The Silent Tide (40 page)

Tobias’s office was a scholar’s haven, smelling delightfully of old books and brewing coffee. They arranged themselves on comfortable chairs with the manuscript on a low table in front of them. The novel was finished now, but Emily thought it needed a final polish.

‘Usually it’s the other way round, me advising other people how to write,’ Tobias quipped as he poured coffee. She was surprised to see he was nervous, though he was trying not to show it.

‘Don’t worry,’ she told him. ‘The book is already wonderful but there are a few things you could consider doing to make it perfect.’

As they discussed her notes she was impressed by his responses. He was protective of his work, yes, even a little arrogant about its merits, but that was all right, she could respect that. She approved of the fact that he was used to the hard toil of writing, the discipline of rewriting. He understood the need to beguile the reader and to make the language sing.

‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall at one of your creative writing workshops,’ she sighed when they’d finished and she gave him the script and her notes. ‘It would be really interesting.’

‘Do you write at all yourself ?’ he asked, and she shook her head.

‘I don’t think I could. Anyway, I never have the time.’

‘No excuses. Real writers make time,’ he said. Again, she glimpsed that passion in him, the same passion Matthew had. She had a feeling in her bones about Tobias’s book, and about him, too, and was relieved that others in the office agreed with her. Nobody could guarantee anything in publishing, whether critics and readers would like a book, whether it would win prizes, whether it would hit some lucky streak – or sink without trace. All she could say was that this one deserved to do well.

She was still thinking about this after they said goodbye: making time for what you felt passionate about. Matthew’s face came to mind, and as she walked back the way she came, through the door out into the cloister, part of her was looking for him. So she was hardly surprised when, in one of those odd coincidences, she glanced across the grassy sward and saw him.

He was strolling in her direction, his old messenger bag hooked over one shoulder. She stopped, unable to move. There was something so dear and familiar about him. She loved that rolling walk, the casual way he tucked his thumb in his jeans front pockets, his intent expression, as though he was exercised by some deep philosophical problem – which, she smiled at the thought – he probably was. She waited in the cloister, knowing he’d see her in a moment, if only he’d look up.

Then someone shouted, ‘Matthew!’ and he turned, alert to the girl dashing across the grass to him. She was dressed in a green floaty tunic over jeans. Her long dark hair flew out behind. It was Lola, the girl who had been selling the poetry books at the party where she first set eyes on Joel. Matthew waited for her. Emily couldn’t see his face but she imagined him smiling. Lola reached his side, panting, her face alive. She threw her arms about him and kissed him, then they linked arms and went off together, back in the direction from which she came. Neither of them saw Emily. She might just as well have been a ghost.

She felt at first shock and confusion, and then an appalling sense of loss washed over her. She hardly knew how she got herself out of the building and onto the street . Travelling back to the office, anonymous amongst the crowds on the tube train as it roared through the dark tunnels, she was grateful to feel a numbing oblivion.

That evening, at home in Hackney, she tried to rationalise her feelings. What was she doing, seeing Joel when she obviously hadn’t recovered from Matthew? She didn’t quite know, only that life had to gone on and she was very much attracted to Joel. She’d told him about Matthew, of course , it seemed only fair, and he’d said, ‘Poor you. These things take time to get over,’ so she’d thought he understood.

They’d been together several weeks now, but he’d only been here to her flat once. It was partly that it felt very small and poky after his, but partly that it still felt strange having another man here. She hadn’t slept with Joel, but if and when she did, she couldn’t envisage it being here with its memories of Matthew. She was always comparing them to one another and decided they were as different as chalk and cheese.

Their attitude to their writing was a case in point. Matthew was a romantic in the sense that he had to write, it was as natural to him as breathing. He’d die if it was forbidden him, she sometimes used to think. Joel’s attitude was much more pragmatic. He earned his living by his pen and was good at it. But it was what the writing brought him that he liked most of all: the kudos, the lifestyle, the people he mixed with. He had a shiny gloss, sophistication, she felt good being with him. He appreciated nice restaurants, fine wines. He liked to know what was going on in the world and to be sure of his place in it. And here she was moving along with him, meeting interesting people and learning the media gossip, his gloss rubbing off on her. With Joel she lived for the present , and the present was where she was happy at the moment. She was sensible enough to know that this state of things couldn’t last for ever. It never did. But for now it would do. She hadn’t mentioned the relationship at work. The news would go round like wildfire. No, it was best to keep it quiet.

