Tideline (11 page)

‘I’m cold. Can we go to the café, get a hot chocolate?’ I asked.

‘You got money?’

‘No.’

‘Nor me. I want to know what it’s like inside.’

‘It’s just the entrance to the conduits.’

‘What’s conduits?’ Seb picked up a piece of branch that must have blown off a nearby oak tree and used it as a battering ram against the door.

‘Secret tunnels. They all run under the park and the heath,’ I said. ‘They were put there to carry water pipes and electricity cables to the hospital in the old
days.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We did it at school. They used them as an air-raid shelter in the war, ’cos they go right down underground. It was safe from the bombs down there.’

‘I wanna see,’ said Seb, taking another charge at the door. It rattled on its hinges this time as he thrust his weight against it. The rain began to come harder, and I shivered and
huddled up under the brick arch over the entrance while Seb took out his penknife and began to fiddle with the padlock. Rain fell on the sycamore leaves on the trees overhead, a rich earthy scent
rose into the moist air. But I couldn’t get warm, my teeth clenched together.

‘Let’s go Seb, I’m freezing,’ I said.

‘Shh. You’re always wanting to go,’ said Seb. ‘I’m not going. I wanna get in here.’

He knew I wouldn’t argue, however much I craved to be somewhere warm and dry, to feel hot food inside me. He knew I’d do whatever he wanted.

It seemed ages before he forced the door open and it creaked back on its rusty hinges, bringing a waft of stale air as the darkness opened up in front of us. Seb took some tentative steps
forward. I followed, clinging onto his anorak. As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, he began to edge down steep, crumbly steps. Through the light from the open doorway at the top, we could just
discern a pool filled with water. Seb got out the torch he kept in his pocket with his penknife – always prepared for potential adventures. We made our way round the pool to a low, arched
tunnel, bending as we went. There was an eerie silence, interrupted by the occasional magnified plop of water, and a sort of whistling sound that must have been the wind siphoned down from above.
But otherwise, the sounds of the outside world above us were muted. They could have been a thousand miles away.

‘Sit,’ said Seb, and I did, feeling the rough wall against my back. He struck a match and I could see by its light that he had a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He lit two together
and handed one to me. I drew in the dizzying smoke.

‘Where d’you get ’em?’

‘Out there. Someone was hanging about behind the trees. He left his jacket on the ground – they were in the pocket.’

‘That’s stealing. We could get into trouble.’

‘He shouldn’t have been sitting there if he didn’t want ’em nicked. He was watching us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Before. In the flower garden. He was hanging about watching. I saw. Then when we stood up he walked off.’

‘Who?’

Seb shrugged. Dragged on his cigarette.

‘Let’s go. I’m scared,’ I said standing up.

‘So you should be. I’m going to lock you up in here and leave you,’ Seb said, grabbing me, then pushing me up against the wall. I could feel his now familiar hardness press
against my thigh.

‘Not scared of you! Of the weirdo who’s watching us. What if he’s in here?’ I whispered.

Seb held my neck in his hand, squeezed so hard I coughed. But I could tell he was afraid now too.

‘What’ll you do for me if I let you go?’

‘Nothing,’ I choked. ‘Get off, Seb.’

His hand increased its grip. I could see the blue vein stand up on his forearm, the muscles tense.

‘What’ll you do?’

‘Anything.’ I gasped, giving in to the pressure. ‘The thing you like?’

‘Now?’

‘Outside. Only if we can go outside.’

‘In the park?’

‘Yes. Here. But in the air. I don’t like it in the dark.’

He let go and we began to make our way quickly through the dark towards the stairwell, where light filtered down from above. I felt my heart pummel against my ribcage as we went.

Outside he told me to lie on the grass.

‘It’s raining.’

‘So?’

As usual, in the end I did as I was told, and I clung to him. But he didn’t do what I expected. Instead he clutched me to him and we rolled down the hill. We hurtled over the bumps and
tussocks, his weight crushing me, the sky tilting and vanishing and reappearing as we tumbled so the breath was snatched from us as we went. When at last we came to a stop at the bottom of the
hill, Seb dragged me up to higher ground. This time there were ledges that he wanted us to roll off, so that we were suspended for seconds in midair. I tried to resist but he lay on top of me,
pinned my arms behind my back and we were off.

