Secrets of the Tides (50 page)

‘You dark horses!’ cries Richard. ‘So you just sneaked off this morning and tied the knot, did you? Thought you could avoid all the fuss, eh?’

Cassie sees Helen release Dora and look searchingly into her eyes. She knows their mother is disappointed, probably feeling shut out from Dora’s big day, but she is, at least, trying to hide it.

‘Didn’t you want a party? We would have thrown you a wonderful wedding if you’d wanted one, you know. I’d always thought you might get married here at the little church in Summertown. We could have put a marquee up in the garden—’

‘I know, Mum,’ says Dora, cutting her off. ‘I’m sorry if you feel we cheated you out of a big family day, but we only decided earlier this week to do it. It was a spur of the moment thing and we really didn’t want a big fuss. It just seemed right this way. I’m not sure I could have faced that church. You know?’

Helen gives a little nod of understanding.

‘I thought it was about time I made an honest woman out of her,’ adds Dan with a smile, throwing an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

‘You’re not
too
disappointed, are you? It really seemed like the best way, for us.’

Helen shakes her head and smiles. ‘No, darling, if you’re happy then I’m happy.’

Cassie sees the tension leave her mother’s shoulders.

‘Well I’m peeved!’ exclaims Violet theatrically. ‘There goes another excuse for a posh new frock. Thanks, Dora!’

Richard rolls his eyes and they all burst out laughing around the table.

‘So it looks like we have another toast then,’ he adds. ‘To the happy couple . . . and happy Christmas!’

‘Happy Christmas!’ they all chime.

As the hullabaloo eventually dies down Betty Dryden leans across to Cassie. ‘What was that, dear?’ she whispers. ‘Are they having twins?’

It is agreed by everyone that Helen’s meal is a triumph. The seven of them sit around the old mahogany dining table talking and laughing and feasting on roast lamb and a perfect Cabernet Sauvignon that Richard produces from the cellar with a flourish. Cassie eats heartily and watches the proceedings with interest. It seems her mother and father have become friends in recent months. There is a lightness to their exchanges and laughter that she doesn’t remember from years gone by. All of the brittle tension, all the thinly veiled insults and sniping criticisms have disappeared. In their place remains a genuine, good-natured banter and a warm affection for each other. It seems her mother and father have found each other at last, as just good friends.

After dinner the group retires to the sitting room. Helen makes coffee and produces a plate of delicate, home-made petits fours that Betty has baked earlier that day. Then Violet, tipsy on red wine and cognac instigates a riotous game of charades that pits the competitive spirits of Dora and Richard against each other and keeps them all up drinking and laughing until gone eleven.

‘Oh goodness, is that really the time?’ Betty exclaims, peering at her watch. ‘I clean forgot about Midnight Mass!’

Much kissing and hugging ensues as the party breaks up and they all begin to bid each other goodnight. It is decided that Richard, Violet, Betty and Dan will head out to the village church. Cassie and Dora want to stay back. There is clearing up to do and Dora is tired. The sisters stand on the doorstep waving the merry party off into the night.

‘I’m knackered!’ exclaims Dora as the last torch beams disappear down the driveway. ‘I’ll just help with the washing up and then I think I’d better turn in otherwise I’ll be a total waste of space tomorrow.’

‘Yes, and you might miss Father Christmas too, if you don’t go up soon!’ teases Cassie.

‘Ha ha!’ laughs Dora. ‘So are you sleeping in your old room tonight?’

‘I guess so. I just kind of assumed . . .’

‘Yes, I’ve put you in your old room, Cass,’ interrupts Helen, coming down the hall with the last of the glasses. ‘Do you mind? Richard and Violet are in the guest room. Dora and Dan are in Dora’s room. So I’ve put you back in your old room too. It seemed like the right thing . . .’ Helen trails off with a worried frown, suddenly unsure.

‘It’s fine, Mum,’ reassures Cassie.

‘Oh good,’ says Helen. She seems to want to say something else. The three of them stand awkwardly, waiting, until finally, she speaks. ‘Look, girls, I know you’re tired. Let’s leave all of this mess until the morning. There’s something I wouldn’t mind showing you both now. Will you come upstairs with me?’

