The House on the Water's Edge
Page 19
I sat back on my haunches. ‘Why not?’ I asked, the words tumbling out before my pride could stop them. ‘You like me, I know it.’
His face closed and cloudy, he shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said, standing. ‘I’m not looking for this.’
‘Don’t you fancy me at all?’
I don’t know why I asked. The humiliation was unbearable already. But I suppose I needed to know.
He made for the front door, opened it and looked out to the black night. ‘You’re a lovely woman,’ he said, finally turning. ‘But you’re married, you’re grieving and confused. You don’t know what you want.’
I took a deep breath. Who knows what I might have said? That he was wrong, that I wasn’t befuddled or crazy, that from the outset I’d felt an intense connection or attachment that wouldn’t let go? But he lifted a palm to stop me.
‘I’m not looking for anyone, Ali,’ he said steadily. ‘And even if I was, you’re not for me.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The breeze cooling my cheeks, I watched George’s retreat. When I could no longer hear the crackle of pebbles, I closed out the darkness and covered my eyes. How I dearly wished I could rewind the last five stupid, stupid minutes. What the hell was wrong with me? Was I crazy? Did I have no self-respect? But a flash through the window brought me back. Car headlights again. Alarm spreading, I stared through the glass, frozen to the spot as the bright beam came closer.
My heart thrashed. My thoughts weren’t as hysterical as they had been last night, but suppose this visitor was sinister? What if someone threw a stone or tried the door handle? Or just mucked about outside for a lark? Who would I call? I had offended the only protector I had, and Miles could hardly come charging from London. But the vehicle was now turning beyond the vegetable patch and going back the way it had come. I shrugged off the alarm. It had simply lost its way. Like me. Or perhaps the driver was a ‘dogger’, heading for the woods. Though they needed someone to watch, didn’t they?
Too agitated to even consider sleep, I yanked the curtains closed, then sat amidst the scattered mess. Feeling a dreadful sense of loss, I lifted the ‘Norfolk’ packet. So busy chattering and discussing the other photographs, I hadn’t even got around to opening it. Why did bad things happen here? Or maybe more accurately, why such devastating lows following such brilliant highs: the last summer succeeded by Dad’s death; nightmares after a blissful afternoon at Bureside; a dead, teeming pigeon in an otherwise perfect day. Then this evening, so comfortable, so content, so flaming alive one minute and then…
As the wooziness hit, I realised I was pissed after all. What a complete fool on all counts. It was so unlike me to go too far, to lose control, almost. For once I’d been like my sister, I’d thrown caution to the wind, and look where it had got me.
I scooped up an old snap of her. ‘Still seeking your approval, wishing I was you,’ I mumbled.
Memory flooding back, I studied it more closely. Yes, it was Laura’s last school portrait before leaving for Canada, when the four years between us had seemed enormous. Though her fair hair was tied back and she was wearing little make-up, she looked confident in her own skin. I had too in the one I’d shown George, but that wasn’t my skin nor my hair nor my smile.
‘Time for sleep,’ I muttered to the photograph. ‘Keep me company tonight.’
Unsteady on my feet, I made it to my room, propped the snap of Laura on my bedside chair and sighed deeply. ‘One day, big sis,’ I said to her. ‘One day I’ll tell you about this evening and we’ll laugh.’
Sleep immediately grasped me, but I couldn’t quite sink deep enough to reach the next level. Though my muscles were relaxed, my mind ticked over, neither awake nor asleep, but drifting somewhere in between. It was nice at first, like I was floating in Black Horse Broad with the sun beaming down on my face. Eyes closed, I bumped along with the ripples, safe and secure in my lifejacket. Then something below the surface brushed my leg. As I jerked away, I looked at my chest. No orange lifejacket. And I was no longer buoyant, but sinking like lead, down and further down to the river bed.
