The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  Adam checks his watch. ‘I guess I’d better be heading back. Early start tomorrow.’ I don’t want him to leave. He looks up at me and smiles. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

  I do my usual. ‘Of course.’

  My throat is tight; my chest a deadweight. I speed out of the hospital desperate for home. Not the home I’ve lived in with my husband for the past twelve years – a place my son clearly felt out of place and unhappy – but back to the home I shared with Michael for the first few chaotic, yet happy years of his life: my mother’s house in Cornwall.

  I know I shouldn’t – it’s only half past one – but I down a coffee mug full of white wine in three large gulps and head upstairs. I go through the suitcases one by one, then the bags, and finally every drawer in my mother’s bedroom, wondering if there is anything else of Michael’s that she’s hidden from me.

  After nearly two hours of searching I find nothing. Tired and dejected, I refill my mug and tidy up. This is still my mother’s house after all. I lift the lid on her document box and push aside the papers, files, and folders to try to find space for the Bible. My mother wouldn’t even look at it in the hospital – so why did she still keep it carefully stored away? Maybe some things, no matter how painful, are connected to us in ways we really can’t escape.

  ‘What a load of crap,’ I mutter. I’m drunk now, and having trouble fitting the Bible back in amongst all the other debris in the box. I come across the mobile phone and pick it up. It’s smaller than a contemporary model and fits comfortably in the palm of my hand. What was she doing with a mobile phone? As I balance the solid black block in my hand, her words from a few hours before begin transmuting themselves into something new. Michael’s moving home. My mother’s words were garbled, unclear, affected by stroke, drugs, trauma. What she said wasn’t what she meant. The realisation is a slow burn across my frontal lobe, bursting and fizzing like popping candy on the tongue. Not Michael’s moving home, but Michael’s mobile phone. I utter a small involuntary groan. This isn’t my mother’s mobile phone at all. It was Michael’s.

  I study the object in my hand more closely. It’s a cheap pay-as-you-go model – Nokia 105. A phone that I’d never known had existed. I feel shaky; sick. It’s as if the past is being torn open and bleeding all over me. I press the power button idly – there won’t be any charge left in the battery, surely?

  Yet, after a pause, the screen flickers into life. The Nokia logo appears and swiftly shifts to the log on screen. Shocked that this is still possible after all this time, I take a deep breath and stare at the glowing screen.

  Security code:

  Without thinking I tap in 2 0 0 0; the year Michael was born.

  Code error

  I try again. 1 9 8 4, the year I was born.

  Code error

  I feel my heart pounding, a trickle of sweat rolling down my spine. One more wrong code and the SIM will be locked.

  ‘Come on!’ I shout, hammering my fist against my forehead. On my mother’s bedside table sits a long-abandoned teacup; biscuit crumbs dust the saucer’s faded cornflower patina. I am struck by an image of my mother sitting on her bed, sipping her tea, and sifting her way through Michael’s things like a customer at a car boot sale.

  Security code:

  I enter the numbers 1 9 4 9, the year my mother was born. The home screen appears, and I find myself pressing the contacts icon. There is only one entry – ‘D’. Without stopping to think, I hold it down and wait for the number to dial.

  The screen splutters and goes black.

  ‘What?’ I tap the phone against my palm. ‘No, no!’ I fumble to try the power button again, my fingers like sticks. ‘What’s going on?’

  Low battery – emergency calls only

  ‘No,’ I yell, ‘please, no!’ But the screen emits a final blush and then fades.

  I ransack the wardrobe, tossing the document box and headscarves on the bed, the clothes on the floor, but there is no charger. I feel the panic rising in my chest like a fever. I race downstairs, grab my handbag, and almost tear the blue pills from their hiding place in the inside pocket. I pop one into my mouth and swallow it dry.

  I wake up on the sofa covered in a musty old throw. I check my watch. It’s nearly four o’clock – too late to make it into the mobile phone shop in Tavistock. Not like they’ll have any chargers for a five-year-old Nokia anyway. I head back upstairs and begin tidying away my mother’s things. Glad to be kept busy, I grab an old flannel and dust the figurines and knick-knacks that dot the shelves, windowsill and just about every other available surface.

