by Daisy White
Victoria’s glass-green eyes seem to bore into mine, and I realise I’ve trailed off mid-sentence. I shrug. “Just being tired all the time is the worst, I suppose.”
“Really? Well, I think Summer is gorgeous but I’m afraid I won’t be offering to babysit. Every time I see women with screaming babies it makes me feel a bit sick. Perhaps I’m just not a maternal person!” She laughs, lighting a cigarette and pushing the packet towards me.
“Do you want to come over after work on Monday?” I ask Ted, remembering suddenly how Mary lit up when I told her about the invitation. It might distract her from . . . well, everything.
He beams and nods, downing his pint and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “How are you doing with your investigation?”
I pull a face. “Not great. Most people just won’t talk, and I can’t blame them, I suppose. I did manage to have a chat with Laura Grieves the other day, though. She was the girl who told the police that Beverly took Ella back inside the house that day.”
“The same girl who, ten years later, admitted she’d lied,” Kenny adds. “I’m surprised she’s had the courage to come forward, but better late than never. Did she seem upset?”
Laura’s expression, so earnest and pretty, flashes across my mind. I take a gulp of drink before I answer, “Yes and no. She was just so sweet and innocent, and she invited me in straight away . . . I thought afterwards that was just a bit odd. No offence to you boys, but I could have been a reporter or anything!”
We bat it back and forth over another couple of drinks, and then dump our empty glasses to get back out onto the rink. I love the traditional finale, where everyone joins together in one huge snake of laughing, spinning madness. The line goes faster and faster, and more people join in, hands grasping at waists, missing and snagging flimsy shirts, screaming over the music. I try to make sure I’m at least halfway up the line, because by the end we’re always going so fast that anyone in the tail end of the ‘snake’ gets bashed against the wall!
Afterwards we jostle with the crowds to get out into the fresh air, and wander slowly back down the hill. It’s a clear night, and the moon slashes bars of silver across the road. Far below us the sea is a slick of blackness, with the occasional flash of froth as a cresting wave catches the moonlight.
I tie my cardigan around my waist and swing my purse as I walk, enjoying the balmy warmth as the sweat slowly dries on my face and my hair ruffles in the light breeze that pours in off the Channel. Pearl links arms with me, and the boys laugh and banter just behind. Victoria has gone ahead and is now brandishing a black, boxy camera at us.
“Vic, it won’t work in the dark! I already told you. It’ll just be grainy and full of shadows. Hell, I can’t even see except when we’re under a streetlamp,” Kenny says, waving his arms.
“Shut up Ken, I’m experimenting,” Victoria tells him. “Just keep walking towards me. How do you know I don’t just want blackness and shadows, anyway?”
Taking advantage of the temporary split in our group I whisper to my cousin that we need to talk about Mary.
“What do you mean? Is she ill?” Pearl keeps her voice low.
“No. I’m just worried about her. She’s so tired and always crying. She thinks she isn’t a good mother, and sometimes it seems like she’s another person . . .”
“Hmm. Well, it could just be the usual new mum things, and her hormones playing up. What does the midwife say?”
“Nothing — she hasn’t told her how she’s feeling. She did seem to be fine for a little while, but ever since the night we found the girl on the beach, there are times where it seems like she just can’t cope with anything.”
We walk in silence for a bit, then Pearl says, “I think some women do struggle more than others, but I’m afraid that's all part of having babies. We had a talk from an American psychiatrist a few months ago — it was quite interesting. He mentioned something called puerperal depression and showed us a paper that he was writing. Something about a study of women’s emotional disturbances after childbirth. Of course I can’t remember all of it, but the chap was basically saying that although it isn’t generally recognised, it is a real issue. I believe he mentioned electroshock treatment, but that was for extreme cases. She isn’t having any hallucinations or anything, is she?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that! That sounds terrifying. Surely something like that would put you in an asylum? I just want to know if there is anything I can do to help her.”
“I’d say go and see the midwife, Rubes, but honestly, I expect lots of women feel like that after childbirth. You just need to find a way of dealing with it.”
