by Sarah Jasmon
Finally, she passed it across. Charlie looked at the faces, young people standing in a tight group, laughing towards the camera. They were untouched, somehow, even with their confident bravura. The boy in the middle had a quiff, and she could just make out the shine of a leather jacket. Sylvia stood next to him, her face tilted towards him as if he was the only person there. ‘Who are they?’ she asked.
‘I’m … not sure.’ Margareta took it back, giving it one more searching glance before placing it down. ‘I found this much later, when it was too late to ask. But I imagine it had something to do with the events of the summer. The little Sylvia found more than books to amuse herself.’ She turned away from the table as she carried on speaking, separating herself from the gallery. ‘When I came back from Norway, there was no sign of Sylvia. The keys had been taped in an envelope to my door and there was a note inside informing me that Sylvia would not be coming any more, a request not to contact her.’ She caught and held Charlie’s gaze. ‘I did try, of course I did.’ Was she trying to convince Charlie or herself? ‘But Sylvia was kept to the house, a house with no telephone and the mother guarding the door.’ She sighed, shaking her head. ‘When people talk about the good old days, they should remember these things.’
‘She was pregnant?’ Another question that didn’t really need an answer. Charlie thought she knew the ending of this part of the story, or at least some of it. ‘What happened to the baby?’
‘She was adopted. It was what happened at that time,’ Margareta said. ‘If I had been there, if I had known, I would have found a way to talk to her, I would have told her she had a choice.’ She tapped the newspaper article. ‘But by the time I returned, she was already gone. Somebody showed me this. I think they hoped I would add to the gossip.’ She shook her head. ‘There was enough of that already, and everyone wanted to talk about it. Her labour came early, they said, but before a message could be sent for the doctor, Hilda collapsed and Sylvia gave birth by herself, unable to call for help, for herself or her mother. That poor child.’ They sat in silence. ‘It was brave of her, to go away, to reinvent herself.’
‘How did she find you again, when she brought us to the boat?’ Charlie was remembering the sense she’d had that she could disappear on her boat, now, with all of the mobiles and location trackers there were. How much easier it would have been back then, when you had to work at staying in touch.
‘I had friends here. I remained in contact even as I moved,’ Margareta said. ‘I wanted Sylvia to know where I was, if she ever needed me. I felt responsible.’
Charlie didn’t need to ask the question any more. She already knew the answer. ‘And when she came back, she was Britta?’
‘Yes.’
TWENTY-SIX
Charlie didn’t notice that Margareta had gone out of the room. She was barely aware of where she was. The facts revolved around her head, trying to settle, to make sense, but just as she had them in order, they’d float off again. After a time, she remembered the photographs and, much as Margareta had done, she began to shuffle them into different configurations.
Her mother as a teenager, trying to escape along the time-honoured route of covert rebellion, the widening boundaries of her life opening out worlds before her. Instead she’d ended up escaping from notoriety, damaged and battered. Sixteen, alone, abandoned. Charlie gazed at her fingers, spread over the photographs as if they were teasing out the ramifications of becoming a new person. And that brought her to Hugo.
The story she knew was of late-blossoming romance, though Britta must still have been in the first half of her twenties at the time. Her own voice as a young girl flashed through her memory. Grown-ups are always married, aren’t they? And Eleanor’s reply, laying down the law, setting a precedent that part of Charlie’s mind had absorbed and retained, any later understanding surrounding it but leaving the sentiment whole and untouched. You have to get married by the time you’re twenty-five. It’s the rule. That was Britta’s age when she married, if the age she had claimed was in fact the truth. The only photograph she’d ever seen from that time showed Britta in a trouser suit, her floppy hat concealing her face. Their father had been in his late thirties, an anonymous figure looking away from the lens. Who had been there behind the camera? And did he know the woman he married as Britta or Sylvia?
‘You should drink this.’
