The Returning Tide Page 3

  She squinted into the distance and saw a lightning bolt illuminate the leaden sky over the Vineyard. In the black and white photograph she held she could see his love for her, but he had behaved distantly on the day. Maybe he’d known the marriage wouldn’t last. He’d made it plain he felt they were far too young to marry at eighteen. Lara had pointed out that he hadn’t been much older when he’d married. He’d agreed, but had added that living through a war aged you in ways that normal life never could. She had asked him to tell her more but he had simply replied, ‘I’ll tell you someday.’

  Someday was here, but Lara knew the time for words had passed.

  The rise and fall of Grandie’s chest was slower. Lara placed his worn rosary beads in his hand. Her heart told her that it wouldn’t be long. She helped him to make the sign of the cross. She spoke the words and Grandie’s eyelids fluttered. Every night he’d say the rosary before he went to sleep. Up until three years ago he’d done this on his knees. Permanent slumber was calling and maybe he couldn’t go without saying his prayers. He’d taught her, and now the old familiar words came back.

  As she finished the Hail, Holy Queen, she heard a step behind her. She brought the rosary beads to Grandie’s lips then placed them back in his hands. His breathing was less laboured.

  ‘Leo,’ she whispered.

  He stepped towards the bed. ‘Soon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He touched her arm and gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Go take five minutes.’

  Lara left Grandie with Leo and headed downstairs, knowing it was now only a matter of hours. When Grandie died there would be a huge hole in her life, and her life was filled with so many at the moment.

  Outside the kitchen door she took a deep breath of the sweetly scented air. Maybe she should call her grandmother Betty or her mom but there was nothing that any of them could do. Life would go on somehow. In the meantime she didn’t want to miss a minute with Grandie.

  She dashed back upstairs, and as she came into the room Grandie’s eyes fixed onto her. ‘You’re awake,’ she said, pausing on the threshold.

  ‘Yes,’ Grandie whispered.

  Leo looked at her from the far side of the bed. ‘We’ve had a chat.’

  She opened her mouth then shut it. Maybe she’d been talking too much and hadn’t given Grandie the chance.

  ‘Hold me so that I can see the bay.’ Grandie’s voice caught, but it was clear. With Leo’s help she held him upright. He focused on a distant point. The dark sky met the darker sea, yet overhead the clouds broke and the blue seemed somehow brighter. The bay was still. In the distance Lara heard the ferry’s engine as it began the journey to the Vineyard.

  He sighed and his eyes focused on the horizon. She looked down the crescent of the beach. The tide was at its highest, almost obscuring the sand.

  Her great-grandfather wheezed, ‘Adele.’

  Lara looked at him. Frowning, she met Leo’s glance. Her brother mouthed, Adele? She shrugged, thinking they must have misheard him.

  Grandie’s breathing slowed but he remained focused on the eastern horizon. The surface of the bay went from still to ruffled, breaking up the darkness from the storm clouds with bright blue patches. The water had begun its journey back out to sea. He took a ragged breath and as his eyes closed he said it again: ‘Adele.’

  Then he was gone.

  Three

  Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall

  15 August 2015

  ‘Gran?’ Peta stood waiting, silhouetted by the sunlight flooding the drawing room.

  I looked up from the crossword, catching the date on the top of the paper. VJ Day, a day that filled me with extreme sadness. It was best not to think, not to remember.

  ‘I was wondering.’ She stopped and came to sit beside me. This hesitancy was not normal.

  ‘Yes?’ I put the paper and pencil aside. I was stuck on 5 down, ‘divided game’.

  ‘Jeopardy.’

  I frowned. She pointed to the crossword.

  ‘Of course.’ I filled it in before I forgot. ‘You were wondering?’

  ‘Years ago I used to go into the attic and …’ She looked out towards the sea. Despite the fine weather the bay was covered in white horses racing towards the shore. It had been years since I had been down to the cove, but I could picture them breaking on the rocks that jutted out from the cliffs. Was the tide high or low? That would make a difference. Would the charging waters be bashing against the cliffs or dying on the sand? I’d always loved sunny days when the sea behaved as if a great storm was raging. With the water this tumultuous there probably was a storm, somewhere out at sea.

