The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  My mind thrashed. The car in the driveway last night… A burglar or even worse? Someone with ill intent. A person with a knife. Though my torso was scorching, shaking and damp, inside I was frozen with fear. I had to play dead; it was the only chance of survival I had.

  * * *

  Maybe I forced sleep, or perhaps I blacked out as the next thing I heard was a tap at the bedroom door.

  My whole body was roasting. Hardly surprising; I was still wearing my robe and even my head was covered by the bedding. Peeling it away, the sudden chill hit my cheeks.

  ‘Ali? Are you OK? Can I come in?’

  Bloody hell; it was George’s deep timbre. Though the curtains were closed, it felt like the middle of the night. Had something happened? ‘Yes, sure,’ I replied, struggling to hitch myself up.

  I had no idea what to expect, but when he appeared, his eyebrows were knitted, his jaw tight.

  ‘I’ve just turned off the central heating,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, right.’ My head pulsed; I could barely move it. I was boiling and perspiring, but shivering too.

  Clearly unimpressed, George’s gaze swept over me and my dressing gown. ‘No wonder you’re burning up. The whole house is as hot as a furnace.’

  Like a punch to the belly, I remembered my son. ‘Oh God, Joe…’ I said, a surge of dizziness hitting as I clambered upright.

  ‘He kicked off his covers. He’s asleep; he’s fine.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness. I…’ I glanced at the gardener’s cloudy, tight face. ‘You’re cross with me,’ I said, my thoughts blurting out. Pathetic though it was, I didn’t want him to judge me; he’d seemed to accept the slightly crazy daughter of his employer so far, and I didn’t want to spoil it.

  He sighed. ‘The cat had been missing all day. I came looking for her and every light was on. I was worried and rang the bell. No reply, so I thought I’d better check everything was…’ He lifted his hands. ‘It was a particularly warm night but you’d put on the heating, Ali. You have a baby in the next room…’

  Maisie, Mum’s tortoiseshell moggy, slunk in and brushed against his legs.

  ‘I know, it was stupid of me but I was really cold,’ I replied. ‘Then I fell asleep and—’ My God, how had I forgotten? The noises in the night, the break-in, the burglar; the certainty that someone was here to do me harm…

  But doubt quickly rolled in. Perhaps I had dreamed it. Maybe Ali wasn’t Ali after all. And Madeleine was right, wasn’t she? I wasn’t coping. I’d been totally irresponsible; I hadn’t considered my son.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I managed to croak. But I couldn’t stem the deluge. The full-on tears I hadn’t shed for the past two months seemed to hurtle out now. I was crying for Joe, for my dad, for my mum, for Miles and bloody Julia Lambert. I was snivelling for my pathetic, sorry self.

  It felt as though George held back for an eternity before gathering me into his arms. Maybe it was only seconds, but I sensed his reluctance. He briefly held me in a tight, solid hug, before pulling away.

  ‘Joe’s fine. Really,’ he said. ‘I’ve opened his window. You’re still feverish, though. Where’s the paracetamol?’

  ‘In the bathroom cabinet, but… Well, earlier I thought I heard…’ My voice trailed away. Had it been real or in my imagination? I no longer knew.

  With the hint of a smile George held out his palm. ‘A burglar? I’ll show you,’ he said.

  Safe behind his bulk, Maisie and I followed him to the kitchen.

  ‘Careful where you walk,’ he said, opening the door. Turning, he lifted his eyebrows. ‘It’s fine; you’ll see.’ But his tone was softer; the disapproval had gone.

  Surrounded by a jigsaw of glass and pink tulips, what remained of the vase lay on the floor. My instinct was to step in and retrieve the pretty flowers, but George put out an arm. ‘It’s gone everywhere,’ he said, nodding at my bare feet.

  He scooped up the cat. ‘Here’s the offender,’ he said, massaging beneath her chin with long fingers. ‘She must have squeezed in through the open window.’

  I tentatively stroked her particoloured fur. ‘You’ve walked a long way,’ I said. Was Maisie disappointed not to have found Mum? Probably not; this usually prickly, feisty moggy was gazing at George, her eyes half closed with pleasure.

