Read Secrets of the Tides Online
Authors: Hannah Richell
Secrets of the Tides (51 page)
‘Hello?’ She knows it’s silly but she calls out anyway.
‘Hello-ello-ello,’ echoes back at her off the high stone walls, her voice reverberating spookily around her.
She holds her breath.
Nothing.
Just her imagination, or a seagull perhaps, nestled in the Crag’s steep walls. She shivers and turns for the exit, suddenly keen to leave. The Crag will remain here, its dark, gloomy walls standing forever still and silent but she wants the daylight now, and her family, who will be waiting for her up at the house.
As she moves a slither of rocks and gravel falls suddenly behind her, tumbling from one of the rocky ledges high up and landing on the sandy ground at her feet. She jumps around again, wide-eyed and afraid. ‘Is someone there?’
‘There-ere-ere.’ The echo taunts her again.
Then silence.
She shivers. She is being paranoid. The cave is starting to spook her out. It is nothing but a little subsidence. Her presence has probably shifted the air in the cavernous space around her and dislodged a precariously balanced rock. It is definitely time to leave.
With a purposeful stride Cassie moves to the opening of the cave and pulls herself up and out onto the cliff face. The sun has risen higher in the sky now and she lifts her face to it and lets the bitter breeze whip across her skin.
She is about to jump down onto the beach below when she stops, startled.
There it is again.
That sad little sigh, barely more than a puff of air on the back of her neck, but definitely there. She feels the goose pimples prickle across her arms and spins around, looking down into the darkness again.
Nothing. There is nothing there. She is being silly.
It is just her mind playing tricks on her. She needs to get back to the house.
Cassie jumps quickly down onto the beach with a loud crunch. She stumbles, rights herself, and then begins to make her way back along the shore, and as she wades across the stones she begins to pick up speed.
Crunch, crunch, crunch
.
She keeps her gaze resolutely fixed on the horizon and thinks about the house up on the cliffs starting to come to life.
Crunch, crunch, crunch
.
She thinks of Dora, Helen, Richard and the rest of them stirring in their beds and waking to the daylight and the promise of Christmas Day morning.
Crunch, crunch, crunch
.
As her feet stomp across the shingle she imagines them all, an imperfect family muddling through, making the best of the life and the love they share.
It is all she needs to accept the echo of Alfie’s little wellington boots as his memory trails her home along the shore.
‘Is she breathing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure? I can’t see her chest moving.’
‘She’s breathing, Dan. Trust me.’
‘She looks so sweet. Isn’t she sweet?’
Dora smiles down at their sleeping baby. ‘She’s perfect.’ She reaches out to brush a dark curl of hair from her daughter’s forehead.
‘Don’t wake her!’ Dan whispers.
‘I won’t.’
‘What do you think she’s dreaming about?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure four-week-old babies dream, do they?’
‘Good point.’
They stand there for a moment longer, drinking in the sight of their daughter swaddled safely in her Moses basket before Dan takes her hand in his and pulls her quietly out of the room. As he shuts the door behind them he turns to her with a smile. ‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you.’
His hand is warm as he leads her through the flat towards his studio. She can feel the excitement rolling off him in waves. The room has been off limits to her for several months, but Dora realises he is now ready to show her what lies within. He pushes on the heavy door and pulls her through into the brightly lit room. She looks around with curiosity.
It’s obvious he’s been tidying. The studio is clear of its usual chaotic detritus. The mess of clay and wax, stained sheets, tools and chemicals has been pushed to one side of the room or piled underneath the trestle table in the far corner. In fact, the room is virtually empty. All that remains is one large object standing alone in the centre of the room, mysteriously shrouded beneath a pristine white sheet. Suspicious, Dora leans in to take a closer look.
‘Hey, isn’t that one of the new bed sheets I bought last week?’
Dan holds up his hands in mock innocence. ‘Is it? I just grabbed it out of the cupboard this morning.’
Dora smiles in spite of herself. It is hard to resist Dan’s cheeky grin.
‘Anyway,’ he shrugs, ‘it’s not the sheet I brought you down here to look at. It’s what’s underneath it that’s important.’
Dora looks closely at her husband. She can see a range of emotions dancing across his face. There is nervous excitement, impatience and pride, and underneath it all, an obvious anxiety. ‘I really hope you like it, you see, I made this one for you. You were my inspiration; you and the journey you’ve been on.’
