The Returning Tide

by Liz Fenwick

Guilty. I sighed and put the potatoes into the pot of water, thinking about Mother’s words. We are lost. I put the lid on the pot. Who knew what was ahead for any of us? I prayed that life would return to normal soon. The granite lintel above the range hinted at permanence. I touched it. It was a relic of the farmhouse that had stood here before Grandmother built Windward. This terrible war couldn’t and shouldn’t wipe away our lives. But it had changed them already. Excitement vied with fear, twisting my stomach round. Tomorrow I would be leaving Windward and Amelia.

  16 August 2015

  The veil was stretched out on some old lace-drying racks that Peta had found in the attic. The years of dust had been washed away and the colour was now more of a bright ivory rather than that of weak tea. Her capable hands had begun to repair the damage the years had doled out. I walked around it in awe of its fine detail. At eight I hadn’t noticed any of this. It was simply beautiful and would make the wearer feel happy and loved. It had for Grandmother and, at that time, I thought it had for Mother.

  Having been wrapped with dried lavender, the withered grey flowers had fallen onto the carpet when Peta had opened it. I bent to sniff the fabric to see if any of the fragrance had remained after laundering, but it smelt of soap, nothing more. Here in the dining room it was far from harmful sunshine as it dried. Peta was keen to conserve this piece of history. I fought the urge to rend it apart. It had no magic power to make happiness or to change the past. We choose our own path.

  I walked to the stairs. After yesterday’s jaunt into the attic my joints ached more than normal. But the physical discomfort I could take. Strangely I welcomed it. It was real. My body was old and slowly it was failing. Last night as I lay in bed thinking about the suitcase and its contents, my heart opened. For so long I had kept it closed, but last night the pain of the past pinned me to the bed. Unable to move, I had felt my heart slowing until it stopped. I don’t remember it starting again but it had. Hate and anger were bitter tastes in my mouth upon coming to consciousness, unlike the salty tang of my tears.

  My vision blurred and I clutched the banister. I had to face the old demons. Breathing was hard but I walked the landing until I reached the stairs to the attic.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Jack’s voice was more amused than cross.

  ‘I’m going to the attic.’

  ‘Well, I knew it wasn’t a trip to the shops.’ He walked towards me. ‘You really think this is a good idea?’ He raised an eyebrow and again I saw his grandfather’s humour. Andrew never told me off as such, but humoured me until I came to his way of thinking, even about marrying him.

  ‘So you think you will manage these old stairs with your cane and your dodgy hip?’ He leaned against the wall. ‘This I have to see.’

  ‘I am nothing if not determined.’ I placed the cane on the first step. Yesterday I had done this without a problem. But today was different. It was as if the trip through the locked door had set off a timer inside of me, counting down.

  ‘This I know is true. But I think I’ve only seen you go in the attic once in all my life. What’s so essential up there that you need it now?’

  ‘That would be telling.’ I looked away from his inquisitive glance. Since yesterday I’d been haunted by the other things I’d glimpsed in the suitcase.

  ‘It would, and it might make more sense to tell me what you want and let me find it.’

  ‘That would be boring.’

  ‘Indeed, boring and sensible.’ His smile transformed his serious face.

  I made it up the first step, but wobbled.

  ‘Gran …’

  I stepped to the second. A quick count told me I had twelve more to climb before I had to manage the tricky bit at the top. Why wasn’t there a railing? I reached the third step and heard Jack move to the one below me.

  By step five my head was nearing the opening at the top. I leaned forward so that I didn’t hit the ceiling when I ventured in. The air was thinner. Dust filled my nose. I sneezed, lifting my hand to my mouth. Jack’s arms grabbed my waist as I swayed.

  ‘You’re hard enough to manage without adding broken bones to the list.’

  ‘True.’ I climbed another step and then another. Jack’s hand never left my waist until we reached the top and began to walk through the odd chairs, ripped lampshades and other bits of discarded junk.

  ‘It had better be worth it.’

