The Surface Breaks

  “Are you all right, miss? You’ve gone a bit funny looking.”

  “She’s fine,” Daisy says to the dressmaker. “Grace just gets distracted at times. But don’t you think the material is a little dark for this time of year?”

  “It looks wonderful on her,” the dressmaker argues, taking out a pair of silver shoes in a solid leather. “And I have these to complete the ensemble. Aren’t they adorable?”

  Adorable – like a child. Men are never called adorable. They are hurried into maturity. Whereas we are forced to behave like small girls when we are grown up; performing youth in our dress and our manner. It is ironic, really, when we spent our childhood years striving to look like adults before our time.

  “No,” Daisy says, testing the leather between her fingers. “They won’t do, I’m afraid. Miss Grace has rather delicate feet. Do you have anything softer?”

  Cloth shoes are found, soft as can be. Soft enough even for my broken feet.

  “A long dress,” Daisy insists, as material is draped around my naked body and pinned in place, even though the dressmaker complains that a short skirt would be more chic and more suitable for summer.

  “No,” Daisy says. Daisy understands. She knows these legs must be hidden.

  “How tiny you are,” the dressmaker says, pinching my waist between her hands. “You must take very good care of yourself. What is your diet like? Do you exercise? What’s your secret?”

  And, “How beautiful you are,” the dressmaker says. “You are so blessed.”

  And then, later, “How perfect you are,” the dressmaker says. “I have never worked for anyone with such a perfect face and perfect body. You are so lucky.”

  Please don’t touch me, I want to say, but I know that a woman’s body may always be touched if so desired. I am blessed to attract such attention. Everyone says it, so it must be true.

  The day of the party is approaching fast, only four days to go, and my stomach is so tight with nerves that I am unable to tolerate any food offered to me. To make matters worse, Oliver never has any time to spend with me. “Not now,” he says. “Sorry, Grace. So much to organize. And I watch him with George and Rupert, the three of them bickering about yet another idea they have that will make this party a huge success.

  And that night— “Tick, tock,” the Sea Witch says in my dreams. She is sitting at a vanity table, applying a bright lipstick. She smiles at me, red lips and white teeth. “Time is running out, little mermaid. Shall I come for you? Are you ready for the help I can give you?”

  The sheets are dripping with blood by the time the sun rises. My legs end in two open wounds, stringy flesh falling off exposed bone, barely resembling human feet. I stare at them, these battered reminders that I am not human. Daisy is changing the bedclothes every morning and every night now, dry-retching when she spots a sliver of bone needling through the broken skin. I hold her hands in mine. We are so close now that I feel as if she can hear my thoughts. How beautiful my voice was, Daisy. I could sing so well, you would have wept to hear me.

  She helps me out of bed, picking me up without so much as a cry when I fall to the floor. I lean on her as I hobble into the bathroom. She pulls up a hard-backed chair to sit by the tub as I bathe, collapsing under the water. I could drown myself, but I fear that I would still need someone to hold me down. This new, human instinct to survive is too great to discount. And I don’t want to die, not really.

  I just want the pain to stop.

  “What are we going to do with you, Grace?” I see the fear in her. She knows something is not right. She knows that this is not normal, not human in some way. “I wish you would let me call the doctor.”

  There will be no doctors. What use would they be? The only people who could help me now are the Sea Witch and the Sea King. Two sides of the one coin, my grandmother told me; both with powers, but one is celebrated as a great leader while the other is an outcast, exiled to a land of floating girls, angels of death with snarling smiles.

  Neither can help me now.

  “What’s wrong, Grace?” Daisy asks. “You’re shaking.”

  Nothing, I smile.

  I sink under the water.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I watched the sun rise this morning, climbing into the clear sky and I willed it not to set, never to set again.

  “Gorgeous day for a party,” Daisy said when she arrived. “Breakfast, Grace? I can bring up some tea and toast if you’d like.” I shook my head: No, I’m not hungry. The nerves maul at my stomach with talons sharp. I stayed in bed until noon. “Best to rest your feet,” Daisy had said. “Seeing as you’ll be on them for the whole evening.”

