The Drowning

by Valerie Mendes

  “Give us a twirl.” Dad’s glasses were all steamed up. “You look a real treat.”

  Jenna climbed into a taxi and was whisked up the hill to Tregenna Castle.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Meryn had said the night before on the phone. “It’ll be chaos. I’d better stick with Dewy to make sure he’s got everything he needs.”

  Outside the hotel, in the courtyard, cars came and went in frantic succession. Crowds of people – couples, parents with gaggles of children, a few loners like her – stood in their Saturday best, many of them wearing flowers in their lapels.

  Jenna walked shyly into the hotel. The wedding was taking place in a room on the right-hand side of the foyer, which looked out over the slope of Tregenna’s gardens and then down to the sea. Hundreds of small chairs, covered in red damask, had been grouped in a wide semicircle around a table decorated with white lilies.

  Jenna perched on a seat towards the front, directly on the aisle, on the right-hand side.

  I expect Meryn’s with Dewy in one of the wedding-suite rooms, making sure everyone’s still sane! And I’m sure Wenna will be in a terrible state, with six bridesmaids to organise.

  Within minutes the room had filled. Jenna spotted Meryn’s mother sitting several rows ahead of her, remembered the moment they’d met when Meryn had first reappeared in her life. She checked her watch. Almost three o’clock.

  As she did so, Dewy and Meryn walked down the narrow aisle and took their places at the front.

  Meryn looked round for Jenna. He gave her a broad smile of recognition and mouthed, “You look beautiful.”

  Jenna blushed.

  As the music started, the guests got to their feet.

  Jenna looked down the aisle for Wenna and her father, as they moved slowly up through the room. Wenna looked pale but happy in a ravishing long, lacy, cream dress.

  Behind Wenna walked her bridesmaids.

  All six of them.

  Four toddlers, in pale pink satin, each clutching a single rose, trotted erratically behind the bride. They were followed by two taller girls, maybe twelve years old, dressed identically in the same pink, with the same flowers.

  And almost identical faces.

  Large, doe-like eyes, dark as Meryn’s. Wide, smiling mouths. Small, flattened noses. Long, smooth foreheads reaching back to pale-gold hair, tied in thick plaits over their heads, and decorated with a single pink rose.

  Meryn’s little sisters.

  They were twins.

  Jenna gaped at them.

  As she did so, one of the twins muttered under her breath, “Don’t walk so fast, Phil . . . Slow down!”

  The ceremony began.

  Her legs trembling, her heart thudding, Jenna slumped on to her chair. Her hands felt numb with cold. She gripped them together and closed her eyes.

  What if the twins who bullied Benjie were girls? Why has that never occurred to me before? How many twins called Phil can there be in St Ives?

  She heard nothing of the words of the ceremony, sang none of the hymns, was deaf to the couple’s vows. Her head bent, she stared blindly at the hideous patterned carpet, seeing little of Dewy and Wenna as they kissed each other’s lips, hugged their parents, turned to embrace their friends.

  She sat rigid as the guests burst into delighted applause.

  Then she looked up.

  She saw Meryn’s radiant smile; watched him shake Dewy’s hand, grasp his shoulder, touch Wenna’s cheek and murmur, “Congratulations!” She saw him bend towards the toddlers to pat their heads; then hug each of his sisters in turn.

  As he straightened his back, he looked directly at Jenna.

  Unblinking, she stared across at him.

  He beckoned to her.

  She made no response.

  The guests stood up, gossiping, chattering, laughing, smoothing their clothes, adjusting their hats, calling their children to order.

  Stiff and silent, Jenna got to her feet.

  She turned away from Meryn and walked to the bottom of the aisle.

  She pushed her way through the crowd, across the foyer, through the open door of Tregenna.

  Outside, beyond the courtyard, the gardens stretched languid and green. The clear sky blazed with stripes of icy turquoise and gentle pink at the start of sunset. On the horizon, the sea lay flat, smiling its strands of blue.

  Jenna started to run.

  Through Tregenna’s woods, across Trelyon Avenue, down the narrow hill to Porthminster.

