by Ruth Skrine
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can. Come on, do it for me.’
Now I am sitting on the sand leaning back against him. I am wrapped in a big towel and he is trying to dry me. ‘You’re all sandy in your bottom, Meena. Go and get some water in your bucket and I’ll wash you.’ It is difficult to get a full bucket and I have spilt most of it by the time I hand it to him.
‘I’ll do that.’ My mother’s voice is shrill in my head. I clutch at my throat as if to strangle the thoughts that are colonising my mind. ‘Did he ever do anything inappropriate to us?’ I ask Beth, without pausing to think of the words that are forcing themselves out of my mouth.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just a word that a doctor used.’ I want to drag the question back and bury it deep inside me. My cheeks are burning.
Beth’s head twitches as she frowns. ‘I don’t know what funny ideas have been put into your head.’ She reaches for my wrist and holds it in a tight grip. ‘Whatever you have been thinking, there is no foundation for it. Your father was devoted to you, and to your mother. He would never, ever have done anything to hurt you.’
‘No, of course not.’ I smile, hoping desperately that she will forget what I have said, but somehow the smile feels like a shrug. Her belief in her brother is absolute. She had even planned to marry him when she was little.
‘I’ve got some photos of that holiday at home,’ she says. ‘I’ll show them to you sometime. Then you will realise how happy you all were.’
Perhaps they will help to free my memories so that I can discover the honest truth about the past. ‘I would love to see them,’ I say, meaning it with my whole heart.
‘I bought you both little wooden boats with sails. You played with them over there by the lifeboat slip, where the tide comes in between the rocks in little streams. Don’t you remember?’
I rack my brain. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘One of the pictures shows you with your boats. You’re bending over totally absorbed. I managed to catch your father watching you with that special expression he had when he looked at you. You’ll see how much he loved you.’
I am not reassured. Perhaps something so traumatic happened that I have suppressed all memory of the holiday. How can I have forgotten all about our visit here, those boats, the sand castles and the tide coming up to the rocks as it is now? I should have remembered – there must be a reason why I have forgotten.
All those things my father wanted me to do for him, walk the weir and climb up onto this rock. There could be other things to remember. I search again for the voices of the past that echoed in my head a few minutes ago. But there is only the noise of the waves coming nearer and nearer.
Beth is staring out to sea and doesn’t seem to notice that the spray is now splashing our legs and shorts. ‘They would have liked four children, you know. It was such a waste when he died. They were right for each other and marvellous parents.’
It sounds as if they really were happy together. All the things I have heard about sexual abuse suggest that the men who perpetrate it are unhappy or intimidated by their wives.
Beth turns with such warmth in her eyes that I am smitten with guilt. ‘Come on, we’d better move.’
She has chosen to ignore my disloyal thoughts and doesn’t seem to bear me any malice. ‘I’ll stay down here a bit longer if that’s OK. I love to watch the sun set and I’m not cold.’
She gives my shoulders a squeeze. ‘Stay just as long as you like. I’ll cook supper when you come in.’
‘Thanks. You’re a wonderful aunt.’
I watch her walk up past the beach café, not yet open for the summer, and back along the front. I really will try to be more like her, now I am going to be an aunt for the third time.
The wind has dropped. The waves have subsided so that the noise is no more than a soft undulating swish. The few families who braved the spring beach have packed their windbreaks and left. One man and his dog are walking away from me in the distance. I wander slowly along the edge of the water, dragging my toes to make lines in the wet sand.
Perhaps I will never know why I am different from other women. I may have to live with the uncertainty about my father for the rest of my life. If he did do something to me, it was not because he didn’t love me. My memories of him, washing my bottom or tickling me, carry no overtones of distress or fear, only a feeling of safety. He may have just loved me too much.
The setting sun casts a silver pathway across the water. The sky is huge on either side, and my worries seem as insignificant as the tiny container ship that has appeared on the horizon. Within the immensity of the place, I have, for the first time, fully faced the possibility that the doctor was right. To my surprise I don’t feel angry with her. Whether or not my father was flawed in that way, he was still my loving daddy.
