Submersion

  They were worth a fortune once, he confessed to me.

  Why not anymore?

  No one left to buy them, he explained. Things are only worth what people are prepared to pay for them.

  What about things you can’t buy or sell?

  He had smiled at that.

  Oh, they are always priceless, he said, rubbing my hair in a soft, fatherly way.

  On this occasion, I ended up visiting Aunt Penny and Uncle Jimmy for five days.

  The first three days, it was just my great-aunt and me in the flat together. Something was up at their old shop and Uncle Jimmy was having to make regular trips there, to sort out whatever it was. As well as the tins and the cars, there was a small box of old toys to play with – items they had kept to entertain myself and my cousin. From this, I retrieved a drafts board and a box of dominoes, which Aunt Penny played with me a few times. Thereafter, I had to pretend to be two different people and play against myself. There was also a pack of playing cards, so I played Patience and Clock Patience by myself, when Aunt Penny couldn’t be tempted with Whist or Rummy.

  And, each day, Mother would sail up around five o’clock and row us both home.

  On the fourth day, whatever was happening at the old shop came to a head and Uncle Jimmy came back mid-morning in a state of mild panic.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ he instructed Aunt Penny, dipping his head into the lounge briefly.

  Aunt Penny left promptly, closing the lounge door on her exit, doing the same with the kitchen door also. I silently opened the lounge door, crept into the hall and tried to work out what their hushed yet urgent conversation was about, but to no avail. Distracted with concentration, I wasn’t quick enough to move back into the lounge as the kitchen door opened and my great-aunt and –uncle re-emerged.

  Aunt Penny threw me a sharp glare.

  ‘Were you listening?’ she accused, crossly.

  ‘Never mind,’ Uncle Jimmy smoothed, quickly, throwing a hurried glare at his wife.

  ‘Billy, there’s an issue at the old shop that I need your aunt’s help with, so we are both going to pop out for a bit. You’ll be here on your own, but you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Can’t I come?’ I asked, and my aunt cut in very quickly with: ‘No, you can’t.’

  Another glare shot from Uncle Jimmy.

  ‘Best you stay here, boy,’ he explained, his tone gentler than Aunt Penny’s. ‘A bit of an issue with water and electrics, not entirely safe for you.’

  ‘But I’ve never been to the shop,’ I pleaded, seeing my one chance of a bit of interest slipping away. I’d asked to visit their shop before and always been turned down. Yet, I was fascinated by the thought of it; Uncle Jimmy told a whole host of stories about quirky customers from yesteryear. Elinor hadn’t been there either and, if she ever returned, it would have been something to brag about. ‘And Mother wouldn’t want me to be here by myself. She worries. She thinks it’s going to fall down.’

  A second or so of looks between my great-aunt and –uncle, and Uncle Jimmy nodded in reluctant consent.

  ‘Okay, go and put your outdoor gear on,’ he conceded, his tone dull, reflecting his aversion. ‘You can come with us, but you must do as we say and stay where we instruct you. Got it?’

  It took us nearly 30 minutes to reach their shop, a long journey with only their rowing boat to get us there. It was still raining every day, so visibility was also hampered by this constant, if gentle, downpour. Sailing past my school and its surrounding swampland, we reached the residential streets on the west side of town, which appeared to be more or less abandoned. Their old shop was a little further into the town, but not in the centre.

  ‘Does no one come here anymore?’ I asked, amazed by the still quiet. Uncle Jimmy stopped rowing and let the boat drift, as we got closer to our destination.

  ‘Not unless they have to,’ he replied.

  ‘So why do you have to?’

  My aunt went to speak, but Uncle Jimmy cut her short with a soft, dismissive hand and answered my question.

  ‘We don’t have to,’ he told me, warmth in his eyes, ‘but it gives us hope.’

  ‘Hope,’ Aunt Penny echoed, trying the word out herself, seeing if it was a fit for how she felt. ‘Yes, hope, Billy. Right, shall we get this over with?’ she annexed, as the little wooden boat bumped gently against a platform and Uncle Jimmy prepared to tie it to the mooring.

