The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  I turn to Julia and Marie-Claire. ‘Canoeing lesson?’

  ‘Oh la-la,’ grins Marie-Claire. ‘You haven’t read the programme, have you?’

  ‘Thank you, Becky,’ says Malcolm, stepping forward, ‘for what I’m sure our guests have found to be a fascinating and most comprehensive tour.’ He gives me a cheeky sideways glance. ‘I’ve just received a text from Mrs Roe saying that the guests’ bags have been delivered to their rooms. I suggest we break up so that they can unpack and get settled. Lunch will be served at one precisely.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Cook doesn’t like to be kept waiting,’ Malcolm scolds, his Highland burr tinged with a dash of bold humour.

  27

  My room is fit for purpose and comfortable, and best of all it has a wonderful view of the loch. For a moment I forget what I’ve come here to do and simply drink in the beauty; the abundant green of the woodland and the sound of waves gently lapping at the shore. As hard as I try, however, my thoughts drift back to Devon: to Adam and his incessant attempts to get in touch with me. I blocked his mobile and our old landline number, but he still managed to sneak his way through to my Facebook page via a mutual connection. He even used his mother’s mobile to try and speak to me, pleading for me to hear him out before I hung up. Why won’t he just leave me alone?

  I unpack my bag, shower, and then lie on the bed, the soft breeze cooling my naked body. Had this been a normal day in someone’s normal life, perhaps some of the other students and I might become friends. But I’m starting to recognise that while it is important for me to blend in, I also need to keep myself to myself. This whole exploit has occurred in a mad, frenetic rush. In less than two hours I will be meeting the woman I’m certain knows what really happened to Michael on the night he died.

  Focus on the present. Easy to say, but the past, present and future all seemed to be mingling into one colossal confusion. Deal with the task at hand. But what is the task at hand? I take out my notebook and begin writing.

  Try to get in with Desra McKinley, get close to her/ find out everything I can about her

  Try to get her to talk about her past, about Michael

  Confirm that she is Diving Fish

  Find out if she was on the beach that night, and what really happened

  If none of the above works – confront her!

  Point six remains blank, even though there is only one thing I really want to do.

  Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I get dressed and make my way to the common room on the first floor. The room is empty apart from the pink-haired Geordie lady who is quietly sipping a cup of tea.

  ‘Hi, again.’

  ‘Kate, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Sally,’ she replies, and, studying me carefully adds, ‘not local, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve lived in Devon for the last fifteen years but born Cornish through and through.’

  ‘More power to you,’ she replies, raising her cup of tea in salute.

  The door to the common room opens. A man in his early sixties enters. He has curly grey shoulder-length hair and deep brown eyes. He gives us both an open, engaging smile.

  ‘I’m Dave,’ he says, making his way unashamedly towards the plate of biscuits on the table.

  ‘I’m Sally.’

  ‘And I’m Kate.’

  ‘Very nice to meet you,’ he mutters through a mouthful of ginger nut. ‘I know lunch is in fifteen minutes but I’m starving.’

  ‘Newcastle?’ asks Sally.

  She’s clearly interested in where people come from.

  ‘Durham,’ replies Dave, dusting the crumbs off his shirt. ‘Via Musselburgh to see my granddaughter. I left at six this morning and I’m exhausted.’

  We nod sympathetically. A gentle gong begins reverberating throughout the room and I find myself looking around in confusion.

  Both Sally and Dave begin to laugh.

  ‘You haven’t read the programme, have you?’ says Sally. ‘That gong indicates either mealtime or the start of classes.’ She points to a small speaker bolted on the wall near the ceiling. ‘During term time I think there’s also a gong for lights out. As liberal as the school likes to present itself as being, I still get the impression the routine is pretty regimented.’

  ‘Which is great news for me,’ says Dave, holding the common room door for us. ‘Because I like my meals on time.’

  I meet Marie-Claire and Julia in the hallway and we’re all making our way outside when I hear a door close behind me. I turn to see the tall, fair-haired man who arrived with Sally. He smiles and follows.

