Secrets of the Tides (4 page)

‘I’d like a sherry,’ Daphne replied quickly, clearly not quite ready to celebrate. ‘And I should think a little sherry would do Helen the world of good too,’ she added, with a meaningful nod. ‘You look a little peaky, my dear.’

It seemed rude to say she didn’t drink sherry so Helen consented with a small nod.

Alfred left at a near-run, seeming to take an age bringing the decanter and glasses through from the dining room, and as Daphne sat smoothing the pleats on her skirt, Helen glanced about, drinking in the casual elegance of the drawing room. The furnishings were pretty and worn, faded floral fabrics and threadbare Persian rugs lending the room a cosy, lived-in feel. Next to an old carriage clock stood a vase of early spring flowers trailing petals across the mantelpiece. A pale cashmere shawl lay strewn across an ornate ottoman. Here and there were oddities and antiques: an old barometer hanging upon one wall; tarnished silver picture frames scattered across a table; eclectic lamps and paintings drawing the eye; while nearest the door stood a sunken leather Chesterfield chair, a hint of stuffing bursting forth from one tatty arm. It was all very chic – perhaps a little busy for Helen’s personal taste, a little overdone – yet there was no denying that the overall effect was one of timeless good taste and style.

‘Do sit down, dear,’ Daphne urged Richard who was pacing nervously by the French doors. He obeyed, sitting next to Helen and taking her hand in his. She could feel a slick of sweat on his palm and they both started as a log fell in the grate, sending sparks spiralling up the chimney.

Eventually Alfred returned, to the relief of them all. He passed around the glasses before offering up a half-hearted toast.

‘To the happy couple.’

They drank in silence.

‘So,’ Daphne tried brightly. ‘Tell us a bit about yourself, Helen.’

The afternoon had limped slowly towards evening and the four adults had shared an uncomfortable meal in the rather grand wood-panelled dining room, seated at a large mahogany table set with linen, silverware and two enormous candlesticks which cast an intimate, flickering golden glow all around them. As Daphne served the meat and passed vegetables around the table and Richard began to talk through their plans, Helen watched a stream of molten wax as it trickled down one of the candlesticks and form a gluey pool on the starched white tablecloth.

‘It makes sense for us to move to London as soon as possible. We’ll look for a flat before I start work at the firm.’ He reached across and gave Helen’s hand an affectionate squeeze. ‘It’s all very exciting.’

‘Yes, and of course Helen can settle you in to your new home. It will be good for her to have a little project while she waits for the baby to arrive,’ agreed Daphne.

Helen raised one sardonic eyebrow at Richard, but he missed the gesture, turning instead to reach for the wine.

‘Of course you must talk to Edmund,’ suggested Daphne. ‘He has places dotted all over London. I’m sure he would love to help you out, Richard. Why don’t you give him a ring?’ Seeing Helen’s curious glance, she turned to her and explained, ‘Edmund’s my brother . . . Richard’s uncle. He’s a lovely man, very kind, and he dotes on Richard.’

Helen nodded politely as she chewed carefully on a green bean; privately she wondered what sort of family just happened to have ‘places dotted all over London’. Sitting here in his family home next to his parents, Richard suddenly seemed even more self-assured and grown-up. She couldn’t help but compare the way he acted with Alfred and Daphne to how she felt when she returned to visit her own parents; it didn’t matter how hard she tried, she always felt more like a petulant teenager than a grown woman.

As the conversation moved along without her, Helen stole covert glances around the grand old room. Along one wall hung a collection of paintings, still lifes and landscapes shimmering seductively in the candlelight. There was a mahogany sideboard, its surface cluttered with an array of items including an elegant silver champagne bucket that looked like it could use a good polish, a dusty old crystal decanter, a hand-carved wooden bowl overflowing with lemons, and a rather beautiful porcelain vase depicting two young women standing beneath the swaying fronds of a weeping willow. The artful chaos of the room contrasted wildly with her parents’ own sterile dining room, with its hostess trolley and electric plate-warmer and the best sherry glasses, polished and permanently out on display. She knew she was a world away from her own mother’s careful domesticity.

The meal progressed slowly, but Helen forced herself to swallow everything Daphne put on her plate, even though her stomach churned with nausea, until, unable to take any more, she had excused herself, claiming tiredness.

