Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  “Looks good to me,” Toby whistles as he throws his napkin to one side, pushes his chair back and heads into the living room. He slumps down onto the sofa and kicks off his shoes. “You pour and I’ll drink them, chief.”

  They both down the first one with alarming speed Anna watches in awe, torn between feeling rather envious of their ability to consume whiskey without having to battle a raging hangover the next day and wanting to tell them to slow down, to remind Mike he is at work early in the morning and needs to keep a clear head. Mike refills their tumblers and before she has a chance to protest, all four males are settled on the couch and the sports channel has been put on, the sound of a roaring crowd bouncing off all four walls. The chant of the throng of football supporters fades into the background as Anna closes the door and begins to clear the table. She balances an array of plates on her arms, a skill she is still able to manage after spending her student days working as a waitress in a busy restaurant in Newcastle city centre, and loads the dishwasher, pushing the door closed with a deft flick of her foot. A low hum emanates from it, in rhythm with the slow drone of the washing machine that has been on a hot cycle for most of the afternoon as it tries to remove mud and sweat from Callum’s jogging bottoms and somehow performs a mini miracle with Mason’s football kit. Anna wanders around the kitchen, wiping up imaginary stains and unfolding and refolding tea towels before it suddenly dawns on her that she has nothing to do. She eyes up the half full bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen top, taunting her with its sparkling crimson sheen and alluring label depicting a sunset in a fictional Italian village where tiny fishing boats bob idly in an exotic looking bay. She picks up the bottle and examines it closely. So tempting. So very, very tempting. She has no intentions of sitting in there with them. Football isn’t her thing, sitting amongst a load of sweaty, pheromone secreting males, all wound up into a frenzy by the match. But at the same time, she doesn’t fancy drinking alone. An idea darts into her head. She considers it and dismisses it just as quickly. Completely daft. She wouldn’t want to do it. Or would she? There was a connection the last time they spoke. Tenuous and fleeting maybe but it was definitely there. Anna stands and drums her fingernails on the kitchen top, her eyes focused on the garden beyond. Then before she has time to change her mind, she steps out of her slippers, pushes her feet into her old walking boots that sit by the back step and heads out of the door.

  Thirteen

  I suppose I did it on impulse really, partly because I was fed up, tired of spending day after day, night after night on my own, but mainly because I am so sick of Martyn. Right now I feel as if I have no life worth speaking of, so when she turned up at my door, I thought, ‘why the hell not?’ It’s been a few weeks since we last spoke and since then Martyn has kept me on my toes, making demands, his temper constantly on the brink of explosive. It’s been a difficult few weeks. Plus there was the lure of the house. Oh the house! The chances of Anna living there and inviting me round must be so slim and yet for once, good fortune has smiled down on me. I’m not about to frown on such an opportunity.

  So here I am, sitting at Anna’s kitchen table socialising, back here in the house - my house - chatting, pretending all is right with the world and all the while the body of a woman floats downstream, the marks of my husband’s strong, fingers embedded into the thin, soft flesh around her throat. It’s all so surreal I actually want to laugh.

  I stare at the wall next to where I sit, at the collection of family photographs. Children of all ages stare out at me with toothless grins and messy hair, footballs lodged tightly under their arms. Unlike my kitchen, this one looks lived in - chaotic, with a cacophony of noise filtering in from the living room, pictures hanging on every available wall space and copper pans dangling from beams and rafters overhead. I like it. It’s warm, inviting, lived in. I have a more minimalist approach to decor with my cream floor tiles and walls and surfaces devoid of anything remotely resembling normal family life. No pictures, no sentimental knick knacks. Everything I own is stacked away in cabinets, out of sight. Plain and simple. I sometimes wish I could live like this but it’s not in me and there’s no point trying to emulate someone else’s style and trying to be something I am not. Besides which, my life currently has more than enough difficulties and tensions to deal with and cluttering up my surroundings with ornaments and portraits will just muddy my thinking. And Martyn’s. He needs serenity and a calm environment. Sometimes the calmness and serenity works and sometimes it doesn’t. I blink and feel a tension begin to build behind my eyes.

  “How’s your coffee? Not too strong I hope? I have a tendency to drink mine strong. Mike says you can practically stand a spoon up in it.” Anna is standing by the sink, a glass of wine locked into her cupped hands.

