Secrets of the Tides (3 page)

‘That’s nice, have I seen it before?’ Richard asked, entering the room and glancing at the dress now lying on top of the open suitcase.

Helen rolled her eyes. ‘Only about a million times.’

‘Oh . . . well it’s lovely. Are we nearly ready to go?’

Helen bristled.
She
wasn’t the one who had been on the phone all morning. ‘The girls are still dawdling,’ she said, struggling with the zipper on the suitcase until Richard came across and leaned heavily on it for her, ‘but we should be on the road in half an hour or so.’ It was optimistic, but secretly she didn’t mind the delay. She really wasn’t in any great hurry to get down to Dorset and start the week of polite chitchat, country walks and sedate cups of tea with Richard’s parents. She knew it was a Tide family tradition, everyone together at the big house for Easter, and she knew how much Richard loved taking her and the girls to his childhood home, but she longed to spend the holidays quietly at home, just once; a bit of shopping, some reading, pottering around the kitchen, maybe even some gardening. Still, there was no point dreaming; it would never happen. When it came to family traditions, Daphne Tide always got her way.

‘Mum’s very excited about our visit,’ said Richard, as if reading her mind. ‘Apparently she’s been baking all week. And Dad’s thinking about taking the girls sailing.’

‘Lovely,’ said Helen, forcing herself to return her husband’s smile. She would go along with it, as she always did, for the rest of them. It was only a week at Clifftops, after all.

Forty-five minutes later, after a final sweep of the house, a reshuffling of the boot and a last minute panic over Dora’s missing swimming costume, the Tide family locked up their north London terrace and clambered into the car. Miraculously, they made it all the way to Winchester before the first sounds of bickering broke out in the back seat.

‘It’s not fair,’ whined Dora, ‘I never get to choose the music.’ Helen could see her wielding a new boy band album in the rear-view mirror.

‘That’s because you’ve got rubbish taste,’ said Cassie.

‘I have not.’

‘Have too.’

‘Your turn to referee,’ Richard muttered under his breath as he indicated and overtook yet another caravan creeping its way west for Easter.

Helen twisted round in the passenger seat and regarded each of her daughters in turn. Cassie was hunched in the far corner of the back seat, her head turned towards the window, her face obscured by a curtain of blond hair. She was stubborn and Helen already knew she wouldn’t look at her. She turned instead to regard Dora, who stared up at her with imploring green eyes from beneath her wonky home-cut fringe. Helen sighed. ‘Will you two settle down? Your father’s trying to concentrate on the road.’

‘But it’s my turn to choose . . .’ Dora’s cheeks blushed red.

‘If you girls don’t stop squabbling there’ll be no music at all.’

‘B-b-but . . .’ Dora fell silent under her mother’s glare and Helen turned back to the front.

‘You OK, love?’ Richard lifted a hand from the steering wheel and placed it on her arm.

‘Uh-huh,’ she nodded, watching an endless ribbon of cats’ eyes speed towards them. She was getting one of her headaches, and frankly she’d have preferred a bit of peace and quiet to the relentless thud of pop music; still, it was definitely preferable to one of Cassie’s tantrums. She sighed quietly to herself; in twelve years the trip had never got any easier.

She could still remember the very first time she had travelled with Richard to Clifftops. It had been a bleak day in March, the sky so thick with cloud it made you wonder whether the sun would ever really shine again. She’d sat in the car nervously plaiting and replaiting the leather fringe on her handbag as Richard drummed percussion on the steering wheel with his fingers and they’d sped ever closer to the house he had grown up in and the parents she would soon, should everything go to plan, be calling her in-laws.

‘They’re going to love you,’ he reassured her. ‘Almost as much as I do.’

‘And the baby?’ she asked, stroking her barely-there bump protectively.

Richard’s glance followed her hands before returning to the road. ‘Let me handle that. It’ll be fine. Trust me.’

And she had, implicitly, which was strange because they’d only really known each other a matter of months. Helen had been in her final year of university, studying as a Classics undergraduate. Richard – a little older – was finishing up five years of his Architecture degree to start a placement at his father’s firm. They’d met, predictably, where most students did: in the pub. And they had hit it off right away.

