Salt Sisters

by Katherine Graham

  I thanked Jake and went back to the children. Sorting through Amy’s belongings was a great way to start conversations about her, and the children were happy to talk – once we started, it was hard to get them to stop. Their stories didn’t point to Amy being stressed, or upset – in fact, quite the opposite. She was busy, very engaged in village life, and physically active. They told me that Amy had started going for long runs along the coast road. She said it was her ‘mum time’ and her way of unwinding.

  God knows, I could do with that. I put my hand under my sweater – my tummy felt soft, and I could pinch an inch I swore hadn’t been there back in Hong Kong. I was missing my weekly Pilates and Muay Thai sessions. Maybe running could help me keep in shape and preserve my sanity at the same time. I asked Hannah to show me where Amy kept her running gear.

  By the time Rachel arrived, I was wrapped up and ready to go, eager to see what all the fuss was about. Anything that would help me feel what Amy felt.

  It was bitterly cold – the kind that bites at your ears. I pulled Amy’s hat as far down as it would go and tugged at the collar of her fleece jacket until it covered my chin. It was years since I had run anywhere, and it hurt – the cold air burning my lungs while the wind whipped at my face. The kids had said that Amy used to run to Bamburgh Castle and back again. I didn’t think I’d make her full route, but I decided to try and see how far I could get.

  I jogged along the back streets and past the harbour carpark, keeping my pace steady and wondering how soon I could stop for a break without it being embarrassing. I passed the last houses on the coast road – including our old house – and kept my gaze firmly ahead, not wanting distractions from the past. My thighs itched from the cold and my fingers were on icy fire despite the gloves. But something about it seemed right. This was what Amy had done. I could feel her in the clothes, the shape of her feet in her trainers, and I pressed myself against the empty outline of my sister. Tears blew across my cheeks.

  I got part-way down the road before a stitch got the better of me, so I headed back, crossing over to walk beside the houses, in case that was any warmer than the beach side. At the third house, a man was standing at his garden gate, and as I approached, he called out to me.

  ‘Isabelle?’

  He was about my age, but dressed like a much older man in a tank top and chequered wool trousers. I noticed his blue eyes. He looked familiar, but I struggled to place him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I saw you running by just now and I thought – just for a moment – the craziest thing, but you look just like your sister. I thought it was Amy.’ He wiped away a tear. ‘Gosh, I’m so stupid! Sorry, my goodness – what a thing to say. I’m Richard Pringle… Mr Pringle?’ He said it like the name should mean something to me, and offered me his hand to shake. When I looked confused, he elaborated: ‘The headteacher at North Sunderland Primary School? We met at the service… for your sister.’

  That’s where I knew him from – Amy’s funeral. He had a kind, but tired face, and he seemed genuinely upset by the mistaken identity. He invited me in, and I found the prospect of getting warm and being able to talk about Amy was too tempting.

  Richard’s house was just a few doors down from the house we had grown up in. It wasn’t as large as our old place, but it had identical sea views, and seeing them again from this vantage point was like hearing an old song. He brought in a tray with a pot of tea, two cups and a plate of biscuits.

  It turned out that Richard had known Amy quite well – she had been chair of the PTA and had regularly organised fundraising events for the school. I’d seen pictures of these things on Facebook, but I hadn’t bothered to understand that Amy was actually organising them. How much did I not know about my sister?

  ‘So’, said Richard, leaning forward in his chair. ‘How are you coping?’

  I thought about where to start, trying my hardest not to cry. ‘It’s been tough,’ I finally said in a small voice. I took a deep breath. ‘To be perfectly honest, it’s terrifying. Just the responsibility, you know?’

  Richard smiled. ‘I know that feeling – every teacher does. It’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘All the questions they have, and all the things you need to think about – and the rules! My goodness, the rules… I seem to make them up as I go along.’

  ‘The key is to sound like you mean it,’ he said with a chuckle.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘I hadn’t planned for this.’

