Secrets of the Tides (10 page)

‘Richard, it’s been weeks. We can’t live in a mausoleum for the rest of our lives.’

‘I don’t expect us to live in a mausoleum.’

‘But you would like me to check with you every time I shift a chair, every time I move a photo frame?’

‘You’re being ridiculous now.’ Richard sighed, aware that he was fighting a losing battle. He looked up at the painting again and outwardly flinched. ‘It’s just so dark . . . and . . .’ he struggled to find the right word, ‘depressing.’

‘Well I can’t take it back. The artist gave me a special price. He knocked two hundred pounds off . . .’

Richard’s eyes widened. ‘Two hundred pounds
off
? How much did it cost in the first place?’

‘Three.’

‘Three hundred?’ Richard asked, confused.

‘No, three thousand.’ There was a pause. ‘What?’ Helen asked. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Helen, we just don’t have that kind of money to throw around.’

‘Rubbish! What about the money your parents left you?’

‘It’s not a bottomless pit, love. There’s inheritance tax and the upkeep of this place to think about. The damp-proof course is going to need work, and the boiler is on its last legs.’ Richard ran his hands through his hair and sighed. ‘We’re not rolling in money. It’s all tied up in this old place and the estate. We have to be careful.’ He looked round, suddenly aware of two sets of ears flapping madly, and then turned back to Helen with a meaningful look. ‘Girls, why don’t you run outside and play.’

‘What about tea?’ Dora asked. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Have some toast,’ Helen snapped. ‘I’ll come and make something in a bit.’

Cassie shrugged her shoulders and trooped across to the door. ‘Come on, Dora. I’ll make cheese on toast.’

The two girls shuffled out of the living room, trying to ignore the sound of raised voices as the door swung shut behind them. They both knew dark storm clouds had swept in off the horizon again.

DORA

Present Day

Feeling like an unannounced guest, Dora knocks tentatively at the front door. She is greeted by resounding silence. Realising her mother must be in the garden, she makes her way round to the side of the house, lets herself through a wooden gate and then makes for the terrace, all the way trying to shake the feeling that she is somehow trespassing.

From a distance Clifftops had exuded its usual picture-book appeal, but as Dora enters the garden she notices things are a little different. It’s still lovely. The trees in the orchard are laden with late spring blossom and the garden rustles and stirs in the warmth; but there are little things that give the property an unkempt feel. There’s a wheelbarrow that’s been left to rust by the manure pile; the lawn is overgrown and littered with scruffy tufts of daisies and dandelions; piles of leaves, the remnants of last autumn, are clumped around the terrace and Dora notices a dripping gutter and paint peeling from the window frames. Individually they are all small over-sights, nothing that an efficient handyman couldn’t put right in a few days, but collectively they make the house feel tired and a little shabby. It’s not how she remembers the old place.

‘Hello there, you’re just in time for tea.’

Dora jumps at the sound of a voice. ‘Hello, Mum, gosh, you startled me!’

Helen appears from behind a trellis of clematis and walks towards Dora, carefully removing her gardening gloves and straightening her shirt before embracing her. Their hug is stiff and awkward and Dora notices her mother’s lips only just graze her cheek.

Helen pulls back and regards her through narrowed eyes. ‘You look tired,’ she says finally.

Dora realises she’s fiddling with the hair that has blown loose from her ponytail and jams her hands back into her pockets. ‘A bit, yeah.’

‘How was the drive?’

‘Fine, thanks. You’re looking well, Mum. And the garden is . . . blooming.’ Dora winces. She’s more nervous than even she realised.

‘Yes,’ agrees Helen, surveying the garden with concern. ‘It’s certainly a handful for me on my own now.’ The two women stand side by side for a moment, silently regarding the enormity of Helen’s responsibilities. ‘Well, come on inside. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Dora follows her mother into the shade of the house, taking the chance to study Helen as she walks in front. She hasn’t changed much. She is a stylish woman, not yet fifty and trim in cotton trousers and a sage-green shirt. Dora notices a fresh peppering of grey in her thick, dark bob, a few more lines around her jade-green eyes, but she is still beautiful.

