The Wave

by Virginia Moffatt

  Seren. Will she give me a second thought after tomorrow? Will she speak about me her to friends as the person who committed the unforgivable crime? Or the person who had good in her, despite her failings? I will never know. Perhaps I don’t deserve to either. There’s no use brooding, though. What’s done is done, and I can’t be sure, even knowing what I do now, that faced with the same choice, I wouldn’t do the same thing again. And now I am so close to the end, I can admit to myself the truth that I could never share, even when I was trying to be honest with her. It wasn’t just lack of money, my parents’ dying that motivated me, though that was part of it. Sitting here, with only myself to answer to, I have to admit that I enjoyed it. The secrecy, the power it gave me over people, the way my employers valued my work. I regret it, not because it was wrong, but because I lost Seren. I have to admit it: I enjoyed it while it was happening, whatever I said to her. I enjoyed it. I would probably do it again.

  The wind ruffles my hair and I am reminded of the moment I came to the beach yesterday, wondering if anyone would come. At least I can say I made this happen. At least, I did this good thing too.

  James and Nikki have finished their Skype call; they hand me back the iPad and leave me to compose one final post. I scroll through the messages, too many to respond to, and then, seeing the time, begin to type as fast as I can. I’m not even sure why, really, just that I need to leave something of myself in the world before I leave it. And that every moment I type can stop me thinking about the terror that is to come.

  I am so absorbed in my typing, the others have to shout three times to get my attention. When I look up, the water is looming, a huge moving blue wall topped with frothing white foam. I jump up, and seeing the fear in everyone’s faces, throw my arms out, ‘Group hug.’ It’s silly but it works. We all laugh, and then gradually peel away, holding hands in the face of the oncoming water. ‘If you exist God, make it quick,’ I think. ‘For all our sakes, let this be over quickly. If you exist, at least, God, give us that.’

  Yan

  Everyone has broken apart. No one has said it, but we have less than twenty minutes. Instinctively, we are reaching for phones for one last conversation. I wander down the path so that I am out of earshot, and take my phone from out of my pocket. I stare at the screen; should I or shouldn’t I? What have I got left to say to her? Or her to me? And then, an image of Karo flashes into my mind. Karo in happier times, running along a cliff like this, stretching out her arms, declaring she wanted to live for ever. It was just before the end of the summer holidays. She was about to return to Oxford, to her golden life of academic success, rich with possibility, and I remember how I envied her the chances she would have. But then I remember too, how later that day, in the pub, she became more serious.

  ‘If this is the last time I see you,’ she’d said, ‘I’m glad we’ve had such a lovely time. I’m glad I’ve got such a lovely brother.’ I’d laughed it off at the time, and forgotten about it until the morning she died, when I understood that it was the last day she seemed truly happy, truly free. I’d needed that picture of her to blot out the bad pictures that followed: Karo ringing at midnight sobbing because no one liked her; Karo refusing to believe she was any good because she hadn’t got a first in her end of term exams. And near the end, monosyllabic on the phone and unwilling to see anything positive about her life. It occurs to me that I don’t want to leave Mum with an image like that. I owe her this phone call.

  ‘Mum, it’s me. Yan.’

  ‘I’ve been to church. Father Piotr and I prayed. We prayed so hard for you Yan.’

  ‘Thank you. I just wanted to ring to say …’ I stop. To say what? ‘That I’m fine. I’m scared. But I’m with good people. And my friends have just got married.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the clifftop.’

  ‘Without a priest?’

  ‘Not many to hand, Mum … I’m sure God won’t mind.’

  She mutters something incomprehensible, and then, ‘Better marry than burn.’ I smile wryly, that’s an endorsement of sorts …

  ‘I haven’t got long.’

  ‘It is kind of you to call. You’ve always been a good son to me.’

  I hadn’t expected that. Tears prick my eyes. I gaze at the horizon. The water has retreated, the seabed exposed for miles. I turn back towards the clifftop, where I can see Margaret walking towards the newlyweds. ‘I have to go, Mum. Take care. And … I love you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She sounds like she might be crying. ‘Tell Karo for me … tell her I’m sorry. She was a good girl.’

