Undercurrent

  The timer sounds on the oven, its tinny, ear shattering, singular chord echoing throughout the kitchen and filtering into the living room. Anna looks up and shakes her head as she hears the boys’ footsteps thundering down the stairs once again. They’ve been in and out all afternoon, hoping for leftovers. Walking stomachs is what they are. Together they troop into the kitchen, eyes fixated on the kitchen surface like a pair of ravenous, salivating wild dogs. A strand of greasy hair falls over one of Mason’s eyes as he watches his mother. Anna looks up at him. Why is getting a wash such an anathema to her children? They weren’t brought up to be so dirty. She budges him aside with her hip and empties the cake onto a wire tray. His arm shoots out as he attempts to grab at it, his hunger the only thing that matters.

  “Don’t even think about it. This one is for the new people over the road. There’s another one cooking that’ll be ready in half an hour. You’ll have to wait.”

  She throws the oven gloves to one side and starts to gather up dirty pots, staring outside as she vigorously rubs at the worktop. That’s another thing about living here. The fog. Almost a permanent feature regardless of what season it is, it rises from the river, causing a noticeable drop in temperature. With smoky tentacles that veil the sun and drape themselves over the landscape, it coats everything with a dewy residue. Sometimes Anna finds it oppressive, slightly threatening even. But not today. Today, nothing will dent her happiness.

  “Bit small isn’t it?” Mason’s hand hovers over it, his eyes shining with anticipation.

  “I’ve only seen a woman my age go in and out. How many cakes can one person eat?” Callum is leaning back against the sink, his pale skin exposed above his hipster jeans. Anna pushes him to one side and turns the tap on,

  “Nah. She’s not on her own.” His voice is a small growl, halfway between that of the boy he currently is and the man he will soon become.

  “And how do you know that then smarty pants?” Bubbles froth up as she fills the sink and empties a baking bowl and a handful of cutlery in there. They hit the bottom with an almighty clatter. She winces and thinks of the scrapes that lot will make on the bottom of her prized Butler sink.

  “I heard her talking to someone while I was walking past earlier.”

  Anna turns to face him, her expression dark and formidable. “And where did you go to? Not down to the river I hope?”

  He tuts and narrows his eyes in annoyance. “God, mother. How many times? No, I’ve not been down to the river. I’m not completely stupid you know. Just thought I would have a wander; see if anyone’s about.”

  “And were they?” She rubs at the rim of the baking tin, her hands red from the heat of the steaming water.

  “Around here? In the back end of beyond? You’re having a laugh aren’t you?”

  Anna shakes her head and smiles. That comment is well worn. Since moving here, all they have done is complain about being bored. Their village may not be the busiest place but they’re only a stone’s throw from the bus stop and there are a handful of kids who live locally that they both know. She is about to launch into her ‘when I was a child we made our own entertainment’ spiel but is interrupted.

  “Anyway I did hear that woman talking to somebody in her house as I walked past,” He says as he flicks his hair out of his eyes, blinks rapidly and then pulls it back over again, straightening it with a repeated tugging motion, “and she’s definitely not there on her own, that new person. She was shouting at somebody. Didn’t seem like she was that happy. In fact she sounded like a bit of an old bag if you ask me,”

  “Callum!” Anna pushes past him and gives him one of her well-practised stares. He shrugs his shoulders and slopes away, suddenly disinterested.

  She feels nothing but sympathy for this woman. She and Mike had a furious row the day they moved in here. Funny thing is, she can remember how upset she was and the awful, hurtful words they said to each other but for the life of her she can’t remember what the argument was about. Just goes to show what a waste of time and energy it all is. She places the cake in a tin and sets it aside for the morning. She’ll take it over then. Give them time to settle and see what the morning brings. Tomorrow as they say, is another day.

