The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  How handsome we thought he was, in accord for once. Robert Redford in The Great Gatsby, we agreed, but as I studied his image now, he didn’t look like the dad I recalled. Though Mum was laughing, he looked tense. This wasn’t the smiling man I remembered.

  Sighing, I closed him away. How well did children know their parents? Would Joe study our wedding portrait and wonder who we were? I’d wanted a winter wedding like Mum and Dad, but Miles and I wed in spring because Madeleine told me to.

  I groaned at the thought. So seduced by her, I became a different person. I stopped being alternative or individual; I grew my hair long, wore expensive, stylish suits and towering heels. A mini-Madeleine, in fact. But in fairness, she boosted my confidence; the ugly duckling had finally become a swan.

  So who was the real Alison Baker? The shy difficult child, the punky teenager or the professional and confident barrister? I was none of them now. It seemed I’d transformed yet again, a fractured self. New mother, bereaved daughter, disgruntled wife. Maybe I wasn’t grown-up after all; perhaps I was still evolving, still developing, trying to unearth the authentic me.

  A chilly draught wafted by and I shivered. The dusk was finally engulfing the poplars outside, but I could still see the gardener with his tools in the distance. So isolated and lonely at that moment, I could have flung open the door and asked him to come in, begged him to hold me in his arms and warm me. As I watched him don his jacket and stride away, I wondered if that was how Mum had felt too.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wednesday

  I slept solidly all night until Joe woke me at five. Although he nodded off after feeding, I was awake and surprisingly refreshed, so I stretched out in the warm bed and listened to the chattering birds. The toasted nut aroma of the woods filtered through the open window like air freshener.

  Turning to my chair, I peered at the letters I’d left there yesterday. They had clearly been sorted into separate bundles and tied by differently coloured ribbon. I’d been nominated pink. There hadn’t been much need for correspondence between Mum and me, but she must have kept every postcard, invitation and birthday greeting I’d ever sent. They’d been neatly opened with the bronze letter opener she kept next to the bible. I pictured her doing it, studying the writing for a second, then announcing who it was from with a delighted smile before slicing it open with one sweep.

  The image felt both mellow and sad; the world was now so electronic. It wasn’t just emails and texts; many of last year’s Christmas cards had been online greetings. Would Joe ever be given a handwritten missive? Blowing him a kiss, I resolved to do it, to chapter his life. Then I thought of the bursting lounge drawers, let alone the whole house and its contents. Perhaps paperless brevity was a good thing. The fact Mum had kept these letters was lovely, but what would I do with them now?

  I pulled out one envelope, my tidy longhand not so very different to how it was now. Each word was written in differently coloured ink.

  To Mummy, happy birthday, lots and lots of love from Ali xxxxxxx PS I love you soooo much!

  It was twenty-six years ago now, but I still remembered the moment. Dad had taken Laura and me to the funfair at Great Yarmouth. Laura was in the front seat, so she was the first to spot the sea, but I didn’t let that spoil my day. We ate clouds of pink candy floss, screamed on the rollercoaster and the teacup ride; we spent half an hour selecting a gift for Mum and I won a prize on the hoopla.

  My eyes had devoured the huge furry tigers and elephants and cheetahs prominently displayed on the stall. Hopping from foot to foot, I couldn’t wait to be rewarded with something so luxurious and indulgent, and tears pricked when I was handed a biro, a boring flipping biro! But when I studied it in the car, I discovered it had six different ink tubes inside: pink, blue, green, orange and purple. It even had yellow. Laura had won a spiral-bound writing pad and she gave it to me ‘for my biro’. I hadn’t known which to treasure the most, the memory of such a wonderful day or the present my big sister had given me without expecting anything in return.

  Flicking through the postcards, I was reminded of the places Sidney and I had visited as students. We’d had a tight budget, but still managed to zig-zag the country with our tent. Then there were the more exotic holidays with Miles, stunning locations in the Far East and Caribbean, as well as long weekends in Europe.