  ‘That, I can’t promise.’ In truth I wasn’t sure why I was doing this. If the letters were still there, would it help to look at them?

  Placing the cane on the uneven floorboards, I teetered to the end. I hadn’t relocked the door yesterday. It swung on its hinges. I searched for a draught or some other cause, but saw no source. Everything looked as it had yesterday. Old trunks, a discarded chest of drawers, a rolled carpet, broken tennis racquets and there among this junk was my old case. Yesterday I had removed only the veil and hadn’t allowed Peta or myself to look at the rest of the contents, but they were there and would not be silent. My thoughts rang with their pleas. I clutched a rafter.

  Jack stood still not saying a word. His unspoken questions were there in his posture. He stood with his feet far apart, hands on hips, and I knew he was waiting for an explanation. I turned from him and pulled on the light, which revealed the dust motes hanging in the air.

  The boards cracked as I made my way to the case, staying in the middle where my head wasn’t in danger of making contact with the beams. Jack followed silently until I stopped in front of the small tower of school trunks.

  ‘Fancied a trip down memory lane, did you?’

  ‘Not really, but I need to retrieve something.’ I noted that my sister’s trunk sat on the top of the pile. Why was it still here?

  Jack studied the names. ‘Ha, here’s Dad’s. Doubt there’s anything worth keeping there, maybe the odd sock.’

  ‘True, but he did like to keep it and wouldn’t let us use it for your aunt.’

  ‘Probably kept his lads’ magazines in there.’

  ‘No, those were under his mattress.’

  Jack laughed. ‘No secrets, eh?’

  I smiled and looked away. ‘None.’

  He stopped at the one stamped on the top A.D. Seaton. He frowned. I tensed. ‘Not your initials, Elle Seaton. I suppose this is some relative of yours?’ He shook his head. ‘Why do people hold onto these old school things?’

  ‘Yours is at the other end of the attic.’ I pointed to where I had seen several metal trunks.

  ‘Just bin the damn thing.’ He laughed. ‘Shall I help you and then bring this suitcase to the sitting room?’

  I pursed my lips. The sitting room was too public. ‘My room. Thank you.’

  Four

  Maenporth Beach, Falmouth, Cornwall

  5 June 1943

  All of the rocks at the base of the cliffs were revealed along with the seaweed which was used to make penicillin and our reason for being on the beach. Only August would bring a lower spring tide this year and I wouldn’t be here to see it, which I tried not to think about. It would be the first summer that I could remember that I hadn’t spent at Windward. I stood up, leaving the bucket on the ground, and rubbed my lower back. The sand seemed to stretch for miles into the turquoise waters. Days didn’t come much more beautiful than this.

  Tonight was my last night at home, however, and I shivered despite the heat. Looking for Amelia, I found her across the beach near the first pillbox closer to the high water mark. On a day like today there was no hardship involved, but we’d been out here in foul weather too. Sweat rolled down my back and damp tendrils of hair clung to my neck. A swim would cool me off but there was no time for that. We had a job to do. Everyone played their part. I bent to work again, thinking of what would happen tomorrow. I was heading to training, but nothing was certain.

  ‘You’ll have a ball in London.’ Amelia laughed as I jumped at her voice. She took the bucket from me and emptied it into a bigger one. I shrugged, taking mine back. ‘You wil
l,’ she said. ‘I know you will.’

  Our glances met. ‘Not without you.’

  ‘We couldn’t be together always, silly.’ She looked out to sea.

  ‘Ah, yes, you are going to marry … was it Eddie, Philip or Angus?’

  ‘Philip’s yours, remember!’ She hit my arm. ‘Angus Lambert is for me. I want the one who’ll take me away to far-flung places with strange-sounding names.’

