The Drowning Read online

  She pushed at the door.

  As she’d hoped, she was early. Leah stood on her own in front of the platform, opening a parcel of ballet shoes and leotards, checking off the contents on a list.

  “Hi,” Jenna said.

  Leah turned, her face lighting up. “Jenna! . . . Great to see you . . . Where’s all your gear?”

  “Before you say anything, you need to know . . . I haven’t come to dance.”

  Leah’s eyes darkened. “Sorry about that . . . Thought we could pick up where we—”

  “No. We couldn’t. I’ve given the whole thing up. There’ll be no more classes, no ballet, no singing, nothing.”

  Leah’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Perfectly serious. It’s all over.”

  The door opened. A gaggle of four-year-olds burst into the hall, shouting, pushing and giggling, while their mothers hovered approvingly in the background.

  “But why?”

  Jenna raised her voice above the noise. “My mum’s sick. Dad’s not coping. There’s too much to do.” The words babbled out of her. “He’s got to look after Mum and the tea room and everything. I must stay and help him. Full-time. There’s no way I can leave him on his own and go to London. I’d never sleep for worrying.”

  “But can’t he hire extra help? Someone else from St Ives? There must be—”

  “No. He doesn’t want to. He says there’s not enough money. The Cockleshell has always been a family affair.”

  Leah grasped Jenna’s arm. “I’m devastated. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothing to say.” Jenna stared at her extra hard, trying to ignore the way her eyes stung. “It’s not the end of the world, is it?”

  “I can’t believe you’ve said that, that you mean it.”

  “Oh, but I do. ”Jenna forced her mouth to curl up at the edges, when it wanted to crumple in a howl of pain. “I’m going to work with Dad until Mum’s better. Then I’ll find another job, in St Ives, or maybe somewhere else . . . What does it matter? Who the hell cares?”

  Leah was being mobbed by little girls in pale blue leotards and frilly skirts, jumping excitedly around her, tugging at her hands.

  She said, “I care . . . We need to talk this through. Can we meet tomorrow?”

  Jenna shrugged. “Come to the Cockleshell if you like. I’ll have my apron on and I’ll be waiting on tables. Like hundreds of other people in Cornwall at the height of the season.”

  Leah said, “I’ll be there at eleven . . . Please, Jenna . . . I beg you . . . Don’t burn your boats.”

  “It’s too late. I’ve written to the Academy. I’ve rung Aunt Tamsyn. I’ve told Helen. All my boats burnt in the harbour last night. Better than fireworks.”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to throw all your talent down the drain.”

  Jenna dipped her knees in a curtsy, like the one the girls always gave Leah at the end of a lesson. “Thank you, Miss Leah. I’ll leave you to your class.”

  She pushed through the semicircle of four-year-olds. Once, she’d been exactly like them: hopping up and down, longing to dance, twirling and spinning, clutching Imogen’s hand, hugging Morvah, frothing with excitement.

  Not any more.

  She wrenched open the door, let it fall shut behind her. She started to walk along the road, either side of her the summer fields of Lelant: on and on, the dying sun warm on her skin, the breeze in her hair, the dust of the road gathering on her shoes.

  Nobody could see her tears and nobody heard her cry.

  In Carbis Bay she stood wearily at a bus stop, wiped her face, waited until the bus arrived to take her back to St Ives.

  Then she walked slowly down the hill, into the town.

  I don’t want to go home.

  Dad will be clearing the tea room. He’ll be hot and tired, too tired to talk. He’ll need my help. Another pair of hands,that’s all I am.

  Mum will be shut in her room.

  There’ll be nothing for me but the same endless chores,day in, day out . . .

  She glanced across to the harbour. The tide had been sucked out to its furthest point. The wet sand lay smooth and flat, glistening in grey-green swirls beneath the setting sun. Small battered fishing boats perched, surprised and waterless, like stranded fish.

  She found herself moving into the harbour, across the sand, towards the soft, frilly edges of the sea.