  The memories made me smile. I’d gone to bed feeling disgruntled with Miles, but as I read through the scrawl and remembered the fun, the closeness and love, I felt more charitable towards him. He had a challenging job; I knew as much as anyone how stressful, yet exhilarating, the law could be. He had to absorb and understand every page of the experts’ reports and voluminous trial bundles; he was the one who stood or fell before the judge and the person paying his fee. Someone had to lose, and the client’s livelihood could be lost or his business destroyed on the barrister’s performance, a misplaced document, an unreliable witness – even the whim of the judge.

  ‘It’s only money,’ as Dad used to say. ‘If I make a mistake, an insurer steps in. But if I were a doctor…’

  Yet money was important; it still made the world go round. I was pleased Miles was on a high, that things were going well for him. Perhaps he lacked a little empathy at times, but it was easy for me. I had been in a courtroom. He couldn’t give birth; he’d never suffered a close bereavement. I needed to build bridges and be more understanding.

  Pleased at my own positivity, I reached for the next bunch of letters. Save for one, each pale blue envelope matched in size and was written in Mum or Dad’s neat handwriting.

  With a frown, I carefully untied the white ribbon to find at least thirty missives, written forty-four years ago. Why on earth had my parents corresponded so prolifically? They’d both lived in Sheffield, met regularly and courted on the Bole Hills…

  Taking a nervy breath, I opened the first and slipped out the paper.

  Ward 10 Men’s Sanatorium it began.

  What?

  Hello beautiful! How are you this sunny morning?

  Lily, aged 103, has just finished cleaning the ward. Every time she bends down nature takes its course…

  Checking the postcode, I sat back in astonishment. My dad had clearly been in a Sheffield hospital. But why? I opened the next – this one in Mum’s handwriting:

  I’ve been trying all day to find time to write to you a) because I want you to get this tomorrow (my birthday) and b) because of your red nose and purple wrists sticking out of that too-tight pullover yesterday.

  Red nose and purple wrists?

  I selected another from Dad:

  I had my TB resistance test measured this morning. It measured 10 x 10 mm which the Sister said was very good (I deserve a kiss for that!) I was weighed too today – the same as last time (I deserve a further kiss for that!) Thank your ma for the chocolate biscuits and thank yourself for everything (you deserve a kiss for that – from me!)

  Bloody hell; though Dad’s humour and love shone through his words, he’d had tuberculosis, another discovery I doubted even Laura knew about.

  Leaning back against the pillow, I mulled over the news. It was shocking but interesting too. I’d been immunised at school, the round dent still obvious on my upper arm. Though rare in the UK now, people used to die of it, from Emily Bronte to George Orwell, John Keats to Chopin. How worried must Mum have been? And why hadn’t she ever mentioned it?

  Joe’s shuffling brought me back to the time. Knowing he’d wake very soon, I pulled out the last, larger envelope. There was no address nor postmark on this one, but it was in Dad’s handwriting again, inscribed ‘To Evelyn’. Inside the envelope was a single, undated sheet of white paper and just fourteen words.

  Darling Eve. I’m so sorry. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The intermittent early sunshine glinting through the side door, Joe watched me eat breakfast from his bouncy chair.

  ‘How about a walk along the riverside?’ I
asked him. ‘There’ll be ducks and swans, and if we’re lucky, a shoal of slithery eels.’

  As if understanding every word, he smiled in reply. Older and wiser about pram transport, I decided to try him in the new front-and-back carrier. It took a while to work out the straps and buckles, but I finally slipped him in and grinned proudly at his solid chubbiness. He hadn’t been weighed for a while, yet he was getting heavier each day, something I had achieved all by myself.

  I chuckled inwardly. Hark at me, I’d become one of those smiling mums in the smiley posters if I wasn’t very careful.

  Though the sky was still partially cloudy, I donned sunglasses and strolled down the hill. Would the coven still recognise me as I passed? The glasses reminded me to call Laura, to let her know I was here and that I could piss without peas. I’d mention her stack of letters too. Her yellow bow remained intact; it hadn’t seemed proper to read her personal correspondence and there was that inherent worry I might learn something I didn’t want to know. It was childish, of course, but I hadn’t realised her unhappiness until she’d confessed on the way to the airport. She’d pointed the finger at Mum, but I felt culpable too.

