by CE Rose
The House on the Water’s Edge
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen Monday
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two Tuesday
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven Wednesday
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two Thursday
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six Friday
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty Saturday
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four Sunday
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven Monday
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Part Three
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
A letter from C E Rose
Acknowledgements
Reading group questions for The House on the Water’s Edge
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
The House on the Water’s Edge
CE Rose
To my beautiful Emily, who makes everyone smile.
Prologue
Distant sound breaks through her sludge of deep sleep. A baby is crying. No, not crying but bleating and whimpering, imploring and scared. Her instinct is to help but she’s too frightened to move and she doesn’t know why.
Fractured images trickle back. A smiling family portrait; the rippling River Bure. Shadowy eyes that watch her. A presence at a door. Someone bad, very bad. And her own fist, tightly wrapped around a glinting object.
A knife? Oh God, is that really a knife?
She forces herself out of the black tar of the dream. It’s a nightmare, that’s all. She has to be brave and just look. Nothing will be there. Nothing. That white face was just a symptom of her fragmented psyche; if she peers into the gloom, she’ll see.
Gently talking to herself, she blows out the trapped air and steels herself to move. She has to do this; she mustn’t show weakness or illness or look odd. But… but the seeping coldness is there, isn’t it? She really can smell it. A geranium-like stench, metallic and coppery and sweet. Which means they’ll soon come too, vibrating, humming and buzzing; seething, teeming, invading.
Covering her nostrils and mouth, she shrinks into a ball and tries to block out the terror, but the mewling is still there, becoming louder and shriller, more and more insistent.
Oh God, the baby! She thrusts through the darkness; she must save the child. It’s not any baby, it’s hers.
Part One
Chapter One
‘Ali? Mum’s dead.’
That was my sister, breaking the news all the way from Canada.
It was the last day of June, a raw humid day, waiting for rain. The front door was open; the telephone yelled. I toyed with the idea of ignoring the call, but put down the watering can on what felt like the final peal.
‘Ali? Mum’s dead.’ Said without preamble. ‘She died at lunch time, three minutes past one. She was driving to Wroxham and crashed into another car.’
My mother had died and as I stared at the delicate veins garnishing the pink and lilac petals of the wilting plants, my thought was: why does Laura always find things out before me? Laura, my older sister and my shadow, even though she lived three thousand miles away.
‘Joan Hague called to tell me the news. She’s upset, so she asked me to contact you. She thought it would be better coming from me, what with the baby and all.’
Said as though I was mentally frail; Laura had no time for children. ‘I’ve only had a baby. I’m not ill or inept, for goodness’ sake!’ I wanted to protest. But in truth I didn’t feel great; though over a month had now passed, I was still exhausted from the birth – stunned, in fact. I was still so sore I could only sit comfortably on one buttock.
‘God knows why the police phoned the Hagues first but… Are you all right, Ali? You’re not saying much.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
It was all I could think of saying. The forlorn-looking cat basket was still by the garage from Wednesday’s trauma. Laura’s words didn’t feel real; they couldn’t be real. Mothers didn’t die on sunny Fridays.
‘She was on her way to the hairdresser’s…’ Laura began.
This I knew. Mum was coming to visit us tomorrow. She was driving the five-hour journey from Norfolk to Manchester to see her grandson, and stay for a week. She’d suggested it on Monday, but all I’d thought of was meals and fresh sheets and dusting. I could barely get myself dressed and out of the house each day; cleaning and entertaining seemed impossible. ‘Mum,’ I’d said, trying to keep the panic from my voice. ‘That’s fine. But you will come as a helper and not as a guest, won’t you?’
‘Yes of course, love. I can’t wait to cuddle little Joe again. And it’ll be so nice to have plenty of time for long chats.’ I’d heard her intake of breath. ‘In fact, there’s something I really need to tell you… do you have five minutes to talk now?’
Oh God, I’d cut her off. Impatiently too. I didn’t have five minutes; I hadn’t had a flaming second spare since Joe was born. ‘Let’s save it until Saturday. OK?’
Laura talked and I drifted, the flowers still parched, the air solid through the gaping front door. On the way to the hairdresser’s; a banal way to die. Of course that’s what Mum would be doing; hair was a priority if she was going somewhere special. Her impossible hair got worse in the heat and this June was so hot. Like others would search for a church on holiday, the first thing she’d find was a salon – not for when she was there, but to look smart for returning home. Respectable hair. For the doctor’s or the dentist, for the theatre or meals out. For visiting her new grandson and me.
As a helper, not as a guest. What an awful thing to say.
