Escaping Life (5 page)

“We didn’t bury
my sister today.”

Five

The final days
of the week passed quietly and slowly.  The storm that had passed by on Wednesday
night had broken the air;  the hot, oppressively humid days of the previous two
weeks that had brought so many outsiders to Haven had cleared to leave a more gentle
summer offering.  There was a light breeze now that had before always cleared
by eight in the morning, and so only the earliest of risers could have enjoyed
it.  The day after, it was as if summer was over, and none of the usual
tourists had bothered to make the trip, too concerned that their day would be
prematurely ruined by the unpredictable weather.  In fact, it had turned out to
be a wonderful day, warm yet fresh.  It was a day for the villagers; they had
claimed their Haven back from the crowds.  On the busy days, the villagers
would stay in their gardens, too bothered by the loud and belligerent tourists
running and prancing about the beach, with their saloon cars and 4x4 beasts
crowded into the small village car park and once it was full, spewing out along
the co
a
stal path.  Hot weather was
always bitter-sweet, as the villagers who traded their ice cream, sandwiches,
or paintings were thankful for the influx of people.  But it was those days,
like after the storm, when the breeze would roll in from the ocean like a
comforting hand that brought with it the serenity of peace as the villagers
strolled along the damp sands collecting the washed-up driftwood for the fire
in the winter or to display in their homes if it was pretty enough.  The storm
had also washed up some small rocks, and as Elizabeth had sat with her tea in
her garden that fresh morning as Graham was getting ready for work, she had
noticed that there were quite a few people out with pocket knives collecting
the inhabiting molluscs for a tasty free supper.

She hadn’t
discussed the letter with Graham anymore.  They had discussed it at length twice
now, and after the last time, she knew that he too had doubt in his mind. 
There were too many unexplained coincidences; the names, the fact that it was
in their local paper.  There was nothing more to do yet.  She had to wait.  The
thing that was most on her mind was whether or not to tell her father.

Her father was
sixty-one, a retired engineer, living in the city.  He had been a good father,
Elizabeth thought.  They weren’t close, but she valued him.  When his wife,
Elizabeth’s mother, died, he retreated into a shell that she had never seen
before.  It had always been her mum who had called her every week, to talk
about the trivialities; what was happening at her women’s club, what she had
planted in the garden, and how many hours her father was working still, even at
his age.  Once she had gone, it was as if he didn’t know how to build a
different relationship; before, they had existed with their mother as a
permanent middleman, but after her death and then the death of Rebecca, she
didn’t see him all that much.  But she had to tell him about it.  It was time
to make that call.

“Hello?”

“Daddy, it’s
Elizabeth.”  She knew when she spoke to him that she still clarified who she
was, as if there would be anyone else calling up
and
calling him Daddy.  She knew it was
strange, but she couldn’t shake the habit.  “How have you been?”

He described
his week:  busy and full of people that she didn’t know.  Their lives were so
different, she thought, realising that it was she who was living a life more
suitable for somebody in retirement.  Her father had been out to dinner three
times with friends and once to a salsa class.  She didn’t know if any of these
‘friends’ were female, or indeed, if they were more than just friends.  He
never volunteered the information, and she never pushed for it.

“That sounds
nice.”  He never asked how she spent her time, or about how work was going. 
She told herself that it wasn’t that he was uninterested, rather that he tried not
to pry.  “Listen, Daddy.  I want to talk to you about something.”  As she stood
there, the words burning a hole in the tip of her tongue and screaming in her
head ‘
Rebecca is alive’,
she couldn’t find the courage to tell him.  She
didn’t want to upset him.  It was as if the reality of saying those words to her
father questioned their validity.  He had believed in the funeral.  Here,
pacing in front of her Victorian fireplace, too decorative and ornate in this
cottage to be original, she suddenly felt very silly again.  It was the same
feeling that she had had when she walked through her front gate after her
discussion with Nancy and had decided to tell Graham that she believed that
Rebecca was still out there somewhere.  It was perhaps safer, if instead she first
brought up the subject of Rebecca.

