The Wave

by Virginia Moffatt

  I turn over to see if James is awake, but his sleeping bag is gone. He must be with Nikki somewhere. Lucky sod. Still, my earlier resentment has gone. Something good needs to come out of this. Somebody deserves something good to happen. I’m glad it is him. I’m glad it is them. I wish I had someone with me now, to talk to, to take the edge off the fear that’s building again. But it’s past two and I am alone. Everyone else must be asleep. I am alone in the night with the flap of the tent in the wind, the menacing roar of the ocean. I’m not sure why all those meditation tapes use the sound of the sea to relax – tonight the noise of crashing waves feels like a threat. I am exhausted but I cannot sleep now. I am too anxious. I switch on the lamp. My copy of The Humans is beside me. I finished it just before dropping off. A satisfying end to a great book that will stay with me for a long time. Well, would have stayed with me if I had a chance of living beyond tomorrow. The book falls open and I pick up my torch and read, ‘If there is a sunset, stop and look at it. Knowledge is finite. Wonder is infinite.’ Perhaps it’s a sign that I should go out and look at the stars. Fuck it, it’s better than staying in this tent, tossing and turning.

  I grab a jumper and jacket and step out onto the beach. To my disappointment, the night is cloudy, the moon only partially visible. As for stars, I can see a few dotted about, but most are obscured. So much for seeing the wonders of the cosmos one last time. I stand, uncertain what to do for a moment. I don’t want to go back to bed; perhaps a walk would help. I grab a beer and a bar of chocolate for sustenance, aware of voices speaking quietly. Heading up the beach I notice James and Nikki have found themselves a spot under the cliff. Not for the first time, I wish I had someone to be that intimate with, to help me keep the fear away. Before I wallow in my own misery, my phone begins to buzz with Facebook notifications. Lots of them. Oh fuck. The trolls have found Margaret. The Dowetha page is full of horrible comments. It doesn’t matter that I’d thought the same as some of them earlier. I, at least, had a justification. I’m stuck here with no way out. I had every right to be angry with Margaret. But these sick bastards are sitting at home in safety. They don’t know her, have no understanding of what she had to do and aren’t going to be harmed by that decision anyway. Instead of being sympathetic to her for the awful situation she is in, they pile insults and death threats on her. Why do they have to be so vile?

  I’m wondering what to do about them when I see Margaret and Poppy coming towards me. I don’t intend to mention the posts, but somehow, when they reach me, I can’t stop myself, I blurt it out. Poppy frowns at me, but it is too late, Margaret has heard and I am forced to explain. It dawns on me as I speak that only one of us could have made the connection between that photo and the stories in the media. I can’t think which one. Even though we were all angry with her, I don’t think any of us would be that vindictive, The only person I can think of is …

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past Harry,’ says Poppy. Me neither. I knew he was an arsehole. This proves it. I wish I had his number so I could tell the bastard what I think of him, but then I think what good would that do?’

  I’m tempted to ask the women to walk with me, enjoy the night for a while, but I can see they are exhausted. It would be selfish to ask them to come with me. I say goodnight again and continue up to the car park. I could walk along the cliffs, but the pounding waves are too much of a reminder of tomorrow. I decide to walk along the road that Margaret and I drove along earlier this evening, or technically last night, because we are already in the tomorrow that ends today. I walk purposefully, as if I have somewhere to go because that is easier than acknowledging that nothing I do really matters now, that there’s very little I can achieve in the hours that remain.

  The hedges seem higher on foot. The moon has disappeared behind black clouds, I take out my phone and put on the flashlight to guide my way. The night is full of rustlings: the wind in the grass, small creatures in the bushes, sheep walking through the fields. I walk and walk, until at after about a mile I reach a footpath. I am sick of the road, so I climb over onto a path, that leads to a small mound. The wind catches my breath as I make my way to the summit just as the moon reappears, lighting the ground around me. At the top, I sit, take the beer and chocolate out of my pocket and gaze out across the fields. I can just make out the sea beyond, a black strip beneath the horizon. The clouds are breaking up, revealing the stars behind them. I lie back on the damp ground, gazing upwards as more and more stars appear. I’d swear I can see millions, though I recently read somewhere that it’s only about 4,000. It doesn’t really matter how many there are though, because they are magnificent, and the sight of the sky is glorious and fills me a hope that I don’t have any right to and the same joy I experienced in my dream. The familiar constellations dance across the sky, reminding me there is time to wonder, even now.

