After a time, a dragonfly lands beside her. She watches it, marvelling at its luminescent wings, metallic greens and blues shimmering as it flexes gently in the breeze. It looks end-of-summer weary. I know the feeling, she thinks. Keeping her eyes on the insect, she takes up her phone again and plays back the voicemail message waiting for her.
Margot. It’s me. I think we should talk. Call me. Please.
The sound of Jonas’s voice – the particular cadence of his Scandinavian accent, the skipping delivery of his words – makes her close her eyes. She can see his scruffy blonde hair, his unkempt beard, his sky-blue eyes. Jonas. Another perfect example of what happens when she lowers her defences and lets people too close. Confusion. That dark, creeping shame. She’s an idiot – an idiot with another mess to clean up. With a sigh, she hits the redial button and waits.
‘Hey,’ says Jonas, answering almost immediately, his voice soft and low.
‘It’s me.’
‘Hey you.’ He hesitates. ‘I’m glad you called. I thought you might be avoiding me.’
‘No.’
A silence falls over the line. ‘You left so suddenly.’
‘I wrote you a note.’
‘Right. “Family stuff”. Course. Made complete sense.’
‘My sister’s getting married,’ she says, as further explanation.
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah … She sprang it on us all, last minute.’
‘I see.’ There is a long pause. ‘And you didn’t need a “plus one”? … A helpful photographer friend to come with you?’
‘Thanks, but aren’t you working this weekend? Besides, I doubt Luce could afford a hot-shot photographer like you.’
‘I wouldn’t have expected to be paid. I’d have done it as your friend.’
The silence expands between them. Margot is back in Jonas’s bedroom, lying naked on his bed. She sighs and blinks away the image. A complete fuck-up.
‘Should we talk about the other night?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she agrees, wanting to do anything but that.
‘I don’t think we can ignore what happened.’ He hesitates. ‘I don’t want to.’
She doesn’t know what to say, so Jonas continues, filling the silence. ‘I know when you answered the ad for my spare room it was supposed to be a prac tical arrangement. But since I’ve grown to know you a little … well … you’ve become important to me, Margot. A good friend.’
‘Yes,’ she says, seizing upon his words. ‘We’re friends.’
‘Yes. Only the other night … what happened … it took me by surprise but it made me realise that I …’
Margot closes her eyes. Don’t do this, she thinks.
‘… I have … feelings for you.’
Margot holds her breath.
‘So I was … uh … I was wondering if you—’
‘Don’t stress, Jonas,’ she says, interrupting him again. ‘It’s all good. We were both drunk. It didn’t mean anything.’
He waits a beat. ‘It didn’t?’ The silence between them expands. ‘It’s … I thought … I felt maybe there was something—’
‘We’re mates, Jonas. OK? Flatmates. Let’s not over-complicate it.’
Jonas is silent for a moment. ‘Yes. Of course.’
Margot gazes out across the river. She hates the hurt she can hear in his voice and feels an unpleasant ache, a swelling in her ribcage that requires her to place her hand over her chest and hold her thudding heart. ‘So, we’re good then?’ she asks, her voice tight and falsely bright.
‘Yes.’ Jonas hesitates. ‘And you’re OK? You’d tell me if you weren’t? If you needed anything? As a friend?’
‘Yes,’ she lies. ‘I would.’ Her gaze catches on something on the far side of the river. Something white trapped in a tangle of overhanging branches.
‘Good.’ Muffled voices drift down the phone line. ‘Yes, the light reflector, and the spare battery.’ Jonas is talking, his mouth a little way from the phone. ‘Sorry,’ he says, his voice returning to full volume, ‘I’m on a shoot. Boy band.’ He adds under his breath, ‘All complete divas. You’ve never seen so much hair product in your life. I should go. You’ll be home next week?’
Home, Margot thinks. Is that what she calls it? ‘Yeah, back next week,’ she says. She blinks and refocuses her gaze on the object caught in the tree branches. A cluster of white sticks in a neat, curved pattern, arced like the spine of a boat’s hull. ‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Fine, Margot. See you.’ The line goes dead.
