“Yes, and you might miss Father Christmas too, if you don’t go up soon!” teases Cassie.
“Ha ha!” Dora laughs. “So are you sleeping in your old room tonight?”
“I guess so. I just kind of assumed—”
“Yes, I’ve put you in your old room, Cass,” interrupts Helen, coming down the hall with the last of the glasses. “Do you mind? Richard and Violet are in the guest room. Dora and Dan are in Dora’s room. So I’ve put you back in your old room too. It seemed like the right thing…” Helen trails off with a worried frown, suddenly unsure.
“It’s fine, Mum,” reassures Cassie.
“Oh good,” says Helen. She seems to want to say something else. The three of them stand awkwardly, waiting, until finally she speaks. “Look, girls, I know you’re tired. Let’s leave all of this mess until the morning. There’s something I wouldn’t mind showing you both now. Will you come upstairs with me?”
The girls nod, intrigued, and follow Helen up the back staircase, exchanging glances as they go. It seems Dora is in the dark too. They pass the girls’ bedroom doors and carry on past the bathroom until they come to a stop outside Alfie’s old bedroom. Helen turns to them both with a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking it’s time I cleared out Alfie’s room.”
Dora puts her hand on her mother’s arm. “Mum, that’s a great idea. Truly. It’s definitely time.”
Helen fiddles with one of the rings on her finger, twisting it around and around nervously. “I wasn’t sure if you would be upset?”
Cassie shakes her head. “No, it’s time we all moved on.”
“So you don’t mind?”
“No!” they both exclaim again in unison.
“Seriously, Mum,” Dora says, “it’s the right thing to do. It must be awful living in this house with this…this shrine still here, exactly as it was the day Alfie died.”
Helen nods. “I think it would be a relief to clear some things away. I thought you might be upset if I changed it, but it does feel like the right time.”
Cassie reaches out and takes her other hand. “We can help you, Mum, okay? You shouldn’t have to do this all by yourself.”
“Thanks, girls. I started with a few small things earlier this week, but there are so many memories in there.” She squeezes Cassie’s hand back tightly. “I thought you both might like to keep some of his things as well.” She turns to look at Dora too. “You know, for you both to remember him by…and for the baby of course.”
“Thanks, Mum,” says Dora. “I’d like that.”
“Well, then. I guess we should go in?” Helen asks.
“Yes,” agrees Cassie with a deep breath. “Let’s go in.”
Helen pushes open the door and the two women follow her silently into the quietness of the little boy’s room.
It is early when Cassie wakes the next morning, not yet six and still dark outside. She lies under the down duvet for a moment, luxuriating in its warmth and listening to the utter stillness of the house around her. Then slowly, as her eyes adjust to the gloom, she looks around at the posters and magazine pullouts, tacked like trophies onto her bedroom walls, the memorabilia of a long-lost childhood. It is as though she’s boarded a time machine and gone back a decade. She stares with detachment at the emaciated models, the moody pouts, and the sulky, dark-kohled eyes of the rock stars surrounding her: heroes of a bygone era.
Suddenly Cassie knows exactly where she wants to be. She looks at her watch. There is plenty of time before anyone will notice she has slipped out; she can be there well before breakfast if she hurries. Leaping out of bed she hops around the room pulling on an old pair of jeans, two pairs of thick socks, a T-shirt, and a fleece sweatshirt. It is cold outside and she’ll need to wrap up to stay warm.
Down in the kitchen only the hum of the refrigerator breaks the deep silence of the house. In the cloakroom she is faced with a huge array of coats and boots to choose from. Most of them look as though they haven’t been worn in years, probably remnants from her grandparents’ era. It really doesn’t matter what she looks like, so she chooses a large Barbour jacket that smells of damp earth and tobacco and swamps her slight frame, but it makes her feel warm and safe. Then she slips her feet into old Wellington boots and lets herself quietly out the back door.
