The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  * * *

  That evening I succumbed to a glass of chilled prosecco. I felt faintly guilty about drinking alcohol, and Joe even paused his colicky grumbling to give me a curious peep, but I’d done everything by the book throughout pregnancy and birth, and look where that had got me. It was nice to savour the cold warmth in my throat and after a second glass I felt just a little bit pissed, good company for Laura, who was well on her way.

  ‘Why have you hidden that photo of Mum and Dad?’ she asked suddenly, mid conversation about a new house she fancied on a Sheffield-like hill in Delta.

  ‘What photo?’ I said, though I knew perfectly well.

  Laura teetered to the bookcase and pulled out the framed Baker family portrait. ‘Hmm. Hidden between Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. Is that significant?’

  I snorted to cover my embarrassment. ‘Probably more noteworthy that you were eyeing up a Brontë novel to read. You must be missing Yorkshire.’

  She studied the smiling image of the four of us, then turned it to me. ‘Ali the pixie. How old were you here?’

  Dad was in it, so I was younger than ten. But as though Laura had had the same thought, she looked rueful and slipped it back where she’d found it.

  I took a sharp breath. I’d wanted to discuss my eavesdropped conversation with Laura since Wednesday, but I hadn’t quite decided how to put it. What did I want to say or to know? But the moment my question popped out, I knew Dad was the crux. Somewhere along the line, Mum hadn’t told us everything about him.

  ‘Do you know something about Dad that I don’t?’

  Her response was clear surprise. ‘Dad? Like what, for example?’

  I stroked Joe’s hair. ‘I don’t know.’ After everything with Doug… Peggy had said.

  I sighed. ‘I was ten, and I guess not the easiest of kids to talk to. Maybe you were told more than me about what was going on.’

  ‘I wasn’t. Like I said the other day, neither of them told me about Dad’s illness. I didn’t understand why at the time and I still don’t now. It really pisses me off when I think about it.’

  So Laura didn’t know anything more than me. It was a relief, if I was honest. ‘Maybe they were protecting us?’ I suggested. ‘Giving us one last carefree summer?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Laura didn’t sound convinced. ‘But Mum was definitely off with me.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Even more so than usual.’

  ‘What do you remember about Dad?’

  She shrugged. ‘The usual – indulging you mostly.’ She frowned. ‘But he stayed for the whole six week holiday, so that was different.’

  I nodded; I remembered that too.

  ‘And frequent outings in Tom Hague’s Rolls-Royce…’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Maybe hospital appointments?’ She glanced at the bookcase. ‘Why are you asking now?’

  I couldn’t quite shape an answer to that one. Instead, I kissed Joe’s lolling head. ‘Bedtime for this one,’ I said. ‘I’ll take him up for his last feed.’

  ‘Can I come too?’ she asked.

  I’d got used to my sister’s inspection of my fumbling breastfeeding technique and sharp intake of breath when Joe clamped on. ‘Of course.’

  She followed me to Joe’s nursery, sat on the small sofa and watched silently as I fed him.

  ‘Oh God, Ali. I wish I wasn’t so impetuous at times,’ she eventually whispered, putting her hands to her face.

  I waited for her to say more.

  ‘I’ve met someone. Someone really nice. He’s not said it exactly but he’s hinting about us settling down and having kids…’

  Ah, the house on a hill. ‘And you haven’t told him about…?’

  Laura shook her head. My heart went out to her. She could share the most intimate details of her life to a stranger, yet couldn’t confide in a person she really loved. For fear of losing him, I supposed. So much in life came to that.

  ‘Oh Laura.’ I took her hand. ‘You have to tell him, surely? If he is worth loving, and if he really loves you, then he’ll understand.’

  She nodded, but stayed silent. My sister didn’t like being given advice, even if it was sound. Well, who did? It reminded me of Madeleine, whose words of wisdom had become uncomfortable and intrusive eventually. No wonder I’d hidden that family photograph.

  Back in the lounge, I curled up on the sofa and took a deep breath. ‘So tell me about your man,’ I said, peering out of the window. ‘I’d love to hear everything about him…’

  Taking in a gorgeous band of peachy-orange sky, I steadied myself for the rebuff I’d become accustomed to as a child, when a four-year age gap made all the difference: Are you still a virgin, Laura? Do you have a boyfriend? Have you ever taken drugs? Who were you kissing at the park? What exactly is masturbation?

