The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  With a jolt, I realised that my dad must have had cancer that day. He’d kept it a secret – for our continued happiness, I was sure – but was that the only one?

  I came back to my mission. Now past the shops, I was almost at The Lodge. At the peak of the hill, I took a deep breath and drove through the entrance. Though a lane circled the large plot of land, I took the ‘shortcut’, a pebbly driveway that had been slashed through the grassy mound to provide direct access to the bungalow.

  The crunch beneath the wheels sounded loud in the silence. So did my racing heart. But Mum’s sprawling home was no different from the last time I was here: white rendered walls with charming lattices which matched the panelled windows and doors. It was as picture-book pretty as ever. Still in the car, I glanced around. Enveloped by a semi-circle of tall poplar trees at the front, the grass was neatly manicured, the rectangular flower beds newly turned, the roses in full bloom. Mum would have been so pleased and proud. Ironic really; she used to complain that the lawns, the sunken garden and back yard were too much to maintain; that the interior was faded, dated and fusty. Yet she’d still moved her whole life here…

  Frowning, I thought back to December. I had playfully challenged her about it then. The rousing sound of Carols from Kings in the background, I’d inhaled the exquisite aroma of Christmas cake, mince pies, pine tree, and chuckled. ‘No “damned smell” these days, Mum. You couldn’t wait to get back to Sheffield to escape it after our summers. What on earth changed your mind?’

  Did she blush or her eyes flicker? No. She’d just shrugged and said, ‘People change. Sometimes one needs to move on, adapt; have a new mindset.’ And when I’d looked sceptical she’d laughed and added, ‘Even you, Ali. You changed your mind about Miles and look at you now, you’ll be a new mum in five months.’

  And now my boy was here. One in and one out.

  With a sigh, I climbed from the car and opened the rear door to fetch Joe. He gazed for a beat before smiling bashfully, his little face guileless and doting. No wonder mothers fell in love with their sons. Such a similar expression to Miles’s after his car crash; I had decided I could love him then.

  Did I still?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Holding Joe close, I fingered the house keys in my pocket. When we’d opened up as kids, the cold and musty feel of an unused property had wafted back. Complaining already, Mum would stomp around, opening every door and window, which made it even chillier. But Dad collected logs from the back yard, dutifully cut, piled and protected by our gardener, then made up the fire so the charcoal aroma would sweep through the rooms, making it feel lived in.

  A thought suddenly hit me. It would be like that again. Not the cosy, warm home I had visited at Christmas. I’d be completely isolated with no neighbours to turn to. Suppose I had a panic attack or one of those ‘dreams’? And how would I feel being there without Mum? My heart thrashed. Bloody hell; why had I’d been so hasty? I should have waited for Miles to come with me when he had the time.

  Determined to gather my self control, I inhaled deep in my abdomen. Everything was fine. I had Joe and Miles; I was lucky, very lucky. Though our marriage was going through a sticky patch, it wasn’t unheard of with work stresses and the challenges of a new baby. Both of those could be fixed, given time, and of course I loved Miles. I wasn’t alone really. He hadn’t died. Not like Dad. And that was part of the reason I was here, after all.

  Sounds abruptly filtering through, I stilled and listened. Ah yes, I remembered them now – the mournful yet comforting calls of the cuckoos, the popping and rustling from the trees. The aroma on the breeze felt companionable too, a sweet fragrance of wild flowers and the nutty tang from the woods at the rear of the bungalow.

  Recalling Laura’s comment from the last time we were both here, I looked at the thistly expanse of flattened land adjoining Mum’s plot. ‘Dogging,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve just remembered. It used to be woodland too. Ivan and Kelvin said the doggers were pissed off when the trees were felled.’

  ‘At least they still have the coppice behind here,’ Mum had said, interrupting our banter. ‘I could do with some light evening entertainment. Maybe I should get out the binoculars.’

  Laura had laughed. ‘Mother, behave! You’re not supposed to know what that is, let alone join in.’

  The memory of the happy exchange spurring me on, I stepped to the glass door, unlocked it and walked in. I turned full circle in the large reception foyer. Had anything changed? Nope; the black mahogany chiffonier with a large mirror above it was on the right, the brick archway and open lounge the other side. Even the bible given to me by the Hagues when I was eight or nine was in its place next to the telephone on the Queen Anne table.

