My Mother's Silence (ARC)

by Lauren Westwood

  And then… nothing. I open my eyes. My head is pounding in time with my heart. I retrace my steps, stumbling up the path. Above me, the shadow of the lighthouse is a long, thin arrow pointing out to sea. I go back up to the car park and slow down to catch my breath. What happened after the ‘memory’ ends? Maybe she slipped and fell from the rocks. Maybe a wave took her. Or maybe she really did jump… right in front of me. I was hoping that being here where it happened might trigger something else, but so far it hasn’t done so. How can I complete the memory?

  I walk closer to the lighthouse and its outbuildings, which are enclosed by a waist-high stone wall. I peer over the wall at the sheer black cliffs and fissures in the rocks pounded by the relentless waves. If Jimmy and Mackie had seen my sister die, it would have been from up here.

  A walkway leads down to the old foghorn building and a series of small viewing platforms for seabird aficionados. As I near the steps, a dog begins to whimper excitedly. A dark shape streaks towards me. I know that dog…

  Nick Hamilton is about the last person I want to see. He’s set up his easel on the viewing platform nearest the top, his back to me. I pat Kafka and then go quickly down the steps past his owner. I stand on the lowest platform with my back to him. I feel angry that he’s come here; set up his easel to paint a pretty picture of the view so near to where my sister met her death. It seems so wrong… though the rational part of me knows that he’s probably unaware of it.

  The wind is as sharp and cold as any I’ve ever felt, and my hair lashes against my skin. The sea below is a seething abyss of white water as the waves crash against the rocks. Further out, the water is ice blue, turning to silver at the horizon, and the islands are covered with wisps of pink clouds. A lone gull swoops lazily on the wind, landing on the rocks nearby.

  ‘Skye.’ Though I was expecting it, the voice startles me.

  I don’t look at him, but continue staring out to sea.

  He moves over to the far side of the platform, resting his elbows on the railing.

  ‘It’s a beautiful spot,’ he says after a minute or two. ‘I come here quite often.’

  ‘My sister died here.’

  ‘I know.’

  There’s a plank for sitting at the back of the platform. He goes to it and sits down. I hear a clacking sound, then liquid pouring into a cup.

  ‘Coffee?’ he says.

  I ignore him. ‘Mum thinks she went in deliberately. That she… took her own life.’ I don’t know why I’m saying this, confiding in him. I stare down at the broiling sea, about twenty metres below. More birds are swooping now, and out beyond the breakers, I can make out a tiny dark spot in the water. A seal, bobbing up and down on the waves.

  ‘Is that what you think too?’

  ‘No.’ I swallow back a sob. ‘She just… wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have been that cruel.’

  I turn back, defeated. I don’t know anything any more. I go to the plank and sit down, as far away from Nick Hamilton as possible. Even so, I’m drawn to him. I remember watching him on the beach. The feeling that I didn’t want to acknowledge. That I wished I’d been there with him, laughing as the dog ran down the beach. Happy; at peace.

  ‘Here.’ He hands me a steaming cup of black coffee.

  ‘Thanks.’ I take a sip. It burns my throat.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ he says.

  He stands up and walks away. I don’t look to see where he’s going. He returns a few minutes later with a blanket. Without asking my permission, he drapes it over my shoulders. It’s a tartan rug similar to Byron’s – I guess every red-blooded Scotsman must have one squirreled away in their car. I pull it around me. It smells vaguely of dog and paint.

  ‘That coat is not going to get you through a winter here,’ he says. ‘You should get a warmer one. If you’re staying for a while.’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’m staying,’ I say. ‘It’s… complicated. Mum’s not well, as you know. And I’m trying to find some answers.’

  I glance over at his profile outlined against the sky. His chin is covered with dark stubble, and his cheekbones are as sharp and craggy as the cliffs. He belongs here. This place… he may not be from here, but somehow, he’s become part of it.

  ‘And have you found any answers?’ he says.