  ‘Shut up and get lost!’ had been the usual sharp retort. It had worked every time; I’d clam up and sulk for days, trying to work out why Laura spoke to everyone about everything, but didn’t talk to me.

  An instinctive sunny smile was today’s immediate response. ‘He’s called Brian, of all names. But he’s from Birmingham, so I call him Shelby. I finally find a man I like and he’s bloody English.’ She turned her glass, watching the bubbles. ‘He’s thirty-nine, divorced, nice-looking and incredible in the sack.’

  I chuckled. ‘Is that in any particular order of importance?’

  ‘No… but good in bed is pretty vital, don’t you think?’

  I laughed again and took a sip of my wine. I wasn’t about to discuss my sex life, nor the larger-than-salad-sized forceps which had been used to drag out poor Joe, but Laura didn’t seem to notice my reticence.

  ‘Mostly, I’ve found sex disappointing over the years,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Even after I got the hang of doing it for me and not for them. I can’t recall a single one-night stand when I actually came.’

  ‘So all that practice didn’t make perfect?’ I asked with raised eyebrows.

  She gave me a soft thump on the arm. ‘Oh come on, Ali. Even you must have really fancied someone and been desperate to shag the arse off him. Surely you’ve had… what do they call them? Beer goggles or something like that. When a bloke seems so attractive and funny when you’ve had a bottle of wine, then in the cruel light of day…’

  I smiled politely, but in truth, I’d never been like that. I had a couple of clinches in my teens, but didn’t lose my virginity until my long-term Scouser boyfriend, Sidney, who was still a friend to this day. I fancied Miles of course, but that had been a gradual thing. On the rare occasions I had the stirrings of attraction for somebody, I had an irrational desire to escape. Fear of abandonment, I supposed, taking steps to preempt the inevitable. It was only because I was at uni with Sidney and worked with Miles that I wasn’t able to do just that. Then there were a couple of incidents in between, sexual disasters I had kept to myself.

  I laughed at the sudden impulse to share.

  ‘What?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Do you remember I went on holiday to Tel Aviv with Mum after bar school? I met a man in the hotel reception and he asked me out for a drink. I’ve no idea why I said yes, but the next thing I knew I was in his car being driven miles away in the black night to his flat. He was an Israeli soldier with a very small penis. Does that count?’

  Laura’s mouth dropped open. ‘Ali! That’s scary. You might’ve been raped and murdered.’

  ‘I know! No mobile phone either. I wasn’t drunk; I didn’t fancy him at all. I don’t know why I did it.’

  I hadn’t thought of this memory for years. The soldier had stood me naked in front of a full-length mirror. ‘Look,’ he’d said. ‘Just look how beautiful you are.’

  I’d had intercourse with him even though I hadn’t particularly wanted to, but the fact he’d thought me beautiful was a complete revelation.

  ‘Did you ever tell Mum?’

  ‘God, no. Be careful, don’t jump in, think of the consequences first…’

  ‘And annoyingly right most of the time.’

&nbs
p; I was thoughtful for a beat. ‘Maybe I’m too like her. Doing things by the book. Nothing impulsive in case I end up with egg on my face. Fear of humiliation, I suppose.’

  ‘Though possible rape and murder didn’t bother you in Israel…’

  ‘I know! Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘But you’re happy now. Caution has made you happy, hasn’t it? With Miles?’ Laura asked, peering at me.

  I nodded, deeply wanting the same for her. ‘You know you have to keep in touch far more often now you’re “in charge” of me, don’t you?’ I said.

  ‘Absolutely.’ She pulled me against her shoulder. Then she laughed. ‘Orphans, eh? Who’d have bloody thought.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunday came around far too soon.

  I felt soulful and lost as I watched Laura pack her small suitcase. She had promised to visit more often, but the closeness I’d felt over the last few days suddenly seemed nebulous. Mum was the glue that had held us together, those daughter-to-mother-to-daughter conversations I had always mistrusted had gone. Save for dead parents, we had nothing in common any more. Would I have chosen Laura as a friend if she wasn’t my sister? Would she have picked me? Probably not, if I was honest.