And Laura was still speaking. ‘We don’t know everything yet, but it looks as though she unexpectedly pulled out of a side street and was clipped by a car going too fast along the main road. You know what those country lanes in bloody Norfolk are like. I told Mum to take more care so many times after the whiplash, but she said not to worry, that she’d live forever.’<
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Laura’s tone was efficient, irritated almost, and I was silent as random thoughts continued to waft by. I’d cut Mum off the last time we spoke; I’d deliberately not answered her three or four calls since then. But I’d thought I’d be seeing her in person very soon; I’d bought in plum jam, malted bread and blue-topped milk especially. And her favourite ice cream, still hiding deep in a carrier bag somewhere. Who on earth would eat them now? And my sister was right; Mum had promised to take care. She’d said she’d drive carefully and be here for us forever. Only she wasn’t. Laura had just said she was dead. We were orphans, Laura and me.
Orphan. Did it still count when one was thirty-five? I tried the word a few times in my head; orphan, orphan, before testing it out loud. ‘I guess we’re orphans now,’ I said, not really believing it.
Laura’s voice cracked then. Laura, my proficient big sister who never cried. So I knew it must be real, even though I didn’t feel it.
‘It’s just so horrible, Ali. She was alive when the ambulance got there. But she wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so you can imagine the injuries… They put a medical brace on her neck and she grasped it with her hand. To pull it off, I suppose. But her aorta had ruptured. There was nothing they could do. Oh God, I hope she wasn’t in pain.’
I watched Melissa from the house opposite lock her newly painted front door, climb into her car and reverse it smoothly onto the cul-de-sac. As she drove past, she lifted her palm in greeting, but all I could see behind a shattered windscreen was her slumped body, her face scored with pain, her hand clutching a collar. And blood, of course, congealing blood. Always that.
I blinked the image away. For God’s sake, who the hell had felt the need to tell Laura that?
‘Ali, you’re very quiet, are you still there? Tom Hague is sorting everything out for us. We’re lucky to have him. He’ll know what to do as an ex-copper, and I can’t just jump on the next flight. My diary is full up for weeks…’
My proficient and capable sister was back. Part of me was angry – couldn’t she just do something loving and spontaneous for once in her life? But the other part was relieved. It seemed easier to cope when Laura was Laura. Besides, I didn’t have the energy for an argument.
‘Laura, the baby is crying. Can we speak later?’ I asked instead.
Chapter Two
Joe wasn’t crying. He was, I hoped, still snoozing where I’d left him. Before Mum had died? Now there was a thought.
Automatically holding my breath, I crept into the lounge to check he was still breathing, still living and undamaged from being left in a car seat rather than laid flat in his cot. Loving him dearly but still feeling that sharp stab of guilt: the guilt I wasn’t finding motherhood a breeze; the guilt of struggling to cope with breastfeeding; guilt for allowing him to sleep curled in a chair; guilt for being almost joyous he was sleeping and not whimpering, not demanding, not needing.
What did Mum often say? No; had often said. ‘Be kind to yourself, love. No one is perfect. We all make mistakes.’
And there it was again, the image of ‘me before Joe’, a flash from a court case which had hounded me since his birth. As a prosecuting barrister I had stood robed and bewigged, proud and judgmental, and made my closing speech. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in cases involving the death of a child, there remains a temptation to believe that no mother could possibly be responsible for it. But you have heard from the experts that this baby was shaken…’
I had nodded my approval at the jury’s verdict. Guilty. They’d found there was a ‘non accidental head injury’ to the poor, dead baby; the ‘triad of injuries’ had been duly proved. So she was convicted, that woman, that grieving mother in court. Shaken baby syndrome, as they used to call it. Had she done it? Possibly. Probably. But the why was the thing. I had judged her; we’d all judged her without considering the why.
I stared at my infant’s face. Asleep, this child was faultless; the little red spots on his cheeks had gone, his blond hair was growing and he was finally putting on weight. He was a treasure, an unspeakably beautiful gift. I was lucky, very lucky. I knew this completely, but at times it was difficult to feel it. Like a mother’s death… My mother’s death. Oh God, should I call Miles? But it was gone three; he’d probably be in court.
I’d phone later, I decided, I’d try him at five.
I imagined his rich, testy voice. ‘I’m in a conference, Ali, can’t it wait?’ he’d reply before I’d squeezed a word out. But in fairness, it was understandable; I’d rung umpteen times even before Joe’s birth, each lonely antenatal appointment worse than the last. From discovering I had no rubella immunity at ten weeks, to a worrying blood result at twelve; from high blood pressure at seven months to signs of pre-eclampsia at eight. Then, after a difficult birth, I’d struggled to breastfeed and Joe developed colic.
It had felt like reproof, little Joe’s revenge for me being a crap mother, a rubbish mum who failed every time despite trying everything to help: cuddles, long walks, colic drops and rubbing his tummy; even baby paracetamol when no one was looking – checking the instructions time and again – feeling desperate to do something but swamped with guilt.