  Now I am crying too, I don’t care that anyone can see or that she can hear it. ‘I will, Mum. Goodbye.’

  ‘We’ll meet in heaven.’ I doubt it but I won’t argue now.

  ‘Goodbye.’ I hang up, and join the others. After we have hugged, I grab Margaret’s hand on one side and Poppy’s on the other. Funny how, yesterday the thought of Poppy had filled me with so much desire. Now, I am just glad to have a friend to hold on to. Margaret is praying, the Our Father. Whether it is the habit of childhood, or some need to reach out beyond me, I find that I am joining in, and for the first time in years, the words comfort. Margaret’s hand is strong like a mother’s and when I see the wave rushing towards across the sea, the squeeze reassures me. I close my eyes. I am on a beach, a long, long time ago. And I feel arms around me. The arms of my mother, lifting me to safety.

  Margaret

  The exuberance of the wedding lasts long enough for everyone to toast the happy couple with the remains of the white wine, warm from sitting in the sun. There are photographs of Nikki and James, Nikki and Shelley, James and Yan, then a kerfuffle with cameras as we pose on benches to take an automatic picture so everyone can get in. There are jokes about not standing too close to the edge. Laughter when a seagull flies into Poppy

  And then, gradually, the laughter quietens and we begin to separate as, instinctively, we sense the time has come to make final goodbyes. I ask Poppy to send a couple of pictures which I text to Hellie, saying, ‘Look at us!’ Then it is time to pick up the phone. I put the number in slowly, as if by doing so I can stop time altogether.

  ‘Hi, Hellie.’

  ‘Hi, Mum. I’ve got someone for you …’ She shuffles with the phone. ‘Gramma,’ Toby says. Margaret smiles. ‘Hello, Toby.’ He says nothing for a minute, then ‘Bye, Gramma’ and he is gone. Hellie returns.

  ‘Give him a hug for me and tell him thank you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Listen, then. I love you. I’m proud of you. You’re a great teacher, a good friend, wife, mother. Enjoy the life you have. Remember to be kind. Remember I’ve had a good life. It’s ended sooner than I hoped, but it has been a good life. Kath has your details. She’ll be in touch.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve made up.’

  ‘‘We’ve done as best as we could. Tell her I’m so sorry, that I always missed her …’ I pause, as I notice the beach; the sea has withdrawn exposing mudflats and rocks for miles. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Mum!’ Hellie cannot stop crying. This is too much.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Mum.’ In the background I can hear Toby calling, ‘Mummy!’

  ‘I think someone needs you.’

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Then I will.’ With a final goodbye, I cut the call off. Shelley calls out to me and when Poppy joins us we gather together for one final hug. We break apart. Poppy takes Yan’s hand, I take the other one and Shelley’s, who grabs James whose other arm is round Nikki. We stand hand in hand, gazing out to sea. Twenty years ago, I stood on a cliff near here, watching the shadow of the eclipse race across the ocean towards me, feeling like I was watching the end of the world. This time, as the water froths and rises rushing towards us, it really is.

  Death is coming. I am lucky I can look it in the eye. And now I know there is really nothing I can do, a calmness spreads over me. I squeeze Shelley and Yan’s ha
nds and begin to pray. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …’

  This then, is to be the hour of my death. Let it come. I am ready.

  James

  After the service and the pictures are done, we take Poppy’s iPad and sit on a bench and set up a joint Skype call with our parents. Nikki’s family answer first. As before, the four of them are sitting on the bed. Achebe, Nikki’s mum, speaks while we are waiting for my parents to pick up in Lusaka. Nikki introduces me and they all smile. ‘Welcome to the family,’ Osa says a with carefully controlled calmness. ‘We are very happy for you,’ agrees Achebe. ‘Rather you than me,’ says Ifechie, while Ginika manages a shy ‘Hello.’ Behind their smiles I can see their eyes are afraid so I am glad that my parents pick up. They are huddled together at their kitchen table, forced grins on their faces. We introduce everyone and there is a flurry of congratulations followed by an awkward silence.