  I can’t even bear to look at Porthmeor Beach . . . The pain of remembering what happened seems to get worse.

  But in St Ives, there’s no getting away from the sea . . . I’m surrounded by it . . . Porthminster Beach, this harbour, Porthgwidden Beach.

  To get away from the waves that swallowed Benjie, I’d have to leave Cornwall . . . Maybe that’s what I should do . . . Disappear out of everyone’s life for good . . .

  She turned to retrace her steps, her head down.

  As she neared the shore, the scent of the town wafted towards her: the sharp, high stink of fish, the pungent oily smell of chips, meat pasties smouldering in their ovens, the seductive, sugary perfumes of Cornish ice cream and heavy slabs of fudge.

  Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, hunger bit into her stomach, making her feel faint with longing. She could not remember the last time she and Dad had managed a square meal.

  Promptly at eleven o’clock the next morning, Leah whooshed into the tea room, her cheeks flushed, her hair flying. She grabbed a corner table by a window.

  She looked up at Jenna. “I can’t let you do this, throw everything away, without putting up a fight. It’s still not too late.”

  “It is too late. I told you yesterday—”

  “Jenna,listen to me. You could ring the Academy. Tell them you’ve made a mistake. I’ll ring them for you. I’ve spoken to the Head of Dance before. I’m sure she’d—”

  “Tea or coffee?” Jenna asked doggedly. “And how about a fresh saffron bun?”

  Leah flicked back her hair. “I don’t want anything except five minutes of your time. Surely your dad will give me that.”

  Jenna’s shoulders slumped.

  “If you wanted to be a painter or a sculptor or a writer,” Leah said quietly, so that the elderly couple at the next table, however much they tried, could not overhear, “I wouldn’t be making such a fuss. You can paint or write at any stage of your life. But you want to dance—”

  “Did want.”

  “This is me you’re talking to, remember? You want to be a dancer and you’ve only got one chance. If you don’t train now, if your body doesn’t get used to the right exercises every single day of your life, now, while you’re young, you won’t be able to change your mind. Your body will have done it for you.”

  “You changed your mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You used to dance. For the last twelve years you’ve been a teacher. At some point in your career, you decided dancing wasn’t for you.”

  Leah pulled Jenna into the chair beside her. “I didn’t. The decision was made for me.”

  “How?”

  Leah grimaced. “I was living in London, dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker. It was Christmas. I’d been shopping. I got delayed by the crowds. I was rushing like a maniac to get to the theatre. The lift in my block of flats was on the blink. I stabbed at the button but nothing happened. I was cross and late. I fell down the stairs.”

  “Were you badly—”

  “It could have been worse. I damaged a tendon in my left knee. The pain was excruciating. I was told to ‘rest’for three months, but even when I did, that knee never healed properly. I was thirty-two and I knew I’d given my last professional performance.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “The thing is, I’d given it my best shot. For fourteen years I had the career I loved and wanted. Every dancer dreads physical injury. When and if it happens, you move on to another career path: teaching or choreography or management.”

  “So?” Jenna knew she was being
absurd, but something in her wanted to be so rude that it would make Leah leave her alone. “I’m moving on to waiting on tables.”

  Leah flushed. “Really, Jenna! If you can’t take this seriously, I’m obviously wasting my time.”

  Jenna stood up. “Yes,you are,”she hissed. “Totally wasting it. When you fell down the stairs, the only person you hurt was yourself. When I fell asleep, I killed my little brother.”

  Leah bent her head. “You didn’t kill Benjie and you know it.”

  “Then you tell me what happened on the beach that afternoon.”

  Leah grabbed her bag. She stood up, looked Jenna in the eyes. “I can’t. Maybe nobody can. Maybe nobody will ever know. But I can tell you one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “That by ruining your own life, you’re simply making everything a whole lot worse – for yourself and everyone around you.”

  She pushed her way to the door. Jenna followed.

  In a way, I know Leah’s right. But it’s easier to keep her at arm’s length than to let her know how I really feel.

