Tideline (15 page)

Helen shook her head. ‘Sit down, darling. What would you like? You look as if you need a drink.’ Helen pointed at the wine, and Alicia shook her head.

‘I don’t touch alcohol,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea though. I walked here through the tunnel and I’m knackered.’

‘I’ll make you one.’

‘I thought someone ought to just drive about and look out for him,’ Alicia said. ‘It takes so long on foot. And it’s freezing out there. I thought I’d ask you if
you’d done that yet?’

Maria, hearing voices, came into the kitchen.

‘Alicia wants to go and look for Jez,’ Helen told her. ‘She wants us to get the car out and just drive around south London until we find him. I think it’s a good
idea.’

‘I’ve tried everything else,’ said Alicia. ‘But I’m not giving up.’

Helen was sure she saw Maria’s lip curl when Alicia spoke in her rather high-pitched south-east London accent.

‘That’s the police’s job,’ said Maria. ‘We are more useful here, keeping an eye on the Facebook page. Answering calls.’ She looked up at Mick who nodded.

‘What can I get you, Maria?’ he asked.

She looked at Helen’s glass of wine.

‘Nothing alcoholic. I need to keep a clear head. Just in case.’

‘Go to the sitting room and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. I’ve lit the fire.’

Alicia raised her eyebrows as Mick followed Maria out of the room and Helen pulled a face as she handed Alicia a mug of sweet tea. She found something strangely comforting about the girl’s
presence.

They sat down at the kitchen table and Helen drank her wine while Alicia talked and ate digestive biscuits. She told Helen how she’d kept in touch with Jez on MSN since he moved to Paris.
How well they got on. How easy to talk to he was, for a boy.

‘I know she’s your sister,’ Alicia said, ‘and I don’t want to be mean, but Jez’s mum’s weird. And she doesn’t like me.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Helen said. ‘How can you tell?’

‘She never asks me anything. It’s odd because I’m into art and it’s what Maria does, sort of. And Jez as well, he’s like, my mum’s too pushy. She’s a
snob. She wants him to be the best at everything. It’s too much pressure.’

Helen warmed to the girl who clearly adored Jez, but saw through all the superficial stuff to the boy beyond the guitar and the looks.

Maybe, after all, Alicia would become her only ally while all this was going on.

‘Look, I’m happy to go for a drive, sometime. But it’s dark, we’re not going to see much and I’m afraid I’ve had a drink. Let’s give it a bit more time.
But I’m glad you’ve come. Together, Alicia, we’re going to find Jez. We don’t need Maria or Mick and we don’t need the police. We just need to stick
together.’

Alicia put her hand up and they high-fived one another.

Sonia

Nothing used to bring me greater joy than my daughter’s presence. Her visits since she left home last October were what kept me going. Her overly fastidious habits that I
find irritating – wiping surfaces with disinfectant spray, applying anti-bacterial gel to her hands before eating – even these brought a kind of fullness to my heart. That I’d
produced this whole, new, grown-up person. But today, the morning of her impending arrival, I’m jittery and on edge.

Since she went back after Christmas, and Greg started to travel more, I’ve craved solitude. Having the River House to myself at last means I have noticed with amazement things I’d
barely registered in the intervening years. The height chart pencilled onto the wall in the narrow alcove between the bathroom and my bedroom. I often run my fingers over a dent in the plaster in
the hallway made by a carriage clock thrown in anger. I wangle out long-forgotten pieces of jewellery, old pennies, postcards, and lost photos from between the floorboards.

Friends phone occasionally with invitations, but I make excuses. Many have taken the hint and given up. The truth is I cannot bear to spend too much time away from the house and what it has
begun to reveal to me. I feel I’m lifting a layer of padding that muffled everything so that for many years I was unable to properly remember, properly feel. And I suppose what I’m
afraid of, now Kit’s coming home, and Greg too, is that the padding will go back, and I’ll never retrieve what it is I feel I’m so close to uncovering. Since Jez came, I have the
sense that the intervening years are about to slip away like unwanted junk between the floorboards and the past and present can converge at last.

