The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  ‘Hello!’ I said, letting her in. ‘Thank you so much for helping out at such short notice. He’s just been fed so…’

  Her eyes glowing, she made a beeline for Joe. ‘Look at you, all smart in your sailor suit. Your granny was clever to buy the perfect size. What a beautiful boy you are. The spit of your grandad, you are. I can see it, I can!’

  ‘Isn’t he just?’ a voice said from outside.

  I turned in surprise. Wearing a flat cap, Tom Hague was stepping in, his attention fixed on his wife. Gently pulling her back by the shoulders, he patted his own earlobe. ‘You forgot the earrings, love. Can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Oh, so I have.’ Pulling the clasps from her ears, Joan slid the dangly pearls into the pocket of her slacks.

  ‘Littl’un might pull,’ Tom explained with a shrug. He was smiling amiably but the image it conjured made me shudder. I could clearly picture Joe with one in his chubby fist, putting the shiny stones to his mouth. Oh God, was I doing the right thing? But I couldn’t change my mind now and suddenly send them away; it would look odd and offend them.

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours but…’ Trying to breathe through my anxiety, I gestured to the baby rice packet. ‘I’ve just fed him now, so he’ll be fine until his lunch. Two or three teaspoons mixed with the formula in the fridge should see him through until I’m back, but if he gets unsettled, there’s a bottle and the rest of the box. Oh and everything you’ll need to change him is right here in this bag…’

  Seeming to read my mind, Tom patted my shoulder. His eyes twinkling, he lifted his iPhone. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Alice. There’s two of us and this newfangled thing called a mobile phone. A few hours to yourself is allowed. Now off you go and have fun.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  As I marched down the shortcut, I felt ridiculously light without a papoose or a pram. Guilty and hyper too, like I was bunking off school. I was running a little late, and as I approached the leafy entrance to the Petersfield Hotel, I couldn’t spot George. A blend of disappointment and relief clenched my chest. He’d stood me up or had second thoughts, and it was probably just as well. But after a moment he emerged from the shadows, nodded and crossed the street. My heart whipping, I followed, tapping down the wooden steps which led to a boardwalk tangled with knotweed and roots. After a few paces, he stopped and turned.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Just a bit anxious about Joe. He’s with the Hagues.’

  George raked his hair. ‘We can go back for him if you like, but when I thought about it before bed… Well, he should really wear a lifejacket.’

  Ah, so he’d suggested I come without Joe for his safely. The tinge of disappointment was replaced by the memory of Friday night’s drowning dream. George was absolutely right. Though wearing mine had taken the shine off a river adventure, it had made me feel secure. Joe was far safer with Joan and Tom than with me on the water; I should have thought of that myself.

  ‘You’re right; thank you.’

  ‘Watch where you’re treading. It gets soggy further on.’

  He held out a hand and I took it, his grasp firm as the aromas and the path became oozy, the wooden planks sunken. Dodging wispy grasses and bushes, we reached a small fishing boat. Something tugged at a memory and I finally looked up. Moored up at the Bureside jetty, Sylvette was in full view.

  I found my voice. ‘I know this place. I didn’t realise until…’ I nodded to the lush vegetation. ‘It’s so overgrown these days, I didn’t recognise it. This was our cut. The one we used for our motorboat.’

  ‘Makes sense. The land belongs to Tom Hague and he lets me use it…’ He squinted. ‘Everything OK?’

  The shiver was there. Incestuous, I thought, entirely without irony. Perhaps village life wasn’t so comfortable after all.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Catch,’ he said, throwing over his rucksack. Leaning across the canvas hood of his boat, he dusted off leaves, then untied the ropes with practised fingers.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said again, stepping in.

  George manoeuvred the vessel from its mooring, started the engine and turned left at the intersection. Though my vocabulary seemed stuck, memories flowed as I inhaled the old aromas: the zest of petrol, the tang of stagnant fish, the citrus perfume of water lilies.

  He eventually spoke, the hint of a smile lighting his face. ‘I thought we could try Ranworth. See if we can spot the ghost.’

