The Secret by the Lake (10 page)

‘Julia …’

‘It would be just like Caroline to say something unkind.’

‘Come on, Julia, it wasn’t Caroline. It was in your mind.’

‘Don’t look at me like that, Amy.’ She took away her hand, went to the window and leaned on the ledge, staring out. ‘I know what I heard.’

‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, but don’t you think that perhaps you spend too much time alone in this house? Perhaps we should make an effort and go out together.’

Bess was whining by the door, her tail tight between her legs. I stood and went to the door, opened it for her and the dog crept nervously into the hall, a low growl in her throat.

‘If we went to the village club one evening, for example,’ I continued, ‘maybe you’d see some of your old friends.’

‘I don’t have friends here,’ Julia said.

‘There must be people you know.’

‘I went away to ballet school aged eleven, remember, and I’ve hardly been back since.’

‘But the club would be nice. I’ve looked at the programme – they’ve got all sorts, a quiz, a flower-arranging demonstration and somebody giving a talk about the history of witchcraft in Somerset. That might be fun.’

‘Fun?’ Julia gave a cold laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

From the hallway Bess growled.

‘In fact,’ Julia said, ‘there’s probably nothing on this earth I’d least rather do.’

Bess started to bark, a panicky, high-pitched bark.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Julia asked.

‘I don’t know. Bess! Shhh!’

‘I know you mean well, Amy, but I don’t want to see anyone from the village,’ Julia said. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, make the dog be quiet!’

‘Bess! Stop it!’ As I turned towards the door I thought I glimpsed, reflected in the mirror on the wall, a person standing a little way up the stairs – a slight, female figure with one hand on the banister.

‘Vivi?’ I called. ‘Is that you?’

I went into the hall and looked up the stairs. I couldn’t see anyone and I thought whoever it was must be crouching against the wall, hidden in the shadow of the banisters.

‘Vivi?’

I ran to the foot of the stairs and almost tripped over Bess who was cowering below them, growling. I looked up.

Nobody was there.

I CROUCHED DOWN
beside the dog and smoothed her ears. I said: ‘Shh, Bess, shh, it’s all right.’ She was trembling. I was trying to calm myself at least as much as the dog. My heart was racing and I had that nauseous, dizzy feeling that precedes a faint.

‘Is it Vivi?’ Julia called. ‘Did she come home early?’

‘No, no,’ I replied, ‘it was only a draught. I hadn’t closed the door properly.’

I opened and shut the door again so that Julia would hear it slam. I leaned against it and closed my eyes, counted to three, opened them and looked again. There was nobody on the stairs, there never had been. It must have been a shadow I saw in the mirror, or a smear of dust on the surface of the glass. It must have been a trick of the light. It was nothing. I took off my coat, hung it up, and picked up the bag that I’d left by the door.

‘Come into the kitchen, Julia,’ I called. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

The kitchen was the brightest room in the house and the least claustrophobic. It was where I felt most at ease. I laid out two cups and saucers but my hands were shaking so badly that the crockery jumped and rattled. I put my palms down flat on the counter, leaned forward and tried to steady myself.

Julia came limping into the room. She had draped Alain’s sweater about her shoulders, the arms tied in a knot around her neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you just now.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s just … oh, it’s more complicated than you realize. I don’t like being here, Amy. I don’t like remembering, I don’t want to see old faces. I just want to be away from here.’

‘I understand.’

‘You’re so patient with me.’ She put her hand against my cheek. ‘Are you all right? You’re pale, Amy, pale as milk.’

‘I do feel a bit strange.’

‘Then sit down. I’ll see to the tea.’

She propped her walking stick against the counter and filled the kettle from the tap. I looked through the window. The sky was a papery white. Julia followed my eyes.

‘Not long until Christmas,’ she said. ‘God, I’ll be glad when it’s over.’

I thought of all the plans I had made for the holiday, the party I was going to organize for the children in the home, and then my trip to Paris. I’d been so looking forward to Christmas that year.

‘I used to love this time of year when I was a child,’ Julia said. ‘I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d told me there’d be a time when I would dread Christmas.’

‘What did you like about it?’

‘Everything! But mostly the anticipation, the preparations, you know?’ She smiled, remembering, and touched the hollow of her neck, stroking it with the pad of her finger. ‘Mother and I used to spend hours in this room making puddings. She gave them as gifts every year.’

