Cassie runs her hands through her hair, smoothing her plait down the side of her neck and twisting the loose ends below the band nervously between her fingers. ‘So now you know that I failed you. I betrayed you. I hate myself for that, for hurting you. And you, Dora, you did nothing wrong.’ Her voice was rising insistently. ‘Do you see? Do you understand?’
Dora closes her eyes.
It is too much to hear.
Cassie is weeping quietly next to her on the grass, but Dora can’t bring herself to comfort her. Her head rings with her sister’s words and her stomach twists with nausea.
Fragments of the day whirl frantically around her mind. Helen speeding off down the drive to be with Tobias. Cassie and Sam dropping down out of sight into the Crag. Alfie poking at crabs with a long, gnarled stick. A ball of ice cream disappearing into the oncoming breakers. The sight of Alfie’s sodden cape in Cassie’s arms. Her mother’s disbelieving stare as she learns that Alfie is missing.
The images crowd her brain until she feels dizzy with it all. She presses her fingers to her temples to try to slow things down. She knows now. She knows it all. Each of them has played some part in the tragic events leading to Alfie’s death and they have each paid, day after day, for their choices, their failings and their secrets. All of them, Cassie, Helen, herself, even Richard have lived a lifetime of guilt and regret. Cassie’s hidden desires, her cruel suggestion and lies, Helen’s affair, they are new pieces of the puzzle that fit together to form the whole sorry picture of that one day when Alfie was taken from them. But really, Dora realises, the only thing she can still be certain of amidst the swirl of emotion surrounding her, is that none of it, no tears, no recriminations, no confessions or self-inflicted punishment or pain is going to bring Alfie back.
‘Do you hate me?’ Cassie’s words break through her thoughts. ‘I’d understand if you do. I’ve found it hard enough to forgive myself these past years so there’s no reason why you should.’ She speaks fast, the words tumbling out of her mouth.
Dora sits utterly still under the shimmering boughs of the tree. She can’t answer. She feels sick at the thought of what Cassie did. She is shocked by the news of her mother’s infidelity. The revelations swirl wildly in her head. She needs some time.
As the silence deepens she notices her sister wilt a little. Cassie sits slumped in the shade of the willow, a river of tears drying on her face and the white criss-cross scars on her wrists glinting like delicate silver bracelets in the strange green light, and Dora knows. She’s not sure if she can forgive her, but she knows she doesn’t hate her.
‘I don’t hate you, Cassie. You’ve hated yourself enough for one lifetime.’
Cassie lets a small sigh leave her lips and then clasps her hands together in a prayer-like gesture, turning her wrists inwards so that the scars on her arms no longer show. They sit together in silence for a moment longer before Cassie speaks again in a small voice. ‘You know if I could turn the clock back and do things differently that day, I would? I would give my own life, gladly, to protect Alfie.’
Dora nods. ‘I think we all would.’
Cassie looks up from intently studying her hands. ‘Look, Dora, there’s no reason you should listen to me now. I wouldn’t blame you if you got back into your car, drove away from here and never contacted me again. But while you are here you might as well know that I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on things in this place. I know all of us, if we could, would go back to that day and do things differently if it would mean a different outcome. But we can’t, and nothing we do now will bring our little brother back, will it?’
Dora nods again, the tears welling in her eyes. She recognises that her sister’s words echo her own thoughts just moments ago.
‘So don’t you think the best thing we can do for Alfie now is to look forwards and live our lives as best we can, for him?’
Dora wipes at her eyes as her sister continues.
‘It might be too soon for you to let me back in your life again. What I did that day . . . and the way I left . . . well, I wouldn’t blame you.’
Dora swallows. She doesn’t know how to answer that.
