The Silence Before Thunder

by Kathy Shuker

  ‘Yes,’ said a guarded voice.

  ‘Annie? Hi. It’s Jo. I hope you’re all, you know, OK. I’m ringing to ask a favour - but not for me. And it is important. Please hear me out before you decide if you’ll do it.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m down in Devon at the moment because my aunt isn’t well. And there’s a lad here who lost his mum to cancer. The thing is, he had a pile of photos of her on his phone…’

  *

  Frank stood outside Eleanor’s door at The Moorhill Centre. It was nearly half past five on the Friday afternoon. The holiday traffic was horrendous and it had taken him twice as long as he’d expected to get there.

  A care assistant had shown him to the room and now stood with him. ‘Shall I show you in?’ she offered.

  ‘No, thanks, we’re old friends. I’ll surprise her. She is conscious and everything now?’

  ‘Oh yes. And everything,’ she replied drily.

  ‘No locks on the doors.’ He grinned. ‘Aren’t you afraid people might escape?’

  She looked at him oddly and didn’t reply. He was used to that.

  He waited until the woman had walked back down the corridor and turned out of sight, then took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ called a voice.

  He opened the door and walked in.

  Eleanor was sitting in an armchair, dressed and poised. The difference in her from when he had seen her last was striking. The bruising had gone and her hair had grown into a long stubble, like a field of recently harvested wheat, sun-bleached; it was a startling golden white. She looked at him as he entered, eyes alert and questioning. Then she put a quick hand to her blouse, straightening it, and touched her hair as if checking it was in place, grimacing briefly at the feel of it. The vanity was still there, the pride. He felt a frisson of memory, a soft echo of all those years of shared intimacy, of passion, of laughter. There was regret too. A lot of it.

  ‘You’ve come,’ she said. ‘I wondered if you would.’

  ‘I did come once before - when you were in hospital.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You weren’t conscious.’

  She nodded. There was an unfamiliar look of uncertainty in her eyes suddenly. Beneath the old veneer of assurance and strength, he sensed a new vulnerability. It was engaging. If she had been like that more often before, perhaps they would still have been lovers.

  He pulled a bottle of gin out of the paper carrier bag he was holding. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were allowed this - but you can always hide it somewhere. There’s tonic too. I thought you might need it.’

  She smiled, that infectious smile of hers which started as a dance of the eyes, then a twitch of her upper lip and slowly spread till she was grinning. He was relieved that she could still smile like that for him. But it hurt too. He found himself wondering if they could still make it work, even now, a fleeting traitorous thought that flickered at the edges of his mind.

  ‘I’m sure I’m not supposed to have it,’ she said, ‘but I’m certain I need it.’

  He glanced round. ‘I’ll put it in the wardrobe. Can you get it there?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  He stowed it away at the back of the wardrobe. There was an upright chair with a padded seat against the wall. He pulled it over and sat near her. For several minutes they said nothing, looking at each other.

  ‘Jo told us how much better you were,’ he said. ‘She said you were walking and everything again.’

  ‘Yes. I do all the tricks now. Well, maybe not all. How’s Louisa?’

  He was surprised into silence, knew it showed on his face.

  ‘Jo told me about your engagement. She said that I knew about it before…’ Eleanor waved a hand vaguely over her shoulder to indicate that past time, before her accident. ‘She was anxious it didn’t come as a shock to me.’

  ‘And did it?’

  She frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. But I didn’t remember.’ She paused and an odd look crossed her face. ‘It frightens me, Frank. There’s so much I don’t remember. It feels like I’ve got huge yawning holes in my brain.’

  ‘But you remember us?’

  She pursed up her lips, smiling sadly. ‘Some, not all. Everything’s… It’s all snatches and odd scenes. Never whole. I hate it Frank. I feel like my life has been stolen. If I can’t remember, what was it all about?’

  He felt an urge to get up and hold her the way he used to.

