‘How can you say that sounded contrived?’ I say, deciding to challenge the reverential silence that tends to follow each of McKinley’s diktats. ‘Of course it’s contrived. Everything we’re doing is contrived, but, as far as Caleb’s piece goes, I think it’s not only beautiful but completely authentic – because that’s exactly how people from those sorts of communities behave.’ I can feel myself getting increasingly angry with what I feel is the tutor’s readiness to criticise from a position of little understanding. ‘My childhood in a fundamentalist household was closed, isolated, suffocating; every move I made was overshadowed by acquiescence and fear.’ I am giving away more than I intend to. ‘Fear of sinning, fear of dishonouring our parents, fear of dishonouring our brethren. Fear that distorted and disabled you until you became nothing more than an outline – someone who walks in shadow.’ I look around to see the rest of the group watching me, and Caleb’s green eyes fixed intently on my face.
‘Bravo!’ cries McKinley, clapping her hands. ‘Kate here has just perfectly demonstrated how I wanted you to attack the first exercise. Her response was truthful, emotional, full of feeling, but not yet a poem. Kate’s even incorporated subtle imagery in her idea of an empty outline of a person, which points to the exploration of language I’ve been talking to you about.’ I feel McKinley squeeze my shoulder and for the first time that morning, hear her say the words, ‘well done!’ There is a splatter of applause from my fellow students, but I shake it away. I wasn’t trying to be clever, poetic or emotional. I just wanted to put Desra McKinley in her place.
‘The next stage is to start thinking about imagery, rhythm, meaning.’ McKinley glances at her watch and starts to pack up her things. ‘I gather you’ve got a sandwich lunch at the boathouse and then the canoers are to meet at two. Use this opportunity to explore landscape as meaning. Think of perspective: how the lake looks from the shore, and vice versa. Is there some greater meaning you can find there? We’ll be looking at that tomorrow.’ She gives the group a smug grin. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be partaking, as I’m meeting my agent this afternoon to discuss the publication of my new anthology.’
‘Anthology?’ says Sally with wide-eyed interest. ‘How exciting. What’s it called?’
McKinley places a finger to her lips. ‘Not until the deal is signed,’ she says. ‘Don’t want to be jinxing it, do I? What I can tell you is that it’s a fusion of works both old and new.’
I bite back a sigh. I’m finding Dr Desra McKinley increasingly unbearable, which is already making it difficult to put the first bullet point of my action plan into play:
1. Try to get in with Desra McKinley, get close to her/ find out everything I can about her.
‘I should be back in time for our after-dinner session in the boathouse,’ she says. ‘I’ll tell you all about it then.’ Next to me, I hear Julia muttering something under her breath. ‘I would ask that all of you leave the work we discussed today until after dinner; or at least later this afternoon. It needs time to grow and develop both in the conscious and unconscious mind. Overworking it can lead to stagnation. If you feel you must write, try some diary or journal writing, but just as you would do with bread dough, or finely cooked steak – let it rest.’
There are a few chuckles, but if anything, I find McKinley’s metaphors to be more clichéd than those of her students. I feel edgy, uneasy. My disclosure this morning has rattled me more than I can say. The whole point of the week had been to integrate with the group and ingratiate myself with McKinley. That means keeping my life and my past a secret. Exposing myself means exposing weakness. I can’t afford for that to happen.
31
After lunch I am reluctantly coerced by Julia and Marie-Claire into a wetsuit and life jacket and then find myself stepping into a large, open Canadian-style canoe.
‘It’s not as bad as I thought,’ I say, gripping the oar. Sitting behind me, Becky provides support.
‘Blade in the water at ninety degrees, Kate. Imagine yourself slicing through the water like a knife through butter.’
We have only travelled a few metres offshore when Nikki and Malcolm approach in another canoe.
‘One of the most important parts of this training session is learning the capsize drill,’ Malcolm calls, as he slips out of his canoe and into the water.
‘In a minute, Malcolm is going to tip our canoe over,’ says Becky. ‘We’ll be inside.’ Her voice sounds far away. ‘It will be our job to right it.’