It is freezing. Cold air bites at her cheeks and fights to infiltrate the gaps in her clothing, but she turns the collar of her coat up and pushes her hands deeper into the wool-lined pockets, hunching her shoulders and turning determinedly toward the Cap. There is just the faintest glimmer of steely gray light on the horizon as she stomps out across the garden and down into the orchard below.
Cassie walks and walks and gradually the gray first light gives way to a washed-out pastel-colored dawn. As her body begins to warm up and her muscles relax she lowers her shoulders, raises her head, and begins to take in the vista around her. Just like her bedroom, the local landscape is relatively unchanged. Winter has scrubbed the countryside to a dull, earthy palette, but as she tramps down muddy roads and stamps across fields, familiar landmarks and views greet her like old friends. There is the gnarly old yew tree standing, solitary and alone in Farmer Plummer’s wheat field. It has been sculpted over the years by an unforgiving sea breeze into an exaggerated arch, its branch tips virtually sweeping the ground as it leans into its yogic pose. She walks beside hedgerows, now muted in their winter hues, guiding her on a familiar course. She smoothes the scratchy bark of an old gate with the palm of her hand before hoisting herself up and over, reassured to feel it tilt and groan in its customary fashion. And there is the constant, soothing sound of water babbling companionably beside her as she walks along the banks of the meandering stream they had played Poohsticks in all those summers ago. The steady splosh and squelch of her Wellingtons makes her feel like a young girl again. It is disconcerting, and yet, Cassie realizes, also strangely comforting.
It is the sight of the sea, though, that brings her to a halt. As she rounds the top of the Cap, there it is suddenly laid out before her, an asphalt wash of ocean. In the early-morning light it looks ominous and challenging, a cold, deep engine of water roiling and buffeting against the shore below. She stands for a moment and inhales its salty breath, suddenly unsure whether she wants to continue down the slope. But she has come this far; with fresh resolve she puts one foot in front of the other and continues on down the walking track toward the beach.
The sun has risen by the time she reaches the pebbled strand below, but it is an overcast morning and its light is nothing more than a pallid glow behind a blanket of heavy clouds. Now that she is closer she can hear the roar of breakers dumping onto the shore before sucking the water back through the shingle like an old man straining tea through his teeth. Across the pebbles, at the far end of the beach, she can just make out a colony of stiff-legged seagulls huddled in a cluster, their feathers bristling in the raw winter breeze. And beyond them, in the far distance, is the splash and spray of salt water rising up off the rock pools. Cassie turns and begins her determined march across the pebbles.
It is the first time Cassie has visited the Crag since the search for Alfie had been called off. She is surprised to find her hands and feet remember the old holds and crevices and she pulls herself up over the rocky ledge with ease, dropping down into the cavernous space below, her feet landing with a crunch on the sandy floor. She blinks several times, trying to erase the inky blackness before her eyes, and gradually it clears a little, allowing her to look around in the half-light and observe her surroundings. She can make out the graffiti scrawls on the stone walls, a huge pile of bottles and cans at one end of the cave, and a faded red T-shirt hanging off a long branch of driftwood that has been hoisted like the bedraggled flag of an army of lost youth.
Cassie shivers. It is freezing.
The low stone boulder that has always sat in the center remains; now more than ever it reminds her of a strange ceremonial table, a sacrificial altar. She moves toward it, remembering with sudden clari
ty a series of images from that day: the flash of Sam’s white teeth as she laughed a throaty laugh at one of her jokes; the high-pitched squeal of Alfie as he hunted for bats in the darkest corners; the steady drip, drip, drip of moisture falling off lichen as she and Sam kissed and kissed until her head spun and she had to stop; Dora, standing at the entrance to the cave, her hands on her hips, looking hot and cross. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. There are goose bumps on her arms and if she didn’t know better, she could have sworn she could still smell the smoke from Sam’s heady spliffs hanging in the air. Standing there, in the darkness of the cave, it is as if ten whole years have simply been erased. Time has played a cruel trick; she is back in the shadows of that one, tragic day.