  And then it is time. Stepping into the new dress, clouds of silk cinching my waist. Feet placed into cloth slippers, fingers clenching as my toes start their shrieking beat. But I am relieved that the mutilation has been disguised for this, this which could be the final evening.

  “Do they feel comfortable?” Daisy asks, gently tying the laces. “Not too tight?”

  They feel like barbed wire, wrapping around and around, piercing deep. Gesturing vigorously, I convince her to give me a second dose of the draught. “It’s not safe,” she says, but I don’t care about being “safe”; I need to be anaesthetised. The medicine is working its magic already, unravelling the thick clot knotted in my chest, thread by thread, until I am numb; my mother and the boat called by her name, and her painted face after painted face, all drifting away from me. I never realized until I came to the human world how blissful it is to feel nothing.

  “We need to cut the hedge back in the garden,” Eleanor had said during the many discussions about the party preparations. I kept watching her for a sign, an acknowledgement that our encounter in that room did happen, but she is too busy pretending to be eager for this event she disapproves of. Her rictus grin as Oliver talked of trained doves and ice sculptures (“Won’t they melt, Oliver?” she asked. “It is summer, after all.”) and singing waiters and juggling clowns and how we “must fly this volcanic water in from the islands, Rupert said it’s the best kind and I only want the best, Mother,” Oliver said.

  “Let’s focus on the hedge for now,” Eleanor repeated. “It’s utterly overgrown.”

  But Oliver had disagreed. “No, Mother,” he replied. “I like it. It reminds me of when Dad was still alive.”

  “But it’s unmanageable, Oli,” Eleanor said, faltering at the mention of her husband.

  “Just leave it, Mother,” he said. “You might want to pretend that Dad never existed, but I don’t.”

  “Yes, dear,” Eleanor replied, turning away from Oliver before he can see the devastation on her face. I don’t like Eleanor, and I certainly don’t trust her, but Oliver’s cruelty to his mother is so carelessly done that it’s breathtaking. “Whatever you want, Oliver.”

  The lawn in the secret garden has been cut for the occasion; the rose bushes that Eleanor wanted to trim act as a barrier to any inclement winds the sea might blow our way. The servants are in uniforms, sweating in the midday heat, offering glasses of champagne or portions of food so tiny they can be eaten in one bite.

  “Caviar?” a servant asks me in a bored tone. He proffers a silver tray, a bowl with heaped eggs in the centre, oily balls glistening in the sun. A silver spoon, all the better to dig in with. “Fish eggs. It’s a delicacy,” he says, confused, as I back away, bile seeping into my mouth.

  “Grace is a vegetarian,” Oliver tells the waiter as he approaches. He is dressed in a crisp white shirt and shorts, showing off his muscular legs, Rupert and George following in similar outfits. Rupert grabs a spoonful of caviar from the tray, spreads it on a cracker, swallowing it whole. “That’s delicious,” he says, eyes never leaving mine.

  “You look beautiful, Grace,” Oliver says, handing me a glass of sparkling water.

  I lower my eyes, as if embarrassed. “It’s better not to seem too pleased with one’s own beauty,” my grandmother had explained to me. “But why do we spend all this
time combing our hair and adorning our tails if we don’t want to be admired? It doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Oh, Muirgen,” she sighed. “So many questions for such a little mermaid. You’ll find life so much easier if you ask fewer questions.”

  “Are you having fun, Grace?” George asks, his face as freckled from the sun as Daisy’s.

  I smile at him in response, and Rupert rolls his eyes.

  “What enthusiasm,” Rupert says. “Always such a joy spending time with you, Grace; the conversation is truly scintillating.” I glance at Oliver, but he doesn’t give any indication of having heard Rupert. “God,” Rupert says loudly. “I’m so bored.” Oliver stiffens. This, he will not ignore. “It’s utterly dull,” Rupert says, draining the rest of his glass.

  “This part is just to keep the geriatrics happy,” Oliver says. “Wait until we get on to the Muireann.” My heart catches; my mother’s name, so casual on his lips. “That’s when the real fun will start, Rupe.”

  Rupert raises an eyebrow, as if in challenge; Oliver grins back at him. They’re like school boys, the two of them. And this is the man that I need to make fall in love with me by sunrise.