  Four

  I consider ignoring it. Visitors are absolutely the last thing I need this morning after Martyn’s meltdown last night, but the knocking is so loud, so insistent, I feel as if I have no choice but to open the door. I take a sharp intake of breath when I first catch sight of her, feeling winded and unable to speak. It’s her face you see. It stops me in my tracks, makes my blood run like sand. I blink and look away to give myself some time to deal with her presence, to steady my breathing and stop my heart battering around my ribcage like a loose boulder, then look back again. Who is she? This woman on my doorstep - this woman with her face and expectant smile. I want to shut the door on her, make the memories go away but know I should make an effort and be nice. Not an easy task when I’m weighed down with the number of chores I have to do today. I simply cannot spend another day in here with piles of towering crates and no clothes or towels to hand. I have masses of unpacking to do and yet here she is, standing watching me, waiting. I give an embarrassed smile and my face burns at my predicament. I am still in my dressing gown after sleeping late and feel half naked. Martyn is still pretty fractious after last night’s carry on and I need some time alone with him to make sure he is settled. He’s had his medication and we now need some time for it to kick in. I just need a few minutes to contain him. He’s upstairs right now pacing, and won’t react well to strangers being in the house. My head buzzes as I watch her intently. I want to ignore her, to tell her to go away, but can’t seem to tear my eyes away. The likeness is striking. My mind races as I try to make sense of why she is here, standing on my doorstep looking so much like her. I feel the familiar tugs of paranoia and ignore its desperate clutches. Suzie’s face was a lot younger obviously, and this lady before me is nearer my age, but she has the same oval shaped face, the same features. The same radiant smile. Even her hair is the same as Suzie’s was -light brown with a slight kink to it. The kink that Suzie hated and tried to straighten out which resulted in so many tantrums. She is exactly how Suzie would look if she were alive today. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t seem to stop staring. Despite knowing Martyn can make an appearance at any given moment I am transfixed, my feet rooted to the spot. She hands me a brightly coloured tin and offers me her hand to shake,

  “Welcome to Cogglestone, our lovely little village. I’m Anna. I live at Pineleigh over the road - number eighteen? We moved in two years ago and I remember the whole palaver as if it was yesterday. It’s so stressful isn’t it? I thought some cake might help.”

  I listen to her gabble on and watch her mouth move, but I don’t seem able to take in anything she is saying or give any kind of response. My mind has shifted a gear and is currently in overdrive. All I can hear is Suzie’s voice. It fills my head; her desperate, blood curdling howls as she screamed for me to help her. I can see her now as if was yesterday - her eyes wide with terror as the water gradually rose around her and she disappeared under it, tiny bubbles of breath rising to the surface as she gasped her last. Temples thrumming, I swallow hard and blot the image from my mind then shake this lady’s hand. My palm is clammy and I am struggling to keep the tremor out of my fingers as I clasp them around hers. Her palm is cool, her fingers slender and small. I try to remember what she said her name was. Anna. I think that’s it. Yes, I’m almost certain she is called Anna. Not Suzie. Definitely not Suzie. And she lives over the road. At number eighteen. I am overcome with wooziness and hang onto the door handle to steady myself. Jesus. What are the chances? And she lives there? This woman, the very image of her, standing right in front of me. She hands me the tin and waits. I stare for what feels like an age before realising she is waiting to be invited in. Please no. Not now. Not when she looks so much like her. I can’t do it. Maybe another time when I’m more prepared. But not today, not n
ow. I just can’t.

  “Thank you but I really must get on. So much to do.” I find myself saying and without stopping to think, I shut the door in her face. The noise it makes as I slam it closed reverberates around the empty hallway, an echoing reminder of what I have just done. A buzzing sensation fills my head. I lean back on the wall, cold and firm against my clammy body, and take a deep breath. God almighty, is this what I’ve become? I briefly consider re-opening it but something stops me. I just don’t think I can continue looking at her without my legs giving way. I stand up straight then lean back against the doorframe, its sharpness and icy edge causing me to wince. I just need a minute to sort myself out. I close my eyes and attempt to stem my breathing which is raspy and irregular. This is silly. I must get myself right so I can sort Martyn out and then get started on unpacking and tidying this house. I simply cannot let myself get sucked into thinking about Suzie or things from the past. Thoughts like that will only drag me down to places I’d rather not revisit. I could do it with ease. Oh dear god, how effortless it would be to let myself go down that route, to sit and wallow in self-pity, allow the toxic memories to corrode my brain. But it’s not going to happen. I am stronger than that. Besides, I have things to do today. I am busy.

