The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  I pictured ‘Milo’ enjoying caviar and lobster with Julia Lambert, his charm, her shrill laughter. I doubted they were limiting their beverages to coffee or tea. The thought made me brave.

  ‘My purse is inside,’ I said. ‘Are you coming in for a drink?’

  Bracing myself for rejection, I headed to the kitchen, but George stubbed out his cigarette and followed me in.

  ‘Best close the door or the moths will get in.’

  Feeling his gaze on my back, I felt myself blushing. Perhaps my hormones were raging, or maybe it was my annoyance with Miles, but I couldn’t help entertaining the romantic notion of being enveloped in his strong arms. Only God knew why. The comment about insects was hardly a come-on; he’d not given me an ounce of encouragement, the very opposite, in fact. But when I turned, his dark eyes were watchful, they seemed to speak far more than he.

  ‘About today,’ he said into the silence. ‘I’m sorry I walked away. I dumped a load of information on you. Perhaps you needed to…’

  Oh hell, the weeping, my attempt to touch him. I wanted to explain that I was flattered he’d confided in me, that the tears were for him as well as me. That I’d felt a shiver of connection in the small cottage room. But it sounded ridiculous, even in my head. He’d been talking about the death of his child, for Christ’s sake.

  My embarrassment was saved by a shrill cry from Joe. I gave a weary smile; it felt as though I was feeding him more than ever.

  George stepped over to the kettle. ‘I’ll get this, you sort Joe.’

  The curtains still open, I settled myself in the armchair. Hearing the crunch of tyres on the pebbles, I stretched to look out at the shortcut. No car appeared, but headlights lit the glass from the other side. I strained to see, but the heavy drape blocked my view.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  I came back to my visitor. ‘Yeah, I think so. Just heard a car…’

  Lifting a large hand to his forehead, he peered out of the window. ‘Gone now. Probably a wrong turn.’

  Who would make a wrong turn into a private plot? I took a breath to ask if it happened often, but George stood over me, observing for a moment. ‘Have you thought about weaning him?’ he asked.

  Feeling judged, I immediately bristled: it wasn’t for want of desire. I was fed up with the constant feeding, but I was trying to raise my son by the bloody book. My expression must have shown my reply as he continued to speak. ‘Him waking so often… And life’s tough when you’re not getting enough shut-eye. Give yourself a break.’

  Emotion stung my nose. He had no idea how I’d agonised over solids. Over bloody everything. He made it sound so easy. And his comment about lack of sleep smarted; I thought I appeared much better today, pretty even.

  Putting down the mugs, he crouched and met my gaze. ‘Look I’m sorry if I’ve… But you’re being too hard on yourself. Joe’s a big baby. You won’t kill him by introducing a tiny amount of baby rice.’

  His face clouding, he stood abruptly and moved to the sofa. Then the telephone rang, piercing the silence.

  ‘Shall I get that for you?’ he asked.

  It would have been rather poetical to have George answer it, but I shook my head and smiled thinly. ‘No, it’s only my husband and I’m ignoring him.’

  George’s lips twitched too, in a surprising, warm smile. Catching the glint of his wedding band, I thought of his wife. Emma, he’d said.

  ‘What was his crime?’ he asked, raising his dark eyebrows.

  ‘Oh just the usual,’ I answered evasively.

  Miles wasn’t sleeping with Julia or anyone else. Court robing-room banter and barristers dining together wasn’t unusual; I’d done it often enough myself. I just wished he’d been straight with me.

  I laughed. ‘I expect I’ll get over it…’

  George nodded, accepting my reply. ‘I’ll get off then,’ he said, finishing his drink. ‘I’ll buy a box of baby rice on my way in tomorrow. Then it’ll be in the cupboard for when you need it.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  He left me feeding Joe. I was being managed in some way, I knew, but it was fine. In truth, it was exactly what I needed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thursday

  I stirred to a new day thinking about Madeleine. Perhaps I’d been dreaming about her, but despite waking from time to time to sip water for my throat, my sleep had been thick and gluey. Though the morning was bright beyond the curtains, I had difficulty rousing myself. When I finally sat up, there was my perfect son, looking at me expectantly from his cot.

