She is wiping the worktop and stops to stare at the cloth in her hand for a moment. Then she nods and begins to wipe again. ‘Yes. Me too.’
Dawn shakes the cloth out and hangs it over the edge of the sink, then she smiles at me. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Come with me.’ And she walks into her bedroom. ‘I feel bad about being so sharp with you when you wanted to see a photo of our dad. It’s understandable that you want to know about your family.’
Her bedroom is sparsely furnished. There’s a single bed with a flowery duvet, childlike and faded, and one pillow, neatly straightened. She has a wooden bedside table with a photograph on it, a small desk light, one of those black and shiny ones with a bendy stem, and there’s a shelf above her bed with some school exercise books and a shoebox tied with string and decorated with splodges of Tippex outlined in dark felt-tip pen, and stickers and scribbles. There’s a picture on the shelf beside the box. It’s the same woman I remember from that clear snatch of memory on the beach. In this picture she is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but it’s unmistakably the woman in the green-and-white dress. Her hair is thick and lustrous, her head thrown back as she laughs, a baby clutched in her smooth, tanned arms.
Dawn hands me the frame from the bedside table. The photograph shows an elderly couple sitting in canvas folding chairs. They sit side by side, arms linked. The man has a shock of white hair, his ears and nose are overgrown with age, his chin lost beneath a loose jowl, and deep laughter lines fan out from the corners of his eyes. The woman, her mouth soft and smiling, leans into him and squints into the sun, her grey hair blown nearly upright by the breeze.
‘Your nan and granddad. Mum’s mum and dad.’
My heart beats faster as I take in their faces with excited fascination. I remember how it felt to grow up without grandparents, imagining what it must be like to have kindly old people to shower you with presents and unconditional hugs.
‘Do they live nearby?’
‘They’re both dead,’ she says sadly.
‘Oh. I see … that’s a … shame,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘They look nice.’
‘They were,’ Dawn says. ‘I loved them more than anything. They always had something good to say. They always told me how lucky it was I was safe and sound, that I was their sunshine, that sort of thing. Nan always hugged me and said, What would we do without you? Mum and Dad never said things like that. Dad barely spoke to me after you went, unless it was shouting or calling me names.’
‘Was he that bad?’
‘Yes,’ she says with narrowed eyes. ‘He was that bad, Morveren.’ The name jars and sounds harsh again. ‘He was a drunk. A violent, selfish drunk. He—’ She shakes her head, and then her hands shoot up to cover her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘This is all so hard. It’s…’
I put the picture down and rest my hand on her knee.
‘Dawn, it’s OK. We need time, that’s all. It’s hard, but it will get easier. It has to. There isn’t a right way or a wrong way to deal with this. It’s not like this is a normal situation. We’ll find our way. We will.’
She nods. Her hands fall from her face and she takes a deep breath.
‘Can I ask you something? If it upsets you, don’t answer.’
She doesn’t reply, but I take it as a yes.
‘When I showed up here, when I knocked on the door that first time and you told me to leave—’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘No, you don’t have to be sorry, it’s just, well,’ I pause. ‘You said they buried me.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘There was a funeral in the church at Zennor. Lots of people came. There were so many flowers.’ Dawn’s voice cracked. ‘I hate bunches of flowers now. Absolutely hate them.’
How strange to think of people mourning me, singing hymns and saying words to lay me to rest, and all the time I was oblivious, playing alone behind those towering red-brick walls.
‘She never wanted the funeral,’ Dawn says. ‘Never wanted them to stop searching for you. I remember her screaming at my dad on the morning of the funeral, screaming until she went blue in the face that it was wrong, you weren’t dead and they should still be looking for you.’
I spend the rest of the day with Dawn, shadowing her as she looks after Alice, watching everything she does intently. I help with lunch. Stroke Alice’s hand while Dawn feeds her. When we help her bath, Dawn shuffles over to allow me room to kneel beside her. I hesitate, but rather than difficult or embarrassing, I am surprised to find how calming it is. I dry her carefully with the towel Dawn passes me. It’s worn through in places and I make a mental note to buy them some new ones, large and fluffy and white, and maybe some Pears Glycerine soap, which is so much nicer than the cheap pink stuff Dawn seems to favour.