  ‘Where did you get all this rubbish?’ I exhale deeply. Then something strikes me. I check my watch, grab my trainers, and try to put them on while combing my hair at the same time. My reflection in the entrance hall mirror is grim, but I’m not interested in how I look.

  I race down the narrow road that leads from my mother’s house to the tiny high street. Pub, hairdressers, convenience store, and to my left, a smart gallery that garners most of its income from well-off tourists buying overpriced art. I stop in front of a small shopfront with a large hand-painted sign that reads Bling and Things, and, in smaller letters, all proceeds to Children’s Hospice Southwest.

  This charity shop has been around for as long as I can remember and has had more incarnations than Dr Who. Cats Protection League, RNLI, Macmillan Nurses – they all start off well, but it’s not long before business drops off and eventually the shop window is soaped up and a To Let sign stuck on the front door. A bell attached to the door chimes as I enter, and somewhere in the background I can hear classical music playing. The old, mottled carpet I remember from my childhood has been removed to expose freshly polished oak floorboards. There are boxes of china, still wrapped in packing paper, and to my right a small mountain of Ikea shelving units waiting to be installed. Racks of old clothing have been pushed to a far wall and someone has started to put together a modern-looking corrugated iron hanging unit. As I move further to the back of the shop, however, it becomes more and more like the charity shop of old. Shoes that have seen better days are stacked in piles next to cuddly toys, and a nearby table is overloaded with lamps, kettles and even a sandwich toaster.

  ‘They’ve all been PAT tested,’ comes a voice from behind me.

  I turn. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Electrical safety test.’ It’s an older woman, around my mother’s age. ‘That’s what that little sticker indicates.’

  I nod. ‘I’m not really after a sandwich toaster.’

  The woman tilts her head. ‘Katie, is that you?’

  I feel my heart sink. I was hoping to avoid old acquaintances as much as possible while I’m in Cornwall – not that I had very many when I lived here in the first place.

  ‘Katie, it’s me. Helen.’

  ‘Helen?’ I feel my face flush in embarrassment. How could I forget the teaching assistant who singly helped me get through A Level Biology? ‘Helen! I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you.’

  She emerges from behind the counter and engulfs me in an enormous hug. I stiffen, but the warmth of her body reminds me of all those hours in the Sixth Form Centre, just the two of us, side by side, trying to learn about microbiology and pathogens. I find myself relaxing into her embrace. After a moment she steps back.

  ‘I heard about your mum. How is she?’

  ‘Not bad. Still in ICU but conscious.’

  ‘Well that’s good news.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And how are you finding it?’ she asks gently, knowingly. ‘Being back here I mean?’

  ‘Harder than I thought.’ She nods but says nothing. I don’t want to be having this conversation, but this woman was instrumental in helping me get away from here, from my mother. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch.’

  ‘It’s fine, love. I understand.’

  ‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Six years now.’

  Now I remember. The last time I saw Helen wa
s at Michael’s funeral.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t …’ I realise I’m repeating myself and decide to change the subject. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, I’d been helping out now and again in the shop, whatever form it took, for years,’ she says, smiling. ‘So when I retired last year, I decided to take it on full time.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you retiring.’

  ‘Nor could my husband. Said I was driving him crazy.’ She spreads her arms wide. ‘So here I am.’ I forget the diary; the mobile; my mother; I just feel calm. ‘I’m trying to posh it up a bit,’ she continues. ‘I want to increase footfall and revenue. There’s still loads of work to do but I’m getting there.’

  I find myself smiling. Just like Helen to take on a project with absolute determination. Just the kind of person I need on my side.

  ‘Helen,’ I say with unexpected shyness. ‘I wonder if you might be able to help me?’

