This is all beginning to feel like too much, but I push back the pain and carry on. I reach inside the bag, curious, fearful of what I might find. My hand grasps something. I pull it out into the light. It’s a sweet wrapper. I smile and shake my head. Michael’s swimming coach was always strict about healthy eating for her athletes, forbidding junk food of any kind. I would often sneak a Mars bar or two into his things before I drove him back to school. Our little secret.
I tip the rucksack over and shake it with a fervour that surprises me. A pencil and paperclip emerge; nothing else.
‘What the hell?’ I scream. What was the backpack doing here, hidden away?
Stay calm. Keep it together.
I fetch a damp flannel from the bathroom and carefully wipe away all the dirt, dust and grime before laying the rucksack on the desk next to Michael’s hoodie and an old swimming medal of his I’d found in the desk drawer. My personal shrine.
Nearby, church bells chime ten o’clock. I jump up as if stung. I’m going to be late meeting Adam.
It’s after eleven by the time I finally arrive at the hospital. I park near the maternity ward entrance and watch a steady stream of tired, yet elated faces pass me on their way to visit the new arrivals. An elderly couple emerge from a silver Honda Jazz, flowers and pink balloons in tow. A young man, no older than sixteen, stands hunched in the smoking shelter taking a slow drag of a cigarette. The smell of smoke lingers just long enough for me to be reminded of the guilty pleasure. I haven’t smoked in over eight years, ever since Adam and I made our first and only attempt at IVF.
As I get out of the car, I spot a dark-haired man with glasses, attractive in a greying-around-the-edges sort of a way, strolling towards me. It takes me a minute to realise that it’s my husband. Jesus, I must be tired. Closing the car door, I smile and walk towards him.
‘You’re late.’ Pushing back my fringe, he kisses me gently on the forehead. ‘You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep?’
I stifle a yawn. ‘A bit.’
‘I was hoping to catch Mr Emery before he starts his rounds in ICU,’ Adam gives me a look I know well, ‘but we’ve probably missed him now.’
‘I’m sorry honey. Traffic was terrible.’
‘No matter,’ he says, brightly. ‘I rang the head nurse this morning. It looks like they’re going to take her off ventilation this afternoon.’
I try not to think about the ramifications of that statement. Depending on the level of brain injury caused by the stroke, my mother may not be able to breathe unaided.
Adam hands me a small holdall. ‘I brought those things you asked for. You’re not planning to stay long, are you?’
‘Hopefully just a few days.’ I don’t mention how desperately I’m longing to be back at our house in Exmouth; back with the sea views, the pristine herbaceous borders, and my little study at the end of the hallway where I do my private work. ‘I’ll need to see what they plan to do about Mum long term. And I’ve really got to do something about the cat.’
‘Speaking of cats,’ says Adam, scratching his nose. ‘I can feel the effects of that thing already.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t get so close,’ I tease.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ he replies, hugging me close.
Our visit to the stroke ward is excruciating. My mother’s stats have improved slightly, but an unexpected spike in her temperature means they’ve decided to wait until tomorrow to remove her from ventilation. The back-and-forth treatment debate between Adam and Mr Emery, the consultant, is more like a medical conference between two old pals than a family-centred discussion. Eager to get it over with and leave, I find myself nodding without really listening. Maybe Adam is right. Maybe this place is so tied to tragedy and loss for me that I can’t think clearly.
It’s nearly three o’clock before we finally make our way back to the car park.
‘Well, from what Mr Emery said it sounds like they’ll be taking your mother off intubation tomorrow.’
‘Provided her temperature is down,’ I add.
‘Of course,’ says Adam as we walk to his car. He sounds almost pleased by the prospect of this potentially risky procedure, but I know him well enough to understand: diagnosis and treatment is his safe place. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asks. ‘You were very quiet in there.’
‘It’s just a lot to take in.’
‘I’m worried about you being on your own tonight, in that house. You know how you get when you go back there.’