  I turned to Peta. Why was she hesitating? ‘Out with it.’

  ‘I’ve just been in the attic.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was looking for––’ She paused, playing with the seam of her jeans.

  ‘For what?’ She clearly thought whatever she was going to say would bother me.

  ‘Well, when I was small there used to be a lace wedding veil in an old suitcase.’

  I drew in my breath.

  ‘I don’t want to upset you but I would love to wear it for my wedding. It would be the something old – something that links me to you.’ Her hand stilled and her eyes pleaded.

  ‘It was my grandmother’s, not mine.’ My voice tailed away. It would have been wrong to wear it when I married Andrew in the registrar’s office.

  ‘Yes, I guessed. Your mother’s too?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I can’t find it.’

  ‘No.’ I had seen Peta playing with it when she was about nine or ten. Even then it represented what had been lost. Yet I hadn’t thrown it out.

  Peta’s hand grabbed mine. ‘Forget about it, Gran. It’s too raw.’

  ‘Stop using that hocus-pocus with me.’ I pulled my hand away and stood up. A shiver ran across my skin. Peta and this ‘seeing’ gift of hers had always unnerved me. Maybe it was like the connection I’d had long ago with my sister, but if so the last thing I wanted was for her to use it on me.

  ‘Sorry, I have no control over it.’ She rose. ‘I can’t see anything much with you. It’s more feelings. All I know is that you’re in pain.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘No, not pain, anger even …’

  I interrupted her. ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Gran.’ She put her hand on my shoulder. I didn’t shake it off.

  ‘Come with me.’ I picked up my cane and she took my hand, reminding me of her as a little thing who had clung to me when she lost her mother. More of the darkness this house held in its walls. Maybe it was right that the veil be used. I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing my grandmother. I laughed. She would not approve of Peta with her nose stud and hippie ways. And that was as good a reason as any for Peta to wear the veil and change its fortunes.

  The hot air of the attic smelled of dry timber. A thick coat of dust covered every surface. I fought the temptation to turn around and leave it undisturbed. But for the look of anticipation on Peta’s face I would have done so. Her eagerness infected my reluctance, weakening it. At the far end of the attic stood a door and I held the key. The last time I had opened it was to store the veil away from Peta’s playful hands. Why had I locked it away? To keep it from Jack and Peta? Or from me? More likely to have a real defence against the memories stored here, wrapped up in fabric and paper. When Andrew was with me it was easier not to think of the past and only hold onto what joy the present provided.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peta, speaking softly as I unlocked the door and she followed me through. I tripped on a loose board and she steadied me.

  ‘It should be in here.’ I bent down. The battered leather case sat in plain sight among the school trunks, as if it held nothing more than cobwebs and yellowed linens. Tucked away in here was my past. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out, a choice that now felt foolish. Laying the case on the floor, I steeled myself then slid the catches.

  On the top, wrapped in tissue, was the veil. W
hen a child, I had played the same games that Peta had, parading down the wide staircase as the radiant bride. My sister had waited at the bottom holding a silk top hat, standing in for the man of my dreams. How foolish we’d been, how churlish to hold onto the anger for so long. But anger was better than grief. Both had left me less than before, no longer Adele but Elle.

  ‘Gran?’ Peta touched my shoulder. I shivered despite the heat.

  ‘Yes?’

  She picked up the delicate lace, handmade over a hundred years ago. Her eyes gleamed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A pleasure. May it bring you – no, may it crown your joy.’ It hadn’t brought happiness to Mother but at least Grandmother had had a happy if short-lived marriage. Grandfather had died in World War I.

  She kissed my cheek. ‘What else have you squirrelled away?’ She peered over my shoulder and I dropped the lid before she saw the contents. The thump shook the dust from the rafters. The locks clicked.

  ‘Nothing of importance.’

