The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  ‘Aqua. Good for the digestive system, good for the skin, darling!’ she’d laugh.

  Like the sheep I’d been, I’d followed her example, but one morning I took a gulp of hers by mistake, stunned to discover it was vodka. When I told Miles, he’d shrugged. Her boozing bouts happened from time to time, and if it didn’t affect her behaviour and she didn’t drive, then it wasn’t an issue. But it was; it was a huge, huge problem: I hadn’t known, I’d been blindsided. I felt foolish, betrayed, belittled. Our trust had been broken. Even worse, I’d lost that person I’d placed so very high on the pedestal.

  Unable to face my own devastation, I said nothing to Madeleine. Instead I cooled the relationship and distanced myself, blaming work commitments and the need to catch up with Mum and friends at the weekends. But she’d phone me each evening, ‘For a chat, because I’ve missed you, darling’. God knows how much she’d drunk by then because it had shown. Her words garbled, she’d mutter with long pauses and weep: she had a rotten life, an awful husband, an ungrateful child; no one ever listened or really cared; she was completely alone.

  I was selfish, undoubtedly, but I couldn’t deal with this new person. The old one had gone, deserted me somehow. The calls abruptly stopped and after a few months of silence, Madeleine turned up with a bouquet of stunning flowers. ‘Sorry, darling,’ she said with those huge, sincere eyes. ‘I’ve been out of sorts but I’m dry, on the wagon, abstaining. Even all three! I’m back now, sweetheart. How I’ve missed you and our chats.’

  Her ‘chats’, of course, were the rub. Pushing that thought away, I tried to summon the anger I’d felt after the drink-driving trip to Lymm. It was no longer there, just relief I’d escaped. Maybe Norfolk had put it in perspective. Perhaps two hundred and fifty miles helped.

  Going back to the busy supermarket, I moved down the drinks aisle, picking up a bottle each of red, rose and white to cover all bases. Then I thought of Miles’s visit and added a brandy.

  * * *

  Exhausted and with a headache when we returned, I dumped the shopping in the hall and fed Joe. Though tiredness overwhelmed me, I remembered Mum’s sweaty sheets and felt compelled to at least strip them. I dragged myself to her bedroom, but Denise had got there first. The bedding had been changed, the quilt turned down hotel-style. The thought of Denise in my space unsettled me. I was getting used to village life, and was a grown-up now, but I still didn’t like the idea of being the subject of gossip. Paranoia, of course. What was it Mum used to say to me when she was chatting to the aunties? ‘No, we’re not talking about you, Ali. As lovely as you are, we’ve got better things to discuss!’

  Flopping down on the mattress, I sighed at the memory. What a challenging child I’d been – part of me earwigging, the other covering my ears. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said aloud. ‘I must have been a complete nightmare.’

  Was I difficult all the time? God, I hoped not, though my big sister’s constant moaning about me would suggest otherwise, especially here in Norfolk. Sighing, I shifted my mind to tonight. What planet was Ali Baker on? Preparing a meal for a man I barely knew, and a most reluctant dinner guest to boot. But it was kind of comical too, something I’d enjoy telling Laura about. But first, the blinking food needed unpacking, especially the chilled items. Food poisoning would not be a good start to my holiday romance. Lips twitching at the thought, I allowed myself another minute. The next moment, I was asleep.

  * * *

  Joe’s grumbling roused me and I looked at my watch. Bloody hell, we’d both slept for three hours. Hitching myself up, I tried to snatch at a dream before it floated away. Mum? Yes, my beautiful younger mother, sipping coffee and blathering with her sisters. Me at the doorway, watching, listening. My nose burned at the blend of grief and pleasure; it brought back my loss, but it had been so lovely to see her.

  As I plucked Joe from his cot, the doorbell rang. Looking distorted through the glass, it was Nancy. Perhaps she didn’t have a key after all.

  ‘We’re not stopping,’ she said, bustling in with a basket of something which smelled freshly baked. The ‘we’ stayed outside, a huge, ugly dog which wouldn’t have been out of place on the lonely moorlands near Baskerville Hall.

  ‘He’s not mine. He’s my son’s and I’ve got to feed the damned thing for a week,’ she explained. ‘Flaming meat from the butcher’s. It’ll cost me a fortune.’