  I felt the tension ease from my shoulders. We had talked about Ranworth Broad during Friday’s ‘dinner date’. Focusing on the myth rather than that excruciating night, I smiled too. The mere was said to be haunted by a twelfth-century monk who rowed across the still water in the early morning mist. I’d been there with Dad several times, and though I remembered the imposing church, I had never climbed its tower.

  I’d first read about the fable in a collection of stories called Ghosts of the Broads. Both fearful and thrilled, I’d spent hours pawing the book in the post office, gazing at the blurry photographic evidence and feeding my certainty that phantoms did exist. Laura bought me a copy that last summer and stashed it away for my birthday. It would have been the most thoughtful present ever, but Dad had died by then.

  Focusing on the here and now, I took in my carriage. Though far from new, the boat was clean, had a wheel and a padded bench, so I sat back like royalty and absorbed the old landmarks as we chugged along – the Ferry Marina, the petrol station and windmill, the pretty thatched cottages and tall, swaying reeds. The river valley soon opened out to the lakes.

  George eventually cut the engine and dropped anchor. ‘I thought the outer broad to take in the scene. Is it as you remember?’

  I glanced around. The visitor centre was already bustling in the distance, but we were surrounded by shades of dappled green. Save for a dull whistle through the trees, the air was silent, the water tranquil. ‘Yes. Beautiful.’

  ‘It really is,’ he replied. He dug in his rucksack. ‘Here you go,’ he said, lobbing over a foil-wrapped item. ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I had avoided looking at him until now. Without yesterday’s beard, his skin looked smooth and tanned, his eyes sapphire blue. God, he really was an attractive man.

  ‘Budge up then,’ he said. ‘I hope you like mustard.’

  He was clearly at ease, so I relaxed too. ‘I’ll eat anything if someone else has prepared it,’ I replied, hitching along the seat.

  Expecting a wad of butter, I took a hungry bite. My eyes immediately stung and I sneezed. ‘Ah, sorry,’ he said with a smile. ‘Too much of a good thing? That’s the trouble with living alone; I think I’ve become desensitised. Must try harder.’

  Maybe his ‘must try harder’ had a ring of permanence to it, but I suddenly felt both happy and shy. Accepting a piece of kitchen roll, I blew my nose, then went back to my sandwich.

  ‘Sleep OK?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘And you? Did you think about it?’

  He turned and looked at me solidly. ‘About?’

  ‘Mr Lang from the Post Office, of course.’

  Feeling hotter than the mustard, I turned to the mere, spotted a duck and tossed in a crust. A whole team darted from nowhere, buffeting the glassy water as they competed to reach it.

  ‘You’ve gone and done it now,’ he said, chucking in more bread. When the mallards had had their fill, he poured tea from a flask and passed me the cup.

  Conscious of his long, muscled thigh next to mine, I inwardly groaned. I had to stop thoughts like that, stop the instinctive urges to stare at his chiselled face and lithe body. I had to bloody replace the word ‘man’ with ‘brother’.

  He laughed and I blew out the panic. It took two to tango and this weird GSA illness had clearly only infected me.

  ‘Who’d have thought a Yorkshire lad would end up having a boat on the Norfolk broads?’ he was saying. ‘Especially one called Ruby Jane.’

&nbs
p; His insouciance was contagious. I elbowed him. ‘Ah, so little Ruby Jane was your first crush. Primary school, aged eleven?’

  ‘Nope; that was Sara Dyson. Ruby was already named, but I like it.’

  ‘Wonder how she gets on with the twelfth-century ghost?’

  ‘Frighteningly well, apparently.’ He motioned to the thatched visitor centre. ‘Shall we swot up? Have you got time?’

  I thought of the Hagues and their kind, eager faces. They probably wouldn’t need to use the bottle, and even if they did, formula milk wouldn’t be the end of the world. ‘Don’t rush back!’ Tom had called after me. ‘Having Joe to ourselves is a treat for us too.’

  Contentment frothed in my chest. ‘Yes, absolutely, let’s do it.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  George moored in a space between two handsome boats. He took my hand to help me out, then tugged me towards the church. ‘Cathedral of the Broads first?’ he asked. ‘Fourteenth-century, I believe. I haven’t had the chance yet.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  At the entrance I bent down to tie my trainer laces. When I caught him up, he was reading an old handwritten notice. ‘Fancy a bit of exercise?’ he asked. ‘Eighty-nine uneven steps, two ladders and one trap door, apparently.’