  Feeding Joe, I drifted, Madeleine and the way she’d psychoanalysed me swamping my thoughts.

  Didn’t every daughter fall in love with her dad? Not in an inappropriate way, of course, but that blind adoration I’d had. It turned out that some did and most didn’t; a few hated their fathers, others were indifferent, but the majority I’d spoken to over the years simply loved them.

  Perhaps Dad’s death wouldn’t have hurt so deeply if I’d just ‘loved’ him too. After it, I put up a guard, was careful with people, pals and eventually men. Not that I didn’t make friends; I was just very cautious about getting too attached. There was Sidney through university, and I still loved him fondly, the brother I’d never had, but I hadn’t seen Madeleine coming. Because she wasn’t a love interest or a friend in the conventional sense, I hadn’t prepared myself and I fell for her completely, a school girl’s crush. She was the epitome of womanhood; beautiful, sophisticated, intelligent and witty. So accomplished there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do, from baking to badminton and backgammon. A dark-haired version of Laura, I suppose. But this replication was nice; she had time for me, she was interested; she seemed to adore me in return.

  How I must have bored Mum on the phone. ‘Well, according to Madeleine…’ ‘Madeleine says…’ ‘Guess what Madeleine has bought me…’ ‘You should see Madeleine’s…’

  Like Midas, everything she touched turned to gold in my eyes. Her rays and energy were focused on me; I was special and unique. Who wouldn’t be seduced?

  For a while it was like an intense affair; I spent my free time with her, which suited Miles. What better than being doted on by your wife and your mother? But I abruptly fell out of love. I discovered Madeleine wasn’t what I thought she was. She didn’t do anything terrible, a deliberate lie, but it had felt like betrayal, even death.

  Sighing the memory away, I came back to my warm Norfolk bedroom. Sleep was threatening to pull me in again, so I put Joe in his cot, got dressed, then sat cross-legged on my bed, intending to carry on with the letters. Though they’d been written long ago, I was intrigued – and unsettled – by Dad’s last missive. What had it meant? Was it a clue about whatever my two aunties had hinted at?

  Noises in the house interrupted my thoughts. Nancy or Denise and not a flaming burglar, I hoped. I supposed I should have been shocked that they’d used keys and come in without knocking first, but I was getting used to this surreal new world where strangers were trusted. Though perhaps that was the point – they weren’t strangers but people I felt I already knew. I padded towards the sound of the kettle. The kitchen was empty but the side door was ajar, a chilly breeze filtering through. The pot was on the side so I poured in the steaming water and set the cosy on top. It made me smile; I’d never owned a teapot, let alone a cover. It felt quaint and old-fashioned. I liked it.

  With a small jolt of surprise, I realised it was the first time I’d thought of my Manchester home since I arrived. Lost in contemplation, I gazed out at the woods beyond the back fence. It was so different here, almost like being abroad. The friendly folk, balmy weather, the tangy, sweet smells. And despite the creaking pines and the birds, it was so very quiet.

  Sound and movement behind my shoulder brought me back. Expecting to see Mum, I turned. For those few moments I had forgotten she was dead. But nothing was there; it was just an empty room, still and silent.

  Goosebumps tingling my arms, I thought of the missed calls
and Mum’s attempts to talk, to say something which had clearly been important to her. Shaking the shiver away, I stepped to the door and looked out. George was pulling clumps of grass from the vegetable patch, but after a moment he lifted his head.

  He came towards me and leaned against the wall. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,’ he commented. His muscled arms glistened with dirt, and sweat had soaked through to his T-shirt. I wondered what he’d been doing to get so hot when I felt so cold.

  ‘Not seen one, but felt one…’ I replied vaguely. ‘The kettle popped so I… Do you mind if we go inside for your drink? I’m freezing.’

  Though the creeping discomfort still lingered, I picked up the teapot and tried for humour. ‘Tea?’ I asked, noticing a box of baby rice in the cupboard above. ‘You all but made it yourself, so I think it’s allowed…’

  With the hint of a smile, he walked past me. I wasn’t wearing shoes, nothing to give me extra height, but still, I hadn’t realised quite how huge he was. Miles was six foot, but this man was inches taller. Bringing the aroma of soap with him, he returned from the utility sink and sat opposite me.

