The Secret by the Lake (5 page)

The village hall was beside the shop. The door was open and inside, women were preparing for a craft sale. We could see trestle tables covered with home-made toys, knitted and sewn items, and jars of preserves, cakes and pies.

Viviane gazed inside wistfully.

‘Can we come and have a look later?’ she asked.

I thought of the money saved in the Post Office account I’d opened when I started work. And my father had given me two pounds before I left Sheffield. I didn’t know how long it would have to last, but I could spare a few pence to give to Vivi.

‘Yes, of course we can.’ I squeezed her hand.

Viviane smiled. ‘Do you remember, Amy, how Papa always liked going to the flea markets in Paris?’

‘I remember. And he was forever buying second-hand books from the stalls by the river.’

‘Oh yes! Mummy used to pretend she was so cross.’ Viviane put her hands on her hips and adopted her mother’s exasperated expression and tone. ‘“If you bring any more filthy old books into my nice, clean apartment, Alain Laurent, I swear I’m going to throw them all into the Seine! And you’ll be going in with them!”’

I laughed and then we stopped together, struck, at the same time, by the church that had suddenly loomed into view before us. It stood alone on a ledge of land above the reservoir, as if it were gazing out over the water, watching.

‘I wish Papa was buried here so I could go and put flowers on his grave,’ Viviane said wistfully. ‘He must be so lonely in the cemetery in Paris all on his own.’

‘You could go up to the church to sit and think about him. It doesn’t really matter where he’s buried. It’s being close to him in your heart that counts.’

‘Caroline says it
does
matter.’

I pulled the girl closer and kissed the top of her head. When I spoke, I spoke calmly but firmly.

‘Caroline doesn’t really know everything, Vivi.’

‘She knows all about being dead.’

Viviane spoke easily, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. I was certain she had not intended the words to shock, nor was she trying to be deliberately provocative. She had responded naturally to my observation, as naturally as if we had been talking about something everyday. I did not know how to react. I told myself:
It is good that we address this now, straight away, so there is no room for ambivalence or confusion later.

When I next spoke, I made sure my voice was relaxed, as if this were a perfectly normal conversation.

‘Caroline’s not dead, Vivi,’ I said quietly. ‘She’s a made-up person, a made-up friend. She’s not alive like we are, because she exists only in your mind. That’s not at all the same as being dead.’

‘She’s not made up, not like Emily was,’ Vivi replied. ‘She’s real. Her name is Caroline Cummings and she used to live where we live now. She used to be Mummy’s sister but she’s been dead for years and years.’

‘Sweetheart, that’s not true.’

‘I’m not telling lies.’

‘I didn’t say that you were. All I meant was that—’

‘Caroline said you wouldn’t believe me. She told me I wouldn’t be allowed to be friends with her once you knew who she was.’ Viviane pulled away from me. She went on ahead, walking quickly with her head down, rebellious in her stance.

‘Oh Vivi, don’t be like that,’ I called but she ignored me. She called to Bess and then ran even further ahead, putting enough distance between us to make communication impossible, and only then did she slow her footsteps to a walk.

I followed her down towards the lake, turning the exchange over in my mind.
Don’t make too much of it
, I told myself.
Don’t make this into something bigger than it really is.
Vivi had always been an imaginative child. She was dealing with an immense grief. No wonder some things were becoming twisted in her mind. Perhaps making dead-Aunt-Caroline into a new imaginary friend was Vivi’s way of exploring death in a way that was manageable to the child, and less frightening to her, less overwhelming. This was the obvious, rational explanation. And if this was the case, then it was nothing to be worried about; this phase would pass in its time, as Vivi’s grief became less intense.

We walked down to the narrow strip of woodland at the water’s edge. A path led through the trees, eventually opening into a grassy hollow bisected by the ancient trunk of a huge tree that must have fallen decades earlier. Moss had grown up over the old wood, and the lake behind was the colour of pewter, shiny and still. The hollow was full of fallen leaves and smelled of damp, of fungi and decay. The reeds in the shallows were dying too. Vivi picked up a stick to use as a switch, climbed up on to the trunk and walked along it, holding her arms out for balance. Her lips were moving. She was talking to Caroline. I watched her as she moved; she was such a graceful child, like her mother, and I was proud of her and sorry for her at the same time. She put her head to one side, pretending to listen to something Caroline was saying, then she looked over her shoulder, at me. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was the subject of whatever conversation was going on between the two of them.