  ‘Other people remember,’ he said quickly. ‘And there are your books. They’ll always be there.’ He grinned. ‘You can read them, fresh eyed, and see if you like them.’

  ‘But I remember my books. How weird is that?’

  ‘The rest will probably come back.’

  She shook her head. ‘I think the doctors are surprised I’ve remembered as much as I have. They say there’ll always be holes.’ She pointed to the side of her head where the scar from the craniotomy still showed. ‘Brain damage, my dear.’

  ‘You always had holes in your head anyway. Completely batty. Who’ll notice the difference?’

  He hoped she would smile again, laugh even, but she said nothing, resting her gaze on him, calm, penetrating.

  ‘So where is Louisa?’ she said. ‘Did she come with you? Is she waiting in the car?’

  ‘No. She’s gone to see an old friend who recently moved to live near Exeter.’ He hesitated. ‘She has been to see you though.’

  ‘Did she? I don’t remember that either. Not here?’

  ‘No. A while ago, in hospital, and she hasn’t been again. She’s not sure how you feel about her.’

  ‘Oh, really, she’s no need to worry. I don’t feel anything about her. Not that I particularly want to see her.’

  ‘You don’t have much in common. I don’t see you as great friends.’

  She smiled ruefully then frowned, leaning forwards in the chair. ‘Are you happy Frank?’

  He laughed, uncomfortable. ‘Good God, Ellie. You’re not yourself, are you? You never fretted over my happiness before.’

  She leaned back in the chair with a resigned expression.

  ‘I have a feeling I used to know, without asking.’

  They sat in silence again. Frank left soon afterwards and Eleanor got up and walked with him to the door. She was weak and a little unsteady but did it with her characteristic determination. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  Walking back to the car, he wasn’t sure he should have come. It had been a spur of the moment decision, taking advantage of Louisa’s absence. But it had unsettled him badly. He stopped by the car and leaned against it. It was times like this in days gone by when he would have lit a cigarette. He missed them. He missed Eleanor too.

  She clearly had no recall of Louisa going to see her, either in hospital or at the house but, given her memory, that was hardly surprising. So Louisa’s story might be true, or it might not. He was still uneasy about it.

  *

  On the Saturday of the Bank Holiday weekend, Jo kept her promise and took Eleanor out. They drove out over the moor, pausing occasionally to enjoy the view, getting out to stretch their legs, and stopped for lunch at a pub in Princetown. Eleanor’s movement had noticeably improved in the week or so that she had been at the centre, but her mood seemed flat and she was quieter than usual.

  ‘Had any more strange dreams lately?’ Jo asked over lunch.

  ‘Nothing I can remember.’

  Eleanor was silent again, concentrating on manipulating her cutlery to cut her roast beef into bite-sized pieces.

  ‘I looked up that man you mentioned: Hugh Shrigley. He was a writer and a journalist and a bit of a sponsor of the arts. Ring any bells?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Jo,’ said Eleanor warningly.

  ‘OK, just asking.’

  Another pause.

 
‘Frank came to see me,’ said Eleanor.

  That explained the mood. ‘What did he say?’

  Eleanor gave her one of the withering looks she used to do so well. Jo hadn’t seen one in a while.

  ‘Usual Frank,’ she said. ‘Something and nothing.’

  Jo studied her aunt’s face. ‘Was it difficult to see him?’

  ‘A little.’

  Jo changed the subject and talked about the festival the following weekend. Eleanor was determined to come home for it and refused to be swayed. She was better, she insisted; she would improve further at home. Another week in ‘that place’ would be more than enough. Jo bowed to the inevitable and agreed to organise it.

  ‘I’ll see if I can arrange a carer to help if I’m not there,’ she said.

  ‘No. I’ll manage. I don’t want anyone fussing over me. That’s final.’

  There was no doubt she was better.

  On the Sunday Jo had a late breakfast and hung around the house, doing odd chores. She sat down to play the piano but, after two tunes, gave up and sat on the floor to play with Sidney instead.

