Salt Sisters

by Katherine Graham

  This woman had become such a good friend to me, had been there for me when I needed her, and now I didn’t even know what to say to her. Could she guess the depth of Amy’s betrayal? I wanted to know, but I didn’t dare ask. How would she feel when she found out how much I knew, and had been keeping from her?

  The silence was mercifully broken by the muffled sounds of someone moving upstairs. Without saying anything, Rachel took out an extra mug. Auntie Sue appeared at the door just as Rachel was pouring. In her dressing gown and with no make-up, Sue looked every one of her sixty years.

  ‘Oh, love, come here.’ Auntie Sue pulled Rachel into a hug and Rachel started sobbing on her shoulder. The two of them stood like that, bound together, while Rachel wept into the collar of her dressing gown. The three mugs of tea steamed on the counter beside them.

  ‘I just… I just don’t understand,’ said Rachel as she pulled away from Auntie Sue and we sat down. ‘Why would they think he was involved?

  I tentatively placed my hand on hers, squeezing her fingers. Saying nothing.

  We decided that Rachel should stay at Mum and Auntie Sue’s for a few days, and I agreed to sleep over for a night, too. I longed for the little airy bedroom at Puffin Cottage and my bed with its sea view, but Rachel needed me. She had to go home and get some things, but she promised to be back in time for tea with her overnight bag. We hugged goodbye, and I told her to call me if she needed anything.

  My first stop was to check on Mike and the kids. I wanted to be there in time for them waking up, and had decided to treat them to bacon butties. I let myself in and took the five paper bags of steaming bacon rolls from Clarke’s through the kitchen.

  Lucas’s eyes grew wide when he saw my haul. Mike was already up and making coffee. I sat down at the table. I needed to speak to Mike without the kids around.

  ‘Lucas, why don’t you go and wake your sisters up?’

  He rolled his eyes but got up, reluctantly leaving his bacon sandwich.

  Mike poured me a cup of coffee. I held it with two hands, inhaling the steam.

  ‘How could he have done this, Izzy?’ Mike stared off into space. ‘He’s my mate, for god’s sake.’ He took a sip and corrected himself. ‘Was my mate…’

  ‘Rachel’s distraught,’ I said. ‘Absolutely beside herself. I don’t know how she’ll ever get over this.’

  Mike stroked his knuckle slowly across his jawline, his two-day stubble bristling. ‘I’ve been thinking about Rachel.’ He shook his head. ‘And all of this, now with Phil… I don’t know. Clearly, they weren’t the friends we thought they were. Maybe we should be keeping her at arm’s length, you know? Until we know what’s what?’

  ‘Why? You don’t seriously think for one second that she knew what was going on, do you?’ I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them.

  ‘What do you mean, “what was going on”?’ Mike’s face was white. ‘What are you talking about?’

  My mouth opened, but no words came to me. Panic rose in my chest.

  I was saved by Betsy, who came bounding into the room, impossibly energetic for someone who had just woken up. I mouthed, ‘Nothing,’ at Mike, just as my youngest niece draped her arms around my neck and planted a kiss on my cheek.

  Breakfast was painfully awkward. Mike was doing his best to be normal, so much so that he was trying too hard and giving a very over-the-top performance of holding it all together. Hannah was withdrawn, and although she kept laughing at her dad’s jokes, it was clearly an exhausting effort.

  I grew weary just from watching them all trying so hard, and my appetite disappeared. The bacon that had smelled so good was now cold and greasy in my mouth, and the bread was like cotton wool. It took all my energy to chew and swallow, chew and swallow.

  Mike was taking the kids to the beach for the morning and I’d agreed to spend the afternoon with them. I headed back to chill for a few hours.

  Puffin Cottage smelled like home. The sweetness of the honeysuckle followed me inside, where it combined with the earthiness of yesterday’s log fire. I slumped into my favourite chair. I had only been away for twenty-four hours, but it seemed like an eternity.

  I noticed a piece of paper by the front door that I must have stepped on when I came in. I went over and picked it up, examining the handwriting before I unfolded it. My name had been written in a spidery, elaborate script.

