Beneath the Water

by Sarah Painter

  ‘It’s not that simple, though, is it?’

  Stella looked out of the window. A rabbit was on the lawn and, a moment later, there was a terrific barking and one of the dogs ran out to try to catch it.

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘The files for the mortgage stuff are in the cupboard in the dining room.’ Stella had used the table in there as her home office. Sitting with her laptop and receipts to reconcile their bank account, write the occasional cheque, make transfers and set up direct debits. Phone for the best prices on electricity and gas and insurance, and for quotes on rendering or plumbing or whatever the money pit of a house required next. Ben had loved the house, did love the house, but Stella had been its mother. The one who wiped its nose and made sure it had dinner money.

  ‘You need the password and code to log into the joint bank account. The code is on a card in that file and I can give you the password now if you have a pen. I didn’t want to email it.’

  ‘I think I just need the mortgage details, account number and all that. Then I can phone them and find out—’

  ‘Yes, but you’re going to need a new mortgage. We can’t keep the same account if you’re going to buy me out. And you’ll need details of outgoings and all that for the application. Go into the joint account and you’ll find them all under direct debits. It’s the easiest way as they’re all in one place. You can print off that page.’

  ‘Right, got it. Okay.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly how this works, but I’m sure either our old mortgage company or whoever you go with will be able to talk you through it. Just keep me up to date. Email is fine.’

  ‘You’re being very efficient,’ Ben said.

  It was an old insult. Ben had always said she was being efficient when he was teasing her about not enjoying herself more, not fully engaging with the place they were visiting, or when he wanted to suggest that her organisation skills were more a curse than a blessing.

  ‘And thank Christ for that,’ Stella said. ‘I assume you want to get this sorted sooner rather than later, and I know I don’t want to pay a half-share on a house I’m not living in for any longer than I have to.’

  There was a small pause. ‘You’re not coming back, then?’

  ‘Not to the house, no. It’s all yours.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ben said.

  ‘It has nothing to do with you,’ Stella said, and it was only half a lie.

  The next day, Stella was working through the emails to Jamie’s website, marvelling at the range of correspondence he received from fans. Among the kind and complimentary messages were tales of courage and hope and triumph which warmed the heart. Sprinkled throughout, however, were some truly horrifying messages from some very angry people. Death threats. Suggestions for sexual practices that were anatomically impossible. Obscene pictures. Religious diatribes that ended with a graphic description of the tortures which awaited Jamie in hell. Stella had set up a filter to catch the majority of the nasty stuff and put it into a specially created ‘whackjob’ folder, but she still felt it important to check that something genuine and non-insane hadn’t been missed. Plus, every so often a death threat would be so carefully worded that it bypassed the filter and Stella only discovered halfway through the message that she was reading a reasoned argument as to the how and why Jamie was going to be poisoned in his sleep or killed in a car ‘accident’.

  After an hour or so of this job, Stella felt her attention straying to the bundle of letters from Jessie Lockhart. They were enthralling and she had wanted to devour them in one sitting, but luckily the handwriting was difficult to decipher to her modern eyes and that had helped Stella to ration them out. She took one now, as a treat for dealing with the unpleasant emails.

  I have been unwell and, in truth, asleep for the best part of the last two weeks . . . Truly, nothing has been too much for him and I have had all manner of tinctures and pills and the most modern treatments.

  ‘Tinctures.’ Stella said the word out loud. There was an old-fashioned ring to it which was oddly comforting but, Stella knew, the reality was not. Medical man or not, James Lockhart was treating his wife with the limited resources of the day, and Stella felt a gut-wrenching, instinctual sisterhood with ‘poorly wee Jessie’. She tried to imagine what her outcome would have been, if she and Jessie swapped places. It was a pointless exercise; she wouldn’t have survived babyhood.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ Jamie walked into the room and held out an envelope.

  ‘No,’ Stella said, her mind back on death threats. ‘Let me see.’

