Chapter 12

12

October 31, 12:45 a.m.

less than six hours until low tide

Everyone stares at Rose.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?”

Lily smiles. “You just got caught.”

Rose takes a step back toward the door. “What?”

“Putting a baby mouse in Daisy’s crib the first day they brought her home!”

Rose exhales, shakes her head as though relieved.

“Rose was just a child. Children do strange things sometimes. There’s no need to drag up the past or upset anyone now. We have enough to deal with,” says Nancy.

“Yes, like a missing bloody boat,” says Conor, storming out.

I glance around the lounge and can see that everyone looks just as upset and exhausted as I feel. The fear and sadness in the room is like something solid and real, binding us together even though we might rather be apart. Our grief gives us something in common. They all had reasons to be upset with Nana—and not just because of the will; she could be a difficult woman to love sometimes. But I’m sure nobody in this family would have wished her dead.

“Rose is right, the boat is gone. It wasn’t even mine,” Conor says, reappearing in the doorway.

“Maybe you didn’t tie it to the jetty properly,” my dad says.

Conor glares at him. “I tied it just fine. You heard Rose, the rope looks as though it has been cut.”

Dad nods. “Well, looks can be deceiving. It’s been a terrible night for us all, everyone is tired. I don’t think we should let our imaginations scare us into thinking what happened here tonight is anything more than it is: a tragic accident and a missing boat.” He stands, a little wobbly on his feet, I notice. Then he walks back over to the drinks trolley and pours himself another glass of whiskey. Liquid anesthetic to numb the pain.

“And you wonder why we got divorced?” mutters my mother beneath her breath before tutting, which is one of her favorite things to do.

“Because I like whiskey?” he asks.

“No, because you’re selfish. It doesn’t even occur to you that someone else might like a drink.”

Dad holds up the decanter. “There’s plenty for everyone.”

“They don’t want whiskey. Why don’t I make us all some tea? Including you. Clear heads are what is required.”

She leaves the room without asking who wants what. My mother has always been of the belief that a cup of tea can solve almost anything. Bad day at the office? Have a cup of tea. Struggling to pay the bills? Have a cup of tea. Find out that your husband is cheating on you with a twenty-year-old harpist? Cup. Of. Tea. She forgot my birthday once, but my mother never forgets how a person takes their tea. It’s oddly important to her, although in our family it is pretty easy to remember—she is the only one of us who takes sugar. As soon as she leaves the room, my dad takes another large gulp of his scotch.

“What?” he says, to nobody in particular. “My mother just died. I’m supposed to be upset, and I’m allowed to have a bloody drink if I want to.”

No one argues with my father; it’s never been a good use of time. Arrogance always translates his opinions into facts inside his head.

Nancy returns with a tray, after being gone longer than expected. I see that she’s swapped her black silk pajamas for a black roll-neck, cropped trousers, and ballet pumps, one of her classic Hepburn ensembles. She’s put on some makeup too—thick black eyeliner and a little blusher. I suppose everyone deals with grief differently. Her blue-veined hands are visibly trembling, and the tray rattles as she sets it down on the coffee table. Everyone takes their own cup. They have our names on them, hand-painted by Nana—even Conor has his own.

“Mum,” Trixie whispers, ignoring the cup of tea placed in front of her. My niece has been quieter than normal, and I wish I could have protected her from all of this.

“Mmm-hmm,” Lily says, without looking up.

“I need the bathroom.”

“So why are you telling me about it?”

Trixie frowns. “Because I’m scared.”

I jump to my niece’s defense before her mother can reply. I can’t stand it when Lily bullies her own daughter. “I’ll go with her, I don’t mind—”

“Nobody is going to go with you or hold your hand,” Lily snaps, ignoring me. No one says anything, but their eyes speak the words that their mouths don’t. “There is no reason for you to be scared of going to the bathroom. You’re fifteen, not five. All those bloody books you read are putting silly ideas in your head. And there’s no need to be scared of Nana anymore, darling. The old bat is dead.”

Dad takes another sip of whiskey, and Nancy tuts again, louder this time. Neither of them was ever any good at telling my sister when she was out of line, which is why she’s never been in step with the rest of the world. It’s almost as if they’re scared of her.

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Nancy says.

“Why?” Lily asks. “You always speak ill of the living. Go to the bathroom, Trixie. There’s no need to be scared, it’s just across the hall. Go on, and grow up while you’re at it,” she says to her fifteen-year-old daughter who has just seen a dead body for the first time. Trixie glares at her mother, pushes her pink glasses a little further up her nose, and leaves the room.

“I think we ought to come up with a plan,” says Conor.

