by Sue Fortin
It’s very quiet here in this suburban part of the island. I hear the odd car drive along the road at the back of the property but apart from that, there doesn’t seem a lot going on. I catch a small movement from the corner of my eye and a little green lizard, about five inches long from head to tail, scuttles across the decking. He stops at the side of a plant pot and a pink bubble inflates from his throat. It reminds me of the time Mum had bought Hannah some old-fashioned bubble gum. Hannah had been delighted she could blow a massive bubble – that was until it popped and got stuck in her hair. The lizard is much more accomplished at blowing bubbles and does so several times as he watches me with his big goggly eyes, wondering what I’m doing there. I have to admit, I’m beginning to ask myself the same question. What am I hoping to achieve from this madcap adventure? I wanted to find out more about Alice and her life here. Perhaps I should have just taken the time to get to know her properly in person. And then, as per usual, as soon as I have this thought, I’m confronted with some deep-rooted notion that just wouldn’t happen. There’s some sort of barrier between Alice and me; something is preventing us from getting close. And for some reason, I feel the answer lies here in America. More precisely – in this house.
I take a more careful look around. On the edge of the porch, there’s a small garden swing and beside it is a terracotta pot, upturned on top of a terracotta saucer. The pot has been whitewashed and decorated with a few shells. I lift the pot to reveal a little pile of grey ash and several cigarette stubs. The smell of stale nicotine and ash is released into the air. I give the dish a shake and the peak of the ash flattens out to reveal the shiny metal of a silver key.
‘Disgusting,’ I mutter to myself as I take the saucer round to the flowerbed and tip the ash onto the earth so I can pick out the key.
The key fits into the lock of the back door and as I turn it, I hear the telltale click and feel the resistance disappear as the cogs slide around to open the door. I go in without hesitation. I still don’t know what I’m hoping to find in the house. I just know I have to get inside and look around. I close the door gently behind me, slipping the key into the pocket of my trousers.
The kitchen has a breakfast bar, which separates it from the living room, and I’m surprised at how spacious the whole house is; the high ceilings and lack of central walls add to the airy feel. I shiver as I step further into the house. I open the fridge and the smell of rotten food hits me. I pull my head away and, holding my breath, peer inside. Two pieces of chicken look decidedly green at the edges. There is a carton of milk in the fridge door. I give it a little shake and it feels slushy and lumpy. I don’t need to smell that to know it’s off. Pulling out the vegetable drawer, I see that the salad has started to turn to a pulp and liquid sloshes in the drawer. All pretty disgusting and a sure sign no one has been here for some time. Someone either left in a hurry or left with every intention of coming back, but just never made it.
A creak and groan of an empty house from somewhere inside makes me jump. I stand still, just to be certain it’s not the sound of anyone actually in the place and once my heart returns to a more orderly pace, I let out a small sigh. Creeping around empty houses that I shouldn’t be in, is getting to me. I close the fridge door.
Really, what I’d like to do is get the hell out of this house, but I can’t. Not until I find whatever it is I’m looking for.
I walk into the living room and immediately notice the clock hanging on the wall. It’s the same clock as the one in the picture Alice sent Mum of her and Martha. They must have sat on that very sofa.
Alice on the left and Martha on the right. Or was it? Had the picture been reversed by accident? Was Alice really dyslexic?
I look around the living room. There are a couple of paintings on the wall, one is of the beach, probably local, I assume, and the other is of sunflowers; a prettier version of Van Gough’s. I peer at the signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Alice Kendrick.
This is Alice Kennedy’s painting. My sister’s painting. I touch the canvas, my fingers grazing the signature and, for the first time since I held Alice’s original letter in my hand, I feel a connection with her. My sister did this. She painted this picture. My beautiful little sister touched this, she spread the paints across the canvas, she signed her name in the corner. A surge of love swamps my heart and for a moment I think I’m going to cry. I blink away the tears and take my hand away. I can’t afford to break down now. Not after everything that’s happened.
A photograph on the mantelpiece catches my attention and as I turn to look at it properly, I experience another wave of emotion, this time not love but fear.
A man, probably in his fifties, looks out at me. He has fair hair and it is brushed back from his face. He’s wearing a stripy rugby top of pale blue and white and a pair of beige chino shorts. He looks to be standing on the deck of a sailboat, his hand wrapped around the rigging. The sun is shining and the man looks happy and relaxed, as if he’s in the middle of sharing a joke with the person on the other side of the camera.
I take a step closer and pick up the frame. I can remember him as clear as day. His memory never once faded with time. This is my father. This is Patrick Kennedy. I haven’t seen him for over twenty years and never thought I would, hoped I wouldn’t, but now, here he is, smiling out at me. I feel a little sick and take a deep breath, looking away for a moment. The feeling passes and I return my gaze to the photograph. I consciously study my reaction. I’m looking for any flicker of love, any connection, any invisible bond that could never be broken between a father and his daughter. The initial fear has subsided and, unsurprisingly, I feel nothing for this man. Where there should be love, there is just an empty space.