Margot holds the handset to her ear for a long time, listening to the silence echoing back at her as she stares across the river. While they have been talking, a thought has come to her, horrifying to her for its possible truth. Perhaps walking through the door of Windfalls is not so much an act of regression, but more acknowledgement that for all her running – for all those years she has spent away from this place – she is still the same person, unchanged. She cannot run from who she was – who she is.
Gazing out at the far side of the river, she swallows. The shape of the strange bundle of white sticks grows clearer. There is a recognisable pattern to their curved shape. Not sticks, she realises with a creeping dread. Bones.
She stares across the river for a long moment, wondering if her eyes are deceiving her, until she stands and moves to the furthest point of the jetty. Definitely bones. The blood is rushing in her head. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, feel her breath catching at the back of her throat. She wonders what to do. She dips a hand into the water and shivers. If she were Lucy, she would peel off her clothes and dive into the water, but she is not Lucy.
Glancing around, she notices the old rowing boat lying on the riverbank. She eyes it for a moment. Moving closer, she can see it is in a sorry state, but from what she can tell, it looks watertight, no obvious holes or damage. A lone paddle lies across the seat bench. She kicks the timber hull, reassured to hear the solid thunk as her shoe hits the wood. With another quick glance around, she unties the frayed rope securing it to the jetty and begins to push the boat to the river’s edge.
9
Eve stands in the shower, warm water falling onto her skin. She can hear the far-off sound of her daughters laughing as she scrapes a blunt razor over the curve of her armpit. May’s high-pitched giggles are followed by the slightly deeper laughter of her older sister. ‘Stop, Chloe. Stop!’ screams May, in the maniacal strains of a six-year-old who doesn’t want her big sister to stop at all. Eve sighs. They are supposed to be getting dressed and packing their school bags. Andrew is downstairs. He can deal with it.
She closes her eyes and rubs shampoo into her hair. Washing the foam away, she imagines she is somewhere else … in a dark bar, seated at a stool, cocktail glasses and a candle flickering on the polished wood in front of her. She conjures a man on the stool beside her. He leans forward, his arms reaching out to draw her into his embrace, the hot press of skin—
‘Muuuum!’
Eve opens her eyes then quickly squeezes them shut again, too late, as shampoo runs into her eyes. ‘Fuck,’ she says, groping for a washcloth.
‘You said a bad word.’
‘Yes. Yes I did.’
She puts her head under the full force of the water, rinsing the last of the shampoo away and when she opens her eyes again, she sees May standing on the other side of the shower screen, the top half of her body dressed in school uniform, the bottom half still in pink unicorn pyjamas, her hands and mouth smeared with Marmite and her face screwed into a tearful scowl. ‘Mummy, Chloe’s trying to kill me.’
‘No she’s not, darling.’
‘She is. She’s sitting on me and making me smell Daddy’s shoes.’
Eve rolls her eyes. ‘And why such torture?’
‘Because she wants to watch Scooby Doo and I want Paw Patrol.’
‘I thought I’d said no television before school.’
May pouts. ‘Daddy said we could.’
‘Did he now?’ Ev
e sighs. ‘I’ll be down in a minute. I’ll talk to Chloe … and Daddy. OK?’
May takes this as a win and lunges at the screen. ‘I love you, Mummy,’ she says, kissing the glass then stepping back, leaving an imprint of sticky, brown Marmite hands and lips smeared across the glass.
Eve eyes the mess, telling herself it doesn’t matter, trying to relish the moment of affection. She bends down and presses her own lips against May’s imprint. ‘I love you too. Now please get dressed, and stay away from your sister.’
May saunters out of the bathroom, leaving Eve to dry and pull on clothes. She checks her watch. Twenty minutes before they have to be in the car.
Downstairs, she finds Chloe, still in pyjamas, hair unbrushed, sitting on the back of the sofa lazily tossing dry Cheerios into her mouth. Sofa cushions are scattered across the floor, a vase of flowers lies tipped on its side, water spilling onto the carpet. The shoe basket from the front door has been dragged into the lounge and upended. The TV blares an annoying theme tune. ‘Chloe! What on earth?’
