by Sanjida Kay
He is struggling to stand, and Lotte’s head lolls loosely over his arm, dipping into the sea. Her hair fanning out in the water and I feel sick.
‘Nick! What’s wrong with her?’
I put my hand under her head, pulling her out. Her eyes are shut and she looks lifeless.
‘She didn’t want to go in! I wanted to persuade her it would be fun. I thought I was helping – and then…’
I lift Lotte out of the sea. I’m wheezing with the effort of running down the beach. She seems heavier than she normally does. Her legs dangle, her heels clipping my thighs.
‘What’s the matter with her, Nick? Is she breathing?’
My heart is squeezing tighter and tighter. I’m trying not to think of Ruby-May. I wade through the waves back onto the beach, my father stumbling behind me. Thank God Luca has noticed. It only takes him a few strides to reach me and he lifts Lotte effortlessly. I follow him. He sets Lotte on a sun-lounger and I wrap a towel round her. The rest of the family crowd around us. Lotte’s lips are blue and she’s shaking.
Amy is hysterical. ‘What happened? What’s the matter? Is she okay?’
Theo is standing frozen by his sand-rocket, his face white, his eyes large.
Matt is desperately trying to get a signal on his phone. ‘Someone call a fucking ambulance!’ It doesn’t look as if the Italians can understand him or even realize what’s happened.
Luca doesn’t respond, but remains focused on Lotte. I drop down on the sand next to her, breathing heavily, and take her small hand in mine. Her eyes flicker.
Luca is saying over and over, ‘Look at me. Breathe. Breathe. You are okay. Breathe. You are okay. Breathe.’
Chloe gently squeezes one of Lotte’s sandy feet. Lotte opens her eyes. Luca mimes breathing. She shudders and then her chest rises and falls. Her cheeks flush, although her lips are still purple. My heart is jack-hammering in my chest. Amy scoops Lotte up and sits with her cradled on her knee.
‘What happened?’ she asks, more quietly now, staring at me and then at our father, who collapses onto the end of Lotte’s sunlounger, his face ashen.
‘I took her to the edge of the waves. We were playing. I was holding her the entire time!’ he says. ‘And then she – I don’t know what’s wrong.’
Luca says, ‘It is the panic attack. They are still afraid of the water. It is not a surprise, no?’ He cups Lotte’s head in one large hand, then gets to his feet and starts pulling on his T-shirt.
Amy and Matt exchange a look. Chloe drops a kiss on Lotte’s damp cheek and replaces her headphones as she returns to her sun-lounger.
Dad strokes Lotte’s knee. ‘There, there, Lotte. All right now?’
‘Don’t touch her!’ Amy spits at him.
Lotte burrows into her mother’s neck.
‘She did say she didn’t want to go swimming,’ says Theo, in his quiet, precise little voice, and pushes his bright-blond hair out of his eyes with one finger, scattering sand across his face.
Matt crouches down by Lotte. ‘Sweetheart, there’s nothing to be frightened of here. Mummy and I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.’
He doesn’t look at our father. His arms and shoulders are rigid with tension, and I’m acutely aware of what is left unsaid – that our father, yet again, is to blame; and the rest of us, the Flowers family, are culpable as well. Not one of us intervened in time. Not one of us is to be trusted.
Luca is damp but dressed, his cloth satchel slung across his chest. He holds out his arms and Lotte elbows her way out of her mother’s embrace. He scoops her up and puts her on his shoulders. Theo grabs his sandals where they’ve been half-buried in the sand and stands next to Luca.
‘I take them back to the house.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Amy.
Luca shakes his head. ‘It is okay. I think she have some quiet time. Is too hot here.’
‘I don’t want to leave her.’ Amy’s voice is shrill.
‘I’m okay, Mummy,’ says Lotte. ‘I don’t need you.’
I look away so that I don’t have to see Amy’s hurt expression. The plastic bucket is still lying where I dropped it by the water’s edge.
‘We’ll pack up and follow you back to the house,’ Matt says. ‘Chloe! Take those headphones off and get your things together. No, you can’t stay here on your own,’ he adds as she begins to protest.