Kit arrives as I put the finishing touches to the dining table. We are, of course, eating in the kitchen, though she will go into the sitting room with Greg first for a drink,
a gin and tonic probably, and they will talk about anatomy and blood and the latest gene therapy while I prod the lamb to see if it’s cooked. I get out the wine glasses, breathe on them, rub
them with a freshly laundered tea towel. Kit comes in, her tall thin self, newly woman, no longer the teenager who hung about sullenly for so long. The change in her is difficult to describe.
It’s to do with a taking charge of herself, a comfort within her own skin I never saw before. She stands in the doorway, dressed as usual in casual sportswear, a red ski jacket, black
trousers of some sort. She pulls off her gloves.

‘Mum, hi,’ she says in her deep, Greg-like voice. ‘Lovely smell. What’re we having?’

She leans forward, offers me a cool cheek. We never hug these days. Since she left home we’ve adopted a rather formal approach to greeting one another. I sometimes feel she’s nervous
of me, and that makes me sad. She’s more relaxed with her father.

‘Langoustines. Followed by shoulder of lamb. Daddy’s choice. But I got you your favourite for pudding. Are you alone? I thought you were bringing your new man?’

‘He’s coming. He nipped to the offie for some wine for you.’

‘That’s sweet.’

She looks at me and says with a grin, ‘He
is
sweet.’ I sense that she’s in this relationship quite deep and wonder again what I’ll make of him.

She starts to wander about the kitchen, picking things up and putting them down, as she always does when she’s been away, seeing whether anything’s changed. I feel myself tense,
afraid I’ve left a clue, evidence of my past few days with Jez.

‘Go and sit down with Daddy,’ I say. ‘I have to get on with the dinner.’

‘OK. I just want to see if there’re any letters for me. You’ve stopped forwarding stuff.’

‘There’s been nothing to forward,’ I say. ‘I’ll pour you a drink. Do go and sit.’

‘Alright, Mum, just a sec. Please don’t try and get rid of me the minute I arrive.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m not getting rid of you. Stay here. I’d love you to. Just thought you might be warmer in the sitting room. Dad’s lit a fire.’

I begin to quarter a lemon, leaning upon the knife more heavily than is probably necessary.

‘Mum, are you OK?’

I turn and look at her. She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, her arms folded, a small frown on her forehead, examining me.

‘Of course I’m OK. I’m fine.’

‘It’s just . . . oh, never mind. Did you decide about the spare room?’

I turn my back on her again, fling the knife onto the side and make a show of rinsing my hands at the sink. I try to steady my voice, to sound sensible. ‘If you don’t mind making up
the bed yourself. There are sheets in the airing cupboard.’

‘Cor. I thought I was coming back for a rest!’ she quips. ‘I have to make my own bed at uni.’

‘And I have other things to do as well as prepare beds. It won’t do you any harm,’ I say, and we exchange an old, affectionate mother–daughter look at last.

Kit straightens, her eyes light up and she takes a step forward, a smile on her lips, as a tall young man appears in the doorway.

He’s public-school educated, I can tell by the way he holds out his hand, looks me in the eye. He wears suit trousers, a wool overcoat, glasses with dark frames. He must be a good four
years older than Jez. But I can see Harry’s the kind of man who’s never been young. Jez has none of his sort of veneer. It’s what I love about him. About the ephemeral stage
he’s at. Nebulous, yet to condense into a rigid form from which there’s no return.

‘Mum, this is Harry. Harry, my mother Sonia.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Harry,’ I say.

He smiles back at me, shaking my hand for a little longer than I’m comfortable with and examining me through his glasses. I wonder whether they’ve been talking about me on their way
here and if so, what Kit has told him?

I see Kit’s face brighten as Greg comes into the kitchen behind me. I move aside and they gaze at one another and laugh. Greg holds her by both shoulders, says, ‘Let me look at my
daughter,’ and Kit beams at him. Then he tugs her, beckoning to Harry, towards the living room.

I’m left to finish the cooking. I’ve put a CD in the player, a Bach cello suite. I scrub and peel the potatoes, cut them into quarters, salt them and put them in the oven to roast.
Greg comes back in, goes over to the wine rack for a bottle of Sancerre to have with the starter, puts it in the fridge.

‘Where’s the claret? The Château Lafite we put down for Kit’s twenty-first?’ he asks. ‘It should be in the rack.’

Until this moment I haven’t given that wine another thought. Once I’d pulled the cork, all I knew was the pleasure of sharing it with Jez. Now I look at Greg and can see a storm
about to break.

‘Oh that,’ I say.

‘What, Sonia? What are you saying?’