  My heels echoing on the polished parquet, I showed Joe around. Goosebumps spread as I peered at the sofa and armchairs. Though Mum was a tidy person, it was so neat and untouched that I was certain the house was not as she’d left it when heading out for the hairdresser’s. And there was the sharp smell of wax and disinfectant and bleach. Someone had cleaned it, emphasising the feeling of emptiness. Joan Hague, perhaps, knowing I was due? Or maybe preparing it for viewers at bloody Madelene’s behest.

  Taking a deep breath, I headed along the back hallway to the bedrooms. Like tearing off a plaster, I tackled Mum’s first. At the front of the bungalow, it had double French windows and looked out to the flower beds and poplar trees. As expected, the bed was made, the room spruced and tidy. I idly picked up a paperback from the bedside table – The Tenant of Wildfell Hall – and two bookmarks fell out. It was the one Brontë novel I hadn’t read, but the folded note appeared to be Mum’s jottings about the story, presumably to discuss with her book club: What do the pictures mean? The trinkets too? They must have been stolen. And the lock on the door? The second was a birthday card from Laura, postmarked from when she first went to Canada. The sight burned my nose. It was sent twenty-one years ago; Mum had clearly been looking at it whenever she’d opened the page. I hadn’t told Laura I was coming here in case I chickened out, but I’d phone her tonight. ‘See, Mum did love you,’ I’d say.

  Sniffing the air, I hovered for a while. Daft though it was, I wanted to suck in a trace of my mother, her soft soapy smell, her Chanel perfume, even the lavender from the pomanders in her wardrobe and drawers. The sun was trying to smile through the windows, but it felt weak and half-hearted. I put my face to Joe’s feathery hair and breathed back the tears. I’d felt her with me back home; I had expected her to be here.

  The door to the large bedroom at the end of the walkway was closed. It had originally contained three single beds covered in candlewick bedspreads, lined up like a dormitory, for family and guests. But Laura had complained, demanding to have it as her own. She was the eldest, she’d said, she needed her privacy. What was the point of having an empty room?

  She and Mum had argued about it, of course: Mum felt it was far too large for one person; if visitors came, Laura would only have to move out; she should be pleased to share with her little sister; sometimes Ali was still afraid of the dark.

  Laura hadn’t been in the least ‘pleased’ to share with me, and she’d finally had her way that last summer. She’d chosen the bed next to the window and there it was now, neatly covered with a broderie anglaise throw and adorned with her teddies and pyjama case just as though she was there, still a child of fourteen.

  Sighing at the memories, I skimmed my fingers over the ornaments proudly displayed on the bookcase – a polished brass horse, delicate china ballerinas, a Flamenco doll in a splendid scarlet silk dress, a jewellery box made of tortoise and tusk – all the items I had touched and coveted back then. Grown-up presents for Laura, childish ones for me.

  The white drawers and bedside table had been so fashionable when we left, but now they looked dated and tired. It made me feel sad. Why had Laura felt so unloved? Why hadn’t the connection with Mum been there? And what about me, the girl who squeezed her eyes shut? How curious that I hadn’t se
en it.

  Moving onto my bedroom, I inhaled sharply and pulled back the sliding door. My heart thumping, I took in the array of gifts covering my pink duvet. Laying Joe on the carpet, I knelt down for a closer look. Like a stall at a craft fair, Mum had displayed baby toys, trinkets and outfits prepared, presumably, for this very moment. Strange she didn’t pack them, ready to transport to Manchester for her week’s stay in July. I shivered at my old thought of her having a premonition. Shaking the silliness away, I picked up an antique box engraved with the letter ‘J’. It was heavy, so solid silver and worth a fair sum, presumably. I examined the other items. A set of old-fashioned building blocks, a pristine jester Jack-in-the-Box and a vintage train set. Not terribly practical, but I could picture her busy enthusiasm in charity and bric-à-brac shops, as ever keeping an eye on the price.

