The House of Tides

by Hannah Richell

  The days passed in a fog, each new day melting into the last until on the twelfth, the nice policeman with the strong brown hands and the kind face came back to the house. He sat in his usual position in the living room and broke the news to Helen and Richard that the search would be called off the following day and the inquiry taken back to the station. There were no leads, no evidence of foul play, and no proof of any suspicious circumstances. It seemed Alfie’s disappearance was nothing more than a beach outing gone wrong.

  “Nothing more? Nothing more?” Helen had whispered. “How can you say that? Until I know what’s happened to him, how can I give up hope that he is still out there, that he might still be alive? Tell me that! You haven’t even found that couple Dora saw. Where are they? What kind of an investigation are you running? They could have our son,” she said, sobbing. “They could have our son!”

  “Mrs. Tide,” the officer had said gently, “it has been nearly two weeks. We’ve explored all the possibilities, but I’m afraid we believe it to be most likely that Alfie was playing on the rocks. If he were swept into the ocean he would have stood very little chance. The water is very deep off the promontory there and the currents are strong.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’m afraid, Mr. and Mrs. Tide, that we may never find his body.”

  Helen closed her eyes and put her head in her hands.

  “Just a few more days, please, Officer,” Richard pleaded. “If it’s a case of money I’m sure…”

  “It’s not about money,” the policeman assured him. “We have other cases we need to turn our attention to, pressures on resources. We’ll keep the file open, of course, in case of any developments, but I’m afraid we do need to scale back the operation. There will be an inquest, of course, at a later date.”

  “You can’t!” It was Dora. She was standing at the door, her eyes wide with horror, her face drawn and pale. She looked awful. “You can’t do this! You have to keep looking,” she shrieked. “You have to. He’s out there. I know he is.”

  Helen turned to look at her daughter. “Get out,” she hissed.

  “But, Mum, they can’t do this. He’s out there.”

  “I said get out. You’ve done enough already.”

  “I…I…I only want…” Dora clutched at the door handle, the blood draining from her face. Helen didn’t let her continue.

  “If it wasn’t for you Alfie would still be—”

  “Helen!” It was Richard. “Dora, your mother is distraught. She doesn’t mean what she says. Why don’t you go into the kitchen? Put the kettle on for us. I’ll come and explain what’s happening in just a moment.”

  Dora stood transfixed in the doorway like a statue, frozen under Helen’s icy stare.

  “You think it’s my fault?” Dora whispered, still staring at Helen.

  “Dora, go into the kitchen. Now!” Richard commanded.

  Dora turned on her heel and fled from the room and Helen, seeing her go, began to rock back and forth in her seat. She bit down on her cheek and tasted blood as a strange keening sound left her body.

  “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m his mother,” she cried. “I’m his mother. I’m supposed to protect him. He’s innocent, just a baby. It’s my fault isn’t it? I’m the one who was supposed to protect him. Punish me. Punish me. But not my baby.”

  It hit her then, like a sledgehammer. It was her fault he was missing. It was her fault her baby was gone. A mother was supposed to protect her children. A mother was supposed to fight like a tigress when it came to the safety of her babies. Yet here she was, an abomination, a monster, more concerned with her own selfish pleasures than the care of her children. She had brought this upon Alfie; she had brought this upon all of them and she didn’t think she could bear the guilt or the shame of it any longer. If only she hadn’t answered his phone call. If only she had said no to meeting him. If only she had stayed home with her children instead of sauntering off to play her sordid games with Tobias. If only…

  As Helen silently ran through the weight of her unbearable guilt, Richard pulled her into his chest and gripped her tightly.

  “Shhh,” he urged. “Shhh, none of that, you hear me?”

  She could make out the thud of his heart through his sweater. It sounded too fast.

  The policeman looked down at his shoes. “I’m so sorry”—he couldn’t meet their eyes—“I really am. On behalf of the whole force, I’d like to offer our sincere condolences for your loss.”

  Helen let out another sob.

  “I’m so sorry, but we really have done all we can; you understand.”

  They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

  But there was nothing more they could say. The search was drawing to a close.

  The following day the police packed away their files, drank their last cups of tea in the kitchen, rinsed out their mugs, and bade the family a solemn farewell. Even the one remaining journalist, who had stayed doggedly at the end of the drive for the last two days, had packed up her belongings and driven away. The scent of a big story had gone. There were new tragedies to chase. The world, it seemed, had given up on Alfie. And there they were, just the four of them, left to pick up the pieces of their lives.

  Chapter 12

  Dora

  Present Day

  It is obvious from the stillness of the air around her that the flat is empty but Dora still feels compelled to yell out as the heavy metal door slams shut behind her. “Dan, I’m home!”

  Silence.

  She leaves her weekend bag by the door and makes her way through the living room until she stands by the closed door to Dan’s studio. She knows what lies behind it. It is an austere, concrete-floored room with a soaring skylight and wide glass windows, the perfect sculptor’s studio. Dan had fallen in love with the space at first sight; it was at the initial viewing, as he had stalked around the room, stroking the brick walls with his hands, that she had known the flat was meant to be theirs. It is where he designs his sculptures, casts his wax molds, and pours his bronzes.

