I blow hard on the page to get rid of them, and then breathe in sharply. In the newly revealed portion of the photograph, I can now clearly see that Margaret is pregnant.
Perhaps it’s a mistake. Perhaps it’s just the way her dress falls. I look again, more closely. There’s no mistake. She’s definitely pregnant, at least five months, maybe more. And Lily photographed it, put it in her album, and then hid it.
I don’t care about who my grandfather was, I never met him and he’s only a name on a page to me. But my grandmother – the woman who gave birth to my father, the woman who I have always known in my bones to be Lily – this matters. So what does this mean? What happened to Margaret’s baby? Was it ever born? Is this why Margaret died? Is this who my father…
Stop it. Stop thinking about it. Stop, right now. I can’t stop. My brain flicks coldly through the possibilities. Option one: my father was indeed Lily and Richard’s child, born two or three years earlier than we always believed, a mistake so simple that even the official who registered his death failed to notice it. Surely not possible.
Option two: Margaret’s baby died and, as lost babies so often were, was erased from the family record. Meanwhile, Lily became pregnant by some unknown man, and gave birth to a child of her own. This can’t be right. The coincidence is too great.
Stop thinking. Stop it. Stop it now. I can’t stop it. My head is out of my control.
Option three: my father was Margaret’s child. The pregnancy killed her, as everyone always told her it would, and Lily – not my grandmother but my great-aunt – raised her sister’s baby as her own. But this can’t be right either. It was the nineteen forties, in a modern prosperous town. There would have been questions, records, enquiries; both the birth and the death would have been documented. Surely not even Lily could lie so successfully, pretending to a pregnancy that never took place, concealing the birth that killed her sister?
I look again at the photo, willing it to show me that I’m mistaken, and Margaret is not pregnant, but only wearing a badly cut dress. The beautiful swell of her belly remains stubbornly visible.
Lily, I think, pathetically. Please help me. Make it all go away.
I catch a breath of lavender on the breeze from the window. And then, like magic – or perhaps because I’ve reached the limit of the amount of shock I can deal with – the chatter in my brain stops and I’m in control again.
None of this is important, I remind myself. They’re dead, they’re all dead, and you’re the only person left who cares. Leave it alone. Stop thinking about it. Forget you ever saw anything.
I take a deep breath. I close my eyes and turn over a fat handful of pages, then another, then another. When I open them again, I find a picture of myself, taken in the hallway. I’m standing in wellies and soaking-wet pyjamas, my cheeks rosy with cold, water dripping off my chin. Despite this, I am laughing.
A flare of green light on the monitor sends a shot of adrenaline through my body. I put the album down and scurry into Marianne’s room. She’s sitting up in bed, her hair around her face, her expression sleepy and unfocused.
“I was dreaming,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “Dad was playing a red guitar on a boat that was being washed out to sea, and you were on the beach watching, and I could see you but I was still in bed here, only someone was opening the door. It’s so loud outside. Is the roof going to blow off?”
I take a peek outside and see the storm has begun flinging handfuls of rain against the window. The pine trees are bent double. Marianne looks out at the weather in awe.
“Is it safe? Is the house safe?”
“Oh yes. They get a lot of storms like this. The whole bay fills with ships come in for shelter. The waves blow up like mountains and when the tide’s high they come right up the beach and wash over the seafront. Sometimes—”
“Yes?” Marianne’s eyes are huge and dark.
“Sometimes,” I say slowly, “the whole beach moves. Come on. I’ll show you.”
“We’re going out? Do I need to get dressed?”
“You can stay in your pyjamas, but put socks on, and a jumper, and then another jumper. Then a coat.”
“Are we allowed?”
“Are we allowed?” I look at Lily in disbelief as she stands in my bedroom doorway with a torch, her head covered with an elegant black rain hat that slopes down her back, her body wrapped in a Burberry mac.
“I don’t think the police will stop us.”
“But is it safe?”