  ‘What’s wrong with tinned pet food?’ I asked, chuckling at her sucked-in cheeks.

  ‘Because it’s his baby, believe it or not, so I’m not allowed. He’s never been one for the ladies, but he’s always had a dog. Out of my six I’ve only got two grandkids and they live in Norwich. Where did I go wrong? Still, I’ve been luckier than Joan.’ As though the poor woman might be listening, she lowered her voice. ‘Same as me. Six. Must have been a terrible thing.’

  I frowned, perplexed.

  ‘Miscarriages,’ she hissed. ‘Before she had the hysterectomy.’ She tutted. ‘Still in her thirties, but apparently Tom insisted.’

  Shocked at the news, I simply gaped, but Nancy was lifting her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Those antique dollies. She must have been far on to know the baby’s sex…’

  I took a breath to mumble something – how I’d had no idea, how sad, how dreadful – but Nancy gave Joe a gummy smile. ‘But here’s our bonny little boy. I’ll take him down in the pram, kill two birds as they say. Not that it’s a very nice expression. We’ll go and say hello to Auntie Joan, shall we? Give her something to smile about, eh?’

  Making a raspberry noise, she took Joe from my arms. He chortled appreciatively.

  ‘I bumped into George in the village,’ she continued, deftly swaddling my son in his thin blanket. ‘He almost had a twinkle in his eyes, which isn’t like him. I spotted him coming out of Mace with a bottle. He sits in the Swan Inn of an evening, so it won’t have been for himself. I wonder if he’s got a fancy woman. I’d better not tell Denise, she’ll be livid. She’s been trying to get a bit of rumpy-pumpy out of him for months.’

  She eventually drew breath, so I quickly slipped in a thank you for dropping round the baked treats.

  ‘A pleasure,’ she replied, eyeing me shrewdly. ‘I’ll let you get on with those bags. Looks like they need unpacking. We’ll see you in a bit.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Like Nancy had earlier, George rang the doorbell at eight. It felt odd and formal and I was thrown by his attire. I hadn’t expected him to don smart clothes; I didn’t think he’d own any, especially not ones with branded logos. Purchased by Emma? But I liked this Emma, who had bought her husband nice outfits. Miles sourced his own; what I thought he liked and what he did like never quite married.

  I stepped back to let him pass. Emphasising his tanned skin, the white shirt made him look more like a male model than a gardener. Or even a landscape architect. Didn’t they wear flannel checked shirts and brown cords? Or was that secondary school maths teachers? Yup; I was prattling in my head to calm my ridiculous nerves. He offered me a bottle and the babble burst out.

  ‘Ah, the famous purchase from Mace!’ I tried to make contact with his questioning gaze. ‘You were spotted by one of our local spooks…’

  ‘Ah. You mentioned fish but the choice was pretty dire.’ His lips twitched. ‘It was the only one from a country I’d heard of. Shall I open it and see just how bad it is?’

  ‘Yes. Good plan. This way to…’

  He followed me to the kitchen, crouched down to say hello to Joe, then busied himself with a corkscrew while I hovered.

  ‘Cheers.’ He passed me a glass and looked at me evenly. ‘Had a nap? You’re looking a lot better.’

  I felt myself flushing. The comment was just a statement; it wasn’t meant to be a compliment, but the blush made it look as though I had taken it as one.

  ‘As you can see, the little troublemaker’s still awake,’ I said, finding my voice. ‘He hates to miss the action.’ Action Ali? Really? ‘Right…’ I said, stifling my giddy nerves, ‘I’d b
etter get to it…’

  I opened the oven door, an excuse for my red face. The rosemary potatoes and roast veg were already on their way, so I slipped in the herb-crusted cod fillets. Shoving everything in one place had seemed the safest bet. Mum’s gas hob didn’t like me, particularly when I heated milk, and it was a bugger to clean.

  Rattling in cupboards, I spent a few minutes finding plates and my composure. When I turned back, both males were holding teaspoons. Joe was sitting on George’s lap, his wide eyes watching George tap the back of a saucepan. He listened to the jangling sound for a beat, then rolled his head to study George’s face. Would he work it out and do the same? I gazed with a smile, then remembered I was hosting. This very cute baby hadn’t dropped off during his last feed, so at some point I’d have to patiently nurse him until his eyes drooped. And if I was too hasty putting him down, they’d open again and I’d have to wait even longer.