  Cire perdue. The lost wax method. Memories suddenly come flooding back of their second or perhaps third date, when Dan had shown her around his modest rented studio in Camden and the handful of completed bronze sculptures awaiting shipment to a gallery in Bristol. They were large, ever-so-slightly distorted figures of people in poses that suggested the flash of a camera capturing a random moment in time. An old man stood in one corner, painfully hunched as he reached for something on the floor. A little boy with socks sagging round his ankles was caught in an energetic kick at a football. A tall, elongated figure—a businessman, she assumed, from the briefcase in his hand—strode out confidently, mobile phone to his ear and his mouth open in a brash shout. A tired-looking young woman with a shopping basket slung over one arm stood on tiptoes with her other arm outstretched to an unseen aisle of food. The figures crowded the small work space with their solid metal presence. She had walked around them slowly, admiring the intricate, lifelike detail on each one—fingernails, hair, a scabby knee.

  Dan had explained the painstaking process he undertook to produce each one, and she had sat spellbound. She had never really thought about it before. She had supposed he would just take a big lump of metal and chip away at it until the image he had been striving for emerged. But the reality was, of course, very different. He had to produce an initial clay cast, absolutely perfect in every single detail, that would form the basis for his bronze sculpture. When he was happy with the detail in this first sculpture, he would slather it in a layer of wax, and then another layer of clay. And finally, when this wondrous layer cake of clay and wax had been created, the mold would be heated, the wax melted and drained, and a hollow cavern created between the layers of clay into which he would pour his molten bronze.

  “It’s very expensive. Not a process you want to get wrong,” he admitted.

  “No, I can see that,” she marveled, stroking the bronze sleeve of the businessman. He wore tiny cuff links in the
shape of chess pawns. “But all that work in clay and wax, just to create a void into which to pour the metal, isn’t it frustrating? Doesn’t it feel like a waste to see it melting away or being chipped off afterward? Why not just work in clay?”

  “But that’s the beauty of it, you see,” exclaimed Dan passionately. “That moment when you remove the clay and there it is, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, standing before you. It’s a moment of truth, in pure bronze. And there’s something about bronze that’s just so solid, so permanent. It’s so real.”

  “But what about those first sculptures, you know, the ones in clay and wax? You spend so much time on them only to discard them. I feel a bit melancholy just thinking of it. Cire perdue. It even sounds sad!”

  Dan had laughed. “You are so sentimental. Look at it this way: Those earlier sculptures are necessary. They are what give life to this final bronze sculpture that stands before you. If they hadn’t existed, this now couldn’t exist. It’s all part of a process, a life cycle.”

  Dora had nodded, still a little unconvinced. “I just don’t know if I’d have the patience.”

  Dan shook his head. “It’s not patience. It’s passion. Or perhaps, more like obsession. I’m obsessed with capturing that moment, that single moment of movement in a human being’s life when everything can change. I try to find that moment, and then freeze it in time.” He paused and then shook his head. “Actually, it’s more than that. It’s not just about freezing it. The challenge for me is to cast fluid movement permanently, in one of the most fundamentally enduring and fixed materials available. It doesn’t get much more permanent than bronze, after all. Transient movement versus enduring solidity, do you see?”

  Dora was a little lost, but she knew she loved his sculptures. They were alive and exciting and breathed vitality into the dingy workroom. Looking back now, she knows that was the moment she had fallen in love with him. Seeing him standing there amid his work, dust particles dancing in a shaft of light that fell onto his flushed face; she had felt his passion, and something warm and fluttering and terrifyingly real had stirred deep within her.

  That had been nearly three years ago, and here she is, in the home they share, standing on the other side of a closed door, listening for sounds of him. There is nothing but silence and she knows he is out. She is tempted for a moment to sneak inside the studio and take a peek at his latest work, but then thinks better of it. It doesn’t seem quite right without him there. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up properly. First she needs a cup of tea.

  In the kitchen there is evidence of Dan everywhere. Half-drunk mugs of coffee and dirty plates are stacked precariously by the draining board. A pad of scribbles and sketches lies discarded by the telephone. Dora flicks through the pages and glimpses Dan’s distinctive hand in the rough sketches of women’s necks, arms, legs, and shoulders. The images are eerie in their dislocation, an array of dismembered limbs stark in dark charcoal against the whiteness of the page. Next to the pad is a stack of invoices from his suppliers. It is obvious it’s been a productive weekend. She is glad. It makes his absence in Dorset more bearable, knowing that he’s knuckled down to his new piece. As she turns back toward the sink to rinse out a mug, she sees his note on the table. It is held in place by a dirty cereal bowl.

  Welcome home babe. We missed you. Hanging with the Grizzlies.