  Overhead, I hear Martyn clumping about. He’s not brilliant this morning and in his condition the slightest upset can have a detrimental effect on his well-being. He has a delicate constitution and it doesn’t take a lot to alter his equilibrium. I will probably need to give him some painkillers to get him through the day. They might make him drowsy, more manageable. I perk up a little at the thought of an amenable Martyn. I’ll get more done that way.

  Outside I see a shadow as Anna the neighbour passes by the window and heads back over the road. The pounding in my temple has reduced to a small tap. I bring my hand up and rub at my forehead. I don’t know what came over me. She caught me off guard you see, and I’m not a fan of unpleasant surprises. I will apologise for my behaviour another time, when I’m feeling more in control, less out of sorts. Right now I have a husband to see to, boxes to unpack, a house to sort out and tidy.

  Surprisingly, it doesn’t take too long. Within a couple of hours I have actually managed to empty over ten boxes and get the contents stacked into the correct cupboards. I stop and look around. The dressers and cabinets are polished and full. Everything is where it should be. It’s a remarkably good feeling, knowing I’ve broken the back of the work. And Martyn has been a pussycat, settled and happy, pottering about the house, his mood lighter than last night. If the weather perks up we may even have a wander in the garden later; work out what we can plant and where. I hum softly as I stand and admire the room. Clean, tidy and ready to live in.

  An unfamiliar sound slices through the stillness of the room, killing the moment. I trace it to the dining room where my phone was placed yesterday and welcome the quiver of excitement I get when I realise what it is. I use it so rarely, I’m not sure I will ever become accustomed to its ringtone. I need a new one; something lighter that is less of an assault on my ears but I haven’t the energy or the inclination to work out how to do it.

  I push my hair back off my face and answer it without looking at the screen. I already know who it is.

  “Hi Mum, how’s it going?”

  My soul lightens as Tom speaks. I never realise how much I’m missing him until I hear the sound of his voice.

  “I’m absolutely fine darling. How are you and how is Mya?”

  “We’re great Mum, just fine and dandy. How did the move go? Not too stressful I hope?”

  I laugh lightly and brush aside the memory of last night. All water under the bridge now.

  “No, not at all. It was a bit of a breeze actually. The removal men were a filthy lot but then that’s the nature of their job isn’t it?”

  I hear Tom sigh and can picture him rolling his eyes at my words. He thinks I’m an insufferable snob. I’m not. Of course I’m not. I just don’t want to live like a hippy, surrounded by joss sticks and raffia matting the way he does.

  “Anyway, I just thought I’d call and check everything was running smoothly. I didn’t want to bother you yesterday. I knew you’d be up to your eyes in it.” His voice is clipped, his tone distant.

  I’ve annoyed him now. He will go off and probably have a moan to Mya about how his mum is so old fashioned and more concerned with people’s manners and decorum than is considered healthy. It’s not true. I just like things to be right. Life is difficult enough without making it harder by being disorganised and messy. There’s nothing wrong with wanting order in one’s life is there?

  “Everything is perfect darling. How’s life in the Big Apple?”

  I try to draw him back in so I can hear his voice for just a little while longer. Tom left for America shortly after his father’s accident and I haven’t seen him since. That was two years ago. Such a long time to go without seeing my only child. Unexpectedly, I feel a lump rise in my throat and have to fight back a sob. I fix my gaze on a copse of trees on the hills far in the distance to stop the tears escaping. Once I let them flow, they’ll never stop.

  “Yeah, yeah it’s great Mum. We’re moving to a new apartment soon. It’s a lot bigger and in a better area. Work’s good too. I got a bit of a promotion and now I have more of a say when we’re marketing the company.”

