Secrets of the Tides (34 page)

Dora swallowed and watched as her father pushed wordlessly past them both, disappearing into the hallway. Helen spun on her heel and followed after him, leaving Dora alone on the doorstep. She looked into the house and then up at the dark sky. There was a crisp, autumnal smell on the night air that carried with it the promise of falling leaves and bonfires. She could see a sliver of moon shining its pale light from behind a high veil of cloud but for the most part the garden was cast in darkness. She couldn’t even see as far as the gates at the end of the driveway.

More angry shouts reverberated behind her. Dora knew she couldn’t take much more. Choosing the lesser of two evils, she tripped down the stone steps onto the driveway and headed out into the darkness.

Halfway down the lane it struck Dora that it was much colder out than she’d first thought. She squashed a pang for the warm coat hanging by the back door and pressed on, ignoring the goose pimples prickling on her skin. She didn’t care what her parents thought; she doubted they’d even notice she’d gone, but if they did so be it. First Alfie, then Cassie; they had both disappeared and yet it was she who felt invisible. Let her parents worry about her for a change.

A thicker bank of cloud moved across the moon and Dora struggled to adjust her night vision. Something rustled in the bushes next to her and far off she heard the plaintive shriek of a fox. Dora steeled her nerves. It was terrifying being out in the pitch black all on her own, but she wouldn’t turn back. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t much care. All she knew was that she couldn’t bear to be in the house a moment longer. She didn’t want to hear any more arguments or recriminations. She had been holding out for Cassie’s return and now even that had been denied her.

Bloody Cassie. It was always all about her. Her moods. Her tantrums. Her needs. And now this; she had trumped them all. No matter which way she looked at it, Dora struggled to get her head round it all. Surely Cassie hadn’t really wanted to end her life? She knew she was upset. She knew she was still grieving for Alfie . . . they all were. But she’d had a place at university. She’d had somewhere legitimate to run to. Why would
she
want to end it all? What could have possibly driven her to hurl herself off a bridge? It just didn’t make sense.

As Dora stomped on through the darkness, tripping and stumbling down the laneways, she turned it all over and over in her mind.

It was the lights that eventually drew her. They flashed orange between the dark waving branches of the trees until she got closer and saw Betty Dryden at the window of the cottage, her grey head bent over a sink of washing up. Bill was in the background, sitting at a table reading the paper. It was such a cosy, contented scene that Dora stood in the darkness of the lane for a moment watching the elderly couple as they performed their nightly ritual. They looked so peaceful. So normal.

Betty turned to say something to her husband and Dora saw Bill look up from the table and give a gentle chuckle. She could almost hear the low, musical hum of it from where she stood on the grass verge. Why couldn’t her family’s life be simple, like that? When was the last time she had heard her parents speak to each other with kind, warm words? Why were they all so totally screwed up?

Betty had just rinsed the last of the plates and shuffled across to the kettle when Dora took a few steps further down the lane and set off a security light. It flooded her in a sudden and dazzling white beam. She froze awkwardly as Betty’s head swung up with a start, embarrassed to see the recognition pass over the old woman’s face as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and focused on Dora’s static form. Damn.

Betty disappeared from view and, unsure what to do next, Dora jammed her hands into her jeans pockets and began to beat a hasty retreat up the lane.

‘Dora? Is that you?’ It was Betty, calling out to her from the front door.

Dora spun around, mortified. ‘Yes, sorry, Betty.’ The old lady stood on the doorstep, peering out at her. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you both. I was just out walking.’

Betty nodded and Dora was grateful she didn’t seem to need any further explanation.

‘Would you like to come in? It’s cold out there and I’ve just put the kettle on.’ The old lady shivered and pulled her woollen cardigan tighter around her shoulders.

Dora hesitated. She didn’t want to intrude, but she also knew she really didn’t want to return home either.

‘Come on,’ Betty urged. ‘Have a cup of tea with me. I could do with the company. Bill’s got his head buried in the newspaper. I made flapjacks earlier . . .’