  He put her down, hopped across the floor, closed the top latch and ran the tap. Then, handing me a glass of water, ‘It’s late. You’d better get some shut-eye.’

  I had no idea of the hour, just the black night through the window. ‘What time is it?’ I asked. He showed me his watch; an old Omega like my grandpa’s. It was past two o’clock. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘Not much.’

  God knows how my face looked, but now I felt sane, I examined his. It was shadowy and drawn, his angular features emphasised by dark stubble. Determined never to cry in his presence again, I tried for humour. ‘Maybe I’m not the only one who should be reprimanded about lack of shut-eye…’

  ‘I don’t have a baby to look after,’ he replied, not taking the bait. ‘Come on, he might sleep through tonight.’

  I followed him to my bedroom, watched him expertly turn Joe and feel his back. Then he pulled up the thin blanket and tucked it in. ‘He’s cooled down now but I’d keep the window open,’ he said.

  ‘OK, thanks,’ I replied, tugging back my pink duvet.

  Replaced by obvious weariness, his friendliness had disappeared. ‘Come on, Ali. You’re still in damp clothes…’

  That old hilarity bubbled back, but I managed to stifle the laughter. Poor man; he’d come to Norfolk to escape. Looking after a late widow’s gardens by day and her hapless daughter by night wasn’t what he’d planned, I was sure. I nodded, padded to my chest of drawers and he left.

  As I dragged on a clean T-shirt, I listened to the sound of his footfall on the parquet. Turning off the lights, I supposed. I preferred to have them on, so I sat for a while, giving him enough time to leave. When the final beam was extinguished, I waited another minute, then hurried out to the hallway. Dizzy from the burst of energy, I lowered my head. When I looked up again, I saw George reclined in an armchair, his long legs stretched out on the pouffe.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I mumbled. He was apparently staying. ‘There are plenty of beds if you—’

  ‘I’m fine here,’ he said. ‘Makes no odds where I kip.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, retreating.

  The deep blush burning my cheeks, I climbed into bed. What had Laura said about fancying someone, desperate to get them in the sack? For the first time I understood. It was probably my hormones, the fact George had zero interest in me, or maybe my generally unbalanced mental state, but as I stared into the dark night, that’s exactly how I felt.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Friday

  I heard my boy shuffling in his cot before he cried out. It was light and the birds were singing, but when I opened the curtains, the sun was pale and the clouds static as though still waking up. Joe had done well, though; he’d slept through the sweaty night, the cat burglar and my embarrassing torrent without the need for a feed.

  My head rattled as though something had come loose and my raspy throat stung, but I felt positive and buoyed as I lifted him from his cot. He smiled and cocked his blond head as if to say: ‘What’s up, Mummy? You look happy today.’

  How would I reply if Laura asked the same question? That I’d fallen asleep thinking about a man’s muscled arms, his sweat, his size and his smell? That I’d woken with a sense of excitement because I fancied someone? That despite my recent huge life events – a birth and a death – I felt I was getting back to normal? But it wasn’t ‘normal’, was it? I didn’t usually lust after anyone. And the subject of my affections was a guy maybe eight years my senior who hadn’t shown the slightest bit of romantic interest in me. He’d been manly and strong, he’d been there when I’d needed him, but he’d positively flinched from my touch. He was sad, he was grieving. And
more to the point, I was married. But that didn’t come into my fantasy. Miles would be hurtling from King’s Cross to Norwich to be with me this evening; it was just a bit of self-indulgent whimsy.

  Joe finished his feed and his face filled with colour. Pinching my nose, I laughed. ‘So this is what baby rice smells like! Nappy change needed PDQ.’

  Heading to the bathroom for provisions, I stopped half way. Was George still here? Holding my breath, I crept across the parquet and peered through the arch. Covered by the throw from the sofa, he was where I’d left him last night. Still asleep, his head was to one side, his long fringe partially hiding his face. I gazed for a beat at his long, dark lashes and black stubble, which had grown thicker through the night. Goodness knows why, but that felt intimate.

  As I turned away, his voice made me jump. ‘What is it, Ali?’