  The unrelenting sunshine on our backs, we climbed in my car in heavy silence. I sat on one buttock, carefully slipped on my seatbelt and glanced at Laura’s to be sure she’d done the same.

  ‘Do you really need to sit like that?’ she asked eventually. Her voice was clipped and the Ray-Bans were back in place.

  I tried not to bristle. ‘Dodgy fanny, remember?’

  I didn’t mention that the episiotomy cut was after a failed ventouse delivery. ‘Did you know they use something resembling a toilet plunger and put on Wellington boots and a plastic mac like Paddington Bear?’ I thought of quipping. But that would have been insensitive and unkind – Laura wouldn’t be having a baby any time soon. Yesterday I had asked if she’d consider adoption or even surrogacy if IVF wasn’t an option, but she’d just frowned, so her reticence now made the subject taboo.

  But today the direct-talking big sister was back. ‘Weeks have passed since the birth, Ali. I’m sure it’s just habit now. Besides, it looks weird.’

  Weird, odd. Tired, tearful. Ali not bloody Ali.

  Irked at her comment, I glanced at her dark shades. ‘Why do you wear those bloody things all the time?’ I asked.

  ‘So the world doesn’t know what I’m thinking.’

  I snorted. ‘But you always tell everyone what’s on your mind.’

  ‘I share what I want them to know,’ she replied, turning to the passenger window.

  I set off for the airport. Perhaps I wasn’t entirely surprised at her answer. She certainly gave the impression of being open, telling people all manner of things I considered to be very personal. But humans were paradoxes: I’d been the secretive and private child, yet found it difficult to hide my feelings. Try as I might, my face gave me away. I suppose that’s why I’d retreated if I was emotional; I hid so no one would know what was going on inside. There was a thought: maybe the painted features, bizarre clothes and dyed hair had been the equivalent of my sister’s sunglasses.

  ‘What were you contemplating when you looked at our old house, then?’ I asked eventually.

  Slipping down her Ray-Bans, she studied me. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’ve asked, Laura.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I thought of nothing at all.’

  I turned to her quizzically but she laughed, dryly.

  ‘Look, that’s good, Ali. I paid a lot of money to get there…’

  ‘What? You mean you’ve had therapy or counselling?’ I asked, trying to keep my eyes focused on the busy motorway despite my buzzing mind.

  ‘Yup.’

  It was silly to be shocked, but I was. Laura had always been so confident and certain, so completely together. ‘But why?’ I corrected my knee-jerk response. ‘Sorry; it’s none of my business; I’m just surprised.’

  Laura sighed. ‘You always did squeeze your eyes so tightly shut…’ She took a shuddery breath. ‘Why do you think I went halfway across the world when I was just eighteen? Why do you think I escaped as soon as I could?’

  I shook my head; I didn’t know. I was fourteen when Laura left for Canada; we had no mutual interests. I was a nuisance; we barely spoke.

  ‘I was unhappy, of course! I never felt loved, even when I was small. Well, perhaps by Dad sometimes. But Mum; she just didn’t—’

  ‘How can you say that?’ I hotly interrupted. ‘Of course she loved you dearly. She was horrendously upset when you left. She missed you constantly; she couldn’t hide her delight when a postcard arrived. She watched the flaming telephone, willing it to ring. “It’s lunchtime now in Canada. Perhaps Laura will call today”. She was always the first to the post, snatching it up with bated breath.’

  ‘It worked two ways, Ali. And I was still the child, she the adult. Why didn’t she call me?’

  ‘I don’t know, she never said. But I guess it was because she thought that you were having fun, that you had better things to do than be bothered by your mother! She was old-fashioned; it was rude if people called when we were eating dinner or after ten o’clock at night, remember? She wouldn’t want to intrude in your life or the family you lived with. Before you left, you’d disappeared every evening to your friend’s house or the pub. Why would it be any different in Canada?’

