The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  Of course kids were just kids. Not knowing what to say, let alone how to be ‘caring and sensitive’, they’d abandoned me instead. Only as an adult did I understand that my pals’ distance had been from ignorance and fear. At the time, the loneliness and isolation had been unbearably hurtful, pain on top of the deepest pain; my daddy had died and my closest friends shunned me. I’d turned to Laura for love and support, but she’d emotionally disappeared, then after four years, she physically vanished too.

  Laura. We’d spoken every day since that call on Friday, but the conversations were brief, as though she was checking off the ‘Ali’ box before moving on to the next thing on her agenda. She’d vaguely said she’d talk to Tom about the ‘next steps’ but I hadn’t asked her to elaborate. I wanted her to offer the information without me having to beg like when we were kids: Why are you going out again, Laura? I’m so sad, can’t you stay at home with me? I need you here! Can I have a hug? Please? My questions didn’t feel so very different today: Are you coming home, Laura? When? Will you be here for the funeral? I really need you to be there. Why haven’t you bloody said?!

  Though I wasn’t sure, Miles was certain she’d fly over soon. His blue eyes loaded with intrigue, he’d speculated on how she might appear this time. We’d holidayed in Canada a couple of years ago, travelling miles out of our way to see her in Vancouver, but when we arrived at her glassy offices, the nasal male receptionist denied all knowledge of our visit, despite the appointment I’d made. When she finally emerged from the lift, I didn’t recognise her at first glance. Her blonde hair had been replaced by an auburn business-like bob, and she was wearing dark tortoiseshell glasses and a wide-legged trouser suit. Though I chuckled with pride and pleasure, it was a little surreal too; instead of the Anglo-American drawl I’d expected, she’d cultivated an extremely clipped British accent without even a hint of Yorkshire vowels. And she was surrounded by simpering and sycophantic men.

  Miles had laughed from the corner of his mouth. ‘They’re all hoping for a good spanking.’

  I thought that rich coming from a spoon-fed Alexander-Jones. But of course I was an Alexander-Jones too, by marriage at least, still enthralled to Madeleine, charming Madeleine, being moulded by her and becoming the identikit daughter she’d never had.

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday was roasting. Absently making a tuna sandwich, I stared at the garden through the smeary windowpane, searching for movement. The plants and the grass looked arid, the heatwave still in full swing. I hadn’t watched the news for weeks but, his finger almost wagging, Miles had warned me about the hosepipe ban. It had made my lips twitch. Did my law-abiding husband really think I would be sprinkling the garden when no one was looking? Still, I’d wanted to water the hanging baskets on Friday; perhaps whisking out the hosepipe would be further progress away from my giving-birth-daze. Or maybe Miles surmised I’d be unbalanced enough to do the heinous crime, something to report to his mother. Had he told her about Mum yet? From her lack of contact, I assumed not. But I didn’t want to think of her now; Madeleine in all forms was too overwhelming.

  Planning to escape from the house, I took a small bag of peas from the freezer, put Joe in his bouncy chair and carried him to the loo. His face had the same incredulous look as Miles’s when he’d caught me doing the same, but it was a question of needs must: my episiotomy scar still stung when I peed. I wasn’t sure whether the home-made anaesthetic really helped, but I was clutching at straws, willing the bloody thing to heal. Though I hated going to the doctor’s at the best of times, I’d been through the additional humiliation of showing a young medic my downstairs bits. ‘Hmm,’ he’d said, looking pretty appalled. ‘Let’s see how it goes, but it might need re-stitching.’

  I’d had enough poking and prodding over the last few months to last a lifetime; no one would be slicing me open and sewing me up again, that was for sure. Besides, who cared that I now widdled slightly off-centre? I doubted I’d ever have sex with my husband again, let alone anyone else.

  It was Mum who’d suggested the frozen peas. Cabbage leaves too, for my sore, engorged breasts. My resourceful mother who had a practical remedy for everything. My mother, who was apparently dead. A notion struck. Oh God, had she had some sort of premonition about the car crash? Was that why she’d tried to speak to me? As though hearing that thought, my mobile rang.