‘I’ll be fine, darling.’ I try my hardest not to sound impatient. I realise that he’s only looking out for me; I just wish he’d stop expecting the worst. It was over a year since my last episode, and that was only after I received that letter from our insurance company. Have you considered coverage for the younger members of your family? It’s really never too early to think about life insurance!
‘Really, Adam, I’m okay.’ Why do I have to keep repeating that? ‘We’ll see how tomorrow goes and then we can look at getting an OH assessment for the house – handrails, stairlift, that sort of thing.’ We both know I’m stating the obvious, but sometimes obvious is the safest place to be.
Adam takes my hands in his. ‘I want you home by the end of the week.’ It’s a statement, not a request. ‘Okay?’
‘Of course.’ I’m grateful, as always, for his directives. He gives me a final kiss on the cheek before getting into his car.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven.’ He taps a finger on his watch. ‘Be on time.’
‘Yes, darling.’ I step back so a car can pass. ‘I’ll ring you later. Drive carefully.’
Giving him a final wave, I turn and head back towards the hospital. Behind me, I hear the Audi’s engine rev and pull away. I stand alone in front of the main entrance, watching as the huge building ingests and repulses the steady stream of sick and injured. I should go back inside, sit by my mother’s bedside, comfort her – but my head is thumping and my courage, always doubtful, has escaped me.
I decide to take the scenic route back to my mother’s house, avoiding the bridge and following the lanes, where sun-streaked finches dart in and out of blossoming hedgerows. I drive past Yelverton and down through Gunnislake with its steep pines and dour granite churches. In the millisecond flash between trees and houses I catch the occasional glimpse of the moors, the landscape both breath-taking and bleak. I stop at a grocery store and buy eggs, cheese, biscuits, apples, coffee, milk, a loaf of bread, and cat food. I hesitate in the wine aisle, knowing that any more than a glass or two will mean I won’t be able to drive back to the hospital tonight if needed; yet I settle, finally, on a couple of whites, two decent reds, and a small bottle of vodka for courage. If something comes up, I’ll have to get a taxi.
When I finally arrive home, Tam is waiting for me.
‘Don’t worry, you old bugger. I didn’t forget you.’
I feed the cat, pour myself a large glass of red and head upstairs. If my mother is going to be in hospital for a while, she’ll need some things.
I grab one of the suitcases from the Russian doll stack, and head into her bedroom. The room, like the rest of the house, is not so much dirty as unkept. Dust-covered knick-knacks cover almost every available surface, more romance novels are stacked high on her bedside table, and the wardrobe door is wide open, exposing a functional, yet drab catalogue of clothing.
I start in the chest of drawers: nightdresses, underpants, bras, and socks; then include a dressing gown hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I’m about to move to the bathroom for toiletries, when something strikes me. If my mother does successfully regain consciousness, there is one thing I know – no matter what its dubious history – may bring her comfort: her Bible.
I move to the wardrobe. Seeing my mother’s old clothes is sobering. The long skirts and dresses she wore as Brethren are hanging as if ready to be put on once more. On the top shelf are a stack of carefully folded kerchiefs. Brethren beliefs dictate that a woman with an uncovered
head causes herself and her community shame, and so she insisted we cover ourselves wherever we went. One more rule; one more humiliation. Nothing makes a teenage girl stand out more than having to wear a long skirt and a headscarf. I reach to the back of the shelf where I know my mother keeps a document box with all her papers.
The box is large, heavy; a ribbon is tied around the middle. My fingers struggle, but I finally pull apart the bow. Inside I find papers: life insurance; pension; mortgage. I find her Bible, and a letter from the Brethren headquarters in Plymouth, postmarked April 2000 – the month after Michael’s birth, formally excommunicating us from the sect. Included, too, are childhood snaps; and surprisingly, a photograph from my university graduation. I push them aside to find a Nokia mobile phone, several years out of date. What was she doing with an old mobile? No matter how much Grace and I tried to encourage her to get one, she always refused.
Lying at the bottom of the box is something else; something black and shiny. It’s an A4 plastic wallet: something you would find as part of any back-to-school kit, along with a pencil case and ruler. What is it doing in here?