  ‘Just that people lied.’ I pull the blanket around me but nothing can keep out the chill of those words. ‘Everyone lied about that night. They lied to protect me… and Mum… And themselves. And I…’ I shake my head ‘… I can’t remember a damn thing.’

  My anger sparks when I hear him laugh.

  ‘First rule of policing,’ he says. ‘No one wants to talk and everyone lies.’

  ‘I want to talk,’ I say. ‘I want to know the truth. My sister was keeping secrets from me. That much I know for sure. I was angry with her. But I loved her so much. Her death has torn all of us apart. I don’t know if it’s possible to ever put it to rest. But if I know the truth about what happened that night, then maybe I can face it and move on. Help Mum move on too. I don’t know. It’s just…’

  ‘Yes?’ he says, after a pause.

  ‘What if I don’t like what I find out?’

  He pours a second cup of coffee. I’m on the verge of refusing – if he’s going to be out all day he’ll need the coffee to keep warm. He takes a sip from the cup and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine and I feel a jolt of electricity. It feels strangely intimate as I put the cup to my lips. I don’t want to trust him. I don’t want to feel a connection. But maybe it was my near drowning, or the rescue, or his paintings. I can’t deny that there’s some sort of unfortunate attraction between us. I drink the coffee and set down the cup. Then, I begin to talk.

  I give him the official account of what happened. Then I tell him about the ‘new evidence’ I’ve uncovered. Ginny breaking up with James and then wanting to get back together. The coach ticket in the wardrobe. I tell him about James and Katie lying, and what Byron said about people ‘getting their stories straight’, supposedly to protect my family from the heartbreak of suicide. Finally, I tell him about my memory flash of Ginny on the rocks, and how I’m becoming more and more certain that I saw her that night.

  He listens in silence. I like that he’s a good listener. Several times I falter and have second thoughts. Why am I telling him this? Just because he was once a cop doesn’t mean he’ll be able to help – or be on my side. He tells me to ‘go on’ in a quiet voice. I do so. And when I get to the end, my thoughts are no less muddled, but I feel better for having told someone.

  ‘So what happens now?’ he says. ‘How are you going to find out more?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I wish could get a copy of the police file. Piece together what people said at the time, see if it sparks anything. But it’s probably pointless.’ I sigh.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ He frowns, considering. ‘I hadn’t heard the whole story. Just bits and pieces in the village after your Mum’s fall.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure it was common knowledge. There are no secrets in a place like this.’

  ‘Yes.’ He frowns out at the view. The pink clouds have gone, replaced with dark grey ones on the horizon like an approaching army.

  ‘And we’re all on eggshells around Mum right now. She’s not well. Bill says we should just leave things be. Try not to talk about Ginny. He won’t like the fact that I’m “rocking the boat”.’

  Nick lets out a long sigh. ‘In my experience, most people benefit from facing up to the truth, even if it’s unpleasant. I can’t say that you’re doing the right thing, but if it’s any help, I’d be looking for answers too if I was in your situation.’

  I nod. Actually, it feels like a big help.

  ‘I also know how terrible it is to lose someone so young. Someone with their life ahead of them. I can see why it’s affected you and your family all these years.’

  ‘She was my twin,’ I say. ‘Half of who I was. So I thought, anyway.’ I shake my head. ‘I wanted to think it.
It somehow made things easier. My successes were because of her. And my failures.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ he says. His eyes meet mine, and I feel something awaken inside me. ‘For either your successes or your failures.’

  Before I can even think of how to respond, he gets up. I take the cup and Thermos and follow him back to the upper level. Kafka is lying on the ground near the easel, chewing on an old bone. I pour the last of the coffee into the cup and lean against the railing, staring out to sea. I’m aware of Nick picking up a brush and dabbing it in some paint on his pallet. Then he stands back, staring out at the view. He steps forward, makes a single mark on the canvas and steps back again.

  I turn back towards the sea, finishing the coffee. I spot the dark blob in the water again: the seal. There’s two of them now, flipping and diving. I give up wondering about Nick and let my own thoughts come into my head. One of the seals comes back up to the surface but the other has stayed beneath the water for several minutes. Maybe I should write another song about the Selkie, a different song about two playful seals. A song about happily ever after.