  ‘You’ll find your stride. We all go through the same learning curve.’

  We sat in silence, sipping our tea. I mulled over Richard’s words. Maybe I was being too hard on myself? After all, this was just like any new job – it was just a case of learning the ropes.

  Richard set his cup down on the tray. ‘You know, Amy was a very dear friend of mine, and I was very fond of her. If there’s anything at all I can do - even if it’s just providing tea and biscuits, you only have to ask.’

  He held out the plate and I gratefully took a custard cream. I glanced at my watch, suddenly realising that I’d been gone for almost an hour. Some guardian I was – I’d left Rachel to do the work and forgotten all about her. I reluctantly said goodbye to Richard, telling him to call at Puffin Cottage any time.

  Mum had arrived by the time I got back and was cooking in the kitchen. She hugged me hello, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I let myself melt into her. Maybe running had been a good idea after all. I offered to help with dinner, and she showed me how to roll up the lentil and herb mix she was working on into little balls.

  Rachel and the kids were in the living room, giving me a chance to speak to Mum privately.

  ‘Was Amy having any problems, Mum?’

  ‘Like what, dear?’

  ‘Was anything stressing her out? Was she anxious about something, before the accident?’

  ‘I don’t think so. If something was troubling her, she didn’t tell me.’ She stopped and put the spoon down. ‘Perhaps you’d be better off asking your Auntie Sue about things like that…’ Her bottom lip started to tremble.

  I shifted my weight from foot to foot. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I haven’t been much of a mother to you girls, I know that. I never got the chance to properly make up for it. And now I never will with Amy.’ She blew her nose with a tissue from her pocket.

  I shrugged. ‘What’s done is done. And it was a long time ago. There’s no point dwelling on it.’

  I wondered if I meant that.

  ‘If I’d been better, if I hadn’t messed up, you wouldn’t have moved to the other side of the world and you wouldn’t be in such a rush to get back there. You should be staying with me – not in a cottage down the road. We should be together now, as a family.’

  I thought carefully about how to explain without hurting her feelings. ‘I just need my own space, Mum. It’s already a lot to deal with, and I need room to breathe.’

  She gave a sad sigh. ‘I know what that’s like. I suppose if anyone can empathise, it should be me. Sometimes we need to go away in order to find our way home…’

  She trailed off, gazing out the window at the sky, which was turning inky as dusk fell. The moment was over.

  I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Amy:

  I’m doing my best here Ames, but this is so hard. I miss you every day. xo

  Chapter Seven

  The children were finally going back to school, and as much as I thought it would be good for them to get back into a routine, I also selfishly couldn’t wait to have the day to myself. That was, until I checked my morning messages, and found one from Hannah:

  I don’t want to do this.

  I growled into the pillow and pressed snooze on my phone.

  Monday mornings had always been a struggle for me, but I was determined to get this right. I’d insisted to Mum and Auntie Sue that I didn’t need extra help – I wanted to handle the morning routine on my own. I told them it was important for
the children’s sake to keep it as fuss-free as possible, but deep down I wanted to prove to everyone – including myself – that I could do it.

  It took some arm-twisting to convince Hannah that she’d have to go back to school sooner or later – and later meant she’d have more catching up to do. We had done ourselves a big favour by laying out uniforms, packing bags and making packed lunches the evening before, but there were endless last-minute tasks that I hadn’t foreseen – from plaiting Betsy’s hair to helping Lucas find his missing library book. He and Hannah had to run for the school bus. I knew they were trying their best, but the whole experience was wearying.

  By the time I got back from dropping Betsy off, I wanted to go back to bed. I poured myself an orange juice and topped it up with vodka.

  I needed to pull myself together: I had digging to do. There was something about the suggestion Amy was on anxiety medication that just didn’t sound right to me – Amy had herself together.

  On the other hand, if she and Mike had been experiencing money problems… That might explain why she had been on edge, and why she was taking something for it. But would she have been drinking, too? And would she have got into the car like that? Amy was a nurse, she would have known better.