  I laughed. She was forever falling in love. I had liked Angus first, but I couldn’t compete since she had kissed him before me. With trepidation I’d confessed my plans to her while sitting on a rock overlooking the cove, and then she’d just walked up to him on the beach and kissed him. I’d hated her for all of a day then laughed and asked for all the details. After telling me his mouth tasted of peppermint and cigarettes she’d told me he wouldn’t know it hadn’t been me. She swore she’d done it to stop me from messing it up and making it all awkward. She was right. I would have made a botch of it, but if I were honest, part of me was still a bit cross. However, she made flirting appear effortless. Even now, here on the beach, she had a young sailor hanging on her every word. How did she do it? We were so alike and yet when it came to men I was inarticulate and bumbling while Amelia radiated joy.

  Pausing to stretch, I rubbed the salt off my hand and onto my hankie while I studied my sister as she bent to her work. She was so much better with her hands. Despite having spent more time kissing Grandmother’s chauffeur than learning, she could take an engine apart and that knowledge would now be put to good use.

  ‘Hi.’ A young man came up to collect my seaweed. ‘Amelia?’ He grinned.

  I looked up and tried not to frown as I corrected him. ‘Adele.’

  ‘Gosh, I always get it wrong.’ He shrugged.

  I silently added, you’re not the only one. I just wished he didn’t appear so disappointed. Without my twin around I had a chance to be seen.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve enough today.’ He held out a hand for my bucket, emptied it into the larger one and then searched for my sister. What was wrong with me?

  I glanced down and saw some mussels clinging to the base of the rocks. Maybe we could have them for dinner tonight. I began to collect some in my emptied bucket, and when I checked, he’d wandered off towards Amelia who was laughing and holding her hair off her neck. Her breasts lifted in the process and I wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Was she aware of it? Did she understand the effect she had? Turning away from her I went further along the rocks. I should try and be more like her, more relaxed and flirtatious. She made it look so easy. If I attempted the same manoeuvre it would be awkward, blatant.

  Over my shoulder I saw Amelia on her way to me. Her bucket was already full of mussels. Something told me she hadn’t collected them herself. An open shell lay at my feet, its interior whites glistening until they silvered and blued at the edges. I picked it up as Amelia came to my side. One half fell away from the other and dropped onto the wet sand below.

  ‘I’ll do a fish stew or something with these.’ She shook the mussels and I looked up at her as the sea washed over the dropped shell. The tide had turned. ‘Or maybe I should let Mother do it.’

  I smiled. ‘They’ll have to learn to do some of the cooking.’

  ‘Mother’s not too bad.’

  ‘I know, and Grandmother is enjoying growing all the vegetables, but …’

  She laughed. ‘When Mrs Tonks left to work on the farm, Grandmother’s face was a picture.’

  ‘Cleaning and cooking!’ Just the thought of Grandmother peeling a potato let alone washing one was enough to send me into fits of laughter.

  Giggling, we walked back to the others. I wanted to drink in every detail, for tomorrow I’d be gone and I wasn’t sure when I would be back. Amelia would be here, so at least part of me remained.

  She adjusted her hair then climbed on to her bike.

  The sailor dashed up to her. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow night at the dance?’

  She laughed and touched his cheek with her finger. ‘Only if you promise to behave.’ He grinned and gave her a salute before dashing off in the direction of Falmouth.

  ‘You’re incorrigible,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’

  I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

  She looked across at me. ‘Please don’t disapprove.’

  I smiled. ‘I don’t. I …’ I peered at her, noting a freckle appearing on her nose. ‘I think I might be jealous.’

  ‘Of course you are, ninny. But it’s simple really.’ She paused and slipped a hat on. ‘All you need to do is smile and … don’t think too much.’

  I shook my head. This was where we were so different. She wouldn’t remember that sailor at all until he appeared at her side at the dance, eager for her attention. What I knew and the sailor didn’t was that if she spied another man before then that she deemed more charming, she wouldn’t glance his way again. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do that.

  ‘Shall I try and make moules marinière tonight with these?’ she asked.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘We haven’t got the ingredients.’

  She smiled and glanced at my bucket. ‘We have more than enough to trade with Mrs Long at the farm. Let’s see if she can give me a bit of cream for your mussels.’

  ‘And the wine?’

  ‘I made cider with some of the apples in the autumn so I’ll use that.’