  Dear Isabelle

  I trust you are well. I intend to call in to see you, and I am writing this note in the event that you are not at home when I do.

  I’ll endeavour to keep this short. I love Puffin Cottage – it was my home, and a piece of my heart will always remain there. I want to see it go to an owner who appreciates it for what it is, rather than someone who wants to conduct ‘renovations’ and install a ‘breakfast bar’. I want someone who will treasure my possessions.

  I suspect that despite your initial intentions, you might be staying in Seahouses for longer than you imagined, perhaps even permanently. If you would like to make Puffin Cottage your home, I would be willing to sell it to you for the price of £50,000, on the condition that you would be living in it and will promise to keep the property true to its original character. I’m confident that it is worth considerably more on today’s market, and that this would represent quite a bargain.

  I hope this proposal is agreeable to you, and I look forward to being invited to continue our discussion over tea and cake.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs D Wheeler

  I put the letter down, steadying myself on the back of the chair. Fifty thousand pounds? The cottage had to be worth five times that amount, surely. Her daughter would go nuts. I giggled at the prospect of seeing Sandra Wheeler, face even redder than usual, lose her wits when she found out what her mother had done.

  And what timing – it was almost too good to be true. Did Mrs Wheeler know I had decided to stay, or was she trying to tempt me back with an offer I couldn’t refuse?

  Could I accept this proposal? Was this an old lady who possibly didn’t understand the ramifications of what she was doing, or a true friend being very generous? Mrs Wheeler had always been so kind to me, and to Amy. Would it be wrong to take advantage of her kindness once more?

  If I could buy a place to live for that amount, I’d still have enough savings left to start again. Probably enough to start my own business, doing something for myself for a change. But what would I do?

  I looked around Puffin Cottage, admiring Mrs Wheeler’s quirky taste and eclectic collections as if I was seeing them for the first time. Maybe – just maybe – I could be happy here.

  I pulled on my running stuff, along with Amy’s fleece top. I needed to clear my head, and a bracing run along the beach would give me the headspace to think. Inhaling deeply, I stretched out my back, looking above to the clear blue sky. I pulled my phone out my pocket and sent a message to Amy.

  I’ll make you proud, Ames. Promise xo

  I sniffed back the instinct to cry and set off at a steady jog. The seafront was getting busier and the carpark was slowly filling up with day-trippers who were keen to take advantage of good weather on a Sunday.

  As I approached Richard Pringle’s house, I tucked my chin into the top of my collar. I tried to keep my head down, but couldn’t resist glancing up at the house with its big windows like eyes staring out at the sea. Upstairs, a lone shadow moved behind a curtain.

  The beach spread out in front of me like a freshly made bed, smoothed over by the tide. A blank canvas. My feet hit the sand with a series of satisfying thuds. Only once I turned around and saw the line that I’d made in the sand did I realise how far I had come.

  My phone pinged with a message from Jake as I got out of the shower.

  Phil is denying everything. DCI Bell still working on him. Rachel has an appointment to come in this afternoon. J

  Why was he denying it? The evidence against him was overwhelming – their affair, not to mention the sabotage of the car. My gut lurched, thinkin
g of Rachel having to go in to the police station, of what she would find out. How would she ever get over the betrayal, once it was laid bare in front of her? I just hoped she had something to tell the police, that there was some information she could give – some piece of the puzzle – that might help them charge Phil. I dried myself slowly, my mind occupied by thoughts of court rooms and juries and judges in white wigs.

  I needed a distraction. I had agreed with Mike that the kids and I would go through some of Amy’s things from the loft. She hadn’t liked to throw things away, and I knew that there were all sorts of things gathering dust in boxes. Although Mike was convinced it was all crap, I’d begged him to let us look through and see if there was anything that the kids wanted to keep. We would make a start that afternoon while he was out.

  Hannah helped me to haul down the first box and slide it into the spare room, leaving a grey streak of dust across the landing. Lucas reached in first, and pulled out a CD in a clear plastic box.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, holding it up, genuinely baffled. I took it from him.