‘Come on,’ I called. ‘Your mummy will be wondering where we are.’

She jumped down and we headed back up the hill. We were crossing the fields when a mucky old jeep towing a rickety metal trailer bounced across the grass towards us and drew up alongside. A swarthy-faced man in a tweed cap leaned out of the passenger window.

‘You there! Put that dog on a lead,’ he said gruffly.

Viviane and Bess looked at me anxiously. I was in no mood to be spoken to so rudely.

‘Why should I put her on a lead?’ I asked. ‘She’s not doing any harm. There’s no livestock in this field.’

‘You’re on my land, Aldridge land.’

I straightened my back. ‘There’s a footpath sign on the other side of that stile clearly pointing in this direction. This is a public right of way.’

‘I don’t give a damn about that. This is my land and if I see that dog running loose, I’ll shoot it.’

Viviane stiffened in alarm.

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ I said, outraged.

‘I’ll do as I please!’

Beside the man, in the driver’s seat, was a younger man with a narrow face. He was hunch-shouldered, forearms on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead through the windscreen.

‘Leave it, please, Father,’ he said.

The older man ignored him. He scowled at me. ‘Where are you from? I don’t recognize you.’

‘We’re living in Reservoir Cottage – not that it’s any of your business.’

‘You’re renting the place?’

‘The house belongs to Viviane’s mother, Julia. Her parents used to live there.’

‘Hello,’ said Viviane.

The young man leaned around his father and touched his forelock as a greeting. Viviane grinned.

The older man was frowning. ‘Julia Cummings?’ he asked.

‘She’s Julia Laurent now, but yes, the same Julia.’

‘You’re telling me Julia bloody Cummings is back living in Blackwater?’

‘Please don’t use language like that in front of Viviane.’

‘My papa was killed,’ Viviane said. ‘We didn’t have anywhere else to go. Do you know my mother?’

The man looked away. ‘Just get off my land,’ he said. ‘Stay off it, you hear me? If I see that dog running loose, there’ll be trouble. Come on, Danny.’

The younger man winked at Vivi, then put the vehicle into gear and it began to pull away, up the hill, lurching over the ruts. We watched it go, puffing black smoke from its exhaust.

‘What a rude man,’ Viviane said.

‘He was. We’ll have to try and avoid him from now on.’

‘He doesn’t like the Cummings family very much, does he?’

‘Not on his land anyway.’

‘“This is
my
land!”’ Vivi said, parodying the man. ‘“My
bloody
land!”’ She stuck out her chest and puffed out her cheeks. ‘“Get off my land, you dirty Cummingses! Go on! Be gone with you! Or I’ll … I’ll shoot the lot of you! I’ll have your heads mounted and hung on my wall!”’

‘Stop it!’ I said, but I was so relieved to see a glimpse of the old, naughty Viviane that I could have kissed rude Mr Aldridge for bringing her back to me.

We carried on together up the hill, all awkwardness – and Caroline – forgotten. I followed the progress of the vehicle as it turned into the lane above the field, trailing clumps of mud. I lost sight of it behind the trees, but a few moments later it appeared again. It was heading downhill towards the lake.

I USED SOME
of my precious cash to buy an expensive bottle of high-strength cleaning fluid in the hope it might obliterate whatever it was that was producing the unpleasant smell that permeated the walls of the cottage. I started by clearing out the cupboard beneath the stairs. As I worked, I day dreamed, remembering my last summer at Les Aubépines. There was a pool at the back of the house and, in my mind, I could see Julia, in her white swimsuit, lying on a lounger, one leg bent at the knee to ease the pain in her hip, a paperback in her hand. Beside her was Alain, not relaxing, but sitting astride his lounger with his portable typewriter between his knees, a cigarette burning between his lips and his fingers hammering at the keys. And there was Viviane running towards the pool; diving in. I remembered the glitter of sunlight on displaced water, Vivi surfacing, smiling, splashing towards the ladder at the shallow end, blinking furiously, her hair sleek, like a seal. The memories were so real to me. I still could not fully accept that those happy times would never return. I was grateful for our innocence back then, for not knowing what the future had in store.

