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‘Oh, there you are,’ Jack observed. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
He sounded subdued. He and Miranda had pulled two chairs out on to the old flagstones and had opened a new bottle of wine.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Ria,’ Miranda said, ‘but we opened one of your whites.’
‘Where are the children?’ I asked.
‘Playing some computer game. They can’t stand being out because of the bugs.’
You’ve brought them up to be townie wimps, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I was more alarmed by the fact they were using my computer.
‘It’s okay,’ Miranda said quickly, seeing my face. ‘They’re using my laptop.’
Thank God, I thought. The poem inside me had begun calling, insistently.
‘What happened about your boat idea?’
‘Oh yes, I forgot. We’ve got one! Tuesday, for a week. Come, if you like. We’re going to sail across the Broads from Wroxham.’
He was looking at me intently.
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘But I have a poem in my head that I’ll have to attend to.’
I laughed nervously. Jack seemed to accept my excuse.
‘At least you’re working again!’
A momentary benign feeling descended on us.
‘We’ll leave about midday,’ Miranda said. She sounded a little upset. ‘If that’s okay? We’ll leave some of our stuff here, travel light, be back in a couple of days.’
It was a quarter to ten.
‘I’m knackered,’ Jack said at last. He yawned. ‘One thing I must say, the beds are wonderful here, even though the plumbing is antiquated.’
‘Who’s going to prise those two away from the laptop?’ Miranda asked.
‘Moan, moan.’
‘Oh, shut up, Jack. You’re the one who’s been complaining.’
Again the tension was back. We were doing what we always did. Taking small bites out of each other, never addressing anything with honesty. I wanted to scream.
‘I’d like my study back so I’ll tell them, if you like.’
I put on a fake smile.
‘You’re not going to work, are you?’ Miranda asked, amazed.
‘Of course she is. Can’t you see she’s dying to get rid of us? Go on, Ria, go back to your masterpiece!’
‘Well, I haven’t actually done anything today.’
If I wasn’t careful there would be a fight. Jack must have thought the same thing because he rose and took his chair in.
‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘What time’s breakfast?’
My study was a tip. Somehow they had managed to knock over a glass and scatter the cushions. There were books on the floor and paper from the printer was everywhere. My good intentions evaporated completely. Furious, I closed the door. Then I cleared the mess and turned the television off. I no longer felt like working, but I didn’t feel like going to bed either. Upstairs, on the third floor, in the room above my study, the children made thumping sounds as though they were fighting. Taking up the book I had been reading I settled down on the sofa. The poem that had peeped out had taken fright and vanished. I could hear Miranda’s voice followed by Sophie screaming. Then Jack joined in and there was a stampede towards the guest bathroom. Miranda began calling me. Oh God! I thought guiltily. I sat pretending not to hear, feeling trapped. To think I had ever wanted children! Towards midnight things quietened down. The floorboards stopped creaking, the house was settling at last. I sighed and switched off the light. Was it safe to go to my bedroom?
People have said to me that at least I have a brother, at least I have a nephew and niece. Long ago, soon after Sophie had been born, I had volunteered to look after her while Jack took an exhausted Miranda out. It had been a sort of peace-offering on my part. Sophie had been only a few weeks old and I had not long heard I would never have a child of my own. That evening, after they had left, I picked Sophie out of her cot and held her against my cotton T-shirt. Then I put her mouth against me. I had wanted someone to suck my breast. I went into the bathroom with her and locked the door, naked to the waist. I wanted to feel what it was like to nurse her. I wanted to feel the tug and demand of another life. But after a moment I heard a noise and Sophie began to cry. Scared, in case Jack and Miranda had returned, I rushed out. I blushed, recalling the long-forgotten incident. Loneliness expands wherever crowds gather, Eric used to say. Thinking of him, I wished I could have gone over there tonight, but it was too late now.
Closing my book, I went across to the open window. Immediately the scent of late honeysuckle and jasmine came wafting towards me. Somewhere in the depths of the garden a nightjar called. Just after Ant left me, taking all hope I had of love, I had heard a nightingale pour its fluid notes across this garden. I had stood on this very spot, mesmerised by it, wondering for a confused moment who the singer was. I have never heard a nightingale sing since.
