Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  Freda feels herself go lightheaded. Compliments, whatever form they come in, always take her by surprise and she is never sure of how to react. She nods and gives a tight smile hoping she doesn’t come across as dismissive.

  “Thanks. He’s a good lad.”

  An awkward silence descends as they stand and stare at one another in turn. Freda feels sure the sound of her own heartbeat is audible to everyone else in the room. She takes a long breath and clears her throat. “I take it there’s no news yet?”

  Mike shakes his head and she hears the older boy let out a small sigh of resignation.

  “I just wanted to call in to say if there’s anything at all you need. . .” she runs out of words, fatigue and sorrow swamping her. As if anything she will say can make it better anyway. Her words would be an insult to these people. Here she is, offering useless platitudes when her friend, their mother, wife and sister is out there somewhere. Silly to come here really. Like her presence is going to be of any use whatsoever. She turns and stares outside, anger at this situation bubbling up inside of her. How many people will this river claim in her lifetime?

  “Too many,” she mutters and feels a dart of ice travel down her spine as the words spill out of her mouth. She didn’t mean for that to happen. They were out before she could stop them. A rush of heat covers her face as she sees everyone staring at her.

  “I know,” says Mason who is obviously attuned to her thoughts, “Mum is the second one. Stupid fucking river.”

  “Mind your language!” Mike roars. Toby reaches out and drapes his arm around Mason’s shoulders before the reprimand escalates into something totally unnecessary. They don’t have the time or energy for arguments. The boy is upset. He needs to vent his anger somehow.

  “Third,” Freda says quietly and wishes she had the ability to keep her mouth shut as they all turn to stare at her. She isn’t even sure why she said it. It happened such a long time ago. No point bringing it up now. Slowly she unbuttons her coat and slips it over her shoulders, expecting to see a rush of steam at its removal. She is burning up, misery and crippling embarrassment at her unintended words sending her blood pressure soaring.

  “Third?” Mike has a deep furrow etched across his forehead. Freda wishes she were elsewhere, anywhere. Just away from this dreadful situation. Why couldn’t she just have stayed home?

  “It was years ago,” she whispers as she fiddles with the fabric of her coat, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Nothing to do with what’s happening here”

  “How long ago?” Toby asks, his voice softer than Mike’s who seems ready to snap at any given moment.

  “Oh, thirty odd years ago. Probably nearer forty actually. Too many to remember. Sorry, I’ve just had it on my mind recently and it came out before I could stop it.” Freda looks up from the unravelling fabric of the hem to see them waiting and watching, “It’s just with her moving back here. It brought back a lot of memories. Then Nancy went missing and now Anna . . .”

  “Who has moved back here?” The groove on Mike’s forehead has deepened even further. Freda feels sure she could fit her whole fist in there if she really tried.

  “Her over the road,” she nods behind her, the memory of that time, that day, coming back to her in painful waves. The story that didn’t fit, the holes in the timeline, the lack of sorrow at losing her sister. It was never right. Still isn’t.

  “Phoebe?” says one of the lads. “Why, what’s she got to do with it?”

  Freda’s voice starts to shake. She shouldn’t be saying anything really but what did this Phoebe expect - moving back to where it all happened? She should have known somebody would recognise her, that her presence would stir up a whole load of bad memories. It was bound to happen.

  “Rumour had it that she was behind it all. Course nobody could prove anything. Forensics and stuff wasn’t what it is now,” Freda sighs as she looks around for a seat. She suddenly feels quite wobbly.

  Toby watches this strange little woman, hears her words and feels a stone sink somewhere deep in his abdomen. He drags a chair out and lets her slump into it then listens as she tells her tale.

  Thirty

  Tom is standing under the porch when I pull on the drive. Bloody tractors and bloody stupid traffic. I got stuck on the A1(M) after a lorry collided with a car. Then ended up sitting behind some kind of farm vehicle on the narrow, winding country lanes all the way here, unable to see around it to overtake and now I’m late. I loathe being late.