‘What about Caroline?’ I asked tentatively. ‘Did she help?’

‘Caroline? No.’ Julia lit the gas and put the kettle on the hob. ‘My sister wasn’t one for helping.’

I waited but she didn’t say any more.

‘Did you hate her?’ I asked quietly.

‘I didn’t hate her – I don’t hate her.’

‘You never speak of her with any affection,’ I pressed.

‘Don’t I?’ Julia feigned surprise then brushed it away. ‘No, I don’t. Perhaps I do hate her. But I didn’t always.’

‘So what changed?’

‘She did.’

‘Was it adolescence?’

‘More than that. She used to be such a kind girl. She was lovely with me. We did everything together and I adored her. Oh, she was everything to me, Amy …’ She trailed off, lost in thought, and her face softened as she remembered. She smiled for an instant but then the shadow that always seemed to come when she spoke of Caroline returned. ‘Then her whole personality changed. It happened very quickly. Suddenly she couldn’t stand having me anywhere near her. Mother said it was jealousy.’ She turned away from me, towards the window, and the brightness outside was reflected on to her face. ‘I was a pretty little girl, the sort of child adults liked. I got all the attention, all the compliments, and the more I was praised, the more I courted that praise – and the more Caroline distanced herself from me. I
was
Goody Two Shoes. I could do no wrong in my mother’s eyes and that must have been difficult for Caroline, but she was partly to blame for the disparity between us. She never seemed to grasp the fact that if she simply did as she was told, if she told the truth, if she wasn’t so rude and unpleasant to my parents and their friends and neighbours, then she wouldn’t be in trouble all the time.’

Julia gazed into the eyes of her reflection in the windowpane.

‘She did some terrible things, Amy. People said she was wicked. They said she had bad blood inside her, a bad heart.’

‘Those are cruel things to say.’

‘But if you knew what she did, how she treated people! And in the end, she proved them right. She … well, perhaps it wasn’t all her fault. Perhaps she couldn’t help herself. Someone should have realized that she wasn’t right; something was wrong with her mind. She couldn’t control her emotions. That was it. She was out of control.’

The girl who had drawn the lake in her sketchpad hadn’t been out of control. The girl I imagined sitting down by the fallen tree looking out over the water was not someone wild and wicked. The disparity was so great, the difference between my imagined perception of Caroline and the version Julia was describing.

Are you sure?
I wanted to ask.
Was she really so bad?

Julia was still speaking. ‘And after she died, I know this sounds awfully heartless, but I was relieved, even though I didn’t know the half of what she’d done back then. I don’t mean I wanted her to die, at least I don’t think I did, but there was so much anger in the cottage when she was around, so many arguments. She made my father so angry and my mother so unhappy. When I came back from Weston that summer and she was gone, the quiet was a relief. Nobody shouting, or crying; nobody making threats, no punishments, no ugly words or tantrums, no slamming doors. My father and Dr Croucher had taken everything out of Caroline’s room. They’d even papered over the walls. There was nothing of Caroline left. Mother was so terribly sad, and she felt as if the whole village was judging her and she never really recovered, but the sadness was easier to bear than the unhappiness that preceded it. Did you bring the milk in, dear?’

‘It’s in the pantry. I’ll get it.’ I glanced at Julia. She was calmer now, less agitated. ‘Why did your mother say she felt judged?’

‘Oh … because of what Caroline did.’ I passed her the milk and she picked at the foil lid. ‘The bluetits have been at the cream again.’

One good thing about Viviane being at school was that during the days, at least, she was oblivious to her mother’s depressed condition. She came home in the afternoons happy and tired and full of anecdotes about her day. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was untidy, her socks around her ankles. She had an endless stream of tales to tell about the other girls, their lives and friendships and families. That afternoon we chatted as she sat at the kitchen table wolfing down cheese sandwiches.

‘Mr Leeson,’ she said, ‘that’s the headmaster …’

‘I know.’

‘Well, he wants me to practise singing so that I can be in the choir, although it means going to choir practice after school sometimes. But I don’t mind that. It sounds fun and you can have your tea at school if you want. Once you’re in the choir you can go to all different places on the minibus. In the summer they even go to France on a singing tour. Imagine that! I could end up going back to France with my English friends! What if we went to Paris?’

‘That would be wonderful.’

