Secrets of the Tides (6 page)

‘There’s no need to worry about them. They’re thriving. At their age they need stimulation, opportunities and adventure, don’t you think?’

‘Well . . .’ murmured Daphne noncommittally.

‘What?’ asked Helen, rising to the bait. ‘You don’t think so?’

‘I can’t help noticing Cassie seems a little withdrawn. She’s such a serious thing, so
inside
herself. I’ve heard about those inner-city schools. No fresh air, no green outdoor spaces. It can’t be good for her.’

Helen’s cheeks flushed red. ‘Cassie’s fine. She’s happy and healthy.’

‘I just think—’

‘We can’t uproot our lives, Daphne. I’ve got my work . . . my research at UCL. I won’t give that up. It’s an important part of my life.’

Daphne sniffed. ‘I suppose I’m just a bit different to you
modern
women. I always chose to put my husband and family first.’

Helen bridled at the accusation. Daphne thought she was selfish for keeping the family in London but there was no way they were going to uproot everything to come and camp on Daphne and Alfred’s doorstep, just so Daphne could meddle in their lives. Helen couldn’t think of anything worse.

‘You’re not talking about us moving again, are you, Mum?’ Richard intervened, coming to Helen’s rescue. ‘We’ve only just arrived! At least give us a chance to have a cup of tea and a hot cross bun before you get started. Speaking of which,’ he segued seamlessly, ‘these are delicious. May I have another?’

‘Of course, dear,’ said Daphne, rewarding her son with her warmest smile. ‘Help yourself. You’re looking a little thin. I’ll have to feed you up while you’re here. We can’t have you wasting away now, can we?’

Give me strength, thought Helen, and turned her face towards the garden to hide her flaming cheeks.

‘She doesn’t mean to upset you,’ Richard said a little later as they unpacked their suitcase upstairs.

‘She knows exactly what she’s doing,’ Helen huffed, slinging a handful of pants and socks into a drawer. ‘She’s been doing it for as long as I’ve known her.’ It was hard to make Richard understand how Daphne’s put-downs and comments made her feel so small and insignificant. It was true that taken individually they probably seemed little more than a touch insensitive, tactless at worst. But add them all up, and Helen felt as if she were facing a fearsome barrage of criticism and complaint.

‘She’s just a lonely old lady who misses her family and would like us to live a little closer.’

‘She’s not
that
old. And lonely? Give me strength! She’s still got your dad, and, from what I hear, she’s obviously the life and soul of the local community. If it’s not WI cake stalls and fêtes it’s amateur dramatics and charity garden parties. And it’s not us she misses. It’s
you
. You and the girls!’ Helen opened the wardrobe and grabbed a hanger for her crumpled silk dress.

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘Like
what
? I’m just sick of her criticism. I know she doesn’t understand it, but I need my work. It helps keep me sane. I can’t do cosy country domesticity, you know that.’

‘I do.’ Richard moved across the room and reached for her hand. ‘And that’s why I love you. Helen, no one is saying you should give up your job.’

‘Really?’ She eyed her husband.

‘Of course not. At least,
I’m
not. I know how important it is to you. I think it’s great you’ve found something you love doing, and frankly, if it’s good for you, then it’s good for us, as a family. Right?’

Slightly mollified, Helen released her hand from his grasp and reached for her dress.

‘I just sometimes wish you wouldn’t act like it was some terrible penance being down here,’ Richard tried softly. ‘I mean, it’s not so
completely
dreadful, is it?’

Helen didn’t answer. Instead she smoothed at the wrinkles in her dress before hanging it in the closet.

Richard sighed and tried again. ‘It would mean so much to me if you could both get along.’

