Escaping Life

by Michelle Muckley

  “Goodnight Rebecca,” she whispered as her prayer for a peaceful sleep was answered, shuttering out the disturbance of the passing week and ushering in the peace of the dark night sky.

  Six

  Waking, she was surprised to hear the sound of the children out playing so early. There would be no high tide yet; the water would still be sleeping far out to sea. The sand would still be soft, and children who ran out too far had often been heard screaming as their feet got stuck, sucked in by the soft pliable sand, yet never really in any great danger.

  She must have slept later than normal, it was perfectly light outside. The night had certainly passed by, as she turned to glance at her old twin bell alarm clock that for the past twenty years had been ringing to wake her from sleep, never once running down and failing her.

  “Graham!” she shrieked, “it’s nine thirty!” She couldn’t believe it. She had missed her quiet morning time alone out in the garden. The paper would already be out on the front steps, too big for the letterbox on a Sunday.

  “So?” he mumbled, face still muzzled by her feather pillows.

  “I never sleep until nine thirty!” She swung her feet round, standing to peer out of the window. She couldn’t see down to the bay from here, but she could see that the crowds had already started to gather in the village. Mrs. Lyons had already opened her ice cream shop, and there were plenty of cars lining the village car park. Elizabeth arched her neck to get a better view, and she noticed Mr. Lyons directing a steady stream of inbound traffic, desperately trying to fit another car in. They would be spilling out soon, bothering the locals and spoiling the view from the road. Grabbing her robe, she headed downstairs in search of coffee. Passing her little window, the tide had indeed already crept back up onto the beach, assuming its position for the next few hours. Her head was sore this morning, and it throbbed with each step she took. How much wine did I drink last night? She passed the front door, determined not to be caught by the thoughts of the newspaper lying outside waiting for an audience. She walked straight through and into the kitchen, opened up the French doors and the smell of the sea air breezed past her. That won’t clear my head this morning. As she brewed the pot of fresh coffee, she knew that she was the only one awake. David and Helen were still sleeping deeply upstairs, enjoying their weekend of holiday. She had heard them still talking as she went to bed last night. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she imagined that it was about their crazy young friend who still, after four years, couldn’t accept that her sister had killed herself. ‘What a shame’, she thought of them saying, ‘what a cruel joke somebody is playing’.

  She cleared up the glasses and bottles from the night before, when it had still seemed such a good idea to open the fourth bottle of wine, when their full stomachs had betrayed them, making them believe they hadn’t been too badly affected by the intoxicating nectar already. She dropped four large spoonfuls of coffee into the filter, and hit the ‘on’ button. The smell of the rich powder was already making her feel better. She warmed some milk in a small pan, and threw the rest of the ingredients into the food mixer. It’ll be nice to have muffins this morning, she thought. Today was going to be a good day.

  She had decided last night that she would occupy herself today; get back to her normal self. She really wanted David and Helen to stay and spend the day with them. They could even travel back to the city tomorrow morning if they wanted to, it wouldn’t be that difficult. Graham makes the same trip every day, and every trick she had in her book of how-to-make-people-feel-wanted-and-make-them-stay-longer, she was sure going to bring out. She quickly kneaded the dough, regularly sipping on her coffee as she did so, and sending flour spilling onto her robe and resting on her cheeks. She cut out the muffins and threw them in the oven. She set the table outside with coffee mugs, juice, pretty white and blue striped plates with elegant silver cutlery, that in their city apartment would have looked as if they had borrowed it from a parent, but here fitted the setting perfectly. The muffins were ready and she could hear the first rumblings from upstairs, the early morning groans of heavy heads and sleepy eyes. She brushed the flour from her face, fixed her hair a little bit and waited for the first of the guests to arrive.

  It had been remarkably easy to convince David and Helen to stay another night. Graham had thought it a great idea, and rapidly got behind his wife’s plan. They planned their day out: beach-combing followed by a mid afternoon barbeque on the soft sands. They would light a small fire using the driftwood, surrounded by the rocks on the beach. In fact, after watching one of the endless ‘Survival’ programmes that Graham was currently obsessed with and after roping in Charles Stewart, a few months previously they had managed to dig a small hole and create an underground oven, baking fresh fillets of Cod like the cavemen who had walked the land thousands of years before. If Charles had some fish for sale today, they would do the same.