I walk slowly back to the cottage and wash the sand from my feet before joining them for supper.
After our meal I fetch the tin box and put it into Beth’s hands. ‘Would you like to read Henry’s story for yourself?’
‘Yes please. I really want to try and understand.’
The remark seems to embrace both the past story and my present worries. Her concern supports me as my mother’s had done when she was alive. Upstairs I find the Observer Book of the Seashore on one of the shelves. My shell is a Queen Scallop. I read that they are mostly sedentary, often buried head downwards in wood or soft rock. They have eyes along the edge of the opening, and strong internal muscles that help them to resist the attacks of star fish and other predators. I look up at my beautifully formed shell, a legacy of an animal that was perfectly designed for the life it led. It needed strong muscles to survive. I have to get rid of my muscles if I am to live properly as a woman.
For too long I have looked for a man to cure me. My husband was too weak, and Quentin… I put my hand to my chest as the pain of his betrayal hits me once again. Our closeness has been the most precious thing in my life. But I was mistaken to think that he had the strength to help. My body belongs to me; I alone can make it do what I want.
Chapter 19
The familiar bulk of the house is shadowy in the fading light when Beth and George drop me at the front gate. They are keen to get home that night and refuse my invitation to come in for a drink or a meal. I am bereft.
The fountain looks even more derelict than usual as I put my suitcase in the porch and cross to the balustrade. A crescent moon is rising in the still air of the valley. For some reason I can’t hear the weir, only the memory of the crash of waves and the cry of seagulls. I turn to scrutinise the façade of the house. Georgian windows look out below heavy stone lintels and cornices, crushing me with their oblivious stare. Inserting my key in the lock I go in.
The week’s accumulation of post lies scattered on the floor. Flicking through, I find a letter from the agent who is frantic to get in touch with me. The Awfuls want to send their surveyor and a queue of other people are waiting to view. The keys I promised to send him are still hanging on their hook.
When I open the fridge door I can find nothing but a couple of eggs. I put them into cold water to heat slowly, ignoring my grandmother’s insistence that they should go in when it is boiling. Whenever I follow her method they crack, the white leaking out to form loose, watery strands, or to congeal along the split into a tasteless lump. Once I have extracted a small loaf from the freezer and transferred it to the microwave I sit at the table with the rest of the mail.
Advertisements of one sort or another dominate the pile. Many of them are addressed to my mother: tree surgeons wanting to attack her garden, glaziers to give her new windows and the local pizzeria to deliver their latest concoction free. In my own right I am offered a new car at a bargain price. There is a sale on at the local DIY store, but I look again and see it was held last weekend. Hiding between the flashy envelopes is a card from Julie. Her father is going to buy a new computer so she will be able to send me e-mails
. At the bottom of the pile, a note from Jim to say Mrs Hendry is retiring at last. He hopes I will apply for her job and promises me a supportive reference.
The eggs begin to knock against the side of the saucepan as the water comes up to the boil. I look up. There is another noise, a creaking coming down the lift shaft. The wind… but there was no wind as I dallied outside. I tap my fingers on the table in time with the moving eggs. The lift shudders, out of kilter with my rhythm. A new sound refuses to be ignored, a particular note that I recognise as the creak of a stair. A wave of coldness passes over me. No one else has a key so how could they have got in? A burglar must have forced one of the windows.
I get to my feet and open the kitchen door a crack. The hall light is on but the stairs are in darkness. Straining to listen I tiptoe across and gingerly flick on the light as if the switch might burn me. Clenching my arms to my sides I start to climb up, pausing on each step. The house is silent as I reach the first floor. The dining room is empty but in the drawing room the window is open. Surely I never left it like that? I always lock up so carefully. I stand still feeling my heart beating. This is silly, I must do something. Crossing the room to pull the window shut I glance back and catch sight of Susan cowering behind the door.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I wasn’t expecting you home till tomorrow.’ She stands rigid, only her lips moving.