  I feel myself begin to shut down. He has a life there now and will probably never come home. Is this what I had planned for him? When he was a child I had visions of him being a doctor like his father, not working for some IT company on the other side of the Atlantic. I have never even met his girlfriend. I always ask after her and try to show interest in her life but in actual fact I know nothing about her; where she went to school, what her family are like, what she is like. It’s as if I’ve been drawn out of the equation without even realising it.

  “That’s great sweetheart, just great. I’m really pleased for you. If you’re happy then I’m happy.”

  I hope I sound convincing enough in my affirmation of his happiness despite wanting to sink to the floor to cry like a baby. I listen to him chatter on about work and his life far away from me.

  “Mya and I have googled the new house. It looks amazing mum. Once we’ve got sorted in our own place we’ll have to think about coming to visit.”

  Have to think about. His words cut through me. Not even a firm commitment to come and see his own mother. The tears threaten to spill over and the sour taste of bile begins to build in my gut. I will soon have to end this conversation before it becomes apparent I’m unravelling. A residual tiredness from yesterday gnaws at me, lowering my resilience.

  “That will be lovely darling. I look forward to it. Anyway, it’s been lovely talking but I must dash as. . .”

  There is a brief interlude before Tom speaks again,

  “Is everything all right Mum? You sound a bit - well a bit off if I’m honest,” I close my eyes and tighten my lips as I exhale. Hot air rushes out of me, slightly acrid with fear and resentment. He has my mood sussed. At least we still have some common ground. He is able to detect the nuances of my moods, to predict and pre-empt the workings of my mind, which is quite something when I barely understand it myself. I clear my throat and try to laugh.

  “Oh, gosh no, not at all sweetheart. Just a bit tired from the move. I think it must all be catching up with me. You know how it is.” That and coping with your father I want to add, but remain tight lipped. Martyn is my problem and mine alone. He may be Tom’s father but there is no love lost between the two of them and any mention of Martyn will ruin everything. I speak to my son rarely. I’m not about to spoil our time together.

  I hope I’ve sounded convincing enough. I cough again to conceal a sob as tears begin to roll. Why, when I look forward to speaking to him so much, do I always end up feeling utterly miserable?

  “Yeah, course. It’s still early morning here so we’re off out to work soon anyway. I just wanted to check you’re okay with the move an
d everything that’s gone on. You’ve had a tough time lately with dad and your friend and everything. I just wanted to make sure you’re managing.”

  I feel a wave of dizziness at his words. Managing. My son wants know if his own mother is able to cope with her lot in life. I close my eyes to steady myself. Am I managing? Who is to say? I never speak to anybody about it. There is little point. Talking can’t change anything, make any of it any better. So I just wade through life, trying to make of it what I can. I smile and nod as Tom talks some more about his work and plans for the future, none of which includes me. Afraid he will sense my troubled state, I gabble on, say anything to keep him on the line for as long as I can before he tells me he really must go and so we bid our goodbyes, me with great reluctance and a huge lump in my throat, Tom with a dismissive farewell. I turn my phone off and throw it across the table. It bounces across the wooden top, skidding off onto the floor with a crash. Tom’s mention of his father was minimal. That’s hardly surprising really. Although Tom’s decision to go into IT rather than medicine was disappointing for me, it completely infuriated Martyn. He said it was a waste of a damn good brain and told him it was a short sighted move. Chasing the dollar was only ever going to be a short term investment he had said, whereas a degree in medicine was an insurance policy for life. Right on cue Martyn limps into the room. I watch his face for any signs of a mood which I have no energy to manage, but instead he smiles and with an awkward gait, slumps down in the chair next to me. I am overwhelmed with relief, almost giddy with it.

  “What’s in there?” he asks and points to the brightly coloured tin sitting on the kitchen top next to the fridge. I feel my a sharp breath catch in my chest as I remember the lady at the door. I was rude to her. She had caught me at a bad time and I reacted badly. I must make it up to her. Getting off on the wrong foot at our first meeting isn’t a particularly auspicious start to a friendship.