I pulled myself back to the present, to the boxes of candles and old newspapers stacked in the cupboard. At the very back, I found a certificate, an award presented to the child Julia for her neat handwriting. Beneath was a tiny, old-fashioned photograph of a young couple standing outside Reservoir Cottage. The man was buttoned up in a home-made suit. He was pale with receding hair and round, wire-framed spectacles. The woman was looking down at the baby in her arms and a small child stood beside her. I held the picture up to the light. The older child was as dark as Julia was fair. Her hair was in ribbons and she was beaming at the camera, a toothy, open smile. She looked a delightful, happy little thing. ‘Is that you, Caroline?’ I murmured, and at that very moment the bulb in the hall began to flicker. It continued for some moments and the backroom door swung open and Julia came out, leaning heavily on her stick.

‘What’s wrong with the lights?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

Julia sighed and turned the light off at the switch. Nothing happened for a moment, then the bulb glowed brightly, so brightly it hurt my eyes, then it burned itself out with a pop. It was still light outside, but the hallway was plunged into a gloom so dense it was startling. I blinked to clear the glare from my eyes.

‘Damn!’ said Julia. ‘The bloody electrics. The whole house needs rewiring – nothing’s been done to it in decades.’ She hunched over her stick. She looked terribly tired. ‘I tried to persuade Mother to have it modernized but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said she liked it the way it was, as if anyone could like being as uncomfortable as this. God, I need a drink.’

I followed Julia into the kitchen. She pressed the switch to turn on the kitchen light, but nothing happened.

‘The fuse has blown,’ she said. ‘The box is in the cupboard there, on the wall. Can you have a look, Amy?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I still had the photograph in my hand. ‘Look what I found. Is that you and your parents and your sister?’ Julia glanced at the picture and nodded. I put it down on the table. ‘Caroline looks very sweet,’ I said. Julia said nothing.

‘You never speak of her,’ I went on, trying to coax her to talk.

‘No.’ She frowned. ‘We weren’t close.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down, gazing out of the window down towards the lake. The light fell on to her face, showing up the lines and the dark shadows around her eyes. She pushed back her hair and for a moment I glimpsed the young Julia, the beautiful ballet dancer who had captured Alain’s heart. That woman didn’t belong here. She belonged in France with her husband. She ought to be living her old life, drinking wine with her friends, talking into the early hours, having fun.

I turned from her, opened the cupboard door and found the fuse box draped in dusty cobwebs.

‘Vivi told me your sister died,’ I prompted gently.

‘Yes,’ Julia said. Her voice was quiet.

‘A long time ago?’

‘She was seventeen.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Eleven, twelve. A little older than Vivi is now.’

‘How awful for you.’

‘It wasn’t awful because I wasn’t here when she died.’

‘No?’

‘I used to spend the summer holidays with my aunt in Weston-super-Mare. I missed Caroline’s death altogether. Even the funeral.’

‘What happened to her? Was she ill?’

Julia shook back her hair and smiled at me weakly.

‘It was a fever. Have you found the blown fuse, dear?’

‘Yes, it’s here.’

‘Can you mend it?’

‘I’m sure I can.’

I took a knife from the drawer and sat down opposite Julia. I used the point of the knife to unfasten the screw that held the burned fuse in its casing.

Julia picked up the twist of fuse wire and played with it, turning it between her fingers.

‘When Alain died, I knew it was important for me to be a better mother to Viviane than my mother was to me,’ she said suddenly.

I looked up at her.

‘Oh, I don’t mean Mother was unkind or cruel or anything like that. It was just that she was so distant after Caroline’s death. She shut herself away and she never let me come close again.’

‘It must have been terribly hard for her, losing a daughter so young.’

‘Yes,’ Julia said. ‘Yes, she took it all very badly.’

I gave a sympathetic smile.

‘She wasn’t here when my aunt brought me back from Weston that summer. She had gone to stay with friends, to recover from the shock.’

‘So who looked after you? Your father?’

‘No, I went to stay next door with the Crouchers. They were terribly good to me.’