Submersion (9 page)

‘I’ll be alright with this,’ he told me. ‘Why don’t you check on Esther and Billy?’

‘You feeling bad about your comment earlier?’ I asked, a gentle tease in my voice.

He shrugged. ‘Just might be worth seeing they are okay,’ he conceded, so I left him and went up to Elinor’s room.

Elinor, who was missing. See, I did it again – I’m getting there.

The first thing Billy did when he saw me was ask about the body. I guess that gives me the ideal opportunity to address that with you too.

‘Grandad Ronan took it to Papa Harold’s. The police have probably come for it by now. You have a habit of stumbling across dead bodies. First the rat.’

‘And now a dog,’ Billy said, clearly pleased with himself.

Esther tutted in disapproval, but he didn’t notice, caught up in his own story.

‘It was a dog, wasn’t it?’ he asked, as if there was a doubt.

‘Yes,’ I told him, and Esther and I shared a look. To him, it was a story, an adventure, but for us it was a nightmare. We thought this was over. We thought they were extinct.
What exactly does his discovery imply?
was what we were both thinking.
What does it mean for us?

Two further weeks have since passed and several things remain – Esther and Billy are still at my house, cleaning, convalescing; Elinor is still missing (there I go again); and the questions we asked ourselves the day Tristan dragged the dead dog from the river are still not answered. But other things have changed: I am ready to return to work, despite protests from all corners; Tristan has officially moved into my bed, just one or two protests on this front; and Aunt Penny and Esther have ceased all mention of a
service.

‘My daughter is missing, not dead,’ I began to tell them regularly enough that it might sink in.

The looks they returned told of many things; many things they subsequently spoke of when they thought I’d couldn’t hear.

She’s just not facing the truth.

Death of a child is not an easy thing to face, especially when there is no, you know…

Proof?

Yes, no proof.

What they mean is: no body. But they can’t say it; can’t face their own words outright.

What if she gets ill, like last time?

And all that talk of going back to work.

She’s not coping, not coping at all.

But that was exactly it;
coping
was the very one thing I was doing, and I was doing it very well. Would they just have me fall apart? And then what? Become a gibbering wreck, a useless vegetable of a person? What use would I be when we eventually found Elinor? No, I needed to cope; there was strength in there. And I needed to work, as well. If you didn’t work, you didn’t get paid. And, despite money coming in from Tristan, seven weeks without earnings had left a hole in our finances.

And so, I take you back to where my telling began: Esther cleaning in my kitchen, Billy upstairs, resting, and me, Agnes Taylor, feeling resentful at their continued presence. I have already insulted her this morning – calling her child
a screaming baby
, reducing his maturity and masculinity in one verbal swipe. And I can already feel another slight surfacing. All I need is opportunity. Being Esther, this arises as soon as she recovers from the last one and opens her well-meaning mouth.

‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, but-.’

‘If you know it’s none of your business, why are you poking your nose in?’

‘If you’ll just give me a chance, Agnes, you’ll realise it is my business.’

‘What is your business?’

‘Tristan and you. In your room, at night. It’s-.’

‘None of your business,’ I complete for her.

‘It’s not healthy for Billy.’

‘Oh, then it certainly is your business.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can’t put young Billy at risk again.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So, you agree then? That it would be best for everyone?’

‘Yes,’ Esther agrees, but instantly wonders what she is agreeing to.

‘If you go today, I can help you pack. As I’m back to work tomorrow, I won’t have time then.’

‘Pack?’ she cries and the penny drops. ‘You know that’s not what I meant. Why are you being so cruel?’

‘And why are you still here? There’s nothing wrong with that child! And my sharing a bed with the man I love is hardly going to upset him, is it? It’s you that it upsets. You that can’t bear other people to be happy. You were like it with Ronan and Mother, with Jessie, and now Tristan and me. No wonder I tried to keep it a secret. It’s not normal, Esther. It’s not normal!’

‘I’ll tell you what’s not normal! Pretending your daughter is alive when everyone else knows she died. That she drowned, Agnes! And then going back to work as if she had simply gone away for a bit! That’s not normal!’

How long we argue for, I do not know. But the argument continues on with its theme: she’s not normal for over-protecting her son; I’m not normal for letting my daughter roam about on her own; her obsessive cleaning is not normal; my relative squalor is not normal; the fact she has no man is not normal; the fact that I’ve had too many (her view) likewise.

I’m not sure how long Billy has been stood in the kitchen doorway before we both notice him. But, when we do, we are silenced. The skin around his eyes is noticeably pink from crying. He has his protective gear on, the mask pulled up on his forehead. At his feet, there is a small brown suitcase – belongings that Uncle Jimmy brought him from home the day after the incident with the dog.

‘We’re ready to go,’ he announces and we both feel shame.

I see it in Esther’s face and instantly roll back over the words we have been exchanging. What must he think of us both? What kind of an example must we have shown?

‘Don’t be silly,’ Esther tells him, her way of smoothing things over – pretending they are trivial, that they don’t matter. But it isn’t my way.

‘I’m sorry,’ I simply tell him, bending down to his level. ‘We were not being kind to each other. We were both upset and taking it out on each other.’

‘Because of Elinor?’ he asks me and I nod:
yes, because of Elinor,
it says, but I don’t – can’t – speak it aloud.

‘You don’t have to go,’ I tell them both and Esther looks relieved. She genuinely doesn’t want to leave me, is worried about leaving me, I know.
What if she gets ill, like last time?
I’d heard her say to Aunt Penny. Billy has simply been her excuse to stay and keep an eye on me.