  “Sorry,” I gasp as I struggle to get out of the car, my arms caught up in the seatbelt, “got stuck in traffic.” I pray he doesn’t ask where I’ve been as I don’t have an answer at the ready. Fortunately he doesn’t and instead holds out his hands to me.

  “What’s going on over there?” he asks, nodding towards the crowd of police and people milling about over the road.

  “What?” I say glibly, “Oh that. Some walker has gone missing apparently. I’m sure they’ll turn up. They always do don’t they?”

  He shakes his head and sighs loudly, “Looks like they’re searching that path down there.” He points behind my house and I feel a shiver of trepidation run up my spine.

  “Well, that’s the route most of them take,” I reply quickly, “Anyway the bedrooms are all made up. You can take your pick,” I say as he envelops me in his big strong arms. I had forgotten how tall he is and it does feel good to be embraced. Fighting back the tears, I move away from him and unlock the door, swinging it open to let him in.

  He drops his bag in the hallway and looks around, “Sorry mum. I’m flying back tonight so it’s only a brief visit I’m afraid.”

  I stare at him not knowing whether to feel aghast or elated. “They don’t come much briefer,” I say as I stare up at his handsome face. He has been likened to many good looking superstars, the usual one being Robert Downey Jr. Many mothers would be proud of such a thing but it doesn’t bother me one iota. To me he is my Tom. Personally, I think he looks just like his father. Or at least a younger version of Martyn. I can understand why he has proved to be so popular with his American colleagues. Tall, charming and good looking. I stand in the stillness of the room and look around at the bare walls of my home, they are in stark contrast to his warm smile and his charismatic and happy demeanour. Sterile, plain, unwelcoming. Is it any wonder he doesn’t want to come back?

  “Are you flying from London?” I try to work out the travelling time and feel my stomach knot in apprehension. So little time together.

  “Leeds Bradford,” he says smiling, already knowing what’s going through my head.

  “I’ll give you a lift to the airport then. It’s only an hour or so’s drive away so. . .”

  “Already sorted,” he says cutting in quickly, “I’ve booked another taxi from here in precisely two hours.”

  “Two hours?” I half shriek, “That’s no time at all and it’ll cost you an absolute fortune Tom!”

  He shrugs, unperturbed by my outburst. “Less than an hour and a half from here. Anyway, I’ve already paid in advance. Or at least the company has.”

  I sigh and scurry through to the living room. He follows me and sits down on the large leather couch, his legs spread out in front of him. I look at his clothes and shoes - very expensive looking, and with his tan, he does actually look every inch the movie star, not an IT consultant or engineer or whatever it is he does over there on the other side of the ocean. He is obviously doing very well for himself. I tell myself I should be pleased for him. Most mothers would be. But then again, I am not most mothers.

  “So how are you doing mum?” His eyes bore into me, watching my every move, scrutinising every syllable that comes out of my mouth. I know exactly what his little game is.

  “I’m fine darling. Absolutely fine. Do you like the new house? Isn’t that why you came? To have a good look around?” I stand up and push an imaginary lock of hair behind my ears, “I can show you upstairs if you like?” I stop, aware I am babbling. Tom doesn’t get
up to follow me. He stays put, his body now rigid.

  “Mum, sit down. We need to talk.”

  His words send a wave of fear through me. I balance on the edge of the chair, my back ramrod straight, dread tugging at my innards.

  “What’s going on mum? That conversation on the phone yesterday - you made me really worried. You weren’t making any sense.”

  I am lost for words. I shrug my shoulders and look down at my hands, willing something to come. I say nothing. The words I want to say remain stubbornly elusive, locked away in the deepest, darkest corners of my brain.

  “Have you been remembering to take your medication?”

  I stare at him, trying to make sense of what he is saying. His eyes grow dim, haunted, searching mine for answers I cannot give.

  “Oh for god’s sake mother. Have you even bothered to register with a new doctor here?”

  I stay silent again, too wary to speak. What exactly is it he wants me to say?

