Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  “Come back to bed, love,” he murmured. Sarah, who was sitting on the bed as she dressed, pushed his arm away with gentle rebuff.

  “You know I have to go.”

  “But it’s so early,” he said, words forming sluggishly in his mouth and eyes still squeezed shut against the harsh light of the lamp.

  “You’ve only got half an hour left to lie about in bed yourself, Howard. It’s still a work day for you.”

  Howard grumbled against the pillow, unhappy at the reminder. “How many times can you make the rounds, Sarah?”

  “As many times as I must,” Sarah sighed.

  They remained silent as she pulled on a crisp, white shirt and shimmied into a black pencil skirt that clung to her wide hips; her best clothes. She brushed her teeth rigorously, combed out her short blonde hair and applied a small amount of make-up with a weary sense of inevitability. She wanted to look less tired, starting to worry that the dark bags under her eyes were putting people off. As she rubbed concealer into her skin, she lamented the sorry state of things. To be running around the houses like this, to be begging for work at her age after being in solid employment for most of her life, was slowly but surely wearing down on her. Since the death of Hugo Fairbanks, her employer, she could have sworn that there were more lines around her eyes, harsher grooves forming at the corners of her mouth. They made her look hard when she had always been soft.

  Afterwards, Sarah turned and looked at her husband, who was now watching her with half-open eyes, still lying in the bed they had shared for over twenty years now. She came to the bed and sat next to him, linking her fingers through Howard’s and stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, comforted by the roughness of his skin. He had made a living with those hands, lifting and moving all the live long day. She loved them.

  “Maybe something will come up,” she said half-heartedly. “People are always in need of help.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” Howard said. He was more awake now, pushing himself up and propping himself up on his elbow. “Just go around once and then come back home, all right? You can help me out in the shop for the afternoon.”

  Sarah smiled and gave his hand one last squeeze. “Shame you can’t pay my salary.”

  Howard leant in and kissed his wife on the lips. It was a kiss that eased her worried heart just a little bit. “Put the kettle on, then.”

  Once she was ready, Sarah looked into her son’s bedroom. He was half in and half out of the small, single bed. He was too big for it, really, but they couldn’t afford to get him a new one, certainly not now. What looked like the entirety of his wardrobe was scattered across the floor, socks and Y-fronts hanging out of half-opened drawers like multi-coloured tongues. The wallpaper of his childhood, a faded pattern of spaceships and planets, had been covered over with band posters and pictures of women posing in their underwear, stuck down with old blu-tac. She rarely saw him these days, he was always gadding about with his friends or off on the train to somewhere more exciting than here, but every now and then she could remind herself that Derek was still her son and that he lived under this roof with her and Howard, that he was family. He was growing up so fast, growing away from her and his family’s simple life. Soon he’d be away to university, just like the Van Buren girl did and all the other young people of Caldmar. In her heart, she couldn’t blame him. She couldn’t blame any of them.

  Had Derek still been a young boy, she would have quietly approached, laid a hand upon his head and kissed his cheek, careful all the while not to disturb his dreams. But he was not a young boy, he was a young man that she no longer knew or really understood. Instead, she simply watched him for a few moments, listening to the reassuring sound of his breathing before closing the door shut and heading downstairs, where her husband and a steaming cup of coffee was waiting for her. She drank it gladly and went to put on her shoes and coat; her husband gave her a tender kiss on the lips at the door and wished her all the luck in the world. She went out into the day knowing that at least she was loved.

  Outside, the morning air had a nip to it that made Sarah thankful that her winter coat was still in good condition. She watched her breath mist and felt the cold prickle at the end of her nose and the tips of her ears as she trudged wearily down the stone cobbled streets of Caldmar. There was barely another soul to be seen out and about at such an early hour, but she did see a few people setting up chairs outside the cafés and writing the specials on the board for today’s hungry visitors, a few construction men setting up for a long day, people scattered about here and there.

  Enough to make a start, Sarah thought.

  She went down to the waterfront first, where most of the best cafés and restaurants were situated, and asked any available employees if they needed help: someone to wash the dishes, clean the floors, anything. Each time it was the same, either a confused look from a junior worker that didn’t know anything beyond their own duties or a cursory shake of the head and a curt ‘No, thank you.’ And these were only from the places that were opening for the day. Sarah did her best to stay smiling, not wanting to appear dejected and pathetic to the next person she asked, but it was hard going. After a while, she stopped to rest her feet on a bench and, seeing as she was resting, her tightened facial muscles. She stared out at the sea for a while, listening to the lap of the waves and the cries of the gulls, and pretended that everything was fine. She was just a woman, a happily married mother, taking a break from her morning stroll before getting back to make breakfast and send her son off to school.

  She heard someone’s feet approaching and quickly. Sarah looked to see Reverend Abrahms jogging down the pier and coming towards her. She could hear his escalated breathing from here and his face was already red and shining. She watched him a while longer, waiting for him to come closer before turning her head, but he evidently saw her peering at him and immediately slowed his jog as he approached the bench.

  “Hello, Mrs Wilson,” he said in a friendly albeit breathless voice. Sarah gave a weak smile in response.