  ‘I scarpered because I couldn’t stand all the constant criticism from her. I don’t know what she wanted or expected from her first child but I wasn’t it. For as long as I can remember it was as though I’d let her down. I never felt good enough. I really did try, Ali, to be clever and polite, speak when I was spoken to, say please and thank you, behave impeccably in public and all those other bloody rules she had. You know what it was like; she didn’t need to say anything, she’d just have that sharp look if we fell out of line, if I fell out of line…’ She blew out. ‘I guess I thought I might as well be that bad person, the “difficult teenager” she projected onto me. Sex with older men, dressing provocatively, smoking, a few drugs, skiving school, doing no homework, flunking exams…’

  We fell quiet then. I felt the tension radiate from Laura’s being. She was waiting for my response, but I didn’t know what to say. Mum did have those outdated ways, but they weren’t prescriptive; she never smacked us or was cruel. They were just a generational thing and it was easy to comply.

  I thought back to Mum. ‘Laziness, Laura. And ingratitude. What a dreadful waste of school fees. Cash doesn’t grow on trees. Dad made sacrifices for your education. And so did I,’ she’d say crisply. But she’d always worried about finances and was careful with money. True, she had sometimes been critical of Laura’s appearance, but I had never realised it was so bad, nor that it had cut Laura so deeply.

  God, perhaps I had been blind. Laura’s defiance, the ‘I hate you!’, the frequent stomping and slamming had been part of my childhood; I’d assumed it was simply a rebellious daughter thing.

  My skin tingled as I drove. Eyes so tightly shut… Was this the only thing I hadn’t ‘seen’?

  ‘Did you ever tell Mum how you felt?’ I asked eventually.

  Laura took a while to reply. ‘No. The therapist thought it might give me closure if I did and I was full of resolve to tackle it when I next visited her. But when we got together it was so lovely to see her and I didn’t want to spoil the nice time we were having.’

  As the airport came in sight, I considered what to say, but Laura spoke again. ‘Looking back, I think she would have given me a truthful reply if I’d asked. We had become more like friends, I suppose, more open and honest. I think we were better suited as adults, if you know what I mean.’

  I nodded. I’d once read an article about different mother-types. There were five sorts, apparently: perfectionist, unpredictable, best friend, me-first and complete. Madeleine was ‘me-first’, undoubtedly; perhap
s Mum was a ‘perfectionist’. But after only a few weeks, I understood motherhood wasn’t plain sailing. One could only do one’s best. I so wanted to do that for Joe, yet what sort of mother would I be?

  We were approaching the car park entrance. It was time to say goodbye to my sister.

  ‘If you pull up I’ll get out here and save you the cost of parking,’ she said. She laughed. ‘See? I am my mother’s daughter after all.’

  We hugged tightly. When Laura moved away, she stroked back a loose strand of my hair and smiled thinly. ‘I don’t know anything more than you about Dad, but don’t go chasing shadows, Ali. If Mum had wanted you to know something, she’d have told you.’

  Wiping the tears from my eyes, I watched her elegantly stride to the terminal. Then worry took over my sadness. There had been something Mum wanted to tell me. What the hell was it?

  Chapter Fourteen

  July morphed into August and the solid heat soldiered on, but my grief wasn’t remotely comparable to the collapse of my world at age ten. Indeed, it was so vague that I had to remind myself not to call Mum for a chat, or mentally store the day-to-day mundanity we usually discussed – the death of a film star she particularly liked, the yo-yo price of milk, a new TV drama, the fewer incidences of Joe’s mad colic moments.

  When Joe napped I tried to focus on her death, but my thoughts were shallow and painless, that strange blanket of comfort still there. But I did cry easily. Little things got me down – Miles’s white work shirts tinged green from just one cheap flannel in the washer, the inevitable demise of the petunia in my hanging baskets, a broken best plate. Big things too, like my lack of energy, which was exacerbated by a heavy cold and an intensely sore throat that wouldn’t shift.

  Although the breastfeeding had become easier and Joe’s colicky bouts less frequent, I found myself lying awake when I should be sleeping, obsessing about his next cry and my tiredness. I became swamped by the responsibility of providing milk for him myself and not giving in to the box of formula in the fridge. The ‘perfectionist’ mother was usurping me when I so wanted to be ‘complete’ and give Joe the best of all types. Then there was Norfolk, bloody Norfolk, calling me. At night, my mind tried to grasp all the threads of something and piece them together, but I was so very weary. I would go there soon; I just needed to get better first.