“I have been
thinking about Rebecca a lot recently.”  His silence stung her ears. 
Please
say something Daddy
, she pleaded.  “She is on my mind.”  Eventually she
heard her father clearing his throat, coughing a little before deciding what to
say.

“I always think
about her, Elizabeth.  Of course I do.  I know we don’t talk about them,” he
paused, as she knew she heard a reference to her mother in his words, “but it’s
very difficult for me - still.”  There he had said it.  He didn’t like to talk
about them.  Her plan to tell him about the letter had been flawed:  he didn’t
want to hear about her.  About Rebecca. 
Was it really so hard to talk to me
about our family,
she thought.  She wanted to say it out loud.  She wanted
to ask him who she should speak to if not him.  Instead she let it go.  She let
her mind slowly put the lid back on her thoughts and her carefully planned
words floated away from her like feathers on the wind.  They spoke politely for
a few minutes, before he made his excuses to hang up.

As she sat back
down in the oversized chair next to the fireplace, she curled her feet underneath
her.  Maybe she was crazy.  She could clearly remember that day, as Graham had
pulled up at the side of the road.  She was out of the car before it had
stopped, the road closed off by flickering blue and white police tape.  The
road was oil black, slick from the heavy storm that had almost passed.  They
let her through, an officer close by her side, Graham only steps behind.  Her
heart pounded in her chest, and she felt the rising nausea of fear at what she
was about to see.  She was the first on the scene.  The other officers backed
away, their heads bowed respectfully to let her pass.  The officer at her side
was talking.  He was telling her that it was an unpleasant scene.  That maybe
she didn’t need to see it.  Maybe just stay back at the police car.  But it was
too late.  She could already see shards of light, small flames tearing up into
the sky, illuminating the oversized pine trees as they lined the ravine at the
side of the road.  She knew this corner.  She had read about it many times. 
There had been other car accidents, and she had seen the reports in the
newspaper and the accompanying family photographs.  Now, as she walked across
the road to the broken metal barrier, she felt the officer grip her arm as she
peered over the abyss before her.  There at the bottom were the remains of a
car, white with foam like the aftermath of a nuclear blast and yet still ablaze. 
She couldn’t tell whose.  It was only ten, maybe fifteen metres away, but it
was unrecognisable as the dying flames waved out through the broken windows. 

“Are you sure
it’s Rebecca’s car?”  She turned to the officer, who almost looked like he
didn’t want to confirm it.

“We found her
bag at the side of the ravine.  That’s how we found you.”  The officer tried to
sound as comforting as a stranger could, his words soft and sugar coated.  “The
roof appears to be caved in.  She would have been trapped in the car.”  The
words had stayed with her for a long time. 
She was trapped.  Trapped in
that car,
she had said to herself and to Graham so many times.  For the
first few days, when they hadn’t recovered a body, she had convinced herself
that somehow Rebecca had managed to get herself out, drag herself to safety. 
She would be lost in the forest down in the ravine and it could take days for
her to find her way out.  Search teams did look.  They didn’t find anything.  Elizabeth
had sat by the telephone in their big, empty city apartment day and night.  That
was the worst moment, when she realised that Rebecca was never coming back,
alive or dead. 

After the
conversation with her father, she tried to put the idea of Rebecca being alive
somewhere to the back of her mind.  She forced herself to sit down and finish
the work on the website that she had been avoiding all week.  She cleaned out
the kitchen cupboards and stacked everything back neatly and in order.  She
even dragged out the ironing board to the back garden as the mild summer days
continued and finished ironing the pile of clothes that, in the days where
freedom of thought carried with it no burden, had been left, instead indulging
in summer walks and gardening sessions.  Now, though, she wanted to keep her
mind busy.  She didn’t want to give it the freedom to wander among the crazy
and quite frankly dangerous thoughts that she seemed unable to prevent.  Graham
had called her on Friday lunchtime to see if she had any objections to some
house guests on Saturday.  David and Helen were loud and city-orientated, and
had fitted in much more with their old life before their retreat to the coast. 
But she liked it when they came to stay; they were good company.  They brought with
them that welcome reminder of her youth, before she was able to separate her
life into two parts, marked distinctly down the middle, like a freshly incised
wound, by death.