  5 June 1943

  ‘Are you sure about the Wrens?’ Amelia stretched out on the grass at the edge of what was left of Windward’s lawn, lying back to look at the sky. The day was warm but a fresh breeze blew off Falmouth Bay, tempering the heat and stirring her blonde hair.

  I put down my book of poetry and looked at my sister. ‘Yes, and thanks to Father we’ve had long enough to think about it.’

  She rolled onto her side. ‘Everyone but us joined at seventeen.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think he refused permission because he felt we were too young. “Immature,” he said.’

  ‘Mother.’

  She nodded. We looked at each other, understanding what neither of us wanted to express. She looked out to the bay. ‘I can’t believe they let me join the senior service.’

  ‘Of course they want you. You can drive already, much to Grandmother’s despair.’

  ‘Don’t know why you don’t like driving.’ She pursed her mouth just like Grandmother and I shrugged, thinking about the speed and Amelia racing along until she almost lost control.

  ‘But I was in control.’ She threw a daisy at me and I raised an eyebrow. ‘Plus I love engines, thanks to Patrick.’ Her eyes sparkled, full of mischief.

  Again I raised my eyebrow, remembering Grandmother’s handsome chauffeur. I also recalled the time Amelia had been kissing Patrick instead of learning from him how to drive, and I’d had to suddenly pretend to have an interest in flowers so I could lead Grandmother down the garden path and away from them. I don’t think Grandmother had been fooled – Patrick had left her employment shortly after my moment of gardening enthusiasm. However, I’d been dying to know what kissing him had been like and I’d worried that Amelia would fall pregnant. She’d howled with laughter, explaining that she hadn’t done that.

  ‘But you’d be wasted as a driver,’ said Amelia, ‘far too clever. Father seems certain that you’ll have a place at Cambridge.’

  ‘That’s because he went there.’ I sighed. ‘I want to go to Durham.’ Looking up at the cloudless sky, I thought of the distance from here, not wanting that but craving a place where I would not be a twin and not be Father’s daughter. Yet I did not want to be away from Amelia. I didn’t know how to be apart from her, but it was about to happen regardless.

  ‘Rebel.’ She laughed. ‘Miss Parsons’s influence, no doubt.’

  ‘Possibly.’ I brushed the stray pieces of grass off my skirt. Neither my neat attire nor my behaviour gave any sign of rebellion. ‘What time are we due on the beach?’

  ‘Tide’s on its way out now.’ Amelia looked at her watch. It matched mine exactly. It was an early eighteenth birthday present from Grandmother. Even though we tried not to dress alike everyone still treated us as if we were the same person. Today Amelia wore a violet coloured blouse while I wore white. I knew I’d be cooler. Maenporth Beach would be a heat trap, sheltered as it was from the northerly winds. ‘So if we leave in an hour.’

  I nodded, plucking a blade of grass. Everything had been so slow in coming and now time was disappearing too quickly. Having passed the interview and the medical both of us had to wait until we’d reached eighteen. ‘I hope I make it through training.’ I held the grass between my thumbs and blew against it, making a squeaking sound. Telegraphy was so intricate that it required six months of training, while Amelia would be away for only one to become a driver. Father approved of my path, but like Grandmother he was less keen that Amelia was going into the Motor Transport division. I wouldn’t have put it past them not to put pressure on people in high places to make sure she only drove officers and not transport vehicles.

  ‘You will and, of course, I’ll be green with jealousy over your months in London.’ She looked at Windward. ‘I’m not going far for training and only a month away. Lucky me gets to be the immobile Wren.’ She wrinkled her nose.

  I tried not to laugh at her expression. It wasn’t fair that I was allowed to go and she had to stay. My parents felt I was the more stable. I should have been happy that they saw I was more responsible, but they only knew the half of it. We appeared and sounded the same but if people bothered to look closer our differences were obvious. Yet no one saw us as individuals except Amelia and me. We were simply written off as a pair and at times treated like a circus act.

  ‘Who else would make sure Mother and Grandmother don’t kill each other?’ I asked. We both laughed at this, and I marvelled again at how the sound matched and merged into one.

