The morning light filtered through the window, streaming onto Mary’s chestnut hair: her hands were deft on the loom, her blanket was a feast for the eyes. Geometric patterns and spirals in various strands of gold and silver against a blue and green weft sprung from her rosy fingers, while her concentrated smile was almost an extension of her expert hands: it was her ease and passionate dedication her weaving came from. She was at home there, in her own world of harmony and imagination. There she did not need to struggle and to submit to chaos and disorder: she was the creator. Her skin was relaxed and smooth; the sunlight gave her a look from another dimension, a bright, glorious, vibrant world. She was singing an old Methodist carval to herself.
Ashley stood at the door watching her in silence for a few minutes, desiring to take a picture. She raised her eyes and said, blushing:
“Moghrey mie, Ashley. Did you sleep well?”
“Moghrey mie. I did, Mary. Would you mind if I took a picture while you’re working at the loom?”
“Well, if you need to, please yourself, but don’t take too many.”
“Ok, Mary, I’ll be quick.”
He ran upstairs to take his professional camera and came back to the kitchen. He waited for Mary to resume her work and looked for a good angle. He decided he would go outside and take the picture from the window frame, so that he would have the sun behind his back. “Ok, Ashley,” Mary said sweetly, “now, come and eat your breakfast, please!” Ashley, who had always been sensitive to beauty, was even more sensitive to good-natured and even-tempered people, so he obeyed instantly.
“How do you like Manx skippers?” Mary asked with pleasure, as she knew that Ashley was crazy about them.
“Mary, you’re a wonderful hostess. I love them.”
“Herrings…I’m so hungry!” Rosemary’s voice rang from the stairs.
Ashley laughed. They all sat around the table.
“Luke and Virgil are not joining us?” – Ashley asked.
“They’re off to sea, they left at four this morning,” Mary said.
Rosemary was still feeling self-conscious about what had happened the evening before. Her face was half ashamed and half sullen. She diverted the conversation.
“Ashley, what about driving down to the Calf of Man? I am free today. We could go birdwatching there. You may see the yellow hammer and the spoonbill…” “Well, to be honest, I couldn’t tell one from the other…I’d rather visit Peel if it’s ok with you. I haven’t seen the old castle yet.”
“You Londoners cannot tell a sparrow from a robin.”
“Indeed,” Ashley laughed.
Mary nodded in amusement.
“Ok then, let’s drive to Peel,” Rosemary indulged him.
They sat in the black Land Rover. Rosemary was stretching her arms on the wheel and regaining her usual gaiety. They drove on the main road from Douglas, through plains and hills. Greenery was everywhere, a fairyland where time was blurred and arbitrary. As they moved through the enchanted landscape, their excitement grew. They were out on an adventure.
“You know,” Ashley said, “I was wondering about Virgil. He seems to have changed. I mean, last year he would never have behaved the way he behaved yesterday. What happened to him?” Rosemary spoke without diverting her gaze from the highway. “He lost his job at the docks three months ago; I guess it had an impact on him. He must feel he is a failure. That’s why he spends all the time in the pub, when he is not out at sea with my father.
“I see; it must be hard for him. Yet, he is so young that he could make up his mind to do whatever he likes…”
“Well, that’s what I think too, but he is a hot-head and a fatalist too. He tried to leave the Isle, but he came back after a month and never wanted to speak of his time in Manchester. I don’t know what happened there.”
The hills all around looked like green dwarfs and gnomes, grinning and smiling as they drove by. Ashley took in the fresh breeze from the open window, then turned to Rosemary and asked: “What about you, are you happy here? It’s a wonderful place.”
Rosemary looked puzzled. “Yes, this island moves at the drop of my heart. I would never leave. Besides, I love what I do.”
Ashley could feel that what she said was true, her red locks scattered by the breeze gave her a peculiar look. He would have labelled that picture “freedom unbound,” but he didn’t ask to take a picture, as he was afraid of distracting her from driving. Instead, he said: “Tell me about your job.”
Her eyes lit up with pride:
“Well, I work for the National Heritage Foundation. I am a secretary and a fundraiser for the Foundation’s cultural activities. I feel I am doing something to preserve the ways of this ancient island. I am part of a team of people who share a vision, a dream, if you like.”
She glanced at him quickly and blushed, when she saw his half-amused smile. “What’s so funny about this?” – she asked with an even voice.
“Nothing at all, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that it seems so difficult to preserve the old ways now, even on this island. I mean, globalization and modern life: young people all want to rush to London or Manchester now.”
“I know what you mean. Yet, we are not doomed. People are regaining a sense of belonging here. That’s what the Foundation is for. Besides, the positive side of globalization is that we can link up with people from everywhere. You know, foreigners are growing increasingly interested in our culture…”
***
Peel bay opened before them in its midday splendour. Golden ripples were playing on the water like little snakes. The promenade was almost empty; just a few restaurants were open. The smell of herrings was everywhere. Ashley was hungry for new pictures and ran to the beach to take a few. Then, they opted for fish ’n chips. The man in the shop was fair-haired and freckled. He quickly splattered the fish from the frying pan into the box. He could have been frying fish since the beginning of time, Ashley thought. There was something ancient about his eyes, despite his rather young age. He must be thirty-five.
The walls were impressive and well-preserved, inside little remained of the castle buildings, but the round tower, which originally had belonged to the Celtic monastery, well before the arrival of the Vikings, was conspicuous, and took his fancy more than the later additions in local sandstone. His eyes wandered all around, along the coastline of the island of St. Patrick, as if they were voyaging in a quiet barge, winding around the rocks. For a long time, he had forgotten what it felt like to be so close to the elements. The sea allured him and kept his imagination spellbound, half-suspended in a dream of other worlds.
“What are you thinking about?” – Rosemary’s voice reclaimed him back. It took him a while to struggle out of his trance and regain some composure: “I was enjoying the atmosphere.”
She guessed there was more than that to his answer but did not enquire further. They walked in silence for a long time. And yet, Ashley was aware of a sharp pain in his chest, dumb yearning. Helen, she would have loved the place. She would have snatched his camera and taken dozens of pictures. Enough.
The sun was already setting in the bay, when they decided to drive back home. “Do you think you could live on the isle?” Rosemary asked.
“Well, I like to think that I could, but for my job in London.”
“You know, I have the impression this job of yours is an excuse…”
Ashley sat rigidly next to her with a searching look in his eyes.
“Don’t get me wrong. I just mean that you could find a job on the island, if you really wanted to stay. You know, where I work, at the Heritage Foundation, we are looking for a photographer…”
“I’ll think about it,” he said out of politeness.
But Rosemary didn’t give up.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “there’s the annual symposium of Manx folklore and culture. I would love if you came along, there will be all the people involved in the project…”
“Yes, I’ll think about it,” he said again.
“What do you need to think about?” Rosemary said with irritation.
Ashley did not answer. He just looked at her long fingers on the wheel and her flashing eyes. What was her business with him? These islanders could be so insistent. He had a proper job at National Geographic in London, was this not enough for her? Should he leave his career for a folklore project?
“I know, you believe you are too good for this island and its folklore,” Rosemary said with scorn in her voice. “Anyhow, you are invited tomorrow.”
Ashley felt beaten, she was not laughing at his presumed superiority, rather at his unacknowledged fear.