  I slid the baby rice towards him. ‘You’d better tell me what to do, seeing as you are the fount of all knowledge,’ I said.

  For a moment he stared, the usual frown above his blue gaze, but eventually he laughed. It felt strange to see his grin; wide and wolfish, yet familiar and pleasant too.

  ‘I’ve never been accused of that before.’ He lifted the packet and read. ‘You put a small amount in a clean bowl and mix it with milk, but not cow’s milk,’ he said evenly.

  ‘God, I didn’t think to bring my breast pump,’ I blurted. After my pathetic efforts to squeeze out two inches for the funeral, it hadn’t been high on my list of packing priorities.

  ‘Apparently you can do it without a pump,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘Like milking a cow, I believe.’ He paused for a beat. ‘But if I were you, I’d use formula.’

  He leaned over to the fridge and swung back with a small carton of ready-made baby milk. I suspected he was teasing me. I couldn’t quite make him out, but the conversation felt warm and companionable.

  Lifting it, I smiled. ‘I have one of these at home too. Somehow, miraculously, I never used it.’

  I hadn’t panicked without it either, so perhaps I was making progress; maybe life was slowly inching towards the light. I met his gaze. ‘Seriously, though, how come you know so much about babies?’ I asked. ‘I know you had Ben, but if Miles changes a nappy he expects a medal.’

  Perhaps George slightly flinched at the mention of his son’s name, but he answered easily. ‘I worked at home, so I was a hands-on dad.’

  ‘In the garden?’ I asked.

  ‘Sort of,’ he said, looking down at his rough palms. ‘But on paper. A landscape architect.’

  Interesting, I thought, but his demeanour had clouded, so I remained silent and poured the strong tea.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked after a moment.

  I lifted my head in surprise. Had I been swallowing strangely or touching my troublesome throat?

  ‘I meant about your mother. Yesterday, at the cottage, I was only thinking of myself. I should have asked then.’

  Wanting to give an honest answer, I gathered my thoughts. ‘I get upset when I least expect to,’ I replied slowly. ‘But the grief isn’t as bad as I had anticipated. Sometimes it’s as though…’ Hmm, maybe not that honest. ‘I guess it hasn’t really hit me. Not like when my…’

  ‘Your dad?’ he asked, seeming to study me intently.

  I nodded, a little stunned. Mum lived alone, but she might have been divorced. Then again, perhaps it was common knowledge. The Bakers had come here every holiday for five years; folk like the original George would have known why we’d abruptly stopped coming. Or maybe this George was a good listener as Nancy had said. Yes, I could picture Mum chatting, talking far more than him.

  Oh God. What did he know about me and Laura? Like that mother-daughter exchange of information, the thought was uncomfortable.

  ‘How long have you been down here?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  He spread his large hands. ‘Twelve months or so. I needed to get away after Ben died.’

  ‘And what about—’ I started to ask. I was going to enquire about his landscape architect business.

  ‘Emma?’ he questioned, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘We couldn’t live together any more. It was too painful. We were both swamped with grief. And guilt.’

  His features darkened again and I wanted to reach out, but I remembered how he’d pulled away from my touch yesterday. ‘Why guilt?’ I asked softly.

  He sighed. ‘Mine was straightforward. It was me who insisted on the operation. I should’ve let it go. But Emma’s… Well, it was more complicated, still is.’

  Assuming he’d stop there, I sipped my drink. But he continued with a nod of resolve. ‘She didn’t want children. I thought I was fine with that. You know – too many unhappy or unwanted kids in the world to add to their number. But she got pregnant unexpectedly and I wanted her to keep the child. Desperately.’ He looked at the ceiling. ‘I don’t know why; the need to have a kid suddenly became overwhelming. My flesh and blood and all that. I persuaded Emma she’d love him when he was born. But it was a difficult birth, then she struggled to…’

  He seemed to search for a word and I swallowed. Like me? I thought. A crap new mum?