There were so many occasions when Seb might have hurt me or himself. Yet Seb thought we were invincible and I believed him.

Outside my mother’s flat I ring the bell and wait impatiently for her to answer. It’s a pity it’s this Tuesday and not last or next as every other one my
mother goes to meet her local University of the Third Age group to discuss what they are going to talk about next. I don’t like to leave Jez alone in the house for too long.

The door opens and my mother regards the bags I’m carrying with suspicion.

‘I’ve brought you some cheese from the market.’

‘From the
market
?’

I walk down the hallway, drop her bag of pads off in the bathroom and go through to the kitchen where I place the packages of pecorino and taleggio in the fridge.

‘June will only shop at the market. You’d think she was penniless the way she carries on.’

She stands in the lobby by the door, talking to my back. She’s forgotten that she enjoyed these cheeses the last time she had lunch with me, that I told her I’d got them from Alexi
at the market.

‘Oh, I don’t think people shop at the market for economy’s sake,’ I say. ‘It’s for the novelty value. You can find things there you don’t get anywhere
else.’

‘If you’re trying to tell me you can’t buy taleggio at Waitrose you must think I’m daft,’ she snaps. ‘I’m not completely gaga yet. The computer’s
playing up but that doesn’t mean I’m not perfectly capable of buying my own cheese once I get through to them. The Ocado man knows exactly what I like and the cheese is all pasteurized.
You know where you are with Waitrose.’

‘Anyway, I’ve put it in the fridge. I’ll do your next order for you now if you like?’

I sit at her computer and try not to let her comments niggle at me while she makes my coffee. Circumstance means I’m left to keep an eye on my mother. There’s no choice. There are no
other siblings who might have had better luck at pleasing her. At the worst moments, when her searing comments hit a particularly sensitive spot, I remind myself that it is small penance for living
in the River House, for being where I need to be.

‘I’ve been going through that case. I decided that now you’re selling up, I should coil in my ropes,’ my mother says. I bite my lip and follow her gaze. She waves an
arthritic finger at an old leather suitcase that’s been in this room since she moved in. She left most of her box files of old paperwork and out-of-date albums at the River House when she
moved. There is adequate storage space there, including a garage that we never park in, and the attic with the low pitch which is only good for shoving boxes of junk into. But for some reason she
insisted on bringing this case, crammed with odds and ends.

‘I don’t want all and sundry rifling through my personal effects,’ she’d told me when I suggested she leave it in the garage.

‘No one can get in,’ I’d reassured her. ‘You know Greg reinforced the doors for security.’

‘I need to sort through it. It’ll keep me occupied now I haven’t got a house of my own to care for.’

Periodically I think of the other cases she’s left in the attic and despair at the thought that one day, I’ll be the one who has to go through them all. As if reading my mind she
says, ‘Those boxes in the attic. You can deliver them to me when you clear the house.’

She goads me with this talk of moving but I refuse to be provoked. The suitcase she’s pointing to now has got its lid up, wedged against the pouf she uses to rest her feet on in her
sitting room.

I join her in the patch of sunlight coming in through the window. The rain’s stopped. The gulp of the percolator is soothing. It’s still cold out there, but the sun shines directly
into her sitting room. She settles herself with her lap tray – an odd thing that has a beanbag sewn onto its underside so it doesn’t wobble – and pours coffee. One thing about my
mother is she knows how to make decent coffee.

‘You can take most of that stuff. I don’t want it.’

I glance down at the open case. It’s lined in an attractive fabric, with a ruched pocket and diagonal fabric hinges that stop the lid from falling backwards when it’s open.

‘I’ll keep the case, though. It’s a
Revelation
. They don’t make cases like that any more. They all have wheels these days. As if we can’t use our own arms and legs.
It’s why people are getting shorter and fatter, you know that, don’t you? It accounts for this terrible epidemic.’

‘Which terrible epidemic is this, Mother?’

‘The obesity epidemic. Everyone’s fat these days. It’s all this wheeling cases around instead of picking them up. It’s all these remote controls instead of getting up and
turning a knob.’

