The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  15

  I arrive back in Calstock just after five. I’m feeding the cat when I hear a soft tapping at the front door. I smile and pop on the kettle.

  Doris and I sit shoulder to shoulder on the settee looking through Michael’s diary. I’ve been careful not to share some of the more explicit entries.

  ‘So many hidden talents,’ she whispers, gently running her fingertips across one of the pages.

  ‘Do you see why it’s so important to me? Why I couldn’t let Adam have it?’

  ‘Of course.’ She straightens her shoulders as if about to say something difficult. ‘Do you really think this person will be able to provide you with some answers?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. I decide to admit my greatest fear. ‘The idea that Michael’s death may have been a stupid, pointless accident is something I just can’t accept; something that has haunted me for all these years. I’m scared someone did something terrible to him.’ I tell her more about Diving Fish, the threatening email from Lisa, and the information I have acquired from Siobhan.

  Doris’s deep brown eyes seek out mine. ‘Hardly enough there to prove any actual wrongdoing,’ she says, referring to Lisa’s message. ‘But all this talk about secret relationships, fights in their lodgings …’ She shakes her head. ‘What kind of person brandishes a knife?’

  I stare at her in disbelief. Does someone actually believe me? I’m so used to being doubted, first by the police and coroner, then by Adam, and even Grace.

  Doris pours herself another cup of tea from the teapot and I can see that she is deep in thought. ‘The danger, of course,’ she says, adding a teaspoon of sugar and stirring it fiercely, ‘is that this is all very much second-hand information. A few notes in a diary, a text to an unconfirmed number, an email that could be threatening, depending on the context.’ Doris takes a sip and puts her cup down with a clatter. ‘What you’re going to need, Katie, is good, solid evidence.’

  It’s Monday morning; nine-thirty a.m. I’m sitting anxiously pulling the threads from the old throw on my mother’s settee, listening as the telephone, clasped to my ear, rings for a fourth time. Doris’s idea has been bubbling around in my head since yesterday; I’ve had a restless night waiting for the working week to begin. I’m just about to hang up when I hear a voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘Human Resources, Siobhan Norris speaking.’

  ‘Siobhan.’ I know it’s risky ringing her at work, but I have no choice. I need information. ‘It’s Kate Hardy.’ There’s a pause and I can imagine her glancing around the office, hoping no one will hear.

  ‘I can’t really talk,’ she whispers, sounding nervous. ‘I—’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I interrupt. ‘Can you look through the student records for me to see if you can find a contact number for Lisa Edwards?’

  ‘What? I don’t really think—’

  ‘I just want to talk to her, Siobhan.’

  ‘It’s against GDPR. I’ve just had my training. I could lose my job.’

  ‘I need to find out more about what happened to Michael, and you’re the only one who can help me.’

  I hear voices in the background.

  ‘My manager is coming; I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Siobhan, please, I only want—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hardy, I really am.’

  There is a loud click as the line goes dead. I throw my mobile down in frustration. For the first time in years, I seem to be getting somewhere; but every tiny step forward seems impeded by obstacles and setbacks. I’m just about to try another online search when the phone rings.

  ‘Mrs Hardy?’

  ‘Siobhan, is that you?’

  ‘I’ve got something for you. It’s not a lot, but it may help.’

  ‘Did you find Lisa’s phone number?’

  ‘Even if I had it, I couldn’t give it to you, Mrs Hardy, but there is something I can send to you. I just need your email address.’

  I run upstairs, take the laptop from where I’ve hidden it under the bed, just in case Adam drops by again, and turn it on. Wildly impatient, I have to hit the refresh button several times before the email finally arrives.

  Re: photograph of student fundraising event

  admin@Edgecombehall.co.uk

  To:Kate Hardy

  _________________________________________

  Dear Mrs Hardy,

  Thank you for your enquiry regarding Edgecombe Hall’s photographs of your son Michael during his time as a student with us. I have searched through our newsletters archive and came across one of him at a school fundraising event in 2015. As a Scholarship Committee member, Michael was highly active in raising funds for the school.

