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*
When Max saw Alicia’s face on the surface, he threw himself into the water and swam frantically towards her. His sister could barely stay afloat and was stammering incomprehensible words, coughing violently and spitting out the water she had swallowed on her way up. Max put his arms around her and swam with her until he was able to touch the stones with his feet, a few metres from the shore. The lighthouse keeper was waiting on the beach and rushed to help them. Together he and Max got Alicia out of the water and laid her down on her back. Victor Kray tried to take her pulse, but Max gently removed the old man’s trembling hand.
‘She’s alive, Mr Kray,’ Max explained, stroking his sister’s forehead. ‘She’s alive.’
The old man nodded and left Alicia in Max’s care. Stumbling like a soldier after a long battle, Victor Kray wandered down to the shore and waded into the water.
‘Where’s my Roland?’ the old man moaned. ‘Where’s my grandson?’
Max looked at him but could not find the words. He could see the soul of the poor man slipping away, and with it the strength that had sustained him all those years up in the lighthouse.
‘He won’t be coming back, Mr Kray,’ Max replied eventually, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘Roland won’t be coming back.’
The lighthouse keeper looked at Max as if he didn’t understand what he was saying. Then he nodded his head, but turned his eyes seawards, still expecting his grandson to emerge and come back to him. The ocean gradually calmed and a garland of stars lit up over the horizon.
Roland never returned.
18
THE DAY AFTER THE STORM THAT RAVAGED THE coast during the long night of 23 June 1943, Maximilian and Andrea Carver returned to the house by the beach with young Irina. She was no longer in danger, although it would be a few more weeks before she recovered completely from her injuries. The winds that had lashed the town until shortly before dawn had left a trail of fallen trees and electricity pylons; boats had been dragged in from the sea right up to the promenade and there were many broken windows. Alicia and Max were sitting quietly on the porch. The moment Mr Carver stepped out of the car that had brought them back from the hospital, he saw from their faces and their tattered clothing that something terrible had happened.
But before he could ask them anything, the expression on Max’s face told him that all explanations, if there were to be any, would have to wait. Whatever it was that had happened, Maximilian Carver knew for certain, without any need for words or reasons, that the sadness of his two children signalled the end of a stage in their lives that would never return.
Maximilian Carver looked into Alicia’s eyes before going into the house. She was staring absently at the horizon as if she thought it might hold the answer to all her questions; questions that neither he nor anyone else would be able to answer. Suddenly, and silently, he realised that his daughter had grown up, and that one day, and it wouldn’t be long, she would set off on a new path in search of her own answers.
*
A cloud of steam engulfed the station. The last passengers were hurrying into the carriages of the train, or biding farewell to relatives and friends who had come with them as far as the platform. Max looked at the old station clock that had welcomed him to the town and noticed that, this time, its hands had stopped. The porter came over to Max and Victor Kray, his hand outstretched, hoping for a tip.
‘Your suitcases are on the train, sir.’
The old lighthouse keeper handed him a few coins and the porter walked away, counting them as he went. Max and Victor Kray exchanged a smile, as if they had found the incident amusing and this was only a routine farewell.
‘Alicia wasn’t able to come—’ Max began.
‘There’s no need to explain. I understand,’ the lighthouse keeper said quickly. ‘Say goodbye to her from me. And take care of her.’
‘I will.’
The stationmaster blew his whistle. The train was about to leave.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me where you’re going?’ asked Max, pointing at the train waiting on the track. Victor Kray smiled and offered his hand to the boy.
‘Wherever I go,’ he replied, ‘I’ll never be able to get away from here.’
The whistle blew again. Victor Kray was the only person left to board. The ticket inspector was waiting by the carriage door.
‘I must go, Max,’ said the old man. He put his arms around Max, who hugged him tightly. ‘By the way, I have something for you.’
The lighthouse keeper handed over a small box. Something rattled inside it.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘After you’ve gone,’ Max replied.
The lighthouse keeper shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the carriage. The ticket collector held out a hand to help him up. As Victor Kray climbed the last step, Max suddenly ran towards him.
‘Mr Kray!’
