer

  2. Susannah

  3. Emer

  4. Susannah

  5. Emer

  6. Susannah

  7. Emer

  8. Susannah

  9. Susannah

  10. Emer

  11. Susannah

  12. Emer

  13. Susannah

  14. Emer

  15. Susannah

  16. Emer

  17. Susannah

  18. Emer

  19. Susannah

  20. Emer

  21. Susannah

  22. Susannah

  23. Emer

  24. Susannah

  25. Emer

  26. Susannah

  27. Emer

  28. Susannah

  29. Emer

  30. Susannah

  31. Emer

  32. Susannah

  33. Emer

  34. Susannah

  35. Emer

  36. Susannah

  37. Emer

  38. Susannah

  39. Emer

  40. Susannah

  41. Emer

  42. Kate

  43. Emer

  44. Susannah

  45. Emer

  Hear More From Noelle

  Books by Noelle Harrison

  A Letter from Noelle

  Acknowledgements

  *

  For Lydia, for gifting me a story.

  And for Becky, for coming to the island with me.

  Emer

  10th October 2011

  Emer was far away now, the last year trailing behind in the jet stream of the small ferry as it ploughed through the sea. It was a perfect day, after all. Lifting her face to the sky, Emer felt the warmth of the sun on her damp cheeks, as her whole body rocked to the rhythm of the boat. She should have been lulled by the gentle motion of the ocean, but she was far from calm.

  The boat chugged through island waters glittering azure, her sister’s favourite colour. Orla loved the sea, a natural sailor. That was how she’d met her husband, Ethan, both of them on the ocean every single weekend. But Emer had never developed sea legs, despite her sister’s enthusiasm. She’d gone out with Orla and Ethan several times, and even when the sea had been smooth as glass she’d feel panic building up inside her. Like now. It felt like the longest journey ever, although it was only an hour and fifteen minutes. Her heart beating furiously inside her chest, and her mouth dry with fear. She’d been steadily drifting further and further away from her life before. She would never get it back. She knew that. But maybe her destination was a place where she could forget, and be forgotten? That was all she wanted right now.

  Emer sat on the tiny deck, fighting back the urge to be sick, staring into the cold Atlantic Ocean. The water was so clear she could see all the way to the lobster pots settled on its bed.

  The Vinalhaven ferry wove between the brightly coloured lobster pot buoys bobbing up and down among the fishermen’s boats. How Orla would have loved the pretty little harbour of this Maine island with its wooden houses all different colours and the wharf sitting high atop wooden stilts. Sunlight was dancing on the dappled water, the scent of the sea everywhere, its salty tang on Emer’s lips. How many times had her sister declared her dream of island life? Well, here Emer was, living her sister’s dream, running away from her own nightmare.

  As she walked off the boat, it hit Emer how quiet the island was. All she could hear were the gulls crying, and the water lapping against all the fishermen’s boats. A lone vehicle driving down the road. It was almost unnerving not to hear the sounds of busy traffic. Not only that, she hadn’t considered how isolated this island really was. As she walked down Main Street, it felt as if she were walking back in time. Most of the shops were closed, some with signs saying they wouldn’t be open again until next season. It felt a world away from Boston: the packed subways, the bustle of the crowded streets and the noise and urgency of the hospital. Emer had left behind her previous life as a nurse in Massachusetts General Hospital to become the companion and palliative care nurse for one patient, Susannah Olsen, on the island of Vinalhaven off the mid-Maine coast. Her new employer, Susannah’s niece Lynsey, had told her Vinalhaven was packed in the summer months, but now in October it was clear tourist season was over. There was that same faintly sad feeling Emer got whenever she went to a seaside town in the winter. The fun was over for another year. Time to hibernate.

  She checked the address Lynsey had given her, and carried on. Emer’s route took her all the way down Main Street. Past a food store, which was open, and a bar. She heard music inside and the low hum of conversation – so at least some people came out. She took a right down a leafy street with large wooden houses – white, green, grey – all the way down on either side. The gardens were festooned with hydrangeas, the ground littered with horse chestnut shells. She found a perfect conker and slipped it into her pocket, its smooth contours soothing in the palm of her hand.

  It was warm for October, and Emer shifted her rucksack on her sticky back. A lone grey cat sauntered past her, and she spied an old lady raking up leaves on her lawn. A truck cruised by, its driver an old man with a shaggy beard, giving her a friendly wave just like back home in Ireland. She remembered Lynsey telling her there weren’t too many permanent residents on the island any more.

  ‘A lot of the houses are for summer visitors, empty all winter,’ Lynsey had explained. ‘Those staying all year are either boat builders or lobster fishermen. They can make good money from the lobsters, so a lot of young men don’t bother with college.’

  ‘It costs a lot to go to college in the States, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Lynsey moaned. ‘My aunt never lets me forget how much it cost her to educate a circus attraction, as she calls me. In any case, Vinalhaven has an interesting history. It used to have a big granite industry, but that all died out. And you know, I’m not sure how much longer it’s going to work out with the lobsters either. What with climate change, they’re moving north to colder waters.’