‘Thank God you’re home, Miles! He’s cried constantly for the last two hours,’ I’d say at the front door at seven thirty, thrusting Joe into his father’s arms. Then our son would stop bawling and I’d glance at Miles’s frown and know what he was thinking: Ali’s making a fuss, she’s being neurotic, perhaps she has post-natal depression or even worse.
But I was simply a new mum whose close network of friends were all at work. I had a million aunties in Sheffield, but no relatives close by to help. No one to make me a cuppa or a sandwich, to entertain Joe for a few minutes so I could shower, brush my teeth, even pee. Or just sit down for five minutes and breathe. There was Madeleine, of course, but I wasn’t that desperate.
I dragged myself back to the stuffy Friday afternoon. My mother was visiting tomorrow. As a helper, not a guest. But Mum was dead. She died on her way to the hairdresser’s, not back; she was dead without respectable hair. Would someone comb it for her? Someone tender and kind?
It still didn’t feel real.
‘My mother is dead,’ I tried aloud to the leaf-printed wallpaper. But I heard the words as Miles might; they sounded melodramatic and foolish, perhaps a little crazy.
I tried again with sleeping Joe: ‘Grandma has died, Joe.’
That hit the mark. I felt the prickle of tears behind my eyes, the burn at the top of my nose. Not for my mother’s death – that still hadn’t sunk in – but for Joe’s loss, the deprivation of his warm and loving maternal grandma.
Which left my poor boy with only Madeleine.
I abruptly remembered the ice cream. It had been an achievement of sorts; selecting half a trolly of food items without my pelvic floor collapsing. Did I bring in the shopping from the car? No, the hanging baskets had caught my eye. ‘Water me, water me,’ they’d said, and for the first time in five weeks, I’d noticed their beauty. It had felt like a good omen.
Hefting bags an effort too far, I laid on the floor and stared at a stripe of sunshine on the ceiling. Mum had died at three minutes past one. What, exactly, had I been doing then? Should I have felt something momentous? And should I call Miles? Would it be odd not to? He’d come home when the cat died, straight away. But he’d been in chambers that day, this Wednesday, two days ago. Charlie had been missing for a week and when she finally appeared, her eyes were filmy with blindness. Skinny and scraggy, she’d padded around my ankles in confused circles.
It had been the logistics, I remembered; the practicality of carrying a large moggy in her basket in one hand, a baby in his car seat in the other. My Charlie had to be put down, that I knew, so I’d scooped up my mobile to call Miles without thinking. ‘Miles, you need to take the cat to the vet as soon as you can. She’s in pain, she’s suffering; she needs someone to hold her when she… goes.’
Like Mum, my mum, grasping that collar. Did
someone cradle her as she died? Had they styled her hair and made her respectable?
I sighed. Calling Miles was the thing. He’d come home for Charlie, no questions asked. But then again, he’d loved that cat.
Chapter Three
‘Ali? Wake up Ali. The front door was ajar. Why didn’t you call me?’
It took a few moments to stir and sit up, more to focus on my husband’s frown. His blue eyes were puffy, the tip of his nose pink. I immediately thought of the cat, quickly followed by Joe. Then I followed his gaze down to my damp shirt. As ever, my breasts were heavy, hot and tight, but today the milk had seeped through both the cotton pads and my bra. Great. So much to give, yet I still struggled with feeding. It was only maternal guilt that stopped me reaching for the box of formula always waiting, ready-made and inviting, in the fridge.
‘I fell asleep.’ I snapped my head to the empty car seat. ‘Oh, God. Where’s Joe?’
‘He’s fine. I’ve just sorted his nappy.’
My baby was on the changing mat, kicking his legs. The moment his eyes caught mine, he bleated.
‘I needed to lie down,’ I continued. ‘I’d been shopping and my pelvic floor really ached…’
As though I needed justification today of all days. But I’d heard Miles talking to Madeleine on his mobile, despite his low, secretive tone. Last night, most nights. Discussing me as usual, my husband, her spy.
Struggling. Tired. Tearful. Coping? I really don’t know… Yes, of course I will, Mum, but I have to work…
‘It’s fine, Ali. It’s fine. I’ll get Joe.’
Our son’s whimpering became louder, stopping as Miles passed him to me. Unzipping my feeding bra, I took a deep breath, tensing as always. Would this feed be a fight?
Despite five weeks of practice, it still felt as though my baby had fangs, his latching on akin to ‘stamping on broken glass’, as I’d described it to Mum. Oh God, Mum. Wincing at the sudden flash of red on a shattered windscreen behind my eyes, I replaced it with the smiling perfect-toothed mother feeding her dolly baby on a poster at the antenatal clinic. Why wasn’t anyone honest? Why didn’t they say that motherhood had its challenges, that it wouldn’t be plain sailing? Even a bloody struggle at times? But perhaps it was just me. There were real mums I knew with perfect babies and smiling teeth.