Bay of Secrets (2 page)

Ruby went into the living room first. Stopped in her tracks as she surveyed the scene. It was awful. It was as if they had just popped out for an hour or two. She went over to the table. Ran a fingertip over the stiff sheet of pale green water-colour paper. Her mother had been in the middle of a painting; her brushes still stood in a jar of murky water, her
watercolour paints thrown into the old tin, her mixing palette on the table, the wilted flowers in a jug. Ruby touched them and they crumbled like dust in her fingers. There were two mugs on the table crusted with long-ago dried-up dregs of tea. And her father’s green sweater – slung on the back of the armchair. Ruby picked it up, buried her face in it – just for a moment – smelt the Dad-smell of the citrus aftershave she’d bought him last Christmas, mixed in with waxy wood polish and pine.
They were so young. It wasn’t fair
 …

What had he said to her? ‘Fancy a quick spin on the bike? Fancy a ride down to the waterfront? Go on. What d’you reckon? Shall we give it a whirl?’

And her mother would have been busy painting but she would have smiled and sighed at the same time in that way she had, and pushed her work to one side. ‘Go on then, love,’ she’d have said. ‘Just for an hour. It’ll probably do me good to take a break.’

For a moment Ruby pictured her, dark greying hair falling over her face as she painted, eyes narrowing to better capture her subject, silver earrings catching the light … No. It wasn’t fair.

Mel put a comforting arm around her. ‘I’ve got some milk in the car,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch it and make us a nice cup of tea. And then we’ll make a start, OK?’

‘OK,’ Ruby sniffed and nodded. That was what they were here for. But there was so much stuff and it all meant so much to her. A lifetime of memories.

*

‘What I reckon,’ Mel said, over tea, ‘is that you need to clear away some of the personal things so that you can see more clearly.’

Ruby nodded. She knew exactly what she meant.

‘Because you’re going to sell the house, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Even if … Well, she hadn’t come to a decision either way. But on the train to Axminster she’d been thinking. What held her to London – really? There was her job – but being freelance meant she could work just about anywhere she had her laptop. It had been a huge jump after working for the local rag in Pridehaven and then the glossy
Women in Health
in London. But she’d made it after a year of juggling nine to five on the magazine with the freelance articles she really wanted to write – articles that gave her the freedom to research and choose her own remit. And she made a living – though admittedly things were tight sometimes.

It was handy living in the city for editorial meetings and what have you, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. She had to be ready to drop everything and go wherever the next story or article might be, but provided she was within reach of a decent airport or railway station, what difference did it make so long as she could email through her copy? There were her friends – she’d miss Jude in particular and their grumpy-women rants over a bottle of wine. And there was James, of course. She thought of him as she’d seen him last, as the taxi took her to the station; framed in the doorway, tall and fair, his blue eyes still sleepy and confused. But was there still James? She really didn’t know.

‘So we’ll do one room at a time. Three piles, darling.’ Mel tucked a strand of bright auburn hair behind one ear. ‘One for you to keep, one for anything you want to sell and one to give away to charity shops.’

Fair enough.

And by the time they stopped for a beer and a cheese and pickle sandwich at lunchtime, Ruby really felt they were getting somewhere. She’d shed plenty of tears, but she was doing what she’d spent two months plucking up the courage to do. She was at last sweeping the decks. It was hard – but therapeutic.

She looked around. It was warm enough to sit outside at the garden table and good to get some fresh air. The old-fashioned sweet peas her mother had loved were blooming in wild abandon on the worn trellis by the back wall and their scent drifted in the breeze. Her mother used to cut bundles of them for the house. ‘To make sure everyone knows it’s summer,’ she used to say. Ruby decided that this afternoon she’d do the same.

‘I suppose you’ll want to get back to London as soon as you can?’ Mel was munching her sandwich. She pulled a sad face. Mel had missed her vocation in life; she should have been an actress. But she’d met Stuart when she was eighteen and fallen dramatically and irrevocably in love. Stuart was an accountant and Mel had her own business she’d started ten years ago; the hat shop in Pridehaven High Street, which had become a thriving concern. It had branched out to include fancy accessories – quirky ties, screen-painted silk scarves,
hand-crafted leather purses and belts. But its speciality hadn’t altered. The town even had its own hat festival now, she’d informed Ruby earlier.
Forget about London, darling, this is where it’s all happening these days.

