Nobody had replied. The only sound had come from the slight hum of the automatic light which had flickered on above her head and a gentle ticking from a nearby radiator. The scream apparently hadn’t woken up anyone else, and Hope had started to think that she must have imagined it. She was tired, both mentally and emotionally, and it wasn’t hard to believe that her mind could be playing tricks on her. Defeated, she’d returned to bed, gazing in wide-eyed agitation at the dark ceiling.
Charlie woke late and rubbed his eyes, reaching instinctively for his watch and then for Hope. She watched him from her position in the chair by the window, where she’d been for the past half-hour, fully dressed and tight-lipped.
He shook his head as he looked at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
There was a silence. Hope wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. She knew he was waiting for her to say that she was sorry too, but she didn’t. She wasn’t sorry – she hadn’t done anything wrong. Too many times she’d apologised to Dave during their marriage, too many times she’d let him get away with making her feel like she was the one to blame, when she was anything but. She wasn’t going to be that person any more.
‘Let’s just draw a line through last night, shall we?’ she said instead. ‘Let’s try to have a good day today, explore more of the city.’
He nodded. ‘Chuck us that towel, would you?’
He was being overly self-conscious, Hope thought, as she watched him carefully cover himself from the waist down before leaving the bed. Despite her earlier resolve, she felt guilty.
‘I’ll meet you downstairs,’ she said through the closed bathroom door, unable to bear the atmosphere in the room a second longer, and quietly slipped out into the hallway.
‘I thought we could go on a boat trip today,’ Charlie said. After they’d left the hotel, he’d resolutely put both his hands deep into his coat pockets instead of taking one of hers, but at least he had stopped speaking to her in monosyllables.
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ she trilled, expressing far more enthusiasm than she actually felt. Her earlier irritation had been softened by a hearty breakfast and several cups of strong black coffee, and all she wanted now was for things between them to go back to normal.
The sky was pure white today and looked almost heavy, as if someone had knocked over a tin of gloss paint and obliterated all the scuffs and stains. Hope said as much to Charlie, and he looked up, squinting slightly.
‘I think it might snow,’ he said. ‘It has that feeling today, doesn’t it?’
Hope smiled her agreement, thinking privately that the foreboding in the air probably had more to do with the deterioration of their relationship than the threatening weather.
They meandered through the streets of the Old Town in the vague direction of the Vltava River, stopping briefly to admire a man sitting on the edge of a disused water fountain dressed from head to toe in plastic foliage. He’d clamped a small pipe between his teeth that was emitting a steady stream of water into a bucket on his lap, and as they stood and stared he raised a leafy hand in greeting. It was a far cry from some of the naff living statues Hope had seen in Manchester, and she rummaged in her purse for some korunas to drop in his bucket.
‘He must be freezing!’ she exclaimed, hugging herself as a gust of wind whipped around them.
‘Rather him than me,’ Charlie agreed, although his usual playful humour was notably absent, and Hope winced inwardly as she took in the deep worry lines etched between his eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, braving a gentle touch on his arm.
Charlie took a deep breath. ‘Of course I am,’ he said.
After strolling up and down along the bank of the Vltava River, they settled on the Prague Historical River Cruise, which included a free drink and cake as part of the ticket price. The boat, which was wide and finished in beautiful polished wood, sat low in the water, and their two tour guides were dressed in traditional sailor costumes. Hope was enchanted, and only just managed to stop herself blurting out how much Annette would have loved this trip as a child. She must remember that her daughter was an adult now – a woman with her own mind, who no longer needed Hope fussing around her. But being Annette’s mum was all Hope knew how to do, and having that role torn away from her so abruptly had left her floating, rudderless, in an ocean of uncertainty.
As the engine began to rumble beneath them and the boat edged its way out into the river, Hope let her head rest tentatively on Charlie’s shoulder, and was hugely gratified when he slid his hand across her knee in response. It was nice to be wrapped up under a blanket, a cup of hot wine in her hand as the tour guide chatted away about the history of the city. Hope noticed that this guide didn’t mention the special wish you could make on the bridge, instead sticking to the more traditional story about touching the statue for luck. She was fascinated to hear more about St John of Nepomuk, though, whose tomb up in St Vitus’s Cathedral was apparently topped by a huge silver monument. In a hushed voice, the guide told them about the saint’s supernatural powers, and how his tongue had been discovered still intact inside his skull three whole centuries after his death. Hope thought again of the wish she’d made, and crossed her fingers beneath the blanket.
‘And now we have arrived at the Devil’s Channel,’ announced the guide, with an over-the-top dramatic tone, ‘thought to have been created in the twelfth century. Here in Prague, we call it Certovka.’
They were now on the opposite side of the river in the Mala Strana area of the city, and their guide happily informed them that this part was largely unspoilt.
‘Hardly any building has taken place here since the late eighteenth century,’ he explained, pausing as his audience emitted the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhhs’ which he’d clearly grown accustomed to. ‘And we have two medieval mills in this channel; the wheel of one of them still turns to this day.’
