Honest Page 2

  ‘I want to have a bath and wake myself up. A hot bath usually helps with it. Dad, please,’ I said. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  He continued hovering, making my blood boil. I wanted him out. Why did he always insist on hanging around me, just waiting for me to want his help?

  He nodded toward my leg under its sheet, my hand still massaging the pain out of it. ‘Won’t that knee be too sore to walk on, love? I could carry you into the bathroom. Or I could go and get your chair and wheel you.’

  ‘I can wheel myself,’ I said, glaring at him. It was no use, I couldn’t argue. Stumbling out the room and down the hall with my stick would take it out of me before I’d even woken myself up properly, and I wanted to explore my old haunts today. I decided I might as well grin and bear it. When it came to my dad, it was always a case of grin and bear it.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Get the chair.’

  Dad struggled with me in the doorway to the bathroom because the wheels were too wide for the old door. At home I could just about fit, but not here. ‘We’ll leave the chair here, flower, and you can use your stick to get to the bath. How about that? Can you manage that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said tiredly. At home we had a walk–in bath that I could soak in without hassle. It even had a seat. I looked at the old olive green bathtub and realised that once I was inside it, I might not be able to get myself out. Not if my leg didn’t behave.

  ‘I’ll leave the chair here and get in the bath the way you told me. But you have to stay downstairs while I’m in here. I don’t want you hanging around while the door’s open.’ I warned him, crooking my head to see him above me, still clutching the handles of my chair.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, a nervous smile on his face. ‘Of course I’ll be downstairs. I’ll be right downstairs in case you need me.’ He didn’t move, still giving me that odd smile, as if this conversation was even natural.

  ‘Is there anything else, Dad?’ I smoothed down the front of my nightie, looking again at the deep green tub. There wasn’t a shower. It’d take me forever to get clean.

  ‘I only...well, I thought I should tell you that your new counsellor called, love. Don’t look like that. I’m sorry. We’ve still got to do these things.’ His breath tickled the top of my head, but for once that wasn’t what made me shiver. I had thought I might escape my counselling when we came to Cornwall for the summer, but apparently not.

  ‘Can’t they give me three months off?’ I pinched the bridge of my nose, remembering the endless talks about Peter, and talks about how I felt about my disability, and how I felt about the accident, and whether I still smelled blood around water the way I did when it first happened.

  Endless talks about nothing. Mindless chatter about things that couldn’t be changed, to a woman with a day–time TV degree in counselling. They offered those courses everywhere; even in the backs of my magazines. You could cut them out and stick them to the fridge like a character from Bridget Jones’ Diary.

  ‘I’m afraid not, love,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘They aren’t so bad, those talks, are they? I mean you just talk about how you feel, how your knee is doing—’

  ‘About Peter.’ I interrupted. I felt Dad’s hands shaking on the handles.

  ‘Yes, about Peter too,’ he said, a peculiar, forced uplift in his tone of voice. ‘Just those things. Just normal things.’

  ‘What’s normal about any of it? What’s normal about this?’ I snapped, slapping my thighs because I had nothing else to hit. A pain shot through my knee, making me wince.

  Dad said nothing. He silently fetched my stick from my room and leaned it against the door, where I could struggle my way to the bath like an old woman.

  ‘She’s coming at three o’clock,’ he said from behind me. ‘Try and be nice to her. She’s only doing her job.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘And I’ll just have to do my job like usual, won’t I? Lying. That’s all I ever do with these people. Make up lies for you.’

  I felt immediately awful, especially when I looked ‘round and saw dad’s face go pale. He pointed a finger at me, the tip trembling. He looked so pitiful standing there, with his skinny abdomen and wiry hair on his shoulders.

  ‘You can be very cruel,’ he said, stabbing the air with his finger. He let his hand drop to his side. ‘It isn’t just for me.’

  He turned and went downstairs before I could say anything more, leaving me alone with the tub. There was nothing I could say to that anyway. He was right.