  Remembering my disorientation at the top of Stalham steeple, I swallowed. Would I still have a fear of heights? ‘Surely the ancient books of psalms would be more fun?’

  He laughed. ‘Very droll. We can’t come to Ranworth and not see the views from the tower. Are you up for it?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  He dropped a ten-pound note in the donation box, then put his palm in the small of my back as I went ahead for our ascent. I was fine at first, but as we climbed higher, the enclosed spiral staircase began to feel claustrophobic. Too embarrassed to say anything, I hugged the rough wall and continued to lift my heavy feet, but my breathing became fast and shallow; my heart thrashed. When the old taste of panic seeped in, I tried to go on, but my limbs wouldn’t let me, so I suddenly stopped. George collided into me, and we both wobbled, but he put an arm around my waist just in time to stop us tumbling back.

  Leaning against the stone, he steadied us. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, lowering my head. ‘Feel a bit… Just give me a minute.’

  ‘OK.’

  When the dizziness had passed and I’d straightened myself, he turned me towards him with firm hands. ‘Better now?’ His face was so close I could smell his shampoo. For a beat, then another, he didn’t move. Then he blinked, stepped back and smiled. ‘Maybe give the view a miss, eh? Can you make it down? I can offer a fireman’s lift…’

  I puffed out the trapped air and my tingling nerves. For those few seconds I’d thought he would kiss me. But the moment – and my panic – had passed, thank goodness.

  ‘Hmm, how gallant,’ I said. ‘Not sure hanging me upside down would be a good move right now. You lead and I’ll follow.’

  Though he went in front for our descent, he held a hand above his shoulder. I took it and we eventually reached the bottom. We soon hit bright sunshine, but he didn’t release his tight grip. Instead he led me to the staithe. ‘Better keep an eye on the time,’ he said.

  * * *

  Back on my bench seat, I watched the glinting ridges in the water as we headed for home. After a few minutes, I dared my eyes to George at the wheel. What was going through his mind? His profile was still and thoughtful, the wind blowing his hair.

  He turned. ‘Fancy a go?’

  My mouth shaped the words I’d been saying all morning. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  In truth, I wasn’t sure about anything.

  He stood to one side. ‘If we moor in the village, we could have a coffee at the cottage before you get back to Joe,’ he said eventually, his gaze fixed ahead. ‘What do you think?’

  Keeping the wheel steady, I peered at the unfathomable, dark water. What, exactly, did he mean by ‘coffee’? There had been a bolt of something between us in the tower, hadn’t there? Did he feel the pull, the connection, the attraction too? Or was it my imagination? Did coffee simply mean coffee?

  My throat dry, the inevitable words came out. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  The journey went too quickly and before I could even think, let alone take stock, we’d moored beyond the Swan Inn, tied up Ruby Jane, then taken the path through the yacht club. Our knuckles touched as we walked. When the cottage was in view, he stopped and turned to me.

  ‘Look… Just a drink will be nice.’ His eyes cloudy, he seemed to search for what he wanted to say. ‘A chat, a few minutes of privacy. Just you and me.’ Smiling thinly, he raked his hair. ‘An odd thing to say when we’ve spent the last hour and a half together but—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I quickly interrupted. ‘I’d like that too.’

  But he spread his arms and peered at me intently. ‘I’ve no idea what’s happening here, but I don’t feel like a bad person. The opposite, in fact. It’s like I’ve woken up. I’m alive, exhilarated, complete, whole. And that’s down to you, Ali.’ His smile spread. ‘You’re a complete liability, of course, but you’re charming and funny and complicated. I really enjoy your company.’ He gestured to his home. ‘I’d like to stretch it out a bit longer, that’s all. Hold your hand, hold you – is that wrong?’

  I usually ran away from men and emotion, but the moment was so compelling, I couldn’t have moved if I’d tried. ‘No; I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ His earnest gaze didn’t falter. ‘I don’t know where we’re going, but if you ever change your mind about anything, you must tell me. Promise?’