The girls nod, intrigued, and follow Helen up the back staircase, exchanging glances as they go. It seems Dora is in the dark too. They pass the girls’ bedroom doors and carry on past the bathroom until they come to a stop outside Alfie’s old bedroom. Helen turns to them both with a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking it’s time I cleared out Alfie’s room.’

Dora puts her hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Mum, that’s a great idea. Truly. It’s definitely time.’

Helen fiddles with one of the rings on her finger, twisting it around and around nervously. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would be upset?’

Cassie shakes her head. ‘No, it’s time we all moved on.’

‘So you don’t mind?’

‘No!’ they both exclaim again in unison.

‘Seriously, Mum,’ Dora says, ‘it’s the right thing to do. It must be awful living in this house with this . . . this shrine still here, exactly as it was the day Alfie died.’

Helen nods. ‘I think it would be a relief to clear some things away. I thought you might be upset if I changed it, but it does feel like the right time.’

Cassie reaches out and takes her other hand. ‘We can help you, Mum, OK? You shouldn’t have to do this all by yourself.’

‘Thanks, girls. I started with a few small things earlier this week, but there are so many memories in there.’ She squeezes Cassie’s hand back tightly. ‘I thought you both might like to keep some of his things as well.’ She turns to look at Dora too. ‘You know, for you both to remember him by . . . and for the baby of course.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ says Dora. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Well, then. I guess we should go in?’ Helen asks.

‘Yes,’ agrees Cassie with a deep breath. ‘Let’s go in.’

Helen pushes open the door and the two women follow her silently into the quietness of the little boy’s room.

It is early when Cassie wakes the next morning, not yet six and still dark outside. She lies under the down duvet for a moment, luxuriating in its warmth and listening to the utter stillness of the house around her. Then slowly, as her eyes adjust to the gloom, she looks around at the posters and magazine pull-outs, tacked like trophies onto her bedroom walls, the memorabilia of a long-lost childhood. It is as though she’s boarded a Tardis and stepped back in time ten or so years. She stares with detachment at the emaciated models, the moody pouts and the sulky, dark-kohled eyes of the rock stars surrounding her: heroes of a bygone era. There is no denying she had been experimenting with a grunge phase back then.

Suddenly Cassie knows exactly where she wants to be. She looks at her watch. There is plenty of time before anyone will notice she has slipped out and she can be there well before breakfast if she hurries. Leaping out of bed she hops around the room pulling on an old pair of jeans, two pairs of thick socks, a T-shirt and a fleece jumper. It is cold outside and she’ll need to wrap up to stay warm.

Down in the kitchen only the hum of the refrigerator and Gormley’s gentle snores break the deep silence of the house. The dog opens one eye as she passes, thumps his tail in greeting, yawns and sinks back into sleep once more. In the cloakroom she is faced with a huge array of coats and boots to choose from. Most of them look as though they haven’t been worn in years, probably remnants from her grandparents’ era. It really doesn’t matter what she looks like, so she chooses a large Barbour jacket. It smells of damp earth and tobacco and swamps her slight frame but it makes her feel cosy and safe so she puts it on and does up the poppers. Then she slips her feet into old wellington boots and lets herself quietly out the back door.

It is freezing. Cold air bites at her cheeks and fights to infiltrate the gaps in her clothing, but she turns the collar of her coat up and pushes her hands deeper into the wool-lined pockets, hunching her shoulders and turning determinedly towards the Cap. There is just the faintest glimmer of steely grey light on the horizon as she stomps out across the garden and down into the orchard below.

Cassie walks and walks and gradually the grey first light gives way to a washed-out pastel-coloured dawn. As her body begins to warm up and her muscles relax she lowers her shoulders, raises her head and begins to take in the vista around her. Just like her bedroom, the local landscape is relatively unchanged. Winter has scrubbed the countryside to a dull, earthy palette, but as she tramps down muddy laneways and stamps across fields, familiar landmarks and views greet her like old friends. There is the gnarly old yew tree standing, solitary and alone, in Farmer Plummer’s wheat field. It has been sculpted over the years by an unforgiving sea breeze into an exaggerated arch, its branch tips virtually sweeping the ground as it leans into its yogic pose. She walks beside hedgerows, now muted in their winter hues, guiding her on a familiar course. She smooths the scratchy bark of an old stile with the palm of her hand before hoisting herself up and over, reassured to feel it tilt and groan in its customary fashion. And there is the constant, soothing sound of water babbling companionably beside her as she walks along the banks of the meandering stream they had played poohsticks in all those summers ago. The steady splosh and squelch of her wellingtons makes her feel like a young girl again. It is disconcerting, and yet, Cassie realises, also strangely comforting. She is home.