She thought of Isabel long ago , a lifetime ago, marrying her author, imagining that her life would broaden out. Instead, how small and sequestered it had become. She still hadn’t sent Joel the latest tranche of Isabel’s writing, which was lying on her coffee table. She’d hardly had time to read it herself and then she’d been so upset about Matthew that she hadn’t been able to concentrate. She reached for it now, and despite her fears was quickly caught up again in Isabel’s story.

Isabel

For three weeks in July 1952 no rain fell. The days wore on, hot and humid, the nights giving little relief. Each morning Isabel had to drag herself from sleep to plough through the day’s routine. Lorna developed heat rash from her plastic pants and was fretful. The whole household was bad-tempered. Hugh’s mother sneezed all the time and the hay fever somehow set off her asthma. Hugh stayed in his study all day with the household’s only electric fan, revising his novel. On several occasions Mrs Catchpole packed picnics and Jacqueline drove Isabel and the baby to the east coast, once to the small seaside town where Isabel and Hugh had spent their short honeymoon in the wood-framed beach house belonging to Aunt Penelope’s Reginald.

Isabel always looked forward to these days out. Not only were the off shore breezes a relief from the heavy heat and the claustrophobia of Stone House, but she was shameless about leaving Lorna with Jacqueline and walking off along the shore by herself, where the dramatic pounding of the waves and the desolate cries of seabirds lulled her thoughts. It was as though the sea scooped all thought and care out of her, the
shh
of the water across the shale scraping her mind as clean and empty as one of the scallop shells she’d pick up and rub smooth inside with her thumb. She’d wade knee-deep into the freezing cold sea and welcome the numbness it brought, not minding if the waves soaked her skirt, so that Jacqueline, for whom a day on the beach involved protective headscarves, windbreaks, rugs and sunglasses, would scold her on her return for ruining her clothes, as though she were a child.

On one of these days, she walked further than usual until she came to where a narrow river ran into the sea. She stood looking down at the water where it swirled fast and deep. On the far shore, more beach stretched away invitingly, but there was no obvious way to reach it. She turned to go back, then paused. Somewhere up beyond the dunes must be a sandy lane running parallel to the beach. If she followed it back in the direction of where she’d left Jacqueline and Lorna, she’d find the house where she and Hugh had honeymooned. Curious to see it again and remember their happy time together, she walked up the beach carrying her shoes and waded across hillocks of loose white sand, avoiding the wiry seagrass that hurt her feet.

Eventually she came to it, a white wooden bungalow set in a square of scrubby garden, behind a paling fence. The house was as pretty as she remembered it – prettier, in fact, for it had acquired a new coat of white paint since she’d seen it last. The door of the glass porch was open. Perhaps Penelope was staying there now, she thought. She stopped in the lane to fasten her sandals, her hair blowing in her eyes.

When she looked up again, it was to see a man standing in the porch watching her, one arm resting on the open door. He waved and called her name and she stared in puzzlement. Then she recognised him.

For a moment she was transfixed in amazement and then, ‘Stephen!’ she cried happily and walked quickly to meet him.

‘Isabel, by all that’s wonderful, what on earth are you doing here?’ he asked, laughing as he shook her hand.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ she said, pushing back her wild hair. As his gaze passed over her, she was conscious suddenly of her bare legs, scrubbed face, the splashes of seawater on her old cotton dress. He, on the other hand, might just have returned from strolling round the town, for he was dressed in flannel trousers and a white shirt with a loosely tied cravat. His boyish features were so much more tranquil than in London, his normally pale complexion browned by the sun. The expression text-indent: 0; margin-left: ad the co on his face was not disapproval of her looks, however, but admiration.

‘Come in, won’t you? Your aunt’s lent me the place for a couple of weeks. Or rather, Reginald has.’