  The envelope was A5, white, and had Jamie Munro written on the front in familiar handwriting. It was Caitlin’s, Stella thought. Mystified, she opened the envelope.

  ‘Don’t,’ Jamie said. ‘It might be anthrax.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Stella said.

  Jamie plucked the folded sheet of paper before she could read it. ‘Who is Caitlin?’

  ‘Caitlin Baird. The friend I was staying with before I came here.’ Stella’s mind was scrambling – why would Caitlin write to Jamie? Had she misaddressed the envelope? Was it some weird Scottish tradition?

  ‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Jamie was reading the letter, a crease between his eyes.

  ‘What is it?’

  His expression was blank. ‘She says you are ill.’

  Stella felt herself blush. ‘That’s not—’

  ‘Stella Jackson has a heart condition which makes her heart beat erratically. She had an episode on Monday and refused medical treatment. I am worried about her and was hoping you could persuade her to go for a check-up. She promised me that she would, but I know her. She won’t.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Stella said.

  ‘You don’t want to go to the hospital?’

  ‘No.’ Stella shook her head. ‘I really, really don’t. I have had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Jamie said. ‘It’s none of my business.’ He dropped the letter into the wastepaper bin and went back to his office.

  Stella waited for the relief to wash over her and it did, but it was shallow and not nearly as comforting as she’d expected.

  That evening, Stella was working late. She had taken time off in the afternoon and walked with the dogs through the woods, Angus running circles around almost every tree and barking at squirrels, leaves and dirt. Having Skyped with Jamie’s accountancy firm in San Francisco, an entirely pointless meeting as far as she could tell, but something they seemed to feel they needed, Stella began shutting her applications down. The sound of rotor blades made her head jerk up.

  ‘Jamie?’ Stella found his office empty. Through the big window in the dining room, she saw a black helicopter on the lower lawn, its blades slowing. Coming up the steps at the side of the garden was a man she didn’t recognise, deep in conversation with Jamie. She stepped away from the window and hovered, uncertain as to what to do, where to go. Finally, she went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Tea. The answer to every question.

  The men walked into the kitchen, bringing the smell of fresh air and diesel with them. ‘Stella, this is my pal, Alek Brzezicki.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Stella took the enormous hand that was being offered by Alek. He was well over six foot and towered over Jamie. She guessed he must be one of the ‘world-class’ athletes Jamie was always talking about when studying performance and health. His shoulders seemed too wide for the doorway and his skin glowed in a way which suggested ice baths, morning runs and green smoothies. If it wasn’t for the height difference, he and Jamie could have been brothers.

  Stella felt even softer and more knackered than usual next to these two visions of vitality. ‘Shall we get started?’ Alek said. ‘I need to get back tonight. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Jamie said. ‘Thanks for coming, man.’

  ‘Do you need me for anything?’ Stella wondered if they would ask Esmé to cook them dinner or whether they would just dig into a protein bar or huff some oxygen from the
canister Jamie kept in his exercise room.

  Jamie didn’t look at her, his attention on his guest. ‘Do you want refreshments?’

  ‘No, let’s get started.’ Alek smiled at Stella. ‘Just a quick check-up. Nothing to worry about, I promise.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you didn’t want to go to hospital and I respect that,’ Jamie said. He wasn’t looking directly at her and Stella realised that he was worried about her reaction. ‘Alek is a cardiologist.’

  Stella stopped herself from saying ‘what?’ again. ‘I’m fine,’ she said instead.

  ‘That’s good,’ Alek said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll just take a few readings and be out of your hair.’

  Without exactly agreeing, Stella found herself in one of the many spare bedrooms, with Alek unravelling the wires of his portable EKG machine.

  ‘So, you’re in private practice, I assume. Are all your clients like Jamie?’ It seemed politer than asking why he wasn’t a film star. He had the cheekbones for it.

  Alek shook his head. ‘Nope. St Barts. Jamie’s a friend.’

  ‘He’s not paying you?’