  Emer had never eaten lobster. She didn’t eat meat or fish, not since she and Orla had made their pact as teenagers. But she didn’t want to put Lynsey off her so she didn’t ask her how a vegan might fare on Vinalhaven, food-wise. A jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread could be found anywhere, surely?

  ‘Anyways,’ Lynsey said to her. ‘It’s very, very quiet there. I felt like I slept most of my teenage years because there was like, nothing to do, ever. My sister Rebecca loved it. She and Aunt Susannah hiked together, but my aunt’s not able enough for that now. You’ll be okay being so alone?’

  ‘The quiet life is just fine for me,’ Emer said firmly.

  ‘Are your parents gonna visit?’ Lynsey asked her. ‘There’s a few places for rental if they’d like to come?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Emer had said, not elaborating. Lynsey had waited for her to say more, but what could Emer tell her? Her father had no idea she had even applied for the job on Vinalhaven.

  She followed the road now as it curved out of town to a small bridge crossing an estuary of the sea. Water rushed beneath it and she paused to listen to the clinking of the fishing boats, and the sounds of seabirds she couldn’t name. There was a pier off the road,
with several pick-ups parked and mountains of lobster traps stacked in the yard. She guessed this was one of the places the fishermen set out to get the lobster. The houses thinned out as she kept going, passing a sign to Lane’s Island Preserve. She was walking beside marshland, thick with golden reeds and giant bulrushes. Crows were cawing loudly from the treetops, and she could hear crickets chirruping.

  Turning the corner, Emer heard the sound of children, their high-pitched voices flung upon the wind. Two little girls were swinging on a hammock slung up in the front porch of a blue wooden house, a row of orange pumpkins lined up on its steps. The older girl had blonde hair, the younger red. Just like her and Orla. They didn’t even notice her as she walked by, and she was trying not to stare at the children, but it felt like a sign. An image connecting her to the bond with her own sister. The reason why she had committed to this job.

  As if on cue, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. All the text messages coming through which she’d been unable to receive while on the boat. Five missed calls from Lars. Without even listening to the messages, she felt heavy with guilt. And then one text from Lynsey:

  Hello Emer, here’s the address again. Sorry I can’t be there to greet you but I can’t get away. Fall is my busiest time. My Aunt Susannah is expecting you. Please keep me updated on her condition.

  Another text with the address which Emer already had. And then a third message:

  Just to warn you. Susannah was insistent that she didn’t need looking after. But she does. I am sure you’ll deal with her great. Thanks again.

  Her heart sank. What was she doing looking after a reluctant patient on this remote island? She’d made a terrible mistake, but it was too late now. Certainly, she couldn’t return to Mass General, ever. She was here, so she’d just better make the best of it.

  There were fewer houses now as marsh gave way to woods on either side of the road, its foliage glorious and golden, rustling in the breeze as if whispering secrets. She looked behind her at the glint of blue, ever more distant. But the sound of the sea remained as a never-ending echo, as did the cawing of the black crows above. The stillness on the island of Vinalhaven magnified all sound, even the beating of her heart. She clasped her clammy hands and focused on finding her new home.

  Susannah Olsen’s house was a lot bigger than Emer had expected. It was constructed of wooden boards, like all the island houses, and painted white. There were patches peeling off the exterior and it looked like it needed a good lick of fresh paint. The roof sagged a little in the middle, but the porch was neat with a large swing-seat, a round table and white wicker chairs with patchwork cushions. The garden was a glory of fall abundance with blooming bushes of hydrangeas and a large horse-chestnut tree, beneath which Emer spied more gleaming conkers. In the middle of the lawn was an ancient apple tree laden with red apples.

  She climbed the steps of the porch, opened the porch door and knocked on the inside door but there was no answer. She knocked again. Silence, so she tried the door and it opened.

  After the beauty and brightness of the garden, the interior was dark. It needed a thorough airing. Emer itched to pull back the drapes and open the windows. The place was a mess. Piles of books and papers were stacked on old mahogany furniture. There was a small desk at the one window where the drapes were rumpled. Upon it, an old typewriter and a stack of papers.

  ‘Hello?’ Emer called out, but there was no reply. She kept going, wandering into the back of the house and the kitchen. A big blue dresser was piled with old crockery, but the kitchen was clean, if a little untidy.