‘But let me just say this one last thing,’ continues Cassie. ‘For all the talking and analysing I’ve done, it was probably Bill Dryden who helped me to see it best of all.’ She opens her arms expansively. ‘The restoration of the garden . . . it’s all for Alfie. I did it for him; it is my shot at redemption, if you like. I’ve brought it back to life; a way of healing.’ Cassie reaches over and puts her hand on Dora’s arm. ‘And now you have a life growing inside you.’ She looks at her meaningfully. ‘It’s time for you to let go too, Dora. It’s time for you to move on. We can’t bring him back but we can remember him through the things we do in our own lives.’
Dora nods. Suddenly it makes sense. Everything she’s been fighting and everything she has feared is suddenly melting away. She doesn’t need to be afraid. She doesn’t need to feel guilty. The only thing she owes Alfie, her family and Dan is that she lives her life to the fullest possible. A life half lived. Her father’s words echo in her ears. They have all been so busy with death they have forgotten there is still a world of life out there.
They sit together in silence for a while, both of them listening to the hum of insects and birds taking flight outside the shadowy green chamber. A shaft of sunlight penetrates the boughs of the willow and shines down in Dora’s lap, warm as a cat and, as she sits there, next to her sister, she feels a sudden and immense peace wash over her, a sense of calm she hasn’t felt for a long, long while. She imagines her mother in the kitchen at Clifftops arranging long-stemmed roses into one of Daphne’s crystal vases, and Richard with his sensible slippered feet reading the paper in his beige living room as Violet fusses around him; she thinks of her sister kneeling over the soil around them coaxing plants and seeds to life, and of Dan in his studio working clay and wax into a beautiful new creation. And then she thinks of the baby, a tiny, curled being nestled deep inside her with its own perfect heartbeat. She thinks of them all and as she does, she feels another wave of peace wash over her.
HELEN
Present Day
Helen is in the garden pulling thistles and bindweed from the flower beds outside the kitchen window when she hears the shrill cry of the telephone. She stands quickly, removes her gardening gloves and walks into the house, hoping to make it before the caller rings off. She is in luck.
‘Hello?’
‘Mum, is that you?’
Helen’s breath catches in her throat. ‘Dora?’
‘Yes.’
There is a pause at the other end of the phone and in the silence Helen’s mind fills with a jumble of questions and thoughts. Why is Dora calling? They haven’t spoken since her visit earlier in the year. Is something wrong? Is the baby OK?
‘What’s happened?’ she asks.
‘Nothing, everything’s fine.’
‘The baby’s all right?’
‘Yes,’ says Dora, sounding surprised. ‘The baby’s fine. We’re all fine,’ she adds.
‘Oh, good.’ Helen relaxes slightly.
‘I was wondering . . . I thought maybe . . . would you fancy a daytrip to London?’ Dora blurts the question and Helen feels her heart swell with sudden emotion.
‘A visit? To see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘I was thinking next weekend – but if you can’t make it then we could—’
‘No,’ says Helen quickly. ‘Next weekend is fine.’ She mentally runs through her calendar. She can rearrange a few things; it won’t be a problem.
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
There is another long silence and Helen can hear her daughter’s quiet breathing at the other end of the phone. ‘And you’re all right, nothing’s wrong?’
‘No, Mum, everything’s fine.’ Dora gives Helen the name and address of a café in Primrose Hill, a tearoom calle
d Rosie Lee’s tucked away off the main drag.
‘It will be nice to revisit an old stomping ground. I’ll call you if I have trouble finding the place.’
‘Great. See you there next Saturday at eleven?’
‘Yes, see you there.’
‘OK.’ There is another pause. ‘Bye, Mum.’
‘Bye, Dora.’
Helen hears the click of the handset at the other end of the line. She stands in the kitchen holding the buzzing receiver against her chest, feeling an unexpected warmth seep through to her heart.
She catches the train up to London early the following Saturday morning and arrives at Waterloo station just before ten. Within minutes she is sitting on the Northern Line hurtling towards Chalk Farm. The tube carriage is virtually empty, but it still holds the residual smells of the thousands of bodies that have passed through its doors all week. She breathes in the warm reek of it and is taken straight back to the time she and Richard lived in north London as young newly-weds and nervy first-time parents. It seems like a lifetime ago now. So much has happened since then.