  Eleanor worried her: in a handful of days she would be back at Skymeet. Whether Harry had lied or not, Jo was still convinced that someone else had been involved in Eleanor’s fall. Someone had shut Sidney up as a warning to her. Someone had sent Matthew that note. And there was an intangible but unnerving atmosphere on the estate. It was too quiet, too still, too…she wasn’t sure what. It felt as if something was brewing up to happen, something over which she had no control.

  Like that silence you get before a big thunderclap.

  Harry’s words. He’d sounded genuine.

  She glanced at the clock, got up and went in search of the tide timetable. Ten minutes later, she was heading down to the private beach. The tide was ebbing and was already more than half way down the pebbles. And finally Harry was there again, sitting on his favourite rock at the side, earphones in, shades on, head bobbing to the beat of the music. She’d had an uncanny feeling he would be.

  Jo walked down to the sea, bending to collect a couple of pebbles as she went. She skimmed them, then turned and walked across to where Harry sat. He hadn’t moved but something in the angle of his head suggested he had been watching her. He pulled the earphones out as she came near.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi.’ The voice was expressionless. She couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t judge his mood. ‘Did you ever find your cat?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. He’d got shut in a shed.’

  He nodded but said nothing.

  ‘I guess your father’s told you about that letter. Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘Jesus, he went on about it for hours,’ he said evasively. ‘I didn’t listen to most of it.’

  ‘Someone must have seen us talking.’ She glanced up towards the gardens. ‘Someone with a twisted mind.’ She hesitated. ‘Your dad doesn’t want me to see you again.’

  ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘He told me not to come here.’

  Jo sat down nearby. ‘You should do as your dad says, Harry. I’m happy for you to be here but he’s the one who’s responsible for you. And you shouldn’t lie to him.’

  ‘I don’t lie.’

  ‘He says you do. He said you took drugs for a while and you lied to him then.’

  ‘Well…yes, I did…then.’ He looked at her sidelong. ‘But not now. Doing drugs was kind of dumb, I know that. Mum would’ve flipped. And it wasn’t that great anyway. But I don’t lie now. Sometimes I just kind of tell him nothing so he doesn’t get on my back. Like coming here. I didn’t lie; I just didn’t tell him.’

  It was a moot point. She let it go.

  ‘So when you told me that my aunt had had an argument with someone, you were telling the truth?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s important Harry. I need to know. I don’t care about your street cred or how cool it might seem to pretend you’ve been a witness to something. It’s OK if you aren’t sure or if you made it up before, but I need to know the truth. Was there someone else up there arguing with Eleanor?’

  ‘Hell, I thought you were different.’ He jumped down onto the shingle, turning to face her, gesticulating angrily with his arms. ‘See, even when you tell the truth, no-one believes you. You don’t. Dad doesn’t. I made a mistake with the drug thing, sure, but that was ages ago and now he doesn’t believe me about anything. No-one does. It sucks.’

  He scuffed down to the water’s edge and she got up and followed him.

  ‘I understand but I had to ask. You’re telling me it’s true. So I believe you.’ She bent over and picked up a flat pebble, throwing it out along the water. Five skips. Average. ‘But it’s different for your dad. He was there, worrying about you when you were taking drugs. You lose trust in someone very quickly if you’re let down; it takes a lot longer to build the trust up again. He’s scared for you because he cares about you. Give him a break. He only wants what’s best for you.’

  He frowned at her suspiciously. ‘Why are you defending him? I thought you guys had a major bust up?’

  ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I kind of figured it out.’

  ‘Well, yes, we did.’

  ‘And he won, obviously.’

  ‘Not exactly. I think it was a draw. Good and bad on both sides. Anyway, Harry, tell me again: this person you heard, have you thought any more about it? Have you any idea at all whether it was a man or a woman? Please try and remember.’

  He shook his head, kicking at the stones beneath his feet, sending some rolling down into the lapping waves.