  ‘“Summer ‘01”,’ I read on the label. ‘Your mum made this. It had all her favourite songs on. She made a new one every year. This was while we were at Edinburgh.’

  I held the disk carefully by the edges and ran a finger over the handwriting, as familiar as my own. I could remember Amy as she had been then. Bodyshop lip gloss that smelled like apricot. A shell necklace that she’d worn for years. Her sweet smile – she was always smiling. Her rule about never leaving the house without wearing earrings.

  It seemed a shame to miss the good weather, so we got more boxes down from the loft and each carried one out to the garden.

  There was a Discman in one of the boxes that miraculously still worked once we’d located a fresh pair of batteries, and we spent the whole afternoon taking turns to listen to songs while looking through Amy’s things, sorting out hidden treasures from trash.

  Amy had kept most of the toys we’d had as kids, and I experienced flashes of recognition as the kids found a Barbie, an art class clay vase, and a pirate hat Amy had once worn for fancy dress.

  Most of the objects had a story behind them, and the kids were keen to hear where everything came from. They were hungry for details of the life their mum had lived before them. I dug deep, trying to remember as much as possible, feeding them with memories.

  ‘What’s this?’ Betsy pulled a yellow plastic folder from her box.

  I took it from her, turning it over. No label, and it was conspicuous by its newness. Everything else in these boxes had been packed away for years, and had the dust to show for it. This folder looked to have been put away far more recently. The edges were sealed with Sellotape. I fingered it, trying to gauge the contents. Just a few sheets of paper.

  ‘It looks like paperwork,’ I said. ‘I’ll pop it in the office.’

  I climbed the stairs to Mike’s office, thumbing the folder. Just a few pages, hidden among Amy’s things and too new to be anything old. I tried to prise a corner open, but couldn’t get my thumbnail under the tape. I scanned the office for something sharper and found some scissors in the desk drawer. I was about to cut the folder open when the front door opened downstairs.

  ‘Hello!’ Mike called out. I froze.

  ‘Out here!’ one of the kids called from the garden.

  I stood very still, until I heard Mike’s footsteps passing down the hall and into the kitchen. I tiptoed back downstairs, carrying the folder under my arm, and went into the front room where I’d left my things. I buried it at the bottom of my bag, carefully draping my jacket over the top so that it wouldn’t be seen.

  The sound of footsteps came back up the hall and Mike stuck his head around the door.

  ‘There you are. Everything all right?’

  ‘Just wanted to check my messages.’ I held up my phone.

  He nodded in the direction of the back garden. ‘Find anything interesting?’

  I smiled and shrugged. ‘I’ve introduced your kids to CD technology, blown their minds with Game Boy, and even taught them how to play dominoes.’

  Mike laughed. ‘She never could get rid of stuff. I don’t suppose you could clear it all up again before dinner?’

  With the house returned to normal and the kids’ curiosity sated, I left them to a Sunday night of homework and Chinese takeaway. I walked back to Puffin Cottage at a brisk trot, the folder burning under my arm.

  I sliced the tape with a knife and sat down at the kitchen table to examine the contents of the folder.

  It was only six pages. Six pages of Mike’s credit card statements.

  I shuddered, a chill running down my spine. I hadn’t noticed any pages were missing when I searched the paperwork in his office, but I hadn’t been looking closely enough to spot a detail like that. The dates ranged over a period of a few months last year. I scanned the first couple of pages, looking for large amounts that would tell me more about Mike’s financial problems. Nothing jumped out. What had Amy seen here that caused her so much concern?

  The phone rang, pulling away my attention. It was Rachel.

  She didn’t bother with hellos.

  ‘They were having an affair!’

  I gasped, the wind knocked out of me.

  ‘My best friend and my husband.’ She sobbed. ‘How could she do that to me?’ Her cries were of pure anguish.

  ‘Rachel, I’m so sorry—’

  ‘And that’s why he killed her.’