  ‘Oh, I charge him, all right. But I wouldn’t have come up here on three hours’ notice for a patient who says they are perfectly well and who doesn’t want to see a doctor, unless he was a mate.’

  Stella realised that the best way to get this over with as quickly as possible was to cooperate. She reeled off her diagnosis, the corrective surgery she had undergone as a child, the valve replacement four years ago and her current maintenance regime.

  ‘When did you last see your own doctor?’

  ‘Every year, as recommended.’

  Alek tilted his head. ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘I might have missed the last one.’ Or two.

  Alek’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Bisoprolol? It works well for you?’

  ‘I hardly ever need it,’ Stella said. She unbuttoned her shirt and let Alek attach the electrodes on her chest.

  There was silence for a few moments while the machine did its thing. Stella found a spot on the wall opposite and concentrated on that. She had always hated the EKG, even though it didn’t hurt. The mapping of her heartbeat, the sense of a test she might fail. The old machines used to spew out a long piece of paper, her heart beat drawn in jaggy lines of ink. Now, like everything else, it was a digital image. Stella preferred the screen version. It was easier to distance from herself, somehow.

  ‘I would like to take some blood, if I may?’ Alek was getting out a kit with syringes, needles and empty vials.

  Stella hated needles. She wanted to say no. He couldn’t make her, after all, but the thought of Jamie downstairs, pacing and worried – worried enough to fly a doctor to Scotland just to check her over – stopped her. ‘I need to lie down,’ Stella said, moving her feet onto the bed. ‘I have a tendency to faint.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  Stella didn’t watch the preparations or the needle going in. She looked at a watercolour seascape and asked Alek questions about how he had met Jamie. Another boarding school connection. Stella thought about her school, the sprawling comprehensive in St Albans, and tried to recall the names of her friends. She was in touch with a fair number on Facebook, but only a couple in real life, and she wasn’t close enough to any of them to fly them to Scotland for a favour.

  ‘All done,’ Alek said.

  ‘You’re not going to make me do a stress test?’ Stella said, relieved.

  He shook his beautiful head. ‘Not unless you want me to.’

  ‘No. I’m completely fine.’ She really was, and all of this actually made her feel like a fake. All those years of medical attention that she had most definitely needed and now this high-class appointment to tell her what she already knew.

  Alek was studying her scars with a professional gaze. She lifted the band of her bra so that he could see the most recent. They had gone in underneath her breast to give her the most discreet scar possible. It seemed like an unnecessary courtesy – she still had the gigantic one going down the middle, after all, but she appreciated the kindness. He nodded. ‘Neat job and it’s healed well. Any post-op problems?’

  ‘Nope,’ Stella said. ‘Good as new.’

  ‘And it was a weakened valve, not picked up during your original surgery?’

  ‘Not present,’ Stella corrected. ‘My cardiologist said it was weakened through the growth period while they were still getting my arrhythmia under control.’

  He nodded. ‘You shouldn’t have any more issues, then. Congratulations.’

  ‘I’m very lucky,’ Stella said.

  He tilted his head. ‘Any other symptoms post-op? Anxiety? Depression? Low mood?’

  ‘About being cured?’ Stella attempted a smile. ‘What kind of person doesn’t feel happy about getting their life back?’

  He didn’t answer and Stella found herself going over her words, looking for an unintended meaning or something she hadn’t meant to reveal.

  ‘In my line of work, I have seen every reaction possible to both good news and bad. All I can tell you is that the human heart is unpredictable.’

  Stella concentrated on doing up her shirt, unable to meet his eye.

  ‘You don’t have to feel guilty if you’re not ecstatic. You’ve been through a lot.’

  Stella finished with her shirt. She wanted to say ‘I’m fine’ but the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘It will take a few days for the results. I’ll call you. But I don’t want you to worry. Your EKG looks good and it sounds as if your medication controls your symptoms just fine. Are there any side effects?’