  Rachel was coming over for lunch, which gave me the whole morning to rummage around. I went up to the office on the first floor and surveyed the scene.

  It was officially Mike’s study – the hub where he ran his business, whatever that was, but it was by no means off limits to the rest of the family.

  The room was dominated by a desk, on top of which sat a computer monitor surrounded by several stacks of files and loose papers. The back wall was covered in bookcase units, with cupboards underneath that screamed IKEA. There was a nod to a nautical theme, with a couple of model ships on the shelves and some seashells lined up along the windowsill. The shelves were full of files. A lone post-it served as a reminder of the Wi-Fi password: I traced a finger along the black loops of Amy’s handwriting.

  I started at the top of the first pile and moved my way through each folder systematically, looking for anything interesting. They kept everything – appointment confirmation letters from the dentist, permission notes for school trips, PTA agendas. I had forgotten Amy’s mild hoarder tendency. It had first kicked in when we’d had to sort through Dad’s stuff and ever since, she’d disliked throwing things away.

  There was a family medical file, with letters from the GP and confirmations of hospital appointments. There were a few prescriptions inside, but I couldn’t see anything about benzodiazepines or anxiety. In fact, it looked like the last time Amy had seen a doctor was for an ear infection three years ago.

  Mike’s business was something to do with innovation. From the looks of things, it was nothing more complicated than pairing start-ups with investors or helping them access public funding, and I wondered how Mike made any real money from it when he was just the middleman. There were some sidelines too, such as training workshops for innovator-entrepreneurs and some invoices for consultancy services, which might have meant anything. He had even done some Amazon selling, although I couldn’t figure out what the products were.

  Then the interesting stuff: bank statements for their joint account, for Amy’s account and her credit card. I could see that Mike was putting money into the joint account each month, and all the outgoings seemed to be bills. Amy’s account showed her salary coming in, and it gave me a jolt of guilt when I realised how little she took home from her job as a district nurse. Still, she wasn’t spending much from her salary. In fact, she was putting almost all of it into a savings account. Good for you, I thought.

  I couldn’t find Mike’s bank statements, or the business accounts, which was strange, because the invoicing paperwork was all here. He must have filed them somewhere else. I turned to open the cupboard behind the desk, but it was locked. The other cupboards were all open. Where was the key?

  I was digging through the desk drawer when the clatter of the front door shattered through the quiet house, startling me. I put my hand to my chest, my heart pounding against my palm. Rachel called out from the hallway below and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Where had the morning gone? I had completely lost track of time. I quickly pushed the piles of papers back to their original positions and went to meet her downstairs.

  She had made us lunch of quinoa and feta cheese salad with pumpkin soup, and my dearly departed Pilates body thanked her for it. As she set out plates and bowls, I wondered how to broach the subject of Amy and Mike’s finances without making it awkward.

  ‘Amy told you everything, right?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘We were best friends.’ She hesitated, looking concerned. ‘And you can trust me, too. Is something on your mind?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just wondering though… I mean, how do you think they were doing, financially?’

  ‘They do quite well, I think.’ She waved a spoon, gesturing to the kitchen. ‘Just look at this place. It’s one of the nicest houses in the village. Way nicer than mine!’

  ‘So Amy didn’t mention anything about money worries, or anything else that might have been troubling her?’

  ‘Nothing. Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m just trying to work out if there was more too it. When she crashed her car that night. Was she stressed or worried about something?’

  Rachel thought about it. ‘She had a lot going on, you know – three kids isn’t easy. And although she was only working part-time, the hours are always longer than they’re meant to be, plus the stuff with the school, and then the fundraising, community projects… But she liked to be busy.’

  ‘So she wasn’t taking anxiety meds…?’

  Rachel stopped stirring the soup and turned off the hob. She was standing with her back to me, and I wished I could see her face. She ladled the soup into two bowls. ‘Where did you get that idea from?’

