Still Water Page 2

  Marianne Rae Gregory 1958 - 1996.

  Twice a year they came, on the day she had been born and the day she had died, their visits bookending the summer. Jem glanced across to see her father standing apart, his eyes fixed as they often were on distant horizons. After a moment, as if sensing her attention, Alex turned towards her. Smiled his wry smile. “Funny sort of graveyard, I’ve always thought.”

  She took in the arcing expanse of sky, the views to left and right of turquoise water. “It’s lonely. Peaceful. Nothing between the dead and their God.”

  He crossed the yard or two of sea grass between them. “When I was a boy, graveyards were about ghosts and ghouls and scary dark places. Full of secrets and places to hide.” He smiled, shaking his head.

  “What?” She followed his gaze to the Evian bottle. “Would she have minded?”

  “No. I think she’d have been surprised we were still coming.”

  Jem remembered that first summer of anniversaries, her thirteen year old self laying flowers, whispering promises. She saw a slide show montage of every year since, herself growing and changing, Alex ageing by degrees. She said, “Half my life ago.”

  “Mm.”

  “You could have had a whole other family by now.”

  He paused, cleared his throat. His gaze slid away, back to that distant horizon. “No I couldn’t.”

  She looked up at him from where she sat, shielding her eyes against the sun. As a child she had been aware of the bewildering behaviour around him of other children’s mothers: a sudden brightness of face; lightness of voice; how close they endeavoured to stand to him; how eager they were to engage his attention. Her university friends, when she had brought them home with her, had been far more direct. Without his shield of good humour and courtesy it might have been embarrassing, their flirting with him, their easy familiarity with this gentle, private man. One of them had commented that he looked like a film star gone to seed. ‘Will you stop it?’ she had cried. ‘He’s my dad.’ But she had seen what they meant. Saw it still.

  She dared - “So after Mum … ?”

  “After her, nothing.” The words were drawn from him as teeth.

  “Have you ever wished there had been someone?”

  “No.” He paused. Added, more lightly, “Anyway, I had you.”

  Their cottage was the last in a lane which wound from the centre of town to peter exhausted at their doorstep, where it promptly abandoned itself to rocks and the tangle of encroaching grassland. No one – save tourists either adventurous or lost – passed their way by chance, lending them a sense of isolation the half hour walk into town belied. In childhood Jem had understood that her father needed solitude in which to work, to produce the great canvases of sea and sky which put food on the table and assuaged his soul. As she’d grown up she’d realised he needed solitude in which to be. Not that he was, by any means, an unsociable man, but she recognised the need for privacy in him because she knew it in herself. Today, though, today she thought of paths never taken and questions never asked and as he sat at the table in their chaotic kitchen and she flipped pancakes for breakfast she said,

  “What you said, about Mum being surprised we still visit?”

  “Well, people move on, don’t they. Move away.”

  “We never did.”

  “I never did. You went to university.”

  “I came back.”

  He looked at her. “What is it, Puddle? Been bitten by the travel bug?”

  She smiled, putting his plate of pancakes and blueberries in front of him, sliding into the seat opposite with her own. The kitchen, tiny enough when empty, was so crammed with essentials and junk and recycling it was never possible to move freely. Its only saving grace was the deep bay of the window seat and its table, onto which in good weather sun streamed most of the day. “Not really,” she answered him. “It’s just the beginning of summer. Always makes me restless.”

  “For new places?”

  “New anything.”

  “I know what you mean. At the beginning of every season I always felt the air humming with possibilities.”

  She gazed at him, her throat clogging suddenly. He covered her hand with his.

  “Hey now. Come on. New possibilities, remember?”

  She nodded, dumbly.

  “Couple of new places opening up in The Walk. Might be worth sounding them out.”

  “I’ve already made appointments. For tomorrow afternoon.”

  He was delighted. “That’s my girl. Never let the grass grow. You have to remember when you’re in business for yourself, you make your own luck.”

  “Were you always this full of platitudes or are you making a special effort?”

  Alex laughed. “It’s my age. I’m entitled.”

  She smiled. Chased a blueberry round her plate and speared it with her fork.

  “You know sometimes,” he added, “just when you think you can’t take anymore of the same old, same old, the world presents you with something wonderful.”

  “No all right stop now. You’re freaking me out. Help me choose which pieces to take with me tomorrow. Lecture me about tax returns.”

  “Well I would.” He pushed up from the table. “Terrific pancakes, by the way. But I have work to do myself. Cup of coffee, about eleven, would be nice.”

  She watched him go. Sank her head to the table and closed her eyes, the wood warm against her forehead. In a minute, she would schlep up to the spare room, haul out her cases and spread her jewellery samples around her. She would sort through the lengths of wires and bags of clasps, the beads, the stones, the symbols of silver and pewter, she would select the most impressive and appropriate pieces, pin them to a new black velvet board, attach one of her cards with her name and website address in bold Edwardian Script. She would create such an irresistibly dazzling showcase for her talent that no avant garde jeweller or upmarket gift shop proprietor would think twice about offering her a commission.

  In a minute.