  In the attached photograph you will see Michael seated with Junior Swimming Coach and Scholarship Committee staff member Susan O’Neill, and Sixth Form Student Committee member and scholarship recipient Lisa Edwards.

  I hope this photograph will be a useful addition to your memory book.

  Kind wishes

  Siobhan Norris

  Administrative Assistant

  ‘Clever old Siobhan,’ I whisper, clicking on the attachment. In the photograph, three people are sitting at a table in the student common room at Edgecombe Hall. In the centre sits Michael. He’s smiling at the camera, his brown eyes sparkling. On his right sits a girl about his age. She is pale skinned with narrow eyes that give her a guarded look. Her mousy hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and she isn’t smiling. ‘Lisa Edwards,’ I mutter. Was my son really in love with this apparently unremarkable young woman? My attention shifts to the woman on Michael’s left, the swimming coach and the scholarship committee’s staff supervisor Susan O’Neill. Small and fine boned, her hair is styled in a fashionable asymmetrical cut. It is clear she hasn’t wanted to be photographed and has turned away so that her face is in profile. She should be pretty, but something about the set of her jaw and her fierce expression makes her look more like a sulky teenager than an academic.

  My mobile suddenly goes off and I jump. I glance down to see that it’s Adam. Checking up on me no doubt. I force myself to sound calm, normal.

  ‘Morning, darling.’

  ‘Hi, sweetheart. Any plans for today?’

  ‘Hospital at eleven. I’m going to try and see if there’s any progress on the right side, and then,’ – I glance around the bedroom hoping for some inspiration – ‘a bit of housework, I think. The place needs a good dusting, and it looks like my mother has become a bit of a hoarder in her old age.’

  I consider mentioning I’m planning a long walk along the river path later, but knowing Adam he’ll warn me against it. I don’t like you walking on your own. What if you fall over and hurt yourself?

  ‘They should be looking at another ECG and Doppler.’

  ‘I’m sure they are, but I’ll ask.’

  ‘What about follow-on?’ He’s referring, of course, to aftercare – most likely a rehabilitation unit a few miles from the hospital. The way it’s looking now, it’s very unlikely my mother will be returning home anytime soon.

  ‘It’s a bit early to discuss this now, isn’t it?’

  Adam gives a little tut of irritation. ‘You know as soon as she’s stabilised, they’ll need to move her on, for the bed.’ Spoken like a true doctor. ‘Have you thought about long term?’

  I really don’t want to be having this conversation right now. ‘Grace and I have already spoken about it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘When the time comes, Grace said she’d handle it.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  I’m feeling impatient to get back to my work. ‘Aren’t you on at eleven?’

  ‘You’re right, I’d better go.’ He takes what sounds like a large slurp of coffee. ‘I’m on a twelve hour, so may not have a chance to speak to you later.’

  ‘I’ll text you.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.�
��

  I end the call with relief and guilt, and I’m about to put my mobile on silent when I receive a text from Grace.

  Hope you had a good weekend and you and Adam worked everything out. Call me Gx.

  I sigh and return my attention to the laptop; to the photograph of Lisa Edwards. I wish everyone would just mind their own business and leave me alone. I still have a lot to do.

  16

  I am now beginning to actively dread the hospital visits. Every day I greet my silent, angry mother with a fixed smile and one eye on the clock. Visiting hours are from eleven a.m., and I try to get there as early as possible to avoid lunchtime when families are encouraged to help their loved ones with eating and drinking. This afternoon when I arrive at the ward, I’m shocked to learn that my mother’s bed is empty.

  ‘No need to worry,’ says the nurse, seeing the look of panic on my face. ‘After last week’s assessment it was decided she could have a bit of physio.’

  ‘Physio?’ I hadn’t realised my mother had made such progress. ‘Does that mean she’ll be coming home soon?’

  ‘It might be a little while yet,’ says the nurse. ‘But we will need to discuss next steps, and probably a visit home by an occupational therapist to determine any access difficulties.’