Once we have tucked Alice up for the night, we eat scrambled eggs in the dimly lit kitchen, and then sit on Dawn’s bed to chat. I want to ask her about what she can remember from the night I went missing, but I don’t know how to bring it up without running the risk of upsetting her, so instead we talk about television, of which I know little, books, of which Dawn knows little, and cinema and sport, of which we both know nothing. We do, however, find common ground in our lonely childhoods. She was saved, she says, by Craig, her only friend, and when she talks about him she opens up in a way I haven’t yet seen. Her words are imbued with a tenderness and warmth that’s contagious, and as I listen to her talk about him, I find myself smiling. She tells me he has been there for her since they were young and without him she couldn’t have coped.
‘I’ll never be able to thank him enough.’
With Dawn so relaxed, I brave a question. ‘How did Alice get so ill?’
‘She just got quieter and quieter. After the funeral she sort of ran out of batteries. Then something happened with Dad one night … it wasn’t good … and she … switched off.’
‘What did the doctors say?’
Dawn grimaced. ‘They wanted to give her drugs, anti-depressants, but Nan said no. Nan said Mum was rightly sad about her daughter and that she didn’t need drugs, she needed time. She said drugs would make her worse, turn her into the walking dead, which is ironic now, of course.’ Dawn shook her head. ‘Nan was wrong, but I know she was acting for what she thought was Mum’s good. I don’t think she had any idea how…’ she hesitates ‘… damaged Mum was.’
We fall asleep together on her narrow bed. She before me. I listen to her breathing and try to synchronise mine with hers, until at last I drift off.
Elaine sits in the armchair from her bedroom. It’s been moved into the kitchen at The Old Vicarage. It is cold and damp and I am aware of noises coming from somewhere, maybe upstairs, maybe outside. Shouts from a man, who is trying to get me. But I feel safe because I sit in a small birdcage beside her, and she is feeding me single grains of corn through the bars. The skin around her mouth is stained orange with soup and her gums are receded and bleeding. When I finish the bowl of corn, she smiles indulgently, then covers the cage with the throw from the sofa. It’s so dark suddenly, I feel myself beginning to panic. I try to call out but my mouth is sewn shut. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I jump. I think it’s the man, the man who has no face and looms in the doorway. But then a dim light grows around me and I see the hand belongs to Tori, exactly as she was at the beginning, with curly blonde hair and clear brown eyes, wearing a white nightie and slippers. Seeing her makes me smile and as I do the stitches fall away from my lips. I tell her I need help, but she doesn’t reply. She just watches me silently with unblinking eyes.
I wake with a start, my skin covered in sweat, fingers clenching the sheet. I feel for Dawn, but the bed is empty. I get up and look for her and find her sleeping in the bath. Her hands are clasped beneath her head and the damp towel we used to dry Alice is covering her. I walk back into the kitchen, the ever-present soupy smell sticking in my throat, and wonder if this is really what I want. As I stand there, I consider slipping away. Not returning. I could go and be
Tori in a place where nobody knows me as anyone different. I could carve out a new life for myself. I could get a job in a florist or a travel agency. I could fabricate a mundane past that nobody would think to question. I sit down at the kitchen table and stretch my arms out in front of me, picturing Dawn waking up and realising I’ve gone, having to lose me all over again, having to deal with my rejection on top of everything else.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know the cat is mewing and scratching at the back door and a hazy light is easing over the sky. I’m numb and uncomfortable from being awkwardly slumped over the table. I sit up, flex my stiffened shoulders, and check the clock on the wall. A quarter to five. The cat gives another faint mew and I open the back door. She trots in and begins purring, rubbing herself against my leg, so I feed her and as I do the longhaired grey cat skulks into my head; I must call Miss Young to check he’s OK. I stroke the cat, who ignores me as she tucks hungrily into her early breakfast, and then I peer into the bathroom. Dawn is still asleep, curled uncomfortably in the bath and snoring softly. I hesitate for a second or two, debating whether to wake her and send her back to bed where she’ll be more comfortable. I decide against it and instead take the covers from her bed and lay them gently on top of her. Then I walk down the corridor towards Alice’s room. The silence is heavy, as if the flat is covered in a thick, insulating blanket. I reach for her door, my fingertips rest on the handle, but I don’t open it. My hand drops away and I grab my jacket from one of the coat hooks and let myself quietly out of the flat.
