Secrets of the Tides

by Hannah Richell

  Richard saw the curve of her lips and patted her hand encouragingly. ‘Your palace awaits,’ he said, addressing Cassie and Dora over his shoulder.

  As soon as they pulled up beside the front steps Dora leapt out of the car and raced towards her grandparents. ‘Grandma! Granddad! We’re here!’ She hurled herself into Alfred’s waiting arms and shrieked with delight as he swung her up into the air.

  ‘Your father’s going to put his back out one of these days,’ muttered Helen to Richard, as she watched Alfred spin Dora about his waist. ‘She’s getting too big for that.’

  ‘Oh let him have his fun,’ said Richard gently.

  It seemed Cassie wasn’t going to wait around either. She grabbed her bag and stomped across the gravel to greet her grandparents while Helen and Richard still struggled with seat belts and an assortment of maps and sweet wrappers.

  ‘Cassandra!’ exclaimed Daphne, reaching out for her eldest granddaughter and pulling her into her embrace. ‘Look at you, so tall . . . and all that lovely long blond hair, so pretty. Isn’t she pretty, Alfred?’ Daphne took a step back and peered at Cassie until she shifted and lowered her eyes, uncomfortable under such close scrutiny.

  ‘She certainly is,’ agreed Alfred, ‘just like Rapunzel. Hello, Cassie, my girl. How are you?’ He squeezed her tight while Dora bounced up and down beside him, giddy with excitement.

  ‘Daphne, Alfred,’ said Helen, greeting them each at the door, ‘it’s lovely to see you both. Happy Easter.’

  ‘And to you, my dear. How was the journey? Not too much traffic on the roads, I hope?’

  ‘Oh not too bad. We’re here now.’ Helen smiled politely.

  ‘Well we’re pleased to have you all, aren’t we, Alfred?’ Daphne pulled her cardigan a little closer around her shoulders and turned to look for her son. He was staggering towards them, laden under a collection of bags and buckets and spades. ‘Goodness, Richard, dear,’ exclaimed Daphne, ‘leave all of that. There’s plenty of time to unpack. Come in, come in, I’ve made hot cross buns. You must all be gasping for a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘We are,’ agreed Dora, ‘we’re all gasping. Mum and Dad had a huge row about whether to stop. Mum wanted to pull over but Dad said we should just push on!’

  Helen felt her cheeks flush red.

  Richard gave a little cough. ‘It wasn’t a big row, Dora, just a little . . . discussion.’

  It was Daphne’s turn to smile politely. ‘Well, never mind all that, let’s get you inside, shall we? Cassandra, Pandora, follow me.’

  They trooped into the house, Helen hanging back to help Richard with the bags. ‘Why does she insist on calling them that? She knows the girls hate it,’ she hissed under her breath.

  Richard shrugged. ‘It’s what we called them, isn’t it?’

  Helen shrugged. She couldn’t argue with that.

  Helen didn’t need to look around as she walked through the entrance hall towards the drawing room to know that everything would stand exactly as it had on her last visit, and the visit before that. There was the same smell of flowers and polish wafting on the air, the same worn Persian rugs spread across the flagstone floors. In the drawing room, amidst the golden dust particles shimmering in the sunshine, she spied the ancient carriage clock ticking noisily on the mantelpiece, the familiar faded wallpaper and the usual creaking wooden furniture. Clifftops was like that. Nothing ever changed.

  ‘Sit down!’ bustled Daphne. ‘You must be exhausted. Make yourselves comfortable while I sort the tea. I’ll just be a minute.’

  Helen sat herself on one of the chintz sofas, sinking into an eclectic mix of scatter cushions, most of which Helen knew Daphne had made herself. Across the room Cassie slumped into the sunken leather chair, the one nearest the door. Richard ruffled her hair affectionately as he passed by, before seating himself on the sofa opposite Helen. Then Dora launched herself at Richard, who laughed and pulled her onto his lap. With that one simple action Helen instantly saw the growing gulf between her two daughters. Dora, at nine, was still so naive and childlike, while Cassie seemed to be growing sharper, more independent and self-aware by the day.