‘What?’ I can feel the panic rising in my throat.
‘It’s all right,’ Caleb calls from the shore. ‘You can do it! You know you can.’
I gaze around in terror.
‘It’s just like we practised earlier,’ says Becky, and I feel her grip my shoulder reassuringly.
‘But I didn’t practise, I was late for—’
Becky, it seems, hasn’t heard me.
Before I can finish my sentence, I find myself face-first in the water. Something wet and stringy covers my face and slips into my mouth. Is it algae or seaweed? It’s pitch-black and claustrophobic inside the overturned canoe, and I find myself struggling, jerking and flailing like a landed trout. Panic overwhelms me and I feel my lungs screaming for air. Is this what it was like for Michael?
From somewhere in the watery darkness comes a voice.
‘Calm down, Mum. It’s just water. You’ve lived beside it your entire life. Grew up in it. Taught me to love it just like you do.’
Michael?
‘Kick, Mum. Just kick.’
I can’t.
‘Don’t give me that bullshit. Do you remember the time I bet you that I could swim upriver to Cotehele?’
The tide was turning, and I was frightened there was no way you could make it all that way.
‘But I did.’
You were so determined.
‘I wanted to win.’
I could see how tired you were, and the current was so strong.
‘And there you were, puttering alongside me in granddad’s old dinghy.’
You were only eight. I wanted to pull you out.
‘But I wouldn’t let you.’
You were so stubborn.
‘Determined.’
Yes, determined.
‘I was a bit afraid.’
You didn’t show it.
‘What good would that do?’
How did you ever get to be so clever?
‘I had a good teacher.’
I miss you, Michael.
‘I miss you too, Mum. But now you’ve got to kick, okay?’
Suddenly, I am kicking. I surface to sunshine and the sound of laughter.
‘Kate, grab the side of the canoe.’ Becky is beside me. ‘I’m going under. When you hear me knocking on the inside, you need to flip the canoe over. After that, we’ll work on getting ourselves back in.’
Things are happening so fast I don’t have time to think or feel frightened. Becky was beside me, and now she is gone, ducking into the water and under the overturned canoe. I can feel it lifting and then grab the side and push with all my might so that it flips the right way up.
It takes a few attempts, but finally, with a bit of help from Becky, I’m pulled into the canoe. I hear cheers from my classmates on the shore.
‘I can’t believe I just did that.’
‘You were great, Kate,’ says Becky. ‘Really great.’
‘How long were we under?’
‘Under?’
‘When Malcolm tipped us into the water. How long?’
‘Just a few seconds,’ Becky seems confused by the question. ‘In fact, you were up before me.’
‘Was I?’
‘For someone afraid of water,’ says Becky, ‘it really was the bravest thing.’
I turn and smile gratefully at her. Throughout our twelve years of marriage Adam had often berated me for my lack of self-assurance. I think back to our first meeting, of sitting next to him at a colleague’s dinner party. It was so obviously a setup that i
t was almost embarrassing.
‘Divorced three years ago, no children.’ His summary during the pudding course was concise. ‘I suppose I spent too much time at work and not enough on the marriage.’ I remember thinking at the time how confident he appeared; his sense of absolute certainty. With Adam I had a strong, confident partner who could offer security and support, as well as being a good role model for Michael. Long gone were the days when I made decisions based on emotion. Look where that had got me: pregnant at fifteen.
My thoughts turn to Ryan on the afternoon of my mother’s funeral. Forgive me, Katie. Please say you’ll forgive me. With Adam I was strategic, clever; or so I thought. The marriage was good at first. Yes, it was true we didn’t share a joint bank account, and he did like the house – his house – to be kept just so, but I found myself easily adapting; reworking my personal habits to ensure his approval: Michael had called it keeping the grumpy monster at bay in his diary. There had been that brief separation when we escaped to my mother’s house. When I returned, I had been unequivocal.