Cassie walks to the middle of the cave. The flat stone lying in the middle is cold and damp under her fingers. She rubs at its rough edges and blows a thin layer of sand from its surface, just as she remembers Sam had done. As her breath leaves her body it fogs white against the blackness. It is deathly cold, colder even than outside on the beach, but she ignores her discomfort. Looking around at the daubed walls of the cave she suddenly knows what she has to do.
It only takes a few minutes to find a rusty shard of metal half buried in the ground, and twenty more or so to complete her task, but she is trembling violently by the time she throws down the blade and stands back to survey her work.
The words gleam back at her, carved white into the gray of the stone:
ALFIE TIDE: BELOVED SON AND BROTHER
The blunt metal instrument has been surprisingly effective. It isn’t much of a memorial, nothing compared with the garden she has brought back to life, but it feels right. It is the right place, and it is indelible; it will stand forever, a monument to her brother’s short life.
“Good-bye, Alfie,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
From somewhere far behind her there comes the faintest of sighs, a soft, sad whisper that floats away into the darkness almost as soon as she has heard it.
Cassie turns and peers into the darkness.
“Hello?” She knows it’s silly but she calls out anyway.
“Hello—ello—ello…” echoes back at her off the high stone walls, her voice reverberating spookily around her.
She holds her breath.
Nothing.
Just her imagination, or a seagull perhaps, nestled in the Crag’s steep walls. She shivers and turns for the exit, suddenly keen to leave. The Crag will remain here, its dark, gloomy walls standing forever still and silent, but she wants the daylight now, and her family, who will be waiting for her up at the house.
As she moves, a slither of rocks and gravel falls suddenly behind her, tumbling from one of the rocky ledges high up and landing on the sandy ground at her feet. She jumps around again, wide-eyed and afraid. “Is someone there?”
“There—ere—ere.” The echo taunts her again.
Then silence.
She shivers. The cave is starting to spook her out. It is nothing but the ground settling. Her presence has probably shifted the air in the cavernous space around her and dislodged a precariously balanced rock. It is definitely time to leave.
With a purposeful stride Cassie moves to the opening of the cave and pulls herself up and out onto the cliff face. The sun has risen higher in the sky now and she lifts her face to it and lets the bitter breeze whip across her skin.
She is about to jump down onto the beach below when she stops, startled.
There it is again.
That sad little sigh, barely more than a puff of air on the back of her neck, but definitely there. She feels the goose bumps prickle across her arms and spins around, looking down into the darkness again.
Nothing. There is nothing there. She is being silly.
It is just her mind playing tricks on her. She needs to get back to the house.
Cassie jumps quickly down onto the beach with a loud crunch. She stumbles, rights herself, and then begins to make her way back along the shore, and as she wades across the stones she begins to pick up speed.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
She keeps her gaze resolutely fixed on the horizon and thinks about the house up on the cliffs starting to come to life.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
She thinks of Dora, Helen, Richard, and the rest of them stirring in their beds and waking to the daylight and the promise of Christmas Day morning.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
As her feet stomp across the shingle, she imagines them all, an imperfect family muddling through, making the best of the life and the love they share.
It is all she needs to accept the echo of Alfie’s little Wellington boots as his memory trails her home along the shore.
Epilogue
Is she breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? I can’t see her chest moving.”
“She’s breathing, Dan. Trust me.”
“She looks so sweet. Isn’t she sweet?”
Dora smiles down at their sleeping baby. “She’s perfect.” She reaches out to brush a dark curl of hair from her daughter’s forehead.
“Don’t wake her!” Dan whispers.
“I won’t.”
“What do you think she’s dreaming about?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure four-week-old babies dream, do they?”
“Good point.”