  “It’s fine,” I say looking around me. I suddenly feel envious of Anna’s comfortable home with its cosy ambience and family orientated bits and pieces. Photos, ornaments, lamps of all shapes and sizes, pots and pans. They’re everywhere. It’s not the clutter I like, it’s the sense of fun, the tenderness they have here. It’s palpable from the minute you walk in, like a warm embrace. I try to think of where all my photographs of Tom are, and whether or not any of them are even in a frame or ever have been. I suddenly feel quite ashamed of my housekeeping skills. I live in a shell. There’s a fine line between being clutter free and being sterile and I, it would appear after looking around Anna’s kitchen, have long since crossed that line.

  I’m relieved to see not much has changed. New units and decor obviously but the general layout of the room is as I remember it. No huge, sweeping extensions, no conservatory or orangery clinging inharmoniously to the back of a 200 year old house. If I close my eyes I can see my mother standing at the sink, her arms immersed in the frothing bubbles; I can hear Suzie upstairs, the drone of the old hairdryer whirring furiously as she desperately tries to straighten out those stubborn kinks. The sound of my father’s footsteps cuts into my thoughts. I open my eyes before I hear the roar of his anger as he returns from his usual Sunday afternoon liquid lunch, enraged at everything and everyone and the hand that life dealt him.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer a wine? Or I have gin or Bacardi if wine isn’t your thing? It’s not to everyone’s liking is it? I have a friend who simply can’t touch the stuff. Gives her blinding headaches. They reckon it’s the chemicals in it you know.”

  “No, really, coffee is good for me,” I reply thinking I would like nothing more than a glass of cold white wine. My head suddenly feels as if there is a furnace in there.

  Anna nods and smiles and then flicks a strand of hair out of her eyes taking my breath away. There it is again. The likeness, those mannerisms. They’re uncanny. I feel my heart begin to flutter up my throat and bark out a tight little cough to suppress it,

  “Actually,” I say, surprised at myself, “I’ve had a rapid change of mind. A cold glass of white wine sounds just perfect. Chardonnay if you have it?”

  Her face lights up as she places her own glass down on the table with a slight wobble. She reaches up to the cupboard for another one.

  “I’m so pleased you decided to come over tonight Phoebe. It’s a pity Martyn wasn’t well enough to make it but at least you’re here,” she says cheerily. I watch her fill my glass to the brim with chilled wine. “It’s good to have someone to chat to actually,” her voice dips and she lowers her eyes. “The boys decided they were going to watch the football and. . . well, I’m not really into sport so I thought I would see if you. . .” she takes along slurp of wine and looks over at me, her face childlike and accepting, “and now here you are!” she shrills just a little too loudly.

  I drape my fingers around the base of the glass, unsure what to say next. I’m guessing Anna, despite her bubbly exterior, is actually as lonely as I am. The thought catches me unawares, makes my face burn with self-pity. I sit quietly, mulling it over in my mind. Sometimes saying nothing is the best panacea. I watch as she drains her glass and refills it. I si
p at my wine and observe her closely, the way her hair moves, how she smiles with such ease and then before I know it my glass is empty too. How did that happen? I rarely drink and really should slow down. It’s bound to have a powerful effect on me and the hangover will be brutal.

  “There you go,” she says with a slight tremor to her hand as she tips the bottle. It clinks against the wine flute and I listen to the satisfying glug as my glass becomes full again. So inviting with its crystal clear, slightly golden hue. The perfect tonic for a dark, drizzly evening.

  “I can’t stop thinking about her,” Anna takes another gulp and I watch as her chin begins to tremble ever so slightly.

  “I’m sorry?” I say, feigning ignorance, hoping desperately she’ll change her mind. I just knew it would come back to this and right now this is one conversation I really do not want to be having.

  “That lady, Nancy,” she whispers.

  “Ah right. Yes, Nancy,” I reply and take a deep drink of the wine, feeling the chill of the slightly tart liquid as it travels down my throat. I wish she would shut up, I really do. Why can’t she stop harping on about this subject? I came here to relax, not have a discussion about a person none of us even knew.

  “What if she didn’t go missing of her own accord? What if something terrible has happened to her?” Anna turns to face me, her expression suddenly dark, “I mean, what if she’s dead?”

  Her voice is no more than a whisper but it resonates in my head like a clanging bell. I take another long drink of the wine. This time it burns as I swallow it but despite that I take another gulp, my tongue suddenly feeling too big for my mouth, and then another. I finish the glass before holding it out for a top up. I’m going to need to blur the edges a little if this is where the conversation is heading,

  “We just don’t know yet though do we?” I say, trying to think of a million different subjects I can steer our conversation around to without appearing like a cold-hearted bitch. “We have to stay positive. I’m sure her family won’t want to hear anyone talking like that.”

