High Tide

by Veronica Henry

  She knew Spencer’s death had provided her with a distraction. She had told herself that Vanessa needed her, that she didn’t have time to deal with her own problems while she was helping with funeral arrangements. It had given her something else to think about. All that catering, all those beds to change, all the running round and looking after the guests. Now it was over, though, she couldn’t pretend any more. She had to deal with it.

  She had found it while she was in the shower. A lump. What a horrible word that was. Like a thump. The thump of her heart as she’d detected the hardness under her skin, on her right breast. Every day since, she had examined the area and prayed that it had gone away so she didn’t have to deal with it. But it was still there. No bigger, she didn’t think, but she couldn’t be sure. It didn’t hurt. It just sat there. Malevolent and smug in its power, knowing that in its two-centimetre diameter it held her future.

  She knew she should go to the doctor, but she was too frightened. What if the diagnosis was the worst-case scenario? How would they cope with it? She was the breadwinner, the one who kept the household together. Kenny had already shown he couldn’t manage under pressure. As for Ruthie: she couldn’t deal with anything that didn’t revolve around her. She wouldn’t get any support from that corner.

  She had to be brave, thought Mary. In any other circumstances, she would have asked Vanessa for advice. But she could hardly heap her problems on her right now. It would be unbelievably selfish. Vanessa needed her more than ever at the moment. So it was up to Mary to find a way through this. She could do it, she thought. She had to. She had no choice.

  She would make an appointment, first thing tomorrow. She knew the worst thing to do would be to ignore it, tempting though it was. She had to be strong.

  She felt bleak as she looked out over the open sea. When had life taken a turn and become so difficult, so joyless? She missed her boys more than she could say, and it hurt that they were so far away. She knew they had the chance of a much better life where they were, that there were few opportunities for them in Pennfleet, that raising their families in Australia meant sunshine and solvency. But they’d taken something of her when they left. A little bit of her heart and her soul.

  She sighed, stood up, and hunched herself against the wind for the walk home. When she got back the television was on full blast, the table was cleared and the washing up had been done. Ruthie had fallen asleep in her chair, slack-jawed, her breathing stertorous. Kenny was nowhere to be seen. Mary felt weary. All her resolve evaporated, back in the claustrophobic confines. She didn’t have the fight.

  There was no point in feeling sorry for herself, she decided. She’d have to ask for help. Wasn’t that the point of being married?

  It was half past ten. Mary switched off her bedside lamp. Kenny was lying in his pyjamas next to her, eyes shut, but she knew full well he wasn’t asleep yet. The room was dim with shadow, but she could just make out the shape of him under the bedclothes and see the rise and fall of his chest.

  Her heart was pounding, her palms sweating. She could feel the words stuck in her throat. Time and again she tried to push them out, but they wouldn’t come. What was she so afraid of? she wondered. Was she scared of Kenny falling apart altogether?

  If she didn’t speak now she was sentencing herself. Nothing would change. Only she could secure herself her freedom.

  ‘I found a lump.’ Her own voice startled her in the darkness.

  She could hear Kenny’s breathing alter, so she knew he’d heard her. She waited. Eventually he took in a deep breath.

  ‘What sort of lump?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. It’s on my … you know. My right … breast.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell.’ He sat up. ‘How big is it?’

  ‘Not very.’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘You need to go to the doctor.’

  ‘I know.’ She swallowed. ‘But I’m scared.’

  Kenny leaned over and snapped on his lamp. He looked terrible. His hair was on end, and the late evening stubble on his chin made his face look grey. They were the same age, but Mary hoped she didn’t look as old as he did. She wasn’t particularly vain, but it was alarming to think she might look … well, haggard. They were both middle-aged, certainly, but Kenny looked like an old man.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, love.’

  Say something, thought Mary. Or give me a hug. I just need a hug.

  ‘I’ll make an appointment,’ she managed. ‘In the morning.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  Of course I do, she wanted to scream. Do you think I want to sit there on my own while the doctor breaks the bad news? Because the chances were it would be. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be in private?’

  ‘I don’t know, really. I don’t know what to think.’

  She didn’t. One minute she could convince herself it was fine; it wouldn’t be anything, just a little cyst. And then the next, she had herself dead and buried within three months, riddled with tumours and eaten from the inside out.

  Kenny still didn’t say much. He turned and touched her on the arm, then took his hand away again, as if whatever she had might be catching. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said, but he didn’t sound at all convincing.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary, thinking she’d have to be. It was her duty to be all right.

  Kenny turned off the lamp and lay back down.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ he repeated, into the darkness.

  Eventually Mary fell asleep, her fears and worries rolling away temporarily.

  Kenny stared at the ceiling for hours. He was filled with self-loathing. Self-loathing and fear. He’d been a useless bastard for the past few years. What kind of a man couldn’t get a job to keep his wife and family? He was too proud, that was the problem. He’d been a foreman at the boatyard; he’d had responsibility and a good wage. When the yard closed, he couldn’t face taking on a lesser job, like a lot of his mates. He’d wanted respect and to be looked up to. Only his stubbornness had backfired and now he was on the scrapheap. He was useless. He was useless and Mary was a saint.

