‘I am … and I do,’ he says, turning to her. ‘Though between us,’ he adds, with the hint of a smile, ‘I suspect there might be a little more to their decision to marry than they’ve let on.’
Margot nods. ‘I know. We’ll have to try and act surprised.’
‘So I’m not the only one to think so?’
Margot shakes her head.
‘Well, I hope so. I’d be delighted for them both.’ He reaches out and steals one of the plumpest berries off the top of Margot’s pile. ‘Will you stay for dinner or would you like me to drop you back at Windfalls?’
Margot hesitates. ‘I was wondering whether I could stay the night? I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ she adds quickly, at the sight of Ted’s frown. ‘I won’t be any trouble, I promise.’
‘Won’t your mother mind?’
‘She won’t care.’
‘I think she might,’ Ted says carefully.
Margot ignores the comment. ‘I’ll text her and let her know – that is, if it’s OK with you both?’
Though he still wears his worried frown, he nods. Margot punches out a brief text on her phone and presses ‘send’ before he can change his mind.
As she slides the phone back into her pocket, her gaze catches once more on the berry-red stains marking her hands. She stares at them for a long moment before turning to follow her father back to the cottage.
THE PAST
2005
15
‘Go on, Margot. Jump.’
Margot stood on the rock ledge, her arms crossed and her toes curled over the edge, watching Lucy swim in circles beneath her. The river flowed deep and green, sun refracting on the surface, the reflection of the clouds distorted by her sister’s splashing. Lucy called to her again, then, losing patience, she gave an exasperated sigh and dived below the surface of the river, a pale blur moving through the water. Eventually, slick and seal-like, her long blonde hair plastered dark against her scalp, she popped back up to check on Margot’s progress.
Margot peered down into the water, thinking about the fish lurking in the depths and the clinging weed that might tangle round her legs. She eyed her sister. How come Lucy found the jump so easy? How come she never tired, never felt the cold? Margot was starting to regret her decision to follow her up onto the ledge.
‘Come on, scaredy cat,’ called Lucy. ‘What are you waiting for?’
It was late in the summer. A ‘watershed moment’. At least that’s what their father was calling it, before Eve left for her Business Studies degree at Birmingham University, Lucy faced a dreaded year of GCSEs and Margot moved up to the local secondary school. The three girls had spent the summer revelling in their freedom, lounging in the garden, walking the woods, shopping with friends in Bath and – Lucy’s particular favourite – wild swimming. If Lucy had had her way, they would have spent every day in the river, rain or shine, though that morning it had been Ted’s suggestion to have the picnic down on the riverbank, at the tucked-away spot near the weir where locals in-the-know gathered to take the plunge. He’d raised it at breakfast. ‘Who knows when we’ll all be together next,’ he’d only half-joked, his hands on Kit’s shoulders, kneading the knots in her neck as she’d stood waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘What was that?’ she’d asked blankly, seeming to surface from a reverie.
‘I said, let’s all picnic today by the river.’
‘What a lovely idea. Though I won’t be able to join you until later. I have a headful of ideas to get down.’
Ted had frowned. ‘But I thought we’d all walk there together, make a morning of it.’
‘I don’t want to lose the thread of my story, Ted. I can’t stop the creative flow just because the sun is shining. Why don’t I make us all sandwiches a bit later and I’ll bring the picnic with me, so it doesn’t get too hot in the sun while you swim.’
Ted had been about to argue, when Eve had jumped in. ‘It’s fine,’ she’d said quickly, sensing the rising tension. ‘We don’t mind. Do we?’
‘No,’ Margot and Lucy had chimed in obedient unison.
Margot unfolded her arms and held them outstretched for balance as she gazed down at the water. It hadn’t looked particularly high when they had spotted the raised ledge jutting out from the opposite bank, where the land rose more steeply from the water’s edge. Both Margot and Lucy had agreed that it would be easy to swim across and scramble up. Lucy had gone first. She had scaled the bank and stepped out onto the rock, leaping without hesitation into the river – a narrow dart disappearing into the water. Margot had watched, impressed, before clambering up to take her own turn. It was only as she had walked out onto the ledge that her fear had kicked in, the perilous nature of the crumbling rock and the dark water below making her uneasy.