  ‘You’re meant to be persuading him to sleep, not getting him excited,’ I said.

  ‘I can do that too, can’t I, Joe?’

  My hand on my hip, I snorted. ‘Go on then. I bet you a fiver you can’t get him off in ten minutes.’

  George laughed. ‘Yes, but it would be my fiver I’d be winning back. Nonetheless, you’re on.’ He took a swig of wine and stood up. ‘See you in the allotted time or less.’ Cradling my son in one arm, he opened the side door and stepped into the sunlit evening. I watched for a while. How would he affect this miracle? I’d have cheated by putting Joe in my car and driving around for the ‘allotted time’. But George the giant strolled beyond the flower beds and through the trees, slowly weaving in and out of the dappled shade and retreating sun.

  Back in the kitchen, I sipped my drink and looked for something to do. I had been too efficient: the starter was already prepared, a wild rocket salad with walnuts and Roquefort. Blue cheese had been on the banned list throughout my pregnancy, so I had an irresistible urge for it. I allowed myself a small, guilty smile: funny how one’s desire intensified when it wasn’t allowed.

  The ingredients I’d bought to make a challenging dessert were still in the fridge; Nancy’s apple pie had looked so delicious I hadn’t bothered. Mum would have frowned at the ‘unnecessary calories’ of a sugar-glazed pastry lid, but what the heck, I was in happy holiday mode. The tub of clotted cream I’d bought on a whim would be a perfect accompaniment; clearly I must have known.

  The mellow wine embraced my throat and chest the same way as Kelvin’s elderberry wine had all those years ago. Heady and warm, a pleasant tipsiness took hold.

  It was curious how life was working out. At home I hadn’t let Joe out of my sight, not even with a neighbour I knew well, but I was allowing a stranger to help here. I had an instinctive confidence in George, a connection, almost. Because Mum had trusted him, I supposed.

  Humming to myself, I drifted to the lounge and looked for them through the small panes. Should I draw the curtains, or would that look odd? Would George mind being seen with a married woman? Not that anyone could peer in while passing. And he’d already slept here twice. Why would he worry when he had nothing to hide?

  Stopping at the chiffonier mirror, I inspected myself, turning one way and back again. George was right; my appearance had improved. And tonight my hair was a dark cape around my shoulders without the usual bobble scraping it back. As I tucked it behind my ears, I caught George’s reflection from behind me. It was strange to see him as he saw himself, different and yet familiar. Discomfort and delirium shot to my stomach. Or perhaps it was simply embarrassment; I’d been caught singing and admiring myself. Whichever it was, George had won his five pounds; Joe was asleep in his arms.

  * * *

  Once back in the kitchen, I presented the starters with a flourish and topped up our glasses. ‘One of your fans was here today,’ I said, sitting down. ‘I considered passing her pie off as my own but I’m sure you’d have caught me out.’

  I’d already mentioned the ‘Mace’ wine, but I had to start somewhere to fill the strained silence.

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I’m honoured to be a recipient of Nancy’s delicacies from time to time.’

  I lifted my eyebrows. ‘Seems half the village are just waiting for the nod. Just think, if you gave them more encouragement, you’d have a lifetime’s supply of home baking.’

  He tucked into his food. ‘Hmm, I think I’ll pass, thanks.’

  The expression ‘rumpy-pumpy’ popped into my head, but I held back from using it, thank God. ‘The OAPs will be disappointed,’ I said instead.

  I was being clumsy and flirty, but I hadn’t eaten dinner à deux with anyone other than Miles for years. We could’ve talked about our miserable lives, but I didn’t want to dwell on death or tragedy or discordant relationships right then. And the wine was taking the edge off my natural reticence.

  ‘I might be getting a few grey hairs but I’m not that old yet,’ he replied.

  ‘How old are you then?’

  His eyes narrowed, but after a beat he answered. ‘Forty-three in October.’

  About what I had guessed, eight years older than me. I laughed. ‘Sorry, that was a bit rude of—’

  George spoke at the same time. ‘You have a sister, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Laura. She lives in Canada. But I expect you know that…’

  He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Yes, your mother talked about you both.’