  Anna nods sheepishly. I continue on, “And it doesn’t alter the fact that this place is a beautiful village. Just because this awful thing has happened doesn’t mean Cogglestone is any worse a place to live does it?”

  “Oh, of course not!” she crows, her face suddenly lighting up. I had forgotten how easy it is to change her focus. It gives me a warm glow knowing I can always be in charge and take the lead without her even realising it. “Did you know we won the Northumbria in Bloom competition three years in a row?” she coos softly.

  “Really? Well, that’s marvellous isn’t it? Quite an achievement for such a small place,” she refills my glass and I sip at my wine, a welcome haze beginning to descend.

  Anna nods her head emphatically and we sit for a short while in the quiet of her kitchen. Not an uncomfortable silence, more of a natural break in the conversation where we both take time to become acquainted with the idea of each other. I take another drink and then another followed by a large gulp. I look down to see our glasses are empty once again. Anna refills them and I pick mine up, my fingers feeling wobbly and slightly numb. Shameful. Only a few glasses of wine and already I am beginning to lose my dexterity. I really must slow down. This time I take a long slug and then another, a warm fuzziness resting behind my eyes with each consecutive swallow.

  The silence is punctured by two wild eyed teenagers who burst through the kitchen door, their limbs locked in a frenzy as they reach for the large fridge that stands in the corner of the room. Anna sighs deeply and raises her eyes at me, yet I suspect she secretly enjoys this sort of behaviour and being part of a house that is always noisy and hectic. The boys are followed by two men, one of medium height and slightly built and the other more portly with a receding hairline.

  “Oh god sorry. I haven’t done any introductions yet. Too much wine. Very rude of me,” Anna jumps up, moves over to the men, a slight redness starting to creep up her neck and over her face. She points to the chubbier man and looks back to me her voice beginning to slur slightly.

  “Phoebe, this is Mike my husband. Mike, this is Phoebe our new neighbour,” Anna points to me like a museum exhibit before stepping aside and moving closer to the taller of the two men, “and this is Toby my brother. Toby, this is Phoebe.”

  Mike leans over and shakes my hand vigorously. Even though I have drunk nearly a bottle of wine, I can smell the alcohol on Mike’s breath as he pushes his body towards me to grasp my hand. Toby stands back and remains still, watching me from the corner of the kitchen, my presence acknowledged by a quick, formal nod. I watch, fascinated, as Mike turns and gives Anna a hug before grabbing a large bag of peanuts and heading back into the living room. The boys wrestle with a family size pack of crisps until Anna intervenes with a loud voice I didn’t think she was capable of, and a slight tap to the back of each of their heads. They respond with a guffaw and grab an armful of snacks each. Such pandemonium and noise and yet so relaxing. I look back to see Toby still watching me. His expression never waivers and it suddenly makes me feel hot and slightly uncomfortable. I find myself wondering what the fascination is. He is quite a bit younger than me and I’m not an outstandingly attractive woman. My vision mists up as I begin to squirm under his watchful gaze. And then I remember. It hits me with a hot rush causing me to shift in my seat. I quickly finish my drink, ready to flee, to leave this situation and get home as quickly and unobtrusively as I can, but before I have chance to stand up and make my farewells he speaks, “Have we met somewhere before? I’m sure I recognise your face from somewhere?”

  His voice is soft and sincere. He is smiling at me now but I can’t listen to him anymore. I need to get out of here right now. I can’t allow this to go any further. I should have remembered he was coming. Stupid of me. And careless. Very, very careless. Not like me at all.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I’m new to the village.” I try to keep the tremor out of my voice, to keep my pitch steady and confident.

  He narrows his eyes, shrugs his shoulders and sighs, “Ah well, probably the whiskey blurring my thinking. I usually have a good memory for faces but after three glasses of this stuff I must be getting confused.” He holds up his empty tumbler, tips it from side to side and smiles.

  I stand up and smooth the creases out of my trousers, ready to leave.

  “Well you know what they say don’t you?” Anna chirps up rather too loudly as she stares at us both. I shake my head at her, subliminally willing her to shut up, “If you recognise somebody but you can’t recall where you know their face from, it means they’re the devil.” She spits the words out, giggles slightly and leans against the kitchen counter for support, her eyes half closed.

  Suddenly sober and desperate to get home, I struggle to hear anything else she says as blood rushes thickly through my ears and around my head. I try to stare at her but my vision is blurry and I feel quite sick. What a stupid thing to say.

