‘Perhaps. Though you’re hardly the sort of father to march a young man up the aisle to make an honest woman of his daughter. You wouldn’t have a leg to stand on!’
‘True,’ says Ted with a dry laugh. ‘Kit and I certainly have form on illegitimate children.’ He looks down at the thin gold band on his hand. He remembers the moment Sibella slid it onto his finger. Why it should have felt so important for him to marry this woman, when he had spent all those years with Kit, proudly unmarried, he still isn’t entirely sure, but he knows it was a good decision.
‘Perhaps it’s simple: she loves him. It’s the right time for them both.’
Ted smiles. ‘I guess I can understand that. I suppose for all her impetuous ways, Lucy also has a strong streak of romance in her. Though she’s certainly a conundrum. All my girls are.’
‘That’s women for you,’ says Sibella, dipping her fingers in water again before smoothing the edges of the vessel. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out by now, surrounded as you are.’
‘Another baby in the family … wouldn’t that be something? A real blessing. Perhaps they are saving an announcement for the reception?’
Sibella smiles. She slows the wheel then leans back to appraise the pot in front of her.
‘You’re continuing with the porcelain?’ Ted asks.
She nods. ‘There’s something about it … a fragility. It requires such lightness of touch. It’s not easy on the wheel but I’m enjoying learning.’
Ted notices how the light streams through the studio window, glancing off the delicate, white pieces drying on the shelves behind her. She’s right, he thinks. There is a wonderful purity to them.
‘You were up early,’ she says. ‘Working?’
He nods. ‘I wanted to revise the final scene before I send the new draft to Max.’
‘You’re feeling good about it?’
Ted considers Sibella’s question. He has spent the last few months buried in a new play, delving into the complex, often unfathomable terrain of father–daughter relationships. ‘I am. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I think it could be good. Perhaps even my best. Though you know how it goes,’ he adds. ‘One day it flows. The next … well, it’s the equivalent of me trying to craft something at your wheel here. A misshapen disaster.’
She laughs. ‘We all have those days.’
‘I booked a table at The Bridge for Friday evening,’ he says, changing subject. ‘You are coming still, aren’t you?’
Sibella frowns. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea?’
‘Lucy asked specifically that you be there.’
‘I just think … with Kit … it might be easier if I—’
‘This isn’t about Kit. This is about Lucy and Tom. I know they’d both like you there. Besides, the dinner the night before might pave the way for a more … harmonious day on Saturday?’
Sibella bites her lip. ‘Anything that brings me closer to your girls … you and I both know it drives Kit crazy.’
‘That’s her problem,’ Ted says, firmly. ‘Lucy wants you there.’
Sibella sighs and leans back on her stool, her gaze meeting Ted’s. ‘Then I shall be there,’ she says.
He steps forward, kissing the top of her head, her red hair soft and warm as it brushes against his lips. Ted is still inwardly counting his blessings for the beautiful, creative woman sitting before him when his mobile phone gives a shrill beep in his pocket.
‘Who is it?’ asks Sibella, glancing across, seeing his frown.
‘Eve. She’s asked me to add one more to the dinner reservation on Friday.’ He looks across at Sibella. ‘Margot’s back.’
Sibella raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s good, I suppose?’
Ted lets out a low laugh. ‘Have you forgotten my sixtieth?’
‘You’ve missed her. I know you have.’ Sibella smiles gently. ‘It might be … healing … for everyone.’
He hesitates. ‘Yes, it might.’
‘Maybe coming back will force her to face up to what she did? She can’t run from it for ever.’
‘No,’ says Ted with a frown. He looks out across the valley and sees the sun slide behind a grey cloud. The effect is like a curtain being drawn over the surrounding hills. His youngest daughter, Margot: what is she running from?
Sibella reaches for her cup of coffee and takes a sip. ‘I suppose, if we’re looking for a silver-lining, at least I won’t be the only persona non grata at the table on Friday.’
Ted nods and tries to conjure a smile, though his eyes remain fixed on the dark shadow hanging over the valley.