  Oh hell. Did he know I’d been staring? ‘Nothing.’ Why was I whispering? The sun was peeping in through the gap in the curtains. ‘Go back to sleep. I just needed nappies…’

  I changed Joe and sat on the bedroom carpet with him in my lap. We paired the wooden animals from Noah’s Ark, built a brick tower, then opened a textured book with a soft mirror. Pressing his reflection with damp fingers, he smiled at his image. ‘Yes! It’s Joe. Pretty boy like Daddy! He’s coming to see you later,’ I said quietly.

  The peal of the telephone sounded shrill in the silence. I dashed up to answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ali, it’s me.’

  It was Joe’s pretty daddy. Glancing at my watch, I was surprised to see it was a minute past nine.

  A court tannoy was muffled in the background. ‘You’re there early,’ I commented. ‘Everything OK?’

  Miles’s voice was brisk. ‘Not really. The shit’s hit the fan. The other side’s barrister tipped me off at breakfast. His client has found a box of documents we haven’t seen before. I’m going to object, but it’s a two-way thing. They might help as well as hinder, so I’ll have to go through them after court tonight—’

  ‘But you’re coming here.’

  ‘Well, not any more. And if there’s anything significant, I’ll need a conference with the client tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, Miles.’

  ‘I know it is, Ali; you don’t need to tell me.’ Then a sigh. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m as disappointed as you are, but you know what it’s like.’

  I did know, but I still felt a surge of despondency. I hadn’t seen my husband for nearly a week and I’d looked forward to doing something other than fret about Mum’s stuff or grasping at straws about a secret that probably didn’t even exist. I’d intended to drive further than the village to select food for a slap-up dinner. Maybe even buy myself an outfit that actually fitted. The plan had given me some purpose.

  ‘I’ll have to see how it goes, but I’ll do my best for Saturday evening or maybe just Sunday…’ he continued. ‘Look, the client’s just arrived. Phone you later, yes?’

  My desire to slam the phone down was stymied by etiquette. Holding the blanket in one hand and raking his fringe with the other, George was standing by his chair. He looked handsome and crumpled and embarrassed. He gestured to the front door. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have time to…’ Wafting the throw, he spread it haphazardly on the back of the sofa. ‘To disappear. I’ll get off now and leave you to start your day.’

  As he stepped out, the breeze rippled through and cooled my already flushed cheeks. I just had to be forthright and ask before he disappeared. Lifting my chin, I let the words fire out. ‘Seems I’ve been dumped for a box of documents. I don’t suppose you like fish?’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  With Joe in the back seat, I drove the seven miles to Wroxham. It was the closest town with a supermarket and a department store, which were housed in the same building. My memory was of a small centre, just trashy enough to appeal to a child with its toy shop, candy floss and coconut ice stalls. And, of course, a plethora of fish and chip outlets. When I finally opened the car door, I was pleased to discover some things didn’t change. Though it had clearly had a facelift since last I visited, there was still the distinctive tang of frying oil in the air.

  Still a little shaky from my high temperature and disturbed sleep, I studied my grocery list. The moment my rash dinner invitation was out of my mouth, I’d regretted it and prepared myself for rejection. George had rubbed his bristly chin, but I must have looked pathetic and needy in my bare feet and baggy T-shirt as he’d smiled eventually and said, ‘Yup, I like fish.’ But I was pleased he’d said yes, even if it was out of pity. It gave me a focus for the day, and despite rattling with paracetamol, I felt energetic.

  First up was Wroxham Bridge. Holding Joe tightly, I lifted him from the pram and leaned against the railings. A smart white boat with blue fenders dutifully appeared from beneath us. ‘Look Joe, a big boat!’

  The day had clouded over and the water looked oily and green, but I smiled at the memory of a trip here with my daddy. We had travelled from Horning in our small motor boat, stopped for petrol and discovered it was regatta day on Wroxham Broad. Mooring the dinghy, we bought salty chips, then strolled to this bridge and watched the yachts dipping and gliding like huge stately swans. I had loved that sense of belonging, being a member of the boating community for those few hours. Dad must have sensed it as he’d pulled me to him and grinned. ‘Just perfect, isn’t it? And I know what you need. Don’t move a muscle; I’ll be back…’ Then he strode to the gift shop on the quay, returning moments later with a sailor’s cap – an expensive gift – just like that.