  I am still here. I am still alive. Tomorrow is a long time away.

  Margaret

  The wind wakes me and for a moment, I think I am on a camping trip with Hellie. Then Shelley rolls over and I see the long blonde hair tumbling out and remember. Dear God, in a few hours’ time I will be dead. We will all be dead. Even so, I’m tired and I want to go back to sleep, but the flapping of the tents is irritating and I’d like to know if Kath has replied. Bugger, there’s no signal. I should try and get back to sleep, but the thought that she might have responded is more pressing. It is enough to have me scramble out of my warm sleeping bag, throw some clothes on and step out into the night air.

  The signal kicks in halfway up the beach. There’s a message from Kath. My mouth is dry. I sit on the sand to steady myself. It is damp and cold, but I barely notice, I am too intent on scrolling through the words slowly, reading them and re-reading them in the vain hope they will say something different.

  Dear Margaret,

  You certainly have some nerve. Last time we spoke, you told me I was selfish, like my dad. That I’d always been selfish. That you didn’t want to be part of our family any more. You walked away. YOU WALKED AWAY. Not a bloody word for years and now this devastating news. I didn’t even know you were in Cornwall. You left without a trace. And here you are offering your patronising forgiveness in the hope I’ll care for your family after you’ve gone. Your apology, such as it, doesn’t even stop to reflect on the hurt you caused me. And now you want me to be there for Hellie and the kids? How dare you.

  But that’s always been your trouble, hasn’t it, St Margaret? You always have loved the moral high ground, didn’t you? You and your dad, judging me and mine always …

  You said we abandoned Grandma, but we didn’t. I know you saw a lot of her when you moved but you hadn’t lived with her over the previous years as we did. Maybe it was old age or the beginnings of a tumour, but she was so cantankerous. We stopped having her over for lunch because she was always so rude to Mum …

  Grandma … Rude? That can’t be right.

  We tried to keep going round, but I can’t tell you the amount of times she told us to go away, and all she ever talked about was you.

  I am about to protest at this, but I have a sudden flashback of Grandma telling me that I was the only one who really cared about her, that the others never came. I took her at her word, never thought to question it. Had I been wrong all this time?

  As for the house, she gave it to me. She told me loads of times that she wanted me to have it. She always said you were the kind of person to make your own way in the world, that you didn’t need possessions or houses to make you feel happy. But she knew I was different, I needed security. And I loved the place. You may not have liked the way we redecorated, but it doesn’t mean I did it out of disrespect. You think we were pulling the wool over Grandma’s eyes – we weren’t. We knew she couldn’t come home, we were trying to protect her, pretending nothing had changed so she didn’t have to worry.

  Oh Lord, am I wrong about this too?

  Don’t believe me? Well I’m still here, living out her legacy, loving her house whilst you preten
d you have the better relationship because of some damned cookery book.

  Damn you, damn you, damn you.

  The answer is no.

  Kath.

  I put my phone down as I stare out into the darkness, listening to the rush of the waves, back and forth, back and forth. I can still feel the impact of Kath’s fury. All these years, I’ve been so convinced I was right about what happened, that mine was the story that was true, the one that mattered. I had never stopped to consider it from her perspective. And while, I think her version is coloured by how much she adored Uncle Eric, I have to admit, she has a point. I didn’t see how things were with Grandma. I was young, I didn’t understand then, as I do now, how ill health and old age can change the way people behave. Oh Kath, I’m so sorry. I got this so wrong. I have to let her know, I understand. She may reject me again, but I can’t leave things like this, and Hellie will need her. I type out a reply immediately.

  Dearest Kath,

  You are right. I have gone about this all the wrong way. Forgive me for not being in touch for so long – for waiting for you to make the first move. For leaving it till this crisis forced my hand. For making the mistake of thinking there was plenty of time to put things right between us.

  You are right. I have misjudged you. I had no idea that Grandma had behaved like that to you. Otherwise I’d have never said what I did. Forgive me. I walked away because I was angry and hurt. I didn’t look back because I thought you’d chase after me. I was so sure I was right. I thought I could live without you. I was wrong.,I need you. But more importantly Hellie, who doesn’t deserve to be caught up in our fight, needs you.

