The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  ‘Without any plan, he found himself outside the accountant’s house. But it felt divine – here was someone to talk to, kind people who could clean, change and feed the child, help him work out what to do. His friend was visible through the bay window, eating his dinner alone. When he tapped on the glass, the young man welcomed him in and poured him a large brandy. Sitting the baby on his knee, the accountant softly calmed her with weak juice from a plastic cup and fed her morsels of his own child’s abandoned food. Nursing her until she slept, he listened to the policeman’s jumbled worries without judgement, then disappeared with the child to find his wife.’

  Stopping there, I turned to Oliver. This was something Tom hadn’t fully explained, but I told it as he’d related it to me. ‘Who knows what they discussed or why they did it, but John and his wife eventually returned to the room. “We’ll take her,” John said. He took his wife’s hand. “We’ll make her our own; we’ll bring her up as our daughter, won’t we, love?”’

  The fire crackled and popped. Oliver spoke eventually. ‘So we’re not—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How old was the baby?’

  ‘Fifteen months.’

  I wasn’t sure who I was crying for, but the tears fell again and Oliver held me without speaking. Pulling away eventually, I laughed. ‘There’s so much to absorb and discuss, and I want to hear about you and how you’ve been, but right now I’m—’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Bloody starving.’

  He stood and grinned. ‘I’m on it. Can I borrow your car?’

  I watched Oliver through the window as he drove away, then I peered at the turning point, almost expecting the Rolls-Royce to appear. My feelings for Tom had gone through the gamut, but looking back at summer holidays, he’d always been around like my personal sentinel. Even when I spent time baking with Joan in the Bureside kitchen or learning to crochet in the lounge, he’d been a watchful presence. Though I was still working out how I felt about my shocking adoption, I was grateful to him. Had he not checked on Ella that evening, I might have died of malnutrition. And if I had gone into care, would I have found such brilliant, loving parents? Or a beautiful big sister?

  Oh Laura, my Laura. She’d been five when the interloper arrived, old enough to know I wasn’t her real sister. The fact Dad had given me her juice and food wasn’t lost on me. I’d elbowed into her family and demanded complete attention. How upset and rejected must she have been? But she’d kept the secret despite everything. That was love and loyalty at its very, very best.

  Then there were Mum’s siblings. She’d sworn them to secrecy too. They must have wondered why a straightforward adoption was shrouded in such mystery, but they’d kept their promise. Only Brenda had eventually ‘broken ranks’, resulting in Mum moving here. Mum’s fear of the true – and unlawful – story coming out was understandable, but why had she decided to tell me just before her death? Because I was now certain that’s what she’d been so keen to discuss with me. But perhaps that was a puzzle I wasn’t supposed to solve.

  Returning to Joe, I scooped him up for a cuddle. A living, breathing child beneath a coat… How had that felt? The sudden realisation and responsibility must have been overwhelming. There were so many questions I’d been too shocked and traumatised to ask Tom. A million more had thrashed through my head since. But would I enquire? I’d taken on Madeleine’s advice that secrets and bottling up my feelings were bad for me, but did I really want to know it all? Tom had left me with Eve and Doug. What had happened after that? What arrangements were made, special handshakes or exchanges of money, to legally adopt me? It seemed too crass to ask. Tom was the man who’d plucked me from death. His flushed cheeks and pink smile had been radiant. He’d brought me into this world and his pride had been a picture.

  I didn’t need to dwell on the looming stranger, the glint of a knife, the flies and the smell. Or the warmth seeping away, leaving me cold and abandoned. I’d already lived it many times in my dreams. But there was some relief my psychotic episode hadn’t come from nowhere. At the time I’d been representing a client who’d murdered both his wife and child by stabbing. The crime scene photographs must have subconsciously brought everything back. They weren’t ‘hallucinations’ after all, but deeply buried memories.