I can’t say that talking to Pearl has been the help I wanted it to be, but I expect she’s right. Maybe I’m so tired myself I’m just exaggerating Mary’s behaviour. After such a good night out, I can feel the fun and excitement disappearing across the deserted streets as I contemplate returning home.
My heart is pounding by the time I finally bid my friends goodnight and walk quickly towards the salon. One last wave as I turn left into the alleyway towards our front door, then I inch my key into the lock. I’m half expecting Will to slide out of the shadows, and I get a little rush of relief when he doesn’t appear with another unwanted gift. But my mind is mostly on Mary . . .
I creep up the stairs and repeat my stealthy entrance with the second door. No sound except gentle rhythmic breathing. The room seems to be neat and tidy, with shadowy piles of laundry and Summer’s little pile of toys stacked into a basket. I let my breath out in a sigh of pure relief. She’s OK. We can get through this, I’m sure we can. Glad now that I did broach the subject with Pearl, and telling myself she must be right and it will pass, I undress quietly and slide into my own bed.
* * *
As the first rays of light touch my eyelids, I blink crossly. Why is it so bright? But gradually I wake properly and realise the room is quiet. I wriggle upright, propping myself on one elbow, staring around the room. In her crib Summer snuffles a little, but she's still asleep! Mary is lying in bed grinning at me, her eyes shining with emotion. I give her the thumbs up sign and snuggle back down into my warm bed. It’s an hour later, and a respectable half past six, before the baby stirs properly.
“Shall I make up a bottle?” I offer tentatively. Mary looks pretty happy this morning, and this is the first time Summer has slept past four.
“Yes, please. I gave her a bottle last night too. Maybe the breastfeeding is stopping her sleeping . . . What do you think? I’ll just change her nappy. I can’t believe she slept through! I put her down at about half past ten after a late feed, and she didn’t stir until just now. Oh God, I hope this is a sign she’s getting better at sleeping.” She chatters on, bright and happy, and — I can see — just so, so relieved.
I pass the bottle when she’s finished the nappy change and smile at them both as Summer starts her breakfast. Maybe it will be OK . . .
“Did you have a good evening? I was so tired I never even heard you come in.”
“Yes, we had a blast! Everyone asked after you, and Ted’s coming round after work on Monday to see Summer.” I study her for a reaction and she beams. Thank goodness, I’ve done something right.
We have a lazy breakfast of toast and tea, and Mary suggests we put Summer in her pram and go down to the beach. “She’s getting too heavy to cart around now. I can’t believe she’s almost four months old!”
It’s like having the old Mary back, and as she doesn’t mention the last few days, neither do I. Why spoil it?
Flinging on bikinis and cotton dresses, we put a little dress on the baby, who is scrambling around on the floor, and add a white lacy sunhat. She looks adorable — all big blue eyes and chubby pink cheeks. I pack the towels and we head out, though it takes double the time it normally does to get out the door. By the time we’ve manoeuvred the pram into the alley, put Summer into it, dashed back for spare nappies (just in case) and gone back again for my purse we’ve wasted half an hou
r.
But it is lovely to be on good terms with my best friend again, and Summer gurgles away in her pram, smiling gummily at admiring passersby.
We’re still early enough to miss the worst of the crowds, so we head straight down onto the beach. It’s a bit of a struggle dragging the pram a few yards to a patch of warm sand, but we manage it. The tide is out and the sand showing dark gold at the water’s edge. Mary strips off and takes her daughter down to the sea.
“It’s pretty cold. I think I’ll just hold her on the sand and let the waves come up over us,” she calls back a few moments later.
I unroll our towels, haul off my own dress, hide my purse under the pram and run down to sit at the water’s edge. Summer is screeching, but with apparent delight, as she splashes her little legs up and own. Her sunhat falls to one side, and she scoops up fistfuls of wet sand. Laughing, Mary manages to stop her before the fists reach her mouth.