  It was a creeping change that was stealing slowly over their girl. Cassie’s bedroom door, once insistently open for the reassuring light from the landing, was now more often than not shut tight; and only last weekend a small but forceful handwritten sign had gone up, demanding that they all now knock before entering. Helen knew it was a natural part of growing up, but it still stung when she noticed Cassie hanging back from her in the shops, walking a couple of paces behind as they shopped for groceries or new school shoes, as if embarrassed to be seen with her. Dora, on the other hand, was still a little girl, happy to hold hands and cuddle at the drop of a hat.

  She supposed, when she really thought about it, the two girls had always been opposites, right from the start, and not just physically, although that was perhaps where the most obvious differences lay. Cassie’s fair hair, pale skin and ice-blue eyes resembled Richard’s side of the family. Dora was all Helen; she had her mother’s dark hair, olive skin and green seaweed eyes. Richard called her his little gypsy girl.

  Cassie had burst into the world with a symphony of noise, opening her lungs with their full force and carrying on that way for quite some time. She had been a difficult baby, hard to read and always fighting sleep. Helen had worried herself silly over reflux and routines, until gradually Cassie had transformed into a bolshie little toddler and then into a tempestuous young girl. Now they were nearing puberty and Helen could see that they would soon face a whole new raft of challenges. Helen loved Cassie’s fiery spirit, but it ran her ragged at times.

  Dora’s birth, though, was in stark contrast to Cassie’s – she had slipped into the world quickly and quietly – so quietly Helen had been terrified there was something wrong, until the midwife gave the baby a firm slap on the bottom and Dora had opened her little mouth to let out a gentle mewl of protest. And unlike Cassie, from the very first moment they had brought her home Dora had just fitted in. She was happy to sit in a baby bouncer and suck on her fist, her green eyes following her mother peacefully around the room until Helen remembered to change her nappy or give her a feed.

  Cassie was the one who had lain on the supermarket floor and kicked and screamed until she got the breakfast cereal she wanted; Dora was happy so long as she had the same as her sister. Cassie was the one who pulled all the clothes out of the dressing-up box and tried them on one after the other until the room was a bombsite; Dora was the one who would pick them all up and place them neatly back so her sister didn’t get into trouble. Cassie was the one who snooped and peeked at Christmas presents; Dora would wait patiently for the Big Day, worried about spoiling the surprise. Cassie was the one who would dive straight into the deep end of the pool; while Dora would dip a tentative toe before sliding in carefully off the side. It puzzled Helen that she could have given birth to two such different and fascinating creatures, but if she knew one thing, it was that their differences were only getting more marked the older they got.

  As Helen sat and studied her girls she noticed for the first time the brilliant colour of Cassie’s painted fingernails – they were the exact same letterbox red as the expensive nail varnish Helen had treated herself to at the Chanel beauty counter last week. Cassie, noticing her mother’s stare, glanced down at her fingers before looking up and smiling innocently back at her. Helen swallowed down her anger. She’d have a word later, in private. Yes, Cassie was certainly entering a difficult phase.

  ‘How are you girls getting on at school?’ Alfred asked, breaking the silence. ‘Your father told me you did well in your Eleven Plus, Cassie?’

  Cassie nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘She did really well,’ said Helen. ‘The teachers think Cassie’s got a very bright future ahead of her, if she applies herself.’

  Cassie dropped her head, seemingly embarrassed.

  ‘And Panda Bear is doing well at school too, aren’
t you?’ added Richard. ‘She came third in a spelling test last week.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dora. ‘I had to spell P. H. I. L. O. S. O. P. H. Y. Philosophy.’ She spelt the word out slowly. ‘I got a red star.’

  ‘Well done,’ cheered Alfred.

  ‘What clever granddaughters I have,’ said Daphne, entering the room with a tray of toasted hot cross buns wafting warm cinnamon and cloves, and a steaming teapot. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony – help yourselves.’

  Cassie was the first up. She grabbed half a bun and then wandered towards the French doors. ‘OK if I go outside for a bit?’

  ‘No, darling,’ Helen started, ‘we’ve only just arr—’

  But Daphne had already cut her off. ‘Of course, Cassandra!’ she said brightly. ‘You go right ahead. I’m sure a good dose of country air would do you the world of good. You might find Bill down in the orchard. We’ve had some terrible storms down here recently; he was talking about building a bonfire.’

