THE HOUSE ON THE WATER’S EDGE by CE Rose

Prologue

Distant sound breaks through her sludge of deep sleep. A baby is crying. No, not crying but bleating and whimpering, imploring and scared. Her instinct is to help but she’s too frightened to move and she doesn’t know why.

Fractured images trickle back. A smiling family portrait; the rippling River Bure. Shadowy eyes that watch her. A presence at a door. Someone bad, very bad. And her own fist, tightly wrapped around a glinting object.

A knife? Oh God, is that really a knife?

She forces herself out of the black tar of the dream. It’s a nightmare, that’s all. She has to be brave and just look. Nothing will be there. Nothing. That white face was just a symptom of her fragmented psyche; if she peers into the gloom, she’ll see.

Gently talking to herself, she blows out the trapped air and steels herself to move. She has to do this; she mustn’t show weakness or illness or look odd. But... but the seeping coldness is there, isn’t it? She really can smell it. A geranium-like stench, metallic and coppery and sweet. Which means they’ll soon come too, vibrating, humming and buzzing; seething, teeming, invading.

Covering her nostrils and mouth, she shrinks into a ball and tries to block out the terror, but the mewling is still there, becoming louder and shriller, more and more insistent.

Oh God, the baby! She thrusts through the darkness; she must save the child. It’s not any baby, it’s hers.

Chapter One

‘Ali? Mum’s dead.’
That was my sister, breaking the news all the way from Canada.
It was the last day of June, a raw humid day, waiting for rain. The front door was open; the telephone yelled. I toyed with the idea of ignoring the call, but put down the watering can on what felt like the final peal.

‘Ali? Mum’s dead.’ Said without preamble. ‘She died at lunch time, three minutes past one. She was driving to Wroxham and crashed into another car.’

My mother had died and as I stared at the delicate veins garnishing the pink and lilac petals of the wilting plants, my thought was: why does Laura always find things out before me? Laura, my older sister and my shadow, even though she lived three thousand miles away.

‘Joan Hague called to tell me the news. She’s upset, so she asked me to contact you. She thought it would be better coming from me, what with the baby and all.’

Said as though I was mentally frail; Laura had no time for children. ‘I’ve only had a baby. I’m not ill or inept, for goodness’ sake!’ I wanted to protest. But in truth I didn’t feel great; though over a month had now passed, I was still exhausted from the birth – stunned, in fact. I was still so sore I could only sit comfortably on one buttock.

‘God knows why the police phoned the Hagues first but... Are you all right, Ali? You’re not saying much.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

It was all I could think of saying. The forlorn-looking cat basket was still by the garage from Wednesday’s trauma. Laura’s words didn’t feel real; they couldn’t be real. Mothers didn’t die on sunny Fridays.

‘She was on her way to the hairdresser’s...’ Laura began.

This I knew. Mum was coming to visit us tomorrow. She was driving the five-hour journey from Norfolk to Manchester to see her grandson, and stay for a week. She’d suggested it on Monday, but all I’d thought of was meals and fresh sheets and dusting. I could barely get myself dressed and out of the house each day; cleaning and entertaining seemed impossible. ‘Mum,’ I’d said, trying to keep the panic from my voice. ‘That’s fine. But you will come as a helper and not as a guest, won’t you?’

‘Yes of course, love. I can’t wait to cuddle little Joe again. And it’ll be so nice to have plenty of time for long chats.’ I’d heard her intake of breath. ‘In fact, there’s something I really need to tell you... do you have five minutes to talk now?’

Oh God, I’d cut her off. Impatiently too. I didn’t have five minutes; I hadn’t had a flaming second spare since Joe was born. ‘Let’s save it until Saturday. OK?’

Laura talked and I drifted, the flowers still parched, the air solid through the gaping front door. On the way to the hairdresser’s; a banal way to die. Of course that’s what Mum would be doing; hair was a priority if she was going somewhere special. Her impossible hair got worse in the heat and this June was so hot. Like others would search for a church on holiday, the first thing she’d find was a salon – not for when she was there, but to look smart for returning home. Respectable hair. For the doctor’s or the dentist, for the theatre or meals out. For visiting her new grandson and me.

As a helper, not as a guest. What an awful thing to say.

And Laura was still speaking. ‘We don’t know everything yet, but it looks as though she unexpectedly pulled out of a side street and was clipped by a car going too fast along the main road. You know what those country lanes in bloody Norfolk are like. I told Mum to take more care so many times after the whiplash, but she said not to worry, that she’d live forever.’

Laura’s tone was efficient, irritated almost, and I was silent as random thoughts continued to waft by. I’d cut Mum off the last time we spoke; I’d deliberately not answered her three or four calls since then. But I’d thought I’d be seeing her in person very soon; I’d bought in plum jam, malted bread and blue-topped milk especially. And her favourite ice cream, still hiding deep in a carrier bag somewhere. Who on earth would eat them now? And my sister was right; Mum had promised to take care. She’d said she’d drive carefully and be here for us forever. Only she wasn’t. Laura had just said she was dead. We were orphans, Laura and me.