  How long is a little while? I think, and then immediately feel guilty. It’s been nearly a week since my mother’s stroke, but in that time my life has changed so drastically that I’m beginning to not recognise myself. With that shift comes a tentative yet terrifying sense of freedom and fear. Last night I had dreamt I was walking through a pine forest, the sticky trees towering high above me, blocking out the sun. I was barefoot and could feel the sting of needles between my toes and the dusky smell of damp earth. As I walked, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into the ground. Then it changed, and I found myself wading through murky water, seaweed tugging at my toes. In the distance I could see a log floating towards me. As it drew closer, I could see that it wasn’t a log at all, but a body, blue-hued, the lips and eyelids eaten away by fish. I had awoken with a start before sunrise, and, afraid of sleep, had stood at the bedroom window watching the pumpkin glow of bedroom lights being switched on across the river.

  ‘Mrs Hardy?’ I realise with a start that the nurse has been speaking to me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I asked if you would like a cup of tea while you’re waiting.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ I check my watch. ‘Maybe I’ll just nip out for a bit of fresh air.’

  I sit in the shade of a weeping willow and continue my search through the internet for any record of Lisa Edwards. As far as I can tell there is no active Facebook page or Twitter feed, and surprisingly no Instagram. What twenty-something doesn’t use Instagram? I am beginning to lose hope. How will I ever find her? How will I ever find the truth?

  The afternoon brings a deep, driving rain that rattles the window frames of my mother’s house and makes me fretful and uncertain. I toy with calling Siobhan again, asking for more information, but the girl has already put her job on the line by sending the email. Opening the laptop, I study the photograph once more: Michael is happy and open, smiling at the camera as if he hadn’t a care in the world. On one side the unremarkable O’Neill, a dark blot of a thing who seems to disappear into the leather chair, and on the other the scowling Lisa. Anger spills out from her image and into the room. I study the girl’s face; the narrow, resentful eyes.

  As I look closer, I realise that there’s a logo of some sort on her t-shirt. It’s circular with lettering around the edges that I can’t quite make out. In the centre is a drawing of a mermaid. Enlarging the picture doesn’t help, as it only makes it even more blurry.

  ‘Does that say club?’ I mutter, squinting to read the tiny writing. I stare at it for what seems like hours before finally closing the attachment and turning off the laptop. I seem to be hitting dead end after dead end, and it’s tiring me out.

  I need some space to figure out what to do next. Maybe I would like a visit from Grace after all; maybe then I wouldn’t feel so lonely. Relief and regret seem to mingle together like colours on a paint wheel. I’m not sure what to feel any more; or even if I feel any more. Visits with my mother are anything but uplifting; just my stilted monologues about village life and how the cat is coping. I never speak of the future. The few friends I do have are so connected with Adam; either fellow doctors, or wives of his friends, that I know speaking to them will be impossible.

  Where are all my friends? When and how did they drift away? I stumble upstairs to the bedroom, find what’s left of my blue pills and swallow one with a gulp of water from a half-empty glass that has been sitting on the bedside table for days. Collapsing onto the bed, I slip Michael’s hoodie from beneath my pillow and lie with it nestled against my chest. I have never felt so alone in all my life.

  I wake an hour later. The rain has cleared, leaving glistening streets and muddy puddles that will be the downfall of any mother trying to get their child home from after-school club without wet socks. I feel my stomach grumble and make my way to the kitchen. I’ve been so preoccupied with pacifying Adam and looking after Mum that I haven’t done a proper shop in days. As expected, the fridge is empty – only milk, bottled water and a piece of ham hardening around the edges. I check the time and give a little huff. The corner shop is long closed. I open the pantry and scan the contents for possibilities. Hearing the door creak, Tam races in from the lounge and begins circling my ankles. Did my mother really say a few months ago that his hearing was going?

  ‘The one thing I do have is cat food,’ I say, emptying a pouch of something foul smelling into a bowl. ‘Looks like it’s the pub for me.’

