Summer at Shell Cottage Page 15

  Oh God. A shiver went through her. She dimly remembered the shock of the icy water now, tussling with Victor as he tried to haul her out. Seaweed in her hair. Sand on her skin. Shame swept through her. Dark, damning shame. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, but her teeth had begun chattering and it was hard to get the words out. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  He sipped his coffee, still not looking at her. ‘You could have died, Freya,’ he said. ‘You could have drowned. If I hadn’t been there …’

  She shut her eyes wretchedly. Hadn’t she wanted to be rescued by him? Hadn’t she wanted someone to notice she was unhappy? Not like that, though. Not in a way that meant her husband could barely look her in the eye afterwards. ‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘I realize that. It was a one-off, it won’t happen again, I’ve just been under a lot of stress.’ She thought she might actually vomit with mortification.

  He looked at her at last, looked at her as if he didn’t even know her. ‘Freya … I think you are drinking too much.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but that’s the truth. Even the kids were saying as much last night.’

  A hot tear rolled down her face and her throat was so tight and clenched she couldn’t speak.

  ‘And in the sea …’ He shook his head. ‘It all could have gone so badly wrong. Irreparably wrong. You know how strong the current gets, you know how cold the temperature drops.’

  ‘Yes,’ she mumbled. And she did know, of course she knew about hypothermia, and survival rates, and just how brutal the current could be. Her parents had drummed it into her from an early age, incessantly, repeatedly, just like she and Vic had told the children: you can’t take a chance with the sea. It’s bigger than you, it’s stronger than you. Rule number one: respect its power and know when to stay out of the water. ‘Vic, I’m sorry,’ she tried saying again, but he was already speaking, not seeming to hear her.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Freya,’ he said unhappily and his gaze slid away. ‘I just don’t know any more.’

  Freya had never experienced quite such depths of self-loathing as she stood in the shower ten minutes later, washing the seawater from her hair and skin, watching another strand of seaweed twist around the plughole with the foaming shampoo suds.

  You could have died, Freya, she heard Victor say accusingly as she towelled her hair dry afterwards. Her head ached with the roughness of the action and she could hardly catch her own eye in the mirror for the wave of hot shame that cascaded over her once again. Just imagine. The children would have woken up to discover their mother was dead, seaweed-hair and all. The thought of their shocked, tearful faces was like a punch in the stomach. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have let herself get into such a state?

  When she finally slunk through to breakfast, she felt as if everyone must be staring at her, but Libby was busily making another bracelet under the tutelage of Molly, Dexter was glued to his iPod, Teddy was lying on his front arranging a series of pebbles into a line, and none of them gave her a second glance. Over at the worktop, Harriet looked as if she’d just got up too; still in pyjamas, her hair dishevelled. She popped a couple of Nurofen from a packet and tossed them down her throat with a shudder. Seeing Freya, she slid the blister pack along to her. ‘Morning,’ she mumbled huskily. ‘Bloody Nora. My head.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Freya, accepting the packet. She felt embarrassed for having blurted out all her problems to Harriet the evening before too. What must her sister-in-law think of her? ‘Listen, I’m sorry about … last night,’ she said in a low voice, tucking a wet curl of hair behind her ear. ‘Me blathering on for hours like that.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Harriet said. ‘There’s no need to apologize for anything.’

  Freya threw two Nurofen down her throat and washed them down with the last dregs of her coffee. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.

  ‘How much did you guys have to drink last night anyway? Jesus! What was all that about?’ Molly asked, looking up disapprovingly.

  ‘Fifty, I bet,’ Ted replied gleefully. ‘Fifty drinks. Jesus!’

  Freya felt herself turn scarlet but Harriet merely rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t pay any attention to Goody Two Shoes over there,’ she said. ‘We are on holiday, thank you very much,’ she added, addressing her daughter. ‘Adults are allowed a few drinks on holiday. And God knows we need it, after days on end spent with our loved ones. That’s you lot, by the way.’

  ‘Charming,’ Molly replied, tossing her hair. ‘Well, as long as you keep setting me a good example, then … Oh, wait. You don’t. Role model failure.’