  You may think these are the meaningless words of a dying woman, who is offering too little too late. Perhaps they are. But please don’t punish Hellie for my mistakes. You love her. I know you do. Do it for her. Please.

  I hope, one day, you’ll look back and remember me with love and affection. Please believe me, when I say that is how I remember you.

  Margaret.

  I press send. It probably won’t make any difference and it is unlikely Kath will see it till the morning now, but it’s better than doing nothing. I look out across to the black sea. Tomorrow the spot I am standing on will lie under a hundred feet of water. Afterwards – though how long afterwards no one has said – when the ocean finally retreats, the beach below will be the sole witness to the destruction. Huts, cars, boats strewn across the shoreline in its wake. It is still hard to imagine that I won’t walk away from this, that my body will lie somewhere among the debris, waiting to be identified. What a terrible legacy to leave Hellie … My phone buzzes. There’s only one person who would call me at this time, only one person I’d want to speak to.

  ‘Mum … I was hoping you’d be awake.’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Me neither.’ I try to find … not the right words, for there are none, but the best words I can. Hellie is quiet for a moment, and then her wail floods the phone, ‘Oh Mum!’ Last time I heard her express such pain, was the day she had appendicitis. Five-year-old Hellie, screaming at the top of her voice, as I drove as fast as I could, steeling myself not to feel the cries as I made pointless soothing noises that were the only way I could let her know I was trying my best. Tonight, the torrent of sobs fills me with the same sense of helplessness, the knowledge that there are limits to the protection a parent can offer her child. All I can do is offer the same meaningless noises until the tears subside and Hellie is able to speak again.

  ‘Sorry, Mum … Last thing you needed.’

  I can hear music above me; someone must be in the car park. Poppy, maybe? I look at my watch, half past two. ‘It’s wonderful to be so loved.’

  ‘You’ll start me off again.’ Hellie’s voice wobbles.

  ‘Try and get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning. Everything is always better in the morning.’ Hellie’s laugh is weak; I always say that, and I’m usually right, though how it can possibly be true in these circumstances is anyone’s guess. We say good night for the second, the last time, and then it is my turn to scream silently to the skies. To God. The Universe. Life. For ripping me away before I am ready. Without being able to hold my daughter ever again. It’s not fair, I think, as the emotion drains away, leaving me with my other parental truism – Life never is. And, on the whole, I’ve had a good life, even the bad bits can’t outweigh that fact. I must remember to tell Hellie this in the morning.

  I should go back to bed, but Hellie’s phone call has unsettled me. I cannot face going back to my tent. Above me I can hear the Carpenters on the radio. I might as well investigate, and if it is Poppy up there, maybe I’ll have the chance to clear the air with her. I arrive at the car, to find it is her, she is crumpled over the wheel sobbing. I knock on the window. For a minute, I think she’s going to tell me to go away, but she lets me in as ‘Sweet Caroline’ comes on the radio.

  ‘My mother’s favourite song,’ she says through her tears.

  ‘Ah … What’s the matter?’

  She cries even harder, the sobs causing her body to shake. It is natural for me to reach out to her, let her rest her head on her shoulder, as the tears tumble. For a moment, I can pretend my daughter is with me after all. I hold her tightly, drawing comfort from her warmth and her need. It is better than being alone with my own fears.

  I close my eyes. The words of a prayer come to me, ‘O, God come to our aid’. I used to find it reassuring on the long nights after Richard died, when I’d say the office to myself to get me through till morning. I repeat the words over and over again, though tonight I have no confidence the prayer will be answered. Still, it has a soothing effect on me, and somehow I transmit this to Poppy. Eventually she stops crying and breaks away. She seems embarrassed by her show of emotion, and I can see the distrust of me returning in her eyes. I am sick of explaining it, but I try again. I cannot bear that she, who has done so much to make the best of this situation, still thinks badly of me. I listen and though I’m not sure she believes me, at least she has stopped being hostile. And when I ask what’s bothering her, she tells me – well, some of it, anyway. She talks about her former girlfriend and how they are estranged but she seems reluctant to say why. I don’t like to push it, so I don’t ask, simply grateful that she is letting me in.

