The Silent Tide (48 page)

Hours passed. Gradually, despite the winter’s day, warm sunlight from the window caressed her back and brought her to herself. She rose from the table and started opening cupboards until she found the bottle of port Penelope had opened yesterday. She set down a sherry schooner and very deliberately filled it to the brim with the glowing ruby liquid.

The first sip was like fire, but as she drank it all down she felt it move like molten metal through her veins, numbing her body. After this she felt better. So much better that she poured a second glass, which she took back with her to bed. She drank it, lay down, wrapped herself in blankets and soon fell deeply asleep.

When she awoke, the room was growing dark and she was ravenous. After all, she’d had neither breakfast nor lunch. She got out of bed and went to the kitchen. There was bread and bits and pieces of leftovers in the larder: eggs, cold ham, most of a fruit cake. She switched on a fire in the sitting room and sat with her feet up on the sofa to eat as the night settled expression on his facets b in. It was a consolation to be without responsibilities, alone with her thoughts. She thought of Lorna, of course, but knew that she was safe and well, thank goodness, after her illness. Lorna would be all right without her for a while.

The next day she stayed, and the next. She passed the time in long walks, wrapped up against the chill in scarves and gloves of Penelope’s. She avoided the town or human company of any sort, except what was necessary to buy food and any small personal items she needed. On her outings she met hardly anyone, except dog walkers or fishermen mending nets down by the harbour. One man always nodded to her as she passed, a big portly old tar who seemed to be out in all weathers repairing an ancient wherry boat that looked as though it wouldn’t last another season. She would return the nod and walk on without speaking, but once when she looked behind she saw him gazing after her. Not in an unpleasant way, but as though he was intrigued by her presence.

On the Saturday, five days after she’d left home, she returned from a morning walk to find a strange car parked near the house. As she approached, its door opened and to her surprise out stepped Stephen. He smiled at her uncertainly, passing his hat from hand to hand, and she stared at him dismayed because she was used to her own company now. ‘I’m sorry if I’m intruding,’ he said.

‘Stephen, what are you doing here?’

He shut the car door and leaned against it, then reached into a pocket for his cigarettes, cupping his hand against the wind to light one. ‘Let’s just say that I was passing,’ he said gravely.

‘I suppose Penelope put you up to it.’

‘She was worried. When you didn’t return home, Hugh telephoned her.’

‘He didn’t come himself then.’

‘Clearly not.’

As tears prickled she turned her face away.

‘Men have their pride, Isabel.’

‘I’d rather not discuss it with you, thank you,’ she said, mastering herself. ‘Since you’re here you’d better come in.’

‘Were you really in Suffolk anyway?’ she asked, as she poured coffee into cups in the kitchen.

‘You remember the writer Harold Chisholm? He lives near Aldborough. He’s always good for a bed for the night and it’s a lovely spot.’ Stephen drank some coffee, watching her.

She gave a short, mirthless laugh.

‘I don’t like to see you like this,’ he said softly.

‘I’m sorry I look such a mess,’ she said, dipping her head to study her reflection in the teardrop-shaped mirror Penelope had hung by the sink. Her hair was unkempt, and though her face was rosy from the chilly wind, she’d not bothered with make-up and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She didn’t care.

‘You’re not a mess. You look beautiful,’ he said, and she stilled, hearing the strangeness in his voice. She heard him put down his cup and sensed him come near. When she turned towards him he caught her in his arms and, pulling her towards him, kissed her. It was an urgent, passionate kiss, and she felt her mouth open under his, couldn’t help but kiss him back. He tasted richly of the coffee and tobacco. His jaw grazed her cheek as he kissed her face and her neck and unbuttoned her cardigan to kiss the soft flesh above her collarbone, and she loved the scent of his hair and felt something deep in her start to relax. And in a moment she was crying, actually sobbing, as all her pent-up emotion was released in a great tide.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘don’t,’ and he bent to scoop her up and carried her through to the sitting room where he laid her on the sofa and kissed her some more through her tears.

Finally she drew back, then sat up and rubbed her eyes. Stephen reached into his breast pocket and shook out a handkerchief and gave it to her. She stared at it, the memory rushing back. She and Hugh in that steam-filled café in Brighton, when she’d cried and Hugh’s handkerchief had been full of sand. The sense of loss she felt now made her start crying all over again.

