Treacherous Waters
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Two
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Conclusion
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Copyright
Treacherous Waters
Teresa Crane
Part One
Spring 1925
Chapter One
‘A growing boy needs a father, Annie.’ Jane Renault’s quiet words broke a long and thoughtful silence and were all but drowned in the restless sound of the sea and the excited barking of the little dog that danced and dashed along the water’s edge, snapping frenetically at the waves. The tall young woman strolling beside her nibbled her lip and shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her baggy jacket, her eyes upon the child who ran with the dog, long bare legs flashing, fair hair flying in the wind. Jane glanced up at her daughter. ‘As you just said yourself – he’s a good man. And a kind one, I think—?’
Annie nodded, her eyes still on the boy. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s not as if you’re rushing into anything. It’s more than eighteen months since Charles died.’
‘Yes,’ her daughter said, again, and then lifted her voice above the sound of sea and wind. ‘Not too close to the edge, Davie. Don’t get your sandals wet.’
The boy waved to her and swooped off after the yelping dog again. The long wail of a ship’s horn sounded across the water. In the near distance the small, picturesque seaside town of Southwold, its skyline dominated by its white lighthouse, perched upon a rise of land unusual on this flat Suffolk coastline. The lad’s grandmother watched the running child, smiling. ‘He’s ten years old, darling,’ she said. And then added, gently, ‘As I said, a growing boy needs a father.’ She eyed her daughter sympathetically. ‘Wasn’t that why you decided to marry Charles in the first place? That was no grand passion, was it? And it worked out well, didn’t it?’
Annie let out an explosive breath. ‘I think that’s the very point I’m trying to make. And anyway, Charles was eight years ago. Davie’s older now. We do very well together.’ The words were defensive.
Her mother said nothing.
Annie sighed. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re right,’ she said at last, reluctantly. ‘And Fergus is very good to Davie. And to me. I’m very fond of him—’
‘Well, then—’
‘—as I was “very fond” of Charles.’ Annie laid heavy emphasis on the words. She hunched her shoulders a little, scuffed at a stone with her foot. ‘And – like Charles – he’s a widower and old enough to be my father. Oh, I know, I know’ – she held up a hand as her mother opened her mouth to answer – ‘the war, the lost generation—’ She shook her head. ‘Mother, who knows more about that than I do? I was a widow for the first time at the ripe old age of eighteen, remember? And I know a lot of women haven’t had the chance to marry once, let alone twice, since the war. I suppose I’m lucky that yet another decent, kindly man wants me to be his wife and is more than willing to treat Davie like a son. It’s just… well, I know it must sound ridiculously childish, but it’s hardly the stuff of romance, is it? Sometimes – just sometimes – shouldn’t there be more to life than… than safety and good sense?’ She stopped walking and turned to look out across the restless sea, watching the boat that steamed across the bay.
‘The steamer’s coming! The steamer’s coming!’ Davie raced up to them. ‘Oh, Mother, I do wish you’d let us go back to London on the steamer. We’d be perfectly safe – wouldn’t we, Nan? I know you don’t like it, Mother – but please?’
Annie smiled, but shook her head. ‘We’ve got tickets for the train, you know we have. I thought you liked our special little train?’
‘I do. But we always come by train. It would be really wizard to come on the boat sometimes—’
Glancing at her daughter, his grandmother ruffled Davie’s thick hair. ‘You’re right, young man. As a matter of fact I’ve often thought myself that it would be fun to go on the boat. I’ll tell you what: if your mother agrees, when next you come to see me, you and I can take the boat together to London and your mother can meet us there. How would that be?’
‘Oh, yes, please, Nan!’
Annie opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Davie shot off once more. ‘Brandy! Here, boy!’ The little dog scampered to him.
Jane, watching her daughter’s face, shook her head firmly, though there was no lack of understanding in her eyes. ‘Don’t think about it. And don’t worry. I’ll look after him, I promise. It’ll be an adventure for us both. Darling, you can’t wrap him in cotton wool for the rest of his life, you know—’
‘I don’t,’ Annie said, too quickly.