  Pretty soon he would be going out to work at the campsite and I could go out, though he hated me doing anything by myself. I’d decided a long time ago that I didn’t care what he wanted, not unless it had some advantage for me.

  A little give, a little take. That was our system. That was how we’d functioned since mum upped and left us. It was the way of the world, or our world, at least. We weren’t like most families.

  I took my stick and gingerly helped myself up, holding the door handle for support. I bared my teeth against the pain. Had he left me to do this alone as punishment for hurting his feelings, I wondered? Or was he beginning to realise that I was growing up, and didn’t need him anymore?

  I hopped one step with my stick, felt a slight pulse in my knee, and then I took another. Once I was close enough to sit on the edge of the ugly green tub, it seemed simple enough.

  I turned the taps on full blast and was grateful not to find brown sludge bubbling up through the plughole. The house was rented out all the time so despite being old it was in good nick, unlike dad, who was like a crumbling relic of his own and only got worse year in, year out.

  Once it was full I dipped my hand in to check the temperature. Perfect. I leaned over to make sure the hall was empty and, with dad definitely absent, I tugged off my nightie and slipped into the velvety warm water. My knee was instantly caressed and loosened by the steamy hot bath, and so relieving I got goose pimples all over.

  The soft splashes I made echoed around the tiny bathroom, and I could see my reflection in a tilted mirror above the sink. My chin length dirty–blonde hair darkened the wet tips, and my usual pallid complexion looked rosier from the heat. Everything always seemed so much better in the bath.

  Ever since I’d had the operation to re–attach my half–severed leg from my accident, no pill had ever worked better for pain relief than a bath did.

  I’d always wondered if it was something to do with water. I’d read in Mind, Body and Spirit magazine that lost souls make links with the living that way, so that they could connect with them after they’d died. Peter had died in water, after all. I liked the thought of him enveloping me, his essence seeping through my skin.

  I let my mind drift off, thinking about spiritualism and astrology and all that psychic stuff I’d read about in Mind, Body and Spirit, when suddenly the room dimmed, as if a lamp had been turned down. I sat up and peered up at the little window, wondering how the early morning sun could disappear so fast behind the cloud. As I did so my shoulders prickled from the cold, and soon my whole body was aquiver.

  The room got even darker. With my stomach knotting, I glanced past my wheelchair into the hallway beyond, almost wishing my dad had been there after all. Something didn’t feel right. It took me just a few moments to realise why, when I brought my arms up out of the water and found they were slick and white and twitching as two dead eels, instead of rosy like they were before.

  The water, hot just moments ago, had turned down as fast as the sun had disappeared. It was stone cold. And it was getting colder.

  Soon my flesh prickled from the lowering temperature. I breathed heavily in a panic, scrabbling around with my slippery hands for my stick.

  ‘Dad?’ I called out, the cold creeping up my neck now. My legs were turning numb by the second, and the water was so still and sharp that I was sure I must’ve gone mad.

  I grabbed thin air and couldn’t feel the stick anywhere, but as I twisted my body to get a better look, pain seared through me, making
me reel back so fast my head hit the rim of the tub and nearly went under.

  ‘Dad!’ I cried. I gripped the sides of the bath and listened hard for the sounds of him on the stairs and heard nothing.

  The room was getting darker still. I blinked furiously, lifting my toes from the water and staring hard to see if I could pick them out. They were too much in shadow now. The whole room was cloaked in shadow. I kicked my good leg and made a splash, then splashed more with my arms, just to check I was even still awake and this wasn’t another nightmare.

  No sooner did I begin splashing than the water, still and calm, began to drain away. I watched it with my mouth agape, seeing it get lower and lower beneath my knees, my thighs, and finally my ankles, leaving me shivering in an empty tub.

  I pulled myself forward and looked between my knees to see where the water was escaping to, but it was too dark. It had to be the overspill hole, and yet the water kept on going until there was nothing left. I hugged my shoulders and bit my lip, trying to suppress the panic. It was dark, and cold. I was trapped.