  She watched him for a few moments, hoping for an answer, then gave up. Even if he knew more he wasn’t going to tell her. It wasn’t a lie as far as he was concerned; it was a tactical omission.

  *

  Eleanor came to, heart thudding. She lay still, waiting for the thudding to subside and tentatively opened her eyes. It was still night and dark in the room but a security light somewhere outside shed an eerie glow through the curtained windows. It had been that dream again but now, strain as she might, she couldn’t keep a hold on it. She never could. Wisps of figures; echoes of voices; the shadow of a narrative playing out in a deep, dark recess of her mind. She closed her eyes again, willing it to form a shape, something she could identify, but it slipped away again.

  She reached across and clicked the switch on the bedside lamp. A comforting cheery light suffused the room. Eleanor eased herself up into a sitting position, turned awkwardly to adjust her pillows and leaned back. She took a couple of deep breaths. That’s what the physio kept telling her to do when she was struggling to get something right: wait, take a couple of deep breaths, calm yourself, then focus again. If it worked for her motor skills, it might work for her mental powers too.

  She closed her eyes and reached back into her mind, looking for something to give her a foothold, a way in. There must be something there that she could recall. It was all in there somewhere surely or why all these tantalising images? Or was it all just smoke and mirrors, nothing of importance? So why did it feel so insistent and why, though the dream seemed to vary in small ways, did she have the impression that she kept replaying the same scenes in her head?

  It was a party. Yes, a party - she knew she had dreamt that before. She opened her eyes and picked up the notepad and pen from the bedside cabinet. Jo had left this for her, exhorting her to write down anything she remembered from her dreams, however foolish it might seem. Eleanor had accepted, dismissing the necessity of it, just as she denied still having these ‘strange dreams’ as her niece put it. She was sorry for the lie but Jo probed and worried too much. If something needed working out, Eleanor preferred to do it alone. These dreams, these memories if that’s what they were, resided in her head. She would tease them out and unravel them herself.

  Hugh Shrigley. Yes, that was the name she had told Jo and he was definitely in there somewh
ere, she wasn’t sure how.

  She hadn’t tried much writing and the pen felt small and slippery in her hand; she manipulated it painstakingly producing a crooked script. Hugh Shrigley, she wrote. Then Party. OK so what kind of party? A children’s party? No. It felt like something adult. A birthday party maybe? Or a wedding reception? Perhaps it was something to do with one of her books, like a launch party. But why would she dream about that? Or any of them, come to that? But she had the feeling that some of the people there - or most of them even - were people she knew.

  She closed her eyes again, willing faces to come out of the mist. Nothing happened. Her eyes snapped open and in a fit of frustration she picked up the pad and pen, throwing them across the room. ‘You don’t have much patience, do you?’ the occupational therapist had said to her one afternoon, eyebrows raised. ‘Just try again. Give yourself time.’

  Eleanor sank back into the pillows. No, she didn’t have much patience for things she thought she should be able to do. Never had. See, she remembered that. ‘A party,’ she muttered to herself. ‘A party.’ A few deep breaths. Her eyes drooped. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she murmured. Her breathing slowed; her thoughts drifted. ‘Vincent came. He wasn’t invited. But then he never was.’

  She fell asleep, the bedside light still on. The pad lay on the floor with just three words scribbled on it. By the time she woke the next morning, she had forgotten all about Vincent at the party.

  Chapter 19

  The summer workshops were over and the holiday crowds began to disperse. All attention in Petterton Mill Cove now focussed on the literary festival due to start the following Friday. The village hall and the function room at The Mill had been booked from the Thursday in order to set them both up with chairs, a speaker’s table and the necessary technical equipment.

  The first talks started at six in the evening and Jo planned to collect Eleanor around ten on the Friday morning. That allowed time for her aunt to be comfortably installed at home and get used to being at Skymeet again. Eleanor, in typically bullish fashion, wanted to go to the whole of the festival. Jo wanted her to settle in and wait until the Saturday and the issue remained unresolved.