Oh God, I had to swim, get back to the surface. My limbs almost paralysed, I pushed through sludgy water until rays of sunshine seeped through and it began to clear. But when I reached the top, the surface was covered by images looking down at me. Desperately searching for oxygen, I moved from one to the next – Laura in school uniform, Mum’s neat handwriting, a baby’s name tag, Dad’s purple wrists, Grandpa’s Omega watch, my young mother yawning, a carriage clock, Dad’s tense wedding face, the walnut drawers breathing, then Laura’s face again, again and again.
Bursting awake with a huge gasp, I bolted upright. My pulse raced, my throat rasped, I could barely swallow. Tears of self-pity prodding, I lowered my head until the dizziness passed. It was fine; everything was fine. Exacerbated by the wine, I’d simply had another nightmare.
Dragging myself from the bed, I checked on my sleeping son, shuffled to the bathroom and gulped from the grubby toothbrush holder. Glass after glass of cloudy liquid.
Norfolk water, I thought, remembering Tom Hague’s comment. Too soft or too hard, I didn’t know, but I should have drunk it before sleep; it had been the saving grace after boozy nights out when I’d had to be at a court in Preston or Plymouth or Prestatyn the following morning by nine. But today the concern was my breast milk. How bloody irresponsible I’d been. Again. I could only pray the alcohol would be diluted by morning.
Depressed and guilty, I stared at my shadowy reflection. Could my self-esteem tumble any lower? I had humiliated myself and lost a person I valued as a friend, but even worse, I’d been a crap mother.
‘Be kind to yourself, love. No one is perfect. We all make mistakes. No one knows that better than me.’
Mum’s words. As though she’d said them now and was right behind me, I cautiously turned. Nothing and no one was there. Of course, there wasn’t. But fragments of the dream were filtering back. Like falling snowflakes, I tried to snatch them before they dissolved.
Collecting my thoughts, I perched on the loo seat. Mum. Mistakes. Something she’d wanted to tell me. The aunties gossiping. The change in mood of the sanatorium letters. Dad’s tense expression, his sincere apology…
Hurrying back to my bedroom, I grabbed the photograph of Laura and stared. Yes, shocking though it was, it all made sense now. I remembered Mum’s old comment and groaned. ‘No, we’re not talking about you Ali. As lovely as you are, we’ve got better things to discuss.’ She was right, absolutely; this wasn’t about me, but herself. Breathless from my discovery, I tried to steady my racing thoughts. Could it really be true? How could I be sure?
An idea forming, I slipped from the bed and padded to the lounge. The sideboard’s doors and drawers were already gaping, so I sat cross-legged on the floor and removed the boxes of Mum’s diaries. Mostly small and slim to fit in a handbag; I guessed there were at least fifty. Organised according to size rather than year, it took several minutes to order them on the parquet.
As my eyes quickly jumped from one decade to the next, I wondered if she’d kept them for this very day. ‘The past is past,’ Laura would say, but some history needed to be recorded in black and white. Yes, then acknowledged.
Finally finding the one I wanted, I traced the embossed gold date with trembling fingers. Such a slender journal for something so momentous. Was I right? Would the entries confirm it? Taking a deep breath, I opened it a crack at the silky page marker. A folded piece of paper fell out.
Chapter Forty
Saturday
The weak sunshine rousing me, I yawned and glanced at my watch. Too early to get up just yet. Then last night’s shocking discovery hit like a slap. Mum’s note, her shaky handwriting. The moment I’d read it, I’d known what to do as soon as Joe woke this morning. Then I’d slept peacefully, an astonishingly deep and dreamless sleep…
I nodded. Yes, it was a sign of approval, confirmation I should follow my instinct and see it through.
In case the pram was spotted by the postman, the deli staff or the workers in the boatyard, I deciding on driving. My car was surprisingly chilly inside. A blanket for Joe was in order. Remembering the headlights from last night, I scooped him out rather than leave him, even for seconds. He was everything to me now; his loss would be simply unbearable.
I trundled down Lower Street, pulled up behind The Swan and climbed out. Carrying Joe in his seat, I made my way to George’s picket fence and inhaled the crisp air. His tiny front garden was scented like the gift shop, a friendly aroma of sweet blossom, but I wasn’t here to admire the wild flowers today. I had property in my possession which didn’t belong to me. It felt hot in my hand; like Prometheus and his theft of fire, it had to be passed on.
