“Hey, sorry about that.” Nancy took off her artist’s apron and hung it up on the coat stand. “So busy today, what with the weather. I’ll go and make us some lunch.” After another few minutes had passed, Nancy returned carrying a large oval tray. It looked like something she might have made. She had made salmon sandwiches with soft cheese, and next to them there was a huge bowl of strawberries, lightly sprinkled with sugar, just the way Elizabeth liked them. “Hope this is ok?” she nodded towards the food.
As they sat and ate, Nancy told her about how busy the shop has been, and how many paintings she had sold. She said, “I could shut up for a month and go away on my own summer holiday,” as she spoke through mouthfuls of sandwich, stopping only to push any escaping food back into her mouth. Elizabeth loved this about Nancy. When she had lived in the city, the restaurants and cafes that she would frequent required a certain level of behaviour. They certainly didn’t like people speaking through mouthfuls of food, of pushing escaping morsels back in with their fingers. That’s one of the things she liked about Haven. People didn’t accept that kind of attitude. At Charles Stewart’s restaurant, if he didn’t see you picking at the fish with your fingers he would be likely to ask you if there was something wrong with it, and would be happy not to charge you if you told him that there was.
As the moments passed, and Nancy had finished telling Elizabeth about her news, she looked to her friend.
“Well, what have you been up to?” It was a simple question, and one that she would normally have no problem answering. Normally, she could tell her about her latest work project, or her latest trip to the city. She would normally tell her about the trivialities of life that good friends take interest in. Last week, she had told her about the new insect repellent she had used on the raspberry bushes after a severe case of greenfly. This was not interesting news, but Nancy always listened as if it was the scoop of the day. She cared about her life, even if it was boring in places. She didn’t need her to fast forward to the good bits. When Elizabeth hesitated, she knew immediately something was wrong.
“Oh God, what’s happened? Tell Aunty Nancy.” She waited, eager to hear the turmoil brewing. If anyone would understand, it would be Nancy. Nancy wasn’t one of those people who took life to be so black and white. Nancy didn’t try to box things up immediately into fact or fiction, wrong or right. She knew, as with her paintings, that there were shades of grey, subtleties that needed extra consideration and thought. Nancy understood that even in the picturesque harbour scenes that she had been selling in abundance this last stifling week, that there were dark sombre colours mixed in with the good. “That’s what life is,” she had explained to Elizabeth on that first day browsing around the gallery.
It was the simplest of statements, but one that Elizabeth took to heart, immediately realising that she may have found another being who could understand her. Nancy hadn’t known Elizabeth before. She hadn’t been there when they buried her mother or when they stood around the black and heavy stone and pretended to have a funeral for Rebecca. Sure, she knew that they were both dead, but she didn’t know any of the details. They were details that at the time were so painful she couldn’t share them, so had covered up the truth with simple lies. Her lies were the ribbons and bows on the gift of death that had been delivered painfully to her door. As time passed, there had been no need to change the story. Yet now, to talk about the notice in the newspaper, the published letter that somewhere in her heart, as much as she tried to push it deep into storage, she couldn’t help but believe to be from her dead sister, she needed to clear away the mistruths. She had to reveal to Nancy the events from the past. She had to somehow unfold the facts that had been assimilated into more digestible pieces back into their original form. As she told the story, firstly, of her mother’s death and then of the burnt-out car, she could feel her own discomfort, but no matter how hard she looked, she found none on Nancy’s face before her. She spelt it all out. She didn’t leave out the details. Now was not the time for a cover story. Nancy sat and listened; her response was simple.
“So, your sister didn’t die.”