‘Of course,’ agreed Daphne. ‘You must be exhausted. I’ve made up the blue room for you, my dear. I hope you’ll be comfortable.’ Richard had already told her they’d be in separate rooms. His parents were old-fashioned like that.

‘I’m sure I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Tide.’

‘Oh, please, call me Daphne. We’re going to be family, after all.’ The false note of cheer fell flat in the room.

‘Yes, thank you, Daphne . . . Well, goodnight, everyone.’

‘Goodnight,’ they cried valiantly at her retreating back.

Helen felt immense relief as she carried herself up the creaking stairs to the guest bedroom. She lay down fully dressed on the generous brass bed and breathed deeply. The faded grandeur continued up here. The bedroom was beautiful, its walls lined with flocked wallpaper in the softest duck-egg blue; a pretty dressing table stood in one corner, a velvet covered stool pulled up in front of its speckled mirror. Dusty, leather-bound books lined a solid mahogany bookcase; a smattering of white lace cushions lay strewn across the window seat, perfectly positioned to look out across the gardens below. A tiny jug of snowdrops had been placed on the bedside table, and at the foot of the bed lay a cosy hand-embroidered quilt, its colours bleached with age and sunshine. Away from the candlelight and conversation downstairs, Helen suddenly felt the night chill close in around her. She shivered and pulled the quilt up over her legs, drinking in the heady smells of fresh laundry, beeswax and money.

It occurred to her then that entering Clifftops was like entering a whole new world, a world whose ground Helen wasn’t quite sure of; it certainly felt as though it were shifting beneath her, as though she could trip or stumble at any given moment. She rested her hands on her belly, wondering for the millionth time if she’d made a mistake deciding to keep the baby, if she was truly ready to give up her dreams and ambitions for the tiny curled being nestled inside her, if she was crazy to tie her life to a man she sometimes felt as though she barely knew, and to a family whose assured sense of place in the world appeared to be so far removed from her own careful, suburban upbringing. And all the while she tried, in vain, to ignore the sounds of angry raised voices drifting up the staircase.

Things had seemed better in the morning. Everyone was more relaxed after a night’s sleep and there was no further mention of weddings or babies as they took breakfast in the conservatory, but Helen was still grateful when Richard suggested a walk, just the two of them.

‘Why is it called Golden Cap?’ she’d asked, feeling clumsy in her borrowed boots and billowing raincoat as they strolled up the coastal path running beside the house.

‘Well, that cliff you can see ahead of us is the highest point on the south coast of England. It gets its name from the exposed yellow sandstone you can see at the summit. I’ve always thought of it like its golden crown.’

Helen gazed at the bald patch crowning the top of the cliff. In the gloom of the overcast skies it didn’t look golden, more of a dirty mustard colour.

Richard read her mind. ‘It’s probably more impressive on a sunny day, but the views are great, it will be worth it, I promise.’

‘So how long has your family lived at Clifftops?’

‘Oh, quite a while now,’ Richard mused, reaching for her hand and tucking it into his warm one. ‘It’s rather romantic actually. Mum and Dad stumbled upon the house whilst on their honeymoon. It was incredibly rundown back then. The farmer who owned the estate had lost a lot of money and then been taken ill so it was little more than a ruin when my parents came upon it. Dad convinced the old chap to sell and then presented the house to Mum as a wedding present. It’s been a labour of love for them both ever since, a complete money pit, of course, but they adore it. I think it was seeing their passion for Clifftops that convinced me to follow in my father’s footsteps and study architecture at university.’

Helen nodded. ‘It’s certainly an unusual old place.’

‘Isn’t it just? You do like it, don’t you?’

Helen sensed her answer was important to him. ‘It’s like nowhere else I’ve been before,’ she replied, and she wasn’t lying. Wandering around the house felt like being on a film set; it was like a box of delights to roam and explore on a rainy afternoon. But an afternoon – a weekend even – she knew would be enough for her. Secretly she couldn’t help thinking she’d go mad rattling around such an isolated and draughty old house, perched as it was on top of the cliffs, with nothing but the tiny hamlet of Summertown within walking distance. Thank goodness their future was to be in London.

‘Come on,’ urged Richard suddenly, ‘I’ll race you to the top!’