‘If you ever try to pressure me into giving Michael prescription medication again, I will leave you for ever,’ I whispered to Adam, the first time we had sex after my return. He had looked at me in stunned silence – or perhaps grudging respect. Whichever it was, there would be no more doubt in my husband’s mind who came first.
A year later, Michael was at Edgecombe to start his GCSEs, his application supported by Adam’s friendship with a member of the Board of Governors.
You got your way in the end, Adam, didn’t you?
Feeling tense and uneasy after my experience that afternoon, I need to walk. I avoid the Cobbles and any chance of running into my classmates, and instead take a grassy path that leads behind the halls of residence and into a large, wooded area that borders the loch. I walk quickly, forcing my body onwards, hoping that the heavy exertion will steady my shallow, anxiety-driven breathing. There is nothing but body, breath and my mind gently unravelling itself. I put aside my thoughts to negotiate an enormous fallen pine, the sticky sap still bleeding from its splintered trunk. Was it a lightning strike? A windstorm? I run my fingers across the Goliath’s honey-coloured rings. I feel my breathing still and let my mind unfold into the soft green that surrounds me. I hear the crunch of a twig and, turning, see a figure emerge from behind a row of spindly pines.
‘Caleb.’ Beams of late afternoon sunlight stream in through the pine canopy, bathing him in a curtain of gold.
‘I was walking,’ he says in his usual straightforward manner.
‘Me too.’
He steps forward, and I find myself walking alongside him in silence, neither of us awkward or uncomfortable.
‘Thank you,’ he says, as we reach the fork in the path that will lead us back to the Cobbles.
‘What for?’
‘For your defence of my work this morning.’ He smiles shyly, and I see just how handsome he really is, his narrow face and high cheekbones giving him a slightly haunted look. ‘The way you challenged Dr McKinley was very …’ he ruminates over his next word, ‘impressive.’
‘I thought your piece was sensitive and extremely well written.’ I find myself becoming both angry and slightly tearful. ‘She was wrong, Caleb. Completely wrong.’
Now he is openly grinning, exposing perfect white teeth. ‘And you know something about living in a religious community?’
‘Pardon?’
‘This morning you mentioned brethren?’
‘Oh, that,’ I reply, wishing that I hadn’t let my emotions get the best of me. ‘It was nothing.’
The look of disappointment on Caleb’s face makes me reconsider.
‘Plymouth Brethren,’ I say, and, seeing his lack of comprehension, I continue. ‘Exclusive Brethren, which meant we weren’t allowed to mix with any non-Brethren, read non-religious material, watch telly, listen to the radio; even have a pet.’
‘Sounds tough.’
‘They were hugely controlling, and unfortunately my family had a particular fondness for corporal punishment.’
Caleb sighs. ‘Now that I understand. Why did you leave?’
‘We were cast out when I was fifteen.’
‘Cast out?’
‘Sort of like being disfellowshipped.’
Caleb gives a grimace of understanding. ‘And why?’
At first I wonder why he would ask such a personal question, but something about the way he is regarding me – open, honest, and clearly interested – makes me trust him.
‘I got pregnant.’
Caleb is silent, but his eyes never leave my face.
‘Ah well,’ he says after a moment, a gentle smile playing at the edge of his mouth. ‘That’s one way to free yourself.’
I find myself smiling too. ‘It was the best thing that ever happened to me.’
His expression grows serious. ‘Then why are you so sad?’
I freeze, shocked by his insightfulness.
‘I’m sorry,’ he looks away. ‘That’s far too personal a question. I apologise.’
‘It’s all right,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘It’s nice to meet someone so open.’
‘A blessing and a curse,’ he replies sheepishly.
We walk on, speaking only occasionally, but enjoying the tranquillity of each other’s company. As we approach the halls of residence I stop and put my hand on Caleb’s arm.
‘I would really appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone about what I’ve shared with you today.’
‘Of course.’
‘Nothing about my past, my pregnancy.’
He puts his hand on mine. ‘You have my word.’
Feeling both awkward and content I slip my hand from his arm. Not wishing to be seen arriving together, I hold back. Caleb clearly understands my anxiety, and without a word, carries on without me. I note his long strides as he walks onwards, and his well-muscled arms as he pulls the metal gate shut.