  In my head, I had imagined a grander, more dignified state of preservation for their little shop than the one that greeted me. I knew it was a boutique - specialising in bespoke items for rich women in its heyday - and envisioned a lacy window display echoing the lacy, delicate garments inside. I pictured polished, dark-wood shelving and tables throughout, marketing neatly folded items and carousels exhibiting a whole range of accessories to match.

  I should have known what to expect – I knew full well that the city centre was just as flooded and water-damaged as the rest of our town – but somehow I allowed the fantasy to shroud the truth. So, when faced with the real picture, my disappointment felt like quiet despair.

  Mid-terraced, the shop had two large windows either side of a central entrance. The windows were both boarded up and the entrance sealed by a thick, metal door, secured with a complex mechanism of chains and padlocks. Uncle Jimmy saw me eye this arrangement, puzzled.

  ‘Can’t be too careful round here,’ he told me, twisting keys in various locks. ‘People will take anything, if you don’t make it too difficult. Even then, there’s no guarantee.’

  Inside, it was dark and the sour smell of rotting timber discoloured the air.

  ‘Keep your mask on till we are on the first floor,’ Aunt Penny’s distorted voice instructed, so I did as I was told.

  I wanted to explore the waterlogged cavern of the decimated shop floor, check out how close my imagination had been to the past, but I was quickly directed to a set of creaky, slime-thick wooden stairs on the left hand side. In darkness, we ascended to the first floor, where, under a dim light, my aunt and uncle’s carefully preserved hopes were finally revealed to me.

  ‘You can take the mask off now,’ Aunt Penny said, pulling hers off as her sentence was expelled, her voice gaining clarity at the close. ‘But you are to stay here – in this room. Uncle Jimmy and I need to go up to the flat above. No moving, okay?’

  I nodded, agreeing, but I had a question.

  ‘Shouldn’t you call Tristan or Jessie, if it’s dangerous?’

  ‘If what’s dangerous?’ my aunt replied, off-guard, puzzled by the query.

  ‘The problem. The electrics,’ I explained and I saw her eyes sharpen.

  ‘And pay their prices? I don’t think so,’ she said, turning away and heading back towards the stairwell. Uncle Jimmy had already ascended ahead of her. ‘Not when your uncle and I can manage. You stay right there, understand? No moving, no following us up. Clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  The room was lent its dull illumination by two windows facing the street. They weren’t boarded up like the ones on the ground floor, but they were obscured by a pale-pink coating that had been smeared on in circles. I went up to one and touched it with a finger; it came away, colouring the tip and leaving a small fingerprint on the window. It smelt like something from Mother’s cleaning cupboard. Even so, the room was bright enough for me to make out the items occupying its space and some of my initial disappointment dissipated in light of what I discovered there.

  The window display dummies I had expected to see were stored here. Headless, they were made of solid, varnished wood and their immaculate curves were smooth to the touch of my hand. There were three in total, all naked. There was a settee in the room, too, covered in dark purple velvet, with an arm rest at only one end. Further, whilst nothing was on display, there was box upon box of clothing and accessories, all preserved in sealed envelopes of clear plastic, saving them from the stench and damage of decay. Lacy vests, embroidered blouses, scarfs, hats, gloves, a box containing fancy underw
ear that fascinated me and made me feel slightly guilty for looking through in equal measure. There were larger boxes filled with handbags and a huge stack that individually housed the more grand hats, with veils, feathers and fabric flowers attached. To the rear of the room, I found the dresses – rack after rack of cellophane wrapped garments, hanging lifeless, yet hopeful, as if they shared Uncle Jimmy’s vision of a distant, brighter future. Hidden behind these, slotted neatly into wall-to-ceiling shelving were boxes of shoes – over a hundred, at a hurried calculation – wrapped, sealed and untouched like the rest of the goods in this sorrowfully lit museum.

