The Summer of Secrets (32 page)

As I feel the Polaroid pass out of my grasp, I stand up and step on the sides of the box to make it collapse. The sky is rich with sunset now, the rain clouds from earlier gone completely. Victoria stands as well. It’s as if we’ve changed places. For the first time, I am leading the way. She follows me back across the footbridge.

‘Helen—’ There is a shiny four-by-four parked in the lane. The Victoria who drives that feels like a stranger. She doesn’t know what to say.

‘It’s been nice seeing you again.’ I hold out my hand. I need her to go, right now.

‘Helen, are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I rub my hands up and down the sleeves that cover my arms. ‘Say hello to the others.’

I walk away from Victoria, along the path that leads to the sea. I feel her eyes on the back of my neck, and it takes all the strength I have to keep walking. Pippa once told me I was like Helen of Troy. I used to think, if I tried hard enough, I would be as beautiful as my namesake, as desirable and desired. I forgot about Helen’s main achievement, destruction.

You’re never far from a canal. Often you don’t know it. Canals don’t shout out. They’re flat and self-effacing and, once they get away from the flourish of a lock-flight, they hide behind factories or disappear at the far end of fields. Sometimes you catch a glimpse from a train, or they slip past the corner of your eye as you drive over a bridge. But once you know, once you begin to look out for them, the slow bends appear around unexpected corners. This canal has been waiting for me to come back.

I follow in the wake of a white lifeboat’s stern, which disappears behind the bend of the willows before I can catch it. I force myself to keep at a walk as I, too, follow the curve of the bank. As the sun begins to spill sunset-red across the horizon, I pull off my hat and feel the breeze in the rough ends of my hair. My dad isn’t there. He is never going to be there. But I carry on following the old lifeboat, watching as she swings out for the turns and drifts down the straights with her engine throbbing slowly, and a faint twist of diesel smoke curling up from her far side.

What I didn’t tell Victoria, in that last moment as she stood by her fancy car and I saw the lines of age on her face, is what I have remembered. It came out of the box, the final link with the night of the fire. It wasn’t triggered by the smell of smoke and ashes. It was triggered by the smell of the past.

I remember seeing Seth, made naked and reeled in by Moira. I remember the feel of Victoria’s cheek underneath my hand, the raw and crawling shame as she pushed me away. I remember Mick in a deckchair, snoring, Piet walking past me as if I didn’t exist. I remember standing in the shed, picking up the bottles and I remember lighting the rag in the neck of one and I now see myself tossing it down the path by the side of the house.
That’ll show them
. My voice echoes in my head.

I turned around, laughing in joy and in pain, and Alice was standing there watching me. She was so beautiful. She was the one men went crazy for, she was the one they crossed oceans to find. She was laughing too. She took my hand and we danced, the bonfire throwing its flickering light over us. And when we fell on to the ground, we could both see the same stars, and she held my hand as if I was keeping her from floating up to join them.

Beautiful girls.
I hear her voice, husky and bewitching. Her fingers are squeezing mine. I squeeze back. She is telling me something, she is giving me a piece of wisdom that I can hold in my hand and take out like a jewel. I strain to hear her. It’s something about the universe.
We have to do what the universe wants
.

She is saying it wrong.

‘Universe.’ I try it for her. ‘
Yes, that
.’ But she’s not happy now. I hear her voice wobble, see the tears that are making her face shine as the light from the flames catches them as they run.

I want to make her happy again.

‘Don’t cry.’ I’m holding her hand between both of mine now, shaking it up and down to make my point. ‘You shouldn’t cry.’

‘He left me.’ Her eyes are holding my gaze. ‘My Jakob. My Jakob. Why didn’t he come back?’

It’s so easy. Alice is my friend. Not Victoria. Not Seth. She wants to know. I can help her. I have the answer. I hold her other hand, and feel the smile cross over my face.

‘He didn’t leave you!’ I feel a surge of joy. I am taking all of her troubles away. ‘He’s dead. I heard Piet talking about it.’ I give her hands a shake, and let my own version of events take me further. ‘He always loved you, he would never have left you alone.’