Margareta’s voice made Charlie jump. She looked round to see her holding a small glass filled with clear liquid. Automatically, she rejected the offer. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I just need to—’
‘No, I insist. You have had a shock.’ The glass was placed in front of her and she caught the sharp edge of raw alcohol, a touch of aniseed. Aquavit, the only drink her mother claimed to like. As if she were a child being told to finish her meal, Charlie lifted the glass and took a sip. The spirit burned down to her stomach, leaving a trail of energy. Margareta was right, she had needed it.
‘Why did we come to see you that time?’ Charlie swivelled the glass on the tabletop, keeping her gaze fixed on the slightly wet circles it was making. ‘Was it just a visit?’
‘Not really.’ Margareta paused, and Charlie could feel her assessing the situation, assessing Charlie’s ability to take in more information. Charlie lifted the glass to swallow down the rest of the aquavit in one.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, meeting Margareta’s eyes. ‘And I’d rather know, honestly.’
Margareta nodded. ‘You are right, it is always better to know.’ She lowered herself into a chair on the other side of the table. ‘Britta arrived one night with you and your sister. You were small children, perhaps five and eight? I hadn’t heard from her in many years, you understand, but I had an address for her, sent cards at times to let her know where I was. She didn’t want to talk, presented herself with her new name without explanation.’ There was a pause and a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I was flattered, that she wished to become Norwegian. I had no children, no family in this country.’ There was a longer pause, then a sigh. ‘I should have pushed harder, but if she didn’t want to talk …’ Her voice faded away briefly. ‘I thought she would tell me more when she was ready. She said she had left her marriage. There had been an upset, she was holding herself tightly. But when your father came—’
‘He came to the boat?’ Charlie stared for a moment before squeezing her eyes closed. She must be able to remember something, have some imprint of these happenings. But there was nothing, just that brief image of the bed, the story.
‘I didn’t meet him. Britta took him along the bank and I read stories to you and your sister. I tried to talk when she came back, I told her she could stay with me, that she had choices, but she would say nothing. She gathered the two of you and said you were going home. And that was the last time I saw her.’
‘And the books?’ Charlie grabbed onto the one bit of the story that could be comprehended. It felt important to know their journey, to have at least one piece of information straight.
‘I gave them to her to take for you. It was a small thing.’
And Britta had put the books away, hidden them rather than letting Charlie and Eleanor read them. Saved for the other baby, perhaps. For the first time, Charlie felt the impact of that statement. Another baby, a sister. Not a baby any more, though. If she’d been born in the mid-sixties, how old would she be? Charlie counted the decades on her fingers. Fifty, at least. That couldn’t be right. How could she have a sister that old? Thoughts ricocheted, none of them taking root for long enough to be examined properly. Eleanor being bossed around, family dynamics shifting like tectonic plates on the move. For a second, Charlie felt a sharp regret at having been left out of something, of not being enough. Had Britta spent her whole life wishing that she had that different child? But then she thought of the boat licence, the gift made to Charlotte Nilsson. She hadn’t wanted to keep her out entirely. She’d bequeathed her a boat, and a name that had never existed. And another sister.
TWENTY-SEVEN
She se
nt Eleanor a message as she walked back to the boat, to say she’d be arriving the next day. It was too much to pass on by telephone. She needed to be able to see her sister’s face, and Eleanor would need to sit and process the news, just as she had. Or as she was still doing.
Bella ran ahead, pleased to be on the move. Every so often, she’d circle back with a new find: a stick, an empty plastic water bottle. Charlie threw them along for her to chase, but she wasn’t really seeing her. This was a towpath her mother would have walked along many times. Her mother, who wasn’t called Britta, who wasn’t Norwegian, who had another daughter. In the ebb of dusk, the colours around her were fading. She was walking into a sepia world, stepping back into the past. Around every turn she half expected to see an old working boat, or a girl with a ponytail hurrying. But would she be hurrying towards something, or hurrying away? A figure loomed, making her freeze. For a second it was a boy in a leather jacket, quiff tumbling on his forehead. Then the shadow solidified into a fisherman, heading home after a day of sitting and watching the water.