Orphan. Did it still count when one was thirty-five? I tried the word a few times in my head; orphan, orphan, before testing it out loud. ‘I guess we’re orphans now,’ I said, not really believing it.

Laura’s voice cracked then. Laura, my proficient big sister who never cried. So I knew it must be real, even though I didn’t feel it.

‘It’s just so horrible, Ali. She was alive when the ambu- lance got there. But she wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so you can imagine the injuries... They put a medical brace on her neck and she grasped it with her hand. To pull it off, I suppose. But her aorta had ruptured. There was nothing they could do. Oh God, I hope she wasn’t in pain.’

I watched Melissa from the house opposite lock her newly painted front door, climb into her car and reverse it smoothly onto the cul-de-sac. As she drove past, she lifted her palm in greeting, but all I could see behind a shattered windscreen was her slumped body, her face scored with pain, her hand clutching a collar. And blood, of course, congealing blood. Always that.

I blinked the image away. For God’s sake, who the hell had felt the need to tell Laura that?

‘Ali, you’re very quiet, are you still there? Tom Hague is sorting everything out for us. We’re lucky to have him. He’ll know what to do as an ex-copper, and I can’t just jump on the next flight. My diary is full up for weeks...’

My proficient and capable sister was back. Part of me was angry – couldn’t she just do something loving and spontaneous for once in her life? But the other part was relieved. It seemed easier to cope when Laura was Laura. Besides, I didn’t have the energy for an argument.

‘Laura, the baby is crying. Can we speak later?’ I asked instead.

Chapter Two

Joe wasn’t crying. He was, I hoped, still snoozing where I’d left him. Before Mum had died? Now there was a thought.

Automatically holding my breath, I crept into the lounge to check he was still breathing, still living and undamaged from being left in a car seat rather than laid flat in his cot. Loving him dearly but still feeling that sharp stab of guilt: the guilt I wasn’t finding motherhood a breeze; the guilt of struggling to cope with breastfeeding; guilt for allowing him to sleep curled in a chair; guilt for being almost joyous he was sleeping and not whimpering, not demanding, not needing.

What did Mum often say? No; had often said. ‘Be kind to yourself, love. No one is perfect. We all make mistakes.’

And there it was again, the image of ‘me before Joe’, a flash from a court case which had hounded me since his birth. As a prosecuting barrister I had stood robed and bewigged, proud and judgmental, and made my closing speech. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in cases involving the death of a child, there remains a temptation to believe that no mother could possibly be responsible for it. But you have heard from the experts that this baby was shaken...’

I had nodded my approval at the jury’s verdict. Guilty. They’d found there was a ‘non accidental head injury’ to the poor, dead baby; the ‘triad of injuries’ had been duly proved. So she was convicted, that woman, that grieving mother in court. Shaken baby syndrome, as they used to call it. Had she done it? Possibly. Probably. But the why was the thing. I had judged her; we’d all judged her without considering the why.

I stared at my infant’s face. Asleep, this child was fault- less; the little red spots on his cheeks had gone, his blond hair was growing and he was finally putting on weight. He was a treasure, an unspeakably beautiful gift. I was lucky, very lucky. I knew this completely, but at times it was difficult to feel it. Like a mother’s death... My mother’s death. Oh God, should I call Miles? But it was gone three; he’d probably be in court.

I’d phone later, I decided, I’d try him at five.

I imagined his rich, testy voice. ‘I’m in a conference, Ali, can’t it wait?’ he’d reply before I’d squeezed a word out. But in fairness, it was understandable; I’d rung umpteen times even before Joe’s birth, each lonely antenatal appointment worse than the last. From discovering I had no rubella immunity at ten weeks, to a worrying blood result at twelve; from high blood pressure at seven months to signs of pre-eclampsia at eight. Then, after a difficult birth, I’d struggled to breastfeed and Joe developed colic.

It had felt like reproof, little Joe’s revenge for me being a crap mother, a rubbish mum who failed every time despite trying everything to help: cuddles, long walks, colic drops and rubbing his tummy; even baby paracetamol when no one was looking – checking the instructions time and again – feeling desperate to do something but swamped with guilt.

‘Thank God you’re home, Miles! He’s cried constantly for the last two hours,’ I’d say at the front door at seven thirty, thrusting Joe into his father’s arms. Then our son would stop bawling and I’d glance at Miles’s frown and know what he was thinking: Ali’s making a fuss, she’s being neurotic, perhaps she has post-natal depression or even worse.