‘I hate to see you so unhappy, dear,’ Stephen said, as she blew her nose. ‘And I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop myself. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you. It took me a long time to realise. It was when I saw you here last summer . . .’

‘I didn’t know,’ she broke in. ‘I’d no idea you felt like that. Oh, I wish you wouldn’t. It makes things much more complicated.’

‘Yes,’ he said, looking very unhappy now. ‘It does rather.’

They were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, then he leaned forward and once again started to kiss her. ‘At least we have this moment,’ he whispered, in between kisses. He moved his hand and stroked her breast through her blouse. Astonished, as if of its own accord, her body began to respond. It was so long since Hugh had touched her like this, as though he wanted her desperately, needed her, and here was Stephen, good, solid, kind Stephen, whom she’d always thought of as a rock of strength, needing her in this way. She watched as he peeled off his jacket, loosened his top button and unfastened his cuffs, so she saw the gold hairs curling at his neck and felt a prickle of desire. They clung to one another as though the heat of passion could burn away each other’s sorrow.

But as his hands explored, she felt less certain that this was what she wanted. She didn’t want it to be Stephen doing this, she wanted Hugh. She couldn’t just replace one with the other, it didn’t feel right. She pushed his hand away. ‘No,’ she gasped, then more strongly, ‘No, please.'

He drew back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m going too fast, aren’t I? Forgive me.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said. ‘I just can’t, that’s all.’ She rose from the sofa and tidied her clothes. ‘I meant it when I said I was a mess. Did Penelope tell you everything?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind. She’s sworn me to secrecy. I’ve never known her so upset.’

‘
She’s
upset?’ Isabel said, outraged. ‘I find it impossible to be sorry for her.’

‘Perhaps when you’ve had time to think—’

‘Don’t patronise me, Stephen ,’ she cried, angry now. ‘Why do you defend her all the time? It’s as though you’re her poodle. You come here at her command—’

‘I came because I wanted to,’ he said.

‘I can never forgive her. Never. She didn’t even have the courage to tell me face-to-face.’

‘Isabel, you must try to understand. I knew her when she was cast lower than any woman should be. It’s her way of surviving, to be distant. She does care about you, I know she does.’

Isabel sighed. ‘Really, Stephen, you’re much too decent. That’s your trouble. You like to see the best in people. You should have stepped in when Hugh was courting me, told me he was wrong for me.’

‘I tried, don’t you remember?’

‘Did you? I suppose I didn’t listen. But none of this is any good because although I’m fond of you, Stephen, and I really am, the fact remains that I’m married to Hugh. And despite everything, I do still love him.’

Stephen looked as though she’d struck him. She felt stronger now, much clearer about what she wanted.

‘I think it would be better if you went now. Call in on old Harold, I’m sure he’s dying for some company.’ She said this gently, trying to make it into a joke.

‘You’re probably right,’ he said humbly. ‘I should go. But if you should change your mind . . . Well, you know my feelings now. I’d wait for you, you know.’

‘Thank you, but don’t,’ she said, going to him and kissing him once more. He held her close for a moment, then picked up his jacket and was gone.

She stayed in Penelope’s house another few days. Then came gales from the north and the sea was whipped into a torment. She stood on the cliff watching gigantic waves engulf the pier, smash against the promenade below, soaking her in spray, and at last found a kind of peace.

Saturday came and the weather was worse. The wind buffeted the house so it shook. Late in the afternoon she decided. She had a husband whom she still loved and a dear little baby, and she longed to see them both again. Perhaps she was strong enough now to try to win Hugh back. She was ready to go home.

As darkness fell she made her way out in the storm to the telephone box by the church and rang Stone House . When Hugh answered, the line crackled and it was a moment before she heard him properly.

‘Hugh? Hugh, it’s me.’

The response was not what she had hoped for.

‘Isabel, is that you?’ His voice was urgent, angry. ‘What the heck . . . ? Where are you?’

‘I’m still at the beach house. Hugh, forgive me, I’ll explain when I see you, but would you come and fetch me? Please?’

‘Fetch you? Now? Just a minute, will you?’

The shock came when she heard a woman’s voice in the background. The line was bad but she still made out what she said. Not to go tonight, to wait till tomorrow.

‘Hugh, hello?’

‘Isabel?’

‘Hugh, what’s Jacqueline doing there?’

Whether he heard her, she never knew. ‘Isabel, I’ll come tomorrow. The weather’s too bad tonight. If it’s better in the morning I’ll come first thing.’

‘Hugh, please, could you not come tonight?’

'Isabel, be reasonable--'

It was then that the line went dead. When she stumbled from the telephone box, all her newfound optimism had evaporated.

Emily

It was past nine on a Saturday morning, and she was sitting in bed in Joel’s apartment drinking his excellent coffee and enjoying a bit of solitude. Joel had had to go out early; a car had come for him an hour before. If she turned on the radio in a moment she should hear him being interviewed about Hugh Morton. There was interest building with the television series coming, and when the day before he’d asked if she minded about him going off, she’d encouraged him to say yes. After all, it was good pre-publicity for the book.

When the doorbell sounded she stumbled out of bed, pulled on Joel’s dressing gown, and opened the door to find the postman with a Special Delivery letter, which she signed for. She glanced at the handwriting, thought it faintly familiar, and placed it on a kitchen worktop where Joel would see it.

The programme! She whisked over to the desk, where Joel had left his laptop on, tuned, he’d told her, to the right station. She pressed some keys and sat down in his chair to listen. The interview had started, but only just.

‘– on our screens next week, with the gorgeous Zara Collins playing the iconic central character, Nanna,’ a woman was saying. ‘Joel, you’re writing a book about the author, and you’ve been an adviser on this series, give us a bit of background. This series presents Nanna as a typical nineteen fifties’ woman, trying to break free of domesticity. How did Hugh Morton, who one hardly thinks of as a feminist, come to write about her?’

‘You have to remember . . .’ Joel’s voice came across warm, confiding. He was good at this, Emily thought, not for the first time. ‘Morton wrote from a man’s point of view. He was fascinated by Nanna, but I think he saw her path in life, going against the grain, as progressively self-destructive.’

‘The novel finishes with her death, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s right. The husband tells her story whilst in prison awaiting trial for her manslaughter.’

‘Some say that Morton based the character of Nanna on his tragic first wife. What was her name – Isabel?’

Here Emily listened intently.

Joel gave a short laugh. ‘It shouldn’t be assumed that fictional characters are based, as you say, on real people. Isabel might have inspired Nanna – there are parallels there. Morton met her when his first novel was published. She was his editor, in fact. Nanna is a journalist, so the milieux were close.’

‘Fascinating,’ the interviewer said.

Joel went on: ‘But in many ways Nanna is quite different from Isabel. He quickly realised his marriage was a mistake, you see. After her death he went on to marry a childhood friend, Jacqueline, and they were together for nearly sixty years. The book is dedicated to her, so you could say that she too was an inspiration.’

‘Thank you, Joel. Now the fifties’ costumes are brilliant and we have the costume designer here in the studio . . .’

Emily hardly heard what the costume designer had to say. She was thinking with astonishment about Joel. He had dismissed Isabel in a couple of sentences. After reading the memoir, after all they had talked about, he was still following Jacqueline’s line – that Isabel was an irrelevance to Hugh, a brief wrong turning in his life, the only legacy of which was Lorna. Isabel was unimportant.

‘Zombies and Mermaids,
a new movie coming from the director of . . .’ the interviewer continued. Emily pressed a button and the radio cut out. She stared at the computer desktop, thinking, and noticed Joel’s document, now labelled
Hugh Morton biography.

This time she couldn’t stop herself opening it. She pulled up a chair, moved the cursor onto the icon and clicked. After a moment the document opened.

She saw very quickly that the book was nearly finished, as Joel had assured her. He’d typed out a Contents page and, when she looked at the final page of the document, she saw he was halfway through a Bibliography. She turned back to the Contents, found a chapter entitled
Coming Home
and started to look for Isabel’s name. Here it was:
Stephen McKinnon introduced him to a young woman named Isabel Barber. She was to become his editor, an important influence on his writing and, for a short time, his wife.
The story of Isabel Morton, born Isabel Barber, occupied two chapters. She read, with a feeling of increasing unease, of how Isabel had been ‘captivated’ by Hugh, had wanted the glamour of being married to a man of letters, but had proved an unfit wife who neglected the couple’s daughter and was implicated in the sudden death of Hugh’s mother. After Isabel’s own death, the impression given was that Jacqueline had brought stability back into his life . . .