There is a young woman about Dora’s age sitting opposite her. She wears a diamond stud in her nose that glints boldly under the artificial lighting and she nods along to music emanating from tiny white headphones. Helen catches her eye and smiles. The girl curls the corners of her lips in the slightest of acknowledgements, before turning her gaze politely to the adverts above Helen’s head. Of course, she realises, it has been too long; she is out of practice when it comes to Underground etiquette.
Helen averts her eyes and begins to fiddle with her tube ticket, letting her mind wander back to Dora’s phone call. It was strange; Dora had given no indication as to why she should suddenly invite her up to London. The last time they had seen each other was at Clifftops, when Dora had announced her pregnancy and they had spoken, albeit awkwardly, about Alfie. Since then Helen has tortured herself over the way she handled things. Dora had reached out to her and she had pushed her away. Once again, she had failed her family. She is haunted by their encounter and angry with herself for being too afraid to speak the truth to her daughter, when it is clear it was what she had needed to hear.
Helen has thought about calling her since, but every time she moved towards the phone, every time she stood in the kitchen with her hand hovering over the handset, aching to speak to her, she heard a soft, insistent voice in the back of her head saying Don’t do it. She doesn’t need you. Leave her alone. And it had proved easier to walk away and distract herself with everyday life, to carry on with her quiet routine down by the coast, than to pick up the phone and face her daughter.
That was the funny thing about Clifftops. From the moment they had moved there she had considered it her prison, a place she had only ever really wanted to escape from. Then, after Alfie, it became her punishment; and when Richard had finally left her she’d known with absolute clarity that it was her personal cross to bear. Richard hadn’t wanted to live there; he’d made that perfectly clear during their strained divorce negotiations, and so she’d stayed on, treating the rambling old house as her penance. And it had proved a weighty cross, steeped as it was with the painful memories of losing Alfie.
Yet, over the years, something unexpected had happened. It was as though the house had slowly infiltrated her bones and had wrapped its heavy stone walls around her, pulling her into its comforting embrace. Perhaps it was the other memories the house held, memories of happier times with Richard and the children that she occasionally now felt strong enough to dwell upon. Or maybe it was the garden she had taken to pottering around, the simple tasks of dead-heading roses, weeding thistles or collecting apples from the orchard reminding her of the natural order of the world, the ebb and flow of a life force both timeless and inevitable. Even the things she had detested at first, like the great clanking Aga, the dusty clutter of antiques and paintings, or the draughty old window frames that rattled and moaned in the brisk sea breezes, had begun to feel like old friends. She realises now that she has assumed the role of custodian; she has become a sort of caretaker for the sprawling estate. It is as if she is keeping it safe – for the next generation perhaps? It surprises no one more than her that she should have come to this, but if she has learnt anything over the last ten years or so, it is that life is full of unexpected twists and turns, both good and bad.
And now Dora has called her. She has made the next move and invited her to London, and she can’t help but wonder if this, at last, is a sign that they can finally get things back on track. Perhaps it isn’t so ridiculous to imagine being a part of her daughter’s life again, to look forward to sharing in the joy of a first grandchild. She knows it is more than she deserves but she can’t help the tiny well of hope that bubbles up inside her. This feels like her last chance to bridge the divide.
It is a mild day for September, much warmer in the capital than down on the Dorset coast, and as Helen leaves the tube station and begins to walk down the busy road, past noisy cars with stinking exhausts and screeching brakes, she finds herself shrugging off her coat and rolling up her sleeves. She wanders past a shabby-looking dry-cleaners, a greengrocers with its sad array of wizened fruit and vegetables out on display, and blocks of red-brick council flats until she turns left onto Primrose Hill Road. The green grass of the park sprawls away invitingly to her right, but she carries on down the road, eager to get to the café on time.