  Then there was Dad. I’d invaded his privacy. What on earth had he done to beg Mum’s forgiveness like that?

  Though tempted by the lavender breathing out of the gift shop, I turned left and ambled down to the Bure. Its ripples were winking and flashing. The river’s ‘unknown’ had always fascinated me, an enthralling combination of excitement and danger – the dark depths which needed to be avoided, yet which called to be explored at the same time. I had felt it most on the trips with Dad and Tom to Black Horse Broad. The lagoon was clear near the bank but became darker and deeper the further out we swam. Safe in my orange lifejacket, it was fun to feel the cool water through my fingers, to doggy splash or play catch with a ball, but there was a dread of touching something with my toes I couldn’t identify. An almost sexual feeling, the thrill so intense it made me want to wee.

  Making my way to the water’s edge, I pulled a crust from the pocket of my shorts and lobbed a few pieces in. A family of coots dutifully crossed, barely making a wrinkle.

  ‘Look, Joe. Ducks.’

  As he kicked his legs in reply, I spotted two herons, one amongst the reeds, another high up in its tree-top nest. ‘A big bird!’ I said, pointing. ‘The daddy heron is looking for food to take back to the babies in the nest.’

  Maybe it was the other way around, perhaps the mummy was fishing, but it was a nice thought. Miles was working hard for me and Joe. It was what my dad had done, what good daddies should do.

  Inhaling the aroma of fried bread and bacon, I moved on and gazed at the boats, drinking in the bright colours and shapes, the anchors and ropes, the masts and vibrant tyre fenders like I used to. Some were modern and shiny, others looked fit to sink. I nodded greetings to the early risers on their decks; it was stirring to see folk starting a new day, opening their cabin curtains, preparing food in small galley kitchens or arranging deck cushions like I once had on Sylvette.

  I turned to the village green. Save for a lush patch around the water tap, it was cracked and parched, somewhat incongruously, given its position beside a river. Though there was only a single dog-walker now, I wondered if the likes of Ivan and Kelvin still came here, whether I’d know them if I saw them, if I’d experience that flash of recognition that hits then dissolves, leaving you uncertain. I’d felt similar when I first looked at Mum’s gardener properly. I’d probably seen him before at Christmas, but as ever, I’d been blind to… blind to the fact he was her lover? Bloody hell; was that what she’d wanted to talk to me about?

  Strolling on a little further, I stopped at a bench outside the Tudor-style inn. The pub was true to its ‘Swan’ name, so I sat for a while, watching the graceful birds glide over the glassy surface. They looked cool, sophisticated and detached, not unlike my big sister.

  Suddenly twigging the time, I rummaged in my pockets, hoping for more than breadcrumbs to buy a bunch of bananas and a newspaper on the way home. Joe had fallen asleep, but he’d be due a feed soon.

  A fat moggy wound its way around my ankles. Reaching out to stroke its black silky fur, it took me a few moments to recognise the red collar. Oh God; this wasn’t just any cat, it was one of Mum’s. Sensing I was being watched, I glanced at the row of tiny cottages a stone’s throw from the pub. Dark eyes stared back. Standing at the furthest, George’s large frame filled his open front door.

  ‘You’ve come for the cats, then?’ he called.

  The embarrassment was immediate. He’d mentioned them before, but I’d completely forgotten. Again.

  ‘No!’ I blurted, stumbling towards him. I held out my pound coin. ‘I was just checking if I could afford some fruit on the way home…’

  Oh God. Now it sounded as though I was asking for a loan. I tried for a smile. ‘We’ve been aimlessly walking. Ducks and herons and boats. Turns out you find them on the Broads.’ I stopped babbling and nodded to the quaint picket fence. ‘Gardeners too, apparently. I didn’t know you – and the cats – lived here…’

  Did I detect the hint of a smile? ‘Come on in,’ he said, turning. ‘I’ll make us a drink.’