After half an hour we decide the baby has had enough, and Mary rinses her off in the sea, laughing delightedly. “Look, she’s trying to swim. She looks like a little mermaid!”
It seems that the seaside is a perfect place for calming fractious babies, as Summer naps happily in her pram while we take it in turns to swim, before stretching out on the warm towels.
“I can’t believe you were ever pregnant — you look amazing!” I reach over and playfully slap Mary’s thigh. “You’re skinnier than me.” I don’t add that she’s almost too thin at the moment, but make a mental note to make us some more healthy food for dinner. I’ve heard there's a new cafe doing Italian food in town, so I might suggest going for spaghetti bolognese as a treat if I get some decent tips this week.
“I’ve always been skinnier than you!” She grins from behind her sunglasses. Her blonde hair is knotted at her neck and I can see all the bones in her back, not to mention her ribs, when she bends forward. But the pink bikini shows off her long tanned legs, and her smile is genuine and happy.
The day-trippers are swarming onto the beach now, and there is hardly a yard of spare sand for towels and umbrellas. Mary adjusts her little white sun umbrella over Summer’s pram, and the baby sleeps peacefully. Lulled by the roar of the crowds, the crash of the waves, and the hot sun overhead, we doze too.
“I’m boiling! I think I might have a last swim and then shall I get us fish and chips for lunch?”
“Lovely. I’ll stay here with Summer and my magazine.”
I stand waist deep as the waves flow over me, enjoying the cool water against my hot skin, narrowing my eyes against the sun. Lying back, I let the sea catch me and drift lazily with the current.
“Hey! What are you doing? Someone get her out of there!”
A man’s voice, loud with alarm, and I roll over to find I have drifted much further out than I thought. I can’t touch the bottom, and I’m a long way from the end of the pier, but that’s OK because I’m a good swimmer. There are more shouts from the beach, and people are pointing. A woman screams.
Puzzled, slightly scared, I scan the sea behind me, my imagination suggesting sharks and jellyfish. Nothing but a vast expanse of blue green waves, meeting the horizon in a haze of gold.
People are still shouting and the swimmers between me and the beach are scrambling ashore, many of them screaming. I see it as I crest the next wave, and without thinking, let out a shocked cry myself. Sea water pours into my mouth and I go right under. I flail my arms wildly and surface spluttering and coughing, my eyes streaming and burning from the salt, trying to get away.
Chapter Thirteen
There is a body bobbing on the waves just in front of me. It floats face down, and when it moves with the water I catch a glimpse of pale limbs outstretched. It must be a woman — her purple dress is rinsed dark by the sea, and her long hair drifts gently, like a halo of seaweed. Might she still be alive? I wonder, in a sudden surge of panic, but some men are already swimming close to the body, hauling it over onto its back, checking around the neck for a pulse.
I tread water, watching in horror as the face is revealed with a splash. The skin looks like white soap in the harsh sunlight, and the body is clearly awkward to handle. The rescuers shout to the people back on the beach and start to swim back, towing their grisly burden. I can already see a couple of policemen running down the shingle, scattering bathers as they go. Ever since we found the girl on the beach we’ve been talking about how her mother might have gone into the sea that night, but it still comes as a shock. After my initial relief that I don’t recognise her face, it doesn’t occur to me that this woman might be anyone else but Beach Girl’s mother.
I can’t help the tears that run down my cheeks as I rise and fall with the waves, staring after the dead woman. At last, I scrub a hand across my stinging eyes and swim quickly to the shore, back to Mary.
“I was getting worried, and then I saw what those men brought in . . . How awful! Is she dead?” Mary, her face paler than ever, throws her own towel around my shoulders, and I realise my teeth are chattering.
“Yes, she is. I couldn’t work out what everyone was pointing at and then suddenly there was a body just floating in front of me.” I rub the towel vigorously across my body, until my cold flesh tingles with warmth and I stop shaking enough to sit down. “God, that was horrible. That poor woman. The men out there were shouting to each other that she must have jumped off the pier, or maybe the cliffs further down, but I reckon that was Beach Girl’s mother. She must have just walked into the sea the night of the storm.”
