With a sigh she turns to survey the living room. The few surfaces they own are cluttered with the detritus of their lives. She ushers Gormley into the kitchen before grabbing a black bin bag and working methodically, dumping old papers and bills, dead flowers, empty wine bottles, half-eaten crusts of toast and the stumps of misshapen candles into the rubbish sack. She stacks Dan’s art books back onto the bookshelves and carries dirty mugs and dishes into the kitchen. It takes her twenty minutes to do the washing up, and another ten to wipe down the dusty surfaces and whiz the vacuum round, but by the time she has finished the flat looks pristine again.
She looks back at the closed door to the studio and can just make out movement beneath the gap in the door. He is lost in his work, or angry at her still. Either way she knows she’ll be going to bed alone.
That night she dreams she is diving for coins. The water is green and murky but she can see them glinting silver on the bottom, drawing her down. She dives again and again, her hands scrabbling through the silt, her lungs burning as she seizes upon the cold metal and returns to the surface each time with a triumphant rush of air.
There is one more down there. She has seen it winking at her. She can’t leave it behind. With a final gasp she forces her body down below the surface. She can feel her lungs ache but the coin is within reach, she knows it; just a few more metres.
Her hands stretch before her in the gloom and she feels grit sift through her fingers. Nothing.
She has to return to the surface; her body needs the air, but her mind is insistent: it is there, just one more second, keep going.
Her hands pat blindly at the ground and suddenly she touches something; not cold metal but something warm, something strangely flesh-like. Something human. Her eyes open wide with panic in the darkness. She can’t breathe. Her body is on fire, her mind dizzy. She tries to rise to the surface but the thing she has touched has hold of her now. Fingers, insistent and strong, grip her, refusing to let go.
She pulls one more time, her body thrashing under the water as her final survival instincts kick in.
But the hand’s grip is firm and tight. It will not let her go.
With a final desperate wrench, she pulls away from its death-like hold and opens her mouth to scream.
She wakes to the shriek of her alarm clock. It is seven a.m. She turns it off and lies in bed for a moment, listening to the sound of rain drumming on the roof and water dripping rhythmically into the buckets and pans scattered around the bed, as the remnants of her nightmare fade away. Another wet Monday morning: she doesn’t know how she is going to muster the energy to shower, dress and get herself on the Tube to work, particularly with the revolting queasy feeling already welling up inside her. She hasn’t even opened her eyes yet, for God’s sake. The last few mornings she’s felt like this Dan has been so sweet. He’s made her tea and toast and brought it to her in bed. She reaches out a hand for him now but finds nothing but empty space. His pillow lies chastely next to hers, perfectly plumped. He hasn’t come to bed so he must have crashed out on the couch in the studio. She hates it when they go to sleep separately, still upset with each other.
She staggers into the bathroom and loses herself under a jet of steaming water for a few minutes, then dresses and heads into the kitchen, swallowing back bile as she goes. She makes tea and throws down a bowl of dog biscuits for Gormley before noticing the furry bulge sticking out of the black bin bag she filled the night before. Reaching in she pulls out the mystery object by one fuzzy leg. It is a teddy bear, the old-fashioned kind with soft tawny fur and moveable joints. He still wears his price tag: £65; not cheap. Dan must have bought him for the baby. As teddy bears go he is really rather sweet: a round podgy tummy set off by oversized paws and ears. The sight of him in her hands, his fixed black eyes looking up at her with a sad, doleful expression is almost too much to take. She puts him to one side on the kitchen table, ties off the bin bag, and sits gazing at the bear for a few more minutes. Then, before she can change her mind she reaches for the telephone.
‘Hello?’ The voice at the other end answers midway through the first ring, as though the person has been standing by the phone all this time, just waiting for her call.
She takes a deep breath. ‘Dad, it’s me . . . it’s Dora.’
CASSIE
Ten Years Earlier
Cassie sat on her bed surrounded by revision notes. She was supposed to be studying for her history A level, but her brain felt like mush and all she could think about was the little butterfly brooch tucked away at the back of her bedside table. There was an itch spreading across her skin and she couldn’t ignore it.
Kicking her notes to one side, she reached across and pulled the diamond and mother-of-pearl ornament out of the drawer, turning it over and over in her hand. It was so pretty, shimmering its muted pastel colours back at her, even in the gloom of a rain-soaked afternoon. She gazed at it a moment longer before unhooking the clasp and testing its pin for sharpness against her fingertips. It was good enough.
She pushed her sweater sleeve up past her elbow and pressed the point against the pale skin in the crook of her arm, the spot where the skin was most sensitive and the results of her work could be hidden. Then, sucking in her breath, she pressed harder and winced as the metal punctured her flesh. Ruby red blood sprang up around the pin and as she watched the beads bubble and form she dragged the spike down in one long, painful stroke, exhaling deeply as the metal did its work. She repeated the action several more times, watching with satisfaction as a crazy criss-cross pattern sprang up on her skin and the warm blood began to seep down her arms. Then, feeling a little dizzy, she lay back on the bed and let the pain wash over her. It felt good to feel something.
