The Drowning Pool. Syd Moore
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us too.’
The sun was burning my back. The cheerful sound of beach pandemonium hit me again.
I was back.
The sea lapped at my knees.
The children to my left had retreated, their sea wall long defeated by the tide.
‘What’s up?’ Lottie grimaced at my stricken expression. ‘Did the tide creep up on you? Have you got a cossie underneath that? If not I think I’ve got a spare pair of shorts somewhere. Come on.’ Her sturdy ankles sank into the sand as she returned to the blanket.
I tumbled forwards out of the sea and sat down. My shadow mimicked me but it was alone.
What had just happened?
I touched the centre of my chest, lightly. It rose and fell in a super-quick rhythm. There was some pain but not of a physical kind. I had known this misery when I first lost Josh: I was cloaked in gloom, the feeling had followed me back from the dream.
What on earth was I doing to myself?
It must have been brought on by my earlier musings about Josh. I cursed and kicked up the sand with my foot.
I’d heard a phrase used once to describe this sort of thing. What was it called? Oh yes – a waking dream.
That must have been it.
Perhaps I still had a lot of alcohol in my system. I had certainly been knocking it back last night. The natural balance of my brain must be off. A sudden surge of the wrong chemical had churned up some morbid hallucination.
‘It’s the booze,’ I thought.
‘It’s the tumour,’ an inner demon said.
Or perhaps it was a side effect of cutting back the medication?
I’d seen a woman at Stealth Records come straight off lithium and go completely hat stand. One day she was striding through the atrium in a neat Chanel two-piece, barking orders at her p.a., the next she was barefoot and wandering the corridors. She went on sick leave and never came back.
I wasn’t going to go that way.
My hands were trembling so I clenched them tightly and took a deep breath in, held it, then blew out slowly. After several repetitions the shakes started to subside.
With some effort I took a step forwards. Plastering a bright smile onto my face, I returned to Lottie and the boys.
Alfie and Thomas were a way away. They had built a sandcastle and were using it as a backdrop to some as yet unwritten Spiderman episode featuring lots of explosions.
I sat down next to Lottie and licked my ice cream, trying to settle my nerves and ignore the aftershocks of the incident.
‘Sorry, Sarah. Couldn’t find the shorts. Must have left them at home.’ Lottie dabbed her hands with a wet wipe and offered me the pack.
‘No thanks.’ My cone trembled. ‘In a minute.’
‘What’s up, Sarah?’ Lottie’s smile was encouraging.
I contemplated her open, oval face, the dark glossy locks that curved around it, the slightly Roman line of her nose and her big loud mouth. A sensible and rather noble older sister, Charlotte Rose was a good woman. Strong too. Her broad shoulders had taken much of the burden when our dad died.
I took a breath. Now was the time. ‘I might have a brain tumour.’
The smile melted down her face.
‘But then again, I might not.’ I told her why.
She didn’t take it very well, so after I recounted most of what Doctor Cook had said, I omitted the hallucinations bit. ‘So what’s next? When do you get the hospital appointment?’ Lottie’s eyebrows knitted together. There she went – organizing, reorganizing, taking charge, planning, trying to contain her alarm.
I couldn’t remember. ‘I guess it’ll come in the post.’
‘Yes, but when?’
‘Soon.’
My big sister sighed and gazed out into the estuary. The tide had turned and some of the children were picking over the rock pools with buckets and fishing nets. Alfie and Thomas had abandoned their Spiderman game and were crouching over a dead crab. ‘Well, will you let me know?’
I nodded.
‘Have you told Mum?’
I shook my head. ‘No. There’s no point worrying her at this stage.’
‘OK.’ Lottie leant over, grabbed my free hand and rubbed it. ‘You know it’s probably nothing. Like the doctor said. But I’m glad you’re taking it seriously. I understand that you don’t want to tell Mum now but if something does …’ she trailed off and sent me this small, mournful smile. ‘You’ll be fine, I’m sure.’
I stuffed the remnants of the cone into my mouth and tried hard not to cry.
Lottie and Thomas came back to the house to clean up. After tea I opened a bottle of Spanish wine. I shared half of it with Lottie before David arrived to pick up his clan. He had a sheepish air about him, perhaps guessing that Lottie had confided in me. I did my best to be bright and jolly. Then Alfie chucked a hissy fit about Thomas packing up, and demanded his cousin stay for a sleepover. But it was gone seven so once Lottie and co. had beaten a hasty exit I plopped him briefly in the bath then sang him to sleep.
It was still early evening for me, and after the day I’d had, I didn’t want to be alone. I composed a message requesting company then texted Martha, Sharon and Corinne. I added John as an afterthought though the chances of him being allowed out were remote.
Downstairs I threw back the French doors and breathed in jasmine-soaked air. Though the dusky shadow of the house covered most of the back garden, the furthermost part was alight with the amber pink luminosity of high summer. The flower-boat swayed seductively in the soft evening breeze, lifting my spirits a little, which was just as well as at that moment my phone beeped several times: Martha was feeling the same as me but was also stranded in her home with kids and no babysitter. Corinne was in London and Sharon was on an internet date. Nothing from John, but then he didn’t monitor his phone religiously like the rest of us.
I grabbed the wine off the kitchen table and optimistically took two glasses to the hammock. There was something so comforting about its gentle rock that I soon let my eyes close. The worries of the day slipped far away.
About half-past ten I was woken into a moonlit garden by the bleep of the mobile in the pocket of my jeans. One text from a private gym offering me a membership trial. And one missed call: private number.
I dialled my voicemail. ‘You have one new message. Last message left at 12.01 a.m.’
Strange that it had only just notified me of the call almost twenty-two hours later. Although with the cliffs and the beach, the signal in these parts was quite often intermittent.
As I listened, I could hear hissing interference like choppy waves lurching high and low, similar to when someone has accidentally misdialled you and you can hear the sound of the phone jogging around in a jacket or handbag. Then there was a crashing sound and a bang. The roaring sound rose abruptly and then just before it cut out I heard a woman’s voice, muffled against the sibilant white noise.
‘Help me,’ she pleaded.
The tone was desperate, the texture of her voice rough and rasping. I mentally filed through a list of people who could have dialled my number at midnight last night. All my Leigh chicks were accounted for. Who had I left in the pub? Nancy? No, the voice was older. Sue? Pregnant Sue! But why would she phone me?
A thought flashed. Of course – check the call log. And that’s when I saw it. The last missed call at 12.01 yesterday night had been dialled from 01702 785471 – my own landline.
It didn’t make sense. I was home then. I’d