But I was simply a new mum whose close network of friends were all at work. I had a million aunties in Sheffield, but no relatives close by to help. No one to make me a cuppa or a sandwich, to entertain Joe for a few minutes so I could shower, brush my teeth, even pee. Or just sit down for five minutes and breathe. There was Madeleine, of course, but I wasn’t that desperate.

I dragged myself back to the stuffy Friday afternoon. My mother was visiting tomorrow. As a helper, not a guest. But Mum was dead. She died on her way to the hairdresser’s, not back; she was dead without respectable hair. Would someone comb it for her? Someone tender and kind?

It still didn’t feel real.

‘My mother is dead,’ I tried aloud to the leaf-printed wallpaper. But I heard the words as Miles might; they sounded melodramatic and foolish, perhaps a little crazy.

I tried again with sleeping Joe: ‘Grandma has died, Joe.’

That hit the mark. I felt the prickle of tears behind my eyes, the burn at the top of my nose. Not for my mother’s death – that still hadn’t sunk in – but for Joe’s loss, the deprivation of his warm and loving maternal grandma.

Which left my poor boy with only Madeleine.

I abruptly remembered the ice cream. It had been an achievement of sorts; selecting half a trolly of food items without my pelvic floor collapsing. Did I bring in the shopping from the car? No, the hanging baskets had caught my eye. ‘Water me, water me,’ they’d said, and for the first time in five weeks, I’d noticed their beauty. It had felt like a good omen.

Hefting bags an effort too far, I laid on the floor and stared at a stripe of sunshine on the ceiling. Mum had died at three minutes past one. What, exactly, had I been doing then? Should I have felt something momentous? And should I call Miles? Would it be odd not to? He’d come home when the cat died, straight away. But he’d been in chambers that day, this Wednesday, two days ago. Charlie had been missing for a week and when she finally appeared, her eyes were filmy with blindness. Skinny and scraggy, she’d padded around my ankles in confused circles.

It had been the logistics, I remembered; the practicality of carrying a large moggy in her basket in one hand, a baby in his car seat in the other. My Charlie had to be put down, that I knew, so I’d scooped up my mobile to call Miles without thinking. ‘Miles, you need to take the cat to the vet as soon as you can. She’s in pain, she’s suffering; she needs someone to hold her when she... goes.’

Like Mum, my mum, grasping that collar. Did someone cradle her as she died? Had they styled her hair and made her respectable?

I sighed. Calling Miles was the thing. He’d come home for Charlie, no questions asked. But then again, he’d loved that cat.

Chapter Three

‘Ali? Wake up Ali. The front door was ajar. Why didn’t you call me?’

It took a few moments to stir and sit up, more to focus on my husband’s frown. His blue eyes were puffy, the tip of his nose pink. I immediately thought of the cat, quickly followed by Joe. Then I followed his gaze down to my damp shirt. As ever, my breasts were heavy, hot and tight, but today the milk had seeped through both the cotton pads and my bra. Great. So much to give, yet I still struggled with feeding. It was only maternal guilt that stopped me reaching for the box of formula always waiting, ready-made and inviting, in the fridge.

‘I fell asleep.’ I snapped my head to the empty car seat. ‘Oh, God. Where’s Joe?’

‘He’s fine. I’ve just sorted his nappy.’

My baby was on the changing mat, kicking his legs. The moment his eyes caught mine, he bleated.

‘I needed to lie down,’ I continued. ‘I’d been shopping and my pelvic floor really ached...’

As though I needed justification today of all days. But I’d heard Miles talking to Madeleine on his mobile, despite his low, secretive tone. Last night, most nights. Discussing me as usual, my husband, her spy.

Struggling. Tired. Tearful. Coping? I really don’t know... Yes, of course I will, Mum, but I have to work...

‘It’s fine, Ali. It’s fine. I’ll get Joe.’

Our son’s whimpering became louder, stopping as Miles passed him to me. Unzipping my feeding bra, I took a deep breath, tensing as always. Would this feed be a fight?

Despite five weeks of practice, it still felt as though my baby had fangs, his latching on akin to ‘stamping on broken glass’, as I’d described it to Mum. Oh God, Mum. Wincing at the sudden flash of red on a shattered windscreen behind my eyes, I replaced it with the smiling perfect-toothed mother feeding her dolly baby on a poster at the antenatal clinic. Why wasn’t anyone honest? Why didn’t they say that motherhood had its challenges, that it wouldn’t be plain sailing? Even a bloody struggle at times? But perhaps it was just me. There were real mums I knew with perfect babies and smiling teeth.

It was my own fault really; I’d set myself up to be a successful mother, just like I had been a successful law student, a successful pupil, then barrister-at-law. I hadn’t expected failure; I hadn’t anticipated being crap at pregnancy, even worse at giving birth. But then again, I hadn’t foreseen my mum dying, when somehow I should have known.

‘You could always use formula, Ali.’