Vows of secrecy crumple like paper before a flame, words turning to the grey of ash after the burn and the flare.

I’m not even sure Alice has heard me. She has the traces of a dream on her face. I wonder if I should tell her again. I close my eyes.

My hand is empty, lying on the floor with nothing in it. And someone is moaning. I can’t turn my head, though, and I don’t know what is happening any more. The moaning is almost like words.
Myjakobmyjakob
. I turn my head and Alice has her face next to me, her mouth drawn back from her teeth in a snarl. And I feel her anger, I take it for myself. This is what the universe wants. I am holding the last bottle, and yellow flowers grow out of the top as I press it into Alice’s hand. She is throwing it for me, for all of us who have been lied to.

In slow motion, I watch as Alice’s arm goes back, and then there is the blossoming orange, and then I know nothing.

My name is Helen, and I destroy people.

I stand by the canal with the ghost of a boat sailing away from me, and see what I have broken. Rain is falling again, in cold lines that slide across my head and run down my neck and I want it to keep falling, to make the water rise until it laps at my knees, at my chest and finally covers my shame. And yet I am standing, and the canal stays where it is, where it has always been. Somewhere, in amongst the ruins, is a small clear space. It is a space with no secrets, no hidden memory. It is a place where I might be able to start again.

Another shred of memory floats back. I am lying on my back, smelling smoke, too much smoke, and feet run past me. All I can see is the feet, but I hear a voice, a high voice full of panic.

My special things! I have to get my special things!

And I don’t stop Pippa as she runs by, and I don’t reach out and tell Will to catch her more quickly. They disappear into the darkness and in my hand it is as if I can feel the shape of a tiny spoon.

Debut novel = a lot of people to thank.

For instance, grandmothers. In my case, Doris, who passed on her love of books, and Bridie, who told tales and read me
The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies
as often as I asked. Then there’s my Mum and Dad, who let me grow up with my head in a book, and have always seen writing as a positive thing. Happy childhoods are a gift, and I’m very grateful for mine xx

I’ve got amazing friends, especially Jo Sutton, who saw more than one false start; Katy Quayle, who has given unending support; and Esther Batchelor, who kept on at me until I sent my MA application form off.

That leads on nicely to my cohort and tutors from the Creative Writing MA at Manchester Metropolitan University, where the serious stuff began to happen. You, especially, Steve Galbraith.

To the maniacs from Moniack: you rock. Those writing weeks saw me through to the end of the first draft, and I always wrote better after spending time with you all. May the Gimtos never run dry!

The writers in the North West are an incredible bunch. The spoken word nights and festivals and the overall solidarity and friendship have all been a tremendous encouragement, and an essential part of Keeping Going.

My second official edit happened mostly on Anglesey with the Ann Atkinson Writers. They’re another amazing bunch, especially fellow boater, Jo Bell, who has been unfailingly generous and generally splendid.

I’m so happy to have moored up at Conville & Walsh with my fabulous agent Carrie Plitt: many thanks to Jo Unwin for the introduction! Working with Transworld has been a delight, also, where I’ve had two incredible editors in Katy Loftus and Bella Bosworth. Thank you all so much for making this a better book than I could ever have done by myself.

Is this the first official acknowledgement aimed at the 40+ Debut Authors? You’re a writing support network extraordinaire, and I can’t wait to see what you all come up with next.

Graeme Shimmin, you fit into more than one of the above groups. Maybe I’d have done this if I hadn’t met you, but I don’t know. I’m glad you were alongside. Thank you for everything.

To Ged, for having the boat, and Penny, for having a Ged. Love you both.

Fuchsia, Hatty and Gabe: you’re at the beginning, and it only seems right that you’re here at the end. Love you guys so much.

Sarah Jasmon
lives on a canal boat near Manchester with her children. She has had several short stories published, is curating a poetry anthology, and has recently graduated from the Creative Writing MA course at Manchester Metropolitan University.
The Summer of Secrets
is her first novel.

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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Sarah Jasmon 2015

Sarah Jasmon has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473508255
ISBN 9780552779975

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