  Then I began screaming.

  There was a thundering noise as dad came up the stairs, before blindly crashing into the wheelchair.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, shoving it out of the way to get to me. I was crying and shaking so hard I didn’t even think of covering my nudity. I just needed to get out of that cold dark tub. Sitting in it made me think of Peter, alone in his coffin in the damp earth. I couldn’t handle it.

  He grabbed one of the newly unpacked towels and fanned it open, scooping me out of the tub the way you might scoop up a pile of laundry. I felt nothing as the towel surrounded me, still numbed by the cold, cold water. Dad shook me. ‘Hey. What happened, eh? What happened?’

  ‘The water turned cold.’ I stammered, while the last of it dripped from my nose. Dad was wearing his work clothes now, but he hugged me close to him even though the towel must’ve been wetting his outfit.

  He looked down at the tub and frowned. ‘There’s no water in there, flower.’

  ‘It went ice cold and drained away, I swear,’ I said, looking him in the eyes, pleading with him. I am not going mad, I thought. This happened.

  He nodded slowly, looking back at me. ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘If you say it did then fine, we’ll get a plumber in. Did it scare you, or make you hurt your knee, or...What was it, love?’ he shook his head, searching for answers. I couldn’t give him any. I’d just felt so horribly cold and alone that I couldn’t stand it anymore, that was all. And it had been so dark.

  I shrugged, helpless. His eyes softened. ‘It’s early. Perhaps you didn’t get enough sleep.’

  ‘I’m not lying!’ I cried.

  ‘Shh, shh. I know you didn’t, my little pet. It’s just I think you’ve had a hard couple of days and not enough sleep. It probably shook you up a bit. It’s just a problem with the plumbing, that’s all.’

  I glanced down at the ugly tub, resenting it sitting there in the gloom when moments ago I’d felt so warm and peaceful. I was about to ask to go to my room when something caught my eye, though I had to squint hard to see it.

  ‘They ought to put a bigger window in here, eh El’? It’s too bloody dark—’

  ‘Dad, look,’ I said, nodding at the thing I was staring at, way down in the depths of the tub.

  ‘What?’ he asked, his eyes scanning it up and down.

  I unfolded my arm from the towel and pointed a long finger at the dark shape at the base of the tub. ‘The plug,’ I said, my voice quavering.

  We both stared in silence at the wide round plug, still nestled solidly in the plug hole.

  Once I was dried and warm again I cheered dad up by using the manky old stair lift, even though the hall was dark as the bathroom and it was difficult getting myself in for fear of tripping on the steps.

  Dad sighed. ‘It was bright sunshine early this morning, and now look. Just look out that front window.’ He pointed to the window beside the front door, taking the stairs one at a time alongside me, at the dreary sight outside.

  ‘Rain,’ I said. ‘Typical summer weather.’

  ‘It does nothing for the light in this house, it really doesn’t. We’ll be using the lights twenty–four–seven if it keeps this up. It’s grim. We mustn’t let it dampen our spirits though must we, flower?’

  The stair lift clunked to a halt at the bottom. I lifted the stick from my lap and used it to get up, while dad ushered me towards the little kitchen. He’d unpacked everything, and now the cramped little place was starting to look like a home. I took a seat at the little round table and poured myself some cornflakes, while dad set about making me a cup of tea.

  It was dark and gloomy, sure, but it wasn’t so cold anymore. I was beginning to feel less shaken by the event upstairs, even if I still wasn’t quite sure what I’d experienced.

  All I knew was that the whole time all I could think about was Peter Denton, and I couldn’t tell my dad about it. He would get too upset. He was always upset when I mentioned Peter.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ I said, picking at my cornflakes with my spoon. ‘I was probably just tired, like you said.’

  Dad poured the kettle and smiled at me while he stirred the teabag. ‘No, no, we’ll still get that plumber out. If you say the water drained away, then the water drained away.’