The wallet has a slight bulge: there’s something inside. I undo the snap and slide out the contents. It’s a leather-bound notebook. A logbook? I open it, expecting to see a long list of Michael’s training schedules and individual best swimming times. What I find, however, knocks me back so fiercely that my knees give, and I slump to the floor. This isn’t a logbook at all. It’s a diary. Michael’s personal diary.
What was Michael doing with a diary? This can’t be right. Michael was a fifteen-year-old boy; a normal teenager obsessed with technology – not just for social media and gaming, but also for its power to monitor, assess and improve his sporting performance. The idea that he would even think of keeping a handwritten personal diary is one that I find almost unfathomable.
For some reason I think of his MacBook, archived in the loft at home. Recovered from his dormitory at Edgecombe Hall, the police family liaison officer had explained, amongst other things, that the laptop would be forensically searched for any ‘dangerous or suggestive websites’. What did she mean by that? When, a year after Michael’s death, the coroner returned an open verdict, I had confronted that same officer, demanding to know why, if Michael’s death was not deemed an accident, there was no further investigation taking place. She had spluttered and stumbled, clearly uncomfortable with how to respond. I think I had yelled, screamed at her for an answer. I recall people stepping away; gentle words of warning; then Adam beside me, leading, nearly dragging me away.
Keeping his voice to a low growl, he’d said to me, ‘For Christ’s sake, Kate – when they ruled an open verdict, they meant open to the possibility of suicide!’
I had felt my legs give, and, stumbling back against the courthouse wall, I’d screamed, ‘He would never do that. Michael would never do that to me!’
Adam had taken me home and prescribed Valium and bedrest. I don’t think I’d left the house for nearly a month.
I run my hand across the book’s burgundy cover and gently strum the folds of crisp, cream paper. Opening the front cover, I run my fingertips across the fawn-coloured paper. Michael’s handwriting – charming, childlike – fills almost every page. What on earth could a fifteen-year-old boy have to write about that would fill a notebook?
My heart is racing, my armpits damp. Resting my back against the side of the wardrobe, I lift the diary to my face and take in the rich smell of it; press my lips against the soft, cool leather.
‘Now, my darling boy,’ I whisper. ‘Tell me what really happened that night.’
5
15 September 2014 – Exmouth to Edgecombe
I stare out of the car window, letting Mum’s voice float around me. For some crazy reason she’s telling me about basking sharks, how even as late as September they can be seen off the coast. She’s talking too much, worried about my going to some posh prep school in deepest, darkest Cornwall, but there you go. A so-so swimmer with an arsehole for a stepfather – what better way to get rid of me than to arrange a scholarship? I mean I’m good, but Edgecombe good? I still wonder if my dear old stepfather pulled a few strings; made a few phone calls to one of his old boys to get me out of the house; out of his way. What an arsehole!
I let Mum’s voice fade, and instead focus on the hum of the motorway. It’s only when we cross over the bridge into Cornwall that I sort of come back to life. Mum opens the window a crack, letting the breeze drift in. Maybe it’s the sea air, or crossing into Cornwall, but suddenly she looks happy.
I feel as if history is forcing its way back into me, as if Michael is beside me now, his shoulder against mine.
My mobile goes off; a deep, bass rhythm thumping its way through the silence.
‘Hi, darling.’ I force myself to sound chirpy. ‘Yes, home safe and sound. Just sorting out a few things for Mum.’ I press my blazing cheek against the cool leather of the diary. ‘I stopped for a bit of shopping – you know, nothing in the house as usual.’ The moment where I could and should tell Adam about the diary passes, and suddenly I am spiralling towards deceit. ‘I’m just about to have something to eat. Can I ring you back a little later?’
It’s surprising how easy it is to make something up. All I really want is to get back to the diary.