A little further up the riverbank, just a short distance from the towpath, she could see Eve sitting in an old rowboat still moored to the bank, a towel draped over her bare legs, her nose buried in a book, far too sensible to be drawn into their daredevil antics. Ted sat beneath a nearby willow tree, wrestling with the pages of a newspaper. He folded them into a manageable rectangle then threw an irritated glance back in the direction of Windfalls. They had left Kit working in her riverside studio with promises to join them in a couple of hours, though predictably, she was running late. When Ted looked back in Margot’s direction she gave a tentative wave from her perch. Ted lifted his hand in a mock salute.
For such a glorious day, the river was surprisingly quiet. There was no one in sight bar a single figure climbing over a stile in the far distance. It was now or never. She turned back to the river.
Sensing her wavering resolve, Lucy began the countdown. ‘Three … two … one!’
Margot took a deep breath and stepped out from the rock, plunging down into the water below. She let the force of the fall take her as deep as she could go, right into the black depths of the river. Submerged, she opened her eyes and allowed the burning sensation to build in her lungs. All was muffled. An eerie silence surrounded her. It felt as if she had dropped into an alternate world, one cutting her off from everything and everyone above. Disorientated, caught by a sudden tremor of panic, she looked up and saw faint shards of sunshine rippling down through the gloom. With an effort, she kicked toward the light, until she broke the surface, elated and relieved.
Practising their underwater handstands nearer the riverbank, she plucked up the courage to ask Lucy one of the questions that had been troubling her all summer. ‘Luce, what’s a “bonkbuster”?’
Lucy burst out laughing. ‘Are you serious? Let me guess. You overheard someone talking about Mum’s books?’
Margot nodded. ‘Brian Hansen said his mum said our mum wrote “bonkbusters”. He said she said her books are “smut that weren’t fit to be in the public library”.’ She blushed, knowing that whatever Mrs Hansen thought of their mother’s writing, it wasn’t good.
‘That’s hilarious. Ignore them, Margot. Brian Hansen is an acne-ridden twerp and his mum … well, she’s a sanctimonious old prig.’
Margot didn’t know what sanctimonious meant any more than she knew what bonkbuster meant, but she nodded in agreement.
‘It means sex, Margot,’ Lucy said, seeing her puzzled expression. ‘Mum’s books have lots and lots of sex in them.’
Margot grimaced. ‘Gross.’
‘Yep.’ Lucy dived down beneath the water, her feet and ankles emerging moments later, toes perfectly pointed.
Margot waited until she had reappeared, gasping at the surface. ‘Why does she write that sort of stuff, Luce? Why can’t she write normal books.’
‘Why does she have to wear nighties in the day? Why does she have to sunbathe naked and wander round barefoot? Why does she forget our packed lunches and send us to school in odd socks and too-small shoes? It may have escaped your notice, Margot, but our mother is not like other mothers. I mean, look around, where is she? She was supposed to be here ages ago with the picnic. I’m starving!’
It was true. Margot supposed she had always known her mother was different. While other mums baked cakes and served fish fingers and could grapple long hair into elaborate French braids, Kit was different. A woman of two halves. There was the quiet writer entombed in her studio, typing words onto paper on that clackety old black typewriter, the words flowing magically from virtual stillness. That woman was a mystery to her. Inscrutable. A closed book. She was the famous author – K. T. Weaver – creator of fat, historical novels with flashy, gold-embossed covers. She was the woman who people queued to meet at bookshops and festivals, the woman people sought autographs from, the woman who took ‘important’ phone calls from her publishers and conducted interviews with journalists from all around the world behind shut doors. She was the woman who would tut if you knocked and opened the door, her hand beckoning you with an irritated flick of the wrist. ‘Yes, yes?’ she would ask. ‘What is it?’
That woman was her mother, but a shadow of the woman who came after, the one who surfaced from the riverside studio after a long day of writing, blinking and stretching like one of the cats stirring on the sofa. She would appear from the garden rolling her stiff shoulders, her tangled bun slightly askew on her head, her clothes rumpled. She would make a cup of strong, black tea and sit at the table, slowly acclimatising to the atmosphere of the house around her.