  “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls.” A voice is coming from the sky, shaking the leaves from the trees like a deity addressing us through the clouds. I clutch at Oliver’s arm and he laughs. “It’s just the microphone,” he says, pointing towards the gazebo tucked into the corner of the garden. It has been trimmed of weeds since I last saw it, a fresh coat of white paint glistening wetly in the sunshine. “See?” There is a woman standing there, three girls behind her with their musical instruments.

  “We are Flora and the Furies,” the voice says. “My name is Flora. And these are my Furies. Are you ready to have a good time?” The crowd roars in response. “And a one, two, three,” she yells, followed by a sudden burst of music. As it plays, she walks to the front of the gazebo, the sun hitting her face like a halo. She is tall, as tall as Oliver, dark hair cut to her jaw, a short skirt showing off long, brown legs.

  I feel Rupert shift beside me. “Jesus,” he says. “She looks like…” He takes a deep breath, as if trying to control himself but when he sees that I am watching him, he stands up straight, swatting his sadness away from him like an irritating insect. “What are you staring at? Why are you always staring at everyone, you fucking weirdo?”

  I look away. I wish something terrible would happen to this man. A sudden fall, a snapped neck, a— I stop myself. These are Salka thoughts, wild and sharp. I must remember my place.

  “I’ve never heard a voice like that before,” Oliver says when the song ends. I hadn’t even been listening.

  “Don’t you think she looks like…” George trails off.

  “Looks like who?” Oliver asks, and neither Rupert nor George answer him. “Bravo,” he calls out, raising a glass to Flora. “Thank you,” she says, without shame. “Hopefully you’ll like this next one too.”

  She begins to sing again, her voice crystal clear, achingly sweet. Sweeter than anything I have heard since I broke the surface.

  That song.

  “What is this song?” I hear someone ask. “It’s most unusual.”

  And it is most unusual and I know it, I know it heart-deep. A song that my grandmother used to sing to us in the nursery, a song of mer-men and brave deeds and a war fought that would never be forgotten. A song of necessary death, of the courage that it takes to do what it is right. Trembling notes, hushed by water. How does she know this song?

  I drift, barely noticing, towards the middle of the garden. Towards Flora.

  “What is that girl doing…”

  “Is she okay? She doesn’t look…”

  “But Oliver seems to like her so I…”

  And then I alone and I am dancing and I can’t stop. I dance as if I am still beneath the surface, floating through water. The weightlessness of it, even with my pearls on. I did not know how lucky I was. I twirl, my skirt skimming around me in clouds (forest green) of silk (with silver flecks) and if I half-close my eyes I can pretend that my tail has returned to me, imagine that I can travel through the world without being conscious of every scalding step I take. Why did I not appreciate it when I could?

  “Isn’t she graceful…”

  “I know, it’s no wonder Oliver…”

  “Even though…”

  “Even though…”

  Even though I have no voice. Even though my tongue has been torn out of my mouth and swallowed by a hungry woman. Even though I am a stranger who was found abandoned on the beach and there is no telling who I am or where I came from. These people don’t care; all they want is to see me dance. So I dance.

  The song ends, this Flora reaching the crescendo perfectly. I was the only person in the kingdom who could sing that note, it’s beyond most mermaids’ capabilities, let alone a human’s. I come to a standstill instantly, staring at this woman while she sings my song with…

  That is my voice.

  Ice cold, and a song so sweet and paintings of a woman with a face like my own and a stranger before me with long legs, my stolen voice pouring out of her mouth.

  “Well done, little one,” the singer says, and I know somehow that only I can hear her. “I am proud of you.”

  “Grace.”

  Fingers pinching my upper arm, pulling me away. “Come with me,” Eleanor says, pulling me into the bushes. I turn to find that Flora is gone from the gazebo stage, the Furies left playing instrumental music while other guests begin dancing. I need to find her, I need to—

  “Hello there, Dancing Queen,” Eleanor says. Her eyes are bloodshot, pink lipstick smudged on her front two teeth. It’s clear that she’s been drinking heavily, which is unlike her. She prefers to stay sober at these events, remain in control. Women can’t simply be good enough, she had said to me one night, when everyone else had left after an exceptionally boisterous dinner party. She wasn’t even talking to me, not really; I just happened to be there. We have to be twice as good as the men just to break even.