  ‘Hello!’ she called out again. No reply. She unlatched a door to a stairwell and climbed up to a narrow landing. Two doors. Both closed. Maybe Susannah Olsen had already taken to her bed and was in urgent need of pain relief. Emer knocked before opening. One room was a bathroom, and the second clearly Susannah’s bedroom. There was another flight of stairs at the end of the landing, presumably up to another bedroom in the eaves of the house. Emer stepped into Susannah’s bedroom. There was a big double bed covered with the most beautiful quilt Emer had ever seen, its colours in contrast to the deep shades of fall. This quilt was full of spring pink, sunny yellow, light green, grassy green, joyous orange and baby blue as little sprigs, petals, flower heads and tiny polka dots created an overall pattern bursting with energy. Orla would have loved it. Emer admired the quilt for another moment before walking over to the window and looking out. The view was of the boughs of the apple tree. She felt as if she could almost lean out of the window and pick an apple.

  ‘What are you doing in my room?’

  Emer swung round, her face colouring as she got the first glimpse of her new patient. A small, slender woman with a bob of silver hair, Susannah Olsen didn’t look sick. In fact, she was carrying a big basket brimming with groceries. It must have weighed quite a bit.

  Emer found herself feeling strangely shy. She had no idea why she should be. She’d been employed to help Susannah Olsen.

  ‘I’m Emer Feeney, the nurse,’ she said. ‘Did your niece Lynsey not tell you I was coming?’

  ‘I know who you are all right, young lady, but I just wondered what you were doing snooping in my room?’

  ‘I thought you might be in bed,’ Emer explained. ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘Well as you’ll see, I’m quite all right,’ Susannah said tartly. ‘Don’t know why those girls are fussing over me so.’

  ‘They want to make sure you’re cared for.’

  ‘Been managing just fine on my own for years,’ Susannah said.

  They looked at each other. Emer smiled awkwardly, feeling fake, but Susannah didn’t return the smile.

  ‘Well, seeing as you’re here now you may as well make yourself useful,’ she said, passing Emer the basket of vegetables. ‘Come on downstairs and we’ll have some tea.’

  Emer was taken aback by the older woman’s gruffness, but then what had she been expecting? Susannah was hardly going to be over the moon at the arrival of a nurse who by her very presence was going to remind her every day that she was dying. Lynsey had told Emer that Susannah had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, which would be terminal regardless of whether Susannah chose to have chemotherapy. Emer had felt sorry for Susannah being so alone at the end of her life. No family nearby. Her closest living relatives were Lynsey, who lived a good five-hour trip away in Salem, and the other niece, Rebecca, who lived in England.

  But clearly Susannah did not view herself as a victim. She turned around and walked out of her bedroom. Emer followed her down the stairs. Nothing about Susannah seemed to give the sense she was weak and frail. It was only when the older woman got to the bottom of the stairs and straightened up that Emer noticed her flinch in pain. Slightly. She was thin, too.

  ‘Don’t think you can stuff me with drugs now,’ Susannah snapped at her, as if she knew Emer was appraising her. ‘This is my home and I’m going to carry on exactly as I want. Got it?’

  ‘Well, my job is to make you comfortable,’ Emer said carefully.

  ‘I will tell you when I need help. Right? Don’t you be doping me up so I can’t think right. If I can’t read my books I may as well be gone anyway.’

  It wasn’t too late. Emer could call up Lynsey. Tell her she’d changed her mind. Apologise. Explain she’d not been herself when she’d signed up as a private palliative care assistant. They always said you should never make big life changes when you’re grieving. How could she possible stay on this remote island in this woman’s dark, depressing house and witness her end? Watch her in pain? And know that was what it had been like for her own flesh and blood?

  Because you owe me.

  Orla’s voice inside her head. She heard her all the time now she was gone.

  Emer took off her rucksack and put it down on the ground with shaky hands.

  ‘Of course, whatever you wish.’ She was surprised by how steady her voice was, and how calm she sounded. ‘My role is to help you, Susannah. You call the shots.’<
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  Susannah crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at her.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said, scowling. ‘I know how you nurses like to take over!’

  She picked up the kettle to fill it with water and Emer saw her grimacing in pain again. She reached forward to take the kettle from her, but Susannah pushed her away.

  ‘See, you’re already at it.’

  Emer felt a flash of irritation, bit back a retort. But then, she’d seen behaviour like this before in cancer patients. Emer knew it came from fear, and denial. She of all people should understand those emotions. If she could help Susannah, if she could do this right, at least, maybe the weight on her heart might press less heavy. Would the guilt ever go away?

  Susannah

  July 1951

  She was going to make Mother angry again. Her job had been to bake the bread this morning. Simple enough. But she’d burnt it. Kate did the baking most days no problem, while Susannah collected the eggs from their neighbours. But this morning her sister had to help their mother finish up the fine lacing for the cuffs and hems of Sarah Wilkinson’s wedding dress. Even at ten years of age, Kate was the ‘best little lacer’ on the whole island. It filled Susannah with awe to watch her sister’s nimble fingers at the lacing stand, sitting on the other side to their mother, as they wove the shuttles through the threads to create perfect miniature lattices or bigger looping nets. It took Susannah an age just to thread a needle, and then she always managed to prick herself. She hated lacing, along with sewing, cooking, cleaning and all the domestic tasks she should be good at because she was a girl.