15 September 2014 – Cornwall
Mum glances over at me, knows I have a question. We’ve always been pretty close. Sometimes I think we can read each other’s minds. Then Adam came along, fucking threats-behind-closed-doors Adam. Even though I’m a bit nervous about starting at a new school, leaving Adam behind will be one big plus! Only a mile to the turnoff so I’d better act quick, I take a breath and ask Mum if we can stop and see Gran on the way. The car jostles. I’m not sure if it’s a gust of wind or my asking. She goes on about it being a bit late to stop and all, not wanting me to be late for the welcome barbecue at Edgecombe. It’s a barbecue for fuck’s sake! There’s the silent tick of her deliberation; she’s playing the game, but I know she’ll give in. When I tell her I’ve already spoken to Gran about stopping, her head snaps to the left to look at me. I see her lips thin in that way that says she’s really pissed. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t feel bad either. Whatever issues Mum has with Gran, they’re not mine.
The room feels hot, suffocating; I can’t breathe. I stumble downstairs and somehow manage to pull on my shoes.
When the panic finally clears, I find myself standing by the river watching the sun being absorbed by the water like smoke into a vacuum. I walk for a long time, comforted by the steady huff of my breathing, the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. Time seems to still, my worries ebb. I return home, pour myself another glass of wine and go upstairs to telephone Adam. He answers after the first ring.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ He sounds furious. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. I’ve left about six voicemails.’
‘I just went for a walk. I was—’
‘A walk, at this time of night?’
‘Honey, it’s still light.’
‘What if you fell over, hurt yourself?’
‘It was the river path. There were loads of people.’
I hear his deep exhalation and his voice softens. ‘Have you heard any more from Grace?’
‘She’s coming down on Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday. Why not tomorrow?’
‘Simon’s away and there’s school cover to think about.’
‘How long is she staying for?’
‘A couple of nights.’
‘A couple of nights!’
A can feel my chest tightening. This is not how I want it. ‘She needs to get back, Adam. Ellie’s got GCSEs and she’s struggling—’
‘Can’t Simon deal with it?’
‘Grace seemed pretty stressed. I’m not sure how good things are at home.’
‘Things are pretty bad here, too.’
‘Adam, I can handle it – and Ellie needs her mother.’
‘Will she be coming back,’ Adam’s voice is thick with censure, ‘to take some of the weight off your shoulders?’ His relentless line of questioning is making me anxious. I don’t want to talk about Grace, Ellie or my mother. I want to talk about the colour of the evening sky as I wandered along the river path; the splash of trout; otter tracks in the mud.
There is a pause, and his voice deepens. ‘Where are you sleeping?’
‘In the spare room.’
‘Michael’s old bedroom?’
‘It’s a guest bedroom, Adam.’ I take a large sip of wine, debating what to say next, and then, before I can stop myself – ‘There’s really nothing to worry about. It’s just used for storage now.’ I briefly consider confessing, telling him about the diary, but things have gone too far. I have descended into darkness.
‘Well I’m glad you’re handling everything so well.’
I give a rueful smile, slip the diary out from under my pillow where I hid it, and, without thinking, utter a phrase my mother was renowned for. ‘Well, needs must.’
And I lift the wine glass to my lips.
6
15 September 2014 – Gran’s House
Gran is waiting for us by the front door, a grey cardigan wrapped around her like a shroud. They face each other, my mother and grandmother, hostility lying between them. I slide past and into the house.
Later, I hear strained small talk from the kitchen. Not much has changed since I lived here with Mum after I was born. I hear Mum’s voice rise and watch as she marches out of the kitchen. She mutters something about checking her tyres – lamest excuse ever. I go into the kitchen. Gran slides a cup of tea my way and asks me about Edgecombe; how I feel about going to a ‘heathen school.’ The criticism in her voice is clear. I tell her that I’m not Brethren and never have been. I can go to whatever school I want. I also tell her that she’s not Brethren either and hasn’t been for a long time. Her face closes, just like one of those frilly plants that curl in on themselves when you touch them. I’ve seen her do this to Mum so many times, but never to me. I guess I deserve it. After all, it’s my fault that Gran was rejected. It was the birth of me that caused all the problems. I’ve known it since I’ve been old enough to know anything. Sometimes I can ignore it – but sometimes it sits like a stone in my stomach.
The Lake Page 3