  They stood for a moment in the doorway.

  “When was the last time you danced?”

  “I can’t remember,”Jenna said. “I . . . I go into the studio and I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, like a piece of furniture . . . Anyway, there’s no point now, is there? I can stop torturing myself.”

  Leah reached up and kissed Jenna’s cheek. “And I’ll have to respect your decision. This has been very hard for me, Jenn. When you have a star pupil, you want to show the world . . .” She half turned away. “I’ll let you know the results.”

  Jenna’s mind felt cloudy and blank.

  All she could remember was standing together with Benjie in this doorway. What was it he had said? That he was scared of something. Or somebody.

  Of not being able to see properly.

  Where were his glasses when he was found? Has anyone thought to ask? Were they washed into the sea before they winched his body into the sky?

  She echoed Leah. “The results . . . Sorry, Leah. The results of what?”

  “Your Advanced One exam.” Leah turned back to her and frowned. “Don’t tell me you’d forgotten!”

  “No,” Jenna said. “Course I hadn’t.”

  “Are you all right?” Leah’s worried eyes scanned her face.

  “I’m fine . . . Really.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of weight. Are you eating properly?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Jenna lied. She gave Leah a brief hug. Through the tearoom window, Dad beckoned to her wildly. “Look, people are waiting to be served . . . I must go.”

  They were laying the tables for breakfast a week later.

  Dad said, “Tamsyn’s coming down to see us.”

  “Is she?” Jenna slammed a cup into its saucer.

  “Thought you’d be delighted.”

  “Not if she’s going to give me another hard time about turning down my place.”

  “I’m sure she won’t.” Dad fastened the strings of his apron. “Anyway, I’m over the moon that we’re working together.” He hesitated. “Tamsyn says she wants to see whether Mum will go back with her, to London, for a little break.”

  Jenna bit her lip. “She’ll have to prise her out of that room of hers first!”

  “That’s the whole point . . . I can’t seem to get through to her . . . Like I told you, she’s hardly eating, she’s certainly not sleeping.” He flicked aimlessly at a spotless table top. “I reckon if she goes on like this, she’ll—”

  “She’ll what, Dad?”

  “I dunno. Do something stupid.”

  Jenna said tonelessly, “Sorry, Dad . . . Mum’s your problem, not mine.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “I understand.”

  But he went on flicking at the table, as if he wanted it to disappear.

  Jenna sighed. “What is it, Dad? Spit it out.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “Is that when Tamsyn’s coming?”

  Dad looked across at her. The nervous flicking stopped. “Yes.” His face suddenly flushed, his eyes glittered with excitement. “I’ve planned the whole thing . . . Mum’s birthday. The big five-o. I’m taking her for a special Sunday lunch at Porthminster Café . . . Booked a table and everything.” He chewed at his lip. “Thing is . . . While we’re out, I wondered whether you could clear Benjie’s room. Not a lot, don’t throw anything away, just tidy it so Tamsyn can sleep in the room comfortably without cutting her feet on toys all over the floor.”

  “But Mum said—”

  “I know what she said. She’d drunk two bottles of wine, she was out of her mind. She hasn’t been upstairs to Benjie’s room since—” He whacked at a wasp which buzzed neatly away. “She’ll never notice the difference, not if you’re careful.”

  Jenna straightened her back. She stared out of the window at the faultlessly blue sky; at a boy on his skateboard, his face solemn and determined, rattling down towards the Digey; at a seagull standing on one leg, relentlessly pecking at a cobblestone before his throat heaved its unflagging, single-note call.

  She said, “It’s going to be another lovely day.”

  Not that I’ll see any of it from in here.

  The heatwave broke that Sunday morning.

  Showers of rain lashed the beaches. Crowds of disappointed bodies scurried for cover. Gulls screamed into the sky. Cats crouched indoors on window ledges, staring out. Jenna bundled the washing off its narrow line in the courtyard.