  Lunch is a buffet that includes smoked salmon, homemade cheese scones, salad, and a tower of cakes and biscuits. A special area has been set up for the group in the conservatory that adjoins the dining hall. The French doors have been opened and a cooling breeze drifts in from the loch, bringing with it the scent of pine and fresh lavender. I’m just debating as to whether I should have another shortbread round when Malcolm appears.

  ‘Good afternoon everyone.’ He seems to have come to life now that Becky isn’t present. ‘I hope you all enjoyed your lunch. If we can all make our way to the Ishutin Building, your afternoon session will begin.’ I try to stifle a yawn. ‘We realise that many of you have travelled some distance and may be feeling a little tired, but we also want to make sure you get the most out of this week. There will be plenty of free time for you to relax later this afternoon.’ He gives a nod and, indicating towards the open French doors, adds, ‘So if you’ll kindly all follow me.’

  28

  As we make our way along the Cobbles, I am filled with anticipation, apprehension, and, most strangely of all, a sense of acute exhilaration. I am finally going to meet the person who will give me the answers I need. This is where it will all begin; and hopefully all end.

  The foyer area of the Ishutin Building is light and airy. There are displays of student work, open-plan work areas, and to the rear, a large auditorium-cum-theatre. There are posters on the walls announcing the Summer Lecture Series, including Professor Findley Cardew’s address on Friday. I follow the group into the auditorium and cross into shadow. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. The seating area descends gently to the stage, where twelve chairs are laid out in a wide semi-circle and face a large drop-down screen. Facing the audience is a stool, a lectern, and a flip chart. The chairs are in muggy gloom, but I can see that a spotlight has been carefully focused on the lectern area.

  Becky’s perky twang cuts through the gloom.

  ‘If you’ll all just take a seat,’ she says, ‘Dr McKinley will be with you shortly.’

  I make my way onto the stage and find an empty seat next to Sally.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

  ‘A bit nervous. You?’

  Sally nods. ‘Very dramatic,’ she says, indicating the seating arrangement.

  The lights dim and the screen in front of us bursts into colour. Vibrant blue images of sky; clear water and a basket overflowing with ripe purple berries. It pales back to white before erupting into a sunrise of golden tones that flicker before shifting into innumerable variations of verdant green. The kaleidoscope of colours swirls into one before fading back to white.

  ‘What is poetry?’ A voice echoes from behind the screen. I watch as Desra McKinley emerges from the black and steps directly into the light. There is an audible intake of breath from the observers, and I note McKinley’s smile of satisfaction. ‘The need to define, quantify, classify what poetry is has challenged scholars throughout history.’ Though tiny – she can’t be over five feet two – McKinley’s deep voice seems to fill the auditorium. ‘James Fenton, in his introduction to English poetry, puts forth the idea that poetry is what happens when we RAISE OUR VOICES.’ To make her point she yells out the last three words. ‘Others suggest that poetry is what happens when we lower them.’ Again, to emphasise her statement she drops her tone to a whis
per. ‘Ultimately, poetry isn’t about volume, neither sound level nor quantity; poetry is about ideas, feelings, emotions.’ Behind her, the screen displays images to highlight her statements. ‘Good poetry, however, is more than all of that,’ she pauses dramatically. ‘Good poetry is all about words, words, words. It is language that makes emotions, ideas and feelings come into being.’ Selections of McKinley’s own work appear on the screen behind her. ‘For example, in my poem, “Feed the Good Wolf”, based on a Cherokee tale about nurturing the positive side of our natures, I use wordplay to explore the nature of kindness. The Cherokee word for kindness is “nudanvtiyv”, and so I began this poem with the line “The naivety of kindness”, using wordplay both figuratively and literally to explore ideas through language.’