Her phone pinged to tell her a reply had come back. Eleanor didn’t ask for any details: Make it the afternoon, and I’ll pick you up from the station. Before three best x
‘What’s happening, then?’ Eleanor gave her a brief hug as she came out from the station before herding her to the car.
‘I just thought it would be a good moment to catch up.’ Charlie had decided on the journey to leave telling Eleanor until they could be sure of some quiet.
‘Well, you’re just in time for the school run,’ Eleanor told her. She looked down at Bella, who was snuffling in the gutter after the lost smell of a squirrel. ‘I suppose the hound can come as well.’
Charlie waited by the car when they got to the school, watching as the knots of mums formed and dispersed outside the gates. She felt dislocated, as if she was jet-lagged. She’d been gone for, what, a month? Six weeks? Not all of the time had been spent moving on the canal, but the speed with which the train had brought her back, a brief couple of hours, was disconcerting. Eleanor had quickly become involved in a three-way discussion with some other mums which seemed to be veering from high indignation to near-hysteria, something all of the participants managed whilst at the same time greeting their assorted children, fielding questions and forms, and then watching as they all rushed off to play on the square of grass.
Poppy appeared first, swinging her book bag with concentrated energy. She stood in front of her mother, a soldier at attention commanding notice, holding the bag out at ninety degrees to her body until it was taken from her. Then she turned to another little girl, giving her instructions before they both ran away and started a complex series of steps along the painted hopscotch grid on the tarmac playground. More children flooded out, their average size going up with each wave. They carried their bags and lunchboxes like a horde of miniature Sherpas. Some had instruments as well, violins, guitars, one small boy lugging a cello bigger than himself.
There was no sign of Martha, even when the older children began to appear. Charlie followed their progress with interest. A number of the girls seemed much older than her niece, with long hair pulled up into still-smooth ponytails, their pleated skirts and neat shoes almost corporate in their conformity. It was a relief to spot one with her shirt half out of her waistband, curly hair exploding from an elastic band. The boys as well: barbered cuts and branded, pricey backpacks. One in particular caught her eye, sauntering at the head of a group, his hair shaved close around his neck with the longer top section gelled back. He had his collar up, just needing some aviator shades to complete the look. The explosion of released energy that had come with the younger children was missing here. And still no Martha.
Eventually, Eleanor’s companions gathered in their children and began to make their way out. Charlie watched her sister call to Poppy, then check the time. She didn’t seem worried. A normal event, expected. A music class or some hidden classroom happening. Then Eleanor came across to call over the fence.
‘Can you keep an eye on Poppy? I’d best go and see where Martha’s got to.’ She gestured to where Poppy was squatting down, alone now but completely involved in scooping loose stones into a tiny range. ‘She won’t even notice I’m gone.’ She turned and disappeared through the main doors.
Charlie went over the grass verge, letting Bella stop to consider all of the new smells. Poppy ignored her for a time, before turning with her lower lip stuck out.
‘You can’t have dogs in cars.’ It was a statement, a matter of obvious fact.
‘Bella must be very special then,’ Charlie answered. ‘Because she came here in the car.’
‘I’m not going in the car with her.’ Poppy had her arms folded, her jaw set. Charlie was thinking how best to respond when she saw Martha coming around the corner of the school building.
She was walking slowly, her rucksack hanging from one shoulder and her coat dragging along the ground. Eleanor came hurrying out behind her, taking her bag and coat whilst firing off questions. Martha answered in monosyllables, pulling away from her mother with a dismissive shake. Her expression lifted a little when she spotted Charlie, but there was no enthusiastic run, none of the delight Charlie had anticipated. Was it because of the texts? Or was something else going on? Charlie thought of the swaggering boy, the cliques of the girls. Was Martha having trouble with them? A wave of protective rage flared.
Poppy came scudding up to the car ahead of the others, coming to an abrupt stop when she spotted Bella.
‘I said no dogs in cars!’ she stated, as Eleanor and Martha reached them.