  The roar of the ocean was as nothing compared with the roar inside Patrick’s when the boys were back in town. The bar was packed not just with surf dudes (of both sexes) and their groupies (of both sexes), but with anyone under the age of thirty-five from within a ten mile radius, and vibrated with the base line of indie rock bands, jarred with a hundred shouted conversations. Long before midnight and very long before he’d downed anywhere near enough alcohol to feel it burning up his veins, Gil couldn’t hear himself think. Which was a good thing. Life was always so much simpler, he found, when he had only the vaguest handle on his thought processes. As Buz and Henry and Radar embarked upon their third drinking competition of the evening, Cecily edged into their booth, placing her glass on the table and one buttock cheek onto the end of their bench. Gil hutched up to give her space. “Hey,” he smiled. She was wearing a faded floral dress under an even more faded denim jacket, her hair loose, earrings the circumference of handcuffs.

  “Hello Cecily!” Radar whooped.

  Buz and Henry raised a deafening toast. “Cess – i- leeee!”

  “Hi boys.” She murmured to Gil, “I think I’m getting way too old for this place.”

  “I think I’m getting too old for this place. Good day?”

  “You know how it is. I give them food, they give me money. Everybody goes away happy. You look kind of comfortable already.”

  He had to read her lips. “Yeah, I’m Easing Back In. An art form I’ve developed over the years.”

  They watched Buz steadily draining a series of shot glasses, Henry and Radar beating a rhythm on the table which grew faster and louder the more he emptied. Cecily raised her eyebrows.

  “Have you done this yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “You going to?”

  Buz fell at the last fence, vodka streaming back out of his mouth and into the glass as he coughed with a consumptive’s vigour. Gil and Cecily exchanged glances.

  “Getting kind of hot, in here.”

  “I thou
ght so.”

  Making their excuses and shouldering their way through the crowd, they pushed out via the French windows onto the walkway adjoining the pier. She let out a long breath. “Oh Gil, you know I love them but … ”

  He laughed, slipped his arm around her shoulders as they strolled the boardwalk, the cacophony receding behind them, lights becoming a distant fairy glow. They passed an elderly couple walking their elderly Jack Russell, a gang of kids brandishing alco-pops and larking about. Cecily said, “So how’s life, out there in the real world?”

  “It’s not so bad. I’m a hot young designer, apparently.”

  She grinned. “Are you now? Who told you that?”

  “Lady journalist. Came to the workshop to examine my wood.”

  She snorted with laughter. “So she just meant hot.”

  “No, no. It was strictly professional. Seriously, a friend of hers had bought one of my tables from the gallery in Clifton and told her about me. For some reason she thought it’d make a good article.”

  “And was there an accompanying photo of you at work? Planing something wearing a tight sleeveless top with your hair all mussed?”

  “Well now you mention it … ” He was laughing too. “Hey, it pays the bills.” They reached the railing and leaned against it, nothing ahead but the night sky and the dark waters of the Atlantic ocean. The air was cool after the clinging heat of Patrick’s, the clamour far away. Gil said softly, “And how about you?”

  She was silent.

  He took her hand into his. “What do you need me to do? Listen? Shut up?”

  “I’m fine.” She hesitated, met his eyes briefly. “I wasn’t, for a while, but I am now.”

  “Okay.”

  “And what I need you to do is just be around.”

  “I’m here.” He took a breath. “I know – ”

  The scream from one of the alco-pop kids cut him short. Though they had been shrieking the whole time he and Cecily had been out here, he recognised the change in tone instantly. The strident note of terror. And fast upon it, the splash.

  In the water below a boy floundered and yelled, submerged and bobbed up again.

  “Jesus.” Gil strode towards the teenagers, the drunkest of them lunging over the rail in a misguided rescue mission. Gil hauled him back. “Stay where you are, you’re too pissed. Can he swim?”

  They didn’t know, were barely articulate. Gil thought that if the boy were as drunk as the rest it didn’t matter whether he could swim or not. He ran a few yards down the pier, pulled off his jacket, kicked off his shoes. Cecily behind him cried, “Gil what the hell’re you doing?” Swinging through the gap in the railings he grabbed the ladder attached to the pier wall, slid down it, rusting metal burning his hands. The sea pulled cold at his feet, his legs, as he scanned the surface for the thrashing boy.

  Nothing.

  He cursed. Then a head, a hand, just visible above the churning foam.

  Gil jumped.

  The water was only twelve, maybe fifteen feet deep but the boy was a leaden weight already and struggling in fear. “Keep still, shut up.” Gil seized him under the chin, ploughed backwards through the chill water towards the beach, his own limbs already heavy, eyes stinging. At last his feet hit sand and he rocked, finding his balance, stood and heaved the boy onto the shore. As the other kids and Cecily came running towards them through the dark and the boy choked into consciousness Gil, on his knees in the sand and breathing hard, saw through the crowd and the dripping tangle of his hair a still figure on the promenade, watching.