  As the day passed in a wonderful summer haze, Elizabeth didn’t think about Rebecca. She had relished the company of her friends, as they sat on the beach, bottles of beer in the cooler and the fire burning slowly, decaying into hot coals before they would load it with the fish which Charles had insisted they take for free. They sat in the stripy deckchairs, sipping on bubbling golden beer as they looked out to sea. Every so often Helen or David would interject the silence to suggest how lucky they were to live in a place like this, quiet and tranquil, a real comforter at the end of a busy day. It was true, they had created their dreams. When Elizabeth found this cottage she had known it to be exactly what they needed. An escape close enough to hang on to their old lives without letting go completely and yet far enough away not to feel its pulse in everything that they did. Here, she could forget about her awkward conversations with her distant father, her dead sister, her murdered mother, and now the cruel letters that somebody had placed in the paper. She had almost convinced herself. As they ate the soft flesh of the fish with small wooden forks that they had picked up from the fish and chip shop, they laughed as they spoke about the happy memories from life in the city, when they would spend most weekends together. They laughed at how David and Helen had told Graham he was crazy to get involved with a twenty-two year old girl. ‘She’s just a kid’, he had said to Graham. Then, only eighteen months later, on a humidity-soaked summer evening out on their rooftop terrace, he’d said how crazy Graham was that he hadn’t already asked her to marry him. They laughed about nights out, about lunches, about long gone friends who had amused them for all of the wrong reasons. It felt like old times; the good old times.

  It was Graham who had first noticed the grey clouds out to sea. He had become adept at predicting ocean-borne storm fronts. He was convinced that it was coming their way, but his companions hadn’t listened to him. When the first heavy drops fell, splashing into immediate evaporation on the bed of hot rocks, they’d thought that they had enough time to gather their things and walk back to the house, at little faster than a casual pace. But the storm came with almost no warning, soaking them before they had even left the beach. As they ran back up the hill, David slower than the rest, they arrived at the front door to the cottage and huddled together laughing underneath the small porch as Graham fiddled in his pockets for the keys. They bustled through into the hallway, shaking off the last grains of sand onto the wooden floorboards. Elizabeth was first in the shower. She let the heat of the water wash over her, the contentment of the day spent wrapped up in the comfort of friendship was exactly the tonic she had needed. After dressing in her leggings and woolly jumper, they all filtered through the bathroom one by one. Elizabeth dug out some other clothes of hers and Graham’s for David and Helen and set about making some mugs of tea. The storm brought with it the chilliness of autumn, and when it got cold up here on the hill that overlooked the village it was hard to bring the warmth back in. So Graham loaded the open fire with some coal and driftwood from the big brass bucket that always sat full, heavy against the high stone wall in front of the fireplace itself. The f
ireplace was raised, about thigh high; it was perfect as you sat in the chairs either side, or on the settee enface. The heat was always perfect, the atmosphere unbeatable as the raindrops crashed into the window panes, the wind whipping them against the glass in heavy waves.

  “Well, I’m glad not to be driving back in this tonight,” announced Helen as she walked into the room, looking slightly uncomfortable in Elizabeth’s smaller clothes. She looked at David, and everybody knew what she meant. It didn’t need to be said out aloud.

  “We would have been fine. There is nothing wrong with my driving.” Everybody knew that a drive back in weather like this would have ended up with the pair arguing, as David took the corners too fast and too wide. Elizabeth didn’t like travelling in his car at all.

  “Here,” said Elizabeth, as she handed Helen a cup of tea.