  Harriet groaned. ‘I can’t cope with crushing teenage wit and acerbity today,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I am weak and vulnerable.’

  ‘Ha. Well, if this is your mid-life crisis, then you’ve only your bad-ass self to blame,’ Molly said heartlessly, passing the bracelet back to Libby. ‘There,’ she said in a friendlier voice as she ran a finger along the colourful pattern. ‘See?’

  You could see genuine awe shining in Libby’s eyes as she gazed up at her cool older cousin. ‘Thanks,’ she said, slipping it onto her wrist and turning it this way and that. ‘It’s bad-ass,’ she added daringly.

  When was the last time Libby had looked at her so admiringly? Freya thought with a pang, remembering how her daughter had recoiled from her in bed, freaked out by the seaweed. Colour burned in her cheeks at the thought. Even the kids had noticed her drinking, according to Victor, and that felt like the worst kind of judgement of all.

  How had it all gone so wrong? She had tried so hard to be the perfect wife and mother, juggling her schedule and begging favours from colleagues so that she could go to school assemblies and PTA meetings. She had tried too hard, if anything, desperately overcompensating by spending hours creating Gruffalo and dinosaur costumes for fancy dress parties in the vain hope that her children would love her for it and other parents would notice and approve. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to accuse her of being a part-time mum just because she had a demanding full-time job. And she had worked damned hard to protect that image this far, to keep all those different plates spinning merrily.

  But in the last few weeks, the plates had come crashing down one after another. Dad. Work. The children. Her marriage. Somehow she had become a woman who felt better when there was a bottle of gin in her handbag; a wife who threw herself recklessly into the sea because she was so drunk she couldn’t control herself; a mother whose children pulled faces because she stank.

  Every way you looked at her, she was a failure. An embarrassment. A screw-up.

  Hands shaking, Freya poured herself a glass of orange juice and pushed some bread into the toaster, stepping closer to Harriet, who was slathering two slices of toast with butter and marmalade.

  Harriet shot her a look. ‘About last night,’ she began tentatively, but Freya was too embarrassed to let her progress even a syllable further.

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ she interrupted, forcing brightness into her voice. ‘I’m sorry to have bored on at you for so long. From now on, I’m on the wagon so there won’t be any more bad behaviour from me. Brownie’s honour!’

  ‘Have we got any brownies?’ Ted asked with sudden interest. (What was it with kids and their acute sense of hearing when it came to certain words? Freya marvelled.)

  ‘No, dumbo,’ Libby said, kicking him. ‘Brownie’s honour is, like, when you make a big important promise. Mum, when am I starting Brownies anyway? You did say I could, ages ago.’

  ‘Um … I’ll ring the Brownie lady when we’re back home,’ Freya said, wishing it was possible to have a private conversation without young ears tuning in for a change. She wasn’t sure she could cope with a ‘big important promise’ when it came to drinking either. The very words ‘on the wagon’ made her feel anxious the moment they fell from her lips. No cheeky wine while she made dinner? No gin and tonics on the terrace? It was
a horrible thought. A scary thought. Even at eight thirty in the morning.

  Harriet merely turned kind brown eyes on her. ‘Well, I’m here, okay? Any time you want to talk. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Freya mumbled. And then, because she couldn’t bear the sympathetic look on Harriet’s face any longer, she turned away abruptly and addressed her children, who were all still tousle-haired and in pyjamas. ‘Right, you lot! Go and get dressed, then brush your teeth and hair. Now, please! We’re all going kayaking today, remember. Chop, chop!’

  Kayaking. Even thinking about swaying around on a boat made her want to puke. But her words had the children cheering and leaping up immediately (a miracle in itself) so that was some small blessing at least.

  Freya buttered her toast doggedly. Today was a new start, she vowed. A new, sober start where she pulled herself together and made everything all right again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Libby had been doing her best to cheer up Granny but so far things hadn’t gone very well. Down at the beach, she’d found the most beautiful shiny pink shell which she had saved especially to give to her (Granny loved seashells; she had a whole jar of special ones up in the bathroom). Libby had washed the shell with squirty soap and then dried it gently on one of the towels, so that it even smelled nice, but before she could give it to Granny, Teddy found it and threw it out the window, trying to hit Dexter on the head.

