by Emma Rous
I tap on the notification, and a picture of a young woman pops up. A young woman with a pink streak in her short black hair. I sink onto the chair, the phone trembling in my hand.
You have a friend request from Kiara Kaimal.
I tap on the picture. Her profile has high security settings: just her name and photo, and a background picture of a turquoise sea beneath a cloudless blue sky. I hesitate over the accept button. A tiny red flag indicates a string of unread messages, and I open the list. A message from Kiara Kaimal sits at the top.
Hi, I hope you don’t mind me contacting you. My father won’t talk to me about you, but I have a feeling that you might have some connection to my mother. My mother died when I was very young. I don’t remember her. My father used to tell me he was too sad to talk about her. But I think there must be something he’s not telling me. Can we meet? I’ll understand if you’d rather not. Best wishes either way. Kiara Kaimal.
16
Laura
November/December 1991
LIFE AT SUMMERBOURNE acquired a prickly edge after the night of the blue moon. Dominic was full of mumbled apology and regret the next morning, sending Edwin out to play in the garden so that he could explain to me with an earnest expression that it must never happen again.
“Ruth can never find out,” he said, his voice husky, his eyes managing to meet mine for a split second before sliding away again.
“Of course not,” I said. “It was a stupid mistake.”
I held out my hand after he left, watching it for several seconds. The tremor was mild. My breath seemed too shallow that morning, as if I was tiptoeing a narrow path between looming guilt on one side and a sense of hurt indignation on the other, trying to avoid provoking either of them. Neither would do me any good. Either could see me dismissed from Summerbourne.
I continued to watch my hand until the tremor was almost imperceptible. If anything, Dominic’s words had brought me relief: my greatest fear had been that he would fire me. I’d lived at Summerbourne for not quite eleven weeks, but already I felt like a different person. Here, I was respected, listened to, treated kindly. The thought of being banished, having to spend the rest of the year at Mum and Beaky’s house until I could escape to university, was a huge incentive to put this awkward episode with Dominic behind me.
In optimistic moments over those next few days, I hoped Ruth would return from her holiday refreshed and positive. As it turned out, she came back pale and withdrawn, and spent the subsequent few days in bed feeling unwell. I had tried to forget Dominic’s baffled declaration the previous month that Alex was considering selling his cottage, but Michael informed me that Billy Bradshaw had told him that Alex had been into the estate agent’s recently and had a private chat with the boss.
“But he can’t really be thinking of selling it!” I was aware of the distress in my tone but too shocked to hide it. “He only bought it in September. Maybe he went in to talk about something else.”
Michael’s eyes were bright. “Had a row with Mrs. Mayes, that’s what they’re saying. Won’t want to visit down here no more if he’s not welcome at Summerbourne.”
“But . . .” I pressed my nails into my palms. “They’ve fallen out before, haven’t they? Ruth and Alex. They’ll make up again?”
“We’ll see.” Michael grinned. “It’s them sprites, you know, stirring up trouble at Summerbourne as usual. Don’t you go upsetting them, young Laura, or they’ll make you pay too.”
I didn’t like it when Michael talked like this. It was the sort of nonsense that had started to creep into Edwin’s dreams. I’d had to ask Michael not to mention the cloaks again, after he’d told Edwin and Joel about finding them in the trees, and about how difficult it had been to dry them out before they’d burn on the bonfire. Green sparks came out when he burned them, he’d told the boys. Edwin had had a nightmare that night, about witches circling him in the folly tower, flying faster and faster on their broomsticks until their cloaks burst into green flames.
In the house, Alex’s name wasn’t mentioned at all. Dominic returned each weekend, and we were perfectly civil to each other, but all the previous warmth between us had disappeared.
I threw myself into decorating the day nursery for Edwin’s birthday party, preparing for half a dozen children from the village to come and play pin the tail on the donkey and pass the parcel.