As the knife-sharp sting gradually subsided to a dull ache, Cassie returned to the present. The world flooded in around her once more and she lay there for a while just thinking about how much her life sucked. It sucked more than Jessica Goldstein getting off with Charlie Simpson right in front of her at the rugby club dance last weekend. It sucked more than her mum telling her in no uncertain terms that she could not get her belly button pierced before she passed her A levels. It sucked more than being stuck in her bedroom listening to the dull thump of Dora’s pop music while she tried to concentrate on her history revision. And it sucked even more than the incessant rain belting down outside keeping her trapped in the house like a prisoner, again. Yes. Life sucked, more than all of those things put together, and then some.
She pressed a tissue to her bloody arm and then reached out and banged on the wall. ‘Turn it down, will you?’
Dora’s latest girl-band fixation shrank a decibel or two until it was just a dull, unfathomable noise from the other side of the wall; it was slightly better, but she still couldn’t concentrate. The Reformation really was so boring and with Dora safely secreted in her bedroom, the house lay quiet and inviting below. Her mother had left over an hour ago – Violet was staying for a few days and they’d gone off in her battered little car to trawl some local farmers’ market. Richard was safely ensconced at work and the only other sound she could hear was the faraway buzz of a saw on wood; probably Bill tending to the garden somewhere. The house was all hers.
She pulled her sleeve down over the wound, tucked the brooch back into its hiding place and then left her bedroom, tiptoeing silently down the landing past Dora’s door before heading on to the guest room where Violet had set up camp. She tapped very lightly on the door, just in case, and then pushed it open, ducking inside and shutting it behind her in one smooth movement. She stood, listening for a moment, but Dora’s music continued its muffled thump and she knew she was alone.
Violet’s suitcase lay open at one end of the bed, a colourful array of clothes spilling out across the floor. Cassie plucked at a few of the garments. Violet’s taste was tight and bright and Cassie winced at each in turn as she held them up to her body in the mirror – not her style. She replaced each item carefully where she had found it and the
n moved across to the dressing table. Violet was not a tidy woman. The surface was strewn with bottles and jars, compacts of pressed powder, lipsticks and eye shadow, jewellery and scarves. She reached for a bottle of perfume and sniffed at the nozzle; a pungent floral scent raced up her nostrils. She put the bottle back and reached instead for an expensive-looking moisturiser. She gave it a suspicious sniff before smothering a dollop onto her face, then seized a ruby red lipstick and smeared it over her lips. She finished the look with a heavy ring of black kohl around each eye and stood back to assess her reflection in the mirror. She looked like one of Dora’s old Sindy dolls after a particularly frenzied attack with the felt-tip pens. Beneath the make-up Cassie saw violet bags the colour of four-day-old bruises; she hadn’t been sleeping well recently. She wiped the lipstick off with a tissue and scrubbed at her ringed eyes.
Bored with the oddments on the dressing table Cassie turned to survey the rest of the room. There was a splayed paperback lying on the bedside table that, according to the quote splashed across the front, promised a ‘raunchy and irresistible’ read. Violet’s scarlet lace nightdress peeked out from underneath one pillow, and several pairs of impossibly high heels stood lined up on the floor underneath the window ledge, but other than that the room held little of interest. Cassie slipped out into the hallway and wandered downstairs in search of other forbidden treasures.
Her mother’s office was the next obvious place to try. Since Alfie, Helen had taken to spending even more time cloistered behind its door, her head bent over some book or other. Cassie sometimes wondered if she even remembered she had two daughters who were still very much alive, the amount of attention she paid them some days. Still, there were certainly benefits to being ignored. She got away with things most of her friends would have been grounded for weeks for.
The room was dark as she entered and she could smell a heady mix of paper, leather and Helen’s familiar lemony scent hanging on the air. Cassie flicked on the overhead light and moved to the desk. She sat herself in the leather writer’s chair and swivelled round and round for a few moments, until she felt dizzy and had to stop. The surface of the desk was covered in papers. She plucked at a few and scanned the text, before placing them back on the surface. More boring work stuff. She rummaged through the desk drawers, discarding a packet of extra strong mints, some of her mother’s personalised stationery, elastic bands and paper clips, old biros and post-it notes. She was about to give up when her fingers grazed the edges of something stuffed right at the back of the drawer. Curiously, she grabbed at the object and pulled it out.
Cassie’s heart skipped a beat when she saw what she held: a bundle of Alfie’s baby photos. They were worn and tatty, as if aged by a thousand caresses and stained by a flood of tears. Cassie stared at them for a moment, taking in her brother’s wide toothy smile and brilliant blue eyes. In one he sported a large scab across his forehead: Cassie could still remember the awful sound of his head connecting with the coffee table and the piercing wail that had followed. In another he sat on a swing, his chubby little legs flailing wildly as he went higher and higher into the blue sky. And in another he peered up at the camera from beneath a voluminous, floppy straw hat with flowers decorating its brim; one of their grandmother’s, she supposed. As she sifted through the images an uncomfortable lump formed at the back of her throat. She shoved them back into the drawer and slid it shut with a bang. That would teach her for snooping.