After
frantically hoovering underneath the spare bed, leaving neat piles of clean
towels, and opening the dormer windows fully to bring fresh summer air into the
usually unused room, she could see their sports car winding down the steep
seafront road, through the hedgerows and tapestry of fields that lined the
approach into Haven.  She had no idea how the Porsche Boxster that she could
see with its top down managed on the steep gradient, but it amused her to think
of the gear box whistling under the pressure of it and of Helen complaining
whilst holding onto the seat as if she were unwillingly in a rally car.  It
would be only another five minutes until they arrived.  She headed downstairs and
set the coffee machine, and she heard the whirring of the filter as it slowly
dripped the hot water into place, clouds of steam rising up and settling on the
back tiles.  There was something special, she thought, about the smell of fresh
coffee when you arrived somewhere.  It was a welcoming smell.  It said ‘come in
and kick your shoes off - we want you here’.  She always felt as if she was
opening her cottage as a Bed and Breakfast when their city friends came to
stay.  But that too was a welcome feeling, and she had told Graham it had been
a great idea to ask them to come and stay:  a real mood changer.

As they pulled
up on the gravel driveway, the tyres skidded under the loose surface as the
Porsche slewed to a halt inches from Graham and Elizabeth’s feet.  David always
drove too fast; Elizabeth thought even more so in the countryside, but it could
also just have been that life was so much slower here.  Everything from the
city seemed fast to her now.

“Seriously, I'm
going to throw up, David!” Helen bellowed, her home county English pronunciation
making her argument sound even the more formal, as she slammed the car door
shut.  She straightened up her neat blouse and neck scarf, and used her hands
to smooth the stray hairs back into her well lacquered French twist.  He didn't
care though.  He had had a great time.

“I love to open
her up in the country baby, you know that,” he chuckled, as he shook his arms
to loosen his shirt, not paying his wife any attention.  Walking over to
Elizabeth, he held his arms out wide.  "Hey gorgeous!  Thanks for having
us!” he said, as he held her in an embrace that was full of warmth. 

As they settled
in to a cup of fresh coffee whilst sat on the patio overlooking the bay, the
pace of the conversation slowly relaxed as the city couple breathed in the
fresh oxygen-rich air, the smell of seaweed still detectable from the churned
up ocean since the storm.  The remnants of the storm were still in evidence in
the garden, with the sound of the waves much stronger over the last few days,
and more than a good scattering of leaves and twigs about the grass.  They made
plans to head down to the beach, where they would walk along the harbour wall,
and stop later at Stewart's fish restaurant where Graham had made reservations.
The weekend had brought back the tourists, and Haven was buzzing today.  David
was glad that Graham had extended the driveway since the last time they were
here so that he didn't have to leave his car outside on the road again when
they went out.  It was true, on a busy weekend, their little road overflowed
with cars parked randomly on the pavement.  Graham had even had a row with one
tourist and owner of a particularly shiny Range Rover.  The driver parked
directly in front of their gate, and when Graham had confronted him, he still
couldn't understand why leaving the car there was so inconvenient.  It was
difficult to see their entrance, and that had been the final incident before
they opened up the front garden, paying the council a small fortune to obtain a
small section of the adjoining land for a visible gate and driveway.  For
somebody who had loved his city life so much, Graham had remarkably taken to
life in Haven.  He was involved in the local council, a real find for them, to
have a sharp city lawyer as a member of their Board.  He had made good friends
with Charles Stewart and had enjoyed a couple of sea fishing trips, proudly returning
with his catch to Elizabeth, who filleted them whilst Graham had sat soaking in
the late afternoon sun with a beer in celebration of his antediluvian achievements.