  The word was a blow, a stabbing pain, the piercing agony of toothache. I shuddered.

  I wanted to run to Rachel, to scoop her up and soothe her. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at your mum’s. Upstairs.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’ I hesitated. ‘And please, don’t say anything to them. Not just yet.’

  She sniffed a wordless goodbye and I was already shrugging on my coat, ready to run to her side.

  Mum was out of bed and seemed to be back to normal – as normal as she ever was, which was worrying in the circumstances. How long would it last once she found out about Amy and Phil? She was doing a cleansing ritual on Rachel, wafting the smoke from a smouldering bowl towards her with a small feather fan. The air was thick with the scent of sage and rosemary. Rachel sat in a chair in the middle of the room with her eyes closed as Mum moved around her, humming deep in her throat.

  ‘A smudging ceremony,’ murmured Auntie Sue. ‘Rids the mind and body of negative energy.’ She raised one eyebrow at me and went back to Good Housekeeping.

  Rachel was shell-shocked, a fragile baby bird of her former self, and the burning herbs didn’t seem to be doing much for her. She anxiously gnawed at the inside of her bottom lip, her mouth pinched into a tight line. Dark shadows under her eyes betraying the enormity of the weight on her shoulders. As soon as Mum was done, I pulled Rachel into the privacy of the kitchen, her hand trembling in mine.

  ‘Did you know?’ she said, immediately.

  Rachel glared at me, waiting for an answer, anger burning brightly behind her sadness.

  Tears pricked my eyes. ‘I found out a couple of days ago. I swear, I had no idea before that.’

  ‘I just don’t know how…’ She steadied herself. ‘I don’t understand how she could have done that to me.’

  Rachel’s pain was physical. It was contagious. I felt it transferring from her, down my arms and into my chest, into my body, my head. We kept to whispers – I didn’t want Mum and Auntie Sue to have to confront this ugly truth until I’d had a chance to prepare them.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, between sobs. It was all I had. Amy wasn’t there to explain herself.

  ‘I’ve lost my best friend, and now I’ve lost my husband. What did I do to deserve this?’ Rachel fell forward onto me, resting her cheek on my shoulder.

  ‘Hey, hey…’ I made soothing sounds, stroking a hand on her back. ‘Whatever she did, whatever terrible mistake Amy made, I know that she loved you.’

  ‘I thought she a
nd I were like family…’ She blew her nose.

  ‘You are family,’ I squeezed her hand. ‘You were like a sister to Amy and you’re the auntie to her kids. You’re like another daughter to my mum…’ I wiped away a tear. ‘None of that is changing. We’ll get through this together, I promise.’

  She folded me into a tight hug and we stood like that, holding each other, making one another solid.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I took the sofa again. Rachel had offered to share the queen-sized bed in the guest room, but I was afraid of disturbing her privacy – she really looked like she needed a good night’s sleep. I lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, trying to quieten my mind. It was impossible to switch off, and the harder I tried not to think about everything, the louder the thoughts became.

  I was woken early by the sound of a magpie chattering in the garden. Already, my head was swimming, making it impossible to fall back to sleep. Just when the magpie finally stopped, I heard footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘Are you awake?’ Mum peeked her head into the living room.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  I shuffled up on the sofa, making room for her to sit beside me. She rested her hand on my leg.

  ‘I knew you were awake in here,’ she said. ‘I could feel you, from upstairs. All that worry and pain you’re carrying.’

  I rolled my eyes. My mum, the mystic.

  ‘I know you don’t believe me, but I can help you to heal.’

  I scoffed. ‘What, like you healed yourself after Dad died?’

  She shuffled uneasily on the sofa. ‘Well, yes… like I healed myself.’ She hesitated. ‘It took me a long time, admittedly… It was a process…’ Mum nodded to herself, agreeing with the words she had selected.

  ‘A process that took a year and a half, and that you abandoned your kids for?’ They were words I’d spat at her many times before, during the blazing rows that had erupted whenever we had tried to rebuild our relationship, but this time I was controlled. Calm.