  It was Laura, her tone brusque. ‘So I gave Tom carte blanche with the burial arrangements, service and so on. He has a funeral director pal in Sheffield. Thought that would be for the best.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Then, ‘What about our aunties? Maybe Peggy or Brenda? They’re local, too. Won’t they be offended if we don’t ask them to get involved?’

  ‘Ali, what planet are you on? Mum hadn’t spoken to Brenda for a good decade. Probably longer.’

  ‘Really?’ During my childhood, Mum had telephoned at least one of her five sisters every day, even though most of them lived within a mile, but when she moved to Norfolk, relations seemed to cool. Or at least she didn’t talk about them as much. But a rift with Brenda was certainly news. ‘Why didn’t I know that?’

  ‘You probably weren’t listening.’

  The usual swipe. And rich, coming from Laura. ‘But Brenda was at my wedding. I didn’t notice a thing.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe your wedding planner didn’t allow you to mix with the proletariat.’

  ‘What did they fall out about?’

  ‘God only knows. Anyway, next Wednesday.’

  ‘What’s next Wednesday…?’

  ‘Ali! Just focus, won’t you? The funeral. At the old church at noon.’

  Oh God, just a week away. It felt far too soon. I quickly checked the date of Madeleine and Henry’s return from their Caribbean sojourn. Yes, Wednesday too. But the flight was long haul; they’d never make noon. Thank God for that.

  ‘Ali, are you there? You can let the rellies know.’ A pause and then, ‘You can manage that, can’t you?’

  Mum was one of eight; six girls and two boys. My uncles weren’t a problem; taciturn Yorkshire men, they’d have nodded sadly into their pints of pale ale when they heard the news. But my aunties would’ve made up for their reticence. I could visualise their faces, shocked but animated: ‘Who would have thought it? In her brand new Mini, too? She wouldn’t have known those country roads like she had here. Upping sticks and moving to her holiday home, eh? Goes to show that acting above your station always ends in tears.’

  Of course they wouldn’t say it, but that’s what they’d think.

  The notion of them plus a funeral made me breathless. Couldn’t Laura and I take Mum’s ashes to the Bole Hills and let the breeze scatter them? The Sheffield moorland had been her and Dad’s special place. We could climb the thirsty banks, just the two of us, collect bilberries on the way, gaze down at the mottled green Rivelin Valley and picture them courting. Fanciful, I knew, but so much less painful than the public display I dreaded.

  Bloody hell. I hadn’t really focused on the wake; that drifting in limbo, I suppose. The last one I went to was Dad’s. That bewildering nightmare was twenty-five years ago, but could have been yesterday. Like a film trailer, the memories were there in crisp clips, the star of the show a clingy ten-year-old who hated being watched. It had felt as though every pair of eyes were on me as I’d walked into the church; some indulgent and some furtive, some caring, some tearful; some downright rude.

  It was an unbearably sad day, not just because I had lost my precious daddy, but the shock of seeing Laura’s tears from beginning to end. I hadn’t expected that. Nor had I imagined the vicar would stand and welcome the congregation to celebrate Dad’s life. When I looked at the prayer sheet, the word was there too. A celebration was a happy and joyful party, wasn’t it? Like a birthday or an engagement? I couldn’t get past that word; the adults had got it so wrong.

  Mum had asked if I really wanted to go. She said no one would mind if I said goodbye to Daddy in my own special way. But even at ten, I was cons
cious of what the aunties would make of it. There’d be gossip and frowns, judgmental comments, sour lips and sucked-in cheeks. The same faces, only older now, as there would be at Mum’s.

  I dragged myself back to the present. Laura was still talking. ‘Tom’s made the arrangements to transfer her from Norfolk.’

  Her voice was surprisingly thoughtful. I pictured her doing that thing she used to do with her hair. Twisting the silky blonde strands around her forefinger until it was so tightly bound that it knotted like a ring and wouldn’t unravel. Occasionally Mum had to snip the braid with scissors, which hadn’t gone down well. ‘You’ll ruin my hair…’ ‘Well, if you didn’t mess with it in the first place…’

  ‘And her… body,’ Laura now said. ‘We’re allowed to see her if we want.’