  His Mary. His rock. His kind, uncomplaining, patient rock. Only now, he faced the possibility of a future without her. He worried that it was the stress of living with him and having to be the breadwinner that had brought on the lump. He’d read that, sometimes, stress caused cancer. Oh God …

  He felt hot with the terror. It was all his fault. He didn’t know who to turn to. He couldn’t talk to his mum. She’d find some way of turning it on herself. He didn’t really have any mates any more, because he’d become a bit of a recluse. He didn’t even go to play darts any more on a Thursday, or go fishing. He didn’t want to worry the boys, all the way out in Australia – what could they do?

  It was up to him. He had to step up. He had to be the man of the house. He had to protect the woman he loved, who had protected him for the last couple of years, even though they never voiced the fact. She was the most selfless person he had ever come across.

  Next to him, Mary stirred and gave a little whimper in her sleep. He hoped she wasn’t having nightmares. He reached out his hand to find hers. She took it and held it, as tight as tight could be. It was, he realised, the first time they had touched each other for months, and it made his heart heavy with shame. He would hold her hand every night from now on, he vowed.

  And he would be the husband she deserved.

  22

  Kate hoped Dr Webster didn’t think she was overly needy when she turned up at the surgery again on Monday morning.

  ‘There’s two things,’ Kate told her. ‘First, I want your advice about coming off the sleeping tablets. What you said really struck a chord. I tried going without one on Saturday night. But it was hopeless. Even though I was exhausted I fell asleep and then I woke up and that was it. I had to take two to get back to sleep.’

  Dr Webster looked sympathetic.

  ‘You need
to wean yourself off gently. Not just stop. And just now probably isn’t the best time to do it, when you’re away from home and you’ve got emotional upset.’

  ‘I can’t believe I got so dependent. I didn’t realise I couldn’t function without them. I’m really not that sort of person. At least, I didn’t think I was.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean you’re any sort of person. It’s easily done. That’s why I’m not keen on prescribing them for any length of time. I don’t want to make any judgements about your doctor …’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about judging him. I’m sure he keeps most of Manhattan tranquilised.’ Kate thought about his plush waiting room and the groomed women waiting for his attention.

  ‘If I were you I would start cutting the dose gradually. And find other ways to help you relax. Cut out caffeine, definitely. I can give you a link to some helpful articles. It’s about breaking the cycle. And it might not be easy. You might like to find a more sympathetic doctor who could help you through it.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She fiddled with her bag, not sure about the etiquette of her next question. ‘There’s something else. It’s not strictly a medical thing. But I thought you might be able to help.’

  She took out the letter she had found.

  ‘I found this amongst my mother’s things. I wondered if you might be able to give me a clue who it was from. If he’s local, he might be a patient. Or his wife might be …’ She passed her the letter. ‘It’s going to be easier if you read it, rather than me trying to explain.’

  Dr Webster read the letter quickly but carefully, her face showing compassion as she came to the end.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What a beautiful letter.’

  ‘I know. And I’m worried that whoever he is, he doesn’t know about Mum. And I think he should. But I have no idea who he is.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Dr Webster looked genuinely apologetic. ‘I’m not able to help you. You must know the rules. I can’t divulge confidential patient information.’

  ‘I thought that’s what you’d say.’

  ‘I’d really love to be able to help. But I can’t.’

  Kate looked at her. ‘Do you mean that you do know who he is, but you can’t tell me? Or do you mean that you don’t know?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Though I could probably find out. If I put my mind to it. But it’s impossible. I just can’t.’ She raised her eyebrows as she looked at Kate, as if to say don’t push it.

  Kate leaned back in the chair with a sigh. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Just tell me this. Do you think I’d be wasting my time looking round here?’

  ‘Without looking into it, I have no idea.’

  ‘I just don’t like the thought of him not knowing. Of not being able to say his goodbyes. Pay his respects. Whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘Maybe it’s better left? Maybe he’s come to terms with not seeing your mum again, and that should be that?’

  ‘Maybe … he’s living in the hope that one day they can be together?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s your responsibility.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t read it.’

  ‘Pandora’s Box, eh?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’d have read it,’ said Dr Webster.

  Kate put the incriminating letter back in her bag. ‘Thanks anyway. I hope you didn’t mind me asking. But I didn’t know who else could help.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. Good luck.’

  Kate left the surgery feeling as if one problem had been addressed but frustrated by the remaining puzzle. The doctor had been her best lead. She hoped that while she cleared out the house, she might come across another clue. She would have to be vigilant. The letter had touched something in her, and she really wanted to find whoever had written it. For their sake as much as hers.

  Kenny and Mary sat in the doctor’s surgery waiting area. They didn’t speak; Kenny offered Mary the newspaper, but she shook her head. Half of her willed the clock to hurry its hands around to the time of her appointment. The other half wanted to stay waiting here for ever. She was glad Kenny was with her. She had no idea how she would react if it was bad news. The receptionist smiled at her as if in sympathy, as if she already knew the diagnosis. She couldn’t possibly, could she? Unless Mary was showing some sign without realising it, one that was apparent to everyone else.