Dan reaches out and tugs at the closest corner of the sheet. It floats to the floor with a soft
whoomph
, revealing a large bronze statue around one and a half times taller than Dora herself. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the scale of the object. It is dazzling in its size and substance. The metal glows like dark treacle under the studio lights. It is golden brown in hue, but here and there she can see a flecked patina, greeny-blue in colour, running across the surface, emphasising the graceful curve of a leg here or the sharp jut of a collarbone. Gradually, she is able to see the figure as a whole, as the sum of all its parts. She turns to him in wonder.
‘Oh, Dan,’ she says, barely a whisper, ‘she’s exquisite. Simply exquisite.’
‘She’s called
Pandora
.’
The sculpture is of a woman seated on a low bench. Her legs are tucked underneath her and her head is slightly cocked, as though deep in thought. One of her arms is curled protectively around the obvious swell of her pregnant belly while the other rests lightly on the arm of the seat; her palm is outstretched and open. The woman gazes with a quiet intensity at an object sitting in her open hand.
Dora wanders around the figure, taking it in from all angles. She traces the smooth, polished lines and the gentle curves with her fingers, marvelling at the beautiful craftsmanship. The metal feels strangely warm beneath her touch, most likely generated by the glare of the studio lights and the blast from the electric heater in the corner, but nevertheless it gives the statue an eerie, lifelike quality. Dan has said she is called
Pandora
, her namesake then, and yet she can see clearly that the woman is not an exact likeness of her. There are obvious differences in their facial features, their hair and their build. But she can see
something
there, in the subtle lean of her body, the curve of her back, the ripeness of her belly, and the way her hair is pulled back off her face, that echoes her own image. It is as though Dan had captured an essence of who she is and cast her in bronze. She moves closer and studies the woman’s face again, gazing at her for a long, long moment. There is such peace and contentment in her expression that Dora wants to weep.
‘What’s she looking at?’ she asks, barely aware she is whispering.
‘Take a closer look,’ says Dan.
Dora moves towards the woman’s outstretched hand. There is a tiny jewel-encrusted box on the flat of her palm. The lid is open and Dora leans in to take a closer look. She can see the swirl of a delicate chain, a necklace, or perhaps a charm bracelet, off which hangs a series of letters. Dora looks at them in confusion. O. H. P. E. She looks back at Dan searchingly.
‘Rearrange them. What do you get?’
She thinks a moment, and then smiles. ‘HOPE. She’s holding hope. It’s Pandora’s box.’
Dan nods. ‘Do you like her?’ he asks.
She can’t speak. The words stick in her throat. It is too much. Using his immense talent and a lot of patience Dan has fashioned something beautiful and utterly poignant out of the basest of materials, clay, wax and metal. The sculpture is perfect; it is the perfect symbol for their future together. Pandora’s box is open. All of life’s evils have already flown out into the world, released to cause their inevitable mischief and pain, but Dora knows it doesn’t matter any more. She knows that now. Hope remains. While she and Dan are together, the two of them with their beautiful baby girl, and Cassie and Helen, and Richard and Violet, all of them living their large, messy, mixed-up lives, she knows they will always have hope. Hope and love. And after all, what more is there to want in life?
Dora seizes Dan’s hand and raises it to her lips. ‘She’s absolutely perfect.’
Then grinning, she pulls him out of the studio and back into their apartment and their life together, the sound of their laughter trailing behind them all the way.
My heartfelt thanks to uber agent Sarah Lutyens and the wonderful team at Lutyens & Rubinstein; Kate Mills, Lisa Milton, Susan Lamb, Jade Chandler, Gaby Young, Vanessa Radnidge, Fiona Hazard, Matt Hoy, Jaki Arthur and all the other many talented people at both Orion and Hachette Australia who have worked on this book.
I owe special thanks to my sister Jessica for reading the manuscript more times than any sane person should have to and for always finding the gentlest and funniest ways to point out its flaws, Mari Evans for her early encouragement and advice, and Ilde Naismith-Beeley for the frequent injections of coffee and positivity.
I never would have begun writing without the support and patience of my family and friends, both near and far, and in particular Matt, Jude and Gracie. Thank you. This book is dedicated to you, with love.
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Orion Books.
This ebook first published in 2012 by Orion Books.
Copyright © Hannah Richell 2012
The right of Hannah Richell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN
: 978 1 4091 4297 3
Orion Books
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