The House of Tides

by Hannah Richell

  Fifteen meters away and the boy stumbles. The man yanks at his skinny arm, half in irritation, half to hold him up. He snarls something from the twisted corner of his mouth and Dora sees the boy’s fair head droop lower still.

  Ten meters and she remains fixed to the spot.

  “Come on,” she hears the man urge, half dragging the scrap of a boy. “I told you we’d be late. We don’t have time for this.”

  Dora ignores the man now. She only has eyes for the boy. She is willing him to look up at her. Pale freckled skin, wide mouth, her father’s clear blue eyes; she can see it so clearly in her mind’s eye. She stands stock-still, barely daring to breathe, and then finally the man spots her. He eyes her warily as they close the gap and moves one protective hand onto the boy’s shoulder.

  “My shoes hurt,” the boy whines.

  Dora’s heart misses a beat at the sound of the plaintive little-boy wail. She is back there on the beach. Too fast. I’m thirsty. Can we stop? She hears the echoes of Alfie and feels her heart split in two. It’s definitely him.

  Without thinking she steps in front of them, blocking the path. She doesn’t know what will happen next. She doesn’t think to worry whether the man is dangerous. All she cares about is seeing the boy’s eyes.

  “What do you want?” asks the man. He is aggressive, irritated.

  Look at me. Alfie, look at me, she wills.

  And finally, he does. As the man pulls on the boy’s arm, trying to move him onto the grass verge and around her physical blockade, the boy lifts his eyes and stares up at her.

  She sees a narrow, heart-shaped face, a pointed chin, and watery-brown eyes filled with uncertainty and fear.

  Dora peers at him hungrily, and then her heart sinks.

  “Dad?” the boy asks hesitantly, his eyes darting from Dora to the man and then back again.

  “Come on, son,” the man says roughly. He turns to Dora. “You should watch where you’re going, lady!”

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I thought…I thought…”

  “Silly cow,” the man mutters under his breath, and as they disappear around the bend in the path, Dora sinks to the ground, the breath leaving her body in great shuddering gasps.

  She thinks about it the rest of the way home on the bus. Did she really think it would be Alfie? More than ten years have passed. It’s a sign of just how mad she is that she could believe it even for a moment. That boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine and Alfie, if he were alive, would be fourteen now.

  She rests her head against the graffitied interior of the bus and watches as the kebab shops and convenience stores of the Kingsland Road swim past. Is that what she wants? Does she really still want Alfie to be alive after all this time? Could he really have spent the last decade living some shadowy, alternative life, one far removed from the sheltered bosom of their family? It’s something she has never been able to give voice to, to anyone, but it’s never far from her thoughts, lurking there in the darkest corners of her mind.

  She knows the police pursued every line of inquiry. She knows that the inquest, based on the best possible evidence, declared Alfie to be dead. They were confident enough to issue the family a death certificate so that the funeral could go ahead. So why can’t she let it go? Why the nightmares? The panic attacks? The desperate searching for his face? Dora knows if she is to hang on to her sanity she must try to push the possibility of her brother still being alive from her mind. But it’s easier said than done when her mind is capable of playing such agonizing tricks on her.

  She sighs and rubs one finger across a tiny matchstick man someone has taken the trouble to carve into the seat back in front of her. The day has taken it out of her: first the presentation, then the sickness, and finally the awful encounter by the canal. As her stop comes into view she reaches for the bell and then steps down off the bus like an elderly lady, creeping her way along the pavement until she reaches the button factory. She climbs the three flights of stairs slowly and, relieved to find that Dan is still out, lowers the blinds in their bedroom, shrugs off her work clothes, and crawls under the covers of the bed. She wills sleep to come, but she is still awake nearly two hours later when Dan’s key eventually rattles in the front door.

  They drive to Chichester after breakfast on Sunday morning. The roads are surprisingly clear, and they arrive at the house just after eleven. Dora sees movement at one of the upstairs windows as they pull into the driveway.

  “We’re early,” proclaims Dan.

  “Yes, and I think we’ve just been spotted too.”