And perhaps she was right. ‘I’m not sure about going back.’ Ruby lifted her face up to the sun. She’d missed this garden, missed having outside space. And she’d missed not living near the sea.

Ruby had left Dorset ten years ago when she was twenty-five. She’d wanted to be independent, to see somewhere new, to experience a different kind of life. She was bored with following up local stories for the
Gazette
, with interviewing local minor celebrities and with her weekly health file problem page. She applied for the job at
Women in Health
because it sounded glamorous and exciting, and because it was an escape from what had come to seem parochial. When she met James she’d thought for a while that everything had slotted neatly into place. He was attractive, intelligent and good company. They both had jobs they enjoyed and the city was their oyster. It was all happening in London – theatre, music, film, galleries, everything you could want. But … It had turned out that
Women in Health
had its limitations and that Ruby wasn’t really a city girl after all. She’d lived the life and she’d enjoyed it. But home was where it was real. And although her parents were no longer here, somewhere in her heart this was still home and this was where she wanted to be – at least for now.

Mel’s eyes widened. ‘What about James?’

Ruby traced a pattern on the tabletop with her fingertip.

‘Ah,’ said Mel.

‘Exactly.’ Ruby sighed.

‘You haven’t split up?’

‘No.’ At least not yet, she thought.
I’ll call you
, was the last thing he’d said to her when she left for the station this morning. But when he did – what would she say? He hadn’t made any objection to her coming here. But he’d assumed it was just for a week or two – not for ever.

‘What then?’ Mel asked.

Good question. ‘I suppose you could say we’re taking a break.’

Mel knew her so well – she didn’t have to say more. But whether she stayed for a week or two or whether she stayed for ever, Ruby wouldn’t be staying in this house. It was far too big for her and it held way too many memories. Her parents’ ghosts would be haunting her every move.

*

After lunch, Ruby tackled her parents’ bedroom. She’d already pulled out all the clothes, put them in their designated piles. And at the bottom of the wardrobe, tucked behind assorted handbags, she’d found a shoebox. It had some writing – maybe Spanish – on the lid and a thick rubber band around it, but otherwise it appeared ordinary enough.

Ruby sat back on her haunches. Downstairs, she could hear Mel vacuuming. The woman was an angel. Because this was so difficult; harder than she’d ever imagined it would be.

When it happened to you – when the doorbell rang early
in the morning and you opened the door to see two police officers standing there, about to tell you that your parents were dead – it didn’t feel like you could ever have imagined. She’d noticed silly and insignificant things. Like the fact that the female PC was wearing a padded body-warmer and had dark circles under her eyes. And that it was 21 March, the first day of spring.

‘There’s always a blind spot,’ the male PC had said to Ruby. ‘That’s why motorbikes are so dangerous.’ He’d glanced at her apologetically. ‘It’s not that they’re badly ridden. It’s the car drivers usually.’

There’s always a blind spot
 …

‘They wouldn’t have suffered,’ the female PC added.

Ruby had looked at her. Did she know that? For sure?

The woman’s words sent an image spinning through her brain – of tyres squealing and smoking, the stench of molten rubber. Her hands gripping his waist. The clashing impact of metal on metal. Bodies somersaulting through the air. Not just bodies. Her parents’ bodies. And then the silence. God. Not suffered?

Ruby shook the memory away. Everyone said that time healed. But how much time did it take? Was she healing? Some days she wasn’t even sure. She held her hands out in front of her. But at least her hands weren’t shaking and she’d even stopped bumping into doors.

She eased the rubber band from around the box. It wasn’t heavy enough to be boots or even shoes. She shook it gently. Something rustled.

If only he hadn’t bought that motorbike. How many times had she thought that since it had happened? She’d warned him, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she told him off for trying to relive his lost youth? He was supposed to be close to retirement age. He should have been thinking about playing bowls or cribbage, not riding motorbikes around the countryside.