  “Okay, well while I’m here, why don’t we look up your nearest surgery and get you registered? It won’t take too long.”

  I widen my eyes and start to speak but he puts his hand up to silence me.

  “Mum, you need the help. I’m not here to nag you but I am worried about you. Please say you’ll do it? Go along with them, yes? And be nice,” he wags his finger playfully but we both know the real meaning behind his words.

  I nod mutely. Looks like I have no choice.

  “Have you thought about getting out more? What about volunteering somewhere? Lots of National Trust places are crying out for-”

  I almost choke at his words, “Volunteering? Why on earth would I want to be a volunteer?”

  “You’re acting as if it’s something to be ashamed of and it isn’t,” he is almost shouting now, his tone accusatory and sharp. “I just thought it would get you out of the house. I thought you might be bored with not working.”

  And there it is. The unspoken has been voiced out loud. My job. Or rather the fact that I left it. I know what he thinks. That it was my fault. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. I had gone into teaching when Tom started secondary school, taking my PGCE when he was eleven-years-old and I loved it. The workload was immense, sitting night after night marking and planning but I still enjoyed it. It was my haven. It gave me something to focus on. Until the matter of Tara came along. Lovely, sweet neglected Tara with her golden curls and pale skin, she was every inch the perfect child. Pity her parents didn’t feel the same way about her. I took her under my wing after noticing how thin she was becoming, how sad and forlorn she looked. There were bruises too. On her arms and legs and the odd one on her face. I passed my concerns on to our Child Protection Officer who carried out her own enquiries and called on Social Services. They did a home visit and assured me that Tara came from a caring, stable family and that she was being looked after properly. That was nonsense. I knew that was most certainly not the case at all. I was with her five days a week, saw her distress first hand and I refused to believe she was anything but okay. So I started bringing her small gifts to cheer her up. Nothing too fancy. Bars of chocolate, little plastic toys, anything I could find that would bring a smile to her face. And it worked. She became animated, enthusiastic about her schoolwork, relaxed in class, a happier child all round. Her world became a damn sight brighter because of me. But then one day her parents took exception to my ‘special interest’ in their daughter and complained to Andrew Melberg, the Head teacher, who asked that I stop buying her things. I refused, asked him to provide me with evidence that I was doing any harm. He remained calm, composed, but bandied the word ‘grooming’ around in the hope of scaring me. Gave me veiled threats. So I backed off. For a while anyway. It was a crisp, snowy day the last time I saw Tara. All the children were out in the playground, sliding around, shrieking with excitement at the powdery white stuff that was falling from the sky and covering everything in sight. It had been quite a few years since we’d had any snow and their excitement was at an all-time high. I was drinking my coffee in the classroom, watching her from a distance, making sure she came to no harm, when it happened. A gang of older children were parading around, cruising the playground, looking for victims. I saw them approach her and shove snow down her back. The teacher on duty didn’t see it. But I did. I saw it all. They watched, this gang of bullies, as she squirmed about, trying to empty it out of her clothes. And then came the push. I watched horrified, as one of them roughly nudged her to the floor and shoved snow in her face. Incensed, I dropped everything and raced outside where I grabbed the offender and hauled him inside, refusing to listen to his cries of defence that it was just a game. His screams alerted the staff in the class next door as I let go of his arm and threw him to the floor in disgust.

  His parents didn’t press charges and Andrew and I came to a mutual agreement that I would take some time off on unpaid leave. I handed my notice in the following day, only too glad to see the back of the place. But of course there was Tara to think about. I missed her terribly and thought about her all the time. So I wrote her letters and sent them to the school in the hope they would be passed onto her but I got nothing back in return. I doubt she even received them. Her parents and Andrew will have made sure of that.

  I spent the following few years drifting in and out of part time jobs in retail, as a receptionist, at the local library but none of them lasted. It wasn’t as if we needed the money anyway. So I ended up staying at home. Nothing wrong with that is there? Lots of people do it. And now my own son is making it sound like I’ve committed some awful crime by being a ‘housewife.’