11
Halfway across the river, Margot realises the folly of her plan. Navigating the channel with one paddle is proving harder than she’d imagined. Even worse, far from being watertight, the old rowing boat seems to be leaking at an alarming rate. Looking down into the hull, she can see a pool of muddy water gathering around her feet. She fixes her gaze on the far bank, where she has seen the white bones, and does her best with the paddle.
A little further on, the current begins to tug her off course. She feels its pull and imagines letting it take her, the boat bobbing down the river until eventually she is spat out into the great churn of a cold, unforgiving ocean. But remembering the bones caught in the tree on the other side of the river, she adjusts her course and paddles with fresh resolve.
It is impossible to get close. The tangled branches jut awkwardly into the river and prove hard to draw near. After a couple of attempts, one near miss losing the paddle and several painful scratches, she manages to grasp one of the larger branches, and pulls herself, hand over hand, until she is almost eye-level with the bundle caught in its watery nest.
Up close, she sees straight away that she was right. The ribcage – the arced section she had noticed from the jetty – is still in perfect formation and attached to a curved spine, on top of which sits a skull. Stripped clean by scavenging birds and fish, they are the stark white bones not of a human, as she had feared, but of a deer. She stares into the hollow eye sockets and regards the smooth muzzle with fascination and relief. She wants to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of finding herself in a slowly sinking boat in the river, staring at the skeleton of a dead animal.
Feeling the water seeping into her shoes and creeping up the hems of her jeans, she awkwardly adjusts the prow and paddles back across the river towards the jetty. Halfway across, she takes a rest, the muscles in her arms burning with the effort of using the paddle. She catches her breath, staring down into the dark water, hearing the quiet sound of it lapping at the wooden hull. She is reminded of a summer’s afternoon from years ago, when she had jumped into the river and let herself sink below the surface. Gazing into the dark water, she can almost imagine she sees herself there below the surface, gazing up towards the light, isolated momentarily in a submerged world of silence and shadows. The thought makes her shudder.
With a deep breath, she picks up the paddle and resumes her efforts. The boat is filling more quickly now, proving heavier and harder to steer. It is a relief to eventually feel the bump of the solid jetty against the hull, her wet shoes squelching as she jumps out and drags the boat up onto the riverbank. She secures it to its post then strips off her jumper, warm after her exertion.
Catching her breath, she studies the sleeve of tattoos, tracing the heart near her elbow. She trails her fingertip across the vines looping in their spiralled patterns on her skin. It had been the small black heart she’d had inked first into the crook of her arm, returning to the tattoo artist again and again to add to the design, needing to feel that sharp buzz of the needle against her skin – the heady electric thrill of it breaking through her numb state. She could feel. She could feel pain. The sight of the ink marking her skin was the proof she had needed.
Her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She reads the message from Eve – a reply to her text from earlier – asking her to visit Sibella and check that all is on track with the flowers for Saturday.
/>
Good, she thinks, a job that will keep her out of the house and out of Kit’s way for a little while longer. Her trainers are wet but it isn’t too far to go across the valley. She wanders back onto the towpath, before turning left, away from Windfalls, away from the collapsed pile of charred wooden timbers, barely visible beneath a tangle of brambles and ivy, lying slumped in the shadows that she has so carefully avoided this whole time, heading instead for the path that will take her across the bridge and on to the far side of the valley.
12
Lucy walks down Milsom Street, her trainers making a satisfying slap against the cobbles beneath her feet. A thin shard of sun breaks through the cloud overhead, transforming everything grey to dazzling silver, the Bath stone warming to honey in the light. Lucy isn’t thinking about the spreadsheets she has left behind in the studio offi ce, or the multitude of appointments ahead, or any of the organisation still required for the coming weekend. She thinks only of the miracle of her feet hitting the ancient pavement, the damp air on her face, the light breeze catching the tassels of the silk scarf hanging at her neck as she turns down a narrow lane, making for a shop at the far end of the street. She is one of many, part of a steady flow of humanity treading these cobblestones – those who have gone before and those still to come. She takes comfort in her insignificance.