Four
As she walked back through the streets of Haven, Elizabeth couldn’t shake off Nancy’s final words. ‘So, your sister didn’t die’. She passed the ice cream stand, now closed as the sun passed over the cliffs and into the next village where it would bring folk out into the gardens to enjoy the evening sun. The words rolled over and over in her head. She tried to focus on the few people still on the beach, probably those who were only staying for the day and so would light a fire to make the most of it. They would throw on their jumpers and grill sausages to eat hot off the stick. They would wrap themselves up in blankets, and the mothers would worry about the children still paddling in the ocean once it had got dark, but not seriously enough to call them back. These were the days that a family remembered after the summer had passed, once the days became short and the winter announced its arrival. These were the days that would get stored up, forming memories ready to be brought out on a cold and gloomier day. These were the memories that they would take with them to bolster them through the longer nights. Elizabeth and Nancy had sat and talked for hours before she had left, but it was still her first response that she kept returning to. ‘So, your sister didn’t die’. She repeated it over and over in her head as she had with the words from the newspaper two days before. Nancy didn’t look for a coincidence like Graham had. She looked clearly at the facts, and with the open-mindedness that made her not only a great confidant but also a friend. Maybe Rebecca wasn’t dead.
As she approached the gate, she could see Graham’s BMW parked around the corner of the house. He must be home early tonight, she thought, as she closed the latch of the white picket fence behind her. Passing the rows of ornate trumpet shaped purple flowers of the Hebe bushes that she had planted in rows along the pathway, her wild thoughts of the sister still living somewhere waiting to be found had managed somehow to become rather frivolous. Her musings and her discussion with Nancy had, by the time she reached her own sensible home, managed to seem childish somehow. Silly even. She was certain if she told Graham about it, that he would roll his eyes and wonder what had happened to his sensible wife. It wasn’t that Graham was unsupportive, and he had indeed loved Rebecca and would rejoice at her return. He had cried more at her funeral than Elizabeth had. He had become her brother in the time that they had spent together. But that’s also exactly why he would think it ludicrous to continue to entertain these ideas; they were dangerous to him. Hurtful. He had watched as they had interred the empty box, with its shiny brass plate bearing the name ‘Rebecca Jackson’. He had supported his wife for a year as they tried to rebuild their lives in the city with two huge gaping holes, until eventually it became impossible and they had found a new life and a new peace in the countryside. To entertain the thought that his wife’s dead sister was communicating from the grave, or somehow worse still, had been missing for the last four years, was tantamount to undoing everything they had rebuilt. All of the work they had done would be gone, and behind it nothing but a trail of dust.
He smiled at her as she walked in. He was laying the table for dinner. He had placed a single carnation in a vase on the table, cut carefully from the garden so not to disturb the plant too much. His smile was one of those open warm smiles, starting from the eyes, spreading down his cheeks and ending somewhere she had never yet found the words to describe. She had met Graham one afternoon whilst running out for a coffee, in search of ten minutes away from her claustrophobic office cubicle. She was twenty-two, newly graduated, and the last thing on her mind was a man. Sure, the occasional man was fine, but not the kind that stuck around for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She wasn’t looking for anything other than her own path in life. She had landed the job of her dreams, a junior web designer for a huge company. The money was OK, but the prospects were great. So when the tall man behind her, dressed smartly in his perfectly fitted blue suit with a whit
e and blue striped shirt, the open neck the only casual thing about him, had stood behind her in the queue she couldn’t help but feel his presence. She had spotted him as soon as he had walked in through the door. Most of the cafe had. He knew it too, but yet held himself in a way that didn’t look overtly arrogant, like most of the other guys in here. Yes, he was gorgeous, but he had a kind face, intelligent looking behind his dark rimmed glasses. Not just another hot guy in a suit. She became acutely aware of her breathing as he joined the queue behind her. She suddenly wondered if her hair looked good. She asked herself if she had remembered to apply lip gloss before she came out of the office. She looked down at her jeans and converse trainers, laces tucked in like a teenager. Damn dress down Friday, she had cursed to herself.
“Hi, what can I get you?” the barista had asked her.