There was a series of clicks as the passengers pressed their cameras up against the glass to capture the passing architecture. Hope could only stare, transfixed, trying to picture the city as it had been then, so many centuries before. Had people taken the time to sit on the banks of the Vltava and let their minds stray into an unknown future? Would they have been able to imagine a boatload of tourists staring at their homes?
‘Look!’ Charlie said suddenly, standing up in his seat so the blanket fell to the floor. ‘Isn’t that Ollie and Megan?’
Hope got to her feet so she could see out through the glass front of the boat. Ahead of them was a large mill wheel, half its wooden body obscured by water, and beyond that a narrow bridge decorated with …
‘What are those?’ she asked Charlie.
‘Padlocks,’ the tour guide interrupted. ‘People put them there for luck, or to preserve their love for each other.’
‘That is definitely Ollie,’ Charlie went on, pointing. ‘Megan was there a second ago, but she’s vanished.’
Hope could see Ollie now, his glasses catching the light as he peered through the gaps between the padlocks. She had developed a real soft spot for him over the past few days, and Megan, too. The two of them seemed to be such a good match, and her romantic side couldn’t help but will them to become more than just good friends.
‘Oh, there’s Megan!’ she cried, as a blonde head popped up from somewhere below Ollie’s knees. ‘I wonder what she was doing on the ground.’
‘Well …’ Charlie gave her a sideways look.
‘Don’t you dare!’ she shrieked, giving him a playful slap as they sat back down again.
Charlie laughed and at last slid his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him. It felt so good to be forgiven, to be back in the cosy nook of his affection, that Hope could have wept. Thank goodness for Ollie and Megan.
The guide was now chatting away to them about the history of Kampa Island, which was up ahead on the right.
‘I love how this place has so many little stories and myths,’ Hope told Charlie, lacing her fingers through
his. ‘It makes me feel as if we’re in a fairy tale. I keep expecting to look up and see Rapunzel letting down her hair from one of the windows, or an army of dwarves marching to work over one of these bridges.’
‘You are a funny one,’ Charlie told her.
‘And so are you,’ she replied, snuggling up against him.
Whatever that phone call had been, he clearly had his reasons for keeping it a secret from her, and she should accept it. The idea of losing Charlie as well as Annette was just too much for her to face at the moment. They had a chance, the two of them – this was just a tricky fork in the river. She had to believe it.
After all, Hope realised as the boat headed back out towards the Old Town, Charlie was all she had left now.
27
Sophie stared down at the puddle of bile, her arms on each side of the toilet, her chin resting on the seat.
She had skipped breakfast that morning, so there was nothing in her stomach to throw up, but still her body lurched violently forward, desperate in its attempts to rid itself of whatever poison it decreed was inside. The revolting sight below her began to spin, and her eyes filled with tears of frustration.
What was happening to her?
After spotting the beaver down by the river, she had headed out of the city and into the suburbs, her plan being to find the little bakery she and Robin had come across the previous winter. It had been years since she’d needed a map to navigate Prague, but today she seemed unable to find her way around. After walking for over half an hour only to realise that she’d ended up in almost exactly the same place as she’d started, Sophie had begun to feel faint. Her skin was hot to the touch and black spots clouded her vision. Gripping a wall for support, she’d been approached by a young Polish couple, who’d helped her to the nearest café and told her very sternly to sip some sweet, black tea. Her body, however, clearly had other ideas.
She must have been in here for some time, she realised, because her feet had turned numb from the lack of blood flow. There was hardly any room in the cubicle, and her knees were bent awkwardly underneath her body, her jeans still damp from where she’d knelt on the wet ground by the river. The Polish girl had followed her into the bathroom when she ran in here, but Sophie had assured her between bouts of sickness that she would be okay. Whether or not her words had been understood, Sophie didn’t know, but the girl had now left her alone.
She could feel the familiar weight of her phone in her coat pocket, and wished she had the strength to take it out and make a call.
She lunged forward as another spasm juddered through her. The room wobbled again, and she let out a weary sob of self-pity. She’d always hated being sick.
Robin would rub her back if he was here and soothe her with nonsense words and silly jokes. He’d hold her hair back off her face, perhaps plait it between nervous fingers, pretending that he wasn’t worried about her when he clearly was. He’d had to look after her once before, when they were in Sri Lanka. She’d picked up something nasty during their day out exploring, and had woken in the night in their crowded hostel dormitory with the worst stomach cramps of her life.
‘Robin,’ she’d whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to wake all the other travellers in the room. ‘I’m going to the bathroom. I don’t feel well.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ He was already clambering down from his top bunk, ignoring the shaking of her head.
It was a good thing he did, in the end, because her legs gave out long before she reached the end of the corridor.
‘Whoa there!’ he said, grabbing her underneath her arms and propping her up. Robin wasn’t very tall, but he was strong. And, as he pointed out to her later, she weighed almost nothing.
They made it to the toilet just in time for her to heave up the remnants of their dinner, all the time crying out because the pain in her stomach was so bad. As the vomiting increased and her temperature soared, Sophie slipped rapidly into a fever of which she had absolutely no memory afterwards. Robin had described it to her days later – how she’d flailed and wept and begged him to make it stop. How she’d coughed and spluttered and sobbed in agony. It was the worst six hours of his life, he told her, but he’d never once left her side.