Her eyes are bright with wickedness.
“Let’s find out.”
“But, did Mum and Dad say I could go out at night?”
“Well, my darling,” she says. “They never said you couldn’t, did they?”
If Marianne reminds me that Daniel would forbid it, I’ll admit she’s right and let her go back to sleep. Instead, she looks at me for a minute, then scrabbles out from the covers and rummages wildly for her clothes. As we creep out like conspirators, for a minute I can see Lily’s slender shape slipping down the staircase before us, leading the way.
The wind pushes hard against us as we walk. Beneath Lily’s rain hat, Marianne’s face is radiant with laughter. When we reach the seeming shelter of a lamp post, she stops to catch her breath.
“Are you all right?”
Her face is sallow and jaundiced in the dirty orange sodium glow. “Can people tell I’m wearing my pyjamas? Does it matter that they’re getting wet?”
There are no other people on the streets. Everyone’s hunkered down inside, waiting for the storm to pass.
“No, it doesn’t matter. Come on, we’re nearly there now.”
Panting, we breach the crest of the tall hill. From here, it’s a clear straight run down to the beach. Marianne stops, but not to rest. Vast walls of water pile up and fling themselves against the shingle. As we watch, a splatter of yellowy foam flies high into the air, floats a moment then drifts down to the pavement to mingle with the rain.
Marianne’s hand clings tightly to mine. I loosen it so I can speak to her.
“Do you want to go down onto the beach?”
“Really?”
“It’s all right, we don’t have to. I just wanted you to see this. We can go back now if you want.”
She looks at the waves a moment longer, then runs on ahead of me, into the dark.
Down on the beach, the wind’s so strong I think it will blow us over. I must be careful now, make sure we don’t stray too close to the waves’ path. If they grab hold of us as they pour back down the beach, they’ll surely drag us with them. From a distance the water looks like cloudy grey walls of glass, but when I shine the torch on them we see the coiled streaks and strands of weed, torn from underground beds only to be piled up on the beach to rot. We edge closer, mesmerised, then retreat again as the waves fling themselves at us, trying to catch us. After a few moments it becomes a game. We follow the water down as it retreats, getting as close as we dare, stumbling back as the next wave breaks.
It’s a dangerous game and there’s no room for error, but the beach is ours alone and we’re both alive with the wild magic of the storm and we can’t bear to stop. Marianne is bolder than I’ve ever seen her, edging closer to the water with every pass, resisting my attempts to hold her back. We’re having too much fun to feel the cold, but I’ll have to take her back soon. The band of pyjama fabric between the tops of her wellies and the bottom of her raincoat is soaked with spray.
As Marianne races to chase another wave away, I feel the vibration of my mobile phone in my pocket.
Hey gorgeous. Are you in bed yet? X
Marianne’s getting too close to the water. I call her name, hoping the wind won’t snatch it away before she can hear it, and wipe the rain from my screen so I can reply.
Not yet. Still up working. Won’t be long. I’ll text you when I’m going to sleep, same as always x
Is Marianne all right? Send me a photo of her so I can see her all asleep
She’s as
far from sleep as she’s ever been. She’s dancing with the ocean, Lily’s rain hat flapping against her back, her curls blowing wildly.
I’ll take one when I go to bed. I don’t want to disturb her twice.
Can I have one of you as well?
Go on. Pull up your top and take a shot xxx
Oh, shit.
I tell you what. Wait till I’ve had a bath and I’ll send you one x
Can’t I have one now and one later? I’m VERY lonely
Shit shit shit. What can I say? What?
Hold that thought. Monitor’s flashing. Give me ten minutes in case she’s wandering
I put my phone away and turn back to impending horror. In the few moments I’ve been distracted, Marianne has got too close to the waves. Dancing among the seaweed, captivated by a gleaming pebble, she’s failed to notice the wall of water bearing down on her.
