by Clare Boyd
Patrick stepped in front of Dilys. ‘Don’t speak to my son like that.’
She backed off. Her lips juddered and turned blue as she stared at us from the edge of the pool.
‘So, you’re going to gang up on me, now, are you?’
‘It’s nothing like that, Dilys,’ Camilla said.
Dilys moved backwards, until her heels were almost hanging off the flagstone surround to the pool. ‘You fucking Tennants,’ she hissed.
‘Excuse me, young lady?’ Camilla spluttered, staring at her aghast.
Dilys began to laugh. ‘Once an outsider, always an outsider, right, Fran?’
‘Nonsense. We’ve loved you like our own,’ Camilla said, saving me from replying, sounding genuinely hurt.
‘Like your own?’ Dilys sneered. ‘Jesus. Fuck me. Spare me that nightmare, won’t you?’
‘How dare you? After all we’ve done for you!’ Camilla cried.
‘What have you done exactly? Brought me into your fucked-up family and fucked with my head, just as you did with Robert’s?’
‘Robert’s depression was not our fault.’
‘Yeah, that’s right, you tell yourself that, you tell yourself it had nothing to do with the fact you fucked the next-door neighbour in the poolhouse!’ Dilys stabbed a finger at the door behind them.
Camilla gasped and pressed her fingertips over her lips.
Patrick left her side and began pacing, back and forth, in small steps up and down the length of the sun-lounger in front of his wife, brushing his hand over his hair, again and again. And then he stopped, next to her once more, and spoke up calmly, regally almost. ‘Camilla had a short-lived affair with Edward Dillhurst, one of our neighbours, many years ago. She told me all about it and we got through it. It has nothing to do with Robert’s death.’
‘But you know that Robert stood there in his cute little stripy jammies and watched them at it?’ Dilys asked, wide-eyed.
‘What do you mean, watched?’ I cried.
‘That’s preposterous!’ Patrick shouted.
Camilla sat down heavily on the low lounger behind her.
‘Robert said he rather enjoyed it, actually.’ Dilys laughed cruelly. ‘Until now, I’d wondered if he’d said it to shock me but, judging by Camilla’s face, I’d say it was true.’
‘How do you know about this?’ John asked her, under this breath.
‘When your brother drank too much, he talked about a lot of things,’ Dilys said.
Shut up, I thought. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Camilla wiped the tears that had begun streaming down her face. ‘I caught Robert and John snooping around one night. One night only. That’s all. He saw nothing. Neither of you saw anything – you swore it, John, you swore that your brother didn’t see anything,’ she rasped.
‘I was eight years old, Mum, and I was scared.’
‘You really saw us?’ she cried, reeling from him.
‘Robert saw much more than I did,’ John confessed. ‘He came down many times and looked through that window at you both.’
Camilla threw a fist into her belly. Her cry was muffled by the rain beating down above us.
‘No,’ I said, under my breath. ‘No.’
I let go of the chair and turned to the poolhouse behind me. The dark, cobwebbed window sat inert and full of horrors. I remembered the description of this very window in John’s film script. His powerful story had been based on a memory. It explained why Robert had hated it so much.
‘If Robert knew, he would have said something to me…’ Patrick said, his craggy, handsome face suddenly sunken and wizened.
Dilys sat slumped over on the end of the same sun-lounger that Camilla sat on. Large droplets from the edge of the canopy fell onto the curve of her bare back, and ran in rivulets across her shoulders.
‘Dad. There’s something you don’t know. The night Robert tried to talk to Mum about it, he attempted suicide for the first time.’
Patrick stared at John, then Camilla, as though his whole world had caved in. ‘Camilla?’
‘He used scissors to cut his throat, this way,’ she whispered hoarsely, pressing her finger downwards on her throat, pressing it into her clavicle. ‘It was a cry for help, more than anything. It wasn’t deep enough to scar, even.’
‘But he was hysterical, wasn’t he? So much so, you had to sedate him with Seroquel,’ John added.