  We spend the next half hour looking through shelves, boxes, and the storage cupboard. With her eye for detail, Helen is able to go through a snakes’ nest of old electrical cords and phone chargers, handing me one possibility after another: try this one, love. When we exhaust that search, she moves on to the crawl space behind the boiler, emerging with a large shoe box.

  ‘There’s always more junk to be found,’ she says, pulling cobwebs from her hair. ‘I could do with a cup of tea. You?’

  I nod and follow her to the tiny kitchen at the back of the shop. I’m burning with impatience, but I can’t be rude – not to Helen. She flips on the kettle, tosses teabags into mugs, then begins trawling through the shoe box. I can’t seem to keep myself still, even though I have a thumping headache. I just want to find the right charger and get out of here, but Helen seems eager to alleviate my obvious unease.

  ‘Did you know that Michael used to come to the shop sometimes when he was staying at his nan’s?’

  This is surprising news. ‘Did he?’ I ask. ‘To say hello?’

  ‘Well, yes and no.’

  ‘Yes and no?’

  ‘He was so sweet,’ she smiles with such tenderness it makes my heart ache. ‘He’d come in on the premise of a visit, you know. But really he was looking.’

  ‘Looking?’

  ‘For jewellery mostly; necklaces, bracelets, that sort of thing. It all had to be gold though – none of that cheap stuff – which is a bit of a challenge in a charity shop to say the least.’

  I am now on automatic. ‘I can imagine.’

  She sighs heavily. ‘I used to try and put the good stuff aside, but he was always so particular.’

  ‘Particular?’

  She shakes her head and stares out of the window. ‘Fish.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It always had to be fish. The jewellery, I mean. It had to be a fish. I remember I found this one piece – sterling silver, not gold, mind – with this lovely little fish charm made of sea glass.’

  I need to take a moment before speaking. Don’t go in too eager, Kate. ‘Did he, um, ever say why? Who the jewellery was for, I mean?’

  Maybe it’s something in my voice, but Helen looks uneasy.

  ‘No. I mean, I thought it was maybe for a … for a …’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, a girlfriend.’

  I force a smile and decide to offer up the happy narrative she so clearly desires. ‘I wondered that myself.’

  ‘It’s a nice thought, though, isn’t it?’

  I nod in agreement, but in truth I’m not really sure.

  ‘Is this it?’ An excited Helen pulls a bit of black wire from the box. ‘I think it is!’ She reaches for Michael’s phone.

  Before she can reach it, I grab the phone from the counter then carefully slide the plug into the connector. It fits perfectly.

  I stumble my way home and, handling the mobile as if it were a priceless object, I plug it into the mains. At first there is nothing, but after a few seconds an icon of a battery appears on the screen. I’m about to pour myself a glass of wine when a reminder goes off. It’s my mobile. Ring Adam.

  ‘Were you at the hospital all day?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ I lie.

  ‘And?’

  ‘She slept most of the afternoon, so I just sat by her bedside.’

  ‘You sound odd.’

  ‘I’m just tired.’

  ‘Would you like me to drive back down?’

  ‘You’ve had a long day.’ As much as I’d like Adam here to support me, I also want to keep him away from my recent findings – at least until I can find out more. ‘I’m going to have an early night anyway.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Grace is here tomorrow.’ Adam and Grace don’t get along. She feels that I married him as an escape. He says she’s a bad influence. Neither seems to care much about what I think. ‘Maybe not such a good idea.’

  ‘Maybe not. But you’ll be home on Thursday, right?’

  ‘Yes, darling, for tea, just like I promised. Maybe we can order a Chinese and finish it this time.’ In the corner of my eye, a light catches my attention and, turning, I see the mobile is charged up enough to display the passcode screen. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. The cat’s just been sick.’

  ‘That bloody cat.’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’ He puts on his consultant’s voice: deep, serious, undisputable. ‘Now you’re not to over-burden yourself, and don’t forget to take your medication. It’s important. And, for God’s sake, don’t mix it with alcohol.’