Hoping I wouldn’t wake the neighbours, I rapped lightly on the door. I didn’t feel nervous, as much as anxious and determined to complete my mission. Chin lifted, I waited for a minute, maybe two. Eventually stepping back, I glanced up at the drawn curtains. Would George be deeply asleep after the late night and wine? I pushed that thought away; no good would come of contemplating my clumsy kiss, but it came back in Technicolour the instant he stood at his threshold. Wearing a T-shirt and boxers, he looked tired and ruffled and handsome, but most of all surprised. The situation was so absurd that part of me wanted to dryly laugh. But if he thought I was a bunny-boiler or that I’d finally lost the plot completely, he didn’t show it. Instead he stood back and let me in without a word.
‘Sorry for the early call, but I’ve come to give you this,’ I said, holding out the diary. ‘It’s yours.’
He didn’t reply. Instead, he took my offering and studied the cover. He was noting the year; he knew what it meant.
I turned to leave; I had done the necessary. Time to return to The Lodge and face the reality of clearing it out with a view to selling it PDQ.
‘Ali.’ George caught my forearm. ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘I’ll put on the kettle.’
It was the first time he’d reached out to me and I almost smiled at the irony, but this wasn’t a funny occasion. Instead I followed him into the cool cottage.
As though lost, he raked his hair, then put his treasure down on the cloth-covered table. ‘Tea,’ he said. ‘I’ll make tea.’
Scooping Joe from his seat, I perched on the sofa and listened to the loud tick of the carriage clock. George eventually returned with two mugs, sat in his chair and glowered at the journal as though it might burst into flames.
‘How did you know?’ he asked after some time.
Laura’s comment from the funeral tumbled back: you always did squeeze your eyes so tightly shut… She was right; I had been almost wilfully blind about this. ‘It’s been in plain sight, staring me in the face since I met you. But it was a photograph of Laura that finally shook me to reality in the early hours of this morning.’ I smiled thinly. ‘I had bizarre dreams and then… Well, when I looked at her again, there you were. Same nose, same smile. Just different colouring.’
He glanced at me and sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said something that first night. Or at least the next day, but you were grieving for your mother, struggling with Joe. And besides, Eve had never told you or Laura; I didn’t know whether she’d want me to.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Eve and I had a long talk the first time we met, but after that, the subject wasn’t broached again. I think once she had acknowledged me, she wanted us to carry on as though we were strangers, or at least house owner and gardener. We spent time chatting over a cuppa when I was there and she’d occasionally give me a gift, but no more than she did for Nancy or Denise.’
I nodded. My grandpa’s watch; his grandpa’s watch.
His expression clouding, he was silent for a while. Then he cleared his throat. ‘I got the impression it was a painful memory for her, something she didn’t want to talk about or to dwell on.’ His jaw clenched. ‘Perhaps I reminded her of him, my father. Have you read it?’
‘No, I haven’t, but…’
His haunted look said it all: the fear of the unknown; the terror of finding out something dreadful, yet needing to know too. Though I couldn’t read his mind, the sensation was so familiar, I could almost taste it.
‘But there’s a letter inside. That’s all I’ve read. It’s none of my business, really. I brought it to you as soon as I could…’
I studied him as though for the first time. Tanned and angular, his features were classical, fine. Yes, a manly version of Laura in many ways, and Mum too, of course. This man was my brother. My half-brother, more accurately, yet still a blood relative. But now I was here, it didn’t feel even remotely tangible or real. I sensed no sibling connection; there was no sudden revulsion; he was still the guy I had kissed yesterday, the person I’d really liked.
His whole demeanour was so troubled I wanted to comfort him somehow, but my touch had repelled him and now I knew why. Instead, I smoothed my son’s hair and waited for him to speak.