Miles’s comment broke my thoughts. He’d said it before, many times. And even though I hated those tempting words, I got where he was coming from: he needed a break from the stress as much as I did. But if I couldn’t feed my own child, then what was I good for? Breast was best; it was hammered in by the midwives, the books, the smiling poster women with those damned smiling teeth. Besides, I’d feel even worse if I gave in and exposed my baby to increased risks of heart disease, obesity, diabetes, stunted growth, low IQ or whatever the current research implied. A load of middle-class propaganda, probably; I had survived with good health until now; trends changed all the time. Had Mum breast-fed me? Was I dragged out by forceps? Two things I hadn’t asked her. Too late to enquire now.

‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ Miles asked again.
‘How did you find out?’
‘Laura called me,’ he muttered eventually. ‘She thought you seemed strange on the phone. She’s worried about you, Ali. Quite rightly. Eve’s dead. It’s horrendous, unbelievable. Of course I came home immediately.’

I glanced at my husband then. His blond hair was dishevelled; he looked boyish and vulnerable and dazed. He’d got on nicely with my mum, always said that if that’s how I’d look in thirty years, he’d done pretty well. And the shock was understandable. Both his parents were fit and healthy, his mother Madeleine especially, very much alive on the telephone and colluding about me every night.

‘What did Laura say?’ I asked, not really wanting to know, but wondering if she’d told Miles something she hadn’t mentioned to me. She’d said I seemed ‘strange’. An echo of my bloody mother-in-law. Wasn’t I entitled to be strange today? Odd, peculiar, downright insane if I wanted? Even on a good day, I didn’t have Laura’s talent for letting out emotion, for ‘working problems through’ and exorcising them. That just wasn’t me. Of all people, my sister knew that, didn’t she?

Miles didn’t reply. The silence felt uncomfortable, so I filled it in.

‘Has she spread the word, from the chief executive to the toilet attendant? Tweeted the news and updated LinkedIn? Condolences will be flowing even as we speak...’

I didn’t add that it was a relief she lived so far away; I didn’t want her telling the postman or the newsagent or the whole bloody street about my bereavement when I still hadn’t grasped it myself.

I was being harsh, of course. Communication was Laura’s way of coping. Mine was the opposite. I’d been loath to share the dreadful news with my husband, for God’s sake. How could two siblings be so different?

Closing my eyes, I sighed. Would she phone me back or should I call her? We spoke rarely and only for a purpose, Laura’s purpose: ‘What have you bought Mum for Christmas? We don’t want to duplicate. I’m at Mum’s for a week. Will I see you?’ And men – weirdly, she seemed to want to talk to me about men. If a new boyfriend was on the horizon she’d call, even asking my opinion: ‘He’s Jewish, he’s a ginger, he’s black; he earns less than me, he’s married. Does that matter?’

An honest answer wasn’t required.

Sometimes I wished she would ask about my world, about Joe or even Miles. Yet part of me understood. What interest did a baby hold for Laura, or our strait-laced legal lives, for that matter? She’d stomped off to Canada at eighteen to nanny some spoilt rich kids and had ended up at the top. An executive in a pharmaceuticals company, no less. I admired her tenacity, her efficiency, her lack of sentimentality. But occasionally a little attention, even praise, would have been nice.

How I had adored my big sister as a child. Yet still she’d left me. I sniffed at the thought. Our lives had changed today. Perhaps this would make us; give us a new reason to keep in touch.

Or maybe it would finally break us.

Chapter Five

The weekend passed, still and surreal; my mother was dead, but everything else stayed the same: Miles spent an inordinate time on his mobile; people smiled; children laughed; the neighbour said his cheery hello; the sun lit up the dust on every surface; the bathroom sink was smeared with toothpaste; the whole house needed a good hoovering and the huge tower of ironing seemed to glare.

When Monday arrived, Miles offered to stay home, but I knew he had commitments he couldn’t just ignore: court hearings, paperwork and conferences. He was finally at the point in his career where instructions from soli- citors rolled in for him personally, so it was important to be consistent and reliable. And anyway, what difference would it make where he was? I was in the limbo between death and burial. Nothing felt solid or real. Perhaps if I’d seen Mum every day, or even every week, it might have been different. Like Charlie cat. I still peered through the kitchen window to see if she was hidden in the cat-mint, or opened the back door out of habit, almost calling her name. I still felt the slight breeze at the lounge or the kitchen entrance, expecting her to slink in. But I’d forget Mum was gone until a small Joe development reminded me: a smile that seemed to be more than just wind, the letter about immunisations. I must ask Mum... I wonder if Mum knows... I must tell Mum when she calls... Mum would find this funny...

That was when self-recrimination fired in. I’d cut her short the last time we talked. I’d ignored her other attempts to speak to me. She’d been due to visit on the Saturday; what on earth had been so important she’d needed to say it sooner?