by Unknown
She had forgotten about the sea, the sheer expanse of it, the sigh and hiss of it and the clamour of the gulls. She had forgotten how it never stayed still and how it changed with the light, how it was magic when the night drew in and bright spots of light like sequins on net pricked out the sky and the coast and the trawlers that stitched the land to the shore.
She walked up the path where the turf was cut away into steps, where the wooden seat faced the sea, and wondered how a place could be so familiar without being trodden or thought of for thirty years. A safety fence had been put up along the edge, but when they were children it was possible to get right to the point where the grass ended and the drop began. She remembered how they lay down on their tummies and wriggled forwards, Bea in front and herself behind, how she gasped with the fear and excitement of it and how Bea would inch her fingertips to the edge and then her face and look down to the beach below. Bea used to laugh and scream into the wind, and once Katharine looked over too, but the terror of the height threatened to tip her, made the land lurch and the horizon rear up. But Bea was always brave; she was frightening and fearless in her dares and her need for fever and elation. There was the day one summer up here on the cliffs when Bea had raced away from her, running fast up the path so that Katharine had to shout out at her to wait, her voice a reedy cry gobbled up by the distance. ‘W-a-i-t! Bea-e-e-e!’ It had been murder running up the hill, scratching past the gorse, trying to keep Bea in sight. She had started to cry, but not real crying, just a dry lament that hurt her throat like the time in assembly when she understood that Daddy was dead and she had screwed up her face to try to force out the tears but none came, just the pain in her throat. As she ran, she knew that if she didn’t catch Bea she would be left on the clifftop alone, all alone near the edge and far, far from home. When she did finally reach her, stumbling and spent, she found Bea suddenly, just there, so near she almost stepped on her, lying in a dip on her back in the grass, socks down, dress fluttering so you could see her knickers. She had her arms stretched out like the picture of Jesus above the school stage, and she lifted her head up when she saw Katharine. Then she sat up. There was a deadly look on her face and Katharine knew what that look meant. It was her Storm Game face, her End of the Pier face; it was the Caves Game face, and now, from today, it was the Over the Cliff face. ‘We’re going to go and see Daddy!’ Bea shouted from her back on the grass. The wind buffeted her words and her hair and Katharine felt the cold cut through her knitted cardigan. She wished more people were about and that the sky was not so blank. She shook her head. They didn’t talk about Daddy except at night in the dark when they talked about everything.
‘Come on.’ Bea sat up. Katharine shook her head and tried to warm her hands under her armpits. Bea got to her feet and brushed the grass from her clothes. Then she stood up straight on her toes, like a dancer, and looked towards the nothing above their heads. ‘You want to see him, don’t you?’ she said.
Time slowed as Katharine understood what Bea was going to do. She hoped it was some dreadful trick, but up here alone with the wind and the racing sky she felt helpless. ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t and just shut up!’ Their father was dead, they knew that. A teacher at school had told them and they had seen the letter from his work. Eamon Kemp Deceased. Katharine turned round and headed back down the path but Bea grabbed her hand. ‘We run to the edge and then we jump. That’s how you get over to the other side. I’ve done it before. It’s the best feeling,’ and then Bea’s hand slipped out of hers and she was running to the place where the grass met the sea. Her dress billowed and snapped, her sandals kicked high out behind her, higher and higher, her hair flailed and at the very edge she burst up into space, stretched out her arms and leapt.
In that moment, Katharine felt every element of her burn, freeze and shatter. When eventually, somehow, she got herself to the place where Bea had jumped, she put her hands over her eyes before she looked down. What she saw through cold, shaking fingers was not a vertiginous drop to beach and boulders but a series of tussocky dips like grassy bowls, and in one of them, on her back in a star shape, lay Bea, laughing triumphantly up at the sky.
Falling, thought Katharine as she made her way carefully back down the path. Falling had always been a horror to her. At university everyone was doing it. All around her, bright, beautiful, highly educated women were falling in love. Their skirts, their papers, their hair flew up and out, fluttered away in the wind, while their faces became dreamy and far away. Jane had teased Katharine about her lack of a love life. ‘It’s easy,’ Jane told her. ‘Like falling off a log.’
