Little Sister

by Isabel Ashdown

  “I’m nothing,” she says aloud, and still she doesn’t care.

  * * *

  Back at home, Mum and Dad were already laying the table for lunch, both dressed in their summer Sunday best, and they looked up as though synchronized, surprised to see Emily up and about.

  “I thought you two weren’t feeling well,” Dad said, with a gray-furrowed look that told her he knew a lie when he heard one.

  Emily let the silence hang in the air long enough for both her parents to halt what they were doing, knowing it would only be a matter of moments before they wondered where Jess was. Her neck felt hot and sweaty after her walk home from the train station, and now the house was heavy with the steam of cooking. Despite the heat of the day, her mother still insisted on the traditional Sunday roast. Farm-fed chicken, with all the trimmings. Emily was hungry, and she was sorry to think that what she was about to tell them would no doubt impact on her mother’s immaculate timings.

  “Where’s your sister?” Dad asked, right on cue.

  Again Emily was quiet, and she twisted her hands together as she tried to decide on the best opening sentence, to break it to them gently.

  Her mum cautiously lowered her napkins, and looked from her husband to her elder daughter, the rose pattern of her summer dress drawing sharp attention to the pink spots that had started to rise in her cheeks. The tremor in her voice was heartbreaking. “Emily?”

  Emily pulled out a chair and sat, running flat palms down the lengths of her thighs. “I tried to stop her,” she said finally, and she wept, and for a little while it really did feel as if she meant it. Did she mean it? Emily has often wondered in the years that have passed. Is it possible that she meant it—that she really did feel the loss of her sister?

  “Emily! Where is Jess?” Her mother was growing panicked now, as Dad manhandled her into a seat, and he too insisted that Emily tell them everything.

  “She’s left,” she told them. “I just saw her off at the train station.”

  “Left for where?” Dad demanded, blocking Mum’s words with a stilling hand.

  “London, to start with. She’s met someone—I don’t know who he is—but she says she loves him, and she doesn’t think you’d approve.”

  “She can’t just leave!” Mum cries out, clutching at the tablecloth, her voice shrill. “Where in London, Emily? She must have said something about where she was going?”

  “Sorry, Mum, I really tried to get it out of her. But she said they wouldn’t be staying in London that long—I think they’re going traveling as soon as they’ve got a bit of money together.”

  “But she’s only seventeen,” Mum whispered into a tightly clenched little fist.

  “She’s a young adult, Mum,” Emily replied, regretting her impatient tone the moment she said it. “Sorry, that sounded awful. What I mean is, she’ll be fine. She’s a sensible girl, isn’t she? I’m sure she’ll be perfectly fine, and I’m sure she’ll be in touch as soon as she gets herself settled. She said to tell you that she loves you, and please don’t worry about her.”

  “That was it?” Dad asked. “Jess would never simply leave without a word. That was all she said? Have you spoken to her friends? Sammie? Or Jane? Surely they’ll know something.”

  Emily shook her head and pushed her chair back to leave the room. “Let me see what I can find out,” she said with calm reassurance in her voice, hoping to stall them a while. “I’m sure she’ll be back before you know it. Maybe we should give it a week before we start panicking? She’ll run out of money and come home in no time—you’ll see.”

  She hoped that Mum wouldn’t let the gravy spoil, but thought better of mentioning it, under the circumstances. In the doorway, she paused, to witness her father’s arm reaching around her mother’s shoulders for the first time in years, to console her as she wept for her lost daughter. Perhaps this would bring them closer together, Emily pondered, feeling hopeful again, noticing the way the sunlight sent dark outlines of Mum’s Staffordshire figurines across the parquet floor. God knew they needed something to reunite them, something significant enough to mend the bridges he’d weakened after his years of infidelity. Emily left them to it and headed straight for the living room, where she picked up the telephone receiver and called Simon.

  “It’s me!” she said when he answered on the fifth ring, her voice sounding young and high. She twirled the diamond stud of her free ear, still glowing with the thrill of finding Simon’s gift, left discreetly on their doorstep that morning. “What are you up to? I thought we could meet up later? Yes, of course, I love them, silly. I’ve missed you.”

  * * *

  With just a few notable exceptions, Emily has always been blessed with the ability to shut off her feelings at will. For the most part, she can control it, through a combination of detachment and justification, and she is certain it has made for a happier existence, a calmer life. She knows plenty of people who don’t share her gift, who live their lives under the reckless rule of their every emotion, destined to be soaring with happiness one minute, floored by bad news the next. People who waste weeks on misplaced guilt, feeling anxious that they’ve caused offense or that they’ve let a friend down through thoughtlessness. What is wrong with these people? Emily has often wondered, and she thinks of Jess back in their teenage years, the way in which she’d badger Emily constantly, paranoid that she’d upset her older sister. “Is everything OK?” she’d ask, or, “Have I done something wrong?” or “Are you mad at me, Emi?” The response Emily would have liked to give was, Yes, of course I’m mad at you, but she rarely spoke the words because then she’d have to articulate exactly why she was mad at Jessica, and really, she didn’t always have an answer. From experience, she knew that “I just am” didn’t wash, because then Jess would go on and on until Emily was forced to make up an answer, and she’d end up saying something far more cruel than she’d ever intended. Mostly, she would rather ignore Jess for a few days, until her irritable mood had passed and she was ready to accept her sister again. And she wouldn’t feel guilty, because Jess was annoying, and everyone needed a bit of space from time to time, didn’t they?