On the pavement a little further ahead, a mother races to catch up with two young children, pigtailed girls aged about three or four, dashing in front. ‘I am running. I am running,’ sings one girl, looking down to watch her feet as they move. ‘Here I am. Here I am.’ It is such a simple refrain that her sister cannot resist joining the chant as she runs giggling behind. ‘Here I am. Here I am.’ They are both so obviously delighted with the moment, with their movement, with themselves.
Lucy, following behind, smiles. She remembers being with her sisters at Windfalls, chasing each other around the garden, throwing themselves down the hillside in a crazy tumble of roly-polies. The joy of movement. First to the old apple tree! Eve and Margot had given it a good shot, but she had always won those races. She will smooth things over with Eve later. Bringing them together for the weekend is going to be good for them all. She knows it. Here I am, she thinks, breathing the fresh autumn air, filling her lungs.
The bell over the shop door jangles as she enters. Dorothea, the owner, looks up from her sewing machine, and waves a greeting, mumbling something that sounds like ‘Hello dear’ through her mouthful of pins.
Lucy smiles and waits. ‘You’re early,’ says Dot with a smile, as soon as she has finished her seam and removed the pins clamped between her lips.
‘Yes. I’m excited.’
‘Of course you are. It’s hanging back there,’ she says, nodding towards the curtained-off cubicle at the rear of the shop. ‘Go through. Shout out if you need a hand.’
Five minutes later, Lucy pulls back the changing room curtain and twirls in front of the long mirror. ‘How does it look?’
‘Beautiful,’ exclaims Dot, rushing to adjust the hem. ‘It fits perfectly.’
The dress is long and made of vibrant scarlet-coloured silk. It is a flamboyant stop-sign of a dress. Lucy runs her hands over the fabric, pleased to see that it does fit her well. She’d spotted it hanging in the window of a vintage clothes shop in Bristol, and had known immediately that she had to have it. An unconventional dress for an unconventional day. She knows it is, by far, the most beautiful item of clothing she will ever wear. ‘You’ve done wonders. It looks like it was made for me.’
‘Perhaps it was,’ says the other woman, smiling. ‘You’re going to stun them all this weekend.’
Yes, thinks Lucy, studying her reflection in the mirror, a small frown falling over her face. Yes I am.
Dot wraps the dress in tissue paper, placing the parcel carefully into a large cardboard bag. At the door she kisses Lucy effusively on the cheek three times. ‘I wish you both a lifetime of love and happiness.’
Lucy squeezes Dot tightly, overcome by a sudden wave of emotion, holding the seamstress close enough so that she cannot see the tears welling up in her eyes.
The cardboard bag is so light, the silk dress inside not much heavier than the tissue paper wrapping around it, as it swings in the breeze, occasionally bumping Lucy’s thighs as she walks. She is still swinging it in her hands, passing the tall stone obelisk in Queen Square when the wave of nausea comes over her. Taking deep breaths, she reaches for the iron railings surrounding the square and steadies herself. She spots an empty bench and makes her way to it, then sits hunched, waiting for the worst of the sickening sensation to pass.
The wind moves through the cherry trees, leaves whispering overhead. Hurry, hurry, they seem to say. But she can’t move. Not yet. She takes several deep breaths, and tries to concentrate on the people passing by. An upright man in a dark pinstripe suit, swinging a briefcase. Two grey-haired ladies in headscarves discussing the weather. A young man wearing huge headphones nodding his head to a beat. A woman pushing a stroller, the toddler strapped into it slumped in sleep. As they pass, a small blue teddy bear falls from the pushchair and lands at Lucy’s feet. ‘Excuse me,’ she calls, reaching for the toy. ‘You dropped this.’
‘Thank you,’ says the mother, returning to the bench. ‘That would have been a disaster.’ The young woman tucks the bear safely beside the sleeping child before carefully adjusting the blanket. Without any warning, Lucy bursts into tears.
‘Oh,’ says the mother, seeing her distress. ‘Are you all right?’
Lucy can’t reply.
‘Can I … do you … is there someone I can call for you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Lucy eventually, finding her voice.