Richard was tall and fair-haired with cornflower-blue eyes, broad shoulders and the sort of grown-up confidence that comes from being a beloved only child. Helen had noticed him watching her from across the bar. She’d gambled and smiled back at him and he told her later that it was that first smile that had got him, hook, line and sinker. Love at first sight, that’s what he called it. He’d made his way over to their table and introduced himself. She’d liked the way he did it, straightforward and honest, no corny chat-up lines, no leering and winking at his friends. Right from the word go he had seemed good and honest and kind. And if what little experience she’d had with men up until then had taught her anything, it was that those qualities were very rare indeed.

They’d dated for a few weeks and it had been fun. He’d taken her to rugby matches and offered her his coat as she’d shivered in the stands. He booked tables at romantic candlelit restaurants and gave her a crash course in architecture by escorting her around the city pointing out the buildings and styles he particularly admired. They’d argued bitterly over politics and could never seem to find a film they both wanted to see, but all was forgotten when they fell into bed together at the end of the night, their differences seeming to ignite a passion that was best served in bed. Dating Richard was a new experience for Helen; he seemed far more grown-up than previous boyfriends, more attentive and self-assured. Even when she had discovered, with stomach-clenching terror, that she was pregnant, he’d been a rock. She could tell from the pallor of his face and the slight tremble in his hands that it was a shock, yet right from the off he’d said all the right things. It was her decision to make. He would support her, no matter what. And, once she’d decided to keep the baby, his proposal had followed just a week later, a beautiful antique diamond ring winking up at her from across the table of a local Italian restaurant.

‘It’s the right thing to do, Helen. Let’s give this baby the best start we can. Let’s create a life together. You and me.’

Helen hadn’t been sure at first. It was scary enough deciding whether to keep the baby. Motherhood was one thing . . . did she really need to be a wife too? ‘Lots of people have children these days and don’t get married,’ she’d said. ‘We can be one of those terribly modern couples who—’

‘No, Helen,’ he’d insisted, ‘I love you. If we’re going to have a child, let’s at least do it right.’

‘Where will we live? What will we do for money? I was going to travel . . . get a job . . .’

‘I’ve got some savings. My family . . . well . . . we’re comfortable. We’ll manage. We’ll have this baby and then you can start your career when the baby’s a bit older. It’s not a life sentence, you know,’ he’d tried to joke. ‘You don’t have to give up everything, Helen.’ He had been so reassuring. He’d slipped the ring onto her finger with a broad grin and almost immediately begun to discuss the arrangements for a trip down to Dorset to meet his parents, leaving Helen with nothing to do but stare disbelievingly at the large jewel sparkling extravagantly on her ring finger. It was romantic. It was terrifying. And it was clear that life would never be the same again.

They’d driven straight to the beach, that very first time, so they could stretch their legs after the long journey. Richard had been hoping for a romantic walk along the shore, but the lead-coloured sea lashed against the pebbles, and a bitter wind raged at them, tearing at their coats. They stumbled and shivered their way along the shoreline until they both admitted defeat and hurried back to the car, heads bowed.

‘Well, that was a great success,’ joked Richard, fiddling with the car heater. ‘There’s nowhere quite like England in the spring, is there?’

Helen laughed, despite her nerves, and put one hand on his warm knee.

He drove them back through the sleepy seaside hamlet of Summertown, past tiny candy-coloured cottages and down treacherous, twisting lanes until at last they passed through a set of discreet wrought-iron gates and up a long and winding driveway. The car tyres crunched loudly on gravel as they sped past the wind-whipped sycamores lining the route up to the house.

‘There she is!’ Richard exclaimed, pointing to a large stone building looming in the distance. ‘There’s Clifftops. There’s my home.’