“I don’t suppose you’d make him a cake, would you?” Ruth asked me. “I usually do it, but . . .”
“No problem. I’d love to.”
Edwin helped me cut and arrange slabs of chocolate sponge cake into the shape of a “4” and then cover it in chocolate buttercream. I supervised him hacking the crusts off sandwiches and arranging pink wafers on plates, while I speared chunks of cheese and pineapple onto half a grapefruit to make a hedgehog centerpiece. Edwin selected the glacé cherry for its nose.
Vera traveled from London to help at the party, and she squeezed my hand and told me I was a “true gem.” The young guests were well-behaved, although some of their parents took full advantage of the white wine that Ruth offered them, causing her to complain about them afterward.
“Did you see how much Helen knocked back?” she said. “I caught her in the hall, reading through the names in the address book—can you believe it?”
“She’s worried about her daughter,” Vera said. “Daisy’s going to have long-term problems. I’m sure it was good for Helen to take her mind off things for a couple of hours.”
“Well it’s a good job Kemi was happy to drive her home again. She was in no fit state.”
Vera sighed. “Be nice, Ruth.”
Dominic arrived home after the party had finished, scooping an armful of wrapped presents from his trunk, and booming, “Where’s my Summerbourne winterborn?” as he stepped into the house.
We had crisp, cold days in December when the cliff top sparkled with frost, and seagulls harassed us on the beach, demanding food. Edwin and I still spent several hours outside each day, wrapped up in coats and hats; I wore gloves lent to me by Ruth, and Edwin had mittens attached to a length of string that ran through his coat sleeves. I knew every inch of the Summerbourne grounds by then, and much of the surrounding countryside too. Michael was around less, but now and then we would catch sight of him, and if I knew he was out there, I would take him a mug of steaming tea.
I avoided the first couple of family Sunday lunches in December, pretending to want a break but secretly trying to minimize the amount of time I had to spend in Dominic’s presence. However, Ruth asked me if I would join them on the Sunday before I was due to go home to Mum’s for Christmas, and I reluctantly agreed. Vera was there for the weekend, and Ruth made a particular fuss setting the table, snapping at Edwin when he moved the napkins. We were still eating, murmuring over last mouthfuls, when Dominic clinked his fork against his glass.
“We have a little announcement to make,” he said, smiling around at us, his eyes sliding from Vera’s anticipatory smile, over my blank expression, to Edwin’s look of surprise. Ruth nodded at Vera, and I put down my cutlery.
“We’re going to have a baby,” Dominic said, beaming. “You’re going to have a little brother or sister, Edwin.”
I stared at Ruth, trying to keep my breathing calm. Hidden by the tablecloth, my nails pressed into my palms.
“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Vera said, clapping her hands, and Edwin performed a comedy fall of amazement from his chair, making Ruth laugh.
I thought of the photo of the little twin boys in Ruth’s bedroom. This was good news. Of course this was good news.
“Congratulations,” I said.
A hubbub of excited baby talk broke out.
“How far along are you?” Vera asked.
“Oh, it’s early still,” Ruth said. “A few weeks.”
“A summerborn Summerbourne!” Vera exclaimed, and Dominic chuckle
d.
“Exactly,” he said. “About time we had a summerborn around here.”
“A boy baby or a girl baby, Mummy?” Edwin asked.
“We don’t know, darling. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“It might even be twins again,” Vera said, and a short silence fell.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Ruth, and she smiled gratefully at me.
“Lousy!” she said. She did look rather pale, and somewhat separate from Dominic and Vera’s mood of gaiety.
Edwin began to suggest names for his new sibling.
“Are those all names from Thomas the Tank Engine?” Dominic asked him with mock suspicion.
“Of course, Daddy!”
Ruth declined any pudding, but Vera ate two portions, a highly unusual occurrence. I had never seen her look so delighted.
I slipped away from the family as soon as I could, but passed Dominic in the kitchen as I headed for the annex.