‘Caleb?’ He turns towards me. ‘I think you are an extraordinarily talented poet.’
32
Dinner that evening is fillet steak with mash, and some sort of nut roast for the vegans. The burgundy is flowing, and my glass never seems to be empty. McKinley, at once effervescent and smug, arrives just as the cheese course is being served. Parking herself next to me at the long dining table, she fills a wine glass and then helps herself to the cheeseboard.
‘How did it go?’ Sally calls from across the table. McKinley responds with an enigmatic smile and a bite of brie.
As we make our way towards the boathouse, I find myself listening to McKinley’s cheerful chatter with growing confusion. The tutor is on form, listening intently to the students’ concerns, offering advice, reassuring them. Maybe it’s her recent success, or perhaps the course administrator has had a word with her – whatever it is, it seems to have transformed her from a self-centred idiot into someone with an energy and charisma that is undeniably compelling.
When we reach the boathouse, a large space has been cleared in the middle of the room and Malcolm and Becky are attempting to teach the group Scottish country dancing. Before I know what is happening, I have been dragged from my chair and into the throng. The wine and music, along with the cool breeze from the lake, seem to have imbued the room with a sense of gentle hysteria, and before long I find myself overcome with laughter.
After a particularly robust promenade in which I step on Dave’s toe, I excuse myself to get some fresh air. Above me, the evening sky has shifted and nearby a bonfire blazes on the sand. I remember what it feels like to be happy. I feel a hand on my arm and, thinking it is Caleb, I turn.
‘No need to be out here alone.’
‘Desra.’
‘You’re far too hard on yourself, you know,’ she says. I am speechless. ‘I realise you’re a novice, but I was impressed by your work today.’ She sways slightly and then grips my arm to steady herself. ‘Your openness and vulnerability are very appealing.’ I feel my throat constrict but say nothing.
‘So, tell me Kate, where does it all come from?’ She moves closer and I resist the urge to push her away. Now is the moment to ingratiate myself, gain her trust.
‘My marriage breakdown I suppose. It’s been difficult.’
‘And the kids? You have children, don’t you?’
I count to three. ‘No.’
‘Oh, I was certain you …’ she shakes her head as if to clear away a thought. ‘Never mind. What’s important is that you’re using that pain as a means of expression.’ She pats my shoulder, nearly touching my neck. ‘I’ll be starting one-to-ones tomorrow. I think you and I will work well together.’
My close-mouthed smile conceals gritted teeth. ‘I’m sure we will,’ I say finally. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Desra,’ Sally’s voice rings out. ‘I need a partner for the Acadian Jig.’
McKinley leans forward, so close I can smell the wine on her breath. ‘Duty calls,’ she whispers, and for a sickening moment I think she is going to kiss me.
‘She was definitely making the moves,’ says Julia, topping up my glass of wine.
The three of us are sitting on the jetty, watching the crimson embers of the bonfire flicker and pop.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,’ says Marie-Claire with little conviction.
‘Oh, come on,’ snaps Julia. ‘She’s been making the moves on every good-looking piece of flesh, male or female, since the moment we got here.’
I feel that deep wrench in my gut but force myself to remain calm. ‘Did you not see the way she consoled Caleb after this morning’s session?’ continues Julia. ‘Interesting, too, how it was after she trashed his work?’ Julia’s face is pinched in disgust. ‘Honestly, she was all over him. And the way she fawns over that Turner boy.’
I want to reply, but my throat is tight. ‘I thought she only fancied blokes,’ continues Julia, and, turning to me, adds, ‘but after that play she made for you? Well now I’m not so sure.’
My mind is reeling. How had I not seen it before? Her ‘consoling’ Caleb, her ‘fawning over’ Turner?
‘She’s drunk,’ I reply, finally finding words. ‘We all are.’ I ignore Julia’s questioning look. If sucking up to McKinley means I can find out more about her and what she knows about that night, then so be it.
The Lake Page 21