  Eventually, the seals disappear, and I reckon that they’ve come ashore somewhere on the rocks below. I walk back over to Nick and screw the cup onto the Thermos. Kafka’s tail gives a thump and then he goes back to his bone.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ I say. ‘Sorry, but I don’t think there’s any left.’

  He gives me a bemused smile that almost, but not quite, turns his eyes from grey to blue. ‘That’s OK. It was worth it.’

  ‘What…? Oh—’

  I break off as I see what he’s painted on the canvas. The background is a shimmering silver sea, the islands veiled with pink wisps of cloud. But he’s roughed in the railing in pencil and he’s also sketched… me.

  It’s only lines, but he’s somehow managed to capture depth and movement. The wind whipping my hair, my hands gripping the cup.

  ‘It’s…’ I begin.

  ‘Unfinished,’ he says. ‘And I don’t like unfinished.’

  ‘It looks pretty good to me.’

  He stands back from the canvas, crosses his arms, and frowns. Then, he looks at me.

  ‘I’d like to paint you,’ he says.

  I laugh awkwardly. ‘You mean, like paint my portrait?’

  His eyes lock with mine. Grey now, no trace of blue. ‘No, Skye. Not like your portrait.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. As his meaning sinks in, I feel another shiver wrack through my body, and this one is not from the cold. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Think about it.’ He turns back to the painting, his face a laser beam of focus. ‘You know where to find me.’

  I toss the rug down on his camping stool and begin making my way up the steps. ‘Yes. I do.’

  30

  No new memories are triggered as I walk along the cliff path back to the car. The view has changed again, and the islands have all but disappeared into the mist. In many ways the sea is a perfect resting place for my sister, who was so changeable, her emotions so large. If only she was at rest. Instead, the secrets around her death are unsettling everything.

  I don’t feel closer to the truth having come here, but in a way it has been cathartic: like I’ve faced something and come out the other side. Maybe Mum experienced something similar before she slipped and hurt her leg. Or maybe in her mind she was some other place entirely: a world where my sister is still out there somewhere, and she’s trying to call her home. I shudder at the thought.

  In any case, I do feel better for having talked to Nick. An outsider, detached from what happened; someone who listened, and on some level, I felt that he understood. Maybe he’s lost someone too.

  When I arrive back at Mum’s house, the others are still out. I call the taxi company and try to reach Lachlan, but I get his voicemail and don’t leave a message. I eat a sandwich and then go upstairs to run a bath. As I slip into the steaming hot water, I think of the two seals and my earlier idea for a song. My skin in the water feels slippery and smooth. I run my hands over my body luxuriantly, and then go under the water to wet my hair. I have to stop myself thinking about Nick, his eyes memorising every shadow, curve and plane of my body… his lips that once breathed life into mine… No, I can’t allow my mind to wander. Yes, there’s an attraction between us, but that’s as far as it goes. There’s nothing right about any of this: not the time, nor the place, nor the person. I’ll take my kit off for him if he wants to paint me. After all, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before…

  There’s a commotion downstairs. Bill’s family back from the village. I get out of the bath, get dressed, and blow-dry my hair. As I’m finishing up, there’s a loud thunk outside the door. I coil the cord around the dryer, hearing footsteps, and then, someone yells: ‘Fucking bastard!’ For a moment, I’m transported back in time.

  ‘Dad!’ A girl giggles.

  I open the bathroom door, afraid of seeing some kind of ghostly apparition of my dad and myself as a girl. Instead, Bill is up the ladder to the attic, having just hit his head on the hidden beam. Emily is below, peering upwards.

  ‘Hi, Emily,’ I say warily. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Dad says your old vinyl albums are up there.’ She points to the hatch, as Bill heaves himself into the attic and his legs disappear. ‘I saw some records in the village shop but Dad wouldn’t let me buy them. He said there were plenty at home.’