At the bottom of the hill she crossed the road carefully and looked up towards Tamarisk Steps and their mother’s flat. ‘What’s got into you?’ their mother screamed down into Bea’s seven-year-old face when they got home and Katharine had told. ‘What the devil’s got into you, girl?’ she screamed again, and yanked Bea’s arm so hard that Bea was lifted from the ground. Katharine let herself back into the flat and felt her energy and optimism falter. A thin sliver of light shone from beneath Margaret’s bedroom door. Katharine knocked softly and waited but there was no reply. She had thought they might go out for supper, talk about the old days and work out together what had got into Bea, but of course this was impossible. She stood in the kitchen and poured herself a Dubonnet. She swallowed quickly, hating the taste but needing to remember it, remember the taste for Bea, who sometimes brought a glass of it into their bedroom at night. The flat had a faded, sorry air to it. She looked at the Formica and at the starburst clock on the wall and wondered if it felt like this for Bea when she visited their mother. She poured more Dubonnet as the dread settled over her like a cloak. The taste of it made her teeth chatter, and when the kitchen clock nudged nine and the light went out under her mother’s door, she knew she couldn’t stay. She wanted to be in her own home with Richard; she wanted more than anything to be safe and still, next to him in their bed.
She tore a page from her notebook, scribbled a message to her mother, then let herself out of the front door. She hesitated, then wrote a second note, to Bea this time. She put it under the pot of dead chrysanthemums where they always kept a spare key. Just in case.
Sorry
AT THREE o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, Margaret rang from the station and told Frank she was waiting to be collected for her surprise birthday party. She said enough people had been on at her about it and now here it was, it was Wednesday, and so she had done what she was told, been to the hairdresser’s, another hairdresser, not Leslie, put on her best dress, but where was he? Bea had said Frank would be there to fetch her and she’d been waiting since gone dinner time, but not a sausage; speaking of which, she was starving. She said she hoped no one had baked a cake as she couldn’t abide cake, it disagreed with her. Biscuits she could just about manage as long as they didn’t have ginger or coffee in them, but personally she couldn’t see what was wrong with a nice sherry trifle. Frank told her to wait where she was and he’d be down to fetch her right away.
He surveyed the state of the house and thought that it probably looked about right given that his life was collapsing with every passing hour. One thing was certain, they couldn’t have the party here. He rang Katharine and got Wanda. Wanda said that a party at Katharine’s would be difficult because everything was packed into boxes and the electricity had been disconnected. She told Frank not to worry, that he should go and collect Margaret and they would see him back at his house at five o’clock.
‘Five o’clock?’
‘Yes, give us time to get everything ready. It’s what Bea wanted. She told me all about it but I thought that—’
‘And what am I supposed to do with Margaret till then?’
‘I don’t know, Frank. Take her for a drive. Take her to the river.’
‘I haven’t got a car. The police took it away.’
‘Take a cab.’
Frank said nothing. Where did everyone think the money was coming from? He hadn
’t got a cent on him.
‘I must go. See you soon and don’t forget to shave.’
Well he couldn’t walk, his back was in a bad way today. There was nothing for it but to get the bus to the station and bring Margaret back on that. Frank couldn’t bear public transport and avoided using it at all costs, but – he looked at his watch – at least it would kill some time. Just as he put on his jacket, the phone rang again. He thought about ignoring it, but he could never ignore the phone now, thanks to Bea. Thanks to Bea, he would always have to answer the phone and the doorbell whatever the hour or the inconvenience. Just in case.
It was Katharine. She was talking loud and very fast. She sounded out of breath. The birthday had completely slipped her mind and the party obviously had because she thought that . . . well, it didn’t matter now what she thought because this was wonderful news. If Bea had arranged a surprise birthday party for their mother then Bea would be there. It was the best news she’d had for a week. She’d always known in her heart that Bea wouldn’t let their mother down and it was such a good sign that their mother had remembered. A really good sign. Wanda’s friend was on his way to Oyster Row now and Wanda was off to sort the food . . .