  White, dead flesh; a rotting corpse. The smell of blood and the hum of flies… Shuddering, I tried to block the old nightmare from my mind, but Laura continued in a wry tone: ‘Though sadly we don’t have a front parlour handy for the rellies to inspect her.’

  That made me smile. She was referring to Mum’s anecdotes from her childhood: wizened dead great aunties and uncles in their coffins, duly dressed for church, but with sunken cheeks and no teeth.

  ‘Now, that would make her turn in her grave,’ I replied, using Mum’s expression. The exchange cheered me; it showed that despite our physical – and emotional – distance, we spoke in a language we both understood.

  Though we fell silent, I knew Laura was still there. Wearing those dark tortoiseshell glasses and flicking through paperwork, was my guess. I swallowed; she hadn’t yet said what I most needed to hear, so I muttered. ‘So, the old church. Not that it looks so old since its renovation…’

  With its black bent spire, dull stained-glass windows and weathered stone elevations, the church had seemed ancient to us as kids. In my ideal world, Miles and I would have married there; I’d have walked up the aisle on my lovely dad’s arm, happy to hear the aunties’ commentary. But the wedding was arranged by Madeleine; I was under her spell then.

  When I last visited the church to tend Dad’s grave, I’d guiltily stared at the overgrown patchwork of weeds and grass. Only the top of the marble headstone had peeped out. Drowning, not waving, it seemed to say. I had knelt, taken out my trowel and set to work, as ever wondering why the nettles and sharp thistles grew so easily and in such abundance, when the pink and purple perennials I’d planted were long gone.

  It hadn’t struck me at first, but when I scrubbed my soiled nails at the outside tap afterwards, I realised the stone elevations were different. Like an ageing actress, they’d had a facelift, blasted from dirty black to a sandy grey. When I stepped back, I saw the spire had been renovated and the coloured glass in the arched windows sparkled.

  Tears had welled then. I needed the old church to reappear; I longed for the atmosphere, the stillness and peace, the fearful childhood thrill that a spirit might be lurking, a tombstone might creek open, the eyes of Christ on the cross might flicker.

  I wanted my safe, infant life. I wanted to be ten again.

  And now we would be burying Mum in that same black hole as Dad, when everything changed.

  I cleared my throat; I just needed to ask. ‘And will you fly over for the funeral?’

  ‘Ali, what the hell?’ Laura hotly replied. ‘Of course I’m bloody well coming.’

  Chapter Seven

  Laura had planned to stay with us in Manchester on the Tuesday evening, but her flight times were altered, so she texted to say she’d make her own way to the church and meet us there. The change threw me; I had wanted to see her first, to settle back in with the adult sister I barely knew, to have her by my side when we arrived at the old-but-new church.

  Chattering to fill the silence, Miles negotiated the Snake Pass to Sheffield on Wednesday morning. I still felt slightly spaced out, but anxiety set in when we approached the Rivelin Valley.

  ‘Not past the house, not today,’ I snapped, when we started our ascent up one of Sheffield’s seven hills. ‘There’s a different route to the church. I’ll show you…’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, but he glanced at me with a frown.

  ‘Ali’s not Ali,’ thumped in my head. Perhaps I was being irrational, but I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing my childhood home. Nor could I climb out of the stuffy car when we arrived. Instead, I sat stubbornly and watched mourners pass by, their black attire incongruous in the bright sunshine.

  Smoothing his hair, Miles shuffled in his seat. ‘Come on, Ali, we have to go in. We look weird just sitting here. Besides, Joe’s getting tetchy in this heat,’ he eventually said.

  He was right, but it was difficult to function, to breathe. I was stuck in my ten-year-old head with no one to chivvy me. Groping for an excuse, I inhaled, but to my surprise, the passenger door was flung open.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ali, get out. People are staring.’

  Long blonde hair. And obligatory Ray-Bans. Laura, thank God.

  She looked me up and down when I finally tumbled from the car. ‘Haven’t you brought sunglasses?’ she demanded. But before I could answer, she delved into her handbag. ‘As I suspected.’ She thrust a cellophane-wrapped pair into my hand. ‘I bought them on the plane. For moral support. I have no intention of blabbing like the last time and neither should you.’ She held out her elbow. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then tough. Come on, onwards.’