  ‘It was a lovely ceremony,’ says Achebe presently.

  ‘Lovely,’ says Jill. The others nod and then fall silent again. This is disastrous. I am about to hang up when, somehow, Nikki manages to salvage it.

  ‘Mum and Dad, did you know Jill and Stu live in Lusaka?’

  ‘Do you? We honeymooned at Victoria Falls,’ says Achebe

  ‘We met in Lagos!’ cries Jill excitedly. And soon they are off, discussing the differences between East and South African cooking, why Nigeria has more renowned novelists than Zambia, and how post-colonial politics has shaped Africa. I grin at Nikki. ‘Look what you’ve started.’ And then my smile falters, because this is a conversation we should be part of, but once the call ends, we never will. It is hard to accept that I will never bring Nikki to sit in my parents’ kitchen, never meet Achebe and Ora in the flesh or befriend her siblings. That our parents will go on living without us, that we will not produce grandchildren or care for them as they get older. It isn’t right. Or fair. When it comes to say goodbye, I grab Nikki’s hand and squeeze it tight, turning my face away so as not to see the tears in everybody’s eyes. We hand the iPad back to Poppy who sits down on the bench and begins to type furiously.

  ‘Dance with me,’ I say to Nikki, my wife, my beautiful wife, as we walk a little distance away from the others, to the cliff edge.

  I pull her towards me, surprised to find my legs are shaking. Holding her calms me. I sing to her softly, closing my eyes, trying to enjoy the warm sun, the breeze, the murmur of the sea below. When the dance ends, I sigh. She says nothing, but I know she feels it too.

  ‘I’ve had a thought,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to be apart from you. We should link ourselves together.’

  ‘Good idea.’ She takes the sash from her dress and loops it through my belt hooks, tying it tight with a reef not.

  ‘There,’ she says, ‘you can’t get rid of me now. And then, in a softer voice, ’Look.’ Below us the sea is rushing back down the beach, beyond the low tide mark and off into the distance. ‘I suppose it was too much to ask.’ I nod and hold her closer. The others join us for one last hug, taking each other by the hand. I hold onto Shelley on one side and put my arm round Nikki. She leans into me. The wave is coming for us, and I am terrified. Yet still I am glad to be here, by her side.

  Nikki

  It is James’s idea to speak to our famiiles after the wedding. I think it is a good one, but when we connect with my side, all of us making an effort to be light, all I can think of is the distance between us. The gulf between life and death separates us: there is no way we can cross. When James’s parents join the call, it feels even worse; every attempt to speak is drowned out by the unspoken sorrow that is too hard for any of us to express. After Jill’s comment about the flowers, no one speaks for several minutes, we can hardly bear to look at each other, but nor can we bear to hang up. Come on, somebody speak … I avoid Jill and Stu’s eyes, and gaze at the wall behind them, taking in the pictures, and wall hangings, trying to gain a sense of who they are. In the far corner, I spot a tapestry of elephants and giraffes, laid out in red, black, brown and white. It reminds me of a similar picture in my grandparents’ home, and that both couples have more in common than we do. To my relief, when I mention that Jill and Stu live in Zambia, Mum and Dad are quick to respond. Soon they are chatting about books and politics and, for a brief moment, no one has a care in the world.

  James squeezes my hand in appreciation, gripping it tighter as the call comes to its inevitable end. Our faces are wet as we hand the iPad back to Poppy and walk towards the edge of the cliff.