When she’d stopped being sick but was still horribly feverish, Robin had tried to gently persuade her to return to the dormitory so she could rest, but Sophie had refused. The thought of the covers touching her burning hot skin was unbearable. She wanted to sleep right there, on the dirty cold tiles, and no amount of begging by Robin would change her mind. In the end, rather than battle with her, he’d simply fetched two pillows and lain down on the floor next to her, running his fingers gently through her hair and stroking a single finger along her spine. The incessant shaking soon dissolved into shivers, and then, finally, blissfully, into slumber, and still Robin stayed beside her.
‘You looked so at peace on that grotty floor,’ he told her later. ‘I didn’t have it in me to move you. I was so scared that you’d feel that pain again – I wanted more than anything to take it away from you, to have it myself instead.’
That was Robin, always stepping forward to ease her suffering; always far more willing to feel pain himself than watch her go through it. And it was a turning point for Sophie, too, because she realised afterwards that Robin was the only person she’d really wanted in her time of need. Not her mum or her dad or any of her friends – just Robin. Nobody else would do.
But she’d never been sick in Prague before – not even after those misguided evenings spent sampling the city’s wide variety of absinthe. And certainly not like this. It felt as if her body was trying to cleanse itself from the inside out, and she had no control over what was happening.
There was a crash as the door to the toilets opened and the sound of voices as two girls – Italian, she guessed from their accents – went into the stalls on either side of her. Sophie realised that her feet must be visible under the partition wall, and forced herself to shuffle on to her knees, using the toilet bowl to steady herself as the feeling slowly seeped back into her lower legs. By the time the girls were flushing and then washing their hands, Sophie was back up in a sitting position, wiping her face with tissue paper and taking deep breaths to quell the nausea.
She tried not to think of the germs she had probably picked up, and as soon as she heard the Italians leave, she stumbled across to the basin and turned on the hot tap to wash her hands. The water turned her skin pink and she winced with discomfort, but at least she felt able to stand again. Her heart had slowed its relentless crashing and there was a bit of colour in her cheeks. She would be fine, she reassured herself. She’d get something to eat, and then she’d be fine.
It was late afternoon now, and the sky had turned from white to a putty shade of grey. Sophie had thought it would snow, but now it seemed more likely that rain was on its way. She felt disoriented after spending such a long time bent over the toilet, and stepping out into the cold air felt like she had been slammed against a brick wall. She stopped to put her gloves on and pulled Robin’s hat down so far over her ears that she could barely see where she was going. No matter how many layers she piled on in the morning, the cold always seemed to work its way through each and every one, until her very bones felt like icicles. She knew it must be below freezing, but how far below? She had never known Prague to feel this cold before.
There was a cart selling pretzels up ahead, and Sophie bought a large plain one and nibbled at it as she made her slow way back into the hub of the city. The pavements in this part of Prague were wide and pebbled, and the road beside her was a piebald pattern of black concrete and frozen puddles. Halfway up the hill, overlooked by the towering spires of St Vitus’s Cathedral, there was a wide rectangular viewing platform. Tourists stood in clusters around the edges, taking it in turns to pose for a photo with the city spread out behind them. Pigeons picked their way through the morsels of discarded food around the rubbish bins, paying no attention to the constant footfall arou
nd them.
Sophie broke off a small piece of pretzel and tossed it in their direction, watching as a wily seagull swooped down as if from nowhere, scattering its moonwalking companions with an indignant squawk. Unlike their cousins over in London, the pigeons here looked sleek and clean, their claws perfectly formed and their eyes bright. Sophie wondered why some of them stayed through the winter rather than migrating. She would give anything for some sunshine right now; something to reheat her limbs and offer her some comfort.
By the time she reached the turnstiles marking the entrance to Golden Lane, the pretzel was doing the trick and she was starting to feel a bit more human again. It now seemed absurd that she had ever been sick in the first place.
This narrow little lane was one of her favourite places in the city, and she happily handed over her entrance fee to the smiling man in the booth. He was wrapped up against the cold, too, in what looked like at least three scarves and two coats, and he shivered for effect when he caught her looking.
Sophie knew from earlier trips to Prague that the Golden Lane was named after the goldsmiths who lived here back in the seventeenth century, and that the collection of tiny two-storey houses had been built right into the arches of the castle walls.
Each little abode was painted a different colour, and the palette varied from yellow to blue to red and even pink. Most of the houses were now gift shops or galleries, but some still remained closed to the prying eyes of the public. Sophie peered through the latticed window of one shop selling Bohemian glass, taking in the riot of colour on the shelves. The light inside was arranged to show the ornaments at their most alluring, and she could see the plan working its magic on the tourists. She and Robin had bought their first piece of Prague glassware the previous year. It was just a simple blue bowl, but she loved how it looked in the centre of the chest of drawers in their bedroom. When she opened the curtains in the morning, the light would stream in and the bowl would glow, as if lit up from within.
A Year and a Day Page 18