  ‘She didn’t bond with him. There wasn’t that instinctive connection most parents have. At times she couldn’t cope with the demands, the responsibility; said she wished he hadn’t been born.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But as he grew older, she loved him as a person. And when he died she blamed herself. She thought it was some sort of divine justice.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t handle that idea.’

  Shocked at his candour, I said nothing. But it was tough being a parent. My fears had started even before I gave birth, followed by constant worry and those feelings of inadequacy, exacerbated by Madeleine’s Ali isn’t Ali. Then there were the thoughts of the woman in court: would I shake my baby? And only a few days ago; that dreadful impetus to throw Joe to the ground.

  When I came back to George, he was looking at me quizzically. ‘I’m talking too much and you’re shivering,’ he said. ‘Maybe a jumper until you warm up?’

  The thought that I might be coming down with another virus was too, too depressing, especially as I’d only just started to feel brighter. As I nodded and stood, the telephone rang. Could I ignore it? I didn’t have the energy for an argument with Miles, but I was conscious of George’s observant eyes, so I padded to the lounge to answer it.

  Miles didn’t bother with opening pleasantries. ‘Why do you turn off your mobile, Ali? And why didn’t you answer the bloody telephone last night? I rang a hundred times. I was worried about you.’ He didn’t stop for an answer. ‘I’m working, Ali. I need to sleep properly. I shouldn’t have to be calling you before going into fucking court in a morning to check you’re not dead—’

  Though my death overnight seemed a stretch, I felt chastened; it had been childish not to answer his calls. ‘Of course I’m not dead. I’m fine and so is Joe. I’m sorry you were worried, but I told Julia it was nothing important.’

  ‘I suppose this is about me having a drink with her.’

  His defensiveness seemed odd; I’d tried to be nonchalant about the damned woman when she reappeared on the scene, but perhaps my face had betrayed me. ‘No, not at—’

  ‘You know full well that everyone stays at this hotel. She just happened to be here on a case herself.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I repeated. It was too much effort to point out he’d told me about every Tom, Dick and Harry he’d bumped into in London, but failed to mention her, let alone the bloody hotel coincidence. Yet, I felt shivery and cold, detached and far away. Whatever was going on in London, there was nothing I could do about it.

  ‘How’s my little man?’ Miles asked after a few se
conds. ‘I keep scrolling through my photos to catch a glimpse of his cheeky little smile. Thank God it’s Friday tomorrow. Will you kiss him for me until then?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  I pinched my nose. Why it was far easier to cope with Miles’s indifference to Joe than his love, I couldn’t say, but I wished him well for the trial and promised to call later.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The side door closed, George had gone when I returned to the kitchen. To fend off the encroaching headache, I took two paracetamol and went to check on Joe. He was awake and sucking his fingers, so I scooped him out of the cot, sat him on my lap and went back to my parents’ letters. There was something I was missing; something I’d subconsciously seen; what was it?

  The first was from Mum: I thought they’d got the wrong bloke until he said “he’s sitting up in bed grinning all over his face like a Cheshire cat” then I knew there was no mistake, she wrote.

  That made me both sniff and smile. She had often teased Dad about being a ‘smiling idiot’ when they’d first met in a pub. Apparently he’d hung around and spoilt her chances with the ‘hot guy with a Lamborghini’.

  ‘That’s me,’ he’d always replied with the grin she’d described. Then, ‘And you didn’t do so badly, did you, love? Dashing good looks and everything you dreamed of?’

  His humour and wit shone from each page. So did his clear adoration of Mum. His missives were warm, funny and loving, his neat script referring to her beauty and his desire for her kisses. In one he described her: A pretty face set in… hair, wonderful nose, kissable – no, very kissable lips, inviting eyes, slim neck, unconventional blouse enhancing a curved bosom down to a narrowing waist. It finished, I’ll now try and calm down – you excite me!

  In another he wrote, I suppose you’re as lovely as ever this morning. Don’t let it go to your head. It’s beautiful enough!

  And another, I think I must be getting soft, for every day I seem to get fonder of you. I suppose it’s similar to when I was ten – I had a goldfish and I grew fonder of it every day, although I didn’t realise that fact until one morning I took it some ant eggs and found it floating. You’re as pretty to me in this world as a goldfish must be to an ordinary fish in theirs.