‘It’s always a danger with an only child.’
Annie cast a sharp, sideways glance at her mother. ‘You know as well as I, there’s nothing I can do about that. Not that I would if I could, to be honest. Fergus knows that. I wouldn’t want any more children, even if I could have them. He understands. For goodness’ sake, he’s in his fifties, and he’s got his own grown-up family. It’s hardly likely we’d want a nursery full of babies!’ She turned abruptly and began once more to walk towards the little town. The boat had steamed to the end of the pier and several people had disembarked.
‘So – is it safety and good sense or not? What will you do?’ Jane asked after a pause.
Annie walked on in silence for a moment. ‘I really don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘As you know, Charles left the business in trust for us and we have the house in Kew, so we’re relatively independent. There’s enough to live on more than comfortably, enough to pay for Davie’s education, and sufficient over to give him the start in life he will need. On the other hand, as you say, Davie will probably need more help and guidance as he grows up than I can give him alone—’
‘Safety and sense do have their attractions.’ There was a smile in the words.
‘Yes. Charles proved that. Oh, I know it must seem that I’m just being awkward. Most women would jump at the chance Fergus is offering.’
‘It’s not an easy world for a woman alone,’ Jane said softly.
Annie reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I know.’ She pushed the heavy dark hair that was blowing about her face back behind her ears, and looked at her mother with curiosity in her eyes. ‘Were you never tempted to marry again?’
Jane shook her head firmly. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’ Annie studied her mother for a moment, smiling. ‘Don’t tell me you were never asked?’ In her late forties, small and dark and with a swift and vivid smile, Jane Renault was still a very attractive woman.
‘Indeed I was. Twice as a matter of fact.’ Jane spoke calmly. ‘But I refused.’
‘Why?’ The question was mischievous and they both knew it.
‘You know why, I think.’
‘Because you loved Papa.’
‘Yes.’ The word was soft.
Annie, as Jane had surely known she would be, was quick to pounce on that. ‘Then surely you can see why I’m hesitating? I don’t love Fergus. I didn’t love Charles. And as for Philippe… we were together for such a little time – just a few weeks
– and under such circumstances…’ Her eyes, dark as her mother’s, went once more to where her son was throwing a stick for the dog, and the words trailed off. The boat shrieked steam once more and pulled away from the pier, riding the rough water. Wind-whipped smoke streamed from its stack as it headed up the coast towards Great Yarmouth. ‘I know it would be sensible to marry. I’m fond of Fergus and I know he cares for me.’
‘But he isn’t Rudolph Valentino,’ her mother put in dryly.
Annie threw back her head and let out a sudden, genuinely amused shout of laughter. ‘Hardly! But I don’t think there’s much point in waiting for him to knock on my door, do you?’ She laughed again. ‘And what sort of influence would he have on Davie?’
‘He could always teach him to dance,’ her mother replied, sober-faced.
They had reached the first of the neat rows of beach huts that fringed the wide, sandy beach. The path ran behind them and began to climb a little, up towards Gun Hill. The wind brought the distinctive smell of the famous brewery that was the town’s lifeblood to their nostrils. Davie ran up, Brandy at his heels, and slipped a hand into his mother’s. His small, handsome face with its eager dark eyes was flushed with the sun and the wind and his bright hair was darkened by the damp salt air. He put his free hand in his pocket. ‘Look what I’ve found!’ He held out a narrow, long-fingered hand. On the flattened, sandy palm lay a large and pretty spiral shell. ‘I’m going to draw it for you in my book when we get back. Can we buy some cakes on the way through town, please? I’m starving.’
His mother laughed. ‘You’re always starving. I reckon you must have worms.’
‘Ugh! Wriggly, squiggly worms!’ Davie crowed with relish, swinging on his mother’s hand. ‘Disgusting!’