  And on, down the firm wet sand of its beach, to the gently lapping edges of the sea.

  The Photograph

  Jenna took a deep breath, letting the scent of the sea fill her body.

  She could feel the thud of her heart against her ribs. The waves curled around her shoes. Sea-water stroked the hem of her trousers. The wind lifted her hair on her shoulders, flapped her fringe away from her forehead. Her lips stung with salt.

  Calm down, girl, calm down. Don’t jump to any crazy conclusions.

  Just because I’ve seen a pair of twins, and one of them’s called Phil,it doesn’t mean they knew Benjie or had anything to do with him.

  Does it?

  Why didn’t I have the courage to go up to them, just now, and simply ask? Why have I taken the coward’s way out and run away?

  Jenna stared out to sea, to the calmness of the flat horizon, the beauty of the gradually darkening sky, whose pink had changed to deeper shades of flame.

  Because they’re Meryn’s little sisters, that’s why!

  And if they were Benjie’s bullies, I don’t want to know the truth . . .

  She began to walk again, up and down beside the edges of the sea. The tide sucked slowly out in lacy swirls. Like Wenna’s wedding dress. She walked until her feet were soaked, her new shoes and velvet trousers ruined, her legs wet, her hands and face chilled by the salty wind, arguing under her breath.

  Then she forced herself to turn away from the sea. She squelched as swiftly as she could back up the hills to Tregenna, summoned her courage and plunged inside.

  The wedding room stood dark and empty.

  On the opposite side of the foyer, the dining room was filled with lights, music, the clang of cutlery, the chink of glasses, the hum of voices and laughter.

  She stood hesitantly in the doorway, looking at a pool of tables and waiters, plates, trolleys, faces eating, drinking, talking. Desperately, she tried to find Meryn among them. The bride’s table seemed to be at the far side of the room. She slid quickly along its edge, her back against the wall, until she reached the top.

  Meryn spotted her immediately. He leapt to his feet, pushed his way past the table towards her.

  “Jenna! What happened? One minute you were there, the next—”

  “I’m sorry. I must’ve seemed incredibly rude. But I had to get away. To think.”

  “Think about what? . . . Sorry, Jenna, this din . . . I can hardly hear you. And I’ve had two glasses of champagne.” He grabbed her hand. “You’re freezing—”

  “I must talk to you.”

  “Come and sit down. I’ll make a place for you beside me.”

  “I can’t. I only came to say we need to talk.” But she let him pull her towards a chair.

  “There! Sit down and have a drink. Thaw out. I can’t imagine what you’ve been up to for the last hour. You missed my speech. Think it went OK.”

  Jenna sank down, raised the glass to her lips, took a long gulp of champagne. The cool liquid set fire to her throat.

  She said,as if it were a throwaway question,“Where are your little sisters?”

  “Philippa and Gabriella? I so wanted you to meet them!”

  Jenna’s heart froze. Phil for Philippa . . . and now Gabriella . . . Is she the G in Benjie’s diary? Might I have found both of them at once?

  Meryn laughed. “They got a bit over-excited, poor little mites. They’ve been up since the crack of dawn. Mum’s taken them home.” He drained his glass. “But didn’t they look gorgeous? And di
dn’t they do well!”

  Jenna’s mouth seemed to have been stung by nettles. “Oh, they were brilliant.”

  “I’m so proud of them.” He squeezed her hand. “Mum cried a bucket . . . Do you know what I wish? The one thing in the world that would’ve made today perfect?”

  “No, what?”

  “That my dad could have seen them. They were only three when he died. How he loved them.”

  Jenna said mechanically, “I’m sure he must have done.”

  A waiter had brought a plate laden with smoked salmon and salad. Meryn slid it towards her. “Here, eat up.”

  “No, really, I couldn’t—”

  “Nonsense. It’s delicious.” He refilled her glass, then his. The champagne fizzed and sighed. “There. Now,what did you want to say to me?”

  “Oh, nothing, really,” Jenna said. “It’ll keep.”

  “Tell me tomorrow.”

  “Sure, tomorrow.”