  ‘Dance with me,’ he says, our first, our only dance, as a married couple. I lean into him, as he softly sings about forgetting the world. If only I could, if only we could … But when the dance is over, and I have railed against the unfairness of it all, I know I don’t want to be parted from him, so I tie myself to him with my sash. When I am done, I see the sea retreating and I know there is nothing I can do. I shout to the others. Margaret responds first, she points out the horizon and we can see the water rising, rising, rising, into a large blue mass topped with foam white breakers. Yan follows, then Shelley, who is clutching her phone and seems to be talking to someone. Poppy is still typing, but at last she puts it down and races towards Yan. ‘Group hug!’ she yells, and though it is cheesy it breaks the terror as we come together before breaking apart and standing hand in hand facing the sea. No one speaks. What is there left to say? James puts his arm around me and I half turn to him. My chest is pounding, my hands sweaty. Shelley takes his other hand, while Margaret on her other side begins to say the ‘Our Father’. I join in, finding the familiar prayer calming. There is nothing I can do to stop it, nothing I can do to survive. I am glad to be with James, but in the end, we are all alone here, as we stand together waiting for the wave to break.

  Harry

  I listen to Shelley sing over and over again. I always used to take the mick out of her dad’s folk singing, we both did. I thought she agreed with me that it was lame. I’d no idea she had it in her. It isn’t my kind of music but I’m surprised how much it affects me. It makes me feel sad, lonely, lost and loved all at once. I had no idea she could do that. Nor that it would make her so happy. I can’t remember when I last saw her smile the way she is smiling in the video. Why had she never told me she wanted to sing? It almost makes me feel sorry that she never told me. I’d have done anything for her then. If she’d only said she wanted to sing, I’d have made it happen, hired studios, found a producer, got her an agent. But it’s too bloody late now. Besides, why should I feel sorry for her, when she refused to come with me? If she’d been with me, none of this would have happened. She’d have reminded me about the petrol, made sure I didn’t sleep, shouted at me before I got to the rocks. It was her idea to stay on in Cornwall in the first place. If she hadn’t done that, I’d have finished my meetings and we’d have been home by now, far away from all of this.

  I switch off the phone and sit back against the rocks. The damp ground seeps into my trousers and the stones are sharp and dig into my skin – but so what? Very soon I’m hardly going to care about that. I hope when the wave comes, the force will be so strong it will knock me out straight away. Since I can’t change what’s about to happen, I will settle for over quickly. After what I’ve been through, I don’t need my agony prolonged.

  The water is wide …

  Fuck it! Shelley’s song has really got under my skin.

  I cannot get o’er …

  The words and music wash through me; suddenly I am drowning in memories of her. The night I first saw her in the club, entranced by her heady mix of innocence and worldliness. First thing in the morning, her hair tumbling over the pillow, before she’d tamed the curls into perfect straightness. Laughing at shared a joke in the pub. Making love early in the morning. I can’t leave it like this. I send her a text. Nothing too heavy, but enough to prompt a response, I hope.

  Thanks for the music. It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant.

  She doesn’t reply. I pull my knees
up, bury my head in them and grip them tightly. Last time I felt this alone, I was ten years old, hiding in my cupboard, trying to make sure Dad didn’t come anywhere near me. That time Val had come to my rescue; she can’t save me now. No one can.

  The phone rings; it is Shelley. She doesn’t say much, but it is enough to make me sob. Her voice is soothing and I am comforted by her suggestion to stay on the line. In the distance, I can see a column of water coming towards me. I stand up, clutching the phone to my ear. ‘I love you,’ I say. Her goodbye comes from a long way away. ‘Goodbye,’ I reply – and then the wave begins to break.

  Shelley

  After the ‘I love you’ from me to Dad, to Alison, and back again, there is nothing left to say. The silence hangs between us until there is no point keeping the line open. I hang up.

  A seagull sweeps above my head – awk, awk, awk – and moves on out to sea. My stomach tightens. I take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, salty air. The sky is the clearest I have ever seen it, a dazzling blue promise of the day to come. Even this early, I can feel the comforting warmth of the sun on my back, luring me into a false sense of hope that all will somehow, miraculously, be well.

  My phone buzzes, a text from Harry, thanking me for the video; he thinks the song is brilliant. All my fury at him disappears. Poor Harry. Stuck on a rock with no one by his side. All he was trying to do was to survive, and it’s admirable, in a way, that he refused to give up. It seems so unfair that it should all go to waste. That he will be swept away by the same wave that is coming for me, and that unlike me, he will be alone. I dial his number, after all our time together, I owe him this.