“A large macchiato please,” she replied, trying not to eye up the cakes directly beneath her. Before the barista could confirm what she was having in the repetitive parrot fashion that was always adopted, even though she ordered the same thing every day, the tower of a man behind her was adding in his own order.
“Add on to that a double espresso and two slices of the chocolate cake that she was drooling at,” as he motioned his thumb towards Elizabeth stood next to him, slightly speechless, and certainly embarrassed. “I’ll be paying for these.” She waited for a moment, uncertain if she should be annoyed at his presumptuousness, or go with her instinct and just be glad that this guy, this gorgeous guy, wanted to buy her a coffee.
“Thanks,” she giggled, having quickly made her mind up that going with this unfolding situation could only be for the best. He had the friendliest face. She couldn’t be angry at him. Especially as it seemed that after his self-assured start, he actually looked slightly nervous once he could no longer hide behind the element of surprise. They looked at each other for a moment, before he reached for his wallet to pay.
“I’m only hoping that you are going to agree to eat your cake on that table over there with me. Otherwise, I’m going to look a bit foolish, and be forced to take mine with me.” He was right. If she chose to say ‘thanks very much’ and carry on with her coffee and cake on her own, everybody who had noticed the events at the counter and who were currently watching them would certainly find it amusing that the smart looking man in the suit had been rebuffed by the sloppy trainer-wearing girl. OK, she still looked gorgeous, but this man looked like he didn’t hear the word ‘no’ all that often.
“OK, but only so you don’t look stupid!” That was the first time she had seen that smile. As she agreed to sit with him, his face opened up. His face was illuminated, and it was the kind of warmth that draws you in. They sat together for over an hour that day, both returning late to work. As she sat back down at her desk, his phone number already entered into her phone and on her hand, she vowed to leave it at least two days before she called him. Don’t want to look too keen, she thought. She needn’t have worried; within the next half an hour he had already called her to say that he had booked a table that night for dinner. She called Rebecca to first cancel their cinema date, and to tell her all about Graham, or ‘Hot guy in a suit’ as he became known for the first couple of months. He was older than her, by about ten years. He was confident and strong, and little did she know at the time how valuable those qualities would be in the future. Looking at him now, laying plates on the table, she loved him more than ever before.
“You’re home early?” she said, smiling as she kissed him on the lips.
“Little bit. I cooked. Stopped off at Stewart’s and picked up some fish and baked it with some lemons.” He opened out his hands, raising his eye brows as if looking for approval.
“That sounds good. Shall I put myself on salad duty?” He looked as if to consider her question for a moment, before motioning to the table.
“Nope. Sit there,” he pointed to the chair, “and drink that.” He had already poured her a glass of Pinot Grigio. It was her favourite. “Tell me about your day.” He listened as she recounted her activities: the ice cream, the lunch, the way that the harbour had been so full of tourists. She wondered again if she should tell him what Nancy had said. She didn’t want to sound crazy, but equally she didn’t want to keep her thoughts from him. After all, there was a reason that Nancy had made sense to her earlier on in the day; it hadn’t sounded so crazy then. She could accept that there was a lot to explain, but perhaps with a little imagination she could find the answers. After all, it was a message in her local paper. How many sisters with the names ‘Betty’ and ‘Becca’ must there be? She broached it slowly.
“I told Nancy about the ….. letter.” She wanted to stop calling it an ‘announcement’. It was more personal than that.
“What letter?” He paused a little. “From the newspaper? I thought you’d forgotten about that.” Forgotten? How could she have forgotten? It was all she had thought about since.
“I can’t forget it. OK, I can’t explain it yet, but I can’t just forget it either. It can’t be a coincidence. How can it be?” He placed his knife and fork down, interlocking his fingers in front of him, his chin resting on them in contemplation. He breathed in, choosing his words carefully.
“OK, let’s say it’s from Becca. Tell me why she would leave a note for you in a paper? Especially here. How would she even know where we live?” It was a fair argument, but not one that she hadn’t considered.