  Dan takes the key out of the ignition. “Ready?”

  Dora takes a deep breath. She’s not sure she is ready for what lies within. Violet is lovely, and there is no denying she makes her father happy—at least as happy as she’s seen him since Alfie—but she still finds it strange to see them together. “Yes,” she says. “I think so.”

  Dan reads her mind. “Still feels weird, huh?”

  She nods her head. “She’s just so different from Mum. So…bubbly. But I do like her…and I suppose Dad would be very lonely without her.”

  Dan holds up his hands in mock protest. “You don’t have to convince me. I know she’s good for him. She’s sexy too…in a Mrs. Robinson sort of way.”

  “She’s old enough to be your mother!”

  “I’m just saying…your dad’s done well for himself, that’s all. She’ll help keep him young; after all, she seems very energetic for a lady of her age.”

  He places a little too much emphasis on the word energetic for Dora’s liking and she grimaces. “Okay, enough already. I really don’t want to think about this when we’re about to sit down and eat lunch with them both. I’m already feeling nauseous as it is…”

  Dan takes Dora’s hand in his, his eyes suddenly serious. “It’ll be okay, you know. What I mean is we’ll be okay.” He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s good that we’ve come here, together. This trip is long overdue.”

  She thinks about her father, and about how long ago her last visit to his home with Violet was and realizes that Dan is right. They’ve hidden from each other for too long. Sitting there in the car, looking across at Dan, his handsome face full of concern and kindness, she can’t help but smile back. “Yes. It is,” she agrees. “It’s long overdue.”

  Suddenly Dan breaks into a toothy grin. “Now all we have to do is plan our escape route.” The mischievous twinkle has returned to his eyes. “You know, in case it all kicks off when you tell your father about the baby. I’ve seen that old hunting rifle hanging above the fireplace in Dorset. He’ll probably have us down the aisle and married quicker than you can say shotgun wedding if we’re not prepared.”

  This time she pulls him toward her. She is still laughing as their lips meet.

  Violet answers the door. “I thought that must be you. I heard your car from upstairs. Come in, come in, both of you,” she urges.

  She pulls Dora into a warm, fleshy embrace scented with Violet’s musky perfume. There is something about the feel and smell of her, something familiar and reminiscent of her long-lost childhood, that makes Dora’s head swim and her eyes well up suddenly. Bloody hormones, she thinks to herself and rubs discreetly at a tear in the corner of her eye.

  Then it is Dan’s turn.

  “Come here, you lovely hunk of a man. Let me give you a hug too.”

  Dan succumbs to Violet’s bosomy embrace and leers suggestively at Dora over the top of her head. Dora turns into the hallway, masking her giggles with a cough.

  “Come on in then,” Violet says, bustling. “Make yourselves at home. Your father’s in the living room.”

  Dora and Dan step into the hallway, their shoes sinking deep into the luxurious cream carpet.

  “Straight ahead, you know the way don’t you?” Violet ushers from behind.

  “Yes, thanks,” Dora calls out, making her way down the corridor toward the lounge at the back of the house.
r />   It has always struck Dora, the few times she has visited her father in his new home, how peculiar it is that he has chosen to so completely leave his old life behind. Everything is different, and not just his wife, although that is the most obvious change on the surface of things. The two women have always seemed poles apart to Dora. Where Helen is tense and composed, Violet is all soft curves and perfumed sensuality; where Helen is guarded, Violet is relaxed and bubbly; and where Helen is highbrow and academic, Violet is bursting with small talk and gossip. She supposes that’s why the two women were friends in the first place, drawn to each other’s differences by the same fundamental alchemy that brings positive and negative ions together. But it isn’t just in Violet where she can see the shift. Merely walking down the hallway of the house Richard now lives in is testament to everything he has left behind in Dorset.