  Emotional and anxious, I covered my face. What the hell was I doing? These items were only a small fraction of the enormous chore ahead. The house was stuffed with furniture, books, ornaments, plants, mementoes – let alone childhood belongings and paperwork. Where would I even start? The task felt impossible. I still had little energy; my hands were trembling right now.

  A tiny part of my mind flitted to Madeleine’s conversation with Joan. Perhaps I wasn’t up to it; maybe a house clearance and sale was the only way forward. But it was only a moment before determination set in. I was famished, that was all. I needed to eat properly; my food was Joe’s, and though he seemed to want feeding all the time again, I’d been advised by the health visitor to hold off with solids for a few more weeks. I was still trying to be one of the smiling mums from the posters, and doing things by the book, so I intended to comply.

  It wasn’t until I opened the fridge and found it impeccably clean but empty that it occurred to me I needed to feed Joe, then dash to the local shops to buy in fresh food. Unless things had changed dramatically, there was no late opening in this village. If you didn’t make a purchase by tea time, you either went hungry or ate at a pub.

  Chapter Twenty

  Though cloudy, it was warm outside. I was still shaky but the clean air and crisp aromas seemed to settle my racing heart. With Joe in his papoose, I crunched down the driveway to the bottom gate. As I turned right into Lower Street, the sun peeped out, lighting the unkempt grassy bank. The wild shrubs had found a soft breeze and seemed to wave a ‘welcome back’ greeting. Foxglove, dog rose and oxtongue. And cow parsley, of course. Thinking the intricate white-headed flowers quite beautiful and something she might like to paint, I had once picked a handful for my mum.

  ‘Oh, Mother’s Death,’ she’d laughed not unkindly when I presented them with a flourish. ‘They’re meant to be bad luck if you bring them into the house.’

  But when she’d seen my fallen face, she’d explained it was just an old wives’ tale and wouldn’t let me throw them away. ‘Do you know, I’ve never looked at it properly before. Some call it Queen Anne’s lace, and they’re right,’ she’d said, arranging them in a jar on the kitchen shelf.

  ‘You do know that if Mum dies, it’ll all be your fault,’ Laura had inevitably said when she saw them at tea time.

  Now picturing a smashed windscreen, I shivered. The only ‘fault’ had been Mum’s own, a moment’s inattention or hesitation, resulting in such devastation. And why the hell hadn’t she been wearing her seatbelt?

  Now at the delicatessen we’d called ‘the dairy’, I came back to the expedition at hand. There was a Mace at the far end of the village but this was nearer. Mum used to complain about the extortionate prices, so had more or less boycotted us using it, but Dad would still send me for a slice of pork pie or a Cornish pasty for himself and a sausage roll for me ‘while Mum isn’t looking’. With a conspiratorial wink to Laura and me, it wasn’t unusual for him to fib about prices in general to keep the peace.

  The thought of his easy deception caught me short. Sure, that was only a white lie over something and nothing, but could there have been more serious deceit? Maybe another woman or a past affair? Nope; one thing I was absolutely sure of was Dad’s devotion to Mum; if anything, she’d been the one to slightly hold back.

  Joe nestled against me, I pushed at the door and stepped in. The old bell still rang and it was little changed inside: the curved glass display housed savoury pastries, pies and cold meats at one end, a selection of whole cheeses the other. And standing next to the electronic weighing machine were the yellow enamel scales I remembered. How I had longed to slip around the counter and slice glossy ham with the sharp rasping slicer, then feel the cylindrical weights in my hands, placing them on one side, the slivers of meat on the other.

  I’d once heard Joan Hague tell Mum that the plump-faced owner slid a small weight beneath the meat to make it heavier, so on Dad’s secret missions I’d watch for a magician-like sleight of her hand, both excited and panicked about what I should do if I witnessed duplicity with my very own eyes. Disappointingly, I never did.

  As I waited in the line I mentally saluted Dad. Bugger the prices, I’d buy everything I needed from here. The fat sausages and artisan cheeses, the breaded ham and pink beef looked divine. Finally my turn, I took a breath to make my order, but I was cut short by a tap on the arm.

  ‘You’re Eve’s daughter, aren’t you? We’ve been expecting you and the baby.’