“She knew that I would read it. We always read the announcements together. It was our thing, with Mum.” He nodded in agreement as she continued to put the case forward. He was a sharp lawyer, and she had learnt to argue well. “She could have been watching us ..... following us.” Aware that the last comment sounded implausible, she tried to immediately qualify the statement. “I mean like, from afar. She just knew where we were.”
“But yet never knocked the door. Your door. You. She never knocked Betty’s door.” He rubbed at his forehead with his hands, exasperated at his lack of answers, and his own uncertainty.
“I’m not saying I have the answers.” She knew she had made a good point. She knew that she had him on side. “But don’t tell me that you don’t think there is even the slightest, tiniest, chance that it could be from her. No matter how small.” He knew she was on the verge of tears, her bottom lip trembling as if it alone was shivering. Her dead sister had, for Elizabeth, been resurrected, killed off and reborn all in the space of three days. He knew the concept of ignoring this, letting it all slip by on the passing tide was not an option, even if he wanted it to be. He remembered how she had stood at the funeral, cold and stoic. She hadn’t cried. Her father had cried, and Graham had held him up, wiping away his own tears to do so. He looked out of the window to see the large grey clouds creeping in across Haven bay, silently at first until steady hollow rumbles could be heard. The first prattle of raindrops on the warm glass, slow at first as the whispery clouds on the outskirts of the storm front settled above them. He thought back to that day, as he looked behind him to his wife, stood at the black gravestone long after the others had left. She didn’t speak much on the day of the funeral; she kept quiet, her face unwavering. It was as if she was somewhere else. Now, after reading that letter on the Sunday morning as it so innocently filtered into their lives, he couldn’t tell her that there was no chance that it was Rebecca. He had thought it himself, as he had read the words. As the roar of thunder got louder, the early gentle rumble shifted as the sky was ripped open by the crash of the storm arriving directly overhead, with large raindrops battering their French doors, waking him from thought. He jumped up, grabbing the door handles and pulling them closed as he tried to keep his body dry. He could see the families on the beach as their fires gave out the final curls of smoke, rising as the rain began to fall and they ran for the shelter of their cars, their day cut short by the unexpected but predictable summer storm. As he turned back to Elizabeth he remembered her final words before they left Rebecca’s gravestone for the last time, her vow never
to return: she said through gritted teeth, and the same tears welling in her eyes as he saw before him tonight:
“We didn’t bury my sister today.”
Five
The final days of the week passed quietly and slowly. The storm that had passed by on Wednesday night had broken the air; the hot, oppressively humid days of the previous two weeks that had brought so many outsiders to Haven had cleared to leave a more gentle summer offering. There was a light breeze now that had before always cleared by eight in the morning, and so only the earliest of risers could have enjoyed it. The day after, it was as if summer was over, and none of the usual tourists had bothered to make the trip, too concerned that their day would be prematurely ruined by the unpredictable weather. In fact, it had turned out to be a wonderful day, warm yet fresh. It was a day for the villagers; they had claimed their Haven back from the crowds. On the busy days, the villagers would stay in their gardens, too bothered by the loud and belligerent tourists running and prancing about the beach, with their saloon cars and 4x4 beasts crowded into the small village car park and once it was full, spewing out along the coastal path. Hot weather was always bitter-sweet, as the villagers who traded their ice cream, sandwiches, or paintings were thankful for the influx of people. But it was those days, like after the storm, when the breeze would roll in from the ocean like a comforting hand that brought with it the serenity of peace as the villagers strolled along the damp sands collecting the washed-up driftwood for the fire in the winter or to display in their homes if it was pretty enough. The storm had also washed up some small rocks, and as Elizabeth had sat with her tea in her garden that fresh morning as Graham was getting ready for work, she had noticed that there were quite a few people out with pocket knives collecting the inhabiting molluscs for a tasty free supper.
Escaping Life Page 3