It is the sight of the sea though, that brings her to a halt. As she rounds the top of the Cap, there it is suddenly laid out before her, an asphalt wash of ocean. In the early morning light it looks ominous and challenging; a cold, deep engine of water roiling and buffeting against the shore below. She stands for a moment and inhales its salty breath, suddenly unsure whether she wants to continue down the slope. But she has come this far; with fresh resolve she puts one foot in front of the other and continues down the walking track towards the beach.

The sun has risen by the time she reaches the pebbled beach below but it is an overcast morning and its light is nothing more than a pallid glow behind a blanket of heavy grey clouds. Now that she is closer she can hear the roar of breakers dumping onto the shore before sucking the water back through the shingle like an old man straining tea through his teeth. Across the pebbles, at the far end of the beach she can just make out a colony of stiff-legged seagulls huddled in a cluster, their feathers bristling in the raw winter breeze. And beyond them, in the far distance, is the splash and spray of salt water rising up off the rock pools. Cassie turns and begins her determined march across the pebbles.

It is the first time Cassie has visited the Crag since the search for Alfie had been called off; the first time she has entered its gloomy depths in over ten years. She is surprised to find her hands and feet remember the old holds and crevices and she pulls herself up over the rocky ledge with ease, dropping down into the cavernous space below, her feet landing with a crunch on the sandy floor. She blinks several times, trying to erase the inky blackness before her eyes and gradually it clears a little, allowing her to look around in the half-light and observe her surroundings. She can make out the graffiti scrawls on the stone walls, a huge pile of bottles and cans at one end of the cave and a faded red T-shirt hanging off a long branch of driftwood that has been hoisted like the bedraggled flag of an army of lost youth.

Cassie shivers. Now that she is still the cold seeps quickly into her bones.

The low stone boulder that has always sat in the centre remains; even more so now it reminds her of a strange ceremonial table; a sacrificial altar. She moves towards it, remembering with sudden clarity a series of images from
that
day: the flash of Sam’s white teeth as she laughed a throaty laugh at one of her jokes; the high-pitched squeal of Alfie as he hunted for bats in the darkest corners; the steady drip, drip, drip of moisture falling off lichen as she and Sam kissed and kissed until her head spun and she had to stop; Dora, standing at the entrance to the cave, her hands on her hips, looking hot and cross. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. There are goose pimples on her arms and if she didn’t know better, she could have sworn she could still smell the smoke from Sam’s heady spliffs hanging in the air. Standing there, in the darkness of the cave, it is as if ten whole years have simply been erased. Time has played a cruel trick; she is back in the shadows of that one, tragic day.

Cassie walks to the centre of the cave. The flat stone lying in the middle is cold and damp under her fingers. She rubs at its rough edges and blows a thin layer of sand from its surface, just as she remembers Sam had done. As her breath leaves her body it fogs white against the blackness. It is deathly cold, colder even than outside on the beach, but she ignores her discomfort. Looking around at the daubed walls of the cave she suddenly knows why she has come. She knows what she has to do.

It only takes a few minutes to find a rusty shard of metal half buried in the ground, and twenty more or so to complete her task, but she is trembling violently by the time she throws down the blade and stands back to survey her work.

The words gleam back at her, carved white into the grey of the stone.

Alfie Tide: beloved son and brother

The blunt metal instrument has been surprisingly effective. It isn’t much of a memorial, nothing compared to the garden she has brought back to life, but it feels right. It is the right place; and it is indelible; it will stand for ever, a monument to her brother’s short life.

‘Goodbye, Alfie,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry.’

From somewhere far behind her there comes the faintest of sighs, a soft, sad whisper that floats away into the darkness almost as soon as she has heard it.

Cassie turns and peers into the darkness.