  I had to think about that one. Had it happened, or had I been half asleep? My mind was fogging up. I shook my head and stuffed a spoonful into my mouth to stifle the confusion and just focused on chewing.

  Dad brought the tea to the table and took a seat next to me, having no breakfast of his own. ‘I nipped out for a paper at about six this morning and saw a young lad getting on a fishing boat with a bunch of other blokes. I’m sure I recognised him. Didn’t you have another little friend around here?’

  I knew instantly who he was talking about. ‘David Peirce,’ I said.

  Dad shrugged. ‘He looked up at me like he knew me, and I certainly recognised him. He’s grown a lot in three years.’

  ‘Guys do,’ I said. ‘He must be about eighteen now. He knew Peter.’

  Dad blinked and stared at the ceiling. We shared a silence while I chewed my cornflakes, wondering what David must look like now, and what he thought about everything that had happened.

  ‘Well, that’ll be a nice friend for you,’ he said in almost a whisper, neglecting to meet my eyes. ‘Perhaps he’ll come around to see you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said, knowing where this was going. Dad was playing games. The truth was he hated the thought of any guys coming near me, especially without him around.

  ‘Well he might,’ he said, looking at me.

  I couldn’t stand the look on his face, as if he expected me to answer up to something; as if I’d been unfaithful or had unfaithful thoughts. I spooned another mouthful of cornflakes into my mouth and nodded in agreement instead, making him flush red from the neck up. ‘Yeah, I guess he might. I’d be glad to see him,’ I lied.

  ‘Well,’ said dad, getting up and pushing his chair in. ‘I’ve got to get off now, but I’ll be back by five. I’ve unfolded your chair and put it in the hall in case you need it. If that David boy does come to see you, I hope he’s willing to be as attentive as I am to your needs.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Dad,’ I said mid–chew, but he was already slamming the front door before I could even swallow my mouthful.

  Chapter Three

  David was one of the only other people I knew who was friends with Peter at the time he died, and that meant I needed to see him right away. He was all I had left of our old life here; the life that had drifted away from me three years ago. The life I desperately wanted back.

  Dad left, after warning me to stay home for when my new counsellor, Melanie, arrived at one o’clock. I wheeled myself to the living room and checked myself in the mirror. I didn’t look a bit how David would remember me. I was a good couple of stone lighter, skinny in fact, from all the trouble with my kne
e. My hair was shorter. My brown eyes had permanent dark circles around them now.

  I couldn’t help getting saddened by the fact that David had to see me like this, let alone anticipate the awkwardness between us. He knew everything, after all: where Peter died, that I was with him, that I almost lost my leg on the boat propeller. He knew that Peter’s dad was in prison.

  He knew that I put him there.

  But that couldn’t be helped and besides, people changed. I thought perhaps David was different now too; or rather, I hoped.

  I wheeled myself into the hall and shivered as I pulled my coat off the banister and shrugged it on. This house was definitely getting colder, damper. Even the wallpaper was peeling away. I couldn’t wait to get out of this rotten cottage, even though I loved it so.

  I had a good few memories here, and yet something about it felt different now; changed or tampered with, like something was disturbing the atmosphere. It was probably us. My father and I were back, and we were making the house uneasy.

  I had one last decision to make: chair or stick? I imagined myself struggling down the steep hill to the quay, rain pelting down on me, but on the plus side I would be tall and more...elegant–looking. David wouldn’t feel obliged to push me along, and I could —for the first time in ages — feel capable again. A strong independent woman, as they said in Cosmo.

  Then again, I thought: my knee could give out. I might fall down that hill. I could make it worse. David might feel obliged to help me home.

  Was that such a bad idea? I wasn’t fond of the guy, not remotely; but in the battle between sexes that was hardly the point. I’d read enough magazines and watched enough TV in my time to know that impressions were everything for a woman, no matter what the purpose or cause. A woman should always look her best.

  And David would be the first male I’d had contact with in a very long time. I’d been deprived of male company, apart from dad, for years. Deprived of a woman’s prerogative to show herself off to the opposite sex.