  ‘True. I’ll miss you. Who will I laugh with?’ she said, echoing my thoughts for the millionth time.

  ‘Good question. I suppose letters will have to suffice.’ I stood and squinted into the distance, counting ships out of habit. Amelia extended her hand and I grabbed it.

  ‘You’ll see plenty of Father and Aunt Margaret though.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you think she misses Uncle Reg as much as Grandmother thinks she should?’ She raised an eyebrow.

  My aunt, impossibly glamorous as she was, wouldn’t let her worry show. It wasn’t done. ‘I suspect Grandmother’s reflecting her own worries for her son onto Aunt Margaret, who isn’t playing along.’ We locked arms and walked back to Windward.

  She turned to me. ‘You will call and write often, won’t you?’

  I dropped my head onto her shoulder. I was as uncertain as she was about my leaving her. In all our lives we’d always been together. But recently I’d been longing for the chance to be just me – not me and Amelia, not twins.

  ‘You’ll know how things are even when I don’t call.’

  ‘That hasn’t been too hard when you haven’t been far away, but we’ve never tested distance before.’

  ‘I know.’ I hugged her arm closer to me. ‘I suppose this is one way to find out.’ We both laughed, catching each other’s glance. Her pupils were pools of dark uncertainty. Looking at Amelia I saw my own fear. Swallowing hard, I forced a smile. As scared as I was, this was exciting and I was leading the way.

  I stood with Mother in the kitchen. She always looked lost here. This was beyond her and anything she ever thought she would need to deal with, but she wasn’t as bad as Grandmother. The kitchen was so far removed from Grandmother’s life before the war, she barely knew how to cope with it. She’d had to learn to boil a kettle now that Mrs Tonks who had been the cook had gone to work on a farm. Fortunately Amelia had a flair for cooking and the evacuee children from Latimer School who had stayed here had not cared what it was so long as they ate. But they had gone back to London and the house felt empty without them. Mother had been low since their departure, and I suspected mine would not help her state of mind.

  ‘What time is your train tomorrow?’ She handed me a knife. Potatoes were abundant at the moment and seemed to make up a large portion of our meals. Not that I was complaining. It was food. I scrubbed off the clumps of soil and watched the grit slip down the sink.

  ‘Midday.’

  She frowned. ‘Your grandmother has insisted you travel first class.’

>   I nodded.

  ‘She doesn’t want you mixing with the hoi polloi.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I laughed.

  Mother squinted, peering out of the window. How would she fare with just Grandmother while Amelia was away most of the day? Mother and Grandmother hadn’t seen eye to eye on things since my parents had married. Mother had wedded for love and, according to Grandmother, below her station. Nigel Seaton was a surgeon and worked for a living and this had taken us all over Britain. Grandmother’s goal was to at least marry us well, but the war had interrupted her plans and Aunt Margaret wouldn’t be presenting us at court.

  Wrapping a tea towel around her hand she looked at me. ‘You will take care.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She reached out and touched my arm. ‘Yes, I can rely on you for that. But less so with your sister.’

  ‘She’s the fun one, I’m the sensible one.’ I hid my own worries behind a smile. Who would help Amelia out of scrapes and who would pull me into them? Without each other I was far too serious and she too reckless. But she was the lucky one staying here, although she didn’t see it that way. Windward was the home of my heart, from its granite quoins hewn from the nearby quarry to its vast seaward-facing windows. I loved it here and it was Amelia who missed London, our last place of residence.

  ‘I know. And that’s what worries me.’

  I turned away from Mother. Her fear chilled me. ‘She’ll be fine and so will I.’

  ‘This wretched war.’ She paused, sighing. ‘It will be the end of us.’

  I frowned. ‘We won’t let Hitler win.’

  ‘Whether he wins or not we are lost.’ She walked out to the garden and I stared after her. She bent to Grandmother’s vegetable bed and wrenched up some carrots.

  ‘Daydreaming on the job?’ Amelia tapped my shoulder then waltzed out to Mother.