Only then was it that their mother would attempt to make up for her hours of seclusion, shaking off her introspection with a sudden manic intensity. ‘Come here, my darlings. Come and tell me about your days.’ It was then that the record player would go on and music would blare as eggs boiled on the stove top and toast popped in the toaster. And Kit, as if wildly compensating for the hours of quiet stillness she had spent lost inside her own head, would return to them all.
There were moments of intimacy. Margot could remember them still. Bedtimes, when Margot, limbs still jumping with adrenalin from the day or anxious about what lay ahead tomorrow, would lie in bed and Kit would come to her, sit at her bedside and smooth her hair and stroke her bare arms, run her fingers round the palm of her hand, over and over, until Margot felt an easier peace begin to descend. Though, as the years passed, those moments grew shorter, less frequent, her mother’s attention so obviously elsewhere as her fingers drifted across her skin. Then often, with a gentle tap at the door, Ted would interrupt to say that someone important from the States was on the phone and could Kit please come?
Margot found it confusing, this gradual retreat. The blowing hot and cold as Kit did; one moment warm and maternal, the next distant and aloof. Margot sometimes felt like one of her fans queuing for her attention, hoping for a moment in her spotlight. As she became more aware of her mother’s success, it was hard not to get drawn into the myth of her, to place her on that unreachable pedestal.
Lucy was under the water again. Margot waited for her to reappear before she asked her next question. ‘Who is that with Dad?’ She pointed to the riverbank.
Lucy followed her sister’s finger. The figure Margot had seen earlier, clambering over the stile, had now reached the copse of shimmering willows and stood talking with their father in the shade of the trees. She was a tall, slender woman, dressed in green trousers, a loose white shirt with a light yellow scarf wrapped around her neck. Her long red hair caught in the breeze, streaming like ribbons around her. She seemed to be holding a handful of brown fronds – pheasant feathers, from the looks of it.
The woman said something to their father. Margot couldn’t hear her words, but the loud laugh that followed from Ted echoed across the water.
‘I think that’s the woman who bought the cottage across the valley,’ Lucy told Margot. ‘The widow. Mrs Ash.’ She spoke the word ‘widow’ in a dramatic whisper.
Margot stole another look at the woman. It was hard to tell admittedly, but from that distance she didn’t look more than about thirty years old. ‘She doesn’t look like a widow.’
Lucy swam closer to Margot, her chin below the surface, her blue eyes gleaming in the light bouncing off the water. ‘A freak accident, I heard. Squashed by a tractor. Can you imagine? Apparently she was the one who found him, but it was too late.’
Margot shuddered and dived down beneath the water to try and banish the horrible picture that had formed in her mind. Inspired by Lucy, she reached out, groping for the riverbed, hoping to find purchase against the silty floor to kick up into a handstand, though finding herself woefully off balance, she collapsed and launched herself back to the surface for a breath. ‘Try again,’ said Lucy. ‘Keep your legs together.’
Determined not to be outdone by Lucy, she dived back down. This time as her hands met the riverbed, any sense of triumph disappeared as a razor-sharp pain sliced into her palm. With a yelp, she launched back to the surface, clutching her hand as she choked on swallowed water.
Raising her arm, she saw the blood oozing over her hand, dripping like ink into the green water. ‘Lucy,’ she whimpered, staring at the gore. ‘Lucy, I’ve cut myself.’
‘Oh my God.’ Lucy took one look at Margot’s hand and shrieked. ‘Dad!’ she yelled, calling out across the water. ‘Dad, quick! Margot’s hurt herself.’
Lucy was still helping Margot to clamber up the stony bank as Ted, Eve and the woman who had been chatting to their father arrived at the water’s edge. Seeing Margot’s distress, Ted waded out into the reeds and grabbed Margot, hauling her up onto the bank. She held her fist squeezed shut, warm blood running in rivulets down her wrist and arm. Dizzy with shock, she whimpered at the sight of it.
‘You must have cut it on something pretty nasty,’ said Ted, blanching.
The woman beside him reached out and took Margot’s hand in hers. ‘May I look?’ she asked Margot, who nodded and tried to unclench her hand.
The woman peered at her palm then curled Margot’s hand back in on itself before reaching up and removing the pretty yellow scarf hanging around her neck. ‘If you can open your hand again, I’ll wrap this around the cut to stop the blood. Can you be brave for me?’