‘It’s fine,’ Eleanor told her. ‘Bella will be sitting by Aunty Charlie’s feet.’
Charlie made some placatory noises, bending to fondle Bella’s ears and reassure the now screaming Poppy that she was friendly, that she wouldn’t rampage around the car in a canine frenzy. Mostly she was watching Martha, and the look of misery that had descended as soon as her sister started making a fuss.
‘How about I walk home, with Martha and Bella?’ she suggested. It wasn’t that far, and she really didn’t want to listen to Poppy any more. And Martha might talk if they were on their own. There was some upheaval as Poppy was told no, this didn’t mean she could sit in the front seat, and Charlie gave an assurance that she knew which way to go, and Martha shrugged off an instruction from her mother not to dawdle because it was Brownies. Then finally they were alone.
They walked in silence for a time. Bella zigzagged ahead of them in an effort to identify each and every smell she could find. Charlie wanted to let Martha make the first move, but she remained silent, hunched into herself. After a comment about the weather and another about a giant monkey-puzzle tree in front of a tiny bungalow, she decided to be more direct.
‘Is everything OK?’ she asked at last. There was no reply other than a tiny hitch of the shoulder nearest to her. Charlie paused a second. She needed a different approach. She tried to remember what it had been like at that age, how little she’d wanted to respond when people asked her about her day. Instead, she went for an apology. ‘Look, I’m really sorry I haven’t texted lately. I went and dropped my phone in the canal.’ The shrug came again. ‘I had it buried in rice for days, wasn’t sure if it would ever work again.’
There was another silence, then Martha’s voice came from behind the curtain of hair shielding her face. ‘You managed to phone Mum. I heard her talking to you.’
‘I know.’ She’d actually thought about sending a message then, but the impulse had been submerged under everything else. Not that she could use that as an excuse. A reason, though. If anything would bring Martha round, it would be the sense of being let into things, of being given the chance to understand. Was that what was wrong, that she could sense things happening and was resenting the fact of being treated like a child, like Poppy? Charlie made the decision. ‘I don’t know if your mum’s said, but I’ve been finding things out about your grandma, where she used to live. It’s been tak
ing up a lot of my brain space.’ She thought of the other reason she’d turned her phone off as soon as the calls had been made. She didn’t want to see any emails that had built up whilst her phone was in pieces. ‘And I’ve had my phone off otherwise. You know when you’re expecting something but don’t actually want to get it? When someone’s being mean?’ She saw Martha’s head give a little nod. ‘Well, I kind of pretended my phone wasn’t working even after it was, so that I didn’t have to check for that. And it meant I missed out on some stuff I wanted, like messages from you. And I’m really sorry about that.’
After a few moments of silence, Martha pushed her hair back behind her ears. Without looking at Charlie she asked, in a small voice, ‘Can I hold Bella’s lead?’
Their pace picked up after this. Martha wasn’t quite ready for eye contact, but there was a relaxation, even a smile when Bella jumped in surprise at a plastic bag blowing out in the wind from its anchor in a hedge. They were coming up to the gates of a park. Charlie stopped, looking through at the stretch of grass on the far side of the iron fence, with clumps of trees and a dip down to a stream beyond. It wasn’t the fastest way back to Eleanor’s house, but it wouldn’t take them much longer.
‘Shall we let Bella have a run around?’ She waited for Martha’s nod, and let her take Bella in and bend to unclip the lead. Bella didn’t run straight off, instead pausing expectantly.
‘Go on,’ Martha told her. ‘What does she want?’
‘A biscuit,’ Charlie told her, feeling in her pocket. ‘Here you go, she’d like you to give it to her.’ That was the finishing link. Martha held the biscuit out, exclaiming at Bella’s wet nose, then laughed as the dog bounded in front of them. Charlie picked up a handy stick, weaving it through the air just out of Bella’s reach, making her dance on her back paws. Then she threw it as far as she could, and they stood together watching her streak after it.