  “Are you having fun? Are you enjoying all of this?” She waves back at the party. “I paid for it, you know. Every last thing in here was bought with my money. Not that anyone seems to care. Ships are boring, Mother!” she says, mocking Oliver. “No one ever cares about what I want.” She is too close to me now, and I can smell wine on her breath. Her hair is mussed, the hem of her cream dress stained by the grass. “This is where I met Alexander, did you know that?” She looks at the garden again, as if remembering. “Right on that lawn. I was only thirteen years old, and I knew immediately that I would love him for ever.” She points at the sea. “And that’s where I lost him.” She doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, standing with her back to me.

  “Where are you from?” she says, spinning on her heel. “Answer me,” she shouts when I remain silent, and I put my hands to my throat. I can’t talk, Eleanor. Remember? “Enough of that.” She grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me violently. “I know what you are. I know. He talked of a woman who danced like you. Who danced like she was gliding through the air. He wouldn’t forget her, he wouldn’t—”

  I wrench my arm from her grasp. “He wouldn’t forget her,” she says again, and she begins to sob, a keening sound ripping from her gut, so primal it makes me feel unsteady. “You can’t take my son from me too, I can’t lose Oliver. I can’t. I can’t. Please.” Eleanor falls to her knees, holding on to my skirt. “You can’t take him away from me. I don’t want to be alone. I won’t survive.”

  I crouch down, thrusting her hands away from me. She barely notices as she curls up in a ball, heaving with sobs. The mighty Eleanor Carlisle, always in control, is disintegrating before me; she is like a perfect portrait of someone falling apart. Is this what happens to scorned women? She’s crazy, we used to say about maids in the kingdom who pursued certain mer-men relentlessly, crying and asking too many questions about where their man was and who he was with and if he had talked to any other maid that day. I?
??m beginning to wonder that if, when we call a woman crazy, we should take a look at the man by her side, and guess at what he has done to drive her to insanity.

  When I get back to the party, Oliver is gone.

  And so is Flora.

  I try and breathe but I’m beginning to panic. (I don’t have much time left.) A burning sensation in my chest as if someone has struck a match to my lungs, a dry strike of flint against flint. (I’m going to die tonight; I am going to dissolve into nothingness.) I push my way through the crowds and I tell myself I’m searching for Oliver, but I realize that I am actually looking for Flora. That voice… My voice, it was my voice. How did Flora have my voice? And how could I have thrown it away? The only time I was ever happy under the sea was when I was singing, and I sewed my own mouth shut in the hopes that a boy I barely knew could kiss it open again.

  I collapse behind a huge tree at the edge of the lawn. Hidden from sight, I rest my hands on my feet for a second. The pain is intense but at least it is real; it is something I can call my own. Night is stirring through the air, thickening with shadows. I can smell a metallic tang, a smell that is my constant companion these days. I touch my feet again, my fingertips coming away sticky. At least it is dark. No one will be able to see me bleed in the dark.

  “Grace? It’s me. George.” A slight figure, the scent of tobacco. I hold my hands out, pleading with him to help me to standing. “What are you doing out here by yourself?” He waves his cigarette by way of explanation. “I’m not supposed to be smoking, my mother will kill me if she sees me. I really wish Eleanor hadn’t insisted on inviting her.” These humans and their lack of gratitude for their mothers. They seem only interested in women whose legs they can spread. George glances back at the party. “We should hurry. Have you seen the queue for the yacht? It’s absurd. Oliver has gone already, he left with that singer. Flora.”

  Flora, I repeat silently. Flora with the beautiful voice. My beautiful voice.

  A winding procession of people, sneaking from the garden down the steps, a sharp turn along the beach until they reach the marina where the yacht is docked. Young men and women, pushing against us, faces flushed. “I thought Oliver’s mother had the Muireann burned?” one girl says, then curses as she spills wine on to her cream dress. My heart hurts at the mention of my mother’s name, said so offhand. As if it was nothing. “Wouldn’t blame her, to be honest,” another girl laughs.