THIRTY-THREE
As soon as I hear the tone in my solicitor’s voice I know she has something serious to tell me.
‘The situation with your parents’ second house seems fairly straightforward. It’s not rented out, but there are gas and electricity bills associated with the property, which your father paid. The utilities companies advise me that this usage is in keeping with a second home, people visiting – perhaps your parents – rather than continual residential use. Your father had a savings account, which until his death received two hundred pounds by standing order each week from his current account. The only money taken from the savings account was a weekly withdrawal from a Bristol cash point for the same amount, two hundred pounds. A few days before his death, Dr Campbell stopped the direct debit. Your father made no mention of any of this in his will. It therefore falls to you to decide if you want to sell the house or do something else with it. You can instruct us to sell it on your behalf, or perhaps you’d like to look at the property before you make your decision?’
I don’t answer immediately. The temptation to tell her to sell it is huge, but there’s a part of me that knows I have to go there. Henry Campbell had a secret house and there’s the distinct likelihood that it holds clues to the whys and hows. And, of course, I’m scared that if it does have a link to what happened in France, then people will know. Things in St Ives are still delicate and none of us needs external influences making it harder.
‘I’d like to see it first,’ I say, trying hard to conceal my reticence.
‘Right, I’ll send the key and address by registered mail.’ She pauses. Paper rustles in the background and I presume she is looking back through her notes. ‘It will be with you tomorrow. Will there be somebody at the address you gave me to sign for it?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You know, the house might have been used by a relative. They … my parents … were estranged on both sides, and I’ve no idea where any of my extended family lives. I know Henry has a brother and I think his mother is still alive.’
‘That’s definitely a possibility,’ she says. ‘Good luck and let me know how you get on. If you change your mind, I’ll get someone to deal with things on your behalf.’
I walk into St Ives, my mind racing once again. I think about Henry disappearing to the house in Bristol. I try to remember how many nights he used to spend away. Had he a lover? Was Bristol his escape from The Old Vicarage and Elaine and what they’d done? God knows, that would make sense. This house might hold the answers. Things – anything – that might help explain what happened, and why.
I walk along to the very furthest point of the harbour wall. On one side of me still waters, on the other the open, surging ocean, which, with every crashing wave, throws up a briny spray that mists my face. I lower my eyelids and listen for the mermaid.
I am certain I can hear her.
She is singing to me. Her voice rising up from the watery depths.
‘Morveren,’ I whisper back. ‘I can hear you.’
I think about her and Matthew beneath the waves, living, loving, adoring each other. She is smiling and happy as he caresses her rounded belly, runs his fingers over her skin, kisses her neck. I want to dive into the heaving swell to find them, to be a part of their secret world beneath the rhythmic breaking waves.
When Dawn opens the door she makes signs with her eyes, shakes her head, gestures with jabbing hand movements back down the street.
‘What is it?’
But she shushes me with an urgent lifted finger, then starts frantically pointing again.
‘What’s wrong?’ I whisper. But then I understand, as Craig’s face appears from the dark hallway behind her.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say to him, trying to keep my voice light and relaxed.
Dawn glares at me.
‘Hello, again. Can we help you?’ he says. He rests a hand on Dawn’s shoulder, but she shrugs it off.
‘I … was wondering … well…’
Why am I there? Christ. Think. The article … something to do with the article.
‘Well … if whether I might be able to take a photo. For the magazine?’
Dawn visibly relaxes and she smiles tightly.
‘Dawn? What do you think?’ Craig asks.
She still doesn’t say anything, so I shake my head a little, hoping she’ll understand she has to say no.
‘OK then? If that’s what you want. For the article.’
She didn’t understand.
‘Great!’ I say as brightly as I can manage. ‘I haven’t actually got my camera with me so … I’ll have to come back. With my camera.’