  Libby had punched him, Teddy had squealed, and down in the garden, Dexter was yelling that he was going to kill Teddy Then, amidst all the ruckus, Libby heard Granny say, ‘What on earth is wrong with those children? For heaven’s sake!’ in a very peevish, grumpy sort of way, which meant that the shell had actually just made her feel worse. Libby had gone down and searched all around the garden, but she never saw that shell again. Stupid Teddy. He was really lucky Libby wasn’t the sort of sister who did mean things like throw a person’s dinosaurs out of the window, even though she very badly felt like doing it.

  Next, she decided to pick Granny some flowers. She cut a huge bunch of colourful sweet peas, and put them in a pretty vase of water, meaning to leave them by Granny’s bed as a nice surprise. The children weren’t usually allowed to go into their grandmother’s bedroom but Libby was sure nobody would mind this one special time, so she crept in on tiptoes, being super-quiet and careful. Unfortunately, though, she didn’t notice Granny’s slippers on the floor, tripped over them, and ended up tipping the vase and its contents all over the bed. She gave a sob of anguish and tried to dry the bed with Granny’s old hairdryer but of course Mum walked in on her – ‘What on earth are you doing?’ – and got really cross and didn’t seem to understand that she was only trying to be kind.

  Libby was starting to feel that everyone was in a bad mood on this holiday. Mum didn’t even want to listen, she just told her off in a shouty, impatient sort of way and then insisted Libby help her make up the bed – as if she didn’t have enough to do right now, honestly, it’s just one thing after another with you kids – until Libby’s face felt very hot and her eyes went swimmy and her throat went all tight and sore. What was wrong with all the adults? Even Uncle Robert kept going off and talking on his phone all the time when he thought nobody was looking.

  Then, the next day, they were all set to go kayaking but nobody had mentioned Granny, and Libby felt really sad that they were going without her, because kayaking was so much fun, it would cheer up anybody, even the saddest little sad granny. And so she went up to the bedroom and knocked ever so quietly and gently on the door – ‘Granny? Granny, are you coming with us?’ – and she was only trying to be nice again, but then Mum was there, looking all tight-faced and pulling her away, saying, ‘Libby, for the last time, stop badgering your grandmother, just leave her to sleep, all right? You can see her later.’

  ‘She’s not a badger, she’s a girl,’ Teddy said from downstairs and Libby threw her shoe at him, just because she was sick of people telling her she was doing the wrong thing all the time, and because Teddy was really totally annoying sometimes.

  Badgering your grandmother! She wasn’t completely sure what badgering meant but the way Mum said it was not good. Like Mum was cross with her again. Well, Mum was just cross all the time lately, and Libby was getting fed up with it. Maybe if Mum tried a bit harder to be nice and cheerful herself, then Granny would feel happier too!

  Libby sighed as she and her brothers clambered into the car a few minutes later and began their usual argument about whose turn it was to sit in the middle seat. She wasn’t about to admit defeat yet, though. She would think of a way to make Granny smile again, and that was that.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Tarrants and Castledines drove in convoy to the kayaking safari centre near Kingsbridge and were soon kitted out in life jackets. Unfortunately there were only three double kayaks available as well as one pedalo, and some scrapping ensued about who went with who, and in what. ‘Well, I was kind of hoping to be partners with you, Ted,’ Harriet said quickly. ‘And I know Uncle Rob wanted to go with you, Dex.’

  ‘We’ll leave these losers behind, right, Dexter?’ said Rob, holding one hand up, and his nephew grinned and high-fived him. ‘Too right,’ he said.

  Libby sidled closer to her adored cousin. ‘Can I go with you, Molly?’ she asked shyly, and Harriet replied at once.

  ‘Perfect! Yes, of course you can, Libs. Can’t she, Molly?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Molly, who didn’t look quite so thrilled at the prospect.

  ‘Wait – so that means …’ Freya had lost track of who was going with whom.