“It really is lovely news,” I said, and he smiled at me, a trace of our old friendship around his eyes, but his lips pressed slightly too tight in acknowledgment of the other thing.
“Thanks, Laura,” he said.
I felt increasingly out of sorts during the afternoon, and I abandoned my textbooks and retired to bed early.
A few days later, I was sitting in the kitchen with Edwin on my lap, my suitcase by the door, waiting for Ruth to drive me to the station, when the phone rang.
“Mother,” I heard Ruth say.
“Then you’ll have to cancel it,” she said.
“I’m having the scan where I choose,” she said. “No, I’m not telling you.”
There was a longer pause.
“I’m not listening anymore. I know what I’m doing. If you try to override me in this, I’ll—”
After a few seconds more, she hung up.
She was white-faced when she stepped into the kitchen. I slid Edwin down from my lap.
“Go and draw me a picture, would you, lovely boy? For me to take home for Christmas?” I asked him. His gaze swung to his mother and back to me.
“I want to see the trains,” he said.
“You will. In a little while. I’m just going to make Mummy a cup of tea first.”
He sighed and trotted off. Ruth sat at the table with her head in her hands, and I made her a milky tea. She looked up and smiled wanly when I placed it in front of her, and then grimaced and slid it away.
“Thanks. Sorry. I’ve gone off it,” she said. “That was my mother, trying to get me to see some doctor she knows. She’s dead set against me having a home birth, but there’s no way I’m setting foot in a hospital again.”
The color was returning to her cheeks until I asked, “When do you think your due date is?” She reached out suddenly and grabbed my hand.
“Oh, Laura. I can’t talk to anyone.” She began to cry—loud sobs, hunched over the table, her tears leaving dark stains on the wood.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She made a groaning sound, as if her abdomen hurt.
“Ruth! What’s wrong?”
“It’s Alex’s baby,” she whispered, holding on to my hand still, squeezing it. Her eyes were closed. “It’s Alex’s baby, Laura. What am I going to do?”
My lungs were compressed. I couldn’t breathe. She opened her eyes then and gazed at me mutely, her face tear-streaked, her hair in disarray. I heard a raspy sound and realized it was me, trying to draw air in.
“That’s impossible,” I managed eventually.
She released my hand. “Oh God. It’s all such a mess.”
“But—” I almost asked, How? but changed it in time. “How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure. I wish I wasn’t, but I am. It was the week my mother tried to talk me into moving us all to Winterbourne. I was so angry, so miserable. I went to the Halloween party with Alex. And he was—he was nice to me, Laura. He’s the only person who’s ever really liked me for who I am. My mother wanted me to marry him, you know. She told me Dominic would never love me the way Alex did.”
I shook my head. She was wrong. I knew how much Dominic loved her, how desperately he wanted her to be happy. But then the memory of him leaning toward me, kissing me, made me curl my fists. I felt sick.
Ruth groaned. “I hate that she was right.”
“No,” I said. And then, “What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? Fudge the dates a bit. Not that Dominic will do the math. Hope the baby doesn’t look too much like Alex. Oh God.” She rested her forehead in her hands for a minute then sat back up and held her arm out, rolling it over to reveal the blue veins in the whiteness of her inner wrist. “Do you think our skin colors might balance out to match Dominic’s?”
An incredulous noise escaped my lips.
“Ruth, this is madness.”
She showed no sign of having heard me. “Alex’s sisters all have lighter skin than him. Half Indian, half good old Yorkshire. If I’m lucky . . .” She frowned, her gaze unfocused. “He’s always been jealous of them, you know—his sisters. They’re all settled with children—so many nieces and nephews. He pretends his job is everything, but I know he longs for a family of his own . . .”
Suddenly, she lunged forward, gripping my arm tightly this time, her nails digging into my skin.
“Ow!”