  Pushing those thoughts away, I stepped over to the mirror. I guess I’d always known my brown eyes didn’t fit, but I hadn’t wanted to confront it. In some subconscious way, I knew it involved my beloved daddy. I was so afraid of losing him. Then, of course, I did.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Perhaps surprising in the context of our courtship, Oliver and I didn’t sleep in the same bed that night. We didn’t even cuddle or properly kiss. A coyness had developed between us. It might have been my brutal letter or the period we had spent apart, but I felt it was more a question of respect for the young mother who had died. Once Joe was asleep, we sat on each side of the sofa and softly chatted, the thoughts which had pestered me over the last few days emerging as words.

  ‘Tom didn’t mention Ella’s ethnicity…’

  ‘How would you feel about seeing a photograph of her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Muddled emotions, like everything else.’

  Oliver nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’d be ways of finding more information if you wanted to.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Like my Mr Lang.’

  ‘Have you done anything to find him?’ I asked. ‘Or do you think you will?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ He gazed at the fire. ‘And I don’t think I will. I don’t need to. Not now.’

  I looked at my hands. I hadn’t really understood his fear about the circumstances of his conception, but I certainly did now. I’d only touched on it in my head because the idea terrified me, but I’d slapped Madeleine out of nowhere, I’d truly worried about harming Joe. Did my real father murder my mum? Could evil be lurking in my genes?

  As though reading my mind, Oliver pulled me into his arms. He kissed my forehead. ‘Nurture and nature play a part, Ali, but at the end of the day we’re just us. Human beings. Individual, unique. We have autonomy, we make choices, good or bad.’

  Acknowledging the serendipity, I nodded; this man wasn’t my brother, but we had so much in common; no wonder the bond had been there from the start. Deciding to shelve that particular worry for now, I leaned into him.

  ‘Why do you think Tom decided to tell you the story now?’ he asked after a while.

  I’d thought about this too. ‘I don’t know why, but I had a feeling he knew about us. Maybe he noticed Ruby Jane had been out and put two and two together. Or saw you here.’ I flushed. ‘Then when I bolted and contacted the solicitor… I guess he wanted to put me straight. Perhaps do a bit of matchmaking.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad he did.’

  ‘Were you angry with me?’

  ‘Yup. It was a tough three weeks.’

  We fell silent for a while. ‘I’m still astonished Mum and Dad took me in. The arrangement was clearly illegal, unofficial or however one would describe it, but they also took on the huge responsibility of a traumatised child. It couldn’t have been easy.’ I gave Oliver a peck. ‘I think that was down to you.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Making a wrong right, filling a void, creating good out of bad.’ I paused. ‘Finally forgiving each other.’

  He smiled. ‘Very glad to oblige.’

  I nodded to myself. I hadn’t taken in Tom’s words at the time, but later they’d filtered back: ‘All a tad unconventional, I know, love,’ he’d said. ‘But I don’t think Doug and Eve would have made it without you. You gave them a joint purpose, healed them and made them happy again. It was an absolute honour to watch.’

  * * *

  The September weather hadn’t recovered by the time Joe and I surfaced in the morning. Apart from seeing my new housemate almost naked in the bathroom – and staring for longer than was proper – it was business as usual at The Lodge. As though a foghorn had announced my arrival, Nancy’s arm
s were deep in soapy water, the vacuum cleaner hummed and cleaning products fragranced the air.

  I found Oliver plumping the sofa cushions and I watched him for a while. Was he another attachment based on insecurity and need? Well, possibly, probably, but I sure did fancy him. ‘Is the settee really that comfy?’ I asked. I was still getting used to the beard, but on balance I liked it. ‘We do have beds, you know…’ Aware of my deep blush, I changed the subject by cupping my ear meaningfully. ‘This must be the cleanest flipping house in the land…’

  But Oliver was still clearly on the first topic. Pulling me to him, he smiled. ‘Then I’ll have to explore tonight. Which one do you suggest? A… comfy mattress was the first thing I thought of when I woke. Still thinking about it now…’

  The sudden silence said it all, but if Denise was shocked I was canoodling with the gardener, she didn’t say so. When the Hoover purred again, we laughed, deciding in a hurried whisper that it would be simpler to maintain the status quo – for now, at least – and keep Denise as our cleaner, even though we didn’t need one, Nancy as our babysitter, me as Eve’s daughter and Oliver as George.

  But of course there was Laura; I had to think about that.