Camilla buried her face in her hands and spoke through her fingers. ‘He kept asking me to get him more and more. Those first few pills seemed harmless, and they worked, they really seemed to help his anxiety, but then it escalated and I was trapped in it with him. He kept trying to stop, like after that trip to Alaska, but he said it was too hard and he said he needed more pills to feel better. He was insatiable. I didn’t know what to do. He said he would kill himself if I didn’t get them for him. I had to do it! I had to!’ she cried, snapping her head up to stare at us, her eyes wide and reddened.
The truth unplugged a lodged, tight feeling in my chest.
John turned his chair to face me. ‘You see, Fran, you’ve always blamed yourself for his death, but he had tried to die many years before he met you. He never knew about us. You have to stop feeling guilty. You did everything you could.’
Dilys stood up slowly and pointed her hooked forefinger at us. ‘You think you two can get away with it as easily as that, do you?’
‘Enough!’ Camilla cried, throwing her arms into the air, stepping in between Dilys and us. ‘Enough!’ she cried, and then quietly, she repeated, ‘Robert’s death was my fault. I was his mother and I failed to protect him. I’m to blame. I’m the only one,’ she sobbed, sinking to her knees and burying her face in John’s lap. ‘And now my other beautiful boy is like this. All of this is my fault.’
John placed a hand on his mother’s head and began to cry. ‘Mum, you did not do this to me. Dilys did this to me.’
Camilla’s head raised itself slowly from John’s lap. ‘What did you do?’ she spluttered at Dilys.
A sound of children’s giggling rang out across the lawn behind us. ‘Grandma Cam-Cam!’ was called over and over again.
Dilys clutched her towel to her chest. ‘I’ll see to the children.’
Patrick stepped in front of Dilys. ‘You will not go anywhere near those children.’
Aghast, Dilys stumbled back and fell against the chair. She then scrambled onto her knees and lunged at John’s ankles, ‘John, please!’
John wheeled himself back, leaving Dilys in a heap of bare limbs and wet towel on the flagstones.
‘Gather your things and get off my property or I will call the police,’ Patrick spat down at her, and then to me, ‘Francesca, get John inside.’
Her whimpering rang in my ears as I pushed John’s chair away as quickly as possible. The wind was raging around us as we made our way over the sodden grass towards the house, towards the two little girls who were running across the lawn, dressed head-to-toe in waterproofs.
‘We can’t let them see Dilys in that state,’ Patrick said, under his breath. He looked behind him, ‘Come on, Camilla!’
‘We got you hot chocolates!’ they cried.
‘Poppets! How wonderful,’ I exclaimed, pushing on forward. ‘Come on, then, back to the house. We’re freezing.’
‘You’ve been ages, Mummy,’ Alice said, looking up from her hood, as she jogged along beside me.
‘Is Mummy coming?’ Beatrice asked John.
‘She’ll be along in a minute,’ he answered quickly.
‘But her hot chocolate will get cold!’ Beatrice wailed, trailing behind us.
Patrick grabbed her hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep it warm on the Aga.’
Briefly, I looked back. Why was Camilla turning back towards the pool?
The wheelchair rumbled up the ramp to the terrace, and I slipped back a bit with the effort. The children nipped around us and ran inside.
‘In we go, folks!’ Patrick said, his voice breaking a little at the e
ffort to sound cheerful. He opened the kitchen back door and let us all through it.
The heat inside hit me, sending a wave of nausea through me.
As the children peeled off their wet things, helped by Valentina, Patrick talked into my ear. ‘Lock this door. I’m going to check on Camilla.’
I nodded. A frisson of fear electrified my insides.
Olivia and Harry were sitting side by side with their backs to the Aga, sipping from large blue mugs.
‘Hi, guys,’ Harry said.
‘Come and sit next to me, Auntie Fran,’ Olivia said.
‘Dad, bring your chair near the Aga,’ Harry said, always caring for his father.
Valentina handed me and John a mug each.
It slid in my wet hands and I almost dropped it as I crouched down to sit next to Olivia. Alice snuggled up next to us, her hair wet on my sleeve, while Beatrice climbed onto John’s lap.