I stride across to seize the front of her blouse and drag her into the middle of the room. ‘How did you get in?’
She pulls away and reaches into her trouser pocket. Withdrawing her hand I see a bunch of keys on her open palm.
‘How dare you.’ I hit her then; a hard, open-handed slap on the side of her face. ‘You bitch, how could you?’
Her left hand goes to her face, her right still holds the keys. She takes a step away from me. ‘I’ve had them ever since your grandmother was ill.’
My fists clench. I want to hit her again. ‘Who do you think you are?’ My heart is beating even more violently. ‘First you take my man, then you insinuate yourself into my house. Was it you who opened the window? What will it be next? Have you come to steal my silver?’
‘Oh Meena, of course not. I just wanted to have a look at the house by myself.’ She pauses. ‘I thought I might want to buy it.’
‘You?’ She could never afford to buy it. How laughable to think of Susan trying to fill these rooms, coping with the spirits all by herself. Or perhaps she is planning to move in with Quentin. I draw in my breath. ‘I suppose you and Quentin think you can live here happily ever after? Over my dead body.’
‘It’s not like that at all.’ She drops her hand to her side and I can see the marks of my fingers on her cheek. The last time I saw her face it had been red all over as she peeped out from beneath Quentin’s body. I shut my eyes for a second to try and block out the picture. Then I open them as she says, ‘You won’t believe it, but he’s going back to his wife.’
‘To Janice?’
‘Yes. He’s looking for another job, nearer home.’
I sink into my mother’s chair and gaze down at the clenched fingers in my lap. ‘But he hates his wife.’ Everything I had believed about him was wrong. I thought he loved me but all his sweet words meant nothing. He is a lying bastard, a man who moves among women with no thought for their feelings.
‘I think he misses the children.’ Susan is not moving from the spot on the floor where her feet are anchored. ‘Anyway, he does not love me. I think he really did love you.’
I look up. ‘He had a funny way of showing it.’
‘He needed to prove he was still a man. He used me, just for that.’
How much had he told her? I can still see their heads together, locked in pity for the poor girl who can’t do it. ‘You must have encouraged him. I can’t believe that after all these years you could be so disloyal. You were supposed to be my mother’s friend.’
‘I know I behaved badly. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’ As she speaks she seems to shrink. ‘But I do need a man so badly.’
Susan is no longer the condescending person who gives unwanted advice, just a lonely woman. Serve her right; if she treats her friends like that she deserves to be lonely for the rest of her life.
‘Can I sit down?’ she pleads.
‘I suppose so.’ She balances on the edge of a chair. I sit in silence as I try to organise my thoughts. Nothing makes sense. All I can feel is that my house, my life, my very self have been invaded. No,’ I shout. ‘I don’t want you here. Get out.’
She stands up. ‘Can’t I do anything to make up?’
Before I have time to reply a smell of burning fills the room. ‘Oh my God, the eggs.’
I fly downstairs. They have boiled dry and are stuck to the bottom of the saucepan that has turned black inside. The handle is too hot to touch so I seize a cloth and carry it to the sink. The water sizzles on the hot metal and clouds of steam fill the kitchen, making me cough. As the air clears I see Susan hovering in the doorway. Her eyes look large in her pale face and her fingers twist a piece of hair at the side of her neck.
‘For goodness sake, come in. I’m sorry I hit you.’
‘I deserved it.’
I turn to the fridge. At the back there is some processed cheese that I missed. I take the thawed bread out of the microwave. ‘Join me if you like, but this is all I’ve got.’
Susan sits down at the kitchen table and puts her head in her hands, looking so dejected I almost feel sorry for her. ‘What the hell, let’s have some wine.’ I open a bottle and pour out two glasses. ‘In a way, you’ve been jilted too.’ She looks up. It is odd, we feel more equal now. At least she can’t patronise me any more; she is no better a judge of men than I am.