  * * *

  Eleven o’clock chimed. Mum’s best china on a silver tray was the first clue that gossip had reached Nancy’s ears, the second was Nancy bringing a cup and saucer for herself. Like the queen at a tea party, she perched delicately on the armchair and glanced from me to Oliver, then Joe, with wide eyes.

  That old hilarity was back. So was an impulse to seek this old lady’s approval. But she’d put a selection of posh biscuits on a plate, so I guessed we already had that.

  Seeming to realise an announcement wasn’t imminent, Nancy lifted her little finger, slurped her brew and made one of her own. ‘I’m worried about Joan. She’s missed two Friday bingos now. There was no reply when I knocked for her at Bureside; the whole place looked empty.’

  Oliver’s cup looked lost in his hand. He put it down thoughtfully. ‘I should’ve been there the last couple of Wednesdays, but Tom texted to say neither the garden nor Sylvette needed work.’

  Picturing Tom’s pink face, I felt a guilty jolt for not calling him yesterday. ‘They were in Sheffield two weeks ago; maybe they’re still there.’

  Her hand on her hip, Denise joined the conversation. ‘Nah, I saw the Roller driving through the village since then. Still had that big dent in the bonnet.’

  Nancy frowned. ‘I thought Tom had that fixed weeks ago. At the garage for repair, he said. His excuse for making poor Joan walk everywhere.’

  ‘Well, he’d be wanting to don his cap and flash a grin to all and sundry, wouldn’t he? Like he does on that posh boat. Men, women, kids and pets alike.’ Denise glanced at Oliver. ‘Can’t blame him for enjoying the popularity, mind.’

  A memory flashed in. Sylvette ploughing through the dappled river. The warm breeze stroking my bare arms and legs. Was Dad there? Or Joan? No, just me and Tom at the polished wooden wheel. A shiver running through me, I rubbed my chilly arms. Was it worry for the elderly couple or something else? I couldn’t quite say, but discomfort was there.

  ‘I’ll go there now,’ I said. ‘I fancy a walk and I still have Tom’s cap.’

  Chapter Sixty

  The wind buffeting my umbrella, I briskly walked down Lower Street and glanced up the driveway of the Petersfield Hotel. The last time I came this way I’d been so excited to meet ‘George’. God knows what state my febrile mind had been in, but despite all the internal warnings, the pull had been irresistible. And now a miracle had happened; I could ogle and hug and even kiss the man I loved. Something pure and amazing had pushed through the gluey secrets and darkness. I was lucky, so very lucky. But I had to keep a lid on the elation I felt. In some ways Miles had been right: I had been self-obsessed for weeks. Everybody had been so loving and patient and kind; it was time I gave something back.

  Noting Tom’s Rolls on the driveway, I crossed the road to Bureside, strode to the porch and knocked. The rain spitting on my shins, I tapped my foot and waited for a minute before trying again. No reply. Perhaps he and Joan were on one of their river trips? That would explain Joan missing bingo…

  I walked around the side and frowned. Sylvette was moored in her usual place. Taking in her imposing splendour, I continued along the path to the rear garden, stood by the lagoon and watched the sharp downpour dimple its glassy surface. After a few moments I turned back to the patio. Nancy was right; the house looked mournful and empty. Yet Tom’s car was parked at the front. Something didn’t feel right.

  Alarm spreading, I peered through the windows. No one was in, that much was obvious. Not even the desk lamp was glowing. Sheltering under the canopy, I pulled out my phone, scrolled down to Tom’s number and listened to the ringtone. A ghostly echo immediately came back. His mobile was ringing inside the house. Surprised and anxious, I squinted through the glassy door. When I tried the handle, it opened.

  Oh God; this was how Tom had found baby me. Dread tight in my chest, I stepped into the lounge. ‘Tom? Joan?’

  Cold and shadowy, the room smelled dank, unused. ‘Tom?’

  Feeling eyes burn into my back, I snapped around. There were some indeed, but only the sleepy-eyes of Joan’s antique dolls. Trying to remember their names, I took in each unique face, but when I reached the last one, I realised it was new. What had Nancy said about them? Something fanciful about them being a representation of Joan’s lost babies. But she’d said the poor woman had six miscarriages and there were eight dollies here.