I skim over the sand so fast it feels like flying. Marianne looks up and sees the wave about to crash over her head. She scrabbles backwards, falls over her own feet. The wave breaks; her head disappears. I feel myself scream for help, feel the word vibrating in my chest and throat like an incantation.
And then, like magic, like I’ve conjured it, a rain-slicked figure looms out of the dark and reaches a long arm into the water. A tense second and then Marianne’s head appears, followed by her body, slick and skinny like a half-drowned cat. I’d thought we were alone on the beach, but it turns out there’s someone else who, like Lily, like me, knows how much fun it is to dance in the rain at the edge of the angry ocean.
I’m there, my arms reaching for my daughter, clutching her tight against me, checking she’s real. In the small fractions of attention I can spare, I take in the details of the stranger who saved her. Taller than me. A man. An older man. Old. In the moment of shared relief we look into each other’s faces, and I see that Marianne’s saviour is James Moon.
I was trying to say thank you, but it wasn’t going well to start with, and all I can do is stare. I look deep into his eyes and he looks into mine, and in this brief fragment of vulnerability before he realises who I am, I see inside him and I know what he was doing in Lily’s hallway that first morning.
Just like me, James knew Lily to the bone. He knew she had secrets. He was trying to help her keep them.
A deathbed promise? Or a self-imposed duty? And why did he know what I didn’t? If I can hold his gaze a moment longer I’ll have it from him. Then another wave crashes at our feet, long salt fingers reaching for our shoes, and he shakes his head and waves his arms and shouts something I can’t quite get, but that is surely some bitter commentary on my shoddy parenting skills, and stomps off up the beach, as anxious as I am to avoid having to walk home together, even in the blessed chaos of the storm.
“Time to go,” I tell Marianne, putting my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.
Thankfully, she doesn’t argue. She’s already shivering, although she seems calm enough. I don’t think she has any idea what almost happened, how close she came to being swept away. The sea still wants her – the waves break and break, trying to claw her back into their embrace, even as I peel off her coat and wrap her in mine. We set off for home. What am I going to tell Daniel? What was I thinking? No wonder he worries so much. No wonder he feels he has to check on me. I can’t be trusted. I nearly lost our daughter. I am a terrible, terrible mother.
You’re a wonderful mother, Lily says. She’ll remember tonight for ever. I shake my head to banish her and hit myself painfully in the eye with a strand of my own wet hair.
“This is real, isn’t it?” Marianne asks as we stand shivering beneath a lamp post and pant for breath.
If only I could tell her it was simply a nightmare, so I can hide my incompetence for ever.
“Yes, of course it’s real,” I say instead. “Can’t you tell?”
“It’s just so lovely it seems like it must be something from a dream,” Marianne says, and kisses me on the cheek with blue-tinged lips.
Chapter Twelve – Lily
I’m fifteen years old, and I’m in the back seat of my parents’ car, on our way to Lily’s house. Cars are apparently better than trains, but personally I can’t see why. There’s far less to look at, and the scenery that scrolls past the window mostly consists of other traffic. I can’t get up to stretch my legs or buy a snack, and if I try to eat a snack before my parents think I should be hungry, I’m reminded that if I eat all the snacks now, there will be no snacks left for later. If I tuck my feet up I’m told off for putting my feet on the upholstery, and if I take off my shoes I’m told off for taking my shoes off.
I’ve been forbidden to read in case it makes me travel-sick. I could argue about this too, pointing out that reading on the train has never made me sick, but I don’t feel like being told that I’m being rude and argumentative and while other people’s parents might accept this kind of behaviour, they’re certainly not having it from me. So I sit with my shoes on and my feet in the footwell, watching the road signs and trying to calculate the time until we arrive.
I can’t see what my parents are saying, so I watch for clues. My mother’s rigid posture and the shape of my father’s shoulders tell me my mother is upset and my father feels guilty. My mother is easily upset. I do my best, but I still seem to make her that way. The car smells of greasy sandwiches and thermos coffee and bad tempers. After a while I’ll get used to it.