  A little while later he stood soaking wet and barefoot on the prom, the taillights of the ambulance becoming a distant glow as it bore the boy away, Cecily seething in silence beside him. The boy’s friends had sobered up fast, one hopping into the ambulance with him, others disappearing into the winding lanes, a couple hanging back to thank him. He had shaken his head, dismissed his deed with a mumble. The paramedics had wanted him to be checked over at the hospital too but he’d insisted he was fine, incensing Cecily still further. Her rage was hard to miss, the clenched jaw, clenched fists, her refusal to utter a single word. He turned to stride back along the pier to fetch his jacket and trainers, aware of her in his wake.

  Sitting on one of the benches he rammed his damp feet into his Converses, pulled on his jacket, its aged leather soft and cold against his skin. She stood watching. “What?” he exclaimed finally.

  She said nothing.

  “Oh for … ” He stood, glanced towards the suddenly very welcoming lights of Patrick’s. A drink would be good right now. Several drinks would be excellent. He took a breath. “Look I need to get warm and I need to get a drink. I know you’re waiting to tear a strip off me but I just saw him in the water and I didn’t think, okay?”

  She said tightly, “It’s not thinking that gets people killed.”

  “How was I going to be killed?”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “I’m not drunk. It was twelve feet of water and I can swim.”

  “You know as well as I do the depth doesn’t matter. It’s the current.”

  “It’s the pier. We’re not in the middle of the fucking ocean.”

  “Don’t swear at me Gil.”

  “Well cut me some slack! That kid might’ve died, and because of me he didn’t, and generally speaking, that’s a good thing. Why’re you giving me such a hard time?”

  In the fleeting moment that she hesitated he thought she was going to give in, that he might get a smile, or a hug, or even just a few kind words for Christ’s sake. But she shook her head.

  “It’s always about your ego, isn’t it.”

  If he wasn’t allowed to swear at her again he was going to have to walk away. But that would mean leaving her with the last word. “It wasn’t about my ego,” he said furiously. “I didn’t think – hey, someone’s drowning, here’s my chance to be a hero. As I’ve already said, I didn’t think anything. But if you imagine I jumped into that water and heaved that boy out to make myself look good, well fine. I’ve nothing more to say to you.” He did walk away, shoulders tense, head pounding suddenly, emotional when half an hour ago in the thick of it, he hadn’t been.

  She said, “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  He turned on his heel, spread his arms. “I know it was a stupid thing to do. So I’m stupid. But Cecily, you know what? If someone you loved was drowning, wouldn’t you hope there’d be someone around stupid enough to do something about it?”

  He saw to his dismay her face slacken the way it did when she was about to cry. He would rather have been wrong and let her have the last word than make her cry. He said quickly, “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. Take no notice of me, Gil.” She walked towards him, squeezed his arm. He held her for a moment, kissed the top of her head.

  “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

  “No, you go. Go and get drunk with the boys – ” she smiled – “and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “All right. You’re sure?”

  She pushed him gently in the direction of the bar. “Very.”

  He watched her go, the evening sea breeze billowing her skirt around her bare legs, then crossed the remaining yards of boardwalk towards Patrick’s and was swallowed immediately into the heat and the roar and a resounding and heartwarming cheer from guys who thought it admirable to do stupid things.

  Jem switched on the light in the rotting conservatory and stepped out into the dark wilderness of the garden, careless that before long moths the size of sparrows would be fluttering round the smeared glass and battering against the bulb. Her town friends used to shriek and hide when she casually disposed of dead mice and monstrous insects. She had been bemused by their squeamishness just as she was bemused by their neat and gleaming homes; while their pairs of parents and squabbling siblings had meant nothing to her, staying in a house with visible surfaces had been like visiting a foreign country. Her friends, in their turn, had said they
envied her freedom. This had puzzled her. It was true that Alex didn’t believe in rules but then he had never had to set any; they had always taken care of each other. For thirteen years they’d anchored each others’ lives. She had never thought of it as freedom.

  Now she sat on the garden wall, a glass of Tempranillo precariously balanced in the rough grass at her feet, planning her trip to The Walk tomorrow with her sample board and price lists, preparing what she would say, how she would be. At the beginning she had been shy of promoting herself and her work, unable to understand why anyone would hand over hard-earned money in return for her trinkets. But she also knew that holiday makers would squander their cash on any old tat, and a friendly smile and a bit of chat went as far to making a sale as the jewellery itself. Watching Alex at the gallery over the years, she had seen him suppressing his natural reticence for an enthusiasm and affability which won him buyers who returned summer after summer. It was neither an act nor a calculated business ploy, but the unleashing of the more outgoing man he might have been.

  Suddenly she could smell the sea. There was no view, from any angle of the cottage, of the beach but sometimes the scent – and sense - of the tide was so strong she might have been standing on the shore. Sometimes she could feel the water lapping around her toes even when she stood indoors a mile away.

  “It’ll be barbecue weather before long.” Alex, a glass of the Tempranillo in his hand. “Look at that sky.”

  She looked. It was clear, pearl dark above the silhouetting trees. She said, “I saw a man rescue someone from drowning.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Down by the pier. I went for a walk after supper.”

  He sat beside her on the bench. “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t tell really. I was too far away. A boy fell from the railings. The man jumped in and dragged him out. It was … awe-inspiring.”