‘Sorry, Greg. It got opened by mistake. It was one evening after a session. We finished a bottle so I said grab another from the rack. I didn’t look at the label.’

‘We kept it for
years
. Are you out of your mind?’

‘Greg, it was just wine.’

‘I don’t understand this. It was your idea to save it for Kit’s twenty-first in June. Not mine. But I thought what better way to mark a significant birthday! And now it’s
gone.’

He looks at me in a way I don’t like, as if he wonders whether I’m suffering an early menopause or dementia, something unmentionable in polite circles. Doctors always have the upper
hand. They always act as if they have some secret information about you. They keep you in a constant state of anxiety that they’ve recognized some dreadful symptom and are waiting for the
moment to disclose it to you.

‘Greg, I was as upset as you on the night. Then I thought, what am I making a fuss about? It’s just a few squashed grapes in a bottle. Worse things happen in the world.’

‘Squashed grapes that were picked the year Kit was born, and have been maturing ever since,’ he says. ‘You can’t put a price on that. You can’t rewind
time.’

‘I need to get the mint sauce made.’ I sigh and turn from him. ‘I’m sorry. What more can I say?’

I crush mint leaves in the pestle and mortar, watching them turn from green to brown as they release their aroma into the air. I add vinegar and sugar and stir the resulting sauce vigorously.
But all the time my mind is half elsewhere. Only part of me inhabits this world of roast lamb and Sancerre and sauce, of polished glasses and tablecloths, while the rest of me, the secret self that
feels more real, is all wrapped up in Jez. It is Jez whose smell infuses the air around me. Jez’s flesh I anoint as I rub the lamb with rosemary and garlic. I remember with a shiver that he
is away down the alley, locked in the garage, and wish that he were upstairs, cocooned in the lovely light of the music room.

Greg still hasn’t spoken to me when we sit down at the dinner table half an hour later. The Bach has finished and there’s an awkward moment when no one seems to know what to say.
I’ve lit candles and put a vase of snowdrops in the middle of the white cloth. The kitchen is warm, and the flames of the candles are reflected in the curtainless windows.

‘Harry and I fancy a game of Scrabble after dinner,’ Kit says at last, reaching for the wine. ‘But I told him how you loathe board games, Mum.’

I smile at her. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Why’s that?’ Harry asks. ‘Is it fear of losing?’

I laugh. ‘On the contrary, I don’t feel competitive enough,’ I say. ‘I can’t get interested in double and treble letter counts and word scores. But you play, by all
means.’

‘I always wanted one of those large families who play games after dinner,’ Kit says ruefully. ‘Mum would never play. And Scrabble between two is no fun. You’ll play
Scrabble with us, won’t you, Dad?’

Greg shrugs. He’s always found it hard to refuse Kit anything but right now he says, ‘Your mother and I need to talk. Sorry honey.’ He stands up, wipes his hands on his napkin
and goes to the CD player.

‘A little music is called for, I feel,’ he says. He puts the Bach back in its case and chooses Mahler’s 5th symphony.

‘Why this?’ I ask Greg.

‘What’s the matter. I thought you liked it?’

‘I do like it, but isn’t it a bit . . . grandiose . . . to accompany dinner?’

Greg shrugs and takes it off again. ‘OK. We’ll stick to chamber music if we must.’

Harry leans across to me.

‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I was wondering if you’d mind me having a mess about in your music room after dinner?’

I feel under siege. It’s Jez’s room. His sacred space. But I can’t possibly refuse. What reason would I give?

‘Harry plays keyboard,’ says Kit. ‘I showed him the stuff up there, you don’t mind, do you, Mum? I know you sometimes work in there.’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’

I wonder whether I’ve been meticulous enough about clearing Jez’s things away. The butt ends he’d left on the saucers, the razors in the bathroom. Did I check the waste-paper
basket? I try to swallow my mouthful of food but find I can’t.

‘What a fantastic spot for an office,’ Harry goes on. ‘The view! Wow.’

Greg and Kit exchange a glance.

‘What?’ I ask. ‘What’s that look for, you two?’

‘Nothing,’ says Greg. ‘Don’t imagine things, Sonia.’

‘It is. It is a lovely room,’ says Kit, taking Harry’s hand. ‘It’s one of the arguments Mum uses for staying here. But one lovely room doesn’t mean we should
stay here for ever.’ She doesn’t look at me as she says this because she knows it’s going to lead to friction.