Margot nodded, mute with pain. She uncurled her hand and let her gently bind it with the scarf, the pale fabric turning pink almost instantly where it met the wound. The woman turned back to their father. ‘You should take her to the hospital. She might need stitches, probably a tetanus shot too.’
Ted nodded and Margot noticed for the first time that he too was looking a little green around the gills. ‘Eve,’ he said, ‘pack up our things. We’ll head back to the house right away. Damn it! Where is your mother when we need her?’
The woman squeezed Margot’s shoulder. ‘You’re a brave girl. You’re going to be fine.’ Seeing that both she and Lucy were shivering, she wrapped each of them in their towels then helped Eve throw the last of their belongings into the big wicker basket. As they turned to leave the river, the sun disappeared behind a cloud, turning the water black. ‘Thank you,’ called Ted to the woman. ‘Thank you very much. I’m sorry about your scarf!’
‘Don’t mention it,’ called the woman. ‘I hope she’s all right.’
‘Did Mum forget?’ Lucy asked, hopping along beside Ted as he marched them back down the towpath.
Their father didn’t answer, but as they reached the section of river leading to the old apple store and the jetty, he ushered them through the garden gate and urged them on. ‘Go up to the house,’ he said, his mouth fixed in a grim line. ‘I’ll tell your mother what’s happened. Eve, can you help Margot change into dry clothes so I can drive her to hospital?’ They all knew from the way he let the little wooden gate slam shut behind them that he was livid.
As they began to wend their way up through the orchard they could hear his loud knocking on the studio door, followed by the sound of raised voices. ‘For God’s sake, Kit. One damn thing! You couldn’t spare us one precious hour from your desk?’ His words echoed among the trees.
They found the picnic basket sitting half-packed on the kitchen table, exactly where they’d left it. Eve sighed and swept it off
the counter. ‘Best not let Dad see that,’ she said, hiding it in the larder.
Margot was still sporting the sturdy white bandage on her hand two days later when the journalist came to the house to interview Kit. Eve had already spent an hour tidying downstairs when she arrived in the kitchen to find thick black smoke wafting through the air and her youngest sister, still in pyjamas, perched precariously on the kitchen counter, her bandaged hand clumsily grappling with a knife jammed deep into the toaster. ‘What are you doing?’ Eve cried. ‘You’ll kill yourself!’
Flying across the kitchen, she switched the appliance off at the wall and grabbed the knife from Margot’s hand. Carefully, she prised the burnt toast from the machine with her fingers and threw it into the bin. It was only then she saw the feathers scattered across the floor, as if a pillow had exploded mid-fight. ‘Those bloody cats!’
Margot nodded and threw another two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘I think it was a pigeon. Look, there’s a special present over there.’
Eve glanced to where her sister pointed and saw a pile of coiled entrails glistening on the back doormat, deposited by one of their thoughtful new family members. Ted had brought the three kittens home a few months ago, rescued from a local farmer who had been talking about drowning the poor things, so overrun were his barns by the feral creatures. Since then, Pinter, Miller and Mamet had taken up residence at Windfalls and had shown daily appreciation for their rescue by bestowing various ghoulish hunting trophies on the family. ‘I’d just tidied the kitchen,’ groaned Eve.
‘It’s not like the journalist is going to come in here. I don’t know why you’re so worried. It’s only another stupid interview.’
Eve sighed. Why was she so worried? Why had she spent the early hours of the morning tidying the house, vacuuming and dusting the lounge and trying to coax her mother into wearing something a little less … informal … a little more … appropriate? She knew why. It was bad enough that their mother was renowned for writing the sort of books that her friends passed dog-eared copies around, sniggering and laughing at the ‘rude bits’. It was bad enough that they were known locally as that family: parents unmarried, father out of work, girls always dressed in each other’s cast-offs. They didn’t have to publicise their family dysfunction and slovenliness to the entire world, did they? Muttering to herself, she reached under the sink for the dustpan and brush and began to sweep up the feathers. She had no idea how they were going to cope when she packed up and left for university at the beginning of next week, but even though she felt guilty for wanting her freedom, Eve, for one, couldn’t wait to be free of them.
The River Home : A Novel (2020) Page 13