  ‘Yes, they must be up there somewhere,’ I say, a little irritated.

  Emily begins climbing up the ladder. Dust rains down and I feel a sneeze coming on. ‘But there’s lots of stuff and we don’t want it all down,’ I say. ‘Someone will have to put it back up when you leave.’

  ‘I knoooow…’ Bill’s voice sounds like he’s in an echo chamber. ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘And remember,’ I say to Emily’s disappearing feet. ‘You can have the harp…’

  She’s gone. Up to the wonderful world of someone else’s attic. I can’t blame her. When we used to visit my gran I loved poking around in cupboards and wardrobes, rifling through old clothing, photos and books. A treasure trove for a kid. It’s just my gran didn’t have anything so sordid as a dead sister—

  ‘Look! What’s this box? Ouch!’

  I’m not proud to admit that I feel a little satisfied that Emily fares no better than anyone else when it comes to the hidden beam.

  ‘It’s old journals. Diaries, I think.’

  ‘Leave those…’ I plead.

  ‘I’ve found the record player.’ Bill’s voice is muffled. ‘Here, hand it down to Skye.’

  ‘OK,’ Emily replies. She passes something down to me. But it’s not the record player. I stagger under the weight of the box of journals.

  ‘No, Emily…’

  ‘Here’s the record player.’

  I have no choice but to put the box down and grab the record player and two even heavier boxes of vinyl records. Then Emily wants to take the amps down and Ginny’s guitar. I put my foot down.

  ‘Bill, that’s enough stuff… please.’

  ‘No, Emily,’ I hear him say. ‘Leave the guitar up here.’

  ‘But I can play guitar,’ Emily says. ‘I can even do the F chord and that one’s hard.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘But that was my sister’s guitar. I don’t want it down. Or anyone else playing it.’

  ‘You could play it,’ Emily says. ‘And I could play your one. We could play together. What’s it called? A duet. Not here – not around Nan. But at the cottage.’

  ‘No.’ I’m on the verge of getting angry. ‘Bill?’

  ‘No, Emily. Skye’s right. We don’t want to upset Nan.’

  Emily clops heavily down the ladder, making a cloud of dust fly with each step. When she gets to the bottom, she glares at me and stalks off, leaving all the stuff in a heap on the floor. I’ve been trying hard to do the friendly aunt thing, but right now, I’m struggling. ‘Emily,’ I call out. ‘Come and take some of this stuff. You can’t leave it
here.’

  She ignores me and strops off down the stairs.

  Bill comes down the ladder, blinking from the dust.

  ‘How can you think that this was a good idea?’ I say. ‘Getting all that stuff down. Talk about “rocking the boat”.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, wiping his face with his hand. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the old records.’ He folds up the stairs and closes the hatch.

  I sigh. ‘She can have them. But can you take them to the cottage? I don’t want to hear those records. It’s… too creepy. And who knows what hearing them might do to Mum.’

  ‘I know.’ Bill glances at the box at my feet and gives me a worried look. ‘What’s that?’ he says.

  ‘Ginny’s journals.’

  ‘Oh, God. Sorry. Should I put them back up?’

  ‘No,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I should have a look through them.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Bill hesitates. ‘I thought we agreed—’

  ‘Mum doesn’t need to know,’ I snap. ‘I won’t tell her, if you don’t. But I’ve found out some things. For one, the “rogue wave” story was bollocks. And what’s more, Mum knows it. She thinks Ginny might have… well… Anyway, I’m trying to figure out what really happened that night.’

  Bill’s brow creases into a deep frown – not something I’ve often seen. I’m sure he’s going to tell me off, stop me from saying anything else, but instead, he goes down the hall and opens the door to his old room, gesturing for me to follow. I go in and shut the door. His room has the same bed and furniture and a few of his trophies are up on a shelf. I’m relieved to see that his old posters (especially the pin-up from page 3 of The Sun and her perky breasts) are gone. It’s not a shrine to him, but rather a cosy ‘boy’ room where his sons might want to sleep someday when they come to visit their gran.