I scan the room for other photographs, but there are none. It’s the same for the hallway. There are four doors leading off from the hall and I guess these are the bedrooms and bathroom. I open the door to the first one on the left. It has a double bed that has been stripped. There are no personal items in the room; it looks as though someone has just vacated a holiday home and the room is waiting for the cleaners to come in and make the bed up with fresh linen.
I close the door and take the next room on the left. The single bed is unmade, the duvet cover shoved back. The wardrobe door is slid open and I can see a few items of clothing hanging up; a blue T-shirt, a cardigan and a white blouse. A couple of jumpers are on the shelf above, the arm of one hanging down, as if it’s been shoved up there in a hurry. Several empty coat hangers are in the bottom of the wardrobe, along with a pair of trainers. I go over to the bed and perch on the edge, opening the drawer of the bedside table. I have a sense of déjà vu. It was only the other day that I sat on Alice’s bed at home in the UK, looking in her bedside table. That time I found the photograph of her and Luke. I wonder what I’ll find this time.
I slide the drawer open, but it contains what amounts to rubbish: half a packet of tissues, a hair clip, a pot of red nail varnish and a biro. I open the next drawer. There’s a notebook, a small white spiral type. I flip open the cover. The first page has the word ‘WORK’ written in capital letters across the top of the page and underlined twice. Underneath is a list of dates and times. I assume it’s for the diner. I turn the pages, one by one, and most are much the same. I come across a couple of pages with reminders of things to do, or names of people. I bend the edge of the notebook and fan the pages with my thumb so they flick through quickly. They all appear blank. Nothing very interesting or incriminating. I’m just about to throw the book back into the drawer, when I see an official-looking envelope. It’s already been opened, so I take a look inside. It’s a payslip from the Beach House Diner to Martha Munroe, dated a couple of months ago. I put it to one side and notice a piece of paper. What strikes me is that it looks out of place with the rest of the items in the drawer and, indeed, in the room. It’s an A5 sheet of bonded writing paper, the sort you get from a traditional letter-writing pad. I can feel the ridges of the paper between my finger and
thumb. I hold the paper up towards the window, where a small stream of light trickles through a gap in the blinds. I can just make out the faint watermark. It’s from an expensive pad. On it, written in fountain pen, is a mobile number beginning 07.
It takes a moment for me to realise that this is a UK mobile number, but not one I recognise.
I pull the drawer out further and see another piece of paper, this time the weight is light and there are wide-ruled lines, it looks as if it’s from the notebook I’ve just been looking at. There’s also a thin black cardboard box, about the size of a toothpaste box, along with the image of a blue eye. Disposable daily contact lenses. I give the box a little shake but it’s empty. I pick up the sheet of paper and turn it over. It’s a list. I cast my eye over the items. Passport. Flight tickets. Lenses. Cell phone. Adapter.
A list for travelling abroad. If this is Martha’s room, as I think, then she was planning on travelling abroad. Was this her planned trip with Alice?
I wonder where all Martha’s possessions are. Has someone been in and gone through her stuff, taking what they wanted?
This room reminds me of my student days. A room where you half live, you bring some of your possessions, but not all of them. A room to stay in, to sleep in, but not a room to call home.
I scoop up the things from the drawer and instead of putting them back, for some reason, I stuff them into my handbag and leave the room.
I take a deep breath before going in to the last room. I know instantly it must be Alice’s room. There is a warm ambiance despite its emptiness. The walls are painted white, with one a pale pink. The white Venetian blinds at the window are closed and a piece of pink fabric is draped in a fancy swag across the top of the window frame. There is a white bedframe covered with a pretty pink-and-white eiderdown. It’s all very tidy and clean.
The sound of my phone ringing cuts through the silence and it makes me jump. I wriggle it out of my pocket and look at the screen. It’s Luke. I check my watch and do a quick calculation of the time in the UK. It must only be six o’clock there. Luke up at that time of the morning just doesn’t happen. Immediately I think there must be something wrong. Mum or one of the girls. I swipe the screen to accept the call.
‘Luke?’
‘Hi.’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Clare, relax, everything is fine.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘What are you doing up?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. I’ve not been to bed.’ His voice is quiet and has the sound of someone who is battle-weary.
‘Have you been working?’
‘Tried to, but not feeling it right now.’
Now I know that’s not like Luke at all. Not working and not sleeping, they don’t usually go together. ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask, my own voice soft.
‘Fucking hell, you ask the most stupid questions sometimes.’ I hear him exhale of long breath of air. ‘Of course something is wrong. Us. That’s what’s wrong. I don’t even know how we got to this point in such a short space of time. What the fuck went wrong?’
‘I don’t know either,’ I say, then correct myself. ‘Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly what went wrong. Alice.’ I brace myself for the response.
‘You’re wrong about Alice,’ he says.
‘I am not. Trust me.’
‘Trust you? What about you trusting me?’ says Luke. I can image the look of indignation on his face. ‘I’ve never done anything, ever, to give you any reason not to trust me. I thought we were solid. I really did. I know how I feel about you, it’s one hundred per cent. The trouble is, I’m not sure you know how you feel about me.’
‘Luke, it’s not like that, honest.’