That swung it. Dora turned and skulked back towards the cottage, following Betty through the low wooden doorway and into the warm interior of the cosy flint cottage. She had to bend slightly as she entered the kitchen.

‘Hullo there, Dora.’ Bill greeted her with a warm smile. ‘What brings you to our doorstep on such a cold autumnal night?’

‘I . . . er . . . was just passing. I fancied getting out for a bit. You know, some fresh air . . .’

Dora saw Betty throw her husband a warning glance. ‘Yes,’ he agreed with an easy smile, ‘it’s as good a night as any for a walk, eh?’

Dora nodded, grateful she didn’t have to explain further and Bill, sensing a shift in mood in the room, folded his paper and stood up from the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me, there’s a gardening show on the telly I wouldn’t mind catching. I think I’ll leave you ladies to your tea and chatter.’

‘Yes, be gone with you,’ teased Betty. ‘Never let it be said I kept you from your composting worms and hardy perennials.’

Bill left the room and while Betty busied herself for a moment with teacups and a biscuit tin, Dora took the opportunity to look around the kitchen. It was small but perfectly formed, with exposed stone walls, a large hearth and a hanging pot rack dangling shiny copper pans. A pretty arrangement of dried flowers stood in a vase on the window-sill and in one corner Bill’s muddy boots stood drying on an old sheet of newspaper by the radiator. On the table a folder of Betty’s prized recipes lay open, ready for her next culinary foray.

‘You should write a cook book,’ mused Dora, staring down at the spidery handwritten notes for a gooseberry and elder-flower ice cream.

‘Oh I’m a bit old for that now,’ laughed Betty. ‘Besides, I’d never live it down at the WI. I can hear them all now: “That Betty Dryden . . . always did have ideas above her station!” ’

‘Not true!’ cried Dora. ‘From what I’ve heard you’d give Delia Smith a run for her money!’

‘What rot,’ laughed Betty, but an attractive flush had risen in her cheeks and Dora could tell from the way she fussed with the knitted tea cosy that she was flattered by the compliment. ‘Now then,’ she said, carrying the tray to the table and pouring milk into the cups, ‘what about you, Dora? How are you, dear girl?’

Dora took one of the flapjacks from the plate Betty had pushed towards her and nibbled at a sticky corner as she wondered how to reply. In the end she decided on the truth. ‘Not so good, I’m afraid.’ She paused, took a deep breath and then continued. ‘It feels as though everything’s falling apart, Betty . . .’ she took another breath, ‘and I’m afraid it’s all my fault.’

‘What’s your fault, dear girl?’

‘Everything. Alfie going missing; Cassie . . . leaving; Mum and Dad fighting all the time. It’s all my fault.’

‘And what makes you think that?’ The concern in the old lady’s eyes was enough to keep her talking.

‘Because it all traces back to that day last year; the day when I went off by myself when I should have been looking after Alfie. The day I decided to hang out with a boy from school and took too long getting back to the Crag.’ She dropped her head to her hands. ‘Now Cassie’s run off and it’s set Mum and Dad off again. They’re at each other’s throats. I just feel like the whole horrid mess is all down to me.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Mum named me well. That day, on the beach, it’s as if I opened up Pandora’s box and released a world of pain into our lives. It’s like I’ve gathered up everyone’s hearts and smashed them into a million pieces and now I don’t know how to put them back together.’

Dora’s final words came in a rush and although she couldn’t meet Betty’s gaze, she felt the old woman’s papery hand reach for hers and was grateful for the warmth of her touch.

‘Too much pain for one family,’ said Betty, shaking her head, ‘far too much pain. It’s not your fault, Dora. It’s not anyone’s fault. A terrible thing happened to Alfie, but there’s nothing to be gained by blaming yourself.’

Dora sighed. Betty didn’t get it. No one did. They didn’t have to live at Clifftops, surrounded by the pain and grief, dodging the haunted faces of her shattered parents, dislocated from her tortured sister and taunted by memories of a happier past and of what could have been.

