The Night Ferry

Epilogue

I had a dream last night that I got married in a white dress, not a sari. My father came storming up the aisle haranguing me and the congregation burst into spontaneous applause thinking it was some sort of Sikh floor show.

Samira was there, holding up Jasper, who kicked and giggled and waved his arms excitedly. Hari held Claudia above his head to watch. She was far more serious and looked ready to cry. My mother was shedding buckets, of course. She could cry for two countries.

I am having a lot of dreams like this lately. Perfect-life fantasies, full of ideal matches and soap opera endings. See how wet I’ve become. I used to be a girl who didn’t cry at sad endings or get mushy over babies. Nowadays I have to bite my lip to hold back the tears and I want to float through the ceiling I love them so much.

Jasper is always happy and laughs for no apparent reason, while Claudia watches the world with troubled eyes and sometimes, when you least expect it, she produces tears of abject sorrow and I know that she’s crying for those who can’t.

Their names have stayed. That happens sometimes; something is given a name and it just doesn’t seem right to change it. I won’t be changing mine when I get married, but other things are already different. It used to be me; now it’s we and us.

Rolling over on my side, I run my fingers across the sheet until they touch Dave’s chest. The duvet is wrapped around us and it feels safe, cocooned, shielded from the world.

He’s letting his hair grow longer now. It suits his new lifestyle. I never thought I’d fall in love with a man who wears Aran sweaters and waterproof trousers. His hand is lying between us. There are calluses forming on his palms from working the sheets and raising sails.

There is a snuffled cry from the next room. After a pause, I hear it again.

“It’s your turn,” I whisper, tickling Dave’s ear.

“You’re getting up anyway,” he mumbles.

“That makes no difference.”

“It’s the girl.”

“How do you know?”

“She has a whiny cry.”

I jab him hard in the ribs. “Girls do not whine. And since when has there been any demarcation?”

He rolls out of bed and looks for his boxer shorts.

“You just keep the bed warm.”

“Always.”

Although it was only three weeks ago, the events of those days have become a surreal blur. There was no custody battle. Barnaby Elliot withdrew gracelessly when faced with charges of withholding information from the police and being an accessory after the fact.

Judge Freyne found Samira to be the mother of the twins, however the DNA test threw up another twist to the story. The twins were brother and sister and the eggs came from Cate, as expected, but they had been fertilized by some third party, someone other than Felix. More than a ripple went round the courtroom when that little piece of information became public.

How was it possible? Dr. Banerjee harvested twelve viable embryos and implanted ten of them in IVF procedures. Cate took the remaining pair to Amsterdam.

There could have been a mix-up, of course, and someone else’s sperm may have contaminated the process. According to Dr. Banerjee, the primary reason why Felix and Cate couldn’t conceive was because her womb treated his sperm like cancerous cells and destroyed them. In another womb, with stronger sperm, who knows? But there was another issue: the recessive gene carried by Cate and Felix that caused a rare genetic disorder, a lethal form of dwarfism. Should she conceive, there was a 25 percent chance that the fetus would be affected.

Cate would never have cheated on Felix in the bedroom or in her heart, but she desperately wanted a child and having waited for so long and taken such risks she couldn’t afford to be disappointed again. Perhaps she found someone she trusted, someone Felix would never meet, someone who looked a lot like him, someone who owed her.

It is just a theory of course. Nothing but speculation. It first occurred to me as I watched the twins sleeping and glanced at the dream catcher above their heads, letting my fingers brush the feathers and beads.

I doubt if Donavon had any idea what Cate planned. And even if he is the father, he has kept his promise to her and never revealed the fact. It’s better that way.

I slip out of bed, shivering as I pull on my track pants and a fleece-lined top. By the time I step outside the cottage, it is beginning to grow light over the Solent and the Isle of Wight. Taking Sea Road past Smuggler’s Inn, I turn left through the car park and arrive at a long shingle spit that reaches out into the Solent almost halfway to the island.