Her cheek is still pink but she manages a grin. ‘What shall we drink to?’ She holds up her glass. ‘Not to men, that’s for sure.’
‘It had better be to ourselves, then.’ I take a long swig. I can’t quite bring myself to clink my glass with the one she is holding out towards me.
***
Next morning I watch Quentin from the window as he goes out of the back gate on his way to work. The hinge has started to squeak again. He pauses to look at it and shakes his head. He is good at manipulating the world around him, at making objects work with a little oil, or building bonfires. Complicated things like relationships need more than that. As he strides down the path I can feel a thread running between us that stretches further with every step he takes – like a piece of elastic. As he disappears round the corner it breaks with a snap. I stagger back, as if struck by the recoil of a gun. He is just another person out there. Although I shared my deepest thoughts with him we will, in future, speak with careful politeness.
I want him out of my house. I will not stomach the sight of him coming and going every day, reminding me of my loss. He is a fickle and flawed man, I should have realised that from the beginning. Even if sex had been fine he would not have stayed with me for long. He was not faithful to his wife and he just played with Susan. I am not all that different. He treated me like all the other women in his life.
I leave the window to pick up the threads of my life. Only four days of the Easter holidays remain and I have much to do. First, I must plan Jane’s visit: buy the new dolls and bake a cake. I wonder if she would like salmon, but decide to stick to the safety of sausages and chips. She has probably never tasted salmon, except out of a tin. I phone the archivist who invites me to visit him the next morning.
I find him in the basement of the Guildhall and explain what I am looking for. The minister is right, he does have some coroner’s records and he produces a large volume.
‘These are the earliest that have survived. They start in 1813, and go up to 1830. Then there is a long gap till near the end of the century. Several volumes must have been lost.’
‘Thank you. It’s worth a try.’
The large, thick pages are all covered in hand written reports, couched in the stilted lega
l language of the times. I leaf through trying to get the feel of the book. Each case takes up three or four pages, with a list of signatures at the end and a blob of sealing wax opposite each one. The name of the city is repeated at the top of every new case, and is followed by a formal statement.
“An inquisition indented taken at the Guildhall in the said city this third day of March 1813…before Arthur Neville Esquire, Mayor and also coroner of our Sovereign Lord the King…” My eyes race on. “Good and lawful men of the said city who being sworn and charged…” They seem to be a sort of jury. I turn to the beginning and start to read systematically.
The people in the first two reports both died by burning. One was an old man who had fallen into the grate while his wife was out; the other a woman whose dress had caught fire from a candle. The next death was of a man who drowned in the river. The next… “An inquisition indented upon view of the body of Edward Curry.”
I rub my eyes. All the time I have been searching in the library and the graveyard, the evidence has been lying in wait for me here. All I have to do is to turn the page to discover the details of the man’s death, that man, who is the grandfather of my murderous relative.
The first witness, Richard Bloomfield, apprentice to Edward Curry, gave his statement. The deceased slept in the same bed as me last night. When I woke he had left the room, and about half past seven I went to the kitchen to sup some gruel that Tom‘s missis had made. Then I went out to the forge. I was surprised to see the deceased between the bench and the anvil in the middle of the room, apparently leaning on it. I spoke to him but he did not answer, from which I thought he was in a fit and went to fetch Tom, who said he was hanging and immediately cut him down.
The next deposition was from Tom Farley himself: Soon after seven I saw the deceased go downstairs and out of the door. I went to tend the two horses at the back and I was just finished when the last witness shouted for me to come, that the master was in a fit. I called to my wife to keep the children indoors and went into the forge, where I saw the deceased was hanging from a cord fastened to a crook in the ceiling. I took up a knife and cut him down. He fell on the floor and I perceived him to be dead. The deceased suffered from strange moods when he wasn’t himself but recently he’d appeared to be in better spirits.