  “Really pleased to meet you Toby,” I say, my voice steadier than I hoped it would be, “but I need to get home now,” I surprise myself at how calm and collected I sound when in reality I am anything but. I step out from behind the table and make my way over to Anna. I give her a hug and thank her for a lovely evening then turn around to see Toby still watching me. He has recognised me. I just know it. A pulse judders in my neck as I swallow and tell myself I am jumping to conclusions. I give him a brief smile and slip past him into the chill of the evening, a welcome breeze cooling my burning face as I head back home to Martyn.

  He is dozing in the chair when I get back in, and once again I’m furious with him. This is all his fault - the constant need to watch what I say, having to live like a hermit, feeling permanently miserable and fretful about the people he has hurt - it’s all down to him, the man I chose to spend the rest of my life with, the man I now spend my days looking after. Everything is his fault. I close my eyes and try to visualise a life without him, a life where I can visit friends, see my son, have
people round for dinner, but no matter how hard I try all I can see is Martyn’s face as he falls on the cliff side, his hands grappling for purchase, the dreadful guttural moan emanating from the back of his throat and the blood as it seeped from the back of his head in great crimson waves.

  He is awake when I open my eyes and is watching me intently. He tries to stand up and wobbles, his gait laboured and clumsy,

  “Phoebe. Glad you’re back sweetheart. I was just going to make us both a cup of tea. Did you have a nice evening?”

  I let out a small sigh and continue staring at him, tears stinging my eyes. I am trapped. Whether I like it or not, this is my life from here on in. How could I ever leave him? He is totally dependent on me. What would become of him if I simply cast him aside in search of a better life? What would become of me? Martyn and I have been together since our late teens. I can barely remember a life without him.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, suddenly resigned to it all. Acceptance. That’s what I have to focus on. This is my life now and there is no escape, no get out clause. I created this situation and now I am stuck with it. Whether I like it or not.

  “Cheese on toast for supper?” I shout through as I turn on the grill and prepare the food.

  They said it was my fault, tried to blame it all on me. It wasn’t, of course. What kind of person did they all take me for- some kind of deranged youngster who would deliberately drown their own sister? Suzie had slipped you see, after the others left us by the riverbank. She had tried to make her way back over to me and lost her footing on one of the stepping stones, a lime green killer swathed in lichen and moss. I had already turned my back on her, still angry and hurt, but when I heard the almighty splash and her cries for help I jumped in and waded across to get her out. And that’s when it happened. The water was rushing past me making me feel disorientated and slightly dizzy. It was too high after the rains. All my warnings about the dangers and current strengths had been blatantly ignored and now it was coming back to bite us. I managed to grab her hand and pull her up but found myself falling too. Struggling to stay upright, I planted my feet far apart but in the process lost my balance completely and landed on top of her, clumps of her hair in my mouth, her fingers still entwined in mine. Every time I tried to move, she somehow became wedged further under me until I ended up standing on top of her slim frame, her bones, hard and resistant like porcelain under my feet. With a shriek I jumped off her sodden body and tried to drag her up but she was so heavy, so very, very heavy. Suzie was only slightly built but her body took on different proportions when wet. She was slippery and her limbs seemed to take on a life of their own, waving around at peculiar angles every time I tried to move her. It didn’t take long for me to become tired - so exhausted I could barely hoist myself out of the river let alone the water drenched body of my older sister. I had just about enough energy to haul myself to the edge of the riverbank, which was where I was when they found me. I had lain there immobile and gasping for breath when a group of fishermen stumbled across me. Suzie was still in the water. Her hair had become wrapped around the debris and stones, trapping her. I could see her from where I lay. Her body was face down, strands of free hair fanned out behind her. They dragged her out and put her on the riverbank, her skin mottled, her lips tinged with blue. One of the fishermen had become agitated, asking me why I hadn’t helped her, why I was laid there doing nothing. Why hadn’t I shouted? They were only a few yards away, they could have helped us. They could have saved her. I tried to explain but he wouldn’t listen. None of them listened. Only my mother who had always loved me unconditionally, never seemed to doubt my story. She would listen to me, asking over and over again what had happened, how had she become trapped? ‘I’m sure you did what you could’ she would whisper tightly, her eyes taking on an empty look as she drummed her fingers on the table and coughed softly. Nothing changed for my father. He was his usual aggressive self. Too absorbed by his own problems and wrapped up in his rapidly declining health issues to notice and too deep in the drink to care.