‘You came up to take a photo without a camera?’
I smile at him. ‘Well, I was almost here when I realised I forgot it, so I thought I might as well ask first, and then if it was a yes, I’ll … you know … come back.’ My mouth has gone dry. ‘I’m … so forgetful.’
‘You can use the camera on my phone if you want. It’s pretty good.’
‘Oh, OK. Yes, that would be great.’
Craig taps Dawn on the shoulder. ‘Do you want to go and get it, Dawny? It’s in my jacket pocket, the inside one.’
Dawn mumbles something and scurries down the corridor, seemingly relieved to escape.
He glances over his shoulder and then, happy she’s gone, fixes his eyes on mine. ‘You’re her, aren’t you?’
My heart stops.
‘You’re Dawn’s sister. You’re Morveren.’
‘No. No, I’m—’ My voice sticks in my throat. ‘I’m Tori. I’m a … journalist … from London. I—’
His face breaks into a gentle smile. ‘Of course,’ he says, softly. ‘I don’t know why I said that. Wishful thinking, maybe. You’ve got the same eyes as Dawny, that’s all. Not many with eyes as beautiful as hers. My mistake though.’
I want to laugh and say No harm done, that Dawn and I do have similar eyes, and exclaim Isn’t it a coincidence! but I can’t. I can’t say anything. I can’t make my mouth move or any words come out, all I can do is listen to the gulls high up in the sky laughing at how ridiculous I am.
Dawn arrives back with the phone and hands it to Craig.
‘Actually,’ I mumble. ‘I have to go. I’ve got … to be … somewhere.’
‘Don’t rush off,’ Craig says. ‘You’ve come all the way up here. Why don’t you come in? I’ll put the kettle on, you can take a picture of Dawny, and then you can get back. Fifteen minutes won
’t hurt, will it? I can email you the photo. Or even get it printed at the chemist. They’ve got this clever machine I’ve always wanted to have a go on.’
Craig beckons me in and I glance at Dawn, who shrugs.
I go with them, walking in a semi-trance, lost in the inevitability that one day my truth will come out, and that when it does I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it. As we sit at the table he appears at ease; he doesn’t look at me strangely or give any knowing glances. I watch him chat with Dawn. He touches her hand ever so lightly when she passes him a small plate of biscuits. There’s a connection between them. They watch each other intently when the other speaks. Their eyes seek each other out. I feel as if I am intruding on them and cannot help but envy the way he is with her, the effect he has on her. Her tension has eased and there’s a levity about her that warms me. He asks her opinion. He doesn’t put words in her mouth. He lets her be. I realise now how controlling David is, and wish that every now and then he asked what I thought or wanted or felt.
Dawn and I sit and listen as Craig tells us about a lady he saw in the supermarket yesterday.
‘She was having this right old paddy,’ he says. ‘Stormed in, can of beans in her hand, demanding to see the manager. Well…’ He laughs now, and Dawn and I can’t help but smile too. ‘The bloke came out, looked about twelve years old, standing there in a suit two sizes too big, and each time he tried to speak, off she’d go again. He stood there like a mackerel, mouth opening, mouth shutting, desperate to get his words out.’ Craig does an impression of the man, opening and closing his mouth, arms flapping with mock-frustration.
Dawn laughs.
It’s a childish giggle, free as a soaring seabird, and I’m hit with another wave of envy.
‘So, there she is, shouting at this mackerel in his baggy suit. “These beans … have sausages in them,” she’s shouting. “I. Am. Appalled. I mean, a hair or a caterpillar or the end of some careless idiot’s finger, maybe. But … sausages? I mean, REALLY?” Then she turns the can upside down and slurps the beans out on the floor.’ Dawn laughs again. ‘Then the mackerel points out it says baked beans with sausages on the label. She must have picked them up by accident. She looks at the label. Huffs loudly. And with that she’s off out of the shop and the rest of us stand there not speaking, until…’ And here he taps Dawn on the knee and beckons her closer. ‘And this is the best bit, until this little kid, no more than three, sneaks out from behind his mum and starts picking out the sausages from the beans on the floor and pops them in his mouth!’
In Her Wake Page 16