‘Well, maybe,’ Chloe says, standing up and sweeping her towel off her sun-lounger and showering us all with sand, ‘you should have thought about it before you booked a holiday house with a swimming pool, right next to the sea!’
I think Matt is going to slap her, but he turns on Amy. ‘We need to talk,’ he says.
I don’t look at my father, either, so that I don’t have to witness his pain. I watch Luca instead as he walks up the hill, Lotte perched on his shoulders, Theo’s face turned up to him, like a small pale moon.
I can still hear Lotte’s screams echoing in my ears.
13
AMY
She pulls her shirt on and puts her suncream back in her bag. Thank God Luca’s here and has such a calming effect on the kids – but she feels terrible for not realizing that the children might be scared of water. She and Matt have pretty much given up taking Lotte and Theo to any of their normal after-school clubs; they haven’t had the energy or the will. But Theo has had swimming lessons at school once a fortnight. He’s never said anything, but she feels a ripple of sadness and shame shiver through her when she thinks of him standing, thin and frail, at the edge of the municipal swimming pool, the rest of his class noisy and rambunctious, fighting his fear by himself.
She heads back up the hill towards the holiday house with Matt and Chloe, Nick and their father following behind. She’d been so tired she must have fallen asleep, and she’d only woken up when she’d heard Nick shouting and seen Luca running up the beach with her limp daughter in his arms. But even if she’d been awake, she wouldn’t have stopped him. It seemed harmless enough, jumping over small waves on a sandy beach; he is their grandfather after all. Her mouth is dry and her stomach is tight with nerves. She can feel the heat radiating from Matt, his skin slick with sweat. He’s an alarming shade of puce. He’s going to insist their dad leaves, and she doesn’t know if she should stand up to him or not, or whether Bethany will support her or Nick.
When they reach the house, the front door is ajar. It’s quiet, too silent for a house with two children. She stops just inside the sitting room, letting her eyes adjust to the comparative gloom after the brilliance of the sunshine outside.
‘Where the hell is everyone?’ Matt asks.
She feels the first stirrings of fear. Chloe slides past them and disappears into her room.
‘Hello?’ Amy calls out, her voice cracking.
There’s no reply. She takes a couple of steps towards the kitchen; a sliver of ice wedges itself at the base of her spine.
‘Anyone here?’ Matt says, dumping the children’s buckets and spades in a sandy heap by the door.
‘Mummy!’ Lotte’s voice is shrill, high-pitched with fright.
‘I’m coming! Where are you?’
Her daughter thunders down the stairs and hurls herself at her mother, sobbing.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
She hugs Lotte and then holds her slightly away from her, to try and work out what’s wrong with her. There’s a thin bead of blood running down her chin.
‘Lotte! What’s happened?’ Matt grips her arm. ‘Where’s Luca?’
‘My wobbly tooth came out!’
‘Oh!’ Amy almost collapses with relief. She wipes Lotte’s face with a tissue and crouches down in front of her. ‘Let’s see.’
Lotte pulls her lower lip down. The socket in her gum where her canine had been is filled with blood and Amy winces, although she knows it’s completely normal. Lotte shows her the tooth, like a misshapen pearl, cupped in the palm of her hand. She sobs harder. Amy hugs her tightly.
‘D
oes it hurt, sweetheart?’
Lotte shakes her head so vigorously that one of her tears splashes against Amy’s cheek.
‘The tooth fairy won’t be able to find me in Italy!’
‘Ah, I see. Well, maybe there are Italian tooth fairies,’ she says.
‘Oh!’ Lotte brightens. ‘Do you think so? Will she give me my money in euros?’
‘Course she will, sweetheart,’ says Matt, chucking her under the chin. ‘Why don’t you put your tooth somewhere safe and then we can leave it under your pillow tonight?’
Lotte’s eyes well up again. ‘If she speaks Italian, she won’t understand my note!’
‘You’re mixing her up with Father Christmas,’ says Matt. ‘You don’t need to write her a letter.’
‘What do the fairies do with all the teeth?’