  Come join us xxxx

  Dora smiles. “The Grizzlies” is what she and Dan call the grumpy old men who prop up the bar at their local. She picks up Gormley’s water bowl, rinses it out, and refills it with fresh water from the tap. It sloshes onto the linoleum as she places it back on the floor. Maybe she doesn’t want tea after all. It is the kind of night that calls for music and company, a chance to enjoy the last gasp of the weekend before the realities of Monday morning descend. She flicks the kettle to OFF and grabs her keys.

  She had made good time on the drive home from Summertown and it is still light as she wanders along the Dalston back streets toward the pub. All around her the urban sprawl seems to buzz and hum. Returning to London is like being wrapped in a comforting blanket; the reassuring blares of traffic and humanity converge on her until she barely notices individual sounds. Dora rolls her shoulders to release their tension and suddenly realizes how immensely relieved she is to have left behind the static order of Helen’s life at Clifftops and the picture-perfect Dorset vistas. It was a confronting visit, and yet she has come away dissatisfied, without the peace of mind she was looking for.

  The whole city seems to be celebrating the first truly warm weekend of the year. A car speeds by with its windows rolled down and hip-hop blaring. She passes a couple strolling arm in arm and sees them stop to steal a kiss. As she crosses the road a gaggle of hoodied kids on skateboards sweeps past her, laughing and cussing loudly, full of confidence and the daredevil bravado of youth. Dora realizes she can’t wait to see Dan and quickens her pace.

  The Fox is conveniently located a mere stone’s throw away from their home. On their first night as homeowners, he’d joked, “We’ll be alcoholics before the month is out,” over a bottle of red wine at one of the pub’s rickety wooden tables.

  Dan and Dora love it there. It is their adopted second home. They’d stumbled in that first time, on a dark winter’s afternoon, after the oily estate agent had shown them around the old button factory. It was there, seated on tatty red velvet banquettes beside the smoky coal fire, that they had gone through the pros and cons of the flat purchase. They’d tried to be rational, tried to maintain a sense of gravity as they’d debated the leaking roof and worn-out floorboards, the dilapidated kitchen and the stained bath tiles, but inside they both knew the space was meant to be theirs, and as they’d discussed it, their mounting excitement had been impossible to conceal. It was there that they had exchanged Cheshire cat grins and clinked their handled pint glasses together. And it was there they had returned just a few months later after the contracts had been signed and the keys collected, to celebrate and drink and giggle nervously at the scale of the project they had taken on.

  Dora pushes open the Fox’s heavy wooden door and enters its dark interior. There is the customary collection of men slumped at the bar, all beer bellies and jowls. She can see Dan on the other side, sitting at his usual table with his head bent over one of the Sunday supplements and a half-drunk pint of bitter in front of him. She takes a moment to watch him, enjoying the rare perspective it gives her, a moment to regard him with unobserved detachment, as others might.

  He is sitting on a favorite wheel-backed chair, his long legs wrapped underneath him and his shoulders hunched over the table, like a modern-day Gulliver among the Lilliputians. It is clearly too small for his long, lean frame, but Dora knows by now that he will never change. No matter how many times she tells him he looks uncomfortable he always gravitates back to that one spot, liking the hard, bone-jarring seat and the cramped confines of its austere wooden frame. He is dressed in his work overalls and she can see a smear of red clay across his cheek. He has obviously come straight from the studio, not really surprising judging by the state she has found the flat in. His face is still, his brown eyes fixed on the papers before him, and he must be tired, she realizes, for he is wearing the gold-rimmed glasses he doesn’t usually bother with. His black hair skims the tops of his ears and is beginning to curl at the nape of his neck. He’ll need a haircut soon. He turns a page of the supplement and then moves his hand unconsciously onto the head of Gormley, who is lying faithfully at his feet. The dog opens one eye and nuzzles his nose into his master’s palm in gratitude.

  Dora understands how Gormley feels. It was Dan’s hands that she had first noticed. She’d been drinking warm Chardonnay at a friend of a friend’s book launch when someone had introduced them. “Dora. You should meet Dan. He’s Alice’s cousin, and a genius artist.”

  Dora didn’t know who Alice was…someone attached to the book, she assumed. It was as he’d reached out to shake hers that she’d noticed his hand
s. They were huge with heavily lined palms that felt rough to the touch. His knuckles were marked and gnarly, and a livid red scar ran across the back of his left hand. Dora stared, entranced. They were a workman’s hands; the hands of someone who knew accidents and pain, hurt and healing; the hands of a real man; the hands of someone who had already lived a life. She had stood there, wordlessly, as he had greeted her, trying to control the slow flush spreading across her face; she couldn’t stop thinking about how those hands would feel on her skin. And she’d been lucky enough to find out later that night.

  She hadn’t planned on falling in love and, at first, she had comforted herself with the fact it was nothing but pure lust, a hot, hungry sexual attraction she couldn’t resist. She liked the way he made her feel in bed, the way he made her forget who and where she was. When she was with Dan she could just live in the moment, and with him the moment felt good. She didn’t plan on opening herself up to him. She didn’t plan on laying bare any of her secrets. They simply met up, had dinner, fell into bed, and then let themselves out of each other’s flats the next morning, skulking away to complete their respective walks of shame until the next time.