  “Come round for tea . . . Give us both time to sleep in.” Meryn waved his arm towards the sweaty band. They were sawing away at “Some Enchanted Evening” as a handful of couples bobbed and weaved on the tiny dance floor. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

  “Wonderful.” Jenna pushed some cold, slimy fish into her mouth. It made her want to gag.

  Some enchanted evening this has turned out to be . . .

  Meryn gave a huge contented sigh. “Mission accomplished.” He leant back in his chair. “The wedding went without a hitch. Dewy’s a happily married man, they’re off on honeymoon. We can have the cottage to ourselves.” He touched Jenna’s cheek. “Come and dance with me. Course, I’m a clodhopper compared with you!”

  Jenna swallowed. “Could I have another glass of champagne?”

  She sat on her bed, huddled into her bathrobe and woolly socks. In spite of whirling round the dance floor for what had seemed like a lifetime, she felt chilled to the bone.

  Somewhere in St Ives a church clock struck two.

  There must be some way of finding out whether Philippa and Gabriella are the twins in Benjie’s diary.

  The more I think about it, the crazier it seems.

  Girls as beautiful and loved as they are don’t become bullies. They don’t threaten other kids for money. Huddle in groups and point and snigger and chant.

  Not Philippa and Gabriella.

  No way.

  Yet she could not settle into sleep. She stood at her window, looked at the waning moon, counted the stars until her eyes ached and her neck grew stiff with watching.

  Before she asked Meryn anything – and possibly made a complete prat of herself, said things he’d never forgive or forget – she needed some hard evidence that was nothing to do with Benjie’s diary. A list of names, a document.

  A photograph.

  Jenna gasped. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of it before?

  At the end of the spring term, Benjie had come home with a photo, a group shot of his entire school. Mum had said, “Benjie! You took your glasses off! My word! Don’t you look handsome without them!”

  If Philippa and Gabriella had been in Benjie’s class, they’d be standing near him – or at least in the same row – in broad daylight. At least then she’d feel she had more of a cast-iron case.

  That photograph. Where was it? Somewhere in Benjie’s room? Would Mum have kept it safe, a treasured memento of her darling boy? If so, where would it be? Could she get into Dad’s bedroom to search for it without him knowing?

  She had until the morning to decide. No, she didn’t. Her head buzzed with impatience. She must do it now. If she were quiet as a mouse, she could search Benjie’s room without waking Dad.

  She opened her door, tiptoed across the landing.

  In Benjie’s room, she flicked on the light.

  Systematically she started to claw through his chest of drawers, his desk, his wardrobe, even underneath his bed . . .

  Nothing. No photos of any kind.

  Weary and heavy-hearted, she crept back to her room and drifted into a restless sleep.

  “How was the wedding?”

  “Oh, it was wonderful.”

  “Good.” Dad slammed the oven door. Jenna flinched. “What’s the matter? Have you got a headache?”

  “No, honest, I’m fine. Drank rather a lot of champagne.”

  “Ah ha! Your first hangover! Well, I reckon that’s what weddings are supposed to be about . . . I’m having lunch at Hester’s. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “That’s fine by me . . . Have a great time.”

  The minute Dad had gone, Jenna raced upstairs to his bedroom.

  If Mum had kept the photograph, where would it be? Under the bed in a suitcase? On the floor of her wardrobe? Hidden among her underwear in a chest of drawers? Jenna scrabbled everywhere. Once again she found nothing.

  She crashed downstairs. There only remained the desk in the corner of the living room, where Mum had sat, week after week as a Sunday-night ritual, doing the books for the Cockleshell.

  Jenna opened the flap. Nothing but invoices, cheque stubs, business records and two calculators.

  She slid open the first of three drawers, then the second. Nothing but paid bills, lists of their suppliers,VAT accounts.

  But the last drawer Jenna could hardly open. It was crammed with photographs.

  She pulled out the drawer, crouched with it in the middle of the room. Dusty yawned, stretched his long limbs and came padding over to take a better look.