  Helen bristled. They hadn’t been in the house ten minutes and Daphne was already undermining her. She took a deep breath. Stay calm, she willed. It didn’t matter. Cassie was better off out of the way anyway.

  ‘Don’t tell me old Bill Dryden’s still managing the estate for you, Dad? He must be nearly seventy,’ Richard marvelled.

  ‘Not far off,’ agreed Alfred, ‘but he’s as fit as a flea, that man.’

  As father and son began to talk about the challenges of managing the land around Clifftops and Cassie drifted away through the French doors, Daphne turned pointedly to Helen.

  ‘When did Cassandra start wearing nail varnish, Helen? Isn’t she a little young for all that nonsense?’

  Helen smiled sweetly, irritated by the disapproval written all over her mother-in-law’s face. ‘Oh, it’s just a little bit of fun for the holidays. I don’t let her wear it every day.’ Why was she lying? Why didn’t she just say that it was the first time she’d ever seen Cassie with painted nails and it certainly hadn’t been her idea? Because it made her seem weak and incompetent as a mother, that’s why.

  Daphne tutted. ‘Young girls these days are in such a rush to grow up. Boys, clothes, make-up . . . there’s plenty of time for all of that.’ Helen braced herself for a sermon but Daphne surprised her by suddenly changing tack. ‘So how is London, Helen? You’re all well? Keeping busy?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Helen. ‘We are.’

  ‘No plans to move out of the city just yet then?’

  Here we go again, she thought. ‘No, Daphne,’ Helen said firmly, ‘you know our lives are in London.’

  Daphne sniffed. ‘I just think you’d have a much better quality of life if you moved to the countryside.’

  ‘We have a great quality of life. London is a wonderful, vibrant city. It has so much to offer the girls.’

  ‘I’m sure it is an exciting place – for a young couple,’ added Daphne pointedly. ‘I just can’t help thinking a family would be better off in a more rural setting. I do worry about the girls.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about them. They’re thriving. At their age they need stimulation, opportunities and adventure, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well . . .’ murmured Daphne noncommittally.

  ‘What?’ asked Helen, rising to the bait. ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘I can’t help noticing Cassie seems a little withdrawn. She’s such a serious thing, so inside herself. I’ve heard about those inner-city schools. No fresh air, no green outdoor spaces. It can’t be good for her.’

  Helen’s cheeks flushed red. ‘Cassie’s fine. She’s happy and healthy.’

  ‘I just think—’

  ‘We can’t uproot our lives, Daphne. I’ve got my work . . . my research at UCL. I won’t give that up. It’s an important part of my life.’

  Daphne sniffed. ‘I suppose I’m just a bit different to you modern women. I always chose to put my husband and family first.’

  Helen bridled at the accusation. Daphne thought she was selfish for keeping the family in London but there was no way they were going to uproot everything to come and camp on Daphne and Alfred’s doorstep, just so Daphne could meddle in their lives. Helen couldn’t think of anything worse.

  ‘You’re not talking about us moving again, are you, Mum?’ Richard intervened, coming to Helen’s rescue. ‘We’ve only just arrived! At least give us a chance to have a cup of tea and a hot cross bun before you get started. Speaking of which,’ he segued seamlessly, ‘these are delicious. May I have another?’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ said Daphne, rewarding her son with her warmest smile. ‘Help yourself. You’re looking a little thin. I’ll have to feed you up while you’re here. We can’t have you wasting away now, can we?’

  Give me strength, thought Helen, and turned her face towards the garden to hide her flaming cheeks.

  ‘She doesn’t mean to upset you,’ Richard said a little later as they unpacked their suitcase upstairs.

  ‘She knows exactly what she’s doing,’ Helen huffed, slinging a handful of pants and socks into a drawer. ‘She’s been doing it for as long as I’ve known her.’ It was hard to make Richard understand how Daphne’s put-downs and comments made her feel so small and insignificant. It was true that taken individually they probably seemed little more than a touch insensitive, tactless at worst. But add them all up, and Helen felt as if she were facing a fearsome barrage of criticism and complaint.

  ‘She’s just a lonely old lady who misses her family and would like us to live a little closer.’