We approach Lily’s house from a different direction, and I have a sense of vertigo as the world whizzes into place. Never mind; we’re here now. My mother takes a deep breath and loosens her shoulders, shaking her hair back.
Lily is waiting on the steps. In repose, her face looks rather stern, the wrinkles around her mouth carving deep lines of disapproval into her skin. But when we catch each other’s eyes through the window, a huge smile spreads across her face to match the goofy expression that I know is on mine. I leap out of the car before my dad even has the engine off, and overcome with relief and happiness, fling my arms around her and hold on tight. This is worth every moment of the long drive.
Then I remember my parents, watching me bestow on Lily all the wild affection I never give to them. Guiltily, I drop my arms and move away.
My mother and Lily embrace carefully, their faces meeting, their upper bodies stiff. It’s been years since they spent time together. My father struggles with the suitcases. I put on my rucksack so I have both hands free to help, but my mother waves me away. Then she lifts one herself, winces, puts her hand to her lower back, and glares at me and my father as if it’s our fault. Lily, her face carefully neutral, picks up my case and carries it inside. She looks back at me, inviting me to hop along beside her as I always do, but my parents are still here, luggage and pillows and camp beds spread out around them, and I don’t dare leave them behind in case my mother is angry.
“So how was the journey?” Lily asks, and passes my mother the potatoes. “Have more, Amanda dear, there are plenty.”
“This is all I need, thank you. It was ghastly; so slow and exhausting. I thought we’d never get here, but never mind, we’re here now.”
“Still, at least you can have a little sleep in the car while Richard’s driving,” says Lily. “Richard, you look thinner. Have some more potatoes.”
“He’s actually been putting on weight this last year,” says my mother. “But he’s trying to lose it again, aren’t you, Richard?”
Lily passes my mother the gravy. My mother pours a temperate puddle, then does the same for my father. My father takes the jug, adds a little more, ignoring my mother’s expression, and passes it round to me. My mother cuts a very small slice off her chicken and puts it in her mouth as if it might bite her. I drown my food in a rich savoury lake. My mother frowns.
“I’ve told you before, Jen, don’t pour out so much gravy. You’ll spill it on this lovely tablecloth. Why don’t you listen?”
“Don’t worry her about the tablecloth,” Lily says, smiling at me. “She�
��s on her holidays.”
“She’s not allowed to ruin things because she’s on her holidays. I won’t have it.”
“My tablecloth will wash,” says Lily, still smiling at me.
My mother glances at my father.
“Be more careful, Jen,” he says. “This is an old table, if the gravy gets through to the wood it’ll damage the finish.”
I haven’t even spilled the gravy, I think incredulously, and slice off a long spear of chicken. Lily catches my eye and gives me a tiny wink.
I’m in Lily’s house, but it feels like I’m somewhere new. The atmosphere’s all wrong. The familiar smell of roast chicken mingles with the alien scents of my father’s aftershave, my mother’s face cream, the dustiness of the camp beds. My parents are impatient and snappy, and Lily is subtly annoying them, and it’s all centred on me. Everyone is on their very worst behaviour. In the circumstances, the best thing I can do is to go to bed as soon as possible. I wonder how I’m going to explain to Lily, but when we meet briefly in the hallway and she takes my hand and kisses me on the forehead, I know she understands, and she’s still on my side, and she still loves me best.
This should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Instead I’m resentful. Why are they all doing this to me? I go into my room and shut the door. Perhaps I’ll lock myself in. That would show them.
In the garden, the shadows are gathering and a little cat is stalking a seagull that sits moodily in the centre of the lawn, eating bacon rind and glaring about for competitors. The cat is about half the size of the gull. The seagull must have decided the cat’s not a serious threat. There’s no way it can’t have noticed it creeping over the grass. Apart from anything else, the cat is bright orange. It’s the least subtle hunting attempt I’ve ever seen.
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