Castaway

Chapter 8: Resurrection

Charlotte passed a fitful night. Her eyes barely closed for more than a minute, as she made frequent trips to the well to fetch fresh water to press against her patient's cracked lips and to mop his fevered brow. His fever was slight, however; he was simply exhausted and undernourished. She wondered how long it had been since he had last sat down to a square meal. As the day broke, another fine, early summer's day, Sidney's eyes slowly opened, adjusting to his surroundings, at first in confusion then, as his head turned towards the young woman dozing in a nearby chair, in grateful recognition.

Charlotte's eyes fluttered open from her half-slumber. "Good morning," she smiled, yawning sleepily.

Being a Saturday, there was no need to open the schoolhouse. She and Molly worked hard that morning, drawing water from the well, boiling it on the hearth and filling the old tin tub that served as a bath. Once the tub was full, Charlotte took a deep breath and turned to Sidney, who by now was sitting up, propped by cushions and eating a little warmed oatmeal. She had helped her husband bathe on many occasions (although he had never returned the favour). It would not be much different.

Carefully, she helped Sidney peel off the last remaining rags from his battered, hollow frame and he stepped into the hot water, holding tightly onto Charlotte's hand. Molly brought her a sponge and together, they gently scrubbed his emaciated body until his glistening, nut-brown skin began to emerge from the thick film of dirt and dust that had covered it, and clipped and scrubbed his fingernails until they shone.

"I was on a ship for months," he apologised, "and then I tramped all the way from Plymouth... to Sanditon... and then here..."

"Ssh, it is no matter," soothed Charlotte, her eyes filling with tears at the travails this man had gone through and at the piteous state of his once firm and lean body. As Sidney soaked in the soothing heat, slowly turning black with grime, Charlotte took a pair of kitchen scissors and carefully began the laborious process of shearing off his matted locks and his beard, which were crawling with lice. Clump after clump of years' worth of growth fell to the floor until his hair was no more than half an inch long, and the true Sidney Parker began to emerge from the shadows of his long exile. Charlotte handed him one of her husband's old razors and soap, and he gently scraped the nearly-blunt blade over his skin, while she held up a looking glass.

Sidney stopped short, staring into the mirror, shocked at his much-altered features. His cheekbones were sunken, his skin sallow, his forehead weathered and lined, and he had lost a few of his molars. But his eyes were still the finest brown, deep, dark and soulful. "It really is you," said Charlotte softly.

Sidney gave her a wry smile. "I am not the same man," he said sadly.

"Yes, you are." On impulse, she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. Sidney shuddered at the sudden warmth of the human contact. Collecting herself, Charlotte hurried up to her husband's former bedroom to find some clean clothes. Bartholomew was shorter and plumper than Sidney, but she managed to find him a shirt and pantaloons that might just fit. The shirt was too big and the pantaloons too short and very loose around the waist, but it would do for now, until she had time to sew and stitch him a new wardrobe. He looked a little comical, but Charlotte suppressed a smile, remembering wistfully how well his clothes used to hang on him when he was a younger, fitter man and resolving that she would do everything in her power to restore him to health and vigour, whatever the future held. She did not even attempt to squeeze his large feet into her husband's old shoes. In any case, Sidney's feet were so battered and sore that they needed to be bathed in ointment and wrapped in bandages for several days.

Over the following days and weeks, Sidney grew in strength, nourished by Charlotte's excellent home cooking, fresh vegetables from the garden, fresh eggs from her hens and fresh meat from the Heywood farm. Not to mention the magical fruit elixirs that she spent her evenings concocting. At night, he slept in her husband's former room, surrounded by his most instructive books. Gradually, glimpses of his old self began to appear.

While Charlotte was at the schoolhouse, he would rest indoors, under strict instructions not to venture anywhere apart from the garden, for fear of being spotted by curious villagers. For now, at least, no one must know he was here. Charlotte worried and fretted over how she was going to explain to her family, to her acquaintances, and most of all to the vicar, Mr Collins, what this stranger was doing in her cottage, but for now she decided to keep the delicious secret to herself. Even if they only had a short time together, every minute, every hour was precious and no one must be allowed to take that away. Molly was also under strict instructions not to breathe a word to anyone about the strange ogre – who had now transformed himself into a kindly, affectionate giant – but she did not wish her daughter to tell lies and was aware that it was perhaps only a matter of time before his presence was discovered.

In the evenings, after a busy day in the schoolroom and once dinner had been eaten and cleared away, and Molly was tucked up in bed, Charlotte and Sidney would sit out in the garden on the back porch, in the gathering dusk, and talk. Night after night, Sidney recounted the whole story of the storm, the shipwreck and his long years alone on the desert island, amazing Charlotte with his tales of the jungle, the exotic creatures that lived on the island and how he had learned to survive. But he did not mention the vision of the mermaid beckoning him to the surface, calling him back to life, nor the image he had created of her in shells, seaweed and charcoal in his lonely cave, or how he had sometimes, nay often, conversed with her in his acutely solitary state.

He told her of the joyous day when, finally, he had espied a Spanish vessel some distance from the shore. Adding log after log to his brightly burning fire on the beach and, waving flaming torches in both hands, oh blessed relief, the ship had seen him and drawn nearer to the shore. In a mixture of desperation and elation, he had plunged into the waves, swum out to the boat and been hauled aboard by the sailors. Communicating through sign language, he eventually understood that they were heading for the coast of Venezuela, where they unceremoniously left him at the port of La Guaira, after giving him some ill-fitting clothes to wear and a little food and drink to tide him over. He then spent weeks begging on the streets, waiting at the harbour every day for word of a ship that might take him back to Europe. Another Spanish vessel finally appeared and he managed to gain passage by offering his labour in return. After two months at sea, during which some of his fellow sailors perished of the scurvy, the ship finally docked in Vigo, in the North of Spain, and again, he spent weeks begging in the streets (his Spanish having improved a little by this time) until he could gain passage on an English vessel bound for Plymouth. Again, he was worked hard on board the ship to pay for his voyage, with the bare minimum of food and drink to keep him alive. He finally arrived in England in the spring and tramped across country from Plymouth to Sanditon, a two-week trek, begging food and water from kind-hearted souls along the way and sleeping in the hedgerows at night.

"And then my own brother turned me away," he said bitterly, looking out into the peaceful twilight of the garden. "It took me another three days and nights to walk here, not knowing if I would find you, not knowing if you would even want to see me. I nearly gave up. I nearly laid down by the roadside, at the end of my strength."

"But you did not," said Charlotte, taking his hand. "And I am here."

She then haltingly told him of her return to Willingden, all those years ago, the offer of employment at the school, the offer of marriage from Bartholomew Grant, and the reasons that had persuaded her to accept him. How much she valued her independence and solitude, how much she delighted in her daughter. She explained her husband's decision to go to Sierra Leone, in answer to a call from God, and his probable untimely demise. He glanced across at her as she spoke. She did not seem overly upset by her husband's absence, although Sidney was utterly perplexed at how any man could choose to abandon such a wonderful creature, whose beauty, truth and honesty shone so brightly, inside and out.

"You have done well for yourself, Charlotte," he said softly. "But it must have been hard. What kept you going, all these years?"

"Molly," she replied simply, smiling affectionately at him. She hesitated, noticing a look in his eyes that had fallen upon her several times of late. "And what kept you going all these years? You have had a far worse time of it than I."

It was now dark outside in the garden, the sweet scent of honeysuckle and roses filling the air. Sidney took her hand in his and caressed it gently, his eyes searching hers. He took a deep breath before he replied.

"You," was all he said.