Secrets of the Tides (9 page)

‘Is that right?’ He took several long puffs from the pipe and then exhaled smoke in a long, slow stream.

‘Yes. Dad’s away with work a lot, but now whenever he is here they just seem to fight all the time.’ Cassie shot a glance towards her sister, checking she was out of earshot. ‘Dora hates it. It makes her really upset.’

‘Does it now?’

‘Yes, I think she’s scared they’re going to get a divorce and then we’ll have to move back to London and we’ll never be allowed to get a dog.’

‘And what about you, Cassie, are you worried?’

Cassie shrugged. ‘Not really, I don’t want a dog.’

Bill let out a small cough.

‘I think Mum needs a job.’

Bill nodded sagely. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘You know, sometimes I wonder if they even really love each other.’ She’d blurted it out before she’d realised and blushed at her daring.

‘Love’s a funny thing, Cassie.’

Cassie looked up.

‘It’s like this here orchard. Look around you. Not much to see right now, is there? It looks a little sleepy, forlorn even. But it’s all a cycle. Winter, spring, summer, autumn. Real love, I mean deep, true love is like that. It takes root, grows, and changes shape. Sometimes it seems to fade, other times it’s in full bloom. Nothing stays the same for ever. Things change, life moves forwards. But if it’s true love, like the love that entwines a family, then it’s always there simmering beneath the surface, just waiting to burst forth again.’

Cassie looked up at the branches of the apple tree she sat beneath. They were brown and bare, but here and there she could see green shoots of life sprouting, buds that would soon bear beautiful blossom and before long heavy apples that would bend the boughs.

‘So do you . . . do you love Mrs Dryden like that then?’ Cassie held her breath, unsure if she was allowed to ask such a personal question.

But Bill nodded his head solemnly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve been married fifty years this summer and I wouldn’t have missed a single day, not even the ones when we fought like cat and dog. I’m sure your parents are like that too, Cassie. Deep down they love each other.’

Cassie nodded, feeling a little better.

‘What are you two talking about?’ asked Dora. She was dragging her giant branch triumphantly behind her.

‘Just putting the world to rights,’ said Bill smoothly.

‘Oh.’ Dora looked disappointed. ‘Should I go and get some more trees then?’

‘I’d be happy for your help, I surely would,’ smiled Bill, ‘but tell me, isn’t that your father I can hear calling for you up at the house?’

Cassie turned her head and sure enough she heard their dad’s bellows from the top of the garden.

‘Beach time!’ shouted Dora. She took off up the hill at a sprint, calling out her goodbyes over her shoulder.

Cassie gave Bill an apologetic look. ‘Sorry about that, Dad’s promised us a trip to the beach.’

Bill laughed. ‘I understand; my bonfire is no competition for that. But we’ll see you both at the house sometime? Drop by whenever you want. My Betty would love to see you.’

‘We’ll be there.’

‘Good-oh.’

Cassie waved and then turned on her heel, heading off up the hill to her waiting father.

There were other familiar faces too; faces from their old life in London. In May, Violet Avery came to stay. Violet was Helen’s oldest friend. The two women were like chalk and cheese, but they had been friends since their earliest schooldays – Violet loved to tell the girls how their mother had stuck up for her against the school bully in the playground one day, kicking him in the shins after he’d called Violet a roly-poly-pudding – and Cassie and Dora adored her.

She was fascinating too, so different to their mother, with her bright red lipstick, throaty smoker’s laugh and un-missable, jiggling cleavage. She drove up to Clifftops in her ancient yellow 2CV, sending a spray of gravel flying as she came to a jerking halt by the front door.

‘Cooeee,’ she cried, wobbling up the steps on vertiginous high heels clutching a large spray of yellow roses and a bottle of gin. ‘What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around these parts?’

Cassie and Dora had spied her from the living room window and rushed at her with delight.

‘You came!’ squealed Dora.

‘Of course I came. You didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did you? Easy, girls,’ she urged as they pulled at her excitedly, ‘these shoes aren’t really made for walking . . . or hugging.’

‘Your hair’s yellow!’ exclaimed Dora.

‘Yes, do you like it? I decided to see if blondes really
do
have more fun.’ Violet fluffed at her hair and winked in Cassie’s direction. ‘The jury’s still out. Here, Dora, you take the flowers. Cassie, you take this.’ She pressed the large bottle of gin into Cassie’s hands. ‘It’s for your parents, mind. Now,’ she said, looking up at the house, ‘I think you girls had better show me around your castle.’