  I rubbed my thumb over the engraving on the hipflask in my pocket. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  I sat down at the table. ‘The coroner. Apparently Amy’s blood tests showed she was on medication, one of those types that you’re not supposed to mix with alcohol. But she had drunk a glass of wine that night, and got behind the wheel. It all just seems… so unlike her.’

  Rachel frowned. She placed the bowls on the table and folded herself into the chair opposite me.

  ‘I don’t think she was on anything, no. Not that she told me. But between you and me… and don’t take this the wrong way’ – Rachel slowly stirred her steaming bowl of soup – ‘I’m not sure that she was always happy.’

  ‘You mean with Mike? Why, what did he do to her?’

  ‘Nothing! I mean, really, nothing. I think it was her. Sometimes… sometimes it just seemed as if this wasn’t enough. Like she wanted more.’

  As soon as Rachel left, I went back to my search of the study. That cupboard was bugging me, and I couldn’t find a key anywhere. Nor did I see anything to suggest that Amy hadn’t been happy. Anyone looking at her life would have said she had it all.

  The Amy who had longed to get away from here and travel the world with me, she was a shadow in the memory of this woman. Had she simply buried those ideas because real life had worked out differently? It looked like Seahouses and village life – Mike and her family – all of that had become enough for her.

  Or had the memory of young Amy haunted her? Had she regretted giving up her dreams?

  I decided to take a walk to the harbour to clear my head.

  Seahouses was perched on top of a very gentle slope, one of the highest points on that stretch of coastline. It was a clear sunny day, and on the horizon, I could clearly make out the rocky protrusions of the Farne Islands. When the wind was high, it was possible to hear the shrieks of the million birds that nested there.

  I walked down towards the harbour, resisting the smell of chips from the takeaway van parked at the top of the bank. I had no
idea how Amy and I had stayed so skinny as teenagers, considering how many of those damn things we’d eaten. We would get a bag between us, load them with salt and vinegar and eat them from the paper while they were steaming hot.

  The sea was a rich navy blue, broken only by the occasional line of white wave. A great day for going out on the water. Indeed, as I turned the corner into the harbour, I saw that it was almost empty – anyone who could be, would be at sea. The fishing boats would be back by early evening, hauling fresh catches of herring, haddock and a few cod if they were lucky. I scanned the row of fishermen’s cottages at the crest of the harbour hill – the sea houses that gave the village its name – for the blush pink of Puffin Cottage. I couldn’t wait for Mike to get home so that I could get back to my new bed.

  Still, it was useful to have Amy’s place to myself. Where could the key for that cupboard be? I took a nip from my hip flask to help me focus.

  Back at the house, I looked at the study with fresh eyes. With all the crap on the desk, it would be easy for a small key to get lost. I wondered if Mike took it with him when he travelled, but that seemed risky. He might have hidden it somewhere, somewhere it wouldn’t be easily found, but not a place where he was likely to lose it. I scanned the bookcase. The model boats were replicas of cobles, the type used by the local fishermen. I picked up the miniature Farthing and shook it – and there was the distinctive rattle of metal on wood. I peered through the tiny porthole and saw the glint of a small silver key inside. I ran my thumb along the hull until I found the join of the seam and prised it open, the key falling onto the floor below.

  The cupboard opened with a creak. Finally, the business accounts. I had a couple of hours before the kids got home and about three years of bank statements, invoices and purchase orders to go through. I poured a small vodka. Time to get to work.

  Business had been good. At one time, it seemed that Mike’s company had been bringing in around ten thousand pounds each month. That was from a variety of streams, including the Amazon selling. He had received a few big payments from a German company, the year before last. But as I got to the most recent statements, the numbers told a different story. There was much less coming in, but the same amount going out monthly to Mike’s personal account – presumably, what he allowed for his salary. There were monthly payments to a credit card too. I scanned the numbers, searching for clues.