Frank said he was a bit strapped for cash and he needed some for the taxi to collect Margaret. Katharine gave him Richard’s taxi account number and password. Frank wrote it down carefully.
‘Don’t worry about anything, Frank,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a really good feeling about this afternoon.’
Frank rang Lance and told him they were having a party, that a cab would be calling for him in an hour and to make sure he wore something clean.
The car arrived precisely when it said it would and waited patiently outside, having politely phoned him to let him know it was there.
Frank sat in the back and felt like he did the afternoon he was driven to his wedding. Richard had sat in the back with him then and said exactly what Katharine had said. ‘Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got a really good feeling about this afternoon.’ The wedding had been brief but an embarrassment all the same; neither he nor Bea looked each other in the eye and they’d had to wait out in the rain because the wedding before theirs overran. That wedding was all Katharine’s idea as well. He’d overheard her telling Richard that she hoped the wedding might bring Bea to her senses and cheer her up a bit because nobody could quite work out what had got into her. She hadn’t been herself since she’d been transferred to a new department at work. She’d got it into her head that her work was pointless, that she wanted to do something worthwhile with a career path, and somebody, Precious no doubt, had suggested she retrain as a social worker. A social worker! He hadn’t seen the sense in that. It’d take her four years to get the degree, which it was dubious she would manage, and how were they supposed to pay the mortgage let alone the tuition fees if a regular salary wasn’t coming in? They hadn’t talked about it much and after a while Bea stopped mentioning it, but Katharine seemed to think she needed something to look forward to and Margaret had a fall about the same time, so Bea had taken a month’s leave from work and gone down to Hastings to look after her. For a while it was touch and go whether Margaret would pull through; Bea said it was as if it wasn’t just the hip she had broken but her self, her hold on life. The wedding was something for Margaret to hang on for, but once Margaret recovered, she was never very interested in anything again.
Frank had nothing against getting the piece of paper, but the actual wedding – he looked down at his hands and realised he’d forgotten to clean his nails – the actual wedding was awkward in that way that weddings always are, especially as Bea insisted on that hat and six-inch heels and he refused to wear the ring she bought him.
When Frank got to the station it was nearly half past four and Margaret was nowhere to be found. He asked the driver to wait while he went to look for her. Before long he found her sitting on a bench on the London-bound platform, dressed from top to toe in powder blue. Even her hair was blue. She told him she’d got fed up waiting and she hadn’t wanted a party anyway, all this was Bea’s silliness, and anyhow, she needed to get back because she had a nasty feeling she’d left something on in the oven.
THEY PULLED up outside the house and Adrian and Laura bounded out. Adrian wore a sweatshirt that said Nobody Knows I’m a Leviathan and Laura wore a pink dress and carried her violin. They danced round Margaret singing ‘Happy Birthday’ with Laura scraping out the occasional strangled note while Frank looked shyly around for signs of Bea. He tugged at his sleeves and followed the children indoors.
Inside he was astounded by the transformation. The floorboards had been hammered down, Bea’s plates, bowls and figurines shone from the walls and shelves, the table was laden with coloured bottles and candles, and in the garden Urban was putting the finishing touches to the patio. Richard was out there too, building a large bonfire, and Adrian had planted fireworks everywhere. Lance looked handsome in his suit and got shakily to his feet for Margaret, leading her to the chair next to him, where they had a good view of the garden and the drinks were in easy reach. Katharine flurried in and out, looking thin and yellow. Apart from some heavy blinking, which Frank noticed afflicted her from time to time, she appeared to be either drunk or very happy. Chairs were pulled out on to the patio and arranged round the fire basket, which glowed red hot. Lance kept saying, ‘I can’t believe the heat from that brassiere,’ and Margaret said she’d have an advocaat to start with because it settled her stomach and gave her a lift, which was what she needed, she’d been sitting that long on a bench at the blessed railway station.