Helen lays her gardening gloves on the counter and moves to fill the kettle. ‘I’m out of tea leaves, I’m afraid. I didn’t make it to the shops this morning. Do you mind a bag?’ She holds up a box of expensive-looking Earl Grey tea bags.

Dora gives a little smile. She usually drinks what Dan refers to as ‘builder’s brew’: one bag of own-brand left to stew for ten minutes. ‘That’s fine, thank you,’ she says. ‘So,’ she adds, eager to keep the conversation flowing, ‘how is village life treating you?’

‘Oh, not too bad. We’ve been having a wonderful spring, lovely and warm. The locals have been in a tizzy about the village shop closing down – petitions and all sorts. And of course preparations have begun for the
event of the year
.’

Dora looks up at her mum questioningly.

‘You know,’ Helen continues, ‘the annual village flower show? The local spinsters are elbow-deep in a flurry of cake baking and flower arranging. They say it’s going to be very competitive this year, particularly in the jams and fruit cake categories.’ Sarcasm drips from her mother’s voice and Dora can’t help but smile. Helen has never been one for the politics and gossip of village life. It’s nothing short of ironic that her mother should be the one left living in the old house, like Daphne Tide reincarnated.

‘Oh yes,’ Helen continues, ‘did you hear that dear Bill Dryden passed away a few months ago? Pancreatic cancer. You remember him, don’t you? He used to manage the estate here. His wife Betty was distraught, poor thing.’ Helen pours boiling water into a teapot and arranges mismatching china on a tray. Dora watches, filled with a sudden sadness. She recalls in a flash Bill’s big, strong arms swinging her round and round until her giggles had turned to dizzy protests and he’d put her down. It has been years since she has seen him but the memories are still fresh. ‘Such a good man,’ Helen continues, rattling teacups and digging silver spoons out of the overflowing cutlery drawer. ‘He was so dedicated to his job here and wonderful with you kids. They held a lovely service for him. The church was packed.’

‘That’s nice,’ Dora murmurs, still shocked. ‘I always liked Bill.’

‘Anyway,’ says Helen, suddenly brisk again, ‘shall we take our tea in the conservatory? It’s lovely in there at this time of day.’ She’s talking in her polite ‘visitors’ voice and Dora realises her mother must be as nervous as she is. It makes her feel slightly better.

Helen picks up the tray and Dora follows her out of the kitchen, wandering past the open door to the library, glimpsing her mother’s old oak desk overflowing in its usual fashion with papers and books. She passes a table in the hallway clustered with a collection of family photos, their silver frames dusty and spotted with age. There is one of Daphne and Alfred’s sepia-toned wedding photos, a shot of Cassie sitting sullen and straight-backed in her school uniform and one of Dora as a baby lying on a tartan blanket chewing on her fist. Behind them all is a smaller framed photo she has forgotten all about, until now. She peers at it more closely and sees it is of her, Cassie and their father, down on the beach. Cassie looks lovely; all of about eleven or twelve, with her blond hair blowing in the wind and her serious blue eyes staring straight into the camera. She sees herself running behind, a skinny, young girl lost in a fit of toothy giggles, and behind them both stands their father, his cheeks ruddy and his smile broad as he shakes saltwater from his damp, fair hair. He looks as though he’s just been for a swim and while she can’t really remember the day, she has a vague recollection of a chilly Easter picnic. Still, the image is startling to her. It is the sight of the three of them down by the shoreline – so young and happy and innocent – that makes her stomach twist. She wonders how her mother can stand to look at it. She gives a little shudder and turns away from the photo, racing to catch Helen who has already disappeared down the hallway with the tea tray.

They enter the brightness of the conservatory and settle themselves in creaking wicker chairs. Her announcement weighs heavily upon her but she daren’t speak just yet. She needs to get it just right so instead she lets Helen continue with her monologue of Summertown life while Dora half listens, keeping one eye on a huge, luminous bluebottle scrabbling in vain at the only shut window. It hurls itself at the glass, desperate to escape the stifling atmosphere. I know the feeling, thinks Dora.