  Poppy yawns, I follow suit, time to go back and catch what sleep we can. I’m feeling almost content until we run into Yanwho blurts out that people have been leaving nasty comments about me on Facebook. I feel sick. Why would they do that? Who gets so angry that they post vile statements about a stranger on social media?

  ‘It’s just a few idiots,’ says Poppy, ‘I’ll put them right in the morning.’ I am touched by the fierceness in her voice, her willingness to defend me. It is all the proof I need that I am forgiven. And as I climb back into my sleeping bag, it crosses my mind that perhaps my prayer was answered after all.

  James

  The wine is half drunk. After the sadness and terror of earlier, the world is as peaceful as I can hope for now. With my arm round Nikki, her head leaning on me, sheltered from the wind by the rocks, I can almost believe in our future. A while ago we saw Poppy leaving her tent and, soon after, Margaret. They both headed to the car park. The wind has grown in strength, it whips the waves so they crash into a mass of white foam on the shore. The tide is going out and the path round to the cave is beginning to emerge again. The night has clouded over, and the sky is darker, but I am not afraid. I feel warm and safe. We have not spoken for a while, but now, as Nikki passes her mug for a top up, she says, ‘Tell me about your ex, then.’ I pour us both a drink, staring into the dark liquid in my cup. ‘That’s if … if you want to,’ she adds. I take a gulp of wine. ‘Difficult to know where to start.’ I take my arm away and lean forward, looking ahead at the dark waters; somehow it feels easier not to look at her.

  ‘Have you ever had the experience of wanting something, someone, so badly that everything else fades in comparison?’

  �
��Can’t say I have, no.’

  ‘If I say she is the artist known as Lisa Lusk, you might have a clue.’

  ‘Her?’ Nikki splutters.

  ‘You see the attraction?’

  ‘If you like super-skinny, over made-up white girls,’ Nikki snorts, and adds, ‘Well, I suppose there’s something behind the foundation.’

  ‘There is, there was. I met her on the pub circuit, before she went all indie techno on me, in the days where her image was more flowing skirts and bright colours than elaborate make-up and fantastic costumes. We were both in groups which were going nowhere, and one day, after a gig, we got talking, and decided to join forces.’

  I continue to stare out to sea, turning my cup round in my hands, remembering that night back by the fireside in the King’s Arms. I can almost hear the crackle of the flames, smell the smoke, see Lisa leaning towards me. For a moment I hesitate, and then it all pours out. How she talked about her dreams for the future, her eyes shining as she touched my arm to emphasize her points. How she invited me to form a duo and I returned home, unable to believe my luck. How, in the next blissful months, I raced through the days, living for the evenings in the shed in her back garden where we rehearsed, the nights in pubs where we sang to tiny audience until, one Saturday I walked her home in the pouring rain. And how, outside the tiny Victorian cottage she shared she drew me towards her and invited me inside because her friend Daisy was away. How we got as far as the staircase before tearing our clothes off, making love in a messy, frenzied tumble, ignoring the friction burns from the carpet, the discomfort of the stairs, caught in the moment. And how, from that day onwards, every waking moment was spent thinking about her.

  I pause as, below us a tent unzips. It is Yan. Only Shelley is left sleeping. Yan lumbers off up to the top of the cliff. I take a deep breath, it is hard to talk about the point at which it all went so badly wrong. I refused to admit to myself the signs that were there right from the start. Lisa always asked me to leave before dawn and, even when we were seeing each other regularly, we never went out with her friends. She began to critique my performance making it clear she was the one with talent and I was lucky to be in her presence. She started to experiment with music I hated, and began to cut me out of rehearsals. But I was besotted with her, so I put up with all of that just to spend an hour or two in her company. Then one day, she announced she was leaving for London, just like that, no discussion, no suggestion I might come too, and though she never exactly said this was it, it soon became clear that it was over when she stopped texting. Soon after that she burst onto the pop scene with a look and sound so far removed from the woman I had been with that I realized I had never known her at all. The knowledge had crushed me, leaving me in such a state of such despair that for a while I abandoned everything I loved – music, going to the pub, seeing friends – because, after all, what was the point? And even though it’s been eighteen months, she still has the capacity to stop me in my tracks, as she did with that text. I begin to cry, not the hard, painful sobs I cried in the cave, but sad, slow tears, at my own stupidity, the time I wasted on her, the fact I let her still affect me …