  Sniffing back the emotion, I wondered what had become of it. Probably hidden somewhere so Mum wouldn’t find out and think it frivolous and wasteful. I’d worn it on the way home, and when Dad turned the throttle to full speed, it had flown off my head, bouncing and skimming over the surface of the river. Making a huge ridge in the water, Dad had turned the boat and we’d chased the cap as it lapped away in the opposite direction. I remembered it clearly; torn between a need to whoop and laugh at the exhilaration of the chase, and cry because I hadn’t wanted to lose such a precious possession.

  I frowned. Did this happen during that last summer? And why had the younger version of that smiling man written such a doleful letter to Mum?

  Slipping Joe back in his pram, I viewed the shops from the bridge. Had Roys of Wroxham always been so huge? Mum used to say it was known as the world’s largest village store. Did it always have a DIY site, a food hall, a garden centre? Perhaps it had, but a child only sees what it wants to see: the toy and candy shops had been pretty much it.

  There was inevitably a McDonalds these days. It made me feel hungry, reminding me of my errand, the hasty invitation I had made. The thought made my skin crawl. With embarrassment, mostly. God, what was wrong with me? George’s face this morning revealed nothing other than a desire to get away. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he’d said. To clean his teeth and shower, probably. To shave that dark stubble which had grown through the night.

  Pushing a buggy around the department store felt weird. I hadn’t done it before. In my old life I had paced past them, irritated with the space they took up and wondering why the mums didn’t leave their babies behind. How little I knew.

  I picked up one or two items of clothing and peered at the prices. Mum complained that Roys was expensive, but it seemed standard fare, catering for teenagers or grannies and not a lot in between. Meandering around the beauty hall, I studied the perfume selection and sprayed on a few. It seemed wrong to inhale a scent that wasn’t lilac or lavender in this neck of the woods, but I felt almost human again. I hadn’t ambled stress-free for a year; life had gone on hold the moment I became pregnant. I’d had to function at work as usual until my maternity leave started, but I’d rarely relaxed. One scare had merged with the next: from discovering my lack of rubella immunity to dodgy blood results, from high blood pressure to crap birth. Madeleine always observing, judging and knowing.

&
nbsp; As Joe patiently watched, I examined sample lipsticks, winding them down to reveal the shade, then painting a line on my hand, aimlessly and gloriously time-wasting without an aching pelvic floor or leaky nipples. Though the most expensive, the gold casing was the final decider. I selected a nude colour; I hadn’t worn any make-up for weeks and I didn’t want to look too obvious for tonight’s guest. Not that I had any romantic plans; I was a married woman.

  The assistant pulled out a new one, inspected the tip, then read its name on the base. ‘Seduce?’ she asked, and I laughed.

  Still chuckling to myself, I headed for the supermarket. It wasn’t one I was familiar with, and despite my fish offer, I had no firm plan of what to cook, so I strolled up and down the aisles, hoping for inspiration. I wasn’t exactly Nigella, but our dinner parties had always gone down well. The amount of alcohol consumed probably helped, though: fizz of some sort to greet the guests, liberal helpings of expensive vino to match the dish, followed by sweet dessert wine then spirits, the standard set by Miles’s father.

  I shook my head at the thought. Booze had been a huge part of our lives. Not just us, but our lawyer friends too. It was understandable; our jobs were stressful and alcohol was one way to unwind. Sometimes it worked a treat; Miles’s easy-going personality would go up a notch with his embellished stories and mimicking, and he’d have everyone around the table laughing. But occasionally he became belligerent, argumentative and angry, a person I hardly recognised.

  Like synchronicity, the ‘Aqua’ caught my eye. It wasn’t Madeleine’s main offence, but that’s where it had started, when I’d snapped out of love. Protruding from her handbag like a fashion statement, her small bottle of Evian was a constant fixture. She’d take a swig every now and then, drinking steadily through the day.