  “Thanks darling, you’re an angel.” Helen was always over-exaggerating. She was so different from Elizabeth, but they had formed a bond. Helen had really tried hard after Rebecca’s accident to be there for Elizabeth. She had called her every day the first week, and spent countless hours with her. After the funeral, she went into very practical mode, taking Elizabeth out: shopping, the salon, the cinema, or for coffee. Even if Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to go, she dragged her out. Some of their outings had not gone well, and several times Elizabeth had returned to the apartment, angry after an argument had caused her to leave Helen at whatever place it was that she had dragged her to. She had taken her to get a manicure on one of the first outings. Elizabeth had not been slightly interested to go with her as she stood in the apartment alongside Graham pressuring her to go. She had relented, but Helen’s incessant chatter had driven her crazy, and she had stormed out of the salon screaming at her what a stupid idea it had been to take her there in the first place. But Helen hadn’t been the least bit fazed. She just smiled at her as she left, and had turned up the next day to take her out for coffee. Elizabeth had asked Graham that night if Helen was stupid.

  “Why does she keep turning up like this?” she had asked. “I’m not interested in her stupid trips out.” Graham had sat next to her for a while, obviously contemplating how to answer.

  “Because she knows what you need, Elizabeth.” He had gone on to tell Elizabeth that Helen’s own mother had committed suicide only a few months before Elizabeth had met them. “She knows that you don’t want to go out. She knows you think she’s crazy, but .....” he paused, as he held her hands tightly in his, “she knows that you need friends, because she needed them too.” Elizabeth had looked at Helen differently after this revelation. Helen never mentioned it, and Elizabeth never asked to talk about it with her. It was just enough to know.

  They sat around the fire, their cheeks tinged pink from the heat as they talked about the weekend. It was David, of all people that raised the topic.

  “So, I have just got to ask you Lizzy,” he began. “Did you check the paper today for any more letters?” They were all surprised that he had raised it, and sat there silently for a few moments. Even the rain held back, waiting for an answer. He felt the silence, and wanted to clarify his question. “Because if you did, we could do something about it, if you wanted to. Get an injunction for the paper to stop printing them. Maybe even find out who is posting them.”

  Elizabeth remained silent, but not from anger at the subject matter. She realised that she hadn’t actually given it any thought since her first defiant steps past the front door that morning. She hadn’t even collected the paper from outside. She hadn’t even noticed it as they huddled up underneath the porch roof waiting for Graham to find the key and let them in out of the rain.

  “It’s outside,” she said, slightly appalled that only now she had realised. She looked to Graham, who was already on his feet. He disappeared into the dark hallway, leaving the others behind him in silence. They all heard the click of the latch and after a few moments where the tormenting sound of the wind whistled past the isolated cottage, the thud of the door closing. Returning back with the soaking paper, he held it out for them to see.

  “We’ll put it by the fire to dry out a bit. If you open it now it will be ruined,” he said as he laid the paper out as flat as possible on the warm stone mantle.

  “I didn’t even think about it,” her words guilty as if asking for forgiveness, and Helen placed her arm over her shoulder. “I have to check if there is another letter. I didn’t want to,” she pleaded at them all, “but I should. I have to.”

  They sat there waiting for the paper to dry, staring almost in silence at the flames dancing before them. The wood crackled and spat in the intensity of the heat as pockets of trapped water sizzled out. It seemed to take a lifetime, as they turned the newspaper back and forth, gently peeling back the top pages to reveal the wettest towards the centre and then returning it to the bricks. It was a painfully slow method, but it appeared to be working.

  “I’ll make us some more tea whilst we wait.” Helen went in to the kitchen. She couldn’t just sit there waiting. She made the tea, found some biscuits, and took it back into the lounge. By the time she came back, she could see them all standing above Graham as he leafed through the paper.

  “Careful! Don’t rip it!” Elizabeth ordered, as Graham carefully turned to the central pages, still slightly wet, and the ink running. Some of the words were unreadable. Elizabeth and David waited, joined by Helen as she placed the tray of tea and biscuits down onto the table beside the wet paper. They waited as Graham drew his finger along the page, scouring the advertisements as he looked for any familiar names. When he saw the name ‘Betty’, his immediate prayer was for it to be another Betty. There has to be another Betty in the village somewhere, he thought. But it took only seconds to realise that it was another note meant for Elizabeth. As he read the words to himself, his stationary finger drew their attention.