  Mum shuffled downstairs looking puffy and listless. She wore an emerald-green suit with a matching shirt which seemed to drain the colour from her face. A ladder in one of her stockings snaked its way relentlessly towards her knee.

  “Do I look all right, Elwyn?” Pat, pat, went the hand to the hair. “I seem to have put on a bit of weight.”

  “Fine, dear, you look just fine . . . I love that colour on you.” Dad beamed at her. “Doesn’t she look wonderful, Jenn?”

  Jenna slammed another ironed shirt on the pile.

  “We won’t be late.” Dad said. “Pity about our open-air table. Looks like we’ll have to eat under cover if this rain goes on . . . I’ve left you an avocado salad in the fridge, Jenn. One of my specials.”

  Yeah, sure, throw some food at me and hope it’ll make everything OK.

  The minute they’d left, Jenna switched off the iron, took a deep breath and walked determinedly up the stairs.

  She pushed blindly into Benjie’s room and shut the door. The room was trapped in impossibly stuffy air, as if it hadn’t been lived in for years. She threw open the window. Gulls circled the rooftops, eyeing her.

  She turned and forced herself to look around the room. The space on the low table where the guinea pigs’ cage had been loured at her emptily, covered in a film of white dust. Huddles of books, comics and toys littered every other surface. The insides of a radio spewed across Benjie’s desk. On the floor, the train set stretched in elegant curves around bundles of crumpled clothes.

  She bent to pick up a pair of Benjie’s jeans, a favourite T-shirt; held them to her nose, pressed them against her face to push back the tears. She wanted to throw herself on Benjie’s bed, call for him, magic him back from the dead so that she could turn to watch him: playing with the train, pushing parsley into Klunk’s little face, tinkering with pieces of the radio.

  It’s no good. He’s never coming back.

  She stood up, her legs weak. Furious and miserable, she flung the jeans and T-shirt on to the floor by the door.

  Just pretend this room doesn’t belong to Benjie.

  Pretend you’re a cleaner in a hotel . . . You’ve got half an hour . . . Start by stripping the bed.

  She pulled at the duvet cover, tore it off, hurled it across the room. She lifted a pillow and stripped off its case. Then another pillow. She remembered the thousands of times on her way to bed when she’d pushed at Benjie’s door to make sure he was sleeping peacefully, seen his fair hair and soft, round f
ace, thoughtful with sleep.

  She punched at the pillow and then began to hug it, murmuring Benjie’s name, tears scorching her eyes . . .

  Mechanically, she made up the bed with fresh linen, opened Benjie’s cupboard and packed away the toys. On the floor of the cupboard sat the box for the train set. She unhitched the engine and the separate wagons, pulled apart each piece of track and stacked them in a pile.

  She opened the box.

  In it lay a small red notebook. She turned to the first page. Benjie had labelled it in his neat black handwriting.

  This Diary Belongs to Benjamin Pascoe.

  Top Secret!

  Keep Out!

  Jenna picked it up and sat back on her heels.

  A vague memory niggled at the corners of her mind: of hearing a wild scrabbling, the closing of a cupboard, whenever she’d knocked on Benjie’s door.

  Was this what he’d been doing, hiding this away?

  She wiped a grimy hand over her forehead.

  A gull flapped on to the window ledge and began a long, excruciating wail.

  The Diary

  Jenna knelt on the floor for a long time.

  Then, without reading a single word, she closed the diary, crammed it into her pocket, finished cleaning the room and hurtled downstairs, carrying a pile of Benjie’s dirty clothes. She stuffed them into a black bin-liner and threw it away.

  Rapidly, without tasting anything, she ate the avocado salad with a slice of Dad’s crumbling wholemeal bread, clattered the dishes into the sink.

  If I don’t get out of this place for an hour, I’ll go mad.

  I’ll take Benjie’s diary to where he drowned and fling it in the sea.

  If he had any secrets, I reckon they should be allowed to die with him.

  She tugged on her trainers and threw a raincoat over her shoulders. Curled in his basket in the hall, Dusty watched her go with the merest flicker of curiosity.