  The place still smells new. She guesses it is only a few years old, one of seven identikit mock-Tudor mansions built on a recent cul-de-sac development just outside Chichester. It is all deep pile carpets, double-height ceilings, magnolia walls, and designer faucets, the epitome of small-town suburban chic and the sort of bland interior design that saturates any number of weeknight property programs. But here and there are splashes of Violet’s own personal taste amid the beige surroundings. As they follow Violet down the hall, Dora sees a series of canvases hung along the wall, silhouettes of voluptuous female forms that send Dan’s eyebrows shooting skyward and leave Dora smothering yet more giggles. There are scented candles burning on almost every surface and, of course, vases of flowers everywhere. The arrangements are bold and bright and the house swims with their pungent aroma. It’s all a little too staged for Dora’s own personal taste, and a world away from the history and shambolic romance of Clifftops. Dora tries not to think about it too much. It makes her angry, for the irony is not lost on her that it is Helen who now lives in the Tide family house; Helen, who had been so reluctant to move there in the first place, who now presides over Clifftops, while her father has retreated to a life of chic, model-home suburbia. She honestly can’t understand why he just walked away from it all, but each time she comes back to the conclusion that he must have wanted it that way. It had been Richard, after all, who had left Helen, and while she has not been privy to the ins and outs of their divorce negotiations, Dora has the sense that Richard willingly handed Clifftops over to her. She supposes he just can’t bear to be there anymore.

  Violet ushers them through open double doors and into the lounge. Dora can see her father seated in a leather armchair at the far end of the room. The Sunday papers are spread before him.

  “Look who’s here!” Violet exclaims theatrically, as if Dora and Dan have just dropped by, unannounced.

  Richard looks up, peers at them both through steel-rimmed reading glasses before leaping to his feet. “Aha! Here you are! I didn’t hear you arrive.” He lunges forward and gives Dora a hug. “Hello, Panda, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. How are you?”

  “Splendid, splendid. And, Dan.” He turns to him with outstretched hands. “How are you, young man?” He pumps Dan’s hand up and down warmly.

  “Very good, thank you, Richard. Sorry we’re a bit early. The roads were much clearer than we expected.”

  “No trouble, no trouble at all,” Richard reassures them. “Just pleased you made the journey. We’ve been looking forward to seeing you both, haven’t we, Vi?”

  “Yes, we have.” Violet grins. “Your father’s talked of nothing else all week.”

  “Oh shush, woman, don’t tell them that!” Richard laughs. “They’ll think we’ve got nothing better to do with our lives than sit here and talk about them.”

  “Well, here we are,” Dora confirms with an awkward smile.

  “Yes. Here you are,” Violet agrees.

  The four of them stand looking at each other for a moment. The weight of expectation hangs over them and Dora suddenly feels suffocated by the burden of a thousand unspoken words bursting to break free. Luckily Dan steps in and breaks the silence. He turns to survey the scene outside the window.

  “Wow, look at what you’ve done with the place. The garden looks so different.”

  He is lying. Dora can see very little change in the manicured landscape since their last visit a couple of years ago, but thankfully Violet leaps onto the subject with enthusiasm.

  “Richard’s been a busy bee out there. Those shrubs have really come along since we planted them last year, and the climbing rose on that trellis will produce some lovely blooms next summer.”

  “What an interesting feature you have there,” adds Dan, indicating a large structure in the center of the lawn.

  “Oh, do you think so? Richard was rather cross when I brought that home with me, but I just couldn’t resist it.” They all stand and take in the large stone urn in the center of the lawn spouting its constant and rather suggestive jet of water two or so feet into the air above the rim. Dora and Dan nod along politely while Violet continues with her monologue. “I read somewhere it’s good feng shui to have flowing water in your garden. It brings good luck…or good health…or wealth. Oh, I can’t remember.” She laughs with a dismissive flap of her hands. “It’s good something anyway! And the greenhouse is being delivered next week,” she adds with excitement.

  “Lovely!” exclaims Dan with overenthusiastic cheer. “Where will you put it?”

  “Over there, in the far corner. Of course I’m more interested in flowers, but your father’s going to try his hand at growing veggies. Richard tells me your grandfather, Dora, was quite the green-fingered gardener, so I’m expecting prizewinning courgettes and marrows by the end of the summer. As long as the rabbits don’t eat them, of course. We’re overrun from the fields out the back.”