  Going through the items, peeking in boxes and returning them to their exact state – I loved the sense of everything frozen in time and wanted to disturb the picture as little as possible – kept me occupied more than I imagined. I forgot about my aunt and uncle above me, deaf to any creaks or movements above; any temptation to follow them abandoned without an effort. I kept thinking about Elinor. She’d have loved it here, more than she loved the dressing up box at Old Man Merlin’s or Aunt Penny’s wardrobe crammed with garish gowns, and my imagination allowed me to dress her up and watch her twirling around in an array of glamorous items. We’d come here, I told myself, when she eventually came back. Mother might insist that she is dead, that Aunt Agnes’ is deluded to think otherwise, but I have a feeling that tells me something different. Hope; yes, like Aunt Penny and Uncle Jimmy, I have hope.

  My great-aunt and –uncle eventually returned to me, looking a little bothered. I noticed a small cut leaking across the top of Uncle Jimmy’s left hand. Caught it on some fuse wire, he explained later, when I pestered him over it. Aunt Penny had a new mark on her neck too, a darker pink than her skin; finger shaped. I didn’t ask about this, but I did wonder what had gone on between the two of them. What had I missed whilst drawn into my fantasy shop world?

  ‘All fixed,’ Uncle Jimmy announced, with restrained cheer. ‘All safe.’ And in that moment, I decided to chance something.

  ‘Can I go up there now, then?’ I asked, but my aunt cut in, before he could answer.

  ‘Haven’t time today, Billy, but maybe next time?’

  ‘Next time? Can I come again?’

  Not expecting this level of enthusiasm, Aunt Penny’s confidence withered a little.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she said, directing me towards my protective suit and mask, collapsed bodiless near the door way. ‘We’ll see.’

  I took the cue to get ready to depart and pulled on my outdoor clothing. I stopped asking about going back to the shop. Whilst my aunt and uncle’s behaviour appeared a little odd, I didn’t want to appear rude and have that reported back to Mother.

  When Mother turned up at her usual time that day, Aunt Penny left me at the stinky, steel lift, letting me descend to the waterlogged ground floor on my own and nothing further was said.

  I did have a further question I wanted to ask, however I kept this for Mother, posing it as she rowed us home on that fourth evening.

  ‘Why don’t they live in the flat above the shop?’

  ‘Sorry?’ she asked, as my question came from nowhere.

  So, I explained where I had been that day.

  ‘It’s not safe, Billy, and you are not to go there again,’ she said, which wasn’t quite an answer to my question. ‘You promise me?’

  I did and we both spent the remainder of our journey home in distracted silence.

  On the Monday, I returned to school. This wasn’t at my mother’s insistence. On the Friday evening, we’d found a letter deposited in our post box, enquiring about my prolonged absence and setting out the expectation that I would return immediately, unless Mother could provide reasons and supporting evidence to keep me away for longer.

  In the old days, before the flooding, the postman would push our letters through our front doors, landing on what Grandad Ronan referred to as a door mat, which seemed an odd concept to me, as he described these mats as being placed on the floor, not your door. However, residents had acted quickly and all houses had little containers attached to their exterior walls, like miniature post boxes, high enough to avoid the water, low enough for the postman to reach. At Aunt Agnes’ house, it was Elinor’s job to check the post and she did this with a great sense of importance when I was around, making a fuss as she unlocked it and surveyed each item inside. At home, this was Mother’s job and the key to the box was kept out of harm’s way, which was where all keys to locked doors were kept in our house.

  Along with the letter from the school, there was another letter, the envelope small and handwritten, but Mother quickly stowed the second one away, frowning in dislike at my curiosity.

  That evening, I spied her at the kitchen table, scribing two replies – one I would take with me when I returned to St Patrick’s; the second sealed and posted in private. It would be a long time before I uncovered the secret behind that latter chain of correspondence.

  Monday and school.

  The rains had stopped by then, as had any related panic about a rise in water levels. The authorities had sent some people out in the latest government-issue protective gear to measure any impact, which was standard after a long spell of rain. But I overheard Mother tell Aunt Penny that no changes had been reported.