  I discreetly glance at my fellow students. They appear to be spellbound. I, however, am less than impressed. As far as I can tell – though I’m no expert – Dr McKinley’s introductory lecture is simply a series of dodgy soundbites linked together with some self-aggrandising IT. I study the dark blot of a woman on the stage in front of me. O’Neill doesn’t look very different to the photo I carry in my shoulder bag. She’s wearing a chic denim shirt dress and white plimsolls. Her calves are lean and muscular, and her chestnut-coloured hair is parted down the middle, falling in a perfectly straight line to just above her shoulders. I catch the glint of diamond studs in her ears. She seems hugely confident, but even with all the designer wear and expensive jewellery there’s still the sense of a child fighting to look grown up.

  ‘In order to learn how to write poetry, you need to read poetry!’ I resist the urge to roll my eyes, particularly as the rest of the group clearly seem impressed by the diminutive poet. ‘We’ll talk more about structure and metre later,’ she continues, ‘but for now I’d like you to spend a few minutes with the person next to you discussing your own personal definition of poetry.’

  ‘Isn’t she wonderful!’ Sally whispers, before embarking on a five-minute monologue of what poetry means to her. I echo a few of Sally’s thoughts, but contribute few of my own. Not that Sally would have noticed. The truth is, because of the Brethren ban on reading anything but approved texts, I knew little about poetry until I started university. One of my fellow nursing students was a huge Ted Hughes fan – ‘he was so good looking!’ – and forced her Oxford Book of Twentieth Century Verse on me one weekend. I devoured the poems as if starving. All those words, all that feeling, denied to me for so long, filled me with a deep and furious longing. Discovering that Michael was writing poetry, doing something I never had a chance to, makes me feel both sad and thrilled at the same time.

  ‘Now,’ says McKinley, cutting through the chatter, ‘I’d like you each to introduce yourself to the group. Tell us where you’re from and, in one word, tell us what poetry means to you.’

  Everyone looks around in terror at the thought of having to condense their views into a single word.

  ‘Shall we start at this end?’ She points to the good-looking fair-haired man who arrived late.

  He clears his throat, and without looking up, says, ‘My name is Caleb Henson, I’m from York.’ He clears his throat again. ‘Well, was from York. To me, poetry means escape.’

  There are supportive nods all around.

  ‘Thank you, Caleb.’ O’Neill points to Julia.

  ‘I’m Julia. I’m originally from the Isle of Wight, but now I live in St Andrews with my fiancée Marie-Claire.’ Julia reaches over and squeezes her partner’s hand. ‘I think poetry means …’ she pauses and nibbles on her lower lip. ‘Expression.’

  ‘Thank you, Julia. Next …’ McKinley gestures to my left.

  ‘I’m Sally and I’m from Newcastle and, for me, poetry means … well, the opportunity to explore my inner life.’ She gives a little giggle. ‘Oh, that’s more than one word isn’t it?’ McKinley’s smile hardens. ‘Let’s see … I guess my one word would be to explore. I mean just explore. Explore.’

  As my turn approaches, I find myself becoming increasingly anxious.

  ‘Thank you,’ says O’Neill, and then turns to me, ‘I believe you’re next.’ I find myself staring into the face of the woman who I believe knows what happened the night my son died. It is the first time we’ve made eye contact. I can’t tear my eyes from hers and McKinley’s confidence seems to falter. She looks away, apparently to adjust the sound bar on her laptop.

  ‘My name is Kate. I’m from Devon, and for me poetry is about truth.’ I hadn’t meant to speak so loudly, but for some reason my voice has risen, and the word reverberates around the lecture theatre.

  ‘Truth,’ repeats McKinley. ‘Interesting … but what is truth?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ I hear Julia mutter.