A slight breeze moved the muslin and the trees rustled. It had become so muggy that there would probably be a storm soon. I yawned, slowly. If I turned in now, I would wake refreshed. Next Tuesday, when they left, I’d be able to have a clear day to work. The poem would, I hoped, return once peace was restored. Turning, I reached out to close the window in case of rain later, my eyes scanning the garden idly. I froze. There was my swimmer! Good God, I thought, astonished, for there he stood, bold as brass, bare-chested at the water’s edge. What a nerve he had, trespassing in someone else’s garden, again. As I watched, to my amazement, he moved towards the honeysuckle and bent to smell it. He was towelling his hair with his T-shirt; I could see the whiteness of the cloth against the dark garden. Then he pulled it over his head. I shrunk back further into the room, but he wasn’t looking in the direction of the house. I saw him edge towards the water and stare beyond it. Something had obviously caught his attention for he stood perfectly still, looking in the direction of the woods. Almost instantly I heard the nightjar again. An owl flew past and my swimmer jumped. I could have told him the garden was full of nightlife and that over by the trees there were a family of owls, but I did not make a sound.
He turned his head as if he had read my thoughts, but he was still looking in the wrong direction. Then, bending down, he did up first one shoe and then the other with casual indifference and a second later he vanished from view, going presumably around the side of the house. I continued to stare out of the window, unable to move, straining my ears. There was a slight pause and unmistakably, I heard a door open. Could any burglar be this reckless? I hesitated. Damn, I thought, belatedly, the back door was unlocked, again. What if I went downstairs and confronted him? He had looked quite young. Not that it mattered if he was carrying a knife. But would you swim first, before you committed a crime? By now I had moved to the landing and I heard once again an unmistakable creaking of floorboards. There followed another silence. I waited. My study door was shut. I opened it a fraction of an inch, on the verge of going out when I heard a soft step. I was struck with paralysis. He was definitely in the house. I shivered. Something thrilling and fearful passed over me. Holding the empty bottle of wine in my hand I crept downstairs at the same moment as the outside light came on. Instantly I hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen just as the timer plunged the garden back into darkness. In a flash I had switched on the kitchen light. I gasped, there was no one there.
All this had taken only a few minutes, but any thoughts of sleep had vanished. Locking the back door, I checked the windows. Then I filled the kettle and was about to put some tea into the pot when I noticed the lid of the bread bin was slightly open. I closed it, changed my mind and opening it again peered in. It was empty. There had been a freshly baked loaf inside. I knew this because I had baked it myself only this morning.
2 (#ulink_e3eefa0c-5899-557d-8f57-51bf48bfe0f1)
TUESDAY, AUGUST 23RD. ON THE MORNING that Jack and Miranda left for the Broads I awoke to them having breakfast noisily in the garden. I was exhausted. They had now been here for three days. Last night I had again waited up until midnight hoping to catch sight of the swimmer, but the garden had remained undisturbed. Then, just as I dozed off, the outside light came on and woke me. It was him! But by the time I crept downstairs he had vanished. There were damp marks on the kitchen floor.
‘There’s no bread,’ Jack informed me, his mouth full of muesli.
Miranda handed me a cup of tea.
‘You look tired,’ she said.
‘Of course she is!’ my brother said, waving an empty cup in her face. ‘Workaholics usually are!’
He laughed a braying laugh and I wondered how Miranda could bear living with him.
‘More tea, more tea!’ he shouted childishly. Obviously he was in a good mood. I looked at him over the rim of my mug. Ant always maintained that Jack had a touch of Asperger’s Syndrome. It was the only way he could explain my brother’s sudden mood swings. Eric thought otherwise. Jack, he had once said, was disturbed for other reasons. Sunlight glinted through the trees. We had not had such an astonishing summer as this for years and it was going to be another hot day.
‘You need a wash, Miranda,’ Jack said. ‘You’re sweating, already.’
And he laughed.
‘I’ve got seven mosquito bites,’ Sophie complained.
‘Aunty Ria, have you seen how weird the spiders are in this house?’ Zach asked. ‘They’re enormous, like in the Caribbean!’
‘That’s global warming for you,’ Jack said.
He was eating and drinking with an odd, manic speed. Miranda seemed not to notice.