  I duly took my sister’s arm. Like a bride and groom, we made our way through the wooden archway, past the mossy gravestones and along the patchwork path. Without stopping at the doors, she continued to propel me down the aisle like a very keen Mr Rochester. The bridesmaids – Miles and the pram – struggled to catch up, but we finally reached the front row, taking seats at the far side like we had as girls before shuffling back to the centre. We were, after all, today’s star attraction.

  Inclining my head, I tried to shape a suitable expression for the solemnity of the occasion, but in truth, I wanted to roar with laughter. I was so pleased to see Laura, and the familiar twitch around her lips showed she was desperate to chortle too. We were both wearing ridiculous sunglasses and the congregation was ogling, for once not at me, but at Laura’s huge chest. Her new boobs were bigger than mine, and I had an excuse. Miles’s eyes were popping; even Joe was looking expectantly towards them.

  The hilarity finally broke at the sound of a throat clearing. His stockinged feet protruding from tan sandals beneath his cassock, a vicar was standing in front of the altar. A simple pine wooden box topped with lilies was stationed to his side. Mum was already there.

  Overwhelmed by a sense of detachment, I stared. I hadn’t shed a tear as yet; it still felt unreal. If the clergyman tripped and knocked over the casket, I was sure an impostor would tumble out and surprise everyone but me.

  Tom Hague had telephoned yesterday to excuse himself and Joan from attending.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind our absence, love. It’s a long journey and Joan isn’t so good this week. We’ve already said our goodbyes. Will you see her yourself?’

  He’d meant seeing my dead mother at the undertakers. ‘No, neither Laura nor I want to,’ I’d replied.

  The image of a lifeless body had made me shudder, but perhaps I should have said yes; it might have linked this coffin with Mum and made it more tangible. But Tom had been kind.

  ‘To be honest, love, I think you made the right call. She doesn’t look like your mum. She had such a beautiful crowning glory with her hair and they’d got it all wrong…’

  Oh God; her aborted trip to the hairdressers. ‘But was it respectable?’ I’d asked in a croak.

  If he’d thought the question odd, his voice didn’t show it. ‘Yes, very respectable, love.’

  A sharp nudge from Laura brought me back. The organist was lifting his arms; the mourners were standing.

  The day Thou gavest, Lord, has ended…

  It was a lovely hymn, one my sister and I ha
d sung here and at Sunday school. I belatedly stood and took her hand. It was a strange feeling, her slim palm in mine. The only other one I ever held was my husband’s. Intermittently these days; reserved, it seemed, just for birth and death.

  I glanced at his handsome face. To my surprise, he was crying.

  Chapter Eight

  Little Joe did so well throughout the twenty-minute service, but once it was over and we’d led the congregation outside, he began to get tetchy. I didn’t blame him; the heat and bright sunshine were quite shocking after the coolness of the nave. Then there were my aunties and the other older ladies of the parish who immediately swooped on him like a volt of buzzards after carrion.

  Though I scooped him out of his pram and tried to reassure the poor little man, he wasn’t for settling, so I made my excuses and ambled to the rear of the church, sat on a bench in the shade and fed him breast milk from a bottle. Like an amateur milkmaid, I’d managed to express a pathetic amount last night. I’d earmarked it for later to save me from the trauma of breastfeeding in public, but the lowering of the coffin was the aspect of the funeral I had particularly dreaded, so at least Joe’s demands allowed me to escape graveside duties and observe the goings-on from a distance.

  Trying to analyse why this part spooked me so much, I hung back in the shadows and watched the mourners quietly stroll towards the gaping hole that would become my mother’s final bed. Was it a worry that my dad’s coffin would be exposed? Or that old fear of teeming flies? Absurd, I knew, and I did have a handle on my brimming pteronarcophobia these days. The efficient blowflies were just nature going about its business. As a prosecuting barrister who read pathology reports and studied photographs of corpses as part of the job, I understood this as much as anyone.