“You mustn’t tell anyone,” she hissed, her eyes narrow, a fleck of her saliva hitting my cheek. “Never. Not Alex. Not my husband. No one.”
I shook my head. “Of course not.”
She squeezed even harder. “Promise?”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I cried, pulling away, standing up, and turning my back on her. Red marks swelled on my arm.
Behind me, she wiped her face, combed fingers through her hair, composed herself. I watched her reflection in the window as she straightened up and called out to Edwin.
“Edwin, darling. Come and put your shoes on. It’s time to take Laura to the station.”
Edwin ran in with a picture for me: it showed me and Ruth and Dominic on one side of a Christmas tree with Edwin on the other. A large wiggly shape overlapped our heads.
“It’s a sea serpent,” he said. “It’s going to gobble us up for its Christmas dinner.”
17
Seraphine
I CAN’T THINK straight, here in the stale heat of the kitchen. Kiara’s message is too much to take in. The word burned into the grass; the lipstick writing on the mirror; Laura’s intimidating letter that I fished from the trash bin: I wish I’d never started any of this. I want to go back to the way things were before I found the photo. I want to be left to mourn my father without questioning whether he was my father.
I need to clear my head. I need to go to the cliffs.
The door keys are slippery in my fingers as I double-check that everything is locked. Despite my certainty that no one could be living in the annex without my knowledge, I lock that door too and hide the key in the kitchen. The garden has a frazzled feel in the midafternoon sun; insects dart above the weeds in the borders, and a clump of red-hot pokers sags wearily over the lawn. The rounded sweet scent of old-fashioned roses drifts along with me as I make my way to the back gate.
The sea breeze calms me, as always, and I sink into the long grass at the base of the folly tower, wriggling to create a more comfortable seat, soaking up the warmth from the stone at my back. This is my spot, even in the winter. This is where I come most days after work, when Edwin thinks I should be out socializing, meeting people—“the occasional party won’t kill you, Seraphine.” I frown. Edwin has never really understood me. Not the way Danny does. Not the way Dad did.
Dad had flexible part-time working hours in London, so he used to come down to Summerbourne for a few days each month and stay with me. We’d eat together when I got home from wo
rk, go on day trips together at weekends when we felt like it, but he didn’t mind me heading out to the cliffs when I wanted time alone. If I’m not my parents’ daughter, do I really want to know? My dad is my dad. He always was and he always will be. I don’t want different parents. I want to be the same person I always thought I was.
I close my eyes and wait for my thoughts to settle. But there it is again, that question, despite my efforts to quash it: Who am I?
I spent so much of my childhood feeling like an outsider. Edwin and Danny made friends effortlessly, playing out on the village green in big gangs after school. I felt awkward when I tried to join in, uncomfortable with how casually the other children seemed to treat one another’s feelings. I wanted all the games to be fair, but they weren’t, and although I knew my complaints were an overreaction, it took me a long time to learn how to control my temper. I overheard two women discussing me in the village shop once, suggesting I might have been a gentler child if only my mother had been around to care for me. I knocked tins flying as I charged into their aisle to inform them they were wrong and stupid.
The girls in my class mostly ignored me, the older children in the playground taunted me, and the only place I ever felt happy was at home; at Summerbourne. I used to leave the phone off the hook in the holidays to stop village kids from inviting my brothers out, and I savored the days when it was just me, Danny, Edwin, and Joel, with the garden and the lane and the beach as our playground. Those were the days I felt accepted and safe.
I try now to remember precisely what it was the village children used to tease me about. The implication was that either Danny or I, or perhaps both of us, had come from somewhere else. That we weren’t Ruth’s children. Which Dad always assured us was ridiculous, of course. But there was also teasing about a child-stealing witch in a long black cloak, and fairy babies, and somehow the numbers never added up.
One or two babies born, one or two babies stolen, two children left to show for it—how does that make any sense? How did the truth blur into such bizarre fiction? What facts were the wild stories based on?