  So, my ride to school wasn’t hampered or slowed down by the wet.

  Like my cousin, I wasn’t taken all the way to school by my mother – I was dropped at a speedboat point. Not the same as Elinor’s, but it was echoed in design and history. The first day back after Elinor had gone missing had left Mother feeling anxious all day, yet she didn’t have the time or energy to row me all the way there in our small, wooden boat. It was the same this time, only her fears were amplified by the echo of my submersion in the river road and subsequent convalescence.

  ‘I will be fine,’ I told her, finding the firm, adult voice I had used the day we had left Aunt Agnes’, after their row and the cherry pie from Great-Aunt Penny.

  As I waited on the wooden platform for the next speedboat to arrive, I found myself surrounded by curiosity and temporary friendship. Like I said before, I didn’t have a huge amount of friends at school, not really. Yet, Elinor’s disappearance and now my long absence had meant people were interested.

  ‘Where you been, Billy?’

  ‘Has your cousin turned up yet?’

  ‘Have they found her body yet?’

  ‘Was it eaten up by something in the water?’

  ‘Heard you nearly drowned?’

  ‘Is it true you found a dead dog?’

  The last question came from Tilly Harrison, a tall, paper-thin girl, with equally thin, long brown hair, who was a year older than me. Tilly didn’t normally speak at all, let alone to me, so it must have taken a huge effort to break through the noise of the others. Tilly was also Monty Harrison’s niece.

  The crowd around me broke up a little, giving a now blushing Tilly space.

  ‘Is it?’ she asked, a short echo of her previous question.

  The others looked a little scared, but also fascinated and I could see the level of interest in me going up and up. But I thought for a minute about what I should say. See, Mother had given me quite a talk about this, and nearly everyone, bar Aunt Agnes, had a strong view. You shouldn’t mention the dog, was the general consensus. People will get worked up about it. Worried over nothing. And avoid drawing too much attention to the fact you were in the water, too. Mother had been paranoid that some government agency was going to come round and interrogate me about what had happened. As if bumping into that dead puppy was somehow a grave offence. She also feared I’d be taken away, examined, tested, or worse - kept in quarantine and never returned.

  Why would they do that? I’d asked, but the only answer I’d got were cold, silent glares between her, Tristan and Aunt Agnes.

  So, I took a moment or two to weigh up how to respond to Tilly Harrison’s question.

  ‘It was a log, not a dog,’ I told her and the crowd heaved with instant dis
appointment, before trickling away from me. ‘I did nearly drown, though,’ I added, but only Tilly was still listening at that point. She stared at me blankly for a minute or two, but then our speedboat arrived and she turned away, joining the queue to get on.

  Our school was on top of a hill, surrounded – like everything else – by water. But it wasn’t like the water that had flooded our streets. It looked darker and, if you peered over the edge of the boat, you could see veins of green pond life growing in it. Dead trees, like wooden skeletons, were its landmarks. Rumours were that naughty pupils who were expelled ended up in the water, strangled up in dark green weeds. I’d also heard that Monty Harrison’s men had put a man in a concrete suit and let him sink to the bottom, but that didn’t make sense to me. Firstly, how could you wear a suit made of concrete, and secondly, Monty Harrison was the nice man that my mother secretly cleaned for.

  ‘It’s what happened,’ Davy Parker, a boy in my class, insisted.

  The school itself was a large, red-bricked building and somehow it had survived against the dirt and decay that other buildings had suffered in the wake of the flooding. The windows were grubby and the paintwork flaky, but the bricks weren’t soiled with moss or algae like the ones we lived in. Inside, there was a grand hall in the centre of the building, where we ate lunch or gathered for big assemblies. Outside, the hill it sat upon was smothered in grass – the only area of grass I had a living memory of. We were allowed to play there on dry, sunny days and that was probably the very best thing about our school – it had grass.

  Tristan told me that school in his day was very different to ours. He said there was a different system – you started off in one school and then, when you got older, you went on to another one, for older kids.