Amy pauses. It’s grim when you think about it. She imagines a fairy palace made out of tiny human teeth, each one stolen from a child.
‘Where’s Theo?’
Lotte points at the window. She and Matt look out and see their son floating in the pool. He’s still and silent, his eyes are closed and his arms are spread out, his white-blond hair haloing his face as if he’s an angel. Luca is next to him, supporting him in the middle of his back with the palm of one hand. Sensing their presence, Luca looks up and smiles at them. The back of Matt’s hand brushes Amy, and for a fleeting moment they hold hands and watch their son, lying suspended in the midst of that rectangle of perfect blue.
‘Hey!’ says Bethany, bursting in on them. She’s lithe and glowing, her limbs slick with suntan oil and sweat. ‘We’ve just been on the most amazing run! Right up the hill through the olives and then back along that clifftop path above the beach.’
Joe is with her, and Nick and their father have just reached the front door.
‘Lotte, go and join your brother and Luca outside.’
Matt ushers her towards the pool and shuts the back door. He swings towards them and folds his arms.
‘What’s up with you all?’ asks Bethany, looking from Matt and Amy to Nick and their dad. ‘You look as if you’ve got heatstroke.’
‘I’m going for a shower,’ Joe says and backs out of the house.
‘He can’t stay. And you shouldn’t have brought him, Nick.’ Matt rounds on her brother.
‘Can someone tell me what you’re so—’
‘Dad was playing with Lotte and she had a panic attack,’ Amy says.
‘He pulled her into the sea, even though she clearly didn’t want to go in, and then he ducked her – actually ducked her underwater,’ Matt says.
‘I did no such thing. I was attempting to entertain my granddaughter. I had no idea she was so frightened of water.’
‘I want you to leave, right now. I don’t want you near my family again,’ Matt says, addressing David directly, for almost the first time in a year.
‘Matt!’ Bethany says. ‘It doesn’t sound like it was his fault.’
‘Like the time he allowed my daughter to die?’
Their father stumbles slightly as if Matt has physically pushed him. He walks out of the sitting room and they can hear his heavy tread on the creaky floorboards as he goes into his bedroom upstairs.
‘You can’t say that to him!’ Bethany says. ‘He’s not himself. You know I took him for that dementia test last year. And you can see how forgetful he’s being. I’m sure he meant well this morning. He’s just a little insensitive and confused right now. Did you even know the kids were scared of water? Because if you did—’
‘Shut up, it’s none of your business.’
‘Matt’s right,’ Amy says, turning on her brother. ‘I asked you not to bring him, Nick. It wasn’t fair to him or to us. I can’t tell whether Dad has dementia or he’s forgetful because he’s getting on, or he’s his old, arrogant self, thinking he knows best, but whatever it is, he can’t be round our children right now. It’s not safe. We can’t have him with us.’
Nick opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again and runs a hand through his hair. Bethany gets herself a glass of water and downs it in one. Her clothes and hair are dark with sweat. She swallows and wipes her forehead.
‘Well, it’s up to you, Amy,’ she says. ‘We’re all here for you. Nick, you should start looking into flights home for Dad. Maybe take him back to your flat; no, wait, his flat, since you like hanging out with him so much.’
‘There’s no need to be nasty,’ Nick says. ‘Just because you didn’t want to stay there when you left home.’
Bethany inhales sharply, but before she can reply, their father comes back down the stairs, banging his case on each step. He holds his sunhat in one hand.
‘I can see I’m not welcome,’ he says and walks stiffly past them and out into the blaze of sunlight. They’re all silent for a moment, listening to the crunch as the gravel on the driveway snags beneath the wheels of their father’s suitcase.
‘Thank God!’ says Matt, sinking into one of the dining-room chairs and resting his head in his hands.
Bethany gives her a hug and Amy leans into her sister. She’s missed Bee so much over this past year.
Nick looks at the three of them, horrified. ‘Guys, you can’t let him leave! How’s he going to get to Bristol from here?’
‘He shouldn’t have come.’ Matt’s voice is muffled.
‘He’s in his seventies. It’s thirty degrees out there! He can’t speak a word of Italian and we’re on a remote island!’