Helen could still remember how her breath had caught in her throat. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the beautiful old house that had darted in and out of view between the branches of the windswept trees. It was a wonderful nineteenth-century farmhouse, perfectly proportioned and spread across the promontory in an attractive L-shape, as if it had tired of the sea’s buffeting embrace and turned one shoulder away from it. Much of the whitewashed exterior was adorned with trailing ivy which wrapped its way across the front of the house and all around the wide sash windows, and in the very centre stood a carved stone arch which framed an ancient oak front door, worn smooth over the years. The house was lit up from within, a warm orange light radiating from every visible window while at either end of the slate roof a chimney sent promising plumes of dove-grey smoke curling up into the darkening sky. Down the hillside Helen could just make out a long, sprawling lawn leading off to a gated fruit orchard, beyond which lay the white-capped wash of the sea. She knew, without even stepping one foot inside the house, that the views would be spectacular. The house alone was heart-stoppingly lovely, a picture-book farmhouse the likes of which Helen had only read about in children’s stories, but it was made all the more dramatic by its isolated position on the windswept bluff overlooking Lyme Bay. To Helen it screamed of romantic, windswept trysts and secret smugglers’ encounters.

‘You could have told me you were lord of the bloody manor!’ she cried, cringing inwardly at the thought of her parents’ cramped suburban semi.

‘It’s not
that
big,’ Richard laughed. ‘It’s deceptive from this angle.’

‘Huh!’ she snorted.

He reached across and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze but as they approached the house seemed to sprawl further and further across the promontory, rising up proudly against the skyline.

‘I can see how it got its name,’ she managed finally in a small voice, suddenly terrified at the prospect of meeting his parents and of spending two days in such daunting surroundings.

Thankfully, the reception inside the house had proved warmer than down on the beach. Daphne and Alfred Tide were delighted to see their son, and the initial introductions with Helen had seemed to go well. Helen thought Richard’s father was charming. Alfred was an older version of his son; tall, broad-shouldered with silver hair, an easy smile and the same clear blue eyes as Richard. He pumped Helen’s hand up and down enthusiastically as she walked through the oak front door and gave Richard a cheeky, approving wink when he thought she wasn’t looking. Helen then turned to Daphne, Richard’s mother, and knew with just one look that the attractive, grey-haired lady standing before her would prove more difficult to impress. She had a strong, serious face, steely grey eyes and the sort of posture that suggested years of Swiss finishing school. She wore a smart blue woollen dress and a string of pearls around her neck and Helen, standing next to her in the best dress she owned, felt cheap and shabby by comparison. Daphne’s welcome had been warm enough but Helen could feel the woman’s cool, appraising gaze sweep over her as she turned to answer more of Alfred’s exuberant questions; it was the predatory gaze of a mother scrutinising her son’s partner for signs of weakness or future heartbreak.

They’d taken afternoon tea in the drawing room in front of a roaring log fire that crackled and spat in the large stone hearth. ‘A little indulgent, perhaps,’ Alfred had half apologised as they’d settled themselves on the faded chintz sofas, ‘but it’s such a chilly day out there I thought a nice fire would be just the ticket.’

Helen had smiled and held her hands out to the flames, grateful for the warmth emanating from the grate as the four adults settled into the required social niceties. They covered Richard and Helen’s drive down to Dorset, Daphne’s new appliquéd cushion covers and the wild weather outside before Richard cleared his throat and told them he had a little announcement. Helen tensed and tried to ignore the worried glance Daphne threw Alfred.

He’d started with the good news. ‘Helen and I have decided to get married.’

‘Well,’ exclaimed Daphne, ‘my goodness. What a surprise!’ Then after a pause, ‘My goodness . . .’ she repeated, fiddling with the single strand of pearls around her neck. She seemed to run out of words and looked across at her husband for help. Alfred began to clear his throat but Richard interjected before he could speak.

‘Helen’s pregnant.’

Alfred seemed to check himself at the news of the baby. He looked back at his wife helplessly.

‘We know it’s all happening rather fast,’ admitted Richard, looking from his mother to his father, and then back to his mother, ‘and it’s going to take a little time for you both to get used to the idea, but all you really need to know is that we love each other, we want to have this baby, and we’ve decided to get married this summer.’

The silence stretched on and on until, at last, Daphne found her voice. ‘Well, my darling, you’re right; this is all happening
very
fast. Goodness. Perhaps we should all have a little drink. What do you say, Alfie dear?’

Grateful for something to do, Alfred leapt into action. ‘Yes, yes, of course, Daffy. Jolly good idea. Whisky? Sherry? Or perhaps we should open a bottle of bubbly? I think we’ve got some in the cellar . . .’