  The drawer was filled with Benjie. Hundreds of photos of him, as a baby, a toddler, a child – a ten-year-old. Mum must’ve kept every single shred of him that had ever existed. Sometimes he was with Dad and Jenna, sometimes with Mum. Mostly he was alone. There were none of him at school. None at all.

  Jenna sat back on her heels.

  Mum must have taken them with her to London, along with her other favourites!

  Furious, her eyes stinging with tears of frustration, she shoved the drawer back into the desk. Recollections of childhood jealousy flooded back to her: Mum always seemed to be with Benjie, never with her. Mum’s eyes lit up when she looked at her darling boy. However hard Jenna had tried, Mum never seemed to love her very much. Eventually, she’d stopped trying. She could always take refuge with Dad.

  Coldly and deliberately, Jenna pushed the painful memories aside.

  I’ve reached a dead end.

  Or had she? Wait a minute. All those invoices, those business records. Somewhere in the piles must be the photographer’s name and a record of payment. If she could find those, maybe she could track down the photograph at source . . .

  The spring term had ended in early April. So Mum would have paid for the photograph in March.

  Jenna opened the flap of the desk. Like a demented burglar, she began to rifle through its contents. Dusty curled contentedly around her legs.

  Half an hour later she threw on her coat, stuffed the receipt she’d eventually found into her pocket and shut the front door.

  She ran across the Digey into Rose Lane, past Church Place and Norway Square, down to the huddle of craft shops and galleries which lay beneath the terrace of the fashionable restaurant, Blue Fish. In the mild, end-of-November Sunday afternoon, people shopped for Christmas gifts; greeted their families; stood in friendly huddles on street corners. Someone was smoking a pipe: the refreshing scent of his tobacco floated into the air.

  Jenna checked the heading on the invoice. Talisman Photography and Gallery. She walked around the shopping arcade until she found the gallery, tucked behind a graceful wooden archway. Its door stood open. Inside, a thousand photographs littered the walls, filled the display holders, lay on every shelf.

  “Just browsing?”A voice came from a room behind the gallery. “Or can I help?”

  “I’m looking for something very particular.” Jenna stood at the entrance to the second door. “Are you the owner?”

  A young man with a mop of untidy curls wearing a dirty overall stopped sawing at a wooden frame. He grinned
. “I’m Alan Kernow, his son.”

  “Hi . . . Your dad . . . Would he have taken a photo of St Ives Junior School at the end of the spring term?”

  “That’s him. Does most of the local schools, given half a chance.”

  “Does he hold the negatives?”

  “Nope. Gives them to the individual schools. Part of the package.”

  Jenna’s heart sank. “So he wouldn’t keep a copy?”

  “He might do . . . There’s another room full of his work through there. If he liked the photo, he might have framed it and hung it on a wall . . . It’s worth a try.”

  Under her breath, Jenna said a quick but passionate prayer.

  The room was cold, dark and slightly damp. It smelt of mildew and tar. Jenna shivered. She turned on the lights.

  An Aladdin’s cave greeted her. The grey stone walls dripped with photographs, each carefully labelled, although there did not seem to be any specific sequence or logic to their arrangement.

  She began to search. Hundreds of pupils from many different schools danced before her eyes: small, large, enormous groups, some in uniforms, some in everyday clothes, some in colour, some black and white. All doing their best to stand tall, look smart – and smile for the camera.

  On the third wall, her shoulders aching, her head throbbing with concentration, Jenna found her brother.

  The staff and pupils of St Ives Junior School.

  Jenna peered up at Benjie, her heart in her mouth, suddenly wanting to cry. There he stood, in the back row, almost at the centre, with his round face, grey eyes and sticking-out ears, his shy smile, the white shirt and dark green tie of his uniform.

  Beside him stood one of the twins. Right beside him. Presumably this was Gabriella, her face calm and serious, her fair hair smoothed carefully into long neat plaits, her shoulder brushing Benjie’s.

  Jenna frowned. Where was Philippa?

  She scanned the faces. There she stood, at the end of the row, her face in some subtle way more beautiful – but her eyes sparked with anger, her mouth turned down in a sulky pout.