‘Wait!’ protested Helen. ‘That’s not fair. I’m carrying two of us here . . .’

But Richard was already flying up the hillside, the wind inflating his Barbour coat and blowing his thick fair hair in such a comical fashion that Helen couldn’t help but laugh at his retreating figure.

It was as she had packed her bag later that afternoon that she’d heard voices from the garden below. She’d peeked out of the open window and seen Daphne and Alfred, side by side in the flower bed running along the back of the house. They were clearing winter mulch from the plants.

‘She seems so . . . quiet . . . aloof, perhaps. Do you think she really does love him?’

Alfred had muttered something she couldn’t hear.

‘She’s lovely looking, beautiful, I suppose,’ Daphne had continued, ‘but I just can’t understand how he could have been so stupid. By all means, he’s a red-blooded young man; of course he’ll want to sow his wild oats. I just thought we’d taught him better than that.’

‘What’s clear to me is that we’ve taught him a sense of responsibility. I’m proud of the way he’s handling it.’ Alfred tried to cheer his wife.

Daphne lowered her voice, but Helen could still make out the words that followed. ‘I mean, how well does he
really
know her? He’s a good catch. How does he know that the baby is even his? Do you think she’s playing games . . . trying to trap him?’

Helen flushed an angry red but she couldn’t pull herself away.

‘He’s no fool, love. And he says he loves her.’

‘But Richard as much as admitted last night that they’ve only known each other for a matter of weeks. It’s sheer madness if you ask me.’

‘You’re forgetting though, buttercup, I knew with you from day one,’ Alfred replied, holding Daphne’s gaze.

‘You old softie, come here.’ As Alfred leaned in to the tender embrace of his wife, Helen withdrew from the window, an ugly churning feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

How dare they presume she was nothing more than a grubby gold digger? How dare they think she had deliberately trapped their son? There she was, trying to do the right thing by the baby – by
their
grandchild – and they stood there accusing her of
that
? She was enraged. After all, things for Richard would carry on as planned. He would finish his Architecture degree. He’d still be able to work at the family firm and carve out his illustrious career. No, it seemed obvious to Helen who was really trapped. It was
she
who would be giving up her dreams of travel and teaching,
she
who would be swapping smoky Parisian cafés and sultry Spanish sunshine for dirty nappies and sleepless nights. How dare they think her so pathetic and impoverished that she would stoop so low? Helen flung the rest of her belongings into her overnight bag. She couldn’t wait to get away from Clifftops and bloody Daphne Tide.

Things had moved quickly after that; Helen had graduated in the summer and she and Richard were married soon after in a quiet register office ceremony in London. Cassie was born just a few months later – a tiny bundle of wrinkled pink skin, blue eyes and fuzzy golden hair. As soon as she clapped her eyes on her daughter, Helen knew she’d done the right thing. There would be plenty of time for her career, later. Then, it was simply enough to just hold her baby close and breathe in the warm, sweet scent of her. Motherhood brought with it an intense love like no other, organic and pure, and Helen felt transformed by it.

Their daughter had an equally softening effect on Daphne Tide. To Helen’s surprise, she appeared at Helen’s bedside in London the day after the birth, carrying with her a small arrangement of late summer flowers.

‘From the garden at Clifftops,’ she’d explained to Helen as she handed them to a harried-looking nurse. ‘Put these in some water, would you?’ She turned back to Helen. ‘May I?’ she asked, holding out her arms for the baby and Helen, swallowing back the urge to clasp her daughter even closer to her breast, handed her over.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Daphne cooed, offering the baby her little finger. ‘She looks just like her father.’

Helen allowed herself a thin smile of triumph and watched as Daphne pulled an extraordinary range of clownish faces at the baby.

‘Tell me, Helen, why did you choose the name Cassandra?’

Helen shrugged. ‘I’ve always loved it. We’ll call her Cassie.’

Daphne gave a sniff. ‘I don’t know my Classics as well as you, of course, but wasn’t Cassandra rather a tragic figure?’

‘Yes, in the end. But she was a princess, one of King Priam’s daughters . . . and a prophet. Besides,’ added Helen, seeing Daphne’s scepticism, ‘it’s only a name, after all.’

The two women fell into silence, both gazing admiringly at the snuffling bundle in Daphne’s arms.