“I don’t remember anyone asking what you thought,” slurs my dad.

“Surely we all just stay together until the tide goes out?” says Rose.

The rain outside lashes against the elderly glass in the windows, making it rattle inside its frame. Lily’s teeth start to chatter as though it’s contagious.

“If we’re staying down here until the sun comes up, then we’ll need to keep warm,” she says. “This house is freezing.” My sister can always find something to complain about, but to be fair, she is only wearing a nightdress. “I’ll get some sweaters from upstairs. Does anyone else want anything?”

Looks are exchanged like unwanted gifts; heads are shaken, and shoulders are shrugged.

Trixie returns, Lily leaves, my dad pours another drink, and my mother tuts again.

“Is that really a good idea, Frank?” she asks.

“No, it’s an excellent idea.”

“Do you really think it was an accident?” Conor asks him.

“Enough!” Dad snaps. “This isn’t a crime scene for a BBC correspondent to report on or a murder mystery story for someone to solve. She was my mother. She slipped and fell. Simple as that. There was no murder, there is no mystery. She was eighty, had already lost most of her marbles, and now she’s dead. That’s the end of it.” His face closes like a door. The conversation is over. Then Dad frowns and stares out of the window, almost as though he has forgotten the rest of us are here. “Forgive me, I think I need to be alone for a while,” he says quietly.

Lily returns with some sweaters and blankets, and has dressed herself in jogging bottoms teamed with a tight top. Dad leaves the room as she enters it, taking his whiskey with him and closing the door. We hear him go into the music room, and a few minutes later, we all hear the familiar sound of him playing the piano. Even though he is drunk, he plays perfectly.

“I’m still cold,” whispers Trixie, despite the sweater Lily has given her. It’s the pink sweater from last night, and matches her pajamas.

“I brought one of your books down for you,” Lily says.

“I’m too upset to read.”

“Suit yourself. Here, play with this, see if you can beat my highest score,” Lily says. Trixie takes her mother’s mobile phone and plays Snake, the glow of the screen reflected in her glasses and illuminating her sad little tearstained face.

“I’ll go and fetch some firewood,” offers Conor. “I think we’re in for a long night.”

“Thank you, Conor,” says Nancy with uncharacteristic sincerity.

He’s gone a very long time. I think maybe I’m the only one to notice until my mother speaks again.

“You don’t think Conor is doing a runner, do you?”

I think she was trying to make a joke, but it doesn’t quite land, and her face suggests she regrets it. Nana and Conor had a very special relationship; I don’t believe he could be capable of hurting her. At least, not like that. She was the grandmother he never had, and we all knew how much she adored him. There was a time when Nana didn’t just treat Conor like family; she treated him better.

---

A year after appearing in Blacksand Bay, Conor would regularly turn up at Seaglass, with or without an invitation. So did I. My mother often felt the need to “run away” without much notice—sometimes she visited my father while he toured abroad; sometimes none of us knew where she went—but I was always sent to Seaglass when my existence wasn’t convenient for my parents’ lifestyle. Not that I minded. I loved spending time here with Nana. So did Conor.

I was a bit too young to hold his attention back then, so if my sisters were away at boarding school, he would amuse himself looking for crabs in the rock pool at the rear of the house. It was carved out courtesy of the sea from the natural stone Seaglass was built on—a private treasure trove of watery magic, starfish, and crabs. Nana told us it was where fairies went to swim at night while the rest of the world was sleeping. If the weather was bad, Conor could often be found indoors helping Nana mix her paints—he and I were the only ones allowed in her studio—or playing with his yo-yo and staring out to sea. But one morning, Nana and I found him outside the back door, curled up asleep in the log store.

“Conor, it’s five a.m. and it’s freezing, what are you doing out here?” Nana asked, squinting at the boy in the shadows. His only blanket was the night sky, sequined with stars. There are no views of the bay or the mainland from the back of the house. All that can be seen or heard is the Atlantic Ocean. As soon as the sun goes down, the world outside of Seaglass’s walls is cold and dark. The sea looked black, and the tide was in that morning. Which meant that Conor must have been out there for hours. He knew better than to risk the rips and tides hiding beneath the surface of an unforgiving ocean.

“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” Conor said, staring at Nana. They had a silent exchange that five-year-old me was too young to understand.

“Come on, let’s get you inside. I’ll run you a hot bath so you can warm up.”

“Why are you limping?” I asked Conor as he followed Nana up the stairs. He smelled pretty bad too, and his blond hair looked shiny and wet with grease.