  Tom is staring at me, putting me under pressure, forcing me to agree to his ridiculous plan.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” I say quietly. Easier to acquiesce. Or at least give him the impression that I am.

  He smiles and claps his hands together lightly, “Right, let’s get some lunch shall we? While you’re preparing it, I’ll find out the name of the local surgery and give them a call. Have you got any of that posh cheese you used to buy? I’m starving.”

  ....................................................................................................................................................

  His taxi arrives early and I can tell by the look on his face, he is only too relieved to be leaving. This isn’t where he belongs anymore. I can see that now. And although it upsets me that he lives so far away, I can spend the rest of my life wishing things had turned out differently or I can accept the way things are now and make the best of it. I opt for the latter. After all, I have Suzie now don’t I? I’ll drive back and see her soon. I straighten my shoulders, suddenly buoyed up by the thought.

  “Don’t forget everything we spoke about mum,” Tom is saying as he throws his bag in the back of the taxi and gives me a quick hug, “I’ll call you when I get back and I’ll also set up the doctor visit.”

  I smile and give him a wave as the taxi crunches its way out of the drive and out onto the lane. Then as soon as I see them disappear out of sight, I grab some essentials, my car keys and close the door with a slam.

  Thirty One

  Suzie is awake when I get there. Her appearance perturbs me. She seems flaccid and her complexion is pasty. I touch her forehead. Her temperature is normal. No fever, no clammy skin. Perhaps this is a good time to explain to her what’s going on, while she is less likely to resist. I grasp the opportunity and squat down next to her, placing my hand on her arm tenderly. I’m genuinely upset to see that she flinches and tries to pull away. That hurts. After all I’ve done for her as well. I keep my voice soft as I speak. I need to win her round, to make her see that this is all for the best,

  “Okay, you’ve probably realised that you’ve been moved. Don’t worry, it’s warm and comfortable in here but you see I had no choice. My son was visiting and we needed to talk. Also there’s the matter of what you did upstairs isn’t there? We haven’t had chance to discuss that yet have we? Knocking my container over
and seeing what was in there. Those papers were private and now - well now you know all there is to know and now we’re stuck together whether you like it or not.”

  I wag my finger at her playfully and purse my lips, “So anyway, this is where you’re going to stay now. It’s a lovely place actually and once you get used to it I’m almost certain you won’t want to leave.” I smile and shrug my shoulders trying to appear nonchalant, “not that I would let you even if you wanted to. After all,” I whisper as I lean closer into her face, “we’re sisters and sisters are meant to be together aren’t they?”

  She remains unresponsive, her eyes glassy as she stares at me. I’m almost certain she can hear me. She is just being typically stubborn.

  “Okay,” I say as I stand up, my knees cracking as I do so, “have it your way. But in time, you’ll come round to my way of thinking.” I look around the room and sigh, “After all, you don’t really have any other choice do you?”

  ....................................................................................................................................................

  The sun is setting over the hills as I round the bend back into the village. Suzie is fed and toileted. She will be fine till the morning now. Keeping her there is the obvious thing to do. Tom did me a favour calling unexpectedly. Sometimes the hand of fate is a welcome one. And there’s still a fair amount of activity in the village. Better safe than sorry. I just wish they knew that they are all wasting their time, that she is safe with me. Not with me here, but at least she is safe and fed and warm and not dead in the river. Actually, it’s probably easier to let them think that. They will give up looking for her pretty soon and wait for the current to wash her up somewhere downstream. I smile, feeling slightly smug about the whole affair. They will have a long wait.

  Martyn is still in his study when I get back inside. He is reading, keeping his distance from me. He doesn’t question where I’ve been, which is just as well. I would find it hard to explain it to him. I’m just starting to get my own head around it all. It is a complex issue and not one I am able to unpick and analyse so easily. I just know that it is what it is, and sometimes that is all the explanation that is needed.