* * *
The wind blew night-long, as it often did on this wild, flat coast, dragging ragged tails of streaming black clouds across the face of the moon, cracking and singing through the rigging of the beached fishing boats, driving the white horses of the cold North Sea onto the sand. Annie slept restlessly, the sound of wave and wind in her ears. The moon gleamed fitfully through the open curtains, a pale-lit path from the window to the bed.
Silver pale. Death pale.
The colourless, milky-eyed faces of mother and child, tangled hair streaming and swaying like weed in the strong-flowing water—
No! She struggled against the familiar, terrible image.
The two entwined in death as they must so often have been in life. The bloated flesh sucked and nibbled, the child’s mouth, blue-lipped, open as if to cry out—
The wind crashed against the window, rattling the pane. A part of her heard it. A part of her knew she had to get away from this nightmare, from the drowned, dreadful faces, the silent scream of the child; from the paralysing horror that rooted her to the spot.
Water lapped at the bodies, trapping them against the bank, branches entangling them. The woman’s head turned, long hair drifting; pale, albescent eyes looked into Annie’s. A hand rose, dripping, from the water—
‘No!’ Choking and shaking, she wrenched herself upright. For a moment the blaze of the moon silvered the room, then the wind-driven clouds covered it and in the darkness she could still see those eyes, the lifted hand—
Annie covered her face with her hands, head bowed, the heavy bobbed hair falling forward over her cheeks. She was trembling violently, sweat slicked her body, the muscles of her throat ached with the memory of her own terrified screams.
Would she never be free of it?
After a moment she reached for the switch of the bedside light. The warm glow was comforting. And at least this time she had not walked in her sleep as she so often did, had not woken panic-stricken at her sleeping son’s bedside. Above all she must not frighten Davie; she hated the thought. She swung her feet onto the cold floor and went to the window. The wind whistled, the great moon sailed through the clouded sky, the sea crashed, restless and relentless, on the strand. She leaned her hot forehead on the cold glass. Small, chill draughts whispered around the window. Gradually she was calming, although she knew from long experience that she’d get little more sleep tonight.
She stood so for a long time. Then she turned and went to the door. Stopped with her hand upon the knob; shook her head fiercely, closing her eyes for a moment. The child was safe. Of course he was.
Tiredly she picked up the book that lay on the floor beside the bed and slipped back between the sheets.
* * *
‘You’ll let me know what you decide?’
‘Of course I will.’ They were standing beside the little train that ran on its narrow-gauge tracks from Southwold to Halesworth and the main line to London. Boxes of fish were stacked waiting to be loaded; there was a buzz of conversation around them as people climbed aboard.
Jane’s dark eyes were quick and bright as a bird’s as she looked at her daughter. ‘Send me a telegram. Letters are so very slow.’ She grinned her quick, almost elfin grin. ‘They take a full day sometimes.’
Annie laughed, and bent to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘Honestly – you’re more of a child than Davie is! And far more impatient.’
The little steam engine wheezed and belched, then shrilled a warning of departure; its idiosyncratic line of maroon carriages settled behind it, ready to go.
‘We’d better get on. There seems to be quite a crowd, and Davie insists on travelling third class.’ Annie spread her hands. ‘He talks to everyone.’
‘Bully for him. So do I. Both, that is. That’s what makes our little railway so special. A pity there aren’t more like it. The main-line trains pale in comparison. All those noses stuck in the air; all those whispers behind newspapers and gloved hands.’ Jane reached for Annie’s own gloved hand, her face suddenly serious, the lightness gone from her voice. ‘Think long and hard, Annie. It’s your life as well as Davie’s.’
Annie eyed her, a little repressively. A cart full of luggage had rolled into the open area that did service as a platform, followed by a pony and trap occupied by a well-dressed couple who were looking distractedly around for someone to assist them. ‘Are you suggesting I should wait for Mr Valentino after all?’ Annie suggested, a little tartly. ‘You seem to have changed your tune?’