  ‘Garlic?’

  She turned her head and looked into the wood climbing up the hill across from the beach. Wild garlic would be there, mixed with the last of the bluebells.

  ‘Will it work?’

  ‘Of course it will. Trust me. Besides, it’s our last night before we become Wrens!’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ I set off up the hill ahead of her but stopped at the top, waiting for her to catch up. ‘You will be careful?’ I said, when she arrived at the hilltop.

  She frowned. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Just reckless and never considering of the consequences, I thought, but I couldn’t say anything. She had sped off towards the farm, anyway. I just hoped she’d be safe without me around. Today we were eighteen, and tomorrow I left Cornwall and my sister.

  Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall

  16 August 2015

  ‘There can’t be much in it. There’s no weight to it at all and the leather is so brittle it’ll disintegrate.’ Jack tilted his head to one side. ‘Once you’ve had a look for whatever it is, I suggest we put this in the bin.’

  Out in the bay a sea fog was moving in from the north-east as I stood watching St Anthony’s Lighthouse. Soon the lighthouse had disappeared from sight, along with Pendennis Castle. Sometimes I wished a mist would slip into my head and erase the memories like it did the landscape, only leaving vague outlines.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Jack came to my side.

  ‘I did. Thank you.’ I turned towards him. ‘Could you bring me a whisky?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘First up in the attic then drinking alone in your room. Should I be concerned?’

  I laughed. ‘Of course you should. Make it a healthy one, please.’ He sent me a searching look and I smiled. The afternoon light caught the hint of strawberry in his blonde hair. Was it the touch of ginger that made him prickly? ‘Go.’

  He fled and I touched the suitcase. It was older than I was. It had belonged to my father and it was the one that left Windward with me on a bright June morning in 1943. Time hadn’t been kind to it. My father’s name was embossed under the handle: N.J.G. Seaton. I closed my eyes, remembering him as I had last seen him at Mother’s funeral – thinner, paler and his teeth stained. Not the dashing man in uniform who had given me this when I’d joined the WRNS.

  My back protested as I bent down. The latches stuck but came open eventually. Jack was right, there wasn’t much in it. Bundles of letters and a few photographs. My hands trembled as I held a faded picture of my sister and me in matching swimming costumes sitting o
n the rocks, and another one of us laughing, heads thrown back with Windward behind us. These things had no power now but still they stirred emotions. A pale piece of fabric rested under the letters. I frowned. A christening gown wrapped around her letters? I hadn’t done that. Mother must have. Her misplaced anger travelled through the years. My hands clenched around the delicate fabric expertly mended by the nimble hands of Mrs Tonks. I had taken the blame and punishment for the ripped bodice when it had been Amelia who had torn it in a fit of anger when she’d discovered that as the eldest I had worn it not her.

  I freed the gown. The fabric had yellowed and was fragile. The intricate lace trimming was still in perfect condition, only the rend in the lawn cotton ruined the appearance. It slipped through my shaking fingers and back into the case. How many children in the family had worn the gown? My mother and her brother Reginald had, but it was older still. Where was the gown Amelia had worn? I remembered seeing it years ago. That was the problem with touching an artefact; it made it all real again.

  My fingers played with the green garden twine that held her letters. Over the years it had bled into the envelopes and possibly onto the paper contained in them. I turned them over in my hand then picked up the other ones bound in ribbon. My hand shook. What would they tell me? I’d never opened them.

  I let them fall back into the case and picked up the letters she had written to me during the war. I was sure I knew what they said, but had my memory changed them? A memory alters over the years, each remembrance twisting it subtly, until it is no longer an accurate account of the past, more a reflection of the person trying to recall it. I didn’t want to read her words, but the photograph unearthed by the girl from the BBC had stirred something inside me.

  Jack appeared at the door with a glass in his hand. ‘Not sure about drinking in your room, but I suppose you are old enough.’

  ‘You could say that.’ I placed the bound correspondence onto the chest of drawers and took the whisky from him. He peered into the case.

  ‘No dead bodies?’