  So Emily thinks of herself as fairly controlled when it comes to her feelings. But when that journalist lifted the flap of the letterbox today and called out the words, “Emily, did you know a body’s been washed up on the beach?” she found herself incapable of keeping a lid on her natural responses. She flung open the door and demanded, “What? What did you say?” and she thought about grabbing the scrawny-bearded little bastard by the shirt, but he told her straight, “We’ve got colleagues down at Alum Bay, and they say a baby’s body has been washed up on the shore.” Emily saw the ravenous expression on his face. She knew he was starving for her reply, for something dripping in grief for his mucky publication, and she shoved him in the chest so hard he stumbled from the step, and she slammed the door between them.

  Now, of course, she knows it was nothing. Just a doll, for God’s sake, a washed-up baby doll. She hates herself for the madness she allowed to creep into her voice when she phoned James and ranted into the phone; she hates that she let herself down. And still, she sits here alone in last night’s pajamas, imagining where James is—where Jess is—contemplating what she should do next. But she doesn’t have to deliberate for too long, because the phone rings again, and it’s DCI Jacobs, and this time she has real news. Someone has reported that Avril is on the Lymington to Yarmouth ferry in the past hour. She’s heading this way, and, DCI Jacobs is happy to confirm, she has Daisy with her.

  22

  Avril

  The temperature plummets in the evenings at this time of year, and so we’ve spent the first twenty minutes of the crossing warming up in the lounge seats near the front of the ferry, watching the sparkling lights of Lymington fade to pinpricks as we head back toward the island. There was no problem getting through the ferry terminal this time—not like on the way out, when there had been photographs of me posted up around the entrance, cau
sing me to pull my hat down and rethink my plans. In the end, I simply walked in and attached myself to a young family, in the hope that their presence might help me to pass through unnoticed. They were a lovely family, with four rowdy girls; the father looked quite surprised when I asked if he’d mind holding my “little boy” while I bought my ticket. But then we all got along so well, sitting together in the waiting room, chatting about children and holidays, that when it was time to board he offered to carry Chloe on for me, as I had the buggy.

  Coming back today was far easier, and Chloe and I strolled right through, showing our open return tickets and boarding with ease. I guess they’re not really looking for anyone traveling to the island. We’ve had a nice time, but my knuckles feel frozen to the bone, and I wish I had a cup of tea to thaw the chill. There’s a café on board, but the sign says it closes early in low season, and its coffee machines and shortbread biscuits remain unreachable behind a padlocked grille. A couple of men in greasy overalls are complaining among themselves; they were gasping for a cuppa. Chloe doesn’t mind, she’s tucked up like a little dormouse under all those cozy blankets.

  I worry that I’m procrastinating, sitting here uselessly, whiling away the journey, gazing out at my own reflection in the salty glass windows. It’s rough out there, and by the lilting roll of the vessel, I’d hazard a guess that a storm is coming in. Most of the other handful of passengers are traveling in ones or twos, like me—the odd businessman and shop worker, some young women dressed in uniforms or suits on their way home from work. Such ordinary activities: work, travel, life. In my thoughts, I’m standing out on the darkened deck, where I see myself leaning far over the railings with Chloe, to watch the black sea smash and crawl up the hull of the boat. We’ll reach out with stretched fingers, so far that we can feel the spray on our faces, so far that we can actually see below the water’s surface, see the world beneath, a place of silvery fins and mermaids’ tails and seaweed that flutters like silken thread. How would it feel, to let go, to plunge beneath the water, to just go with the drag and pull of the tide?

  “Avril!”

  I open my eyes; I hadn’t realized I had closed them. I’m still in the lounge, and Chloe’s beside me in her stroller, and now there is an elderly woman resting a light hand on my shoulder. And I know her.

  “Avril,” she says again, and when she smiles I recognize her at once. I recognize her expression, the set of her mouth, her voice.

  “Lily?” I can’t believe my eyes. Lily? Lily from Buddleia Hill, my friend, my confidante. Lily with her cakes and stories, Lily with her lilting laughter and easy company. Lily who made me feel normal again. I’ve missed her so much. Why didn’t I stay in touch? Why didn’t I do that? “Is it really you?”

  She takes the seat opposite me, placing her neat little handbag on her neat little lap, and she reaches across and squeezes my hand. “Thank goodness!” she says, and she shakes her head like this is the strangest thing. “I thought I’d missed you—I didn’t see you among the foot passengers on the way in. Goodness, it is wonderful to see you!”