  ‘Dry mouth, sometimes,’ Stella said, ‘but I take them so infrequently it’s not an issue.’

  ‘Anything else you’re concerned about? Do you have any questions about your heart or anything else?’

  Stella’s throat closed up from the simple kindness of the question. She shook her head. ‘Thank you. No.’

  He smiled. ‘Shall I tell the worrier to stop worrying, then?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Stella said.

  He packed away his equipment, telling Stella about the holiday to Cuba he was taking at the end of the month.

  ‘Will it get better or will it get worse?’

  Alek switched topics with ease. ‘No way to tell,’ he said. ‘It might just stay the same.’

  ‘And I might live a long time.’ Stella kept her voice perfectly flat. She didn’t want to seem hopeful. Didn’t want to make his job any worse than it already was.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Or I might not?’

  ‘There is a statistical increase in the likelihood of heart attack, but it isn’t large. There is also a possibility that your arrhythmia will get worse and, if that happens, there are surgical options as well as other medicines available. It’s not likely, though. You would be very unlucky indeed to have another valve issue.’

  ‘If it gets worse does that increase the likelihood of heart attack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  None of this was news, but hearing it again, even from someone who looked as if they ought to play a doctor on television, made it seem more real than ever. Stella realised that there had been a small part of her which had hoped that a fancy, private-practice doctor might have a different answer for her. ‘And I have a statistical likelihood of a decreased lifespan?’

  ‘That’s not the way to look at it,’ Alek said. ‘You were born with a terrible prognosis, grew up with a bad prognosis, but now you are here. Healthy. And with an excellent prognosis. It really is cause for celebration.’

  He left the room first and Stella finished sorting out her shirt. She put her shoes back on and waited a few minutes before going downstairs. This was why she avoided check-ups. They forced her to think about things which she preferred to keep buried.

  Alek and Jamie were in the kitchen, talking about Cuba. Stella paused outside the door for a moment, and then went to her own room. She propped herself up on the bed with lo
ts of pillows and read a book.

  An hour or so later, Stella heard the rotor blades start up. She went to the window and watched the helicopter leave. When Jamie knocked on her door, she was ready to be angry with him, ready to shout at his overbearing, egotistical personality and his thoughtless, controlling behaviour.

  The figure that stood in her doorway, ducking his head and looking worried, wasn’t quite the Jamie Munro of her imagination. He looked uncertain. ‘You want dinner? Esmé is roasting a chicken.’

  Stella realised that she was starving. ‘Yes, please.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  21st April, 1848

  My dearest Mary,

  I hope this letter finds you well. It is such a relief to sit at the writing desk with the pen in my hand, knowing that my scratchings will be seen by your beloved eyes and understood by that quick brain you have possessed always. I have no one to confide in here and, truthfully, being a wife is a more lonely occupation than I had imagined. Do you ever have such feelings, Mary? Or is it disrespectful to form such a question? I hope that you won’t take offence – you know how deeply I esteem your dear Callum and that I consider him the finest brother.

  James Young Simpson was in The Times newspaper today, and although we only take The Scotsman, Mr Watson showed the wretched thing to my husband and he has been in a state of great fury ever since. I ordered the cook to make his favourite dish for supper, pigeon pudding, but it did not soothe him in the slightest.

  I wish I had not seen the paper, but once I began reading I was powerless to stop. It spoke at length on the wisdom of Dr Simpson and his supposed advancement of obstetrics and anaesthesia. Mary, it was so toadying in tone as to make one quite ill. Everybody loves that man to distraction, and it is as if he can do no wrong, it is such a trial for my own husband. My Mr Lockhart is but a few minutes late for the onset of a lady’s pains and she screeches like a banshee.

  I am sorry to report that visage has a lot more to do with our feelings than we might like. Everyone likes Simpson’s round and smiling face, while Mr Lockhart has a serious, rather thin aspect. I suggested that he might smile more and he held my hand over a candle until I cried and agreed that smiling was for fools.