  ‘She’s not that old. And lonely? Give me strength! She’s still got your dad, and, from what I hear, she’s obviously the life and soul of the local community. If it’s not WI cake stalls and fêtes it’s amateur dramatics and charity garden parties. And it’s not us she misses. It’s you. You and the girls!’ Helen opened the wardrobe and grabbed a hanger for her crumpled silk dress.

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what? I’m just sick of her criticism. I know she doesn’t understand it, but I need my work. It helps keep me sane. I can’t do cosy country domesticity, you know that.’

  ‘I do.’ Richard moved across the room and reached for her hand. ‘And that’s why I love you. Helen, no one is saying you should give up your job.’

  ‘Really?’ She eyed her husband.

  ‘Of course not. At least, I’m not. I know how important it is to you. I think it’s great you’ve found something you love doing, and frankly, if it’s good for you, then it’s good for us, as a family. Right?’

  Slightly mollified, Helen released her hand from his grasp and reached for her dress.

  ‘I just sometimes wish you wouldn’t act like it was some terrible penance being down here,’ Richard tried softly. ‘I mean, it’s not so completely dreadful, is it?’

  Helen didn’t answer. Instead she smoothed at the wrinkles in her dress before hanging it in the closet.

  Richard sighed and tried again. ‘It would mean so much to me if you could both get along.’

  ‘I’ve been trying for twelve years now, Richard. Perhaps it’s your mother who you should be having this little conversation with.’ Helen threw her make-up bag onto the dressing table. The sight of it suddenly reminded her of Cassie’s painted nails and she scowled again in irritation. Things between her and Richard were usually pretty even-tempered, safe and stable – sometimes boringly so – but whenever it came to Daphne and Clifftops, it always got tense. It didn’t seem to matter what Daphne did, Richard always defended his mother. Helen used to think it was an admirable trait, but it was starting to grate. What about her? She was his wife after all, and she was growing increasingly sick of always coming second. She grabbed her coat and stalked towards the bedroom door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just out. I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Would you like company?’

  ‘Not right now.’ She knew it was wrong to take it out on Richard, but she couldn’t help herself. There was somethin
g about being back in the old farmhouse that drove her a little crazy.

  ‘Well, don’t be late for dinner,’ Richard called out at her departing back. ‘Mum’s cooking a roast – my favourite, apparently, and we both know how terribly malnourished I am, don’t we.’ He patted his ample waistline and Helen smiled in spite of herself.

  Tensions between the two women simmered gently all week, but Helen was careful never to let them reach boiling point. And, if she were honest, Richard was right: it wasn’t so dreadful being back in Dorset. The family slowly began to relax into their surroundings and a new pace of life gradually washed over them. The girls roamed the grounds, filling their lungs with fresh sea air and their bones with sunshine. They played poohsticks in the stream at the bottom of the orchard, tramped out across the cliffs on long scenic walks and were allowed to stay up later than usual, playing cards with Alfred or watching old movies in the den. Helen found time to curl up on a window seat with one of the dusty novels lining the bookshelves in the library, or even to just sit and watch the clouds drifting across the endless sky. Daphne cooked up a storm in the kitchen, the Aga churning out a seemingly endless parade of cakes and pies, delicious casseroles and roasts. On the Sunday, Alfred and Richard rose early and hid chocolate eggs all over the garden for the traditional Easter egg hunt. Helen wore her green silk dress and forced the girls into matching embroidered dresses too, just for Daphne. And with the weather on their side for once, they spent hours down on the beach, flying kites, combing for shells, paddling in the rock pools and sharing picnics on rugs strewn across the pebbles.

  The sea was too cold for swimming but on their very last day, for a dare, Richard stripped down to his underpants and threw himself into the waves. Helen sat on a rug and watched him for a while as he splashed about in the water, the girls giggling at him from the shore. It was hard not to admire the strong muscles in his shoulders and his long, lean legs. He was a handsome man, and really not all that changed from the one she had met at university over a decade ago; a little less hair on the crown of his head perhaps, and a few crows’ feet around his eyes, but that was all. He was aging well. Watching him, she imagined his wet arms around her, his cold salt-water skin pressing against her own, and was surprised to feel a sudden rush of desire. It had been a while since they had made love. Perhaps she would make an effort later, put on some decent underwear and persuade him to have an early night.