  My impulse to politely refuse was too late. He’d already ducked and disappeared, so I followed him in. I took off my shades and glanced around. Though there were only two adults and the modest add-on of Joe, the old-fashioned parlour felt crowded. Was it owned or rented? Did the man watching me share it with somebody else? A patchwork knitted throw was draped over the sofa, the round coffee table was covered by embroidered linen and the vase of flowers on the mantelpiece were still in bud. It wasn’t what I’d expect of a man in his early forties.

  Leaving the room, he spoke over his shoulder. ‘Take a seat. The kettle’s on.’

  Joe stirred and grumbled at the prospect. It was time to feed him; I needed to get home. ‘Actually,’ I called stiffly, the words coming out Sheffield-posh. ‘I won’t bother, thank you.’

  After a beat he returned, carrying a china teapot. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, seeming to appraise me beneath his dark eyebrows.

  Though I tried, I couldn’t quite meet his steady gaze. ‘I just realised the time, so—’

  ‘He needs feeding, does he? Is he on solids?’

  I shook my head. How could I put it without embarrassing us both?

  ‘Feed him here then.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s fine, I’ll make myself scarce.’

  Feeling the roughness of the old piping on the back of my legs, I perched on the sofa and gave an involuntary little sniff. Why I was suddenly so picky, I didn’t know. It certainly beat those funeral toilets.

  Already unsettled and tetchy, Joe protested even louder as I tried to pull him out of his cocoon. After a second or two, George deposited the teapot, pulled me up and turned me round with firm hands. ‘Looks like he’s stuck. Best take it off first.’

  He didn’t say it irritability, but somewhere close. Realising I needed to pee, I bit my lip. ‘Sorry, could I—’

  ‘Top of the stairs,’ he answered, taking Joe to the window.

  The bathroom was minuscule. Surprisingly, there was no shower, just a basin and small bath. Despite my agitation, I couldn’t help visualising the moody man downstairs crammed in it like a scene from Gulliver’s Travels. The humour fell away as I glanced around. No flaming toilet paper. Then I spotted a woollen cosy on the window ledge and I peeped underneath. All was not lost after all.

  As I washed my hands, I searched for a mirror. None on the walls, but next to an electric shaver I found an old-fashioned tortoiseshell grooming set. Picking up the hairbrush, I rubbed a finger along the smooth handle thoughtfully. There were no hairs between its bristles; it was there for decoration. I held the matching mirror by its long elegant grip. The glass was corroded at the edges and my image distorted – a reflection of how I felt – but my cheeks were pink, and despite the dark smudges beneath them, my eyes were bright. I looked better than I had f
or weeks, but the hairs on my arms were erect.

  The brush and the mirror: Mum used to have an identical pair.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Feeling febrile and exposed, I unzipped my nursing bra in readiness for the feed, then made my way down the narrow staircase on shaky legs. The idea that the gardener was Mum’s lover had been idle speculation, but his bathroom told me otherwise. And now I looked again, the mantelpiece carriage clock was familiar too. I could picture her flashing her friendly smile: ‘Take this, love. It’s really quite old. It would look nice in your cottage.’ Or perhaps Mum, like Denise, had a crush on him and had given him regular presents. Why that felt even worse, I couldn’t say.

  Fearful he’d say something, I avoided eye contact, but he passed Joe to me without comment and busied himself in the kitchen while I sorted out Joe beneath my baggy T-shirt.

  After ten minutes he returned, placed a cup of tea and a plate of buttered granary on the table beside me, then settled down in the armchair.

  Folding his arms, he finally broke the silence. ‘Call me George, everyone else does.’

  It seemed an odd comment; he’d already told me his name. But I nodded and self-consciously ate the bread. For a while he seemed to watch every bite, but his attention suddenly shifted and he stood. Moving to the window, he put a hand to his eyes and shook his head.

  What the hell? Dumbstruck, I stared at his broad back. The man’s whole being had darkened; he looked broken, his grief almost tangible. Oh God; so he was more than just Mum’s casual fling… There’d been questions I’d wanted to ask him yesterday, but now the reality was here, I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with the answers.

  ‘Do you have children?’ I asked when the stillness became oppressive. He’d handled Joe with such ease, it seemed like a safe question. But he turned, his face visibly clouding again.