  A jolt of guilt hit again. Such a tragedy; I hadn’t really focused on how devastating that must have been for both her and Tom. And where the hell were they?

  Resisting the urge to flick on lights, I fumbled my way through to the kitchen. No cooking smells, baking warmth or sign of life; I should just turn back. They were out, that was all; it was as simple as that. And yet… As though an invisible hand was gently guiding me onwards, something was sucking me in.

  ‘Joan?’ I called again.

  Stopping at the staircase, my mind raced ahead, alarm jangling. Suppose I detected a geranium smell or heard the hum of busy flies? I took a deep breath. That was in the past. And what had I said to myself only five minutes ago? It was time to give something back. They might be upstairs, ill and infirm; these lovely people might need my help.

  ‘Tom? Joan?’ I called.

  Remembering the rough wall of Ranworth tower, I groped my way up the dark stairway. Fearful of what I might find, my heart boomed, but when I reached the landing, I let out my trapped breath. The bedroom doors were ajar; it was just an empty house in broad daylight.

  Intrigue overcame my nerves. I’d never been up here before, so I followed a sweet scent to the first bedroom and stood at the opening. The double divan was neatly made, Joan’s nightdress spread lengthwise on one side of the bed.

  Relieved all was well, I stepped back, but a gleam of metal caught my eye. Perplexed, I stared. What was I seeing? Not only a large key in an external lock, but two heavy-duty bolts, one topping and one tailing the outside of the door.

  My mind sticky, I returned to the room to work it out. This was a bedroom, right? A large bed, an easy chair and a portable TV. A dressing table with a mirror, the glass half filled by an assortment of colourful snaps. Then why have a lock and bolts on the outside? I almost turned away, but a familiar face in the collage caught my eye. Stepping closer, I stared. This was not a collection of people, but one girl, the same girl – as a dark-haired, solemn toddler; a skinny, bespectacled schoolgirl; smiling in a pink tutu; holding a silver cup aloft with a grin. Then a cluster of the same pre-pubescent child in a swimsuit or shorts or a lifejacket – each smiling image with a middle-aged man, his fingers denting her shoulder, her arm or her waist.

  Realisation bubbled up, almost making me gag. Then a loud creak on the stairs cracked the silence.

  I spun around with a jerk and gaped. The pale, rheumy eyes
of a paedophile gazed back.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Where’s Joan?’ I asked, my voice barely there. He wasn’t the sentinel. She was. She’d been protecting me from him all these years. And even now as an adult, he’d been stalking me, hadn’t he? Watching and peeping… God, yes, that white face at the bedroom window had been wearing glasses.

  ‘Joan? She’s at home, love. She’s asleep.’

  I heard the metallic click before I looked. Blocking the door, Tom’s hand was on the key, turning it clockwise and back, clockwise and back. Oh God, I’d seen him do it before, hadn’t I? Smiling with those teeth and locking me in?

  Though I knew to keep calm, to reason and cajole so I could make my escape, terrified words blurted out. ‘Don’t lock me in; please don’t lock me in.’

  He straightened himself then, erect like a soldier. ‘This is Joan’s room. Why would I lock you in? You’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Adrenaline finally overtaking terror, I looked at him properly. He was horribly gaunt, the gossamer skin tight on his face, his limbs like bones. He’d lost weight the last time I’d seen him, but this was even worse.

  I inhaled slowly, in and out, in and out. ‘Joan’s room… Why did you lock her in here?’

  ‘Once a copper, always a copper. She had to be punished.’ He took a gulp of air, the words emerging as a sob. ‘I loved her dearly, but she had to be brought to book.’

  My arms tingling, I turned to the photographs. The top of the dresser was adorned with an old teddy, a foal ornament and other bits and bobs from… God yes, my childhood. I pictured the solid silver box engraved with the letter ‘J’, the other gifts which had been left in my bedroom, too. Mum wouldn’t have bought those for a newborn. Joan, the real antique buff, had. Focusing on the blue inhaler, I remembered the dent in my duvet. The woman had been lying on my bed.