Ruby #3
After a few minutes, to my immense relief, she turns and begins to swim back to shore. “Thank God for that,” I mutter, beneath my breath. Then I say, “Ruby Reid, you’ve been here just one full day and you’re already talking to yourself. This does not bode well.”
As Hanna finds her feet on the shingle at the water’s edge, I pick up her coat and walk toward her. She grins triumphantly, although her teeth are chattering as I help her on with it. I offer her my arm as she wobbles on one leg, then the other, thrusting her feet back into her Wellies.
“You don’t have to stand guard over me, you know,” she says. “I swim every day. I know what I’m doing.”
“What, even in winter?” I ask.
“As long as it’s not blowing a gale. The bay’s pretty sheltered.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well, I might just join you one of these days, in summer at least. It looks rather liberating. I hope you haven’t done any more damage to that arm of yours, though. I’m not sure the doctor would approve.”
“On the contrary,” she says, a little haughtily, clearly miffed at my questioning of her behavior, “I’m still perfectly able. And, indeed, I believe the cold water will have done the inflammation a lot of good.”
Back in the farmhouse, I insist on helping her into some warm clothes and carefully pull on the elasticated bandage.
The swelling doesn’t seem any worse, so maybe she’s been right about the cold water being good for it, even though her wrist is turning various shades of black and purple.
Perhaps her daily dips in the chilly ocean really might help with the healing process.
With her arm out of action, however, even once I’ve put the tubular bandage back on for her, she can’t easily pull on her socks and trousers, or do up the buttons on her cardigan.
Finally, she sits at the kitchen table while I brew a fresh pot of coffee and make us some hot porridge.
As I stand at the stove, stirring the pan, I think of how Mum used to make it for me and Lucy when we were wee.
I liked mine doused with creamy milk and sprinkled with a thick layer of brown sugar that would melt into a lovely goo, but Lucy would eat hers the traditional way, like Dad did, with a pinch of salt sprinkled over it.
I close my eyes for a second, ambushed by the stab of memory.
When I open them again, Hanna is watching me intently, her own eyes suddenly as sharp as a sparrowhawk’s. She seems stronger after her bracing Atlantic dip, and now that her teeth have stopped chattering, her cheeks are flushed with pink.
I set the bowl before her, and she picks up her spoon. She gives a little wince of pain, her injured wrist protesting as she tries to use it, then transfers it to her left hand and carries on with greater success.
“So tell me,” she says, between mouthfuls, “what brings a young woman from the city all the way to these remote parts to bury herself away with only a dotty old woman for company?”
I take a sip from my mug before I reply. I could dissemble, giving her a polite answer about wanting to spend some time away from it all, or always having wanted to be a carer, but I think she’s too bright to swallow that. I decide I might as well tell her the truth.
“I had a twin sister. She died. I found I just couldn’t bear to be in the flat we used to share in Edinburgh. I needed to get away for a while. Shetland seemed about remote enough to fit the bill.”
In some cultures, twins are thought to be two entities sharing one soul.
If one dies, the other will, too. And that’s how it’s felt, since I lost my sister.
To an outsider, I may look like a living, breathing human being, but looks can be deceptive.
I’ve carried on, putting one foot in front of the other, but there’s this huge piece of me missing now, a part of me that’s died too.
It’s as if I don’t know how to be me any more without her.
Hanna gazes at me steadily. Usually when I tell people about losing Lucy, I’ve noticed they find it hard to look me in the eye.
They glance away awkwardly, searching for the right thing to say.
But there is no right thing. How could there be?
Often they say nothing, or they mutter how sorry they are for my loss, then change the subject.
But, instead, Hanna says something surprising.
She’s quiet for a few moments before she speaks, and her voice is soft when she does. “I had a twin sister, too, once.”
Those few words change everything. A flicker of recognition passes between us, an acknowledgment of a shared pain. She gives a brief nod, then turns her attention back to her breakfast, and I sense that, for now, we’ve each said enough.
We continue eating our porridge in silence, but something significant has shifted.
It’s as if the brick wall of her resentment has suddenly revealed a hidden door of understanding, which has opened just a crack.
I know better than to push against it. I’ll only be allowed through if I wait for Hanna to invite me in. But now, at least, I know it’s there.