  I glance at the near-empty glass of red on the bedside table. ‘Of course not. I’d never be that foolish.’ When did I start lying so proficiently? Is it a newly acquired trait, or one that has been lying dormant for all these years? ‘Sleep well, darling. I’ll call you in the morning.’ I hang up, toss my mobile on the bed and take another sip of wine.

  Unplugging Michael’s phone from the charger lead, I enter the digits of my mother’s birthdate, then pull up the contacts list. Only that one contact. Why a burner phone and why only one contact? What was he trying to keep a secret? I press that mysterious ‘D’ and wait. Hope. There is no dial tone: just a long, slow hum. The number is dead.

  I check incoming and outgoing messages. There is only one, sent by Michael on the day he died.

  My silent Diving Fish, please no more waiting. It’s time for us to speak. Meet me by the water’s edge tonight.

  I place the phone on the bed and begin to cry.

  8

  I have a restless night, finally resorting to medication at three a.m. in a desperate attempt to gain a few hours’ sleep. I’m meeting my sister at eleven and I have to be at my best – top form and inscrutable. I really can’t handle any more of these ‘are you sure you’re all right, Kate’ conversations.

  I get up early and make a special effort, washing, blow drying and straightening my hair. I also spend an inordinate amount of time on my makeup, concealing, contouring, and powdering away any indication of my true state. When I meet Grace I want her to be presented with a composed and capable individual, not the woman on a verge of a nervous breakdown everyone seems to expect.

  I complete the now-familiar journey to the hospital and find myself at the same table in the canteen that Adam and I had sat at only a few days before. I push aside my pale cup of tea and retreat to the hospital’s sensory garden, where I soak up the morning sun and the scent of lavender and camomile. I feel myself nodding off when I hear the ping of an incoming text.

  Just checked in at hotel. Will meet you at the café inside main entrance in ten. Gx

  I return to that same table, check my mobile, fiddle with the clasp on my bag, reapply my lipstick; but most of all I try to keep my breathing deep and steady. I imagine every possible scenario in the few minutes before my sister’s arrival. Hearing the click of high heels, I look up and see Grace. Her hair is lo
nger than I remember, falling in soft curls around her shoulders. We have the same strong bone structure – high cheekbones inherited from Celtic ancestors – and blue-green eyes the colour of a glacial lake. Unlike Grace, however, I’m a Nordic-looking blonde. Both of us are tall and long-limbed, with narrow hips and small breasts. Adam used to comment that we were built for sport; too tall for gymnastics but perfect for athletics.

  I watch my sister as a stranger might – interested but removed, as if she were a model on the catwalk. Grace wears designer jeans and a cream-coloured jumper that slips down from one shoulder, exposing a long, pale neck.

  ‘Don’t you dare turn and look back at that boy, you Jezebel!’

  Grace is thirteen and I am ten. We’ve travelled with our mother to Plymouth for the day to buy school shoes. Both of us, forced to wear the drab headscarves and long skirts of our sect, attract attention.

  ‘I didn’t,’ replies an indignant Grace.

  Both intrigued and confused by the argument, I look back to see what my mother is referring to.

  ‘And you as well!’

  I feel a sharp pain as she pinches my arm.

  ‘You can’t stop people from looking at us,’ says Grace in a tone I recognise as dangerous. ‘It’s because they think we’re a bunch of freaks. They’re not leching!’

  It is the first time Grace has ever raised her voice to our mother, and although I don’t know why, I’m certain that things will never be the same. In a fury, Grace tears the headscarf from her hair and throws it to the ground.

  ‘I hate these things!’ she screams. ‘I hate not having any friends, and I hate not being allowed to watch telly!’

  My mother moves forward to silence her, but Grace is too agile and too quick. ‘And I hate you!’ Turning, she runs and disappears into the Saturday morning crowds.

  Shaking the memory away, I get up and walk towards my sister. At first Grace doesn’t recognise me, but then her eyes widen, her face changes, and she smiles.

  ‘Kat!’ she cries, and, pulling me into her arms, she kisses me fiercely on both cheeks. ‘How are you? She steps back and scrutinises me closely. ‘You look tired, and thin. Are you eating?’