‘You, on holiday?’ she said, stepping inside. She remembered him as always too busy for holidays.

‘I’ve left Philip in charge. Doubtless there’ll be a disaster, but I imagine the business will survive.’

‘Isn’t Grace with you?’ she asked him. ‘I should like to say hello.’

‘No, she isn’t,’ he said shortly. He showed her into the little sitting room. It was as pleasant as she remembered it, with a picture window looking out across the dunes and an alcove stuffed with books; on a shelf over the fireplace were scattered shells and lucky stones – ones with holes through them. A manuscript lay strewn on the sofa. Even in a gale this house had felt cosy.

‘I oughtn’t to be long,’ she said suddenly, recalling Lorna and Jacqueline.

‘Is Hugh here?’ he asked. ‘You must both come and have tea, or a drink, perhaps.’

She shook her head and explained that she’d left Lorna with a friend on the beach. He said, ‘In that case I’ll walk along with you. I should like to take a look at your daughter.’ In the hall, he took up a jacket and hat from a row of hooks and opened the door for her. They walked together along the lane in the lee of the dunes towards the promenade, below which she’d left Jacqueline.

‘How is everything?’ she asked. ‘I often think about you all.’

‘We wondered how you’d been. None of us have set eyes on you for so long. Maisie Briggs keeps asking after you and no one ever knows where anything is. As for Cat . . .’ He frowned. ‘One can’t tell her a thing without her bursting into tears.’ He glanced at her and smiled. ‘You’ve been busy with the baby, though, and we were sorry to hear you’d been so unwell.’

‘Unwell – is that what Hugh has told you?’

‘Why yes. Reading between the lines, he’s been quite worried about you.’

‘What does he say is wrong with me?’

Stephen appeared rather embarrassed. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve obviously got the wrong end of the stick. I’ve only seen him occasionally, when we get invited to the same do’s. I expect that’ll change once the book is finished. It’s most eagerly anticipated, you know. Your husband is spoken of as quite an upcoming talent.’

‘Is he?’ she said, pleased. ‘That’s marvellous. I didn’t know.’

‘You’ve read the book already, I imagine. What’s it like?’

‘I’ve read some of it,’ she said cautiously. ‘I know I would say this, but I genuinely think it’s very good.’

‘I’m delighted.’ Stephen thrust his hands in his pockets and began to look about at the glory of the day, whistling tunelessly. Then he broke off, saying, ‘And how are you really? I must say, you don’t look at all ill. Motherhood must be suiting you.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ she said dully, ‘but it isn’t really. You don’t have to be gallant. I look an absolute mess.’ They were walking up a concrete slope onto the promenade now and there were the steps down to the beach. She stopped, suddenly lacking the will to go on. And felt his hand on her arm.

‘Not a mess, my dear,’ he said gently, looking into her face. ‘But you do appear – well, different, if you don’t mind me saying. A little forlorn, if that doesn’t sound rude.’

‘Yes, that’s it, forlorn,’ she sighed, covering her face with her hands. She remembered how close the word sounded to the sound of Lorna’s name.

There was an old bench nearby, and he drew her across to sit beside him. For a moment her thoughts were too tangled to allow her to speak again. Forlorn was exactly how she felt, but angry, too. Angry and restless.

Finally, she said, ‘Don’t let us speak of things like that. Tell me what’s happening in London, Stephen. Cheer me up. I’m such a country bumpkin now, I hear nothing. How’s Aunt Penelope? I’m always meaning to write to her or telephone . . .’ To tell the truth she hadn’t even thought of Penelope for ages. Until today seeing the house once more. She had only really known her aunt for that short stretch of time she lived with her. It had always been patently obvious that the woman had her own life and wasn’t suddenly going to turn into the ideal of a generous aunt. That opportunity if it had ever existed, must have been lost when Isabel was still very small.

Stephen said, ‘Your aunt, as always, has been most generous. And she manages Reginald superbly. He hardly tries to interfere with the business at all.’

‘Do you think he’ll ever divorce his wife and marry my aunt?’ Isabel said.