  “I’ve been thinking of you lately—I’ve been wondering—” and then I’m confused because I feel like I have heard her voice lately, I’m suddenly sure of it. “Buddleia Hill,” I say aloud, unintentionally, and I hope she doesn’t think I’m deranged. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, you asked me to come, dear!” she says, and I don’t know what she means, and I think I must have misunderstood, as so often happens. “You phoned me, remember? I’m sorry I wasn’t there to take your call—thank goodness, you were able to leave a message!” I must seem confused because then she says, “Don’t you recall, dear? You said you’d just remembered my number and could I meet you at the ferry port the next day? You didn’t leave a number to call you back on, but you sounded rather upset, so I thought I’d take my chances and come anyway. And now I’m so glad I did!” She bobs her head slowly, her bright eyes shining like eyes many years younger, and my heart aches for how much I’ve felt her absence, aches at the memory of my anguish when I thought I’d never see her again. “Lily,” I say, the word now so strange on my lips. “I’ve missed your visits.”

  We talk for a while, and I show her Chloe, and Lily is wonderful—no fussing, no demands—and she tells me she’s still a volunteer, but somewhere else since Buddleia Hill closed down. She gets out her mobile phone and shows me photographs of the trip she’s just been on with her social group, three weeks on safari in Africa, watching animals in their natural habitat. “You’re lucky you caught me when you did, dear,” she says. “I’d only got home a few hours earlier.” We reminisce about the jigsaws and needlepoint we worked on together, and we laugh about Irish Mattie in her miniskirts and Whispering Kate who would tell you she had an urgent secret, taking you aside to murmur, “Tea, coffee, hot chocolate, squash,” before tapping her nose and moving on. I’m surprised at just how much I remember, and then I’m gripped with the fear that we’ll miss the last part of the journey stuck here in the belly of the ship, and I stand too quickly, stumbling against Chloe’s stroller with the swell of the tide. I haven’t decided what we’ll do yet; we need to get onto the deck; we need to look down into the water and decide what to do before we draw too close to land and its solid shoreline.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” Lily asks, and I fear I’ve upset her.

  “No, nothing!” I gasp, and I wheel the stroller around to face the front windows, where the lights of Yarmouth harbor grow clearer as we sail on. “We’re going out on deck for a little while. I want to show Chloe the sea.”

  “But it’s so cold!” Lily protests, and she rises, hurrying on tiny patent shoes to catch up with me as I struggle to open the weighted door that leads out into the swirling bite of the Solent air. “You’ll freeze, dear!” she says, but she follows me all the same, pulling the flapping wings of her fawn coat closer to her body, hooking her handbag over the crook of her arm, where it swings against her, buffeted by the strong wind. That bag, that coat, the gentle use of “dear” at the end of every sentence; these thoughts brush against a soft piece of my mind and are gone like feathers on the breeze.

  Between us and the harbor is an expanse of ink-dark water, its endlessness broken only by the occasional bobbing buoy, or a rogue reflection, a stray sliver of light cast out from the captain’s deck above. The blackness is exquisite; my mind roams, returning to a place long, long ago, when blackness was all I dreamt of. When deep, dreamless sleep was the one thing I yearned for, having long since given up on everyday dreams. No simple ambitions of love and family for me; all I dreamt of was an ending. But then Lily came along, and somehow, with her quiet ways and her simple friendship, I began to imagine, not an ending, but a beginning. I look at her, this small-framed bird of a woman, and I know I have so much to thank her for.

  Chloe is awake now, and I lift her from her stroller and I hold her high, so that she can see the light and darkness for herself, so that she can feel the elemental thrall of this space in time, before it is gone.

  “Avril, no!” Lily shrieks, and her hand shoots out to grip my wrist, and my mind divides, and I look into her eyes, and she’s no longer Lily. She’s not Lily. She’s James’s mother again, and I’m terrified. I’m terrified that she’s here to stop me from showing Chloe the water—that she’s here to stop me from doing the right thing. “Please, Avril,” she says. “Think of her family—please, dear? Please?”

  I clasp Chloe tight to me, so tight that she begins to cry, and I see the woman make a signal to a uniformed man, who appears magician-like from the far side of the level. He breaks into a run, and at once he’s there in front of me, making a barrier of his body as the harbor lights grow brighter and the ferry begins to turn. I run with the turn of the vessel, around the outer deck and into the fierce squall of the wind, so we might face the harbor as we approach and dock. The uniformed man runs with me, always between me and the sea, like some strange and silent ghost.

  When I get as fa
r as the railings will allow, the woman is still there at my side, and she’s begging me to hand her Chloe, but I won’t, not while there’s a breath left in my body. I won’t let her take Chloe again; I won’t let it happen. I see it all now for what it really is: Lily—Alicia—they were always one and the same, they were always James’s mother, and I let myself believe otherwise, and for what? For companionship? For belonging? For love? Chloe is screaming now, and I don’t want to scare her, so I cradle her face to my neck, and I turn all my rage toward that little woman at my side. “I know who you are,” I hiss, and she gasps at the violence in my voice.