  I turned. An extremely wrinkled lady with a disappearing mouth was peering at me with clear, shrewd eyes. On hearing her pronouncement, the other shoppers and staff looked my way with open curiosity. I had no idea who she was, but my instinct was to take her by the shoulders and manoeuvre her outside before she said anything further. How Laura would laugh at my discomfort. But this village was small; I’d have to wear sunglasses permanently if I was to stand a chance of any anonymity.

  Hoping the woman would do likewise, I stepped away from the queue, but she firmly pushed me back. ‘Stock’s getting low, lovey. You don’t want to lose your place.’ She nodded to the customer behind me. ‘This is Eve’s daughter. You know, the nice lady at The Lodge who was killed by those lads?’

  Though there were only six or so people in the shop, all of them women, it felt like a huge crowd. Nodding and looming, they patted my shoulders or hands and murmured condolences with mournful eyes. Dreadful, disgraceful, shocking, poor lamb. My need to disappear became overwhelming. Joe must have felt it too as he suddenly bawled. My pulse throbbing with alarm, I looked down at the papoose, but before I’d worked out how to disentangled myself, bony hands had scooped him out.

  The soft, curly dialect was back. ‘It’s all right, lovey. You go ahead. I’ll take him while you make your order. Oh, look at all this gorgeous hair. I’ll bet you had heartburn when you were in the family way…’

  It took the best part of an hour to recover my child and escape from that shop with two carrier bags of delicacies and a complimentary slice of vinegar cake. It turned out my new friend was called Nancy. Jiggling Joe with expertise, she explained she’d been Mum’s cleaner before ‘her Denise’ took over, but she’d continued to visit Eve for ‘a cuppa, sit down and a chat’. She had recognised me from my previous visits – and photographs – and promised to call with some ‘goodies’ very soon. I had started to wonder whether she was keeping Joe until then, but she eventually relinquished him with a dry kiss on his forehead. Not that he minded; the little traitor had fallen asleep in her arms.

  * * *

  The hallway telephone was ringing on my return and I fumbled with the keys to catch it in time.

  ‘Ali! Thank God, I’ve been worried. Where have you been?’ Miles demanded.

  ‘I’ve been out to buy some food and I met—’

  ‘Why don’t you take your bloody mobile with you?’

  I fell silent. I’d almost felt content on my way back from the deli – whether due to my escape from the coven or their warm, straightforward friendliness, I wasn’t sure. But my husband’s tone brought me short with a thump. Until falling pregnant with Joe, I’d been so sure of his love. But these
days he seemed angry and irritated all the time.

  And he’d tarred me with that ‘cold fish’ brush.

  ‘Ali, are you still there? Look, I’m sorry; I don’t mean to snap. I’ve phoned about ten times today and I was worried. It’s a long journey there. What if something had happened? Like your mum? I couldn’t bear to lose you and Joe. I’m missing you both already. I love you Ali, I really do…’

  Although my throat clogged with emotion, I managed to croak. ‘You’re right, sorry; we’re missing you too.’

  His words were just what I had needed to hear. And I did understand the agony of waiting for a call. I’d experienced the very same thing with him.

  As it happened, Laura and I were in Norfolk for Christmas when I finally agreed to go on a date with Miles nine years ago. Though I hadn’t realised Laura was listening, her eyebrows were raised when I put down the phone.

  ‘You’re meant to be pleased when someone begs you to go out, Ali, not give them a hard time. You don’t sound very keen. Is he your type?’ she asked. Then for good measure, shaking her head: ‘A test date. Really? You are weird, Ali. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Her comments had irked me, mainly because she was right. I was already regretting saying yes. I didn’t want to go on a bloody assignation with Miles Alexander-Jones. The prospect of him kissing me wasn’t appealing, never mind what might follow. It was only the thought of his old flame that stopped me from cancelling. She’d dated Miles at university and was clearly gunning for him again. In fairness, she was the type of glossy, polished girl one would expect him to marry, but I was jealous of their easy banter – green with it, in fact. I’d become used to Miles’s attention and flattery, addicted to his projected image of me, one I certainly couldn’t see in the mirror. So I agreed to a secret one-off. I had no idea what the ‘test’ was, but if he passed it, I’d become his girlfriend. If he failed, he promised not to pester me again.