‘After Ben died, I needed to get away. Emma and I couldn’t live together any more, so I decided to come down here. I didn’t have any firm plans, I just thought I’d find a way to meet Eve and see what she was like. It was my mother’s idea, actually. She thought it would give me some focus, help me to think about something other than Ben.’
He massaged his forehead. ‘My parents, they’re both great. I was adopted by good people. They were open and down to earth about it since we were toddlers. Both me and my sister. They even kept the names our birth mothers had given us.’
He paused. ‘Eve asked if I minded being called by a different name down here. She suggested George – same as your old gardener, I believe. Perhaps it was an odd request, but it helped, in a way. Distanced us from, well, the truth.’ He gave the slightest of smiles. ‘My real name is Oliver. Oliver Newman.’
Of course; the ‘glad we met again’ flowers on Mum’s grave.
‘As soon as I introduced myself, she knew. She studied me for some time, then said, “My Oliver?” and I said “yes”…’
He took a deep breath. ‘So that first time we had a coffee and she talked about it a little, but only about how sorry she was, how much she’d loved me and how painful it had been to give up her baby and…’ Something in his frown made me stiffen. ‘She said she’d made a promise to your father…’
Nodding, I said nothing. I didn’t like Dad being drawn into the story; I didn’t want him to be the villain. Perhaps George understood, as we fell quiet for some time.
‘Did you feel a… I don’t know, an attachment or a spark when you first met… Eve?’ I asked eventually.
‘Not really, no. I was content with my life until Ben died. I had loving parents, a happy childhood, I didn’t want for anything; I didn’t particularly need to find my natural parents. But after Ben… once Mum suggested it, it felt the right thing to do.’
‘And when you got to know her more…?’ I pressed.
He spread his hands, his big, safe hands. I was glad he wasn’t really called George, but I could never think of or call him Oliver. I’d shockingly discovered the man I had really fancied was my brother, and that was his name.
‘When I got to know her better, I just thought that Eve was a nice lady who loved her two daughters and missed her husband. There was no sudden bonding, why should there be? It was a newborn she gave up, a baby she missed, not a grown stranger. We never went beyond civilities, never got too intimate. When she asked me about my family, I told her I had solid parents and a sister.’ He paused. ‘And a son who’d died. But that’s as far as it went. I didn’t go into detail about my life and neither did she.’
Rising abrup
tly, he stepped over to the window and looked out. ‘This letter you’ve mentioned… Does it say who my father was?’ He turned, the tension tight in his cheeks. ‘Or how my conception happened?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, but you need to read it yourself. There isn’t much to it, I’m afraid,’ I said. I stood. ‘Maybe the diary will tell you more. I’ll leave you to it. Miles is coming this afternoon if he can get away.’
I left my brother scowling at our mother’s secret life. Would he open the diary? Or would it remain on the table, burning a hole in it forever?
Chapter Forty-One
As I drove back through the village, Mum’s missive rattled in my head. Though I’d only scanned it once and I felt awful for reading it, for invading her and George’s privacy, I knew the heartbroken words would stay with me forever:
I haven’t written anything in my diary this year because there’s nothing good to say. Except for you, my dear little boy, it has been the worst year of my life.
I have spent the last two months in a boarding house in Leeds, a stone’s throw from where it all began. But I’ve been content to spend time reading my books in the garden with you growing and thriving inside me.
You were born an hour ago and they have let me keep you with me for just a while. You took such a long time to come into this world but the pain was bearable because I knew the longer it took, the longer you would be with me. And here you are, a perfect baby boy.
My heart breaks to give you away but I have nothing to offer you but love. And if I’m honest, it takes more than just love. It takes a house and a home and clothes and the care of a good man. And that is what I have. I have a man who loves me with all his heart but that love can’t extend to you because you are not his and you’ll be a constant reminder of a terrible error of judgement that I will always hold myself responsible for.
It wasn’t until I was parked and unbelting Joe that I noticed Tom Hague, a forlorn figure amidst the rough wasteland beyond the sunken garden. He was looking towards the woods, the wind blowing his silver hair.