  “Hello, Reverend.”

  “What are you doing down here so early?”

  “Oh, you know,” Sarah said. “I fancied a walk.”

  Abrahms lifted his leg and hooked it over the top of the bench to stretch. Sarah looked back over the water politely.

  “I find an early morning constitutional does wonders for the spirit,” Abrahms said, voice tight as he continued his stretching. He put himself back on two feet and began to work on his arms, pulling them over his chest. He didn’t appear to be leaving any time soon. Sarah cleared her throat and brushed down her skirt primly.

  “Well, Reverend, it’s been lovely chatting but I really must get going.”

  She stood up stiffly and went to walk away, but to her surprise Abrahms followed her, stepping in time alongside her.

  “I understand that you were in the employ of Hugo Fairbanks, Mrs Wilson.”

  His tone was friendly enough, but the mere mention of Sarah’s former employer stung deeply. She knew at least that the reverend meant no harm, just an attempt at conversation. Unfortunately, Sarah really didn’t feel like talking at the moment. All her words would be spent on pointless self-promotion, trying to sell herself to strangers in the hope that one of them would give her a job. Sarah hated having to do it over and over. She was no good at talking about herself and never had been, but it was necessary.

  Abrahms didn’t seem fazed when she didn’t respond. They walked together in silence for a while. Sarah wished that he would go away and leave her to get on with things.

  “I apologise,” Abrahms said. “He must have meant a great deal to you.”

  Sarah nodded. “Of course he did. He was my employer, but I considered him a friend.”

  Abrahms smiled. “I think that many of us considered him to be a friend. He and I spent some time together not long before he passed. We spoke on the phone mostly, but I went up to the house once or twice. Beautiful place, though perhaps a little gl
oomy.”

  Sarah made a non-committal noise. She knew that he was just being polite and trying to make conversation, but she didn’t like to think of those days. Those days were raw, painful things in which she was consumed with worry and sadness. These days weren’t much better, really.

  His walk sped up into a gentle run once more, leaving Sarah standing at the mouth of the street. The mention of Hugo had sparked a sudden longing for the house that she had worked for since she was young. She missed it dearly, having always found such things to be so beautiful, and her employer had been so good to her. Hugo had been like a father to her in some ways, offering her kindness when she needed it and someone that would listen even though she was only there to work. Her mind turned to the new owner of the house, the stranger from abroad. Sarah had never seen him, no one really had except for perhaps the mayor and his wife. Maybe, she reasoned, he could do with some help around the place. She had read in the paper that he was wealthy, but no one ever seemed to visit the house and this man was apparently living alone.

  She would go and ask, she decided. It couldn’t do any harm.

  When she reached the hill, she began the ascent on unsure feet. Her heels were ill-equipped to deal with the soft earth or the gravel of the pathway that led to the front door of the Fairbanks house. But the sight of the house compelled her to keep walking. Unlike so many others, Sarah viewed the house as a comfort, something familiar that warmed her heart for a moment. It had been so long since she had last been this close.

  She was out of breath by the time she finally reached the door. Gasping, she grabbed the knocker and thudded it three times against the oak. Huddling into her coat, she waited. When nothing happened she tried again, this time pounding her fist against the door. She waited for a few more minutes, but still nothing happened. Sarah felt her shoulders slump at the realisation that the new owner was not home.

  Unable to shift the feeling of dejection, Sarah wandered idly along the driveway, approaching the edge of the cliffs. She peered around the left side of the house, where she could see the beginnings of the garden, and smiled. She had always loved that garden; in the summer she would take her lunch out there and sit amongst the flowers during her break. She wondered what state it was in now that the gardener no longer tended to it every week. She approached the back of the house carefully, trying not to trip over the stones as she tottered in her heels.

  A blur of something dashing past caught her eye as it disappeared into the garden. Sarah blinked, unsure if she had even seen anything for a moment, but the swaying movement of the shrubs told her that something must have passed by, an animal perhaps. From where she was standing, she could see the thin grey line of the sea on the horizon, beyond the cliff edge. Beyond her lay the Fairbanks garden, leading into the family graveyard. As she suspected, it had swiftly fallen into disarray; the plants had fast become wild and overgrown and leaves were scattered about everywhere.

  There was another flash in the corner of her vision and this time she was sure that she saw something white, but it had moved so fast she couldn’t swear her life on it She moved forward cautiously, getting closer and closer to the edge. The sound of the waves seemed to grow louder in her ears as she approached the cliff’s end, the wind becoming stiffer against her skin. Something snapped behind her, the sound of growling rumbled forth. She turned to run, but she was too late.

  The next sensation was one of falling, the sound of wind whipping around her ears. There was a vague sense of coldness, that her skin was exposed to something harsh and bitter. A strange dream, she thought, and one that she would wake from the moment her body hit the ground.

  6

  Emily was not meant to be at Fairbanks Manor until later that evening, leaving the entire day stretching out in front of her like a desert. Christopher had gone upstairs to shower and dress for the day, and came back downstairs alone. He poked his head through the door of the living room, adjusting his tie with a look of concern on his face. Emily had folded herself on the sofa, leafing through the old medical dictionary without actually reading it, but she looked up her father cleared his throat.