‘And so what of you? How is life in London . . . and how’s Daniel?’ Helen’s questions break through her daydream.

Dora decides to start with the safer topics. ‘Dan’s good. His last exhibition went well and he’s got some new commissions. There’s a lady in Highgate who wants three of his bronzes for her garden. That’s why he couldn’t make it this weekend.’ Dora pauses, wondering if now is the moment, then chickens out. ‘And I’ve been promoted at work.’

‘Oh yes?’ says Helen.

‘Yes . . . I’ve just been made Senior Account Manager. We won a new client, breakfast cereals. We stole the business from our biggest rivals. I only found out yesterday but to be honest, it’s a bit of a coup in the advertising world – my boss is over the moon,’ she adds, aware that she’s gabbling.

‘That’s wonderful,’ Helen says again, taking another sip of tea and Dora pauses for a moment, watching the shadow of a bird flit across the far wall. She is unsure how to continue.

The bluebottle suddenly stops its agitated buzz at the window and the room falls deathly silent.

‘And you, are you well?’ Helen asks, glancing up. ‘You look a little pale.’

First tired. Now pale. Dora marvels at how her mother’s simple observations can sound more like criticism rather than concern. ‘I’m . . . fine.’ She thinks for a minute. ‘Yes, fine,’ she says again, and then, taking a deep breath, Dora finally says it out loud. ‘Actually, I’m pregnant.’

There is a heavy silence.

‘Only seven weeks or so, but definitely pregnant.’

Whether it is speaking the words out loud into the charged atmosphere of the room, or the relief of unburdening her news, or perhaps just the sheer terror she is consumed by, Dora doesn’t know, but suddenly she is horrified to find that she is crying. Her body heaves and shakes as she releases noisy sobs into the stillness of the room.

She cries uncontrollably for a minute or so, a cascade of messy wet tears, before, in a vain attempt to compose herself, she runs her fingers under her eyes to catch the streaks of mascara, wipes her wet face on her sleeve and then reaches across for her cup of tea. She is mortified. This isn’t what she’d intended. She takes a couple of slurps of her cold tea and then looks across at her mother. Helen is still seated, seemingly frozen in her chair, her face tight and suddenly pale. Dora gazes at her searchingly, waiting for the questions, a comment, the slightest registering of concern or joy but Helen remains utterly still, like a statue.

Dora waits a little longer. The room feels airless and Dora suddenly has the strangest feeling: maybe she isn’t really there at all. Maybe this is just another one of her nightmares. Perhaps she is nothing more than a ghost. She feels lightheaded. Insubstantial. Invisible.

Finally she can stand it no longer. ‘Mum?’ she asks. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?
Anything at all?
’ Her embarrassment is morphing quickly into fury.

Helen pauses, her teacup midway between her lap and her lips. Then she lets out a small sigh, a sound like a gust of wind passing through the branches of the trees outside.

Dora stares at her mother. ‘Mum? I’m having a baby. Did you hear me?’

Finally Helen turns to look at her daughter. ‘I heard you, Dora.’

‘And?’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Well, I’m no expert in these matters, Mum, but “congratulations”, I believe, is still the usual response.’ Dora can no longer keep the anger from her voice. She isn’t used to speaking so bluntly with her mother; in the past she has always been keen to avoid confrontation, to play the peacemaker. But this is too much.

‘Congratulations then,’ says Helen, but Dora notices she still cannot meet her eye.

She shakes her head in amazement. ‘You just can’t be happy for me, can you?’

Helen remains silent.

‘I don’t know why I bothered to come. I hoped things might be different. I hoped we might be able to put everything behind us. I thought my news . . .’ she trails off. ‘But I was wrong, wasn’t I? Nothing’s changed.’

Helen keeps her face turned to the garden. It feels like a dismissal and Dora wears it like a physical slap to her cheek. The blood rushes to her face. She slams her teacup onto the table between them and stands quickly. And then, unexpectedly, a rush of words comes.