‘He managed to get to the Zhoushan archipelago by himself,’ Bethany says, resting her chin on Amy’s head.
Amy flushes. Tears prick her eyes. She’s regretting siding with Matt already: it feels unspeakably cruel. And Bethany seems to think she agrees with her about his dementia, when Amy has no idea if what happened last year can be blamed on memory loss, alcohol or old age – or themselves, because they haven’t cared for their father as they should have done.
‘It’s years since he went to China. He was much younger and fitter,’ she says. ‘Maybe…’
‘For God’s sake!’ Nick throws up his hands. ‘What is wrong with you? He’s our dad!’
He runs out, slamming the front door behind him, and Amy feels sick, her stomach churning with a toxic combination of guilt, remorse and revulsion, at herself and at her father.
14
NICK
The keys to the hire car are on the table by the door, and I grab them on my way out. I don’t have a plan in mind, but I don’t suppose Dad will have got far. He hasn’t. He’s almost reached the road that leads from the beach and up through the olive grove to the main highway. He’s red with exertion and damp with sweat. It’s midday and the heat is intense; it feels like a lead weight pressing down on me. I pull over next to him.
‘Go back, Nick.’
‘Get in,’ I say, leaning over and popping the door open. He hesitates and then heaves his suitcase into the boot and climbs in the front. He’s panting slightly and he sits, his hands knotted in his lap, fingers trembling. As we reach the road, I wind both windows down to get a breeze through the car. I head away from the port, although I don’t think Dad will notice, following signposts with a picture of a castle that looks like a chess piece.
From the air, when I checked on Google Earth before we came, the island is shaped like an embryo, curled around the scoop of an inlet, its backbone a reptilian hump, Maregiglio tucked on the inside of its tail. We’re driving along its spine: the land is dusky green and scrubby, with none of the features that would normally say Italy to me – no sunflowers or olive groves, Tuscan villas or vineyards – only the sea, glittering as sharp as flint, on either side of the island. When we finally see the town, it looks like an icecream cone, a swirl of houses in apricot and peach, with the castle, the colour of drying sand, at its peak. There’s a harbour and a spit of beach, packed with plastic sun-loungers and parasols, a wide sweep of promenade edged with date palms.
I’m not sure I can take the people-carrier up these narrow
, corkscrew twists of road; I’d probably prang it. I pull in at a car park next to a supermarket opposite the harbour.
‘What are we doing here? This is not the ferry,’ my father says.
‘I thought we could go for a beer.’
‘I don’t drink,’ he says stiffly.
‘A coffee then. Come on.’
He sits in the car, staring straight ahead, stubbornly refusing to look at me. ‘I’d like you to take me to the ferry.’
‘Yeah, sure, but let’s have a coffee first.’
‘It’s lunchtime,’ Dad says, sounding grouchy, as he steps stiffly out.
We follow the road through dark alleyways that are bisected by slices of light: houses the colour of marmalade, a burst of salmon-pink flowers, an azure triangle of sky, until we come to a small square with giant chess pieces laid out on a chequerboard of marble and granite and a sluggish fountain. A dog is lapping the water and a toddler is splashing in and out of the spray, his nappy sodden. Two old men, dressed in black, are playing chess; or at least sitting next to the board and contemplating the pieces over the rim of thimble-sized espresso cups. There are three cafes round the edge; their interiors are dark. Flags snap in the stiff breeze. I wish I’d brought my camera with me. I’d deliberately stopped carrying it everywhere, so I could have a proper break from work and the angst I get sometimes when I feel my life ticking by and I still haven’t made a name for myself as a photographer.
Dad sits outside and I order him a caffè latte, focaccia for both of us and a Stella for me. He takes a bite of the bread and stirs his coffee monotonously, watching the sugar dissolve.
‘Why did you bring me?’ he says. ‘It’s clear they don’t wish me to be here.’
‘I hoped they’d have forgiven you,’ I say, taking a long swig of my beer. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Of course it wasn’t my fault,’ he says. ‘Bethany was meant to be looking after Ruby-May.’