‘I’ve been trying for twelve years now, Richard. Perhaps it’s your mother who you should be having this little conversation with.’ Helen threw her make-up bag onto the dressing table. The sight of it suddenly reminded her of Cassie’s painted nails and she scowled again in irritation. Things between her and Richard were usually pretty even-tempered, safe and stable – sometimes boringly so – but whenever it came to Daphne and Clifftops, it always got tense. It didn’t seem to matter what Daphne did, Richard always defended his mother. Helen used to think it was an admirable trait, but it was starting to grate. What about her? She was his wife after all, and she was growing increasingly sick of always coming second. She grabbed her coat and stalked towards the bedroom door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just out. I need some fresh air.’

‘Would you like company?’

‘Not right now.’ She knew it was wrong to take it out on Richard, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something about being back in the old farmhouse that drove her a little crazy.

‘Well, don’t be late for dinner,’ Richard called out at her departing back. ‘Mum’s cooking a roast – my favourite, apparently, and we both know how terribly malnourished I am, don’t we.’ He patted his ample waistline and Helen smiled in spite of herself.

Tensions between the two women simmered gently all week, but Helen was careful never to let them reach boiling point. And, if she were honest, Richard was right: it wasn’t
so
dreadful being back in Dorset. The family slowly began to relax into their surroundings and a new pace of life gradually washed over them. The girls roamed the grounds, filling their lungs with fresh sea air and their bones with sunshine. They played poohsticks in the stream at the bottom of the orchard, tramped out across the cliffs on long scenic walks and were allowed to stay up later than usual, playing cards with Alfred or watching old movies in the den. Helen found time to curl up on a window seat with one of the dusty novels lining the bookshelves in the library, or even to just sit and watch the clouds drifting across the endless sky. Daphne cooked up a storm in the kitchen, the Aga churning out a seemingly endless parade of cakes and pies, delicious casseroles and roasts. On the Sunday, Alfred and Richard rose early and hid chocolate eggs all over the garden for the traditional Easter egg hunt. Helen wore her green silk dress and forced the girls into matching embroidered dresses too, just for Daphne. And with the weather on their side for once, they spent hours down on the beach, flying kites, combing for shells, paddling in the rock pools and sharing picnics on rugs strewn across the pebbles.

The sea was too cold for swimming but on their very last day, for a dare, Richard stripped down to his underpants and threw himself into the waves. Helen sat on a rug and watched him for a while as he splashed about in the water, the girls giggling at him from the shore. It was hard not to admire the strong muscles in his shoulders and his long, lean legs. He was a handsome man, and really not all that changed from the one she had met at university over a decade ago; a little less hair on the crown of his head perhaps, and a few crows’ feet around his eyes, but that was all. He was aging well. Watching him, she imagined his wet arms around her, his cold salt-water skin pressing against her own, and was surprised to feel a sudden rush of desire. It had been a while since they had made love. Perhaps she would make an effort later, put on some decent underwear and persuade him to have an early night.

As Helen watched from the beach, Richard raced out of the waves, his skin pink from the cold. He held a long strand of seaweed above his head and chased first after Dora and then Cassie, making them scream with delight as he flapped the slimy green kelp at them. Helen smiled and reached for the camera lying beside her. It took her a moment to focus the lens and the three of them were almost upon her when the shutter finally snapped; a single image captured for ever. Cassie loomed in the foreground with her blond hair wind-whipped across her face and serious eyes staring straight down the lens, Dora a little behind, all rosy cheeks and wide laughing mouth, and Richard furthest away, grinning from ear to ear as he shook the water from his hair like a dog. It was an innocent moment captured and bottled for posterity like a fine wine and as Helen watched them she realised with a sudden start that this, after all, was happiness. It might not be quite the life she had imagined for herself, but it wasn’t half bad.

As she sat on the pebbles, her arms wrapped around her knees, watching her husband and daughters dart about the beach with carefree laughter, Helen smiled to herself. The saying was true: when all was said and done, it
was
family that mattered most of all.

DORA

Present Day

The rain falls steadily on London all week, until Saturday dawns with a tentative new light. Dora draws the curtains to see the sun blooming like a pale yellow daffodil in the sky. It glints off the surrounding Hackney rooftops and transforms the steel grey landscape into something brighter and cleaner.