‘I read somewhere that the insects in Britain will become more like Mediterranean ones as the place hots up.’
‘Ugh, how will they get here? By swimming the channel?’
‘No, Sophie, I think they’ll just evolve differently. Like your Aunty Ria has!’
‘Mum!’ wailed Sophie. ‘I hate spiders.’
Go, I thought. Just go. We’ll never get on.
‘Stop winding her up, Jack,’ Miranda said. ‘There was some bacon in the fridge, Ria. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve used it.’
I nodded, not wanting the subject of bread to be brought up again.
‘Of course, help yourself.’
In all, my swimmer had appeared three times. Last night the images of him had played themselves over and over again. His visits were a puzzle, I was becoming mildly obsessed by them. Perhaps, I thought, I ought to write a poem about the mysterious way in which he visited and then vanished. I yawned. I had meant to wake at six, begin working, but not having managed this all I wanted to do now was sit in the sun. Miranda was probably right and I needed a holiday. The coffee was lukewarm. Could it be, I frowned, returning to my earlier train of thought, that I had imagined some of it? The facts were few. At some point in the night the outside light had come on and the bread was missing. That was all. I had no proof the swimmer had taken it. I had no proof that he had come into the house, even. I glanced at Jack, but he was concentrating on the map spread out in front of him. My baby brother has a round, slightly chubby face. Curiously unlined. Empty, Eric always said. Like a man who could not comprehend what was lost. I yawned, again, distracted. Hmm, I thought, but had I actually seen the swimmer?
Miranda was looking at me, quizzically.
‘You’re out of it, aren’t you!’ she said. ‘Would you like me to do the shopping before we go?’
‘Oh no, I shall go into town a bit later on.’
Tonight I would try a small experiment.
‘We could go through Bury,’ Jack was saying. ‘On the A14, that’s probably the quickest way.’
‘Are you sure you won’t come with us, Ria?’ Miranda asked.
I felt a certain desperation on her part. Fleetingly, I was sorry for her. Neither of us understood the preoccupations of the other.
‘My sister lives in a time warp,’ Jack declared, to no one in particular.
I ignored him. There was an electronic beeping and he started searching his pockets wildly. Miranda watched, expressionless. When he finally located his phone it had stopped. The air was filled with transparent light.
‘Damn,’ he said.
I laughed. He was frantically searching through his numbers.
‘Damn!’ he said, once more.
In his pixelated, globally driven life every eventuality depended on electronic devices. His iPhone, his iPod, his chargers, his cables; modern-day worry beads, all of them. Poor Jack. Was this the only way to survive what had happened to us as children? So no, I didn’t want to spend a few days with them on a river.
‘What time are you leaving?’ I asked, instead.
‘We have to pick the boat up by four at the latest, and we’ve got to find moorings before dark…so let’s say we leave around eleven?’
I would go shopping, I decided. A delicious sense of freedom brought on by their imminent departure spread over me. And I would buy bread.
By midday the house was mine again. The silence settled slowly like dust on the sunlit surface of the furniture. I tidied the detritus of the last few days in a desultory, half-hearted way, and went out. Orford is much smaller than Aldeburgh, a village really, with one main street. In reality it is an island, surrounded by marshland and the estuary running into the sea. For the past two years the heavy rains have brought extensive flooding to the area and house prices were going into a decline. Those who could had begun to move away. Others, like me, who chose to live close to the river, kept a supply of sandbags at the ready for the next deluge. As Orford has no tourist attractions it seldom gets crowded even at the height of summer. The smart London visitors come for the festivals and are interested only in Aldeburgh. They hardly ever venture as far as us. Which suits the xenophobic residents of Orford perfectly.
I went to the fishmonger’s and picked up the fresh crab I had ordered. The greengrocer was selling samphire and watercress, so I bought some. Next I went to the bakery. I bought a loaf of bread, hesitated for only a moment and bought some scones.
‘Your family’s arrived, I see,’ Eileen said.
I nodded.
‘How’s the politics?’ she asked.
I frowned. Jack’s semi-right-wing political party was of no interest to me. Eileen’s face was studiedly blank.
‘He thinks we should stop campaigning against the developers building the marina.’