  Marie-Claire puts up her hand. ‘Well, for me being truthful in terms of my poetry means trying to express my thoughts and feelings no matter how difficult that might be.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says McKinley. ‘But I would ask you to consider that personal truth, whatever that may mean to you, is in fact a construct built on shifting sands. The feelings, thoughts, and emotions we feel when we are head over heels in love can be much the same as those we feel after being rejected: a speeding heart rate, a lack of appetite, all-consuming thoughts. Each is based on our own personal truth, but each is also different.’ She stops to take a sip of water. ‘And what about that old gem poetic licence? Literally the freedom to deviate deliberately from normally applicable rules or practices? One could argue that it implies that poetry is inherently untruthful.’ There are nods and whispers of agreement. ‘In fact, I would suggest,’ she says, holding her hand up to silence the group, ‘that each of us has our own personal definitions of truth. What one person feels is truthful, another may find not so – which takes me back to my original statement: what is truth?’ McKinley smiles triumphantly, and I feel the people around me being sucked into the lecturer’s discourse like guppies into a whirlpool. Something about her overly simplistic reasoning makes me cringe, but I don’t challenge her. I want to remain inconspicuous for as long as possible.

  We finish up the introductions and have a break. How I am going to get through this week I do not know.

  29

  We spend the rest of that afternoon doing a series of exercises to ‘free the poet within’, whatever that means, with McKinley instructing us to run around the stage shouting our favourite words at each other, followed by ten minutes of lying on the floor with our eyes closed listening to the sounds around us and imaging innovative ways of describing them.

  ‘It’s nearly three o’clock,’ announces McKinley as she makes her way around our prostrate bodies. ‘In your own time I would like you to get up and find a quiet place to work on your own. I would like you to jot down some of the thoughts, feelings, and emotions you have experienced this afternoon. I do not want a poem. What I want is the unedited record of your experiences. You can mind-map, bullet-point, write in prose, make a list, draw pictures; it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it is pure, uncensored and comes from a place of truth.’ Through half closed eyes I watch as she checks the messages on her iPhone before continuing. ‘There are large sheets of paper, notebooks, and coloured pens on the tables in the foyer. Feel free to use your tablet or mobile phone if you wish; you can record or film your responses if that’s your preferred mode. It’s all up to you. All I ask is that they are not in poetic form. That comes later. When you feel satisfied with your work you are free to go and spend the rest of the afternoon as you please.’ She slips a small mirror out of her handbag and begins applying lipstick. ‘I believe a welcome barbecue has been arranged at the old boathouse at seven tonight. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to join you, but I will see you here tomorrow at nine a.m. prompt.’ She presses her lips together firmly, and then gently runs her fingertips across both eyebrows. ‘Have a good evening.’ With that, she walks up the steps and out of the theatre. Slowly people begin to yawn, stretch, sit up, and, without a word, follow her out. I sit on
the floor, waiting for everyone to leave.

  When at last the theatre is silent, I give a deep sigh of relief. Maybe it is the fatigue, or the residual effects of leaving Adam finally catching up with me, but I suddenly feel like crying. The thought of having to try and chronicle my thoughts and feelings over the last few hours seems both terrifying and absurd. What was I thinking? I don’t belong here any more than bloody Desra McKinley does. Reluctantly, I open my notebook. I have never thought of myself as the least bit creative. As a nurse, I spent years training to be practical, observant, efficient; I know how and when to put emotion aside to do my job. That, and the death of my son, means that I have actively refrained from ‘exploring my inner world’, as McKinley so insipidly suggested.

  Still, I will have to try and write something, won’t I?

  The room is very dark. I can barely see the page in front of me. There are sounds all around: a projector cooling, the ventilation turning on and off. They fill the space like a shadow.

  I throw my pen down and watch as it clatters across the floor. There is no way this is going to work. Feeling frustrated, I head back to the hall of residence to make myself a cup of tea, doubtful that a hot drink will produce any inspiration.

  The common room is empty; the group is clearly taking advantage of the late afternoon sun. I make myself a drink, shut the bedroom door tightly, and settle on my bed. I need to come up with something. I don’t want McKinley to become suspicious or recognise me as a fraud; not until I can find out what she knows. I re-read my first few lines, wincing in disgust at my ineptitude. How did Michael do it?