  “Your mother isn’t feeling too well today,” Christopher said. “Will you look in on her every now and then in case she needs anything?”

  Emily frowned. confused. “But she never gets sick.”

  Christopher laughed uneasily. “There’s a first time for everything. She’s still human, after all.”

  “It’s nothing serious, though?”

  “Oh, of course not,” Christopher said, though there was something in his voice that didn’t seem quite so confident in his words. “Between you and me, I think she may be a tad overworked.”

  Emily thought about it. Christopher was going to a breakfast meeting this morning to discuss budgets or something else terrifyingly important; it was the sort of thing her mother would rather chew her own arm off than miss. In fact, she took that attitude towards almost every aspect of her working life. Emily didn’t even know if Victoria trusted Christopher alone anymore after all these years of working together. If she was overworked, this was the first time in her fifty some years she had shown it.

  “I’ll look after her,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  Once Christopher had gone, the sound of his tuneless whistling fading off into the distance, Emily poured a glass of water and took it upstairs to her parents’ room. She nudged the door open gingerly, finding Victoria curled up in a tight ball, the duvet bunched up around her shoulders as if she was trying to stay warm. Her hair was a mess around her, like the way Emily’s was in the morning, and her skin was devoid of her usual make-up. The curtains were drawn against the rising sun with only a single shaft of life creeping through the gap.

  Emily knelt by the edge of the bed, setting the water on the cabinet next to it before cautiously laying a hand on Victoria’s face. Her mother didn’t react, but Emily was alarmed to find her skin scorching hot and damp with sweat. She leant in closer to listen to Victoria’s breathing. It sounded laboured, strained.

  “Mum,” she said, giving Victoria’s shoulder a tentative shake, then again with more force. She felt heavy and immovable, but she groaned quietly and turned on her back, laying a hand over her eyes as if she were trying to keep the light out.

  “Emily, darling,” she whispered. “Let me sleep.”

  “Dad said you weren’t feeling well,” Emily said. “I think you have a fever.”

  Victoria weakly pushed the duvet off her slender frame. “Nonsense, I’m just too warm. I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

  Emily went and cracked open a window, hoping that a bit of sea breeze would help. The room felt overheated and stuffy, stinking of sleep, and fresh air seemed to be the catch-all cure for things like this. When she pulled back the curtains and let the sun come pouring in, Victoria groaned again and rolled back onto her side, face away from the window. It made Emily think back to the way it was ten years ago and beyond, the way she too would groan at the sight of the sun at the beginning of every school day, the loud and insistent chirruping of her mother as she forced her daughter up and out of bed, the following protests and complaints always falling on deaf ears. But Victoria was sick, not lazy. She didn’t have a lazy bone in her body. Emily closed the curtains again, blocking out the bright rays for good. Victoria sighed with what sounded like relief.

  “I brought you some water,” Emily said. “Do you want an aspirin or anything?”

  Victoria shook her head, curls shifting against the pillow. “I just want to sleep.”

  Emily stood there for a moment, feeling strangely useless. If she were in Victoria’s place, she would have been so well taken care of that the only chance of peace was to get better as fast as possible. She would have been overloaded with medicines, health foods, endless cups of green tea, whatever she needed or her mother believed she needed, and all Emily could offer now that she was in the same position was a glass of water and maybe a few painkillers. If she had a nurturing instin
ct, it was a withered, impotent thing starving to death inside her. Looking at Victoria now, she realised that she wasn’t as infallible as she liked to seem. Right now, she looked tiny and frail, almost breakable.

  “Mum?” she said cautiously, unsure if Victoria had already drifted back into the realm of sleep.

  “Mmm?”

  “I meant to tell you, I went to see Mr Volkov yesterday.”

  “That would explain why you rolled in so late last night,” Victoria said drowsily. “How did it go?”

  Emily smiled to herself. “He gave me a job.”

  Victoria twisted her head around, flinching slightly at having to face the light again. She stared at Emily incredulously.

  “You’re joking.”

  Emily ignored the disbelief in her mother’s voice. “I’m not.”

  Victoria pushed herself up into the sitting position. Her face was flushed, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. “Well, that’s marvellous darling!”

  “He wants me to paint his portrait,” Emily continued, “Starting tonight.”

  Victoria’s face was the picture of pleasure. Emily was sorely tempted to bring up their argument from the day before, to remind her mother that she wasn’t a failure after all, but it seemed petty and pointless.

  “Have you discussed payment then, darling?”

  Emily pulled a face and squeezed her eyes shut. “Not yet.”

  “Well you must,” Victoria remonstrated. “Before you start tonight, hammer it out with him. I won’t have you being exploited!”

  Emily agreed half-heartedly, annoyed at herself that she hadn’t even considered the cost to begin with. Some businesswoman she was shaping up to be. The idea of even broaching the subject with Volkov made her uneasy, though she couldn’t think why. After all, he had commissioned her, hadn’t he? Looking at her bright-eyed mother, she was reminded of her former evasiveness about the man, her seeming unwillingness to talk about him.