The woman looks around helplessly before manoeuvring the stroller next to the bench and perching beside her. ‘How about I sit with you for a minute?’
Lucy nods. She wipes her eyes and then, before she can stop herself, she blurts, ‘I’m getting married on Saturday.’
The woman’s eyes widen. It’s obvious this is not what she has expected Lucy to say. ‘Oh. That’s wonderful … isn’t it?’ she adds carefully.
Lucy nods.
The woman rummages in her handbag. ‘I’m sorry, it’s all I have,’ she says, handing Lucy a crumpled tissue. ‘You must be feeling … overwhelmed?’
Lucy gazes out at the square, at the leaves trembling on the trees, at all the life moving past the bench. ‘I feel like I’m on a bloody seesaw. It seemed like such a good idea to rush into the wedding. But now … now I’m not so sure.
‘You’re having second thoughts?’
She blows her nose and wonders how to tell this stranger her truth. ‘Tom’s such a good person. So generous and kind. He’s always driven to do the right thing.’
‘Call me crazy but they sound like good reasons to marry him.’ The woman looks down at the thin gold band on her ring finger. ‘I remember the days leading up to my own wedding. They were a terrible blur of emotion and exhaustion, not to mention all the family squabbles and politics. I don’t know why we put ourselves through it.’
Lucy nods wearily. ‘Yes, exactly that.’
‘It’s easy for me to say – I don’t know you at all – but if you love him, and if you think he loves you, try not to worry about the rest. Your family will rally together and what you will remember, when it’s all said and done, is the fact you were together, with the people you love. There isn’t much more important than that.’
Lucy turns to the woman and smiles. ‘Thank you.’
The woman pats her hand. ‘After this one was born,’ she nods her head in the direction of the stroller, ‘I spent the first six months crying … tears of joy, tears of sorrow. Life’s big moments can do that to us.’
Lucy smiles. ‘I’m so sorry to ambush you with my emotion.’ She studies the sleeping child. ‘Is it nice,’ she asks, ‘being a mum?’
The woman’s smile lights up her face. ‘It’s wonderful. The best job in the world.’
&nbs
p; Lucy sees the toddler’s long lashes flicker against his perfect, smooth skin. She lays her hands comfortingly over her own belly.
‘You know what I’d do?’ says the woman, gathering her bag. ‘Hit the shops. Treat yourself to a little something. That’ll make you feel better.’
‘Thank you for being so kind.’
‘It’s the least I could do after you saved us from a bedtime drama without Bear.’ The woman stands and reaches for the stroller. ‘Good luck on Saturday. I hope you have a wonderful day.’
Lucy sits in the square for a while longer, letting the last waves of nausea settle and her tears dry. Eventually, she gathers up her cardboard bag and walks the cobbled lanes of the city. The woman is right. Retail therapy might help. She could buy gifts. Something to appease Eve and to say ‘thank you’ for all her help. Something for Tom, too. He will need cufflinks for Saturday. It’s not the sort of thing he will have thought of, spending every day dressed in his casual clothes at the Woodland Trust, with mud under his fingernails and sunglasses propped on his head. Out in the wilds of Somerset, working on his conservation projects, clearing out contaminated sites and preserving reserves and wildlife habitats, there isn’t much call for shirt sleeves or cufflinks. Yes, she’ll buy him a pair, a gift for their wedding day.
She enters the department store and browses the jewellery counters on the ground floor, trying not to get side-tracked by elegant drop-earrings and pretty Art Deco hair combs that would look so lovely with her dress. After a short time, she spots two simple gold bangles, ivy leaves twisted into a delicate circle, that she feels certain Eve and Margot would like. She asks the assistant to wrap them for her, before spotting the cufflinks in a cabinet a little further away. ‘Would you like to look at any?’ asks the eager assistant, sniffing another sale.
Lucy studies the rows of brightly enamelled studs. Dominos. Mini Coopers. Stop signs. Champagne bottles. They’re all far too ‘city boy’ for her down-to-earth Tom. ‘I’m looking for something simple,’ she says. ‘Something less … showy.’
The River Home : A Novel (2020) Page 9