  Then suddenly her name was called, and her stomach fell down to her shoes, and she wanted to run out of the surgery, but Kenny took her arm.

  ‘Come on, love.’

  After a brief conversation and a few questions, Dr Webster settled Mary onto her examining couch. She’d been her doctor for a good twenty years, and they knew each other quite well, and Mary trusted her totally. Her fingers were cool and gentle as she pressed onto the area Mary indicated, feeling round it, lifting up her arm and checking underneath, then going on to examine the other side. It seemed to take for ever. Mary looked at the doctor’s face, desperate for signs of concern – a frown, a bite of the lip, an intake of breath. But Dr Webster’s face was impassive.

  ‘OK. Do you want to get yourself dressed again and we’ll have a chat.’

  She left the cubicle. Mary got dressed with shaking hands and a sense of dread. She could hear Dr Webster and Kenny talking – mindless pleasantries about the weather and the time of year. She drew back the curtain and stepped out, then sat herself in the chair next to Kenny.

  ‘Mary, I’m fairly certain that what you have is a breast cyst. It’s common enough in a woman of your age. And it’s probably benign. But just to make sure, I want to send you to the breast clinic to have the fluid drained off. That should ascertain whether we need to do a biopsy and take the matter further.’

  ‘OK.’ Mary wasn’t sure how relieved to feel.

  ‘So it’s not cancer?’ Kenny asked.

  ‘Well, I would be surprised if it was. But I don’t want to send you away without double-checking. That would be irresponsible.’

  ‘So it might be?’

  ‘I think it’s unlikely. But I can’t guarantee it. It’s always very difficult with things like that to be one hundred per cent certain. The good thing is I can get you an appointment pretty quickly. I can pull strings.’ Here she smiled. ‘But I don’t want you to worry.’

  Kenny blew out his cheeks. ‘That’s easy to say.’

  ‘Well, of course. I know. And I’m sorry I can’t send you away with a definite today.’

  ‘So I’ll have to go to the hospital?’

  ‘To the breast clinic. In Shoredown. They’ll deal with it quickly, I promise.’ Dr Webster began to type into her computer, writing her referral. ‘Is there anything else you want to ask?’

  ‘What if it is cancer?’ There was an edge to Kenny’s voice.

  ‘There will be various things to take into consideration before we discuss how to proceed. But for the time being, go home and try not to worry.’

  Kenny and Mary looked at each other. How could they not worry?

  They thanked Dr Webster nevertheless and left the surgery.

  In the car park, neither of them was quite sure what to say.

  ‘I’m going to work,’ said Mary in the end.

  ‘Work? Can’t you give yourself the day off?’

  ‘No. It’ll take my mind off it.’

  Kenny looked troubled. He looked around the car park, as if there might be some answer lurking.

  ‘Can I have the car, then? I’ll drop you off first.’

  ‘Course.’

  Mary got into the passenger seat of their car. She felt as if she was in a trance, with Dr Webster’s words repeating themselves over and over. She wasn’t clear about what to think. She was just disappointed she wasn’t any further on. She still had to wait to know her fate. It was the not knowing that was the difficult bit. Certainty she could deal with.

  In the meantime, life carried on.

  ‘I’ll do us cottage pie for dinner,’ she said. ‘With the remai
ns of the beef.’

  Vanessa lit a fire in the drawing room for the solicitor’s visit. She was getting rather adept at it, and found she enjoyed the ritual, even cleaning out the old ashes, sweeping out the fireplace with the special brush. She loved the smell of the logs, and their crackle. The room was so empty and hard and cold otherwise, but the fire softened it somehow.

  The meeting took all of half an hour. It hardly seemed worth the solicitor driving all this way. He barely had time to drink the cup of coffee Squirrel made him before he was off again.

  ‘Well,’ said Vanessa to her mother once he had gone. ‘Now you know.’

  ‘Now we know,’ said Squirrel. ‘And thank goodness. I wouldn’t have put anything past Spencer. A squadron of secret mistresses. A phalanx of long-lost children. I wouldn’t even have been surprised to find he had no money at all. Or that he’d left you up to your eyes in debt.’

  Vanessa just laughed. She was getting used to her mother’s vilification of Spencer.

  Spencer’s will was a surprise, in that there were no surprises – at least no horrible ones. It was responsible and sensible and fair. There was a fifty grand lump sum to Karina (this made Squirrel spit, but as Vanessa pointed out, it would stop Karina from kicking off), trust funds for Daniella and Aiden, and the rest, including the London flat and Pennfleet House and the residue of his capital and Poseidon, was left to Vanessa, as was right and proper.

  The only thing no one had predicted was his bequest to Mary Mac.

  Twenty thousand pounds, in recognition of her ‘making his house a home and a pleasure to come back to’. There was a proviso, and that was that Mary should spend the money on herself, and herself only.

  The bequest touched Vanessa.

  ‘What a lovely thing to do,’ she said to Squirrel.

  ‘Don’t be fooled,’ Squirrel shot back. ‘It’s no skin off his nose, after all. What would have been truly selfless is if he had given her the money when he was alive.’