My back was burning with the heat of the stove and the airless room was choking me.
‘Where are the others?’ Harry asked.
I stared out at the rain lashing the window.
‘I think they’re going to walk the dogs,’ John said, lamely.
‘They already walked the dogs,’ Valentina piped up, flicking a tea-towel at John.
‘I’m sure they’ll be back in a minute,’ I said.
Harry glanced over at me with a frown.
I shook my head. Please don’t ask, I was saying, and I looked away, forcing down a sip of the sickly sweet drink. The children’s chatter was a background noise. The dogs began barking madly in the distance. It was the bark they used when a car arrived or left the gravel drive.
‘Jump down, Bea,’ John said, wheeling himself to the window.
I joined him.
‘That means she’s gone,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll go and check.’
Without taking my coat, I ran outside, feeling the rain dampen my clothes, not caring, too eager to follow the noise of Bracken and Holly. It was not coming from the drive. It was coming from the pool.
As I climbed the bank, their barks had become growls, frightening me. I heard Patrick’s voice. ‘What have you done?’ he was moaning.
I rushed to the side of the pool, where Patrick was pulling at the dogs’ collars, his face contorted. ‘What have you done?’ he kept repeating.
Camilla was half submerged, fully clothed, shuddering in the water on the steps that led into the shallow end. Her hair was flattened over her face, her lips slack and purple.
As I moved closer, I could see a dark mass floating in the pool near her.
‘Get her out!’ I screamed, discarding my shoes and diving in with all my clothes on. Dilys’ limp, heavy body dragged me down as I swam to the side. ‘Help me, someone!’ I implored, gagging on the water.
Patrick let go of the dogs, who jumped into the pool and swam to Camilla, who was unresponsive to their attention.
We heaved Dilys’ body out and lay her on the side. Her long limbs were limp and her head flopped to the left. I felt her wrist.
‘There’s no pulse. Call an ambulance, Patrick,’ I said, handing him my phone.
While Patrick answered questions, with incriminating detail, about the scene in front of us, I pushed back Dilys’ hair and put my lips to hers and breathed into her cold, sour mouth, before pumping at her chest. One, two, three, and on, as I had been taught to do on a first-aid course on a film once. Thirty compressions, two rescue breaths, and then again, and again, until I retched with the effort.
Camilla remained in the pool, quivering, silent, staring across the water, as the dogs licked and nudged her. Her eyes were as lifeless as Dilys’ body in front of me.
She knew. She knew that there was no need for an ambulance. She knew that Dilys was dead.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
John
John and the four children were around the table playing Snap.
‘Why did Mum want to go with them on a dog walk?’ Harry asked.
‘SNAP!’ Beatrice screamed, giggling her head off, scooping the cards across the table.
‘She fancied the fresh air,’ John said, trying to ignore the rain attacking the window in nasty gusts.
‘Daddy, it’s your turn!’
He slapped a card down, checking his watch again, wondering why Francesca was taking so long.
‘And Auntie Fran joined them, too?’
‘Yes, Harry. Yes. Don’t worry. They’ll be back soon.’
He imagined there had been some kind of trouble persuading Dilys to leave the grounds. He felt useless in his chair, and so angry that he was useless.
The sounds of the quiet slapping down of cards was interrupted by the high-pitched wail of a siren.
‘Dad? What’s that? What’s going on?’ Harry asked.
‘Just stay here, okay?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No!’ Then he called out to Valentina.
She raced in, her hands over her ears. ‘Wha’s wrong? Wha’s that noise?’
‘Keep the doors locked. Do not let them outside.’
She wrung her apron in her hands. ‘Okay. Okay.’
‘Dad!’ Harry yelled. ‘Tell me what’s going on! Why won’t you let us outside?’
Beatrice, Olivia and Alice gaped at John. He had never seen them so still and quiet and frightened.
John rolled through the house and out of the front door. He stopped on the step. The stones of the gravel driveway prevented him from moving further.
Green and blue and yellow blurred the scene before him. Through the disorientating jumble of colours, he thought he made out a long black body bag being wheeled towards an ambulance.