‘Of course it is. You’ve all but accused me of shagging your sister and on top of all that, you’ve caused fucking mayhem at home between you and your mum. You’ve even been sodding arrested for vandalising your best mate’s car.’
‘I didn’t do anything to Pippa’s car. And besides, I wasn’t arrested. I was helping with inquiries.’ As soon as the words are out, I want to kick myself for being so pedantic.
‘You’re splitting hairs. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?’
‘Look, I may have implied there was something going on with you and Alice and, for that, I am sorry. But I don’t trust her.’
‘Is there anyone you trust?’
‘Can we leave all this until I get back?’ I say, trying to defuse the situation. What started off having the potential for being a tender conversation, has ended up in a ruck. ‘I don’t want to argue with you over the phone. I’ve come away to clear my head, not fill it up with arguments. It’s not productive.’
There’s a small silence before Luke replies. ‘I don’t want to argue either. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have phoned.’
‘No, I’m glad you did,’ I say. And I genuinely mean it. To hear his voice is the closest thing to a hug I can get right now.
‘I’m missing you,’ says Luke. ‘I’ve been missing you for days, even when you’ve been here, I’ve missed you. Us not being close, it just doesn’t feel right. It’s torture.’
‘I know. Just give me a couple of days.’
‘Okay,’ he pauses and lets out a small sigh. ‘So, how’s Nadine anyway? I expect you were up half the night catching up with each other on the past twenty years.’ I can hear the injected upbeat to his voice.
‘She’s fine,’ I say in a clipped tone that shuts down the conversation. I close my eyes and wish for forgiveness for my lies.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ says Luke; the dejection is back.
‘I’ll see you later in the week,’ I say. As much as I want to speak to Luke, I don’t. The more he asks me about Nadine, the more lies I’m going to have to tell.
‘Say hello to her for me,’ he says. ‘Bye.’
‘Yeah, sure. Bye.’ There’s a small silence. ‘Love you,’ I say quickly. It’s a mere whisper and then the phone line goes dead. I’ve no idea if Luke heard me or not. I slide the phone from my ear to my forehead and close my eyes as I recover from the painful conversation and ask myself the same question Luke did; how the hell did we even get to this point?
Chapter 21
I prowl the house again, backwards and forwards, from the living room to the bedrooms, as I try to get a feel for Alice and her life here. I find myself drawn back to Alice’s room. There is a bookshelf to the right that I didn’t pay much attention to before. It’s filled with books. I run my finger absently along the spines, looking to see what sort of reading she likes – anything to make me feel close to my sister. One shelf looks like textbooks on childcare and education and, I assume, were to do with her teaching. The rest of the shelves are filled with paperbacks. I pull one out and see it’s a thriller. In fact, the whole shelf is filled with thriller-type books. Then the genre seems to change on the next few shelves, where they look more like contemporary women’s fiction and romance. Alice is definitely a bookworm, I conclude, and I think back to the recent conversation in Mum’s sitting room, where she said she’d overcome her dyslexia, to prove everyone wrong. I’m sure she said something about not reading books.
Something is bothering me about the room, the bookcase in particular. I tap one of the shelves with my fingernail, trying to relax, to allow the thought to break through all the other thoughts that are filling my head. I look around the room and then it strikes me. There are no photographs. I scour the bookshelf and look for anything that might be a photo album, but I see nothing at all. It seems odd that there are no photographs anywhere, other than the one of Patrick Kennedy on the mantelpiece.
A noise behind me makes me jump. I spin round and let out a small scream of surprise. Standing in the doorway is the neighbour, who I now know as Mrs Karvowski.
‘Found what you’re looking for?’ she asks.
‘I was … I …’ I don’t know what to say.
‘I could call the cops,’ she says.
I nod, but somehow I don’t thi
nk she will. I decide straight-talking is in order. ‘I just wanted to feel close to Alice,’ I say. ‘The thing is, I wasn’t quite truthful when I said I was her cousin.’
‘I didn’t think you were being honest with me.’
‘I’m actually her sister. We were separated when we were young children and I haven’t seen her since she was four years old.’
‘Didn’t have you down as cousins,’ she says, tipping her head to one side and appraising me.
‘I spoke to Roma Kendrick. I’m meeting her tomorrow.’
‘She’s a good woman,’ says Mrs Karvowski. ‘You’d think Alice was her own child. You’d never have thought she was her stepmother. She was even good to Alice’s friend. Not that she deserved it.’
‘Martha?’ But Mrs Karvowski is already turning and walking back down to the kitchen.
‘Make sure you lock up when you’re done and put the key back where you found it.’
After leaving the house, I find myself driving down to the beach and I pull up in a small parking area. With what seems an unconscious decision, I find myself climbing up the wooden steps ahead of me which lead out onto the beach.
The Atlantic breeze whips my hair around my face and I delve inside my handbag, successfully locating one of Hannah’s hair bands, which I use to tie my hair back. I slip my shoes off and feel the sandy granules between my toes as I walk down towards the water, coming to a halt as the waves crash in front of me and run up to cover my feet, before racing back out again.