‘It’s a sign,’ says Dan, giving her shoulder a little squeeze as he passes her at the kitchen table, coffee mug in hand.

Dora hopes he’s right. She’s been a mess all week, distracted at work during the day and disturbed by a head full of crazy dreams at night. She can’t even remember what it’s like to feel normal any more, and now that the day has arrived for her trip to Dorset, she’s feeling physically sick. She’s spent the week replaying the awkward telephone conversation she conducted with her mother and the unspoken question that had hung heavily between them:
why now?

‘I still wish you were coming with me.’ She knows Dan has to work, but secretly she’s been hoping that he will change his mind.

‘Sorry, babe, you know I would if I could but I really need to crack on now. Besides, it’s probably better that I’m not there, don’t you think – a chance for a bit of mother–daughter bonding?’

Dora bites her lip.

‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘your news might be exactly what you both need to bring you closer again, you know, a time for celebration . . . hugs and tears of joy. I’m no expert but isn’t that what mums and daughters are supposed to be good at?’

Dora doesn’t say anything. The Tides have proved, over the years, to be very good at tears, although they aren’t often the joyful kind. ‘It’s not
my
news, it’s
our
news,’ is all she says, eventually.

Dan reaches for her hand. He seizes her fingers and strokes each one in turn. The gesture makes her want to cry. ‘I know it’s scary going back after all this time, but it’ll be OK, you’ll see. Helen will be pleased to see you,’ he says, pulling her closer still and kissing the tip of her nose. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen. Trust me.’

‘Yes,’ says Dora, ‘you’re right,’ but she holds him extra tight and breathes in his scent, committing it to memory, just in case.

She leaves after breakfast, hoping to avoid the weekend crush, but it’s a good hour and a half before her little car squeezes its way through the city’s clogged arteries and filters out onto the M3. Just as her foot is beginning to protest against the constant rise and fall on the clutch, space begins to open up between the cars and it’s a relief when she is finally able to put her foot to the floor. She loses her favourite London station and retunes the radio, settling on a channel with an inane DJ chattering about how ‘large’ he had it the previous night. Thankfully he runs out of steam and begins to play a string of soundalike dance anthems, which distract Dora from the knot of tension building in her gut.

Eventually she leaves the motorway and follows a convoluted series of A-roads, which soon give way to more familiar lanes and landmarks, and although she hasn’t yet seen the sea she rolls down her window and takes in great gulps of fresh air. The gear stick crunches audibly as she revs the engine up the steep incline of a hill and then finally, as she crests the top, she sees the little sleepy seaside town laid out before her like a patchwork blanket. After the monochrome tones of London the jewel-like colours are shocking in their intensity. She feels the beauty of the landscape like an ache in her soul.

As she drives the final roads Dora takes in the candy-coloured houses, the weather-beaten stiles leading off to cliff-top walking tracks, the hawthorn hedgerows and pretty cottage gardens. It is ten years on and yet it all feels so familiar, so unchanged. She indicates right, gives a little wave to a group of ramblers shuffling in front of the car, and then accelerates up through the wrought-iron gates and into the driveway. As she does she looks up and drinks in the view of Clifftops.

Ever since she was a little girl, the house has seemed magical to Dora, picturesque in its position and enchanting in its design. As she approaches now its white stone walls glow a dusky pink in the afternoon sunshine and she is surprised to feel a tiny thrill leap through her. It isn’t the gloomy place she has been remembering in her dreams. It is beautiful. She heads up the drive and the house darts in and out of view behind sycamore trees and hedgerows. She can almost hear her father’s delighted cry: ‘
Your palace awaits!
’ She almost expects to see her grandparents standing on the doorstep with their warm smiles and arms thrown wide, welcoming her back. Those childhood days are long gone, however, and she shakes her head to clear the memories.