Dora led her by the hand through the front door while Cassie followed, clutching the bottle to her chest as she scrutinised and then tried to mimic the alluring sway of Violet’s hips.

They monopolised her for a good hour before Helen sent them packing, promising tea in front of the television if they went outside to play for a bit. Dora raced off immediately, but Cassie, reluctant to leave the beguiling inner sanctum of the adult world, backed out of the kitchen and lingered surreptitiously by the open door, listening to the clink of ice in glasses and the women’s fascinating private conversation.

‘So,’ commenced Violet in hushed undertones, ‘tell me
everything
.’

Helen gave a slight snort. ‘What is there to tell? You can see how things are here. Sleepy doesn’t even begin to describe it.’

‘It seems perfectly idyllic to me. This house is
too much
. There are women the world over who would kill for what you’ve got, Helen . . . a lovely husband, great kids, a country pile.’ Cassie could hear Violet’s silver bangles jangle as she gesticulated.

‘I know,’ sighed Helen. ‘I feel like an ungrateful cow but it’s just so deadly here. I feel trapped. Frankly, I’m terrified I’m turning into my mother-in-law.’

‘Fat chance! When you start baking cakes and going for blue rinses, then you’ll be in trouble. Until then I think you’re pretty safe.’

Helen laughed. ‘It’s good to see you, V.’

‘And you.’ The two women clinked glasses and silence filled the room as they drank.

‘I’m just so bored,’ sighed Helen eventually. ‘It’s all right for Richard. He still has his job, and the move here is all about him really – him and his overblown sense of duty to this house and what he perceives as his parents’ great, enduring legacy. God forbid we should disappoint Alfred and Daphne and sell this place!’

‘He’s still grieving, Helen,’ Violet said softly.

‘Oh I know I sound terribly selfish, I feel for him, I really do, but we’re his family now. I always told him I couldn’t do cutesy country domesticity. Yet here I am. I’m trying to be supportive but I just can’t help wondering where
my
life has gone.’

‘Ha!’ snorted Violet. ‘Old-life-old-schmife. Start a new one. Become a lady of leisure; God knows I’d envy you that. What I wouldn’t give to leave behind those four a.m. starts at the flower markets each week.’

‘But you love your job!’ exclaimed Helen indignantly. ‘If someone suddenly took your shop away you would miss it, trust me.’

‘Well . . . maybe, but this isn’t about me, is it? This is about you, and what you need is to embrace the changes. I don’t know, why don’t you become a lady who shops and lunches? Join the PTA. Start a book group. Learn to cook.’

‘Hey, I can cook!’ Helen was indignant.

‘And I’m Mother Teresa.’

Cassie smothered a giggle. Only Violet could get away with that. Privately they all agreed that Helen’s enthusiasm for cooking far exceeded her skill in the kitchen. They had all waded through her roasts like old boots, catastrophic cakes and indefinable piles of gloop supposedly masquerading as puddings. It was just that none of them had the heart to burst Helen’s bubble, none of them except Violet.

‘Why not get another teaching job?’ Violet continued. ‘What is it they say: they always need good teachers?’

‘Hmmm . . .’ said Helen noncommittally. ‘I’m not sure that holds true for Classics lecturers.’

‘Oh stop feeling sorry for yourself!’ Violet admonished.

Cassie heard the sound of more ice cubes clinking into glasses and the fizz of tonic being poured. ‘The fact of the matter is you can do anything you like here. You’re young, talented and not half bad looking. Get a job. Take up knitting. Have another baby. Just take control, OK? You’ll feel much better if you do
something
!’

It was then that Cassie knew that Violet had had too much to drink. Her mum wasn’t young, and she certainly wasn’t going to start knitting or popping out more babies – just the thought of it made Cassie feel a little queasy.

‘Richard’s a good man,’ said Violet, suddenly wistful. ‘Don’t take him for granted, Helen. Believe me, it’s no fun out there on your own. Just last weekend I went out with this one guy, Roger, and you’ll never guess what he did – on our first date, before we’d even finished our prawn cocktail . . .’

Cassie could tell Violet was gearing up for a long and emotional outpouring and decided that she’d probably heard enough. She backed silently away from the open door and headed off to practise walking around in Violet’s outrageously high heels.