At six o’clock, Frank put on an old Sinatra record and Adrian lit the garden candles. Laura looked out at the remains of Bea’s garden. She heard the man singing, ‘Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars’ and wanted to cry. She heard Lance say, ‘I lost mine, oh, years ago now.’ Margaret said, ‘I lost mine when they were still only girls.’ She noticed that the tips of their fingers were approximately three centimetres from touching.
When the doorbell rang, everyone froze and pretended not to. Then Laura put down her violin and pushed past Katharine to the hall.
Wanda stood on the doorstep with two plastic bags in her hands. She put her head on one side and said, ‘Hello.’
Laura said, ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She wanted to be sick from disappointment.
Wanda said, ‘Can I come in?’
Laura shrugged.
‘I forgot my key,’ said Wanda, holding the carrier bags up high. ‘I’ve brought the food and the birthday cake.’
Laura said, ‘In there,’ nodding in the direction of the kitchen and pressing herself against the coats so they wouldn’t touch, then she thundered up the stairs to the bathroom and locked the door.
If Bea was coming back, she’d be here by now. She knelt with her head over the toilet bowl and tried to vomit, put salty fingers down her throat and felt the animal heave in her. She moaned and retched. Nothing, just some spit.
She gave up trying to be sick and settled herself on the tufted mocha bath mat. The room still smelt of lavender and honey from the soap Bea used. It was small and cosy and cluttered with the shells and driftwood Bea brought back from holidays. They hung on strings from the ceiling and lay piled up around the edges of the bath. The walls were painted plum and fuchsia because she’d once seen a house like that in a magazine, and there were thick towels to match. Katharine thought the colour scheme hideous but Laura thought this was what a bathroom should look like, not hard and white like theirs. This bathroom was fruity and warm and a place to be held. Like Bea.
The floor was always warm by the cupboard. Laura opened it and looked inside. It smelt of camphor and eucalyptus. Cross-legged, and beginning at the top shelf, she began lifting out tubes and packets, opening, sniffing and putting them down again. She popped a Nurofen from its bubble and put it in her mouth. It was sweet and smooth like a Smartie. She snipped the top off a Karvol capsule and shook the drops on to her dress. She peeled
the foil from an aspirin and let it fizz on her tongue. The Piriton was bitter and got stuck in her throat so that she had to wash it down with a glug of gorgeous sticky-sweet Calpol, and then she just had to lick the treacly cap as well. Being ill at Bea’s house had been the best thing. She smeared E45 cream on her cheeks and dabbed Preparation H behind each ear. From the garden she heard the bang and crackle of rockets. She struggled, anger rising, with the paracetamol bottle, heard the hiss and sputter of Roman candles, and still no Bea.
On the second shelf there were shampoos and face creams, aftershave, razors, body oils and toners. She dabbed Elizabeth Arden Age Defying Night Cream on her forehead and tested the serum for limp, lifeless hair, rubbing it into a few strands of her fringe. On the bottom shelf was Bea’s make-up bag, black and sequinned with a broken zip. ‘Cashmere’ was written in gold on the base of a lipstick, which she opened just to hear the slide and pop of it when Bea said, ‘Hang on, just a bit of damage limitation,’ and did that thing with her mouth in the mirror. Laura made a moue of her own mouth and drew the worn, gleaming tip of the lipstick over her lips, then rolled them together like Precious did whether she had lipstick on or not. When she opened the gold compact it released the sugary scent that smelt of Bea’s neck. She lifted the sponge disc and pressed its damp felt to her face. Before they went anywhere, Bea always checked her pockets, said, ‘Keys, Looks, Personality. Let’s go.’ Laura unscrewed the mascara wand and touched it to her lashes, brushed and stroked with her mouth agape, the way Bea did. ‘Your aunt is sexy,’ Chanel always said. ‘You can tell from the way she walks.’ Laura thought of Bea’s walk through the grass by the river that day. She moved slowly; her bottom rolled.