If the marina and the proposed block of flats alongside the riverbank were built, apart from the flood risk they would face, the lanes in Orford would become completely clogged with cars.
‘Oh, does he!’ I said.
So Jack was talking to the locals now, was he? Poking his nose into things that were nothing to do with him.
‘Don’t worry. The builders won’t get permission,’ I said.
I didn’t tell Eileen, but I had written a piece for the local newspaper on the subject. So far, it didn’t look as though they would run it. The circus and the assault that had followed used up all available column inches.
Eileen packed up my scones. She nodded a little grimly, I thought. Then she slipped a pot of cream into the bag. I knew she would talk about me later. Everyone in Orford is like that. The landscape collects conversations as effectively as a bucket. I have known most of the people here since I was a child. They all know what happened to us. They know about our fight over the ownership of the house, and that I had come back to bury my secrets. I knew there were those who thought of me as the woman who had everything; there were others who felt sorry for me, but in either case I no longer encouraged friendship. In my experience, those who extended the hand of friendliness usually gave out private information at the drop of a hat and I trusted no one.
‘The children have grown a lot,’ she ventured, and I agreed, they had.
It was one o’clock. I bought some apples and a small pork pie and drove across the bridge to the other side of the riverbank in the direction of Orford Ness. When I was a teenager I used to sit for hours staring at this shingle desert of military ruin. The horizon remains the same through one hundred and eighty degrees. I used to love its other-worldliness. From here it is possible to catch a glimpse of Eel House as a faint smudge in the distance. Over time, the National Trust volunteers had grown used to seeing me sitting on the edge of its desert-like landscape, lost in thought.
The sun had become very hot while I walked and, because of the lack of rain, the marshland had taken on a brittle aspect. The smell of rotting vegetation in the dykes mingled with a drift of sea-air. All around me the reeds gave off a dry, hollow sound. By now I was lightheaded with hunger and something else. There was a strange suppressed anticipation in the air. At the edge of the marshes, there was a small hollow in the ground where I always sat and slipping into it now I ate my lunch. Silence stretched in every direction across the cloudless East Anglian sky. I watched a couple of waders fishing in the stagnant pools that had spread out from the river. Overhead a few gulls sailed confidently on the air. A fly buzzed in my ear and I could hear the faint sounds of crickets. Slowly, hardly aware of what I was doing, I closed my eyes.
I must have been asleep for ages, for when I woke the sun had moved lower in the sky. My face felt burnt and I suddenly remembered the food in the hot boot of the car. It was three o’clock. Hastily I retraced my steps and drove back. I was beginning to feel slightly sick and hoped I had not got sunstroke. At home I made myself a large mug of tea. Then I went into my study and worked with a solid concentration and an enormous sense of relief. For two years I had been working on a collection of poems. Working and re-working, trying to find the clear stanza that stands for a lorry-load of elaborate prose. The collection was about water and the way memory travels through it. I had wanted a high, pure sound, an elegiac note, of life poised between two states. My past and all it represented was what interested me most, but I had been stuck for months and the collection had got nowhere. This afternoon, as I rewrote some of the clumsier passages, a sense of calm began to break over me. I worked solidly for nearly three hours. When I finished, my headache had gone and it was seven o’clock. Going downstairs I made a salad. At seven thirty Miranda rang. They had arrived to find the boat was as enormous as a double-decker bus.
‘Jack can hardly steer it,’ she laughed. ‘And he’s in a terrible mood, but the kids are pleased because they each have their own bathroom!’
‘How large is it?’ I asked.
‘Well, the only boat available was one that sleeps twelve. So what could we do, having got here!’
‘We’ve only just managed to find a mooring,’ Jack said, taking the phone off her. ‘Miranda is hopeless. What…shut up, Zach, I’m speaking.’
His voice broke up slightly.
‘I can’t hear you,’ I shouted, wanting to laugh with relief that he was so far away.
‘…but unfortunately it’s on the furthest bank with no access to the towpath. So we can’t get off and go to any of the restaurants on the other side. If Eel House wasn’t so uninhabitable we wouldn’t have had to come to this bloody place.’
Suddenly I lost it.
‘What d’you mean, Jack? You didn’t have to come, you know what it’s like here. Why didn’t you have a holiday somewhere else, instead?’