It was the painting that eventually brought about a change in Helen. She carried it home one Saturday afternoon, after a shopping trip into town, staggering into the house with two bags of groceries and a huge, rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper.

‘What’s that, Mum?’ Cassie asked, poking at it with her foot.

‘That, my girl, is art – beautiful, soul-enlightening art.’

‘Can I look?’

‘Of course. You can
all
look. We’ll have a grand unveiling this evening.’ Helen handled the parcel carefully, caressing its string ties and brown paper reverently. It was the happiest Cassie had seen her since the move.

‘Is it for the house?’

‘Yes.’ There was a fire burning in Helen’s green eyes. ‘It’s just what this old place needs. Run along now, Cass, will you? I’ve got some things to take care of.’

Just before dinner Helen summoned them all to the living room.

‘Ta dah!’ she revealed, ushering them into the room with girlish excitement. They filed in one by one and took in their surroundings. The room was utterly transformed from how they had known it. Cassie, Richard and Dora stood in stunned silence while Helen waited behind them, shifting her weight from foot to foot in anticipation. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

Helen had been busy since she’d returned from town. A lot of the old furniture that had filled the room had been shifted to the edges or removed completely. Daphne’s beautiful Persian rug had been rolled up and stored in one corner. Gone were the ornaments, the antique clocks and the dusty old barometer permanently stuck on ‘stormy’. The faded chintz sofas remained, but had been repositioned in a horseshoe shape facing the fireplace, while side tables and their elegant lamps had been removed completely. The room was a stark, pared-down version of its former incarnation; the only real focal point, as Helen had clearly intended, was the enormous new painting that now hung on the wall opposite and held them all in its thrall.

‘Isn’t it breathtaking?’ Helen asked again, this time turning to Richard.

Cassie eyed the picture with suspicion and felt Dora sidle up next to her as Richard cleared his throat.

‘He’s a genius, isn’t he?’ Helen gushed.

‘Who, exactly?’ Richard asked, confused.

‘Tobias Grey. He’s a local artist. I went to his gallery in Bridport and just fell in love with this painting. I had to have it. I knew it would transform this room.’

Cassie turned back to the painting and tried to take it all in. It was a Dorset seascape painted in thick oils. The ocean lay in a threatening splash across the canvas, viscous whorls of paint layered inky blue upon green to create an expanse of seething water, dark and forbidding. A pebbled shore, nothing more than a thin strip of land the colour of pale bone ran across the bottom of the painting while rocks and weather-beaten cliff tops towered off to one side. And above it all, from the depths of the storm-filled sky, fell a lone shard of light tracing silver upon a small patch of water. It was the only glimmer of light in the otherwise brooding landscape. Cassie shivered.

‘It’s part of a collection called
Dreams of Drowning
. Isn’t it incredible?’ Helen continued.

Richard cleared his throat again. ‘It’s . . . er . . . rather gloomy.’

‘That’s the point!’ Helen cried, clearly exasperated. ‘It makes you feel something. That single shaft of light dancing across the water, isn’t it beautiful?’ It seemed she didn’t want an answer for she carried on breathlessly. ‘He was telling me it represents the raw brutality of nature.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Cassie heard herself say.

‘Oh rubbish. Don’t any of you appreciate great art?’ Helen cried.

‘It’s big;
really
big. It looks expensive,’ Richard added.

‘Oh I see,’ scowled Helen. ‘That’s what you’re worried about, is it? The money?’

‘Well, no, but . . . how much
did
it cost?’

‘I thought you said “whatever it takes to make me happy”?’

‘Yes.’ Richard agreed. ‘I did say that.’ Cassie noted her father was speaking in his patient voice, the one he used when he was trying to help her with her maths homework. ‘But we can’t just go around spending money on lavish new paintings. What was wrong with the watercolour that was over the fireplace before?’

‘Richard, do you really want me to answer that?’ Helen asked, a distinct chill to her voice. ‘You might be happy to live in your mother’s house, but I’m not. It’s time to change things.’

‘And we will,’ Richard tried again, ‘with time, and together. I know I suggested you treat the house like a project, but I’d still like to be consulted. I’d like to pick out some things with you. But all this . . .’ he flung his arms out to indicate the transformed room, ‘it’s so fast.’