Ruby let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. She had come here for the weekend – a chilly weekend in early March; James had gone off on one of his weekends with the lads. It was the last time she’d seen them. It would probably stay in her mind for ever.

‘You’ll never guess the latest, love.’ Her mother had put a mug of fresh coffee down on the table in front of Ruby and flicked the hair out of her eyes like a girl.

‘What?’ Ruby returned her mother’s grin.

‘He’s only bought a bike, hasn’t he? Can you imagine? At his age?’ She put her hands on her hips, tried to look cross.

‘A bike?’ Ruby had visualised high handlebars, a narrow saddle, a cross bar.

‘A motorbike.’ Her mother took Ruby’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘A pushbike wouldn’t be fast enough for him. Old Speedy Gonzales.’

‘You’re joking.’ But Ruby knew she wasn’t. She twisted round in her chair. ‘Dad? Are you crazy? How old do you think you are?’

‘Never too old to enjoy yourself, love,’ he said. His face was buried in the paper but he looked up and treated her to
one of his eyebrow waggles. ‘I had a Triumph Bonneville 650 for a while before you came along. Always fancied getting another. Blame
Easy Rider
 – that’s how it started.’ He gave her mother a look. ‘I always fancied the leathers too.’

‘Get on with you.’ But she’d blushed – furiously – and Ruby had thought:
they look ten years younger.

‘Maybe it’s the male menopause,’ Ruby teased. She loved coming back to see them at weekends and she knew they loved having her, but they’d never raised any objections to her moving to London. Why should they? They’d always made it clear that they respected what she did for a living and that they would never try to tie her down. They’d brought her up to be independent; they’d always expected her to fly.

‘Maybe it’s time he grew up.’ Ruby’s mother tousled his hair as she passed the sofa and he reached up suddenly, making a grab for her wrist. She tried to pull away, he wouldn’t let her and they ended up giggling like a couple of kids.

‘You two,’ Ruby said. She’d got up, put her arms around them both and felt herself wrapped in one of their special hugs. But she had wished she could be like that, like them. She and James maybe. Or someone …

He’d shown her the bike the following day. It was big, red and black and she’d watched, arms folded, while her father roared up and down the street for her benefit. ‘I’ll give you a ride if you want, love,’ he said. ‘I passed my test years ago.’

Ruby had put a hand on his arm. ‘You will be careful, won’t you, Dad?’ She didn’t like the idea of him racing round
the lanes of west Dorset on a motorbike. Nor the idea of her mother on the back of it.

‘Course I will.’ He winked at her. ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily, my girl.’

*

But she had. Ruby blinked back the tears. She had.

She took a deep breath. And opened the shoebox.

Some tissue paper and some photographs. She flipped through them. No one she knew. Who were they then and why were they here? They looked – well, interesting. She picked one up and scrutinised it more closely.

A young couple on some Mediterranean beach were leaning against the orange wall of a beach-house. In the background she could see pale gold sand, turquoise sea, some black rocks and a red and white striped lighthouse. The girl, who was wearing a flowing, maxi-dress with an Aztec design and loose sleeves, had long blonde hair and was laughing. The boy was olive-skinned with curly black hair and a beard, one arm slung casually around her shoulders.

Ruby picked up another snapshot. It was the same girl – she looked no more than mid-twenties, but she could be younger – sitting in the driver’s seat of a psychedelic VW camper van. Ruby smiled. It was like an instant flashback to the days of flower power – way before her time, of course, but she could see the appeal. And another; a group of hippies on the beach, sitting on the black rocks, someone – maybe the same girl again, though she was too far away to tell –
playing a guitar. And the same girl again on the beach holding a small baby. A baby.

Something – grief perhaps? – caught in Ruby’s throat. Her mother would never see Ruby holding a baby. She would never be a grandmother and her father would never be a grandfather. They would never see Ruby be married, have children. They wouldn’t be proud of her when one of her articles made the pages of a Sunday supplement. They wouldn’t come to any more of her jazz gigs where she played the sax in local pubs, mixing her own songs in with all the famous jazz covers her parents loved – though, truth to tell she hadn’t done much of that since moving to London; she’d let her music slide. They wouldn’t be here for any of that stuff, for her future.