‘Mmm.’ Viviane nodded and smiled. ‘Polly Mathieson, that’s another girl in the choir, has her own pony. He’s called Bertie and he’s an Exmoor and she says I can go and ride him one day. She says I can go to Pony Club with her even without my own pony. Although maybe Mummy will buy me one. Do you think she will, Amy?’

‘One day perhaps. She can’t afford ponies at the moment, darling.’

‘Oh. Well, never mind. I can learn to ride on Bertie while I’m waiting.’

‘That’s the spirit. And the teachers are being nice to you?’

‘Mmm! Especially Mr Leeson. He said he will keep a special eye on me and that I am to go to him if I have any problems. He told me Dr Croucher wants to be kept informed of my progress.’

‘I’m glad he’s looking after you.’

Viviane giggled. ‘Oh he is! They all are. I am an important new addition to the team.’

CHRISTMAS WAS ON
its way. The village shop windows had been decorated with cotton-wool snow and tinsel, and several of the houses had Christmas trees twinkling in their windows. In the countryside, too, winter was settling itself. The nights were closing in, squeezing the daylight into so few hours that I was forced to spend more and more time inside the cottage. But I walked whenever I could, enjoying the countryside, the lingering colour-changes of the moorlands and the fields, the freeze and thaw of the ground underfoot, the berries on the bushes, the birds gorging themselves as they prepared for the worst months of winter. The summer’s foliage was dead now, disappearing back into the peat.

Most of all, I spent time thinking about Daniel and watching the lake.

The more I came to know it, the more I was drawn to it and the more I realized how complex it was, something organic and living, sometimes capricious, sometimes shy.

Its mood was different every day. It could change in the time it took a cloud to move across the sun, from a tranquil blue to a fractious, wind-tossed pewter. Some mornings it was still and ghostly white, mist hanging above it in pale drifts like exhaled breaths, and the water beneath as quiet as if it were sleeping. Other times it was the colour of lichen, its surface shivering like the pelt of an animal, and then I imagined it lying in wait, as if it might suddenly leap out of the valley and gallop across the Mendip Hills like some mythical monster. Occasionally it was red and inky and hot, a lake that belonged to a different country or a different planet. Always it was beautiful. Always it seemed to me that it was hiding something; that there was some truth about it that I did not see, or understand. I tried to listen, but I could not hear its whispers.

I walked Bess down the lake track so often and came to know it so well that I could close my eyes and picture the ruts and puddles on the pathway and the nature of the different trees that lined it, the shape of their empty twigs and the knots of their roots, the smell of fox and badger, leaf-rot, rabbit and mud. We walked down to the hollow by the lake and if it was not too damp, I sat on the ancient trunk and watched the birds on the water. I imagined Caroline sitting where I sat with her sketchpad, beneath the same trees, seeing the same water, feeling the same cold air. I put my hand on to the trunk, thinking of Caroline’s hand, three decades earlier, in the same place. Perhaps this was the only place where she felt calm and peaceful. Perhaps it was the only place where she wasn’t out of control. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up some sense of her, and I wondered if, when she sat down there sketching, perhaps she had some sense of me. The only thing that separated the two of us was time.

Despite everything Julia had said, I could not be afraid of the Caroline who used to sketch in the hollow by the lake.

Sometimes I walked up the hill, instead of down, and I found my way on to the Mendips, on to Burrington Ham and Blackdown Moor, where wild ponies grazed doe-eyed amongst the gorse and buzzards hunted over brown swathes of dried bracken. Bess pricked her ears and sniffed the air; deer, pretty and delicate with their white bustles, watched from stunted blackthorn glades and the skylarks rose from their invisible nests, a creamy flash of underwing, a call as fresh as apple.

From the top of Blackdown, I could see Blackwater lake spread out in full, tapering at the far end. When I walked the other way, to the west, I could see Glastonbury Tor rising up from the Somerset flatlands, silvered where water had settled on the fields. The black firs of Rowberrow Warren arched down towards the lower hills and in the distance was the Severn Estuary and South Wales. Sometimes I could even make out the ferry cutting the water that divided England from Wales, its smoke trailing. They were going to build a bridge across the estuary, but I couldn’t see how, the distance was too far. I liked to walk the lonely top paths where I had a bird’s-eye view, where the wind ruffled and gusted through twiggy heather bushes and where, at the end of the short days, clouds of field sparrows shoaled in their hundreds, flying together, myriad tiny wings beating like distant hoofbeats. Although most of the land was boggy, some paths ran with water, like streams.