Chloe drags her glazed gaze from the screen.
‘Why aren’t you dressed? What’s all this mess? Where’s your father?’
Chloe shrugs, the nonchalant, carefree shrug of a nine-year-old with no apparent timetable. ‘Dad’s in the kitchen.’
May sidles into the room, still only half-dressed, though now with the unfathomable addition of rabbit ears perched on her head.
‘Why are all the shoes in here?’ Eve asks, her exasperation growing.
‘May threw them at me.’
‘She called me a baby.’
‘She is a baby. She’s scared of Scooby Doo.’ Chloe’s gaze slides back to the television.
It is the last straw. Eve reaches for the remote control and snaps the TV off, ignoring Chloe’s shout of protest. ‘Tidy this mess up. Both of you.’
‘But it’s not fair,’ wails May. ‘I didn’t make the mess.’
Eve picks up the vase of flowers, watching as the last of the water cascades onto the carpet. ‘Now,’ she roars. ‘I don’t want to hear another word.’
Chloe stomps across the room, rights the shoe basket and drops one of Andrew’s trainers into it with a dramatic sigh.
‘You’re such a meanie,’ says May, forgetting that she has drawn her battle lines against her sister, both of them now united in their resentment for their mother.
She finds Andrew in the kitchen, hunched over his laptop, surrounded by dirty cereal bowls, plates of crusts and cups. Music blares from the radio on the windowsill. A congealed porridge saucepan waits in the sink. A puddle of coffee grounds sits on the kitchen counter. The half-full milk bottle stands next to the fridge, warming nicely. She stands in the doorway, watching her husband, the frown on his face pinching the skin between his brows into deep furrows. ‘All right?’ he asks, glancing up.
‘No. I’m not all right.’ She stalks across and snaps the radio off.
‘I was trying to drown them out,’ he admits, smiling up at her. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Other than the girls trashing the lounge and neither of them being ready for school?’
‘Sorry. I got a little distracted with this spreadsheet. It sounded like they were having a great time.’
Eve raises an eyebrow.
‘What?’
‘World War Three was about to break out and you were completely oblivious. You said you’d help out a little more in the mornings.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Not exactly. Not here here. Your head’s still in your work.’
‘They’re not babies, Eve. They don’t need watching every second. Besides, something urgent came up.’ He smiles at her. ‘No harm done. All present and accounted for.’
Eve sighs. It’s hardly the point. She looks around at the mess in the kitchen then thinks of the imminent battles to be had with hairbrushes and shoes, the inevitable race to the school gates, the forgotten musical instruments and PE kits. She thinks of her own looming day of admin at the recruitment agency – perhaps not nearly as important as Andrew’s – but still a commitment, still a job that needs to be done properly. She thinks of the coming weekend and the ever-growing list of tasks to get done before Lucy’s wedding on Saturday and the simmering tension between Kit and Margot, then adds the image of Sibella seated at the same table as them all on Friday night and wonders how on earth they are to navigate such turbulent ground with emotions running so high. She thinks of it all and feels defeated.
Has it always been this way, she wonders? Has she always borne the strain of holding everything together? When she thinks back to the packed lunches she would make for her sisters whenever their mother forgot or wasn’t awake to make them after yet another late night working, or the school uniform she would pull out of the dirty laundry and scrub clean with a damp cloth, or the plaits she’d tie and the school notes she’d nag Kit to sign, it feels as though she has lived most of her life with responsibility resting on her shoulders. It is, in part, why she is so determined to be a different kind of parent to her own children, present and reliable. Only it’s hard to be present when you have so many balls in the air. Increasingly, she feels as though she’s about to drop them all.
Andrew stands and flicks the kettle on. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea.’ He reaches for her, drawing her to him. ‘Don’t be cross with me. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.’