Billy’s reaction is different, however, and sets in motion what happens next.

‘Thank you,’ he says, smiling softly at me, ‘but it is time Mother and I left. Time we went home. Isn’t it, Mother?’

And suddenly he isn’t that screaming baby anymore; suddenly he’s on the path to his manhood. For the smallest part of a second, Esther looks afraid – change is occurring and she doesn’t like change, doesn’t like its lack of destination. But something about this new Billy, this stronger Billy makes her concede.

‘Yes. Yes, it’s time we went home,’ she agrees, turning to me, touching my arm, giving me a look.
Sorry,
it says, and I return it with a look that says exactly the same.

‘But you’ll stay for tea, surely?’ I enquire. ‘Your Great Aunty Penny is bringing one of her famous cherry pies!’

Billy strips out of his gear with such alacrity, that both Esther and I cannot help but laugh. It serves to ease the pain between us too.

‘How on Earth has Aunt Penny got hold of cherries?’ she asks me, sounding almost relaxed, as Billy takes his suitcase back up to Elinor’s for now, keeping it out the way until they leave.

I shrug. Like many things I couldn’t explain, sometimes it was best not to know.

In bed, once the house has cleared of guests, Tristan and I talk.

We skirt around his job with Jessie to start with – I know I’m not going to get any answers out of him, but it doesn’t stop me being intrigued, doesn’t stop me asking just why there is so much dirt and grease on his work overalls.

We speculate about his and Billy’s exposure to the water. Despite Esther’s fussing over Billy, there have been no side effects. Tristan - who was almost fully submerged when he went back in for the dog corpse - hasn’t suffered so much as a dry patch of skin, let alone any poisoning.

‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Just what we’re all so afraid of?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Just don’t let Esther hear you say that,’ I tell him, snuggling up to him under the covers. ‘It’s such fear that helps give her life order.’

‘Meaning,’ Tristan annexes, cruelly, switching my last word, but he’s not wrong.

We talk about nearly everything – what Papa H said and did once the dead dog was delivered to his door, Billy’s interest in the Cadley House, the rumours that religious missionaries were doing the rounds again – everything but the obvious. But at least I’m talking about it in my head now.

Maybe you think I’m a little too calm, a little too cold about the whole business of my daughter’s absence? A little too certain that she didn’t simply drown in that nasty accident? I wouldn’t blame you, but I have my reasons.

I went missing as a young girl myself. It was quite common then. Children were simply taken. Taken and tested for their talents. I was one of the lucky ones – I was tested and promptly returned.

No one admitted a thing, of course. I was just a young girl who ran away and made up a ridiculous story to get out of a hiding from her parents. But I knew it was true, and eventually the truth came out, absolving me. All that has supposedly stopped now, but my suspicions have been raised. A few months ago, something started up in the schools again – the testing. It had been banned for years – no testing, no measures, no certificates, no prizes, nothing was allowed, just simple education. Nothing to be suspicious about. Nothing to echo the past. Then one day, a letter comes home – the children are to be tested, but there is
nothing to worry about
, it says. But I wasn’t so sure and complained – put my concerns in writing, went as far as to start a petition – no easy feat gathering signatures when you have to go from door to door, street to street in a rowing boat. But I did it – over a hundred signatures of protest.

And now my daughter is missing, supposedly drowned in an accident on the way to school.

Did I mention that none of the other children waiting for the school boat were reported missing or presumed dead? No? No, just Elinor. Just the daughter of the woman who protested.

‘You okay?’ Tristan asks, sensing me tense, pulling away from me in the dark. I don’t answer. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says, and I believe him, especially when he replies with: ‘We’ll get her back, I promise.’

I believe that too.

Waking the following morning, I hear Tristan below, readying himself for another day’s mystery work with Jessie. I don’t move out of bed until I hear the front door
click
and the sound of water swishing, as he rows away. Today I will be returning to work myself. I wonder just how I am going to get there. By boat, yes, but mentally – how am I ever going to get there in my head when it is full of so much?

Before I know it, I am dressed for work and pulling on my outdoor gear, mask firmly in place as I wade through the waterlogged ground floor, heading for the front door, sorely tempted to take it off the mask as I open it. What harm could I possibly come to? The atmosphere had no effect upon Tristan, after all. But, I behave myself and stick to the rules.

Opening the door, I am greeted by a similarly attired individual – protective overalls and face mask. He is standing upright in a small boat of his own, holding a small book in his rubber-gloved hands, and has the air of someone walking on water. A white shirt collar and black funeral tie are just about visible, revealing to me the very nature of this call. A call that very unexpectedly changes the course of things. And that face – that
oh-so-familiar
face.

‘Hello,’ is his muffled introduction, distorted by the breathing nozzle on his mask, ‘I’m Reuben, and I’m here to talk to you about Hope.’

PLAY

‘The White City was a quiet, sacred place. Cold to look upon, but warm in spirit all the same. Its very name gave away every aspect of what your eyes would comprehend upon approaching and entering the city. From the enormous angel statues that kept sentinel at its grand, wrought iron gates, to the soft sand on the shore of its icy sea, everything about the place was crystal white. The sky, the earth, the water, the food. Every hair on every creature. Even the blood of the folk who lived therein.

‘The White City was pure white through and through.

‘And then one day, a lone black cloud appeared on its snowy horizon, casting a shadow of grey.’

‘Does it exist?’

‘What?’

‘The White City! Does it exist for real?’

‘Listen up and you might find out…’

PAUSE