The bulky, bright forms of the paramedics moved around the menacing shape slowly. There was no hurry to their destination. John could not relate to what he was seeing. Was that body a stranger? Had there been an intruder? Where were his parents? Where was Francesca?
‘Francesca!’ he yelled into the wind. ‘Francesca!’
His father jogged onto the driveway from around the side of the house. He was soaked through, waxen, his hair in disarray.
‘DAD!’ John called out, but his father couldn’t hear him.
From behind John’s chair, he heard the rapid tread of sneakers across the hallway.
Harry charged past him, rocking his chair. ‘Harry! STOP!’
Patrick ran towards his grandson, trying to hold him back from the stretcher as the body was raised into the ambulance, but Harry was strong and pushed him away, and then shoved the paramedic, who couldn’t gather himself in time to stop Harry unzipping the bag.
A tendril of wet blonde hair fell out.
‘MUM!’ Harry screamed. ‘NO!’
His anguished wail rang out through the air, stopping John’s breathing like a garrotte around his throat.
He watched Harry collapse into his grandfather’s arms, and then heard the sound of more sirens. A police car pulled up next to the ambulance. Two uniformed officers approached Patrick and Harry, but Harry ran from them. The officers and Patrick let him go, and walked around the side of the house, in the direction of the pool.
John was stunned, rigid, unable to move a muscle or think beyond his shock.
Harry stumbled towards John, his face pulled out of shape, white and pained. ‘Daddy!’ he cried, falling into John’s lap, his back heaving great sobs. ‘Mummy drowned!’
John could not yet grasp what had happened. He was lagging behind his son. Automatically, he put his hands out to comfort his son, but he was transfixed by the vividness of the vehicles that shot neon around his brain. Nothing in front of him made sense.
Before he had a chance to work out how to speak, how to move, the two officers appeared again, either side of his mother, who was dripping, convulsing, purpled with cold. One of the police officers was holding her by the arm: to steady her? They opened the back door of their car and seated her inside. Through the window, John could see that she was staring strai
ght ahead.
Harry stopped crying to stare. ‘Why are they taking Grandma?’
By the side of the house, Francesca appeared next to his father. They had stopped dead at the edge of the gravel. They held hands, watching on, motionless.
‘Francesca! Dad!’ John cried out, finding his voice.
They seemed to wake from their reverie, and they walked sombrely towards him and Harry.
Francesca spoke for his father, whose eyes were fixed into nothingness. She told John what had happened in a hoarse whisper, trembling all over, dripping, unhindered by Harry’s presence, too caught up in the hellishness to be appropriate or cautious. The story reconfigured in his brain several times, but he could not find a manageable thread to process, to understand.
He watched the ambulance manoeuvre and disappear down the tree-lined driveway. In and out of the silver birch, John was sure he could see Robert as a boy, laughing, dancing around the trunks. He blinked, trying to see more clearly, but by the time he looked again, the vision was gone.
The police car followed the ambulance, respectively carrying his dead wife and guilty mother.
* * *
Beatrice was screaming in his lap, and John didn’t know how to calm her. He wanted to call the doctor, to ask for something to sedate her, and then he realised how ironic that would be. But the noise of her was getting into his head, until he thought he might break down himself. As he withstood his daughter’s anger and confusion, the void that Dilys’ death left inside him was a dark mass, inexplicable and frightful.
Olivia and Harry sat at one end of the long oak table, looking small and confused, clutching each other’s hands. The salted pallor of their faces was a ghastly sight to behold; one that John could never have imagined he would see. While Francesca talked quietly to them, with Alice on her lap, Patrick sat silent and stunned in the corner; disgraced by his wife, terrified for her, aging exponentially before John’s eyes.
Valentina was the only person who was together enough to organise them: making pots of tea and feeding them sandwiches and spiced biscuits; leading the police in and out; entertaining the children during the informal police questioning; fielding calls from ambulance-chasing local reporters; prising the wailing Beatrice from John when he was on the phone to doctors and coroners and solicitors and more police; and helping him physically in the way that Martha would at home.