Wading birds lift off from the marshes as I pass and the beam from the lighthouse flashes every few seconds, growing fainter against the brightening sky. The sound of my shoes on the compacted shingle is reassuring as I cover the final mile to Hurst Castle, which guards the western approach to the Solent. Some days when southeasters have whipped the sea into a foaming monster, I don’t reach the castle. Great white-tipped rollers arc upward and smash against the seawall, exploding into a mist that blurs the air and turns it solid. I can barely walk against the wind, bent double, blinking away the salt.

The weather is kind today. There are skiffs on the water already and, to my left, a father and son are hunting for cockles in the shallows. The sailing school will reopen in May. The skiffs are ready and I’ve become a dab hand at repairing sails. (Those years of watching Mama at her sewing machine weren’t entirely wasted.)

My life has changed so much in the past three months. The twins don’t let me sleep beyond 6:00 a.m. and some nights I bring them into bed, which all the experts say I shouldn’t. They have pushed me around, robbed me of sleep, filled me up and made me laugh. I am besotted. Spellbound. My heart has doubled in size to make room for them.

As I near the coastal end of the spit, I notice a figure sitting on an upturned rowboat with his boots planted in the shingle and hands in his pockets. Beside him is a canvas fishing bag and a rod.

“I know you don’t sleep, sir, but this is ridiculous.”

Ruiz raises his battered cap. “You have to get up early to catch a fish, grasshopper.”

“So why aren’t you fishing?”

“I’ve decided to give them a head start.”

He slings the bag over his shoulder and climbs the rocky slope, falling into step beside me.

“Have you ever actually caught a fish, sir?”

“You being cheeky?”

“You don’t seem to use any bait.”

“Well that means we start as equals. I don’t believe in having an unfair advantage.”

We walk in silence, our breath steaming the air. Almost home, I stop opposite Milford Green and get a newspaper and muffins.

Samira is in the kitchen, wearing pajamas and my old dressing gown with the owl stitched on the pocket. Jasper is nestled in the crook of her left arm, nuzzling her right breast. Claudia is in the bassinet by the stove, frowning slightly as if she disapproves of having to wait her turn.

“Good morning, Mr. Ruiz.”

“Good morning.” Ruiz takes off his cap and leans over the bassinet. Claudia gives him her most beatific smile.

Samira turns to me. “How were they last night?”

“Angels.”

“You always say that. Even when they wake you five times.”

“Yes.”

She laughs. “Thank you for letting me sleep.”

“What time is your exam?”

“Ten.”

Ruiz offers to drive her into Southampton where she’s studying for her A-levels at the City College. Her exams aren’t until June and the big question is whether she’ll sit them at Her Majesty’s pleasure or in a normal classroom with other students.

Her lawyers seem confident that they can argue a case of diminished responsibility or temporary insanity. Given what she’s been through, nobody is very enthusiastic about sending her to prison, not even Mr. Greenburg, who had to choke back his emotions when he told her the CPS was pressing ahead with the murder charge.

“What about the public interest?” I demanded, acidly.

“The public saw it happen on the BBC, prime time. She killed a man. I have to let it go to a jury.”

Samira posted bail thanks to Ruiz and my parents. The DI has become like a grandfather to the twins, who seem enthralled by his craggy face and by the low rumble of his voice. Perhaps it’s his Gypsy blood but he seems to understand what it’s like to enter the world violently, clinging on to life.

My mother is the other one who is besotted. She phones four times a day wanting updates on how they’re sleeping and feeding and growing.

I take Jasper from Samira and hold him over my shoulder, gently rubbing his back. She scoops up Claudia with her right hand and offers her a breast, which she nuzzles anxiously until her mouth finds the nipple.

A missing hand doesn’t even seem like a disability when you watch her with the twins, loving them completely; doing everyday chores like washing and feeding and changing nappies. She is a bright, pretty teenage mother of baby twins.

Samira doesn’t talk about the future. She doesn’t talk about the past. Today matters. The twins matter.

I don’t know how long we’re going to have them or what’s going to happen next, but I’ve come to realize that we can never know something like that. There are no certainties in life or in death. The end of one story is merely the beginning of the next.