  “I keep offering to shoot them but she won’t hear of it,” jokes Richard.

  Violet gives Richard a friendly whack on the arm. “Isn’t he awful? Anyway, perhaps we’ll have room in the garden for one of your sculptures, Dan, if we can afford you that is! I hear you are the toast of the London art scene at the moment.” Dan smiles and shifts awkwardly, as if uncomfortable with the praise, but she is off again before he can open his mouth.

  “Of course, people ask me how on earth I have the energy to spend time out there in the garden when I’m so busy with the business, but I just love it—and let’s face it, arranging flowers and running a business isn’t quite the same as digging down into the earth and planting things with your own hands—making life grow. Is it?”

  “No, I suppose not,” agrees Richard, smiling down at Violet indulgently. He turns to Dora and Dan. “Did you know Violet has three stores now? Quite the floral empire.” The pride in his voice is evident.

  Dora wonders privately if that’s how their relationship works. Richard has always been a quiet man, more likely to be found working at his desk or with his nose in the papers than out at parties or lavish dinners. Violet’s businesses must keep her busy and out of Richard’s hair for most of the week until she returns to provide him with infrequent but much-needed injections of cheerfulness. And no one can deny she is crazy about him; it’s obvious from the way she bustles about him, gazing up at him adoringly or reaching out to touch his sleeve while she chatters on and on.

  “But listen to me, babbling on when here you are probably gasping for a drink. Now, what can I get everyone? We have sherry, or wine, or perhaps you’d like a beer, Dan?”

  They decline the offer of alcoholic beverages, agreeing instead on “a nice cup of tea,” and Violet sashays out of the room leaving Dora and Dan with Richard. Dora notices her father’s eyes follow Violet all the way to the door.

  “Well, sit yourselves down,” he says, turning back to them. “Let’s not stand on ceremony now. We’re all family.”

  “Quite,” agrees Dan.

  “So,” says Richard, turning to Dan, “I hear business is good.”

  “Yes, it’s going rather well, at last,” says Dan. He fills Richard i
n on his new commissions and the recent exhibition while Richard sits nodding and smiling his approval. Then he turns to Dora.

  “And you, my dear? How is work at the agency?”

  “It’s fine. I’ve just taken on a couple of high-profile accounts of my own.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” cheers Richard. “You clever thing. We must have a drink at lunchtime to celebrate. And what about your home? Hackney isn’t it? Are you enjoying London?”

  As Richard and Dan begin a convoluted conversation about London property prices and mortgage rates, Dora takes the opportunity to observe her father more closely. He is not a young man, but neither can he be called old. His sandy-blond hair has whitened and thinned dramatically, and she can see a shiny bald spot on the top of his scalp that she doesn’t remember from the last visit. The metallic reading glasses he wears perched at the end of his nose and the slippers encasing his feet lend him a grandfatherly look, and while he is still relatively trim, there is now a definite paunch visible beneath the blue wool of his sweater. On the surface he looks like any other middle-aged man struggling with weight gain and hair loss, but Dora can see other subtle changes that run deeper, changes that would only be visible to someone who has known him well over the years. The frown lines etched into his face are a little deeper, perhaps, than one would expect for a man his age, and there is a fleeting sadness in his eyes, barely noticeable as he jokes and laughs with Dan from the comfort of his armchair, but evident to Dora all the same.

  Dan has just turned the conversation round to Richard’s architectural firm when Violet hurries back into the room with a tray of clinking teacups and a plate of biscuits.

  “I didn’t know whether you would want Earl Grey or English Breakfast so I made both. Shall I be mother?” She looks around the room at them all with a beatific smile. It is impossible not to smile back. Violet’s irrepressible good nature spills out of her like the water gushing from the stone urn on the lawn.

  “Never let it be said that Violet under-caters!” joked Richard. “I’m pretty sure I have her to thank for this,” he adds, patting at his waistline.