She was just double-checking for telltale signs of her spying and planning her exit when the telephone rang. Without thinking, Cassie reached for the handset.
‘Hello?’
‘Helen, is that you? Don’t hang up.’
Cassie swallowed. She didn’t recognise the man’s voice, but there was a desperation in his words that made her pause.
‘Helen?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Helen, just listen to me. Please. I’m going out of my mind here. I need to see you. I know you’ve said you can’t have anything to do with me, but I can’t let you go. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I certainly can’t paint. God knows, I’ve tried, but nothing feels right without you. I love you. It’s as simple as that. Don’t you feel the same way? Don’t you think of me at all?’
Cassie was frozen to the spot, paralysed by the words spilling from the telephone.
‘Helen, say something, please!’ the man urged. ‘I beg you.’
At a loss for what else to do, Cassie placed the receiver gently back on the hook and ran quickly from her mother’s study, her face burning with shock and anger.
She was shivering on the patio, puffing on an illicit Marlboro Light when Violet came upon her.
‘It’s OK,’ Violet said as she leapt in alarm, ‘I won’t tell. Got a spare one?’
Cassie breathed a sigh of relief and handed over the packet. She watched as Violet, clutching a cocktail glass in one hand, struggled to free a cigarette from the packet, her bracelets jangling wildly with her endeavours. She eventually managed, stuck one between her red lips and leaned in to accept Cassie’s offer of a light. For just a second the flare of the match lit up Violet’s round face, before they were both plunged into darkness again. They stood side by side, clutching themselves for warmth, and puffed on the cigarettes companionably.
‘You wouldn’t believe it was almost summer, would you?’ laughed Violet. ‘It’s bloomin’ freezing out!’
‘No,’ agreed Cassie. She thought she’d try a little small talk. ‘So, how was the market?’
‘Oh, muddier than Glastonbury and full of hippies selling over-priced organic honey and hemp clothes. Not really my scene, to be honest.’
Cassie smiled in the darkness.
‘There was a beautiful flower stall, though, with some gorgeous hand-tied bouquets. I enjoyed that.’
Cassie knew Violet ran her own florist’s and nodded politely. ‘You enjoy your work, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Violet. ‘I do. I’m lucky. I couldn’t stand to spend my days doing something I hated, like so many poor people end up doing. I love flowers. Oh, I know lots of people think they’re frivolous and unnecessary, but imagine the birth of a baby without a celebratory bouquet, or a bride walking down the aisle without an arrangement of beautiful flowers in her hands; a sick person in hospital with nothing pretty to look at to cheer their spirits, or a grave without a floral tribute?’
Cassie winced at the last example but Violet was lost in her monologue and didn’t seem to notice.
‘My work marks the passing of time, just like the very seasons the plants themselves grow from. It celebrates all those important moments in life, and follows us from beginning to end.’ Violet shook her head in wonder. ‘A florist’s work is actually quite wonderful when you think about it.’
Cassie nodded. She’d never thought of it like that before.
‘And how are you, Cassie dear? How is life treating you?’
‘Oh, you know.’ Cassie scuffed at the moss on a paving slab with the toe of her trainer. ‘It’s OK.’
‘I remember my A-level year. Pure torture. All I wanted to do was hang out with my friends and party.’
Cassie nodded in agreement.
‘So, any nice boys on the scene I should know about? Don’t worry,’ she added hastily, ‘I won’t tell your mother.’
Cassie shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘You surprise me, a pretty girl like you. I’d have thought you’d have boys beating down the door.’
Cassie eyed Violet evenly in the darkness. For a split second she wondered about telling her, but then she changed her mind. Violet was cool, but she didn’t really know if she could trust her.
‘What about Dora?’ Violet continued. ‘Has she got a boyfriend?’
Cassie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. We don’t talk about stuff like that. We sort of keep to ourselves these days.’
Violet took another drag on her cigarette and exhaled smoke upwards into the night sky. ‘It’s been
tough for you girls, hasn’t it? How do you think your folks are holding up?’
Cassie shrugged again. ‘They’re miserable. We all are.’
Violet gave a little nod. ‘Yes, it’s going to take time. You must be looking forward to university though? A fresh start?’
Cassie swallowed and gave a little nod. ‘Did you go to university?’
‘Me?’ Violet let out a little laugh. ‘Oh no. I wasn’t clever enough for that. Left that to your mother, didn’t I? I was very easily distracted back then.’ She let out a little giggle. ‘Yes, far too easily distracted . . . and between you and me, the thought of three more years of study horrified me. I couldn’t wait to get into the real world . . . get a job, earn some money, start being really independent.’
Cassie looked up at her with interest. ‘So you don’t regret not going?’
Secrets of the Tides Page 21