I smile. Seeing my expression she laughs, and for a brief while we seem in quite high spirits.

I put my coffee on a small side table and bend down to rummage through the case. There’s a pile of fabrics, ribbons, sewing things. A darning mushroom! I pick it up in surprise. Where was
I recently when a darning mushroom came to mind? With a jolt I remember the hole in Jez’s sock and it fills me with such an intense longing to get back to him I can barely face the rest of
the morning.

‘If you need buttons, take them. I can’t sew on buttons any more . . . my fingers.’ She nods towards a square biscuit tin tucked into the corner of the case. I prise off the
lid and delve my hand into the cool heap of plastic and mother-of-pearl. One particular button, a daisy, catches my eye and I find myself face to face on this early spring morning with Jasmine. I
don’t want to disturb that memory. It’s buried deep within me. I put the lid back on the box.

It’s too late. My mother has started.

‘Oh, I recognize that button. The one in the shape of a daisy. Open up. Hand it to me! Why do I recognize it? There was a girl. A beautiful girl with a flower name. I always liked flower
names but your father insisted on Sonia. Was she a school friend? Oh, who was she? Yes that’s it. She sat next to me at Sunday school.’

No she didn’t, Mother. You’ve got your pasts mixed up. You brought Jasmine to the River House. The first time you ever invited another child home. You had some twisted plan. I think
you know that, really.

‘She left one day, after classes, in such a hurry. Someone had upset her. Who was it?’

It was me, Mother. I upset her. She was going to steal Seb from me. I had never felt such pain. I couldn’t contain it. The trouble with jealousy is there’s nowhere for it to go. It
ricochets back and forth, because if you express it you are reviled, and if you don’t, the discomfort is unbearable. It’s a curse. Jasmine was a curse on me.

My mother is out of her chair and making for the window. It’ll take her some time to fumble with the curtains in order to block the sunlight that’s in her eyes. I get up to help but
she shrugs me off.

‘I can manage, thank you. It’s good for my waistline.’ She’s still in her giggly mood so I humour her and give a little conciliatory chuckle as I sit back down.

She speaks with her back to me, so I cannot make out how genuine her confusion is.

‘The buttons, the buttons. In the alley outside the River House. At least three, there were, fallen off the front of that pretty dress she was wearing. It reminds me of that poem.’
She throws back her head and chants, ‘
A sweet disorder in the dress, kindles in clothes a wantonness!
That’s Herrick, Sonia.’ She edges back to her chair. ‘What was her
name?’

‘Her name was Jasmine, Mother. You wanted me to be friends with her.’

‘And you refused. So headstrong you always were. Was it you who made her cry?’

‘I don’t remember the details. All I know is she’s the one with the daisy buttons.’

‘The buttons that fell off all along the alley. Who picked them up? How did they end up in my sewing box? Take them Sonia, please do. I don’t need these things any more. Make Kit a
pretty top with the daisy buttons.’

I stand, gather up the haberdashery, the ribbons and darning mushroom and button box, and stash them in a carrier bag. I’ll dispose of them later.

On the bus on the way home I work hard not to let the images of Jasmine and Seb unfurl. To distract myself I pick up a copy of
Heat
magazine that someone has left on the seat. I flick through
the pages but feel repulsed by the enhanced, airbrushed celebrity beauty and yearn more than ever to be back with Jez. I toss it aside onto the seat and pass the rest of the journey letting the
buttons run through my fingers which I find unexpectedly soothing.

When I get in, there’s a voicemail on the phone in the living room from Greg, telling me to ring him urgently. I pick up the phone and dial.

‘I’ve been trying to reach you for several days now. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on.’

‘You’ve not been picking up my messages. Have you been out? Other than to your mother’s I mean?’

‘Only to the market.’

‘You must keep your mobile on, so Kit can get you if she needs you. I’ve told you time and again.’

‘I’ve had a touch of flu, that’s all. Probably slept through your calls. But I’m here as usual.’

He tuts, then speaks to me wearily.

‘Well look. I’ve changed my flight. I’ll be back early on Thursday morning.’

What in God’s name has possessed him to decide to come home early this particular week? He never usually bothers. If anything, he usually extends his trips, or reports that his flight has
been delayed.