  ‘So that means you’re with Vic,’ Harriet said. Was Freya imagining it, or was there a glint in her eye? ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you two take the pedalo for a nice relaxing cruise around, while Rob and I chaperone these tearaways on the kayaks? Is that okay with everyone?’

  ‘Yeah!’ the kids yelled, all grabbing paddles at once, patently glad not to be stuck in the infinitely less cool choice of river craft.

  Freya looked at Victor, feeling as if they’d just been played, but Harriet was already bustling the children away. It would be a job trying to convince any of them to go in the pedalo with her now. ‘Looks like it’s just me and you, then,’ she said after a moment.

  He nodded, his face hard to read. ‘I guess so.’

  The next few minutes were spent double-checking everyone’s life jackets were put on correctly and giving Ted strict instructions that started 1) No jumping in, and ended 17) No pushing anyone else in. Despite Freya’s best efforts to delay the moment that she and Victor were contained within a small space together, the children were all eager to get in their kayaks and start paddling, and were soon on the water and shouting competitively at each other that they were so going to beat the others, you just wait. Seconds later, they were splashing away amid hoots of laughter.

  ‘And then there were two,’ Freya said apprehensively, clambering into the pedalo, which swayed beneath her weight. Just me and my husband, who thinks I’m an alcoholic. What fun we’ll have!

  She knew why Harriet had done this, of course. Despite the horrible wine-misted haze that shrouded most of last night’s events, she could distinctly remember Harriet telling her, several times, that she needed to talk to Vic. That he’d be devastated if he knew how she’d been feeling. ‘Devastated’ was perhaps taking it a bit far – he’d looked at her as if she repulsed him just a few hours ago – but she knew deep down that the conversation needed to be had, cards laid on the table. She had to reveal what a mess she’d been, how she’d been freefalling for the last few weeks, silently and unnoticed until she’d almost plunged to a watery demise last night. It didn’t promise to be an easy conversation, that was for sure.

  It was another warm day, with barely a breeze to stir the overhanging willows lining the sides of the river. The pedals seemed stiff and creaky at first but Freya and Victor soon settled into a rhythm and began cruising along the creek at a fairly leisurely pac
e, miles behind the others, who were already vanishing at speed into the distance. Just as Harriet had envisaged, no doubt.

  Freya tried to drink in the beauty of the wide, meandering creek, rumoured to be the home of kingfishers and nesting swans, as well as offering possible sightings of herons and otters, according to the pamphlet they’d been given. She couldn’t concentrate, though, not even on soothing thoughts of otters and kingfishers, as she pedalled along, one hand trailing in the cool green water. ‘Vic, I’ve got something to say,’ she blurted out before she lost her bottle. ‘Last night … I know it got kind of out of hand and you’re pissed off with me, but I need to explain.’ Her nerve failed her and her mouth dried up, then she remembered Harriet’s earnest brown eyes. You have to tell him, she’d said. You have to!

  ‘I’m just … struggling right now,’ she went on, feeling as if every word was an effort to drag out. ‘I can’t cope. One of my patients is probably going to sue me. I miss Dad. You getting stabbed totally freaked me out. I … I … It’s just too much. I’m losing the plot.’

  Victor stopped pedalling in surprise. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Say all that again?’

  Freya’s pulse was racing; she tried to calm herself with a deep, slow breath. Otters, she reminded herself. Kingfishers. Swans. ‘Everything’s gone wrong this summer,’ she confessed. ‘Since Dad died, I’ve found it really hard to cope. I—’

  He shook his head as if her words made no sense. ‘But you’ve coped really well,’ he told her. ‘You’ve held it together, you’ve run around looking after your mum, you’ve got on with everything like you always do.’ He stared at her, baffled. ‘That’s what you do, Freya. That’s who you are – coping queen extraordinaire.’

  She winced, reminded of her old nickname from the sixth form – the Ice Queen – given to her by Johnny Dodds, when she wouldn’t kiss him at the Christmas disco. Ice Queen. Back then she’d prided herself on her cool detachment, her need for nobody and nothing, certainly not Johnny Dodds and his red face and slobbery lips. But maybe she’d taken things too far. Maybe the Ice Queen should have let herself thaw a long time ago.