  Ignoring the usual apprehension, I snorted. ‘Nothing bad I hope.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘She missed you both and was thrilled when Joe came along. She couldn’t wait to tell us all the news.’

  I nodded. On the way to Wroxham, I’d caught sight of a bunch of crispy, dried flowers at an intersection. Though I wasn’t sure if it was the junction, I’d felt remarkably fine. Yet it was still difficult to group her and Joe together without a sharp stab of grief. Keeping my gaze averted, I cleared George’s plate.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. Then after a moment, his face all innocence: ‘Something smells good.’

  Oh shit, the grill. The potatoes had needed a little extra crisping, but I’d completely forgotten, despite the smoky aroma. Donning oven mitts, I pulled out the tray and presented it to him. The produce he’d nurtured was ‘a bit on the brown side’, as Mum would have put it. I decided I liked him then. There was something kind but humorous about his tact.

  The tension broken, the chatter flowed after that. As we ate I told him about my boat trips with Dad as a child and it turned out he was a huge river fan too. Prompted by his own stories, memories of windmills, old churches and broads came flooding back.

  ‘I wonder if the photographs are here,’ I said eventually. ‘Let’s take our drinks and look. I was only allowed a disposable camera back then. With just one button, not a lot could go wrong. However…’ I chuckled at the memory. ‘No Boots nor film services shop here in the village, so I’d send it off by post, wait for an aeon and then… Yup, only a handful were any good. Seems I was an expert…’ I searched for the word. ‘Guillotinist. I excelled at beheading people and steeples, vanes and turrets.’ I thought of the trips on Sylvette. ‘And even the good ones never quite caught the wonder and excitement of it all.’

  George nodded. ‘I get that.’

  We ambled to the lounge. ‘Nancy says you’re a good listener,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘She’s right.’

  Madeleine’s attentive expression appeared from nowhere. Unlike her son, she’d been a good listener too. Perhaps I’d been unfair; she’d been my confidante many times. But she’d dug too deep; she’d overstepped the mark.

  Pushing that thought away, I knelt on the carpet and snapped open a pino noir. I hadn’t counted how many glasses I’d had, but I felt lighthearted rather than drunk. George seemed at ease too, his face interested and affable without the frown. He had a warmth about him, a gentleness that belied his size. Relaxed in an armchair, he patiently watched as I rifled through packets of photographs from the sideboard. It took me an
age to find the Norfolk ones because I was distracted by comical or nostalgic images of Laura and me as children, of Mum and Dad, the aunties and uncles at cousins’ weddings. If he was bored as I showed him each one, he didn’t show it. Helped by comparisons with actors, musicians or politicians, he had a good working knowledge of all my relatives by midnight. I loved his sharp wit, how easily we laughed.

  Digging deeper in the cupboard, I found the wallet marked ‘Laura misc’, a selection that didn’t fit in any other category, but my equivalent didn’t seem to be there. Miles and I had gone through it only at Christmas, chuckling at the images of Alison Baker through the years – a dark-haired, solemn toddler; a skinny, bespectacled schoolgirl; almost smiling in a pink tutu for ballet; then finally a grin as I held the hundred metres swimming cup aloft. There’d been pictures of me during my ‘alternative’ days too, from mid-teens and through university, but by the time of my weekends and holidays with Miles, my transformation had begun, and was finally complete in our engagement day snap. But one ‘post-punk’ image had been misfiled in Laura’s pack, that of a teenage girl with pink spiky hair, her brown eyes exotic, her lips vivid red. Wearing a torn netted vest top, leather jacket and zipped combats, she looked confident and sexy with heaps of attitude. ‘Guess who this is?’ I asked, passing it to George.

  He peered at the photograph, then at me. ‘Wow. Is this really you?’ He laughed. ‘A crucifix and rubber bracelets, no less…’

  ‘Let me look again,’ I said, kneeling in front of him. But he held it away so I couldn’t reach.

  ‘Mine now,’ he laughed. ‘You’ll find it tomorrow morning in the post office window. “Madonna tribute band for hire”.’

  Reaching again for the snap, I found my lips next to his and on impulse, I leaned in for a kiss. For a moment he seemed to freeze, then he moved me away, his hands firm on my shoulders.

  ‘No, Ali.’