Eve nods and bites her lip, leaning her body against the reassuring solidity of his, just as her phone buzzes. She pulls away to check the screen and sees a message from Margot. Well, that’s something, she thinks. A little help would definitely be welcome. She types a quick reply, presses send, then punches out another to her father.
Andrew sighs and turns back to the kettle. ‘How is Operation Last-Minute Wedding going?’ he asks, pouring water into a mug for her.
‘Fine,’ she says, laying down her phone. ‘Though I’m afraid it looks like you and Dad might be on bonfire duty now. Mum was talking about fireworks but I think I may have dissuaded her.’
‘Bonfire? Fireworks? I thought it was supposed to be a low-key thing?’
‘If you call seventy guests and rising low key.’
Andrew gapes at her, then laughs. ‘Your family.’
Eve feels a rush of irritation. She turns away and begins to rinse the cereal bowls before dumping them in the dishwasher. ‘I’ve got a school governors’ meeting tonight. You’ll be here for the girls?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes. Seven o’clock.’
‘God, Eve, sorry, I have a work dinner. I thought you knew?’ He slides the mug of tea across the counter towards her.
Eve studies him evenly. ‘It’s not on the calendar.’
‘Isn’t it?’ He unplugs his laptop and slips it into his bag. ‘Sorry, love. My mistake. I didn’t realise you needed me to babysit.’
She feels the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not babysitting when they’re your own kids?’ She sighs. ‘So what am I supposed to do?’
‘It’s just the PTA. Can’t they go ahead without you?’
She slams another bowl into the dishwasher. ‘That’s not the point. I made a commitment.’
‘Well, book a babysitter.’ Andrew glances up. ‘Sorry, but I can’t miss the dinner. They’re an important client.’ He softens slightly. ‘I know it’s your way, but you’re working yourself up into a state over school meetings and your sister’s wedding. You do too much.’
Eve throws a handful of cutlery into the holder, a knife missing and clattering to the floor. ‘Right. I do too much.’ She bites back a retort about others not doing enough and waits at the sink, hoping for Andrew to notice how upset she is, but he continues to pack his belongings before moving to kiss her on the cheek and throw her a cheerful ‘goodbye’. She stands there for a moment longer, trying to control the rising emotion. She counts to ten, squashes it down, then leaves the kitchen, yelling at the girls in a voice she can’t bear, ‘
If you two don’t hurry up and get dressed, you’ll be explaining to your headmistress why you’ve arrived at school in your pyjamas! Don’t think I don’t mean it.’
‘Wow,’ she hears Chloe mutter from the lounge, ‘worst mum ever.’
10
‘Do you think it’s going to be all right?’ Ted is leaning in the doorway to Sibella’s studio, a cup of coffee warming his hands. The mug he brought for Sibella sits on the bench beside her while her hands shape a lump of white clay on the wheel spinning in front of her.
He marvels at her skill, the way he has marvelled ever since he first witnessed her at work. The rise and fall of the clay, the ripples of the material moving through her hands, her foot urging the wheel on. Her green eyes are fixed in concentration and there’s a streak of white on her left cheek. Behind her stand tall shelves, row upon row of ghostly white pots drying on boards.
She dips her fingers in a bowl of water and places them in the centre of the clay to hollow the vessel. It sinks a little then rises again, thinner, taller. She pinches a rim before curving it over into a neat lip. In his work, he pulls words out of the air and strings them together to make fictions. He moves characters upon a stage to tell a story. But Sibella has a real craft. There is nothing fictional about what she does. Plates. Jugs. Bowls. Pots. Her work is physical, practical and real. Some days he can’t help but feel envious of the solidity of her craft.
She doesn’t look up as she answers. ‘You mean the wedding?’
‘Yes.’
Sibella considers his question. ‘I’m sure everyone will be on their best behaviour.’ She glances up from the wheel. ‘You’re frowning.’
‘I like Tom, I do, but I don’t understand the need for them to rush like this.’ He takes a sip of tea. ‘She must be pregnant.’
The River Home : A Novel (2020) Page 8