Rosie Lee’s Tearoom is tucked away at the end of a quiet, residential street lined with genteel Victorian homes. The shop front itself is decorated with a pretty rose-covered awning and Helen sees several tables and chairs outside on the pavement, covered in patterned tablecloths and cushions, already occupied by patrons soaking up the sunshine. She pushes her way through the front door and into the cosy interior.
The café’s discreet exterior belies the buzz and hum of the crowds inside. Tables are bustling with confident young professionals chattering into mobile phones, sipping on lattes and reading the weekend papers. Helen looks around for a space, despairing at the lack of seats, until a frantically waving arm catches her eye.
‘Mum! Over here.’ It is Dora. She is sitting in the far corner at a table for two, a pot of tea already in front of her. It seems Helen isn’t the only one who has arrived early. She gives her daughter a little wave, before squeezing her way through the cluttered tables to reach her.
‘Hello.’ Dora stands and Helen gives her a peck on the cheek and a little squeeze on the arm, noting with private delight the gentle swell of Dora’s belly underneath her T-shirt. ‘You look great,’ she compliments. ‘You’re glowing.’
‘Thanks, Mum. I like the new “do”.’
Helen pats at her hair self-consciously. ‘It’s a bit shorter than I was expecting, but I’m getting used to it.’
Dora smiles. ‘It suits you.’
‘Thank you.’
She sits down opposite her daughter and folds her coat onto her lap, smoothing the fabric with trembling hands. She is suddenly overwhelmed with nerves. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks. ‘Is the morning sickness still bad?’
‘No, it eased up a few weeks ago. I’m feeling good now.’
‘Great. That’s great.’ She looks at Dora and can see it is true. Her cheeks are a little rounder, her breasts a little fuller, and her skin and hair shine with life. She looks beautiful.
A waitress in a floral apron appears at Helen’s side, hovering politely with pen poised over pad.
‘Do you want anything else?’ Helen asks.
‘No, I’m fine with my tea thanks.’
‘Just a black coffee please,’ says Helen, addressing the girl in the apron, who fades away with a scribble and a nod, leaving the two women alone again.
‘Thanks for coming,’ says Dora finally. ‘I wasn’t sure you would.’
Helen gives a start of surprise. Did Dora really think she wouldn’t come? Is there really such a great divide between them? It makes her ache to realise how far she’s let things sli
de. ‘I was pleased you called,’ she admits, finally. ‘I wanted to call you. I really did. So many times I nearly picked up the phone, but something always stopped me. I guess I wasn’t sure you would want to hear from me?’
Her last sentence has ended in a question but Dora just responds with a little shrug of her shoulders. ‘Of course I would have,’ she says, eventually.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But things were so difficult . . . at your last visit.’
Dora nods.
‘I handled it badly.’
Dora nods again.
I deserve that, thinks Helen.
Just then the waitress returns with the coffee. Helen distracts herself for a moment with the sugar, tearing carefully at the paper packet and stirring the granules into her mug, watching the silver spoon shift the dark liquid vortex round and round and round. It’s like our relationship, thinks Helen suddenly, dark and deep and bittersweet. She stops stirring, tapping the spoon against her mug and placing it carefully back onto the saucer.
‘So,’ she says, ‘here we are.’ She gives Dora a nervous smile and Dora seems to be about to say something, but then stops, busying herself instead with the laminated menu in front of her. She flexes it back and forth in her hands, making a funny whumph-whumph sound with the air. Somewhere behind them a man breaks into a loud, braying laugh. Only as the sound of it dies away does Dora finally begin to speak.
‘I went to see Cassie a few weeks ago.’
Helen starts. ‘Oh yes? Was she OK?’
‘Yes. She seemed great.’
Helen feels a surge of relief. ‘She seems to have found her calling, doesn’t she?’
It is Dora’s turn to nod. ‘Yes, it certainly seems so.’
They fall silent for another moment.
Secrets of the Tides Page 35