  “What? What? Is it there? Show me!” She knew he had found something. She read the words out aloud, aware of the other two people in the room. It said:

  Betty, I’m sorry for the awful week you must have had. I had to get away. I had to save you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t just walk up and tell you. I was scared for you. You will find the answers. I have left you the clues. You have to learn it for yourself to believe. Look for me on our beach. Remember. Love you always. Goodbye, Becca x.

  As they stood there for a moment, digesting the words, it didn’t really make sense.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Elizabeth said finally. “I told you this wasn’t a hoax!” She looked at David who appeared unable to believe what he had seen and heard. She could tell that he wanted still to claim it to be a horrible trick, but he knew that he was less convinced than he had been yesterday, and before they had dried out the paper.

  “To think I nearly didn’t look!” Elizabeth wasn’t really talking to anybody in particular. Graham was stood at her side now, desperate to comfort her and take away her mistake. She paced around the lounge, rubbing her hands across her hollow and shock stained cheeks. “What does it mean, ‘save me’ - from what?”

  Graham was reading the words out aloud to the rest of the group, but Elizabeth wasn’t listening. They were already indelibly imprinted on her mind.

  “Elizabeth, she says she has left you the clues that you should look for her on your beach. Does she mean here in Haven? Do you think she is here?” Graham couldn’t believe what he was saying. He couldn’t believe that he was suggesting that Rebecca was in Haven.

  “Here in Haven?” She thought about it. She pointed to the far windows, down to the bay that you could hardly see through the rain, only the foam of the crashing waves visible against the black sky as they were illuminated by the low hanging moon. “We never came here. I had never even heard of Haven before …..” she paused, “…… before I thought she had died. I told you that she would never have left without saying goodbye. Not me. Not her sister.”

  “OK, so think.” David was in gear now. He had heard enough evidence. It was time to pu
t the case together. “She has left you the clues. So far, this is the only one. The evidence is here in ‘look for me on our beach’. Where did you grow up?”

  “We didn’t live near the sea. We played in fields and streams and gardens. We didn’t have a beach.”

  “But you must have been to one.” Graham was right. She couldn’t have passed her childhood without a trip to a beach.

  “Yeah, loads of times on holidays. We must have been to thirty beaches along the south coast. She wouldn’t expect me to search all the beaches.” Elizabeth looked back at the note and then back to Graham. “She said ‘Remember I love you’. I knew she wouldn’t leave me.”

  “No she didn’t.” Helen was reading the note again. “She didn’t say, ‘Remember I love you’,” underlining the words with her finger. “She said ‘look for me on our beach. Remember’. She needs you to remember something from the past, not for the future.”

  Elizabeth sat down, her head held firmly by her inky fingertips. Think of the beaches. Where did we go? She sat in silence, and the memories came flooding back. She thought of the different holidays, the sandcastles, the waves. She was digging around in almost thirty years of memories. Memories she had tried to box up. She thought of the fortresses they used to build, great towering walls of sand and water mixed together to keep out the world. And there it was. It was the memory that Rebecca had been sure that Elizabeth would recall. They had sat behind their sand walls, the impromptu pit stop at the side of the road. They had been driving back from a day visiting family when they saw the secluded beach at the end of the road. When the car rolled slowly to a stop at a dead end fortified by sand dunes, Rebecca and Elizabeth had been out of the car too quickly for their parents to stop them. They had charged over the sand dunes and quickly realised that they were, in fact, the only ones there. It had taken half an hour to build the walls, the soft fine sand mixed with water in the bucket that had stayed in the boot from the previous holiday. Their parents had sat in the foldout chairs at the side of the road with their thermos of coffee. The girls never knew that the dead end had been less mistake, more careful surprise planning by their parents. They knew this beach. They knew their girls would love it here. This is our beach now. This is our fortress. She could hear Rebecca’s words as loud as the day she had spoken them, proudly standing behind the walls of their castle, decorated with small paper flags from different countries.