‘Terrible things happen to good people. It’s a sad fact of life. But no matter what’s happened in the past I do know one thing: you’re still a family,’ said Betty, squeezing her hand. ‘You can find your way back from this.’

Dora shook her head. ‘You’re wrong, Betty. Our family disappeared that day on the beach . . . with Alfie. It’s like we all drowned with him.’ She dropped her gaze. ‘You know, I can’t remember the last time any of us said we loved each other.’

‘But your parents love you, Dora, of course they do. They may not be able to show it very clearly at the moment . . . they have a lot on their plates right now . . . but your mother and father
do
love you, Dora.’

‘No! They don’t, and they shouldn’t, you see, because it’s my fault! I don’t deserve their love any more. I don’t deserve anyone’s love. I ruined everything. I destroyed it all.’ Blinded by the tears streaming down her face, Dora felt herself pulled into a warm, flapjack-scented embrace and clung to the old lady for what seemed like an eternity, letting her shush her over and over until Dora felt as though she had no more tears to cry.

‘There there,’ said Betty, handing her an embroidered handkerchief. ‘It will all work out, you’ll see. Nothing stays the same for ever. You’ll all move forwards from this. It will be hard, but you will.’

Dora shook her head. She knew things couldn’t stay as they were. None of them could carry on that way but she just couldn’t see a way for things to get any better, as Betty clearly believed they could.

‘One day, Dora, you’ll have your own family. Then you’ll understand.’

‘No,’ said Dora vehemently. ‘I won’t. I don’t want a family if it means I could ever feel like this again.’

Betty eyed her. She could see the woman didn’t believe her, but deep down Dora knew. She knew she couldn’t ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her they were all still falling down the blackest of precipices, and that they still had a long, long way to go before they hit the bottom.

DORA

Present Day

Dora is hiding. She knows it’s unprofessional. She knows she should be out there with the rest of the team, going through the concepts for the Sunrise Cereals presentation, but she just can’t summon the energy – or the stomach. Some genius has thought it would be a good idea to open the sample boxes of Wheat Fizzies the client has sent to them and the smell of sugary, sweet-and-sour cereal hangs on the air, making her stomach flip dangerously. Bloody morning sickness. She swallows hard and eyes the waste-paper bin under her desk. It’s her only option. She can’t face running through the packed office floor to the ladies’ loos. She takes deep breaths through her mouth and closes her eyes, trying to think of something that will make her feel less nauseous. She settles on snow. There is nothing offensive about snow, with its cool, white, wonderful nothingness; and it is a damn sight better than the thought of Wheat Fizzies.

Urgh. There she goes again – straight back to food. It is like some form of sadistic torture her mind puts her body through. Wheat Fizzies. They are the bane of her life right now. She opens an eye and glances quickly at the mood boards on her desk. She is greeted by images of clean-cut children’s faces grinning back at her, all perfect toothpaste-white smiles and neatly combed hair as they sit around breakfast tables with their parents. They don’t look like any kids she’s seen recently, but it is too late to change things now.

The brief had been for an irreverent breakfast cereal launch; something the kids would love, and would eventually win around the parents. That was the challenge: to generate formidable pester-power. But what she sees staring back at her is no different to a thousand other breakfast cereal launches she’s seen before. It is bland in the extreme, and while Wheat Fizzies can be accused of being many things, bland certainly isn’t one of them. Her first taste of the puffed cereal had nearly sent her skidding to the bathroom at full pelt. The kids will go crazy for it, that much is a given. A cereal that can turn your milk fizzy is too cool for words, but it is definitely an acquired taste.

She holds up a storyboard and eyes it critically. Their hook, a superhero called Captain Fizz, is mocked up in a cartoon strip. He is battling the giants of the breakfast table, propelling himself off a spoon at a slice of dry toast, bursting through a bowl of unappetising-looking muesli, and fighting off the perils of a gloopy-looking porridge. It ends with the tagline:
You Can’t Fight the Fizz
. It isn’t the most original creative she has seen, but the directors at Sunrise Cereals are due at their offices within the hour. There is no time to change anything now.