  I kicked the dusty gravel. ‘I promise, I will.’ Then I laughed. ‘I am thirsty, as it happens. Though if your mustard sandwiches are anything to go by…’

  He grinned. ‘Weak coffee it is.’

  We ambled to the cottage, but at the gate he stopped abruptly. His front door was ajar. ‘Oh,’ he said with a puzzled frown. Pushing it wide, he called, ‘Hello?’

  A solid woman with cropped grey hair and glasses appeared. She dried her hands, threw the tea towel over her shoulder and nodded to me with a genial smile.

  ‘I thought I saw you two by The Swan just now.’

  Standing on tiptoes, she kissed George’s cheek. ‘Hello, you.’ Then she tutted. ‘You haven’t been answering your mobile. Having too much fun on the river is my guess. Still, I’ve given the cottage a good clean.’ Her eyes sparkling through the lenses, she turned to me. ‘And who’s this then?’

  George didn’t reply. He simply looked at me, bewildered, lost.

  ‘Hi, I’m Ali,’ I said to fill the silence.

  The woman stared, briefly taking my outstretched hand before dropping it. Her warmth had set to steeliness. ‘You must be Oliver’s sister then,’ she said.

  I had no words. Her description chilled me, despite the hot sun. How did she know who I was? I was Ali, just Ali.

  Realisation cracked like an egg. The person who’d persuaded George to find Eve. He’d have kept her updated. Finding his birth mother and her death, then meeting her daughter, Ali.

  ‘And you must be Oliver’s mother,’ I replied.

  Chapter Fifty

  Like a film on pause, time stood still. Then someone pressed play and the characters moved. But the brightness had dimmed, irrevocably.

  Seeming to shake himself awake, George spoke. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Stay and have a cup of tea with us.’

  Needing to bolt and desperate not to cry, I shook my head and stepped back. ‘Thank you, but I’ve just noticed the time so…’

  I had no idea how his mother knew about the sexual chemistry we’d felt in that tower, but she did.

  George reached out. ‘You don’t need to go, Ali.’ But he said it half-heartedly; his voice sounded as defeated as his expression.

  ‘Thank you, but I need to get back to Joe. Thanks for a lovely trip,’ I said.

  Holding my head high, I managed to walk until I was out of sight.
Then I ran, my trainers beating the dry pavement. The people I passed seemed to look at me coolly and I felt judged – for leaving my baby at home, for spending a morning delighting in the river. For whatever might have begun at the cottage.

  By the time I reached The Lodge, my lungs were fit to burst, so I slowly strolled to the side door to catch my breath. Joan Hague was perched at the kitchen table, absorbed in a novel. She jumped when she noticed me.

  ‘You’re back! Did you have a nice time?’ she asked, slipping the book into her shopper. Then after a beat, ‘Is everything alright, love?’

  Her voice sounded more northern than I remembered. Like a sparrow, she cocked her head, her eyes shiny and knowing behind her thick glasses. Her bun had slightly fallen to one side and with a jolt, I realised it wasn’t real. Had it always been a hairpiece? And beneath her powdered cheeks, her skin was so pale. Right now she resembled one of her ‘sleepy-eyed’ antique dolls.

  I wanted to slap my own head. She was old, of course, at least ten years older than Mum, and I’d left her in charge to have a date with my brother.

  Reaching out a bony hand, she took mine with a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Tom’s still with Joe in his bedroom. Both of them fast asleep by now, I should think. They’ve had such a lovely morning – a long walk here and there, then building a tower with bricks, and a bungalow. Well, Tom would, wouldn’t he? Little Joe’s been very happy.’ She nodded to the sink. ‘We gave him few teaspoons of baby rice a while back, like you said.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Surprised Tom had been the main childminder, I gave her a hug. I’d always thought of her as a big lady, and she was still large-boned, but she felt fragile too, the skin on her arms dry and speckled. Sniffing back the emotion, I held on for a moment longer; my own mother might have been like this one day, but she’d been taken away before her time. Finally stepping back, I registered why Joan’s scent was so appealing. It was Chanel, the same as Mum’s.