  Once upon a time The Bell and Anchor had been a prosperous watering hole for the small narrow-hulled sailboats that transported goods up and down the River Tamar during the late 1800s. As a child I was fascinated by the pub; the sounds and smells, and the conspicuous sense of danger that hung like pipe smoke in the air. There had been a stabbing one Friday evening when I was eight, and my father, a trained first aider, had been summoned to help. He returned a few hours later with blood on his shirt and a pale look of disbelief on his face. The next morning, when Grace and I tried to ask him about it, my mother silenced us with a glare. Later, when we were sent to the shop to buy milk, we wandered on, desperate to see the bright splash of blood that would stain the pavement for months to come.

  This evening, however, the newly replaced pub windows glow with light, and smoke curls its way upwards from the repointed chimney. I’ve been told that a Londoner has recently arrived in the village and bought up the site with the view to converting it into a gastropub and B&B, catering mostly to well-off holiday makers. I duck through the squat front entrance and head for the bar. The place is buzzing. I feel a flutter of panic as I make my way through the crowd but force myself to carry on. I find a seat at the bar and order a glass of wine and an omelette and chips. I take a sip and look around. The scarred wooden panelling has been removed, exposing beautiful red brickwork. Bleached pine tables with chunky leather-backed chairs take the place of standard pub furniture. Near the front, the landlord has placed a couple of settees for a more intimate seating area. A young couple, clearly hikers, are sitting opposite each other sipping from pints of Guinness and leaning over after every second sip for a kiss. The clientele seems to have moved upmarket as well; moneyed tourists, well-off landowners, and the occasional local to keep the place going in off season. Still smells the same though.

  While I wait for my food, I find myself doodling on a serviette; anything to avoid having to make eye contact with the heavily fragranced man sitting next to me. I find myself drawing a circle and, within that, a very rough depiction of a mermaid, just as I had seen on Lisa’s shirt in the photograph. The barman arrives with my meal and clears a place for the sauces.

  ‘You a rower?’

  I reluctantly look over at the man sitting next to me.

  ‘Pardon?’r />
  ‘A rower.’ He points to the doodle of the mermaid I have drawn on the serviette.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  He frowns at me. ‘This here is the symbol of the Cadgwith Cove Gig Club,’ he says, tapping loudly on the bar. ‘My brother-in-law rows for them.’

  ‘Gig club?’

  He shakes his head at my ignorance. ‘The Cadgwith Cove gig rowing club, ’bout ten miles from Helston.’

  I can feel my heart pumping. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ He gets his phone out and Googles the club. Within seconds the screen is filled with an image of a mermaid enclosed within a circle of words. It’s exactly like the one on Lisa Edwards’s shirt.

  The next morning, I don’t have much of a plan except to get to Cadgwith Cove and find out as much as I can about the gig club and Lisa. I could ring the club secretary, but I wonder what on earth I would say when he or she asks why I’m looking for her: Well it’s like this, Bob. I think that Lisa may have been responsible in some way for my son’s death. So, can you give me her home address?

  I am now experienced enough to know that even the tiniest sniff of weirdness or desperation is sufficient for people to shut down. Nobody wants the truth. They just want tidy stories that maintain the status quo.

  ‘Just find Lisa,’ I whisper as I pull out of Calstock. The morning sun is a blood-orange glow.

  17

  The sky above Helston is angry indigo, and in the distance, there is thunder. As I drive along the narrow lanes towards Cadgwith, I pray for no approaching cars. The thought of having to back up to a passing point makes me feel queasy. I spot the sign indicating parking and pull into a small, gravelled area. As I get out of the car, the first drops of rain begin pelting my skin. I don’t have a clue where I am or where I should be going. A fierce south-westerly wind nearly knocks me off my feet and I wish I could race home to the relative safety of my mother’s front room. For some reason, Michael’s words in his diary from nearly seven years before pop into my mind: This is going to be the best year of my life. I carry on.