“Or if it isn’t her mother, she could have just fallen in, or come off a boat. I know Catrina was in the salon for a cut the other day and she said they get a lot of ‘jumpers’ in the summertime. She said her husband told her people buy a train ticket and come down here to die. He works up at the mortuary or something, I think, so I suppose he would know. I suppose it makes more sense to assume it must be Beach Girl’s mother, though. I know it’s been almost two weeks, but, well . . .”
I understand what she isn’t saying. On that stormy night the body could have been caught up under the pier, or further along the coast, before it floated down here again on the current. “That’s horrible.” I’m shivering again, hearing the girl’s screams in my mind. I force myself to relax and let the sun heat my body, but my mind is still on the horror from the sea. The little group around the body has swelled, and I can see more policemen coming. An ambulance has pulled up on the promenade, and some men are carrying a stretcher down through the day-trippers.
“Did you see her face at all?” Mary asks, peeking into the pram and smiling quickly at her still-sleeping baby, before turning to me with a serious expression. Her blue eyes are shadowed under her tan and little worry lines pucker her forehead.
“Yes . . . Do know what was really strange? My first thought was oh God please don’t let it be Beverly. It was like I’d been expecting her.”
“I suppose.” Mary shrugs, her blue eyes worried. “Did she have brown hair like Beach Girl?”
“Yes. I’m glad it wasn’t anyone I recognised, though. I’d hate to see them all bloated and pale like that . . .” I shiver again and Mary takes my hand.
“Do you want to go home?”
“No. I want to be out in the hot sun with a sleeping baby and lots of noise and distractions. Do you want to go?”
“No. Summer’s still asleep, so if you really are OK then I’m happy to stay here.” Mary bites her thumbnail. “It’s a horrible thing to happen, but I feel so much better out here on the beach.”
I drag my thoughts away from the blank, glistening face in the sea and focus on my best friend. “I’ve been really worried about you. Sometimes . . .” I take a deep breath, “Sometimes it feels like you aren’t really you anymore.” I hardly dare to look at Mary, but I can feel her breathing next to me, our warm bare arms touching.
“It feels like that for me too. I can’t really explain it, but it’s like a fog, or a dark curtain drawn across between me and the real world. I get so worri
ed when I can’t stop Summer crying, I could scream — and then the feeling goes again, like clouds moving away. Today is the first time in ages I’ve felt properly alive again, like I can see things clearly. I was . . .” she pauses and puts a hand over mine, “I was worried I was going mad.”
There are tears in her big blue eyes, and she brushes them away, smiling. I’m so relieved I could burst into tears myself. I lean up and hug her. “It'll be alright, Mary. We'll cope with it together, and as Summer gets older you really must get out and have some fun too. She's so sweet most of the time, I really don’t mind babysitting.”
“You’re better than a husband any day, Rubes!” Mary says, still blinking hard. “Imagine if . . .”
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell her gently. “You got away from him, and Summer is all you. Hell, she’s certainly as stubborn, and sometimes you’re even quite sweet yourself. So, do you want those fish and chips in about half an hour?” I check my watch, wriggling onto my front and feeling the heat hit my naked back. “If I go about twelve I’ll beat the queues.”
“Yes please. Let’s give it another hour or so, eat our lunch and then I suppose we’d better go back. It’ll be too hot for Summer when she wakes up and I’ll have to feed her again.”
“If it makes you happy we can come to the beach every day after work. I don’t care what time it is! And I was thinking we might take Summer up to Alice’s Farm one day next week. Would that still be OK?” I pause and twist a strand of hair between my fingers. “I really think you could be right about Beach Girl, and if this woman is her mother I expect the police will want to see her again. No wonder she wouldn’t speak. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to see her go into the sea the night of the storm, and not be able to stop her. All she could do was scream for her to come back.” My voice shakes, and I get that pain in my throat thinking about it.