‘Every woman’s prerogative,’ Jane said collectedly and bent to hug Davie – though, tall as he was, in truth he was barely a couple of inches shorter than her.
He flung his arms about her, disarranging the old-fashioned bun that coiled at the base of her neck, and all but strangling her in the process. ‘Thanks, Nan. I really enjoyed myself.’
She laid a hand against his smooth cheek. ‘Come again soon.’
‘Oh, yes. We will. And you and I will go back to London by boat. You promised, remember?’
Jane and Annie exchanged a glance. Annie shrugged, her eyes tired. ‘Come on, my lad. Or we won’t get a seat.’
‘Wait.’ Jane opened her handbag, brought out a paper bag of sweets, winked at Davie. ‘For the journey,’ she said.
Mother and son clambered aboard the train, and squeezed onto one of the benches that ran lengthways on either side of the carriage. Davie sat with his legs swinging, his grey socks crumpled about his ankles. ‘I met a boy on the beach the other day,’ he said after a little while, eyeing their fellow passengers interestedly. ‘He goes to school on this train. Lucky blighter!’
Annie lifted her eyebrows. Davie pretended not to notice, his bright, dark eyes innocent as a babe’s.
The whistle shrieked again; the train, snorting, started to move. Both turned to wave through the window to Jane. Annie glanced at her son. ‘Would you like that? To live here, and to go to school on this train?’
He thought about it, face concentrated. Beyond the windows the heathland and marshes of Suffolk chugged by at quiet, comfortable speed. Then, ‘No,’ he said, and lifted his smiling face to her. ‘I like Southwold. It’s a lovely place to come and visit, especially with Nan here. But we couldn’t leave Kew, could we?’ The w
ords were full of absolute confidence. ‘Kew’s home. And it has the Gardens, and the Gallery.’ He wriggled back on the seat and opened the paper bag his grandmother had given him. ‘Cor! Gobstoppers.’ He popped one into his mouth, rolled it noisily around his teeth. The train was rolling across the bridge that spanned the River Blythe. Davie turned again to look out of the window, his fair, heavy hair flopping across his forehead. The tide was high and the river swirled deep. The sun shone on the lovely coastal flatlands with their creeks and marshes, their lonely heathlands, their long, wild beaches. ‘I do like it here,’ he repeated, his sun-brightened face serious, ‘but really, I always feel a little bit sorry for anyone who doesn’t live in Kew.’
Annie laughed. ‘It does rather look as if Kew’s stuck with us, then, doesn’t it?’
Chapter Two
‘She really was the most remarkable person—’ The woman who spoke was the possessor of a booming voice, a large bosom and a bright red cloche hat that clashed garishly with the orange-flowered pattern on her dress. Davie, tongue tucked between his teeth, a frown of concentration creasing his brow, bent over his drawing as the voice went on: ‘—travelled all over the world, you know. A woman alone, and in the nineteenth century. Imagine it, my dear. Africa. America. Australia. Russia. All over Europe – are you listening, Tilda?’
‘Yes, Molly.’ The large woman’s smaller companion bobbed her head obediently. She stood for a moment looking around at the hundreds of pictures that adorned the gallery walls. ‘They really are quite extraordinary. So detailed. And so many of them—’ She moved closer to a picture, peering at it short-sightedly.
‘As I said. A rare and talented woman. What are you doing, Tilda?’
Tilda jumped back guiltily. ‘Just looking at the picture, Molly. Look, it has a monkey in it – isn’t he sweet?’
The loud-voiced one tutted impatiently. ‘Oh, do come along. We’ve no time for that. We haven’t been to the Palm House yet. Come along,’ she repeated, sweeping to the door. Tilda scurried after her, throwing a mildly apologetic look in the direction of the gallery’s only other two occupants. As the door closed behind them, the man who was sitting further along the bench from Davie caught the boy’s eye, raised his own eyebrows humorously and grinned. Even beyond the closed door they could still hear the stentorian voice bellowing orders and instructions to the unfortunate Tilda.
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