They stand there for a moment longer, drinking in the sight of their daughter swaddled safely in her bassinet, before Dan takes her hand in his and pulls her quietly out of the room. As he shuts the door behind them he turns to her with a smile. “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”
His hand is warm as he pulls her through the flat toward his studio. She can feel the excitement rolling off him in waves. The room has been off-limits to her for several months now, but as he pulls her toward its closed door, Dora realizes he is ready to show her what lies behind. As he pushes on the heavy door and pulls her through into the brightly lit room, she looks around curiously.
It’s obvious he’s tidied up. The studio is clear of its usual chaotic detritus. The mess of clay and wax, stained sheets, tools, and chemicals has been pushed to one side of the room or piled underneath the trestle table in the far corner. In fact, the room is virtually empty. All that remains is one large object standing alone in the center of the room, mysteriously shrouded beneath a pristine white sheet. Suspicious, Dora leans in to take a closer look.
“Hey, isn’t that one of the new sheets I bought the other week?”
Dan holds up his hands in innocence. “Is it? I just grabbed it out of the cupboard this morning.”
Dora smiles in spite of herself. It is hard to resist Dan’s cheeky grin.
“Anyway”—he shrugs—“it’s not the sheet I brought you down here to look at. It’s what’s underneath it that’s important.”
Dora looks closely at her husband. She can see a range of emotions dancing across his face. There is nervous excitement, impatience, and pride, and underneath it all an obvious anxiety. “I really hope you like it; you see, I made this one for you. You were my inspiration, you and the journey you’ve been on.”
Dan reaches out and tugs at the closest corner of the sheet. It floats to the floor with a soft whoomph, revealing a large bronze statue standing around one and a half times taller than Dora herself. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the scale of the object. It is dazzling in its size and substance. The metal glows like dark treacle under the studio lights. It is golden brown in hue, but here and there she can see a flecked patina, greeny blue in color, running across the surface, emphasizing the graceful curve of a leg or the sharp jut of a collarbone. Gradually, her eyes adjust and she is able to see the figure as a whole, as the sum of all its parts. She turns to him in wonder.
“Oh, Dan,” she says, barely a whisper. “She’s exquisite. Simply exquisite.”
“She’s called Pandora.”
The sculpture is of a woman seated on a low
bench. Her legs are tucked underneath her and her head is slightly cocked, as though deep in thought. One of her arms is curled protectively around the obvious swell of her pregnant belly while the other rests lightly on the arm of the seat; her palm is outstretched and open. The woman gazes with a quiet intensity at an object sitting in her open hand.
Dora wanders around the figure, taking it in from all angles. She traces the smooth, polished lines and the gentle curves with her fingers, marveling at the beautiful craftsmanship. The metal feels strangely warm beneath her touch, most likely generated by the glare of the studio lights and the blast from the electric heater in the corner, but nevertheless it gives the statue an eerie, lifelike quality. Dan has said she is called Pandora, her namesake then, and yet she can see clearly that the woman is not an exact likeness of her. There are obvious differences in their facial features, their hair, and their build. But she can see something there, in the subtle lean of her body, the curve of her back, the ripeness of her belly, and the way her feet are tucked underneath her, the way her hair is pulled back off her face, that echoes her. It is as though Dan had captured an essence of who she is and cast her in bronze. She moves closer and studies the woman’s face again, gazing at her for a long, long moment. There is such peace and contentment in her expression that Dora wants to weep.
“What’s she looking at?” she asks, barely aware she is whispering.
“Take a closer look,” says Dan.
Dora moves toward the woman’s outstretched palm. There is a tiny jewel-encrusted box on the flat of her palm. The lid is open, and Dora leans in to take a closer look. She can see the swirl of a delicate chain, a necklace, or perhaps a charm bracelet, off of which hangs a series of letters. Dora looks at them in confusion. O. H. P. E. She looks back at Dan searchingly.
“Rearrange them. What do you get?”
She thinks a moment, and then smiles. “HOPE. She’s holding hope. It’s Pandora’s box.”
The House of Tides Page 38