“Go to your room, Daisy,” Nana said. She could see that I was about to protest; being sent to my room was one of my mother’s favorite forms of punishment, not Nana’s, and I hadn’t done anything wrong. Nana’s face softened. “We can have jelly and ice cream with chocolate sauce for breakfast, but only if you go to your room,” she said with a wink. So I did as I was told. But I couldn’t resist creeping out onto the landing a little while later, and peeking through the crack where the bathroom door was open just enough to see.

Nana used my bubble bath for Conor, not that I minded. The bottle looked like a smiley sailor called Matey, and it turned the water blue. I loved bubble baths, but Conor didn’t smile or look happy at all. I watched as Nana helped him out of his sweater and shirt—he dressed like a middle-aged man when he was ten—and I saw the cuts and bruises all over his back. Conor looked ashamed, as though it were his fault.

“Who did this to you?” Nana asked, already knowing the answer that Conor wouldn’t give.

She held his face in her hands. “You’re going to be okay, I promise. You take the rest of your clothes off and pop them in this bin liner. I’m going to find you some clean, dry clothes and start making us all some breakfast. Call me if you need anything.”

“Mrs. Darker—” he said.

“Yes?”

“Please don’t tell anyone. He didn’t mean to do it.”

Nana had her back to him, and I could see she had tears in her eyes. “I had a dad who didn’t mean to hurt me too, once upon a time. I promise you can trust me. For now, just have your bath. There’s a clean towel and washcloth on the side. Don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”

I ran back to my bedroom before Nana came out onto the landing, and listened to her march down the stairs. She was still wearing her fluffy purple dressing gown and pink slippers, but she looked really mad, and her face looking all cross like that made me feel a bit afraid. Nana was rarely angry about anything, but boy, did everyone know about it when she was.

The only telephone at Seaglass in those days—or ever—was in the hallway. It was on a little round table next to a fancy notebook full of handwritten numbers. I watched from behind the banister at the top of the staircase as Nana flicked through the book, found Conor’s dad’s number, and dialed. It was a rotary phone, so it took forever. Her foot was tapping the way it did when she was proper cross while she waited for someone to answer the call. Patience was never one of Nana’s virtues.

“Hello, Mr. Kennedy, how are you today? Oh, a little under the weather? I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why you beat your ten-year-old son with your belt last night?”

There was silence, in which I’m sure Conor’s dad and I were both busy putting together pieces of a puzzle we weren’t sure how to solve. Wondering if those pieces were in the right order. Not really liking the picture that they made. Nana went on.

“I suspect you didn’t even know where he was overnight. Let me put your mind at rest and tell you that he’s here at Seaglass with me. Which is where he is going to stay until I can reach social services and have him taken away from you forever.”

She was quiet again. I wished I could hear what was being said on the other end of the line.

“He’s a child. It’s not his fault your wife died. You are supposed to be his father. You’re supposed to protect him from all that is bad and wrong about the world, not constantly hurt him and let him down. Doing your best? Well, your best isn’t good enough. You’re depressed? Aren’t we all. It doesn’t give you the right to do what you did. You are a disgrace to depression, and you don’t deserve to call yourself that child’s father. Either you get yourself some help or you will lose your son. I never met your wife, but I can only imagine that if she could see what you have become, she would be deeply ashamed and wish she’d never met you. He’s her son, all that is left of her; think of that next time you take your shitty existence out on your child.”

Then she hung up, and I was both scared and in awe of her all at once.

Nana never stopped looking out for Conor from that day on. His father went to AA, was in rehab for a while, and although there were months, sometimes years, when things would be okay, she always kept a close eye on Conor back then, trying to protect him.

---

Back in the present, I get up and leave the lounge to find out where he has disappeared to. I immediately feel the slap of cold air, and the sound of the sea is louder than before. Almost as though it is inside the house. When I step out into the hallway, I can hear the back door banging in the wind. Conor must have left it open when he went in search of wood. The quickest way to get to the log store is via the kitchen, but I don’t really want to go in there. I don’t want to see Nana’s body on the floor again, or the unkind chalk poem on the wall, so I avert my eyes as I hurry to the back door.

Conor walks through it before I get there, carrying a basket full of logs. He looks completely drenched, and I don’t understand what took him so long. I’m about to ask when I notice him staring at something behind me. I think I know what it is—Nana—but when I turn to look for myself, I see that her body has gone. Conor puts the logs down and stares at the kitchen table. There is a VHS tape on it. One of the ones I’m sure I saw on the shelf in the lounge last night. Someone has stuck Scrabble letters to the front of its white cardboard case, spelling out the words: WATCH ME. Next to the tape, there